Stranger Than Fiction Page 7

  “I can’t talk about all this. Oh, no.”

  “Tell me where you are, Patricia. I’ll come and get you.”

  Patricia had started to talk in a torrent of uneven, booze roughened sentences. “I’ve been working for someone who showed it to an editor at Cauldron. They gave me some money for it to tide me over while I worked on it some more. Then they said they weren’t going to be able to use it, but that they owned the rights. They said if I tried to get any more money from them, they’d sue me.”

  “They? Who? Give me some names, Patricia.”

  She seemed not to hear him. “I didn’t really know what to do then, but I’m going to get even with her.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I’m trying to help you. Did you sign anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “A contract?”

  “No. I think it was an IOU for the money.”

  “Why in the hell did you get involved in something like this?”

  “My mother’s sick. I needed money. I never realized this would happen.”

  “We need to go to the acquisition people at Cauldron and check this out, Patricia. You have to tell me the name of the person there you got the money from. And where is the IOU?”

  “I can’t talk about this,” she sobbed. “I can’t. But go see Claire Kennedy. I’ll call you back tomorrow at ten.” The click in his ear signaled the dead line.

  As the conversation ended in his head, Tony got out of the Volvo. Until he sat down with Patricia and filled in the missing pieces of information, he would be no closer to getting the whole picture. Confronting Cauldron Press had been a gamble, one based on emotion, when he had heard the rumor Newcastle was ready to take them over. This morning’s break-in told him he had not made the wrong move.

  Tony climbed the stairs to his office. The campus was deserted, because everyone was away for spring break. With Claire at the inn, he would have some time to get a lead on the Chancon woman’s address. Maybe he would get lucky and find a phone number. He needed to talk to Patricia at least once more without Claire, if he could.

  He unlocked his heavy oak door and reached for the light switch. Someone had been in and shut the bulky vinyl drapes against the daylight. The cleaning people? As he fumbled for the switch, he dropped his car keys.

  Leaning down to retrieve them, Tony did not see the cane raised behind him, only felt its heavy silver handle crash down on his skull.

  Chapter Five

  Feeling antsy, Claire picked up the phone and redialed her New York office. It was almost two, and she was sure Tillie would have found out some things about Tony Nichols by now.

  But she was wrong about that. Tillie was in a dither about not being able to come up with anything on Tony but the basics. “He’s a professor. In addition, the university where he works is a private, well-regarded women’s college in Narragansett. He’s single. And he’s currently on sabbatical.”

  “Does he know how to swim?”

  Claire’s caustic tone earned a chuckle from Tillie. “Why? You planning on drowning him if he doesn’t drop his charges?”

  “No. But it’s a tempting thought. This kills me. He told me more about himself today in one minute than you’ve been able to dig up all morning. I thought you’d have all this great news proving every word he’d uttered so far was false. It would make it easier to believe he was lying about Patricia Snow and her damn manuscript.”

  Tillie was silent for a second. “Why won’t you admit to me you really have doubts about who wrote The Poison Pen Pal, Claire?”

  “Because I really don’t,” she answered quickly, before Tillie asked any more impossibly loaded questions. “Look, I’ll call you tomorrow. I don’t know what time. Keep working on it. Try to find out what Tony Nichols did before he became a professor. I’m sure he’s hiding a past of crime.”

  She hung up and rummaged in her overnight bag, pulling out a pack, of cards. Playing Solitaire always calmed her down, but after five minutes, she had lost three games.

  She seriously considered cheating just to win. Frustrated, Claire put the cards away and grabbed her jacket. “I’m not waiting for you another minute, Tony Nichols.

  I’ll just damn well track Patricia Snow down without you.”

  While shouting her words to the empty room did release some of her pent-up tension, the prospect of sending him completely out of her life did not fill her with joy.

  At the front desk, Claire ordered a taxi. The library at Brown University in Providence would have access to phone directories for the whole country, but unfortunately, it was too far away. Today she would have to settle for the local library.

  The cabby took her to Narragansett’s public library, an old limestone affair. She forced herself past the shelves of hot new bestsellers and headed for the reference librarian.

  The only directories they had were local, but amazingly, to Claire, they had computer hookups to Brown. For the next hour and a half, she pored through phone books, finding no listings for current years. Methodically she went backward on the microfiche, hoping that Mrs. M. Chancon had not always been such a privacy hound.

  The microfiche ran out in 1980, with no listing for M. Chancon. “Can I help you find something more, dear?”

  Claire chewed her lip. “I hope so,” she answered the bubbly blond woman whose pin-on tag read, Anne Hebert, Head Librarian. “Is there any chance of another program that could pull up older phone directories? This microfiche only goes back to 1980.”

  Miss Hebert frowned, and then tugged at her denim skirt. Her blue eyes shone with determination. “I’ll check. Wait right here.” Ten minutes later, Claire gained access to New Jersey Bell’s records. In the 1973 edition of northeast New Jersey, her work yielded pay dirt.

  Marielle Chancon was listed at 2011 Cherry, Benton Convent. Claire copied down the address and phone number excitedly. Her instincts told her the number might have been changed by now, but at least she had a real lead. She added other information to her list, such as the current numbers for Benton Convent’s only listed hotel—the Convent Garden—and its justice of the peace.

  After thanking the librarian, Claire hurried outside to a pay phone and started calling. Her heart pounded as an elderly female voice answered the Chancon number.

  “Yes. May I speak to Mrs. Chancon, please?”

  There was a heartbeat of a pause. “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number.”

  “Don’t hang up, please. Have I reached a residence in Benton Convent, New Jersey?”

  “Who is this, please?”

  Claire debated what to answer. Her story was so convoluted, how could she get a total stranger to understand? “My name is Claire Kennedy. I live in New York and I’m trying to find an, uh, elderly cousin, a Mrs. Chancon. This was an old number my mother gave me, and I thought I’d give it a try.”

  On the other end of the phone Claire heard the woman choke or cough, then apparently drop the receiver, for a metallic clatter rang out. There was a muffled clearing of the throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Kennedy. Got something in my throat. I don’t know this Mrs. Chancon. I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name here in Benton Convent. I’m glad I could save you the trip. There’s not much for a young person to see in our little town.”

  Sighing, Claire pursed her lips. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your help.” She hung up the phone and turned back to the street. Despite her lack of info on Chancon, she was determined to visit Benton Convent. As the chilly wind picked up, tickling her neck uncomfortably, she called for a cab to take her to Immaculate Sisters College.

  A surprise visit to Tony Nichols might be just the thing right now. And if he was willing to drive her to Benton Convent, they might be able to resolve this whole thing tonight.

  The grounds of the stately university were almost completely deserted when she got there. Claire wondered how she would find out which was Tony Nichols’s office.

  “Well, lad
y? Is this where you’re getting out?”

  Handing the taxi driver some bills, Claire stood beside Tony’s empty green Volvo. She had told the man to pull up and stop behind it, hoping she would find Tony at the wheel. Only his corduroy jacket greeted her, tossed across the Yale sweatshirt.

  Shaking off her nervousness, Claire headed for the main entrance of the Humanities building. As she walked, the massive clock atop the building began to strike the half hour. It was already three-thirty. After a whole day away from her office, she was not much closer to finding out the truth. However, she had come up with another name to check with in Benton Convent.

  While waiting for the cab, she had called the office of the justice of the peace. A woman by the name of Pearl Loney held the job, as well as several other positions. She was the town’s tax assessor and unofficial mayor. Claire had not been able to talk with Pearl herself when she had called, but had been promised by the youthful sounding clerk who answered the phone that Miss Loney would be glad to see her that evening. She gave Claire Pearl’s home phone number.

  Claire glanced up at the clock’s heavy black hands, and then looked away. The chimes echoed gloomily as she pulled her jacket snug around her and reached for the door. Vibrations from the clock tingled through the steel door handle just as a breeze whipped up behind her.

  Had she heard someone call out? Looking behind her, Claire saw no one, but she could have sworn there had been a faint cry carried on the gusting wind.

  Tony had not shown up to get her at the inn, nor had he called with a message. She had checked the inn not more than a half hour ago. Was his lack of punctuality further proof of his criminal makeup, she wondered?

  Her determination not to be manipulated propelled her up the stairway to the second floor. The lighted hallway was empty of any security guards, secretaries or students to direct her. Turning away from the stairs, Claire walked toward a closed office with English Department stenciled on the frosted glass and knocked.

  There was no answer. A lectern stood next to the door, and .the black notebook on it listed the instructor’s office hours. Turning hastily to the Ns, Claire found the entry.

  Nichols, A.A. (Tony), Assoc Prof, Creative Writing #319.

  The space for appointments was crossed through with a large black X.

  She ought to just go see Sarah Winesong, Claire thought as she hurried down the hall. If Mr. Harrison and Tillie had not babied the author all these years, Cauldron Press might not have been in this predicament. And she would not be chasing around after Tony Nichols.

  Claire took the stairs up to the third floor, pausing out of breath on the landing. A black arrow with the numbers 311-321 led her to the left.

  That hall was dark, the only illumination coming from the gray sky visible through a single window at the far end of the corridor. All the offices appeared locked and unoccupied.

  There was no lettering on the frosted glass of room 319 other than its number, and the small metal nameplate holder above it was empty. Claire’s stomach churned. She rapped loudly and waited.

  Nothing. “Tony? Are you in there? It’s Claire.”

  Her inquiry was met with silence. Rubbing one hand with the other, Claire looked around. Though everything was silent, she had the feeling that someone was nearby. Gingerly she put her hand on the brass doorknob and turned it. It opened easily, into almost complete darkness.

  “Tony?”

  The instant she spoke his name, the shrill cry of the telephone rang out like a startled sentry’s gun. Clutching her chest, Claire gasped and stepped back.

  With a sigh of exasperation, she decided to answer it and groped for the light switch. As she did so, she noticed the room was dense with the odor of Tony’s tobacco. Inhaling, she tried to ignore the vivid pictures that rose to mind. She found the switch and flicked it and the room lit up.

  The first thing Claire saw was the blood pooled on the dingy carpet just inside the office door.

  She froze. Dully she realized the phone had stopped ringing. Then her ears picked up a new sound. In the hallway she had just vacated, she heard the creaking of a door hinge followed by footsteps.

  Footsteps that were coming closer.

  Frantic, Claire snapped off the light and moved deeper into the small office. Her hands groped in the dark for a weapon. Heavy, leather bound books were everywhere. Gripping the smooth surface of a large, anonymous text, Claire raised it above her head and waited.

  A bulky silhouette filled the doorway as the hallway light tumbled into the room. Though Claire had made no sound, it was clear she had been spotted. Without a word, the figure lunged across the small office at her. She brought the book down squarely on the intruder’s face and the corner of it stabbed into his cheek.

  She was tackled and thrown against the edge of the desk while her attacker howled a curse at her blow. Claire struck him repeatedly with the book.

  As they both crashed to the floor, Claire beat him with every bit of adrenaline pumping into her body. Then, quite suddenly, she knew who it was cursing her in the dark. She recognized the strong hands that hugged her waist, the wavy hair brushing against the tender skin on her arm.

  Her body identified her captor even when her terrified mind had not. “Let go of me, Tony. You’re hurting my arms.”

  He was straddling her hips. She could now clearly see his eyes in the dim light from the hall.

  “Claire, what are you trying to do, kill me?”

  His face was inches from hers. He had relaxed his grip on her arms, but she wished he had not. She fought an insane urge to hug him in relief. Before she could answer, the phone renewed its jangling.

  Tony got up and grabbed the receiver. “Yes. Hello?”

  Claire stood and switched on the light as Tony sucked in his breath.

  “Patricia, don’t hang up. Just tell me where you are.” As their gazes locked, Claire noted with shock the extent of the damage to Tony’s face. A red, swelling welt and a trickle of blood had turned his handsome features into a scarred battleground.

  Guilt over the blows she had administered flooded her, and Claire saw Tony’s eyes fill with fear. But the fear was for the person on the phone, not for himself.

  “Patricia, listen to me. I’ve got Claire Kennedy with me now, and she’s very eager to straighten out this whole thing. She wants to meet with you.” He stopped again and listened, patting his handkerchief against his forehead. “Just tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you right now.”

  Tony paused. “Patricia, don’t do that.”

  A moment later, he slammed down the phone. “Damn. She hung up.” A flush of anger turned the glowing olive skin of his neck the color of desert clay.

  When he turned his head to face Claire directly, she saw a gash at his left temple. It was dark and swollen, and there was a flap of jagged skin.

  That explained the pool of blood at the door, she thought. “Dear God, how’d you get that?” She pointed to his temple.

  His voice was flat. “That one is from an anonymous donor. I guess you did the rest. However, you’re going to have to find a different method of mayhem to get rid of me. Mugging someone with a book is not incredibly effective. Though your choice of weapons was witty.”

  Claire looked down at the blood-splattered book clutched tightly in her hands, her heart doing a flip as she noticed the cover.

  She had beaten Tony Nichols over the head with the twentieth-anniversary edition of the collected novels of Sarah Winesong. She dropped the book onto the desk as if it were alive, and then turned her attention back to Tony.

  “Sit down,” she said. “Tell me where the first-aid kit is and shut up for a while.”

  A few minutes later, with a gauze bandage over the gash on his temple, Tony resembled a pirate. A very attractive pirate. Claire frowned at this latest comment from her libido and snapped the first-aid kit closed. “You’ll be all right. Although your head needs to be stitched, I’d say.”

  “I’m sure I’ll recove
r.”

  Whirling to face him, Claire saw Tony staring at her. “I’d get a second opinion if you don’t want a scar. How did it happen?”

  His eyes were inscrutable. “You don’t know? I thought you might have an idea.”

  “Like you thought I might know who broke into your home this morning?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  Claire crossed her arms. “I have no idea who attacked you today, other than me. I’ve been busy.”

  “So has someone else. I was whacked over the head the minute I arrived at two. I came to as the chimes were striking three.”

  Claire was stunned. She had had her doubts about his story of someone breaking into his house. But the gash proved someone was stalking him, and growing bolder. “I was at the inn at two, waiting for you to come back.” The question of who else could have, and would have attacked him waited on both of their lips.

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Do I have to?” She waited for his answer, but he did not reply. “If you think I’m guilty, why don’t you just call the police?”

  “We’d both have to explain a lot of things about the past couple of days. We don’t want the police, or a news reporter, to get involved in this.” He got up and began putting books back on the shelf.

  Claire leaned down to help him. “But that’s ridiculous. Someone tried to kill you!”

  “I doubt that. If they’d wanted to kill me, they would have. I think this is a warning to me, a second warning, to back off.”

  Claire crossed the room and sat down. “So you think it was Sarah Winesong who hit you? Did you see her?”

  “No, to both questions. I only caught a glimpse of the person who hit me. Hell, all I can say is that he was bigger than the person at my house today, and I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a woman.”

  Claire’s brain was spinning. She looked around the office. “This place looks like a typhoon passed through.”

  Tony nodded. Through the aches and pains of his injuries, he watched Claire. She had to be one hell of an actress to pretend ignorance to this degree. Not that most women he had known were not capable of that, and more. Again, the ring of sincerity in Claire’s voice struck him.