“Julia.” He obeyed her automatically. “You musn’t speak so now.”
“I’m not a hypocrite.” Julia drew deeply on the cigarette, shuddered, then drew again. “I detested her. The police will find out soon enough why we all detested her.”
“Nom de Dieu! How can you speak so calmly of it?” Jacques exploded in a quick, passionate rage Autumn hadn’t thought him capable of. “The woman is dead, murdered. You didn’t see the cruelty of it. I wish to God I had not.”
Autumn drew hard on her cigarette, trying to block out the picture that flashed back into her mind. She gasped and choked on the power of the smoke.
“Autumn, forgive me.” Jacques’s anger vanished as he sat down beside her and draped an arm over her shoulders. “I shouldn’t have reminded you.”
“No.” She shook her head, then crushed out the cigarette. It wasn’t going to help. “Julia’s right. It has to be faced.”
Robert entered, but his normally swinging stride was slow and dragging. “I gave Jane a sedative.” With a sigh, he too made for the brandy. “It’s going to be a long night.”
The room grew silent. The rain, so much a part of the night, was no longer noticeable. Jacques paced the room, smoking continually while Robert kindled a fresh fire. The blaze, bright and crackling, brought no warmth. Autumn’s skin remained chilled. In defense, she poured herself another brandy but found she couldn’t drink it.
Julia remained seated. She smoked in long, slow puffs. The only outward sign of her agitation was the continual tapping of a pink-tipped nail against the arm of her chair. The tapping, the crackling, the hiss of rain, did nothing to diminish the overwhelming power of the silence.
When the front door opened with a click and a thud, all eyes flew toward the sound. Strings of tension tightened and threatened to snap. Autumn waited to see Lucas’s face. It would be all right, somehow, as long as she could see his face.
“Couldn’t get through the ford,” he stated shortly as he came into the room. He peeled off a sopping jacket, then made for the community brandy.
“How bad is it?” Robert looked from Lucas to Steve, then back to Lucas. Already, the line of command had been formed.
“Bad enough to keep us here for a day or two,” Lucas informed him. He swallowed a good dose of the brandy, then stared out the window. There was nothing to see but the reflection of the room behind him. “That’s if the rain lets up by morning.” Turning, he locked onto Autumn, making a long, thorough study. Again he had, in his way, pushed everyone from the room but the two of them.
“The phones,” she blurted out, needing to say something, anything. “We could have phone service by tomorrow.”
“Don’t count on it.” Lucas ran a hand through his dripping hair, showering the room with water. “According to the car radio, this little spring shower is the backlash of a tornado. The power’s out all over this part of the state.” He lit a cigarette with a shrug. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Days.” Steve flopped down beside Autumn, his face still gray. She gave him her unwanted brandy. “It could be days.”
“Lovely.” Rising, Julia went to Lucas. She plucked the cigarette from his fingers and drew on it. “Well.” She stared at him. “What the hell do we do now?”
“First we lock and seal off Helen’s room.” Lucas lit another cigarette. His eyes stayed on Julia’s. “Then we get some sleep.”
Chapter 7
Sometime during the first murky light of dawn, Autumn did sleep. She’d passed the night lying wide-eyed, listening to the sound of Julia’s gentle breathing beside her. Though she’d envied her ability to sleep, Autumn had fought off the drowsiness. If she closed her eyes, she might see what she’d seen when she opened Helen’s door. When her eyes did close, however, the sleep was dreamless—the total oblivion of exhaustion.
It might have been the silence that woke her. Suddenly, she found herself awake and sitting straight up in bed. Confused, she stared around her.
Julia’s disorder greeted her. Silk scarves and gold chains were draped here and there. Elegant bottles cluttered the bureau. Small, incredibly high Italian heels littered the floor. Memory returned.
With a sigh, Autumn rose, feeling a bit ridiculous in Julia’s black silk nightgown; it neither suited nor fit. After seeing herself in the mirror, Autumn was glad Julia had already awakened and gone. She didn’t want to wear any of the clothes that might have survived the attack on her room, and prepared to change back into yesterday’s shirt and jeans.
A note lay on them. The elegant, sloping print could only have been Julia’s:
Darling, help yourself to some undies and a blouse or sweater. I’m afraid my slacks won’t fit you. You’re built like a pencil. You don’t wear a bra, and in any case, the idea of you filling one of mine is ridiculous.
J.
Autumn laughed, as Julia had intended. It felt so good, so normal, that she laughed again. Julia had known exactly how I’d feel, Autumn realized, and a wave of gratitude swept through her for the simple gesture. She showered, letting the water beat hot against her.
Coming back to the bedroom, Autumn pulled out a pair of cobwebby panties. There was a stack of them in misted pastels that she estimated would cost as much as a wide-angle lens. She tugged on one of Julia’s sweaters, then pushed it up to her elbows—it was almost there in any case. Leaving the room, she kept her eyes firmly away from Helen’s door.
“Autumn, I was hoping you’d sleep longer.”
She paused at the foot of the stairs and waited for Steve to reach her. His face was sleep shadowed and older than it had been the day before. A fragment of his boyish smile touched his lips for her, but his eyes didn’t join in.
“You don’t look as if you got much,” he commented and lifted a finger to her cheek.
“I doubt any of us did.”
He draped an arm over her shoulder. “At least the rain’s slowed down.”
“Oh.” Realization slowly seeped in and Autumn gave a weak laugh. “I knew there was something different. The quiet woke me. Where is . . .” She hesitated as Lucas’s name trembled on her tongue. “Everyone?” she amended.
“In the lounge,” he told her, but steered her toward the dining room. “Breakfast first. I haven’t eaten myself, and you can’t afford to drop any weight.”
“How charming of you to remind me.” She managed a friendly grimace. If he could make the effort to be normal, so could she. “Let’s eat in the kitchen, though.”
Aunt Tabby was there, as usual, giving instructions to a much subdued Nancy. She turned as they entered, then enfolded Autumn in her soft, lavender-scented arms.
“Oh, Autumn, what a dreadful tragedy. I don’t know what to make of it.” Autumn squeezed her. Here was something solid to hold on to. “Lucas said someone killed the poor thing, but that doesn’t seem possible, does it?” Drawing back, Aunt Tabby searched Autumn’s face. “You didn’t sleep well, dear. Only natural. Sit down and have your breakfast. It’s the best thing to do.”
Aunt Tabby could, Autumn mused, so surprisingly cut through to the quick when she needed to. She began to bustle around the room, murmuring to Nancy as Autumn and Steve sat at the small kitchen table.
There were simple, normal sounds and scents. Bacon, coffee, the quick sizzle of eggs. It was, Autumn had to agree, the best thing to do. The food, the routine, would bring some sense of order. And with the order, she’d be able to think clearly again.
Steve sat across from her, sipping coffee while she toyed with her eggs. She simply couldn’t summon her usual appetite, and turned to conversation instead. The questions she asked Steve about himself were general and inane, but he picked up the effort and went with it. She realized, as she nibbled without interest on a piece of toast, that they were supporting each other.
Autumn discovered he was quite well traveled. He’d crisscrossed all over the country performing various tasks in his role as troubleshooter for his father’s conglomerate. He treated wealth w
ith the casual indifference of one who has always had it, but she sensed a knowledge and a dedication toward the company which had provided him with it. He spoke of his father with respect and admiration.
“He’s sort of a symbol of success and ingenuity,” Steve said, pushing his own half-eaten breakfast around his plate. “He worked his way up the proverbial ladder. He’s tough.” He grinned and shrugged. “He’s earned it.”
“How does he feel about you going into politics?”
“He’s all for it.” Steve glanced down at her plate and sent her a meaningful look. Autumn only smiled and shook her head. “Anyway, he’s always encouraged me to ‘go for what I want and I better be good at it.’” He grinned again. “He’s tough, but since I am good at it and intend to keep it that way, we’ll both be satisfied. I like paperwork.” He gestured with both hands. “Organizing. Refining the system from within the system.”
“That can’t be as easy as it sounds,” Autumn commented, encouraging his enthusiasm.
“No, but—” He shook his head. “Don’t get me started. I’ll make a speech.” He finished off his second cup of coffee. “I’ll be making enough of those when I get back to California and my campaign officially starts.”
“It just occurred to me that you, Lucas, Julia and Jacques are all from California.” Autumn pushed her hair behind her back and considered the oddity. “It’s strange that so many people from the coast would be here at one time.”
“The Spicers, too,” Aunt Tabby added from across the room, deeply involved in positioning pies in the oven. “Yes, I’m almost sure Dr. Spicer told me they were from California. So warm and sunny there. Well”—she patted the range as if to give it the confidence it needed to handle her pies—“I must see to the rooms now. I moved you next door to Lucas, Autumn. Such a terrible thing about your clothes. I’ll have them cleaned for you.”
“I’ll help you, Aunt Tabby.” Pushing away her plate, Autumn rose.
“Oh no, dear, the cleaners will do it.”
Smiling wasn’t as difficult as Autumn had thought. “I meant with the rooms.”
“Oh . . .” Aunt Tabby trailed off and clucked her tongue. “I do appreciate it, Autumn, I really do, but . . .” She looked up with a touch of distress in her eyes. “I have my own system, you see. You’d just confuse me. It’s all done with numbers.”
Leaving Autumn to digest this, she gave her an apologetic touch on the cheek and bustled out.
There seemed nothing to do but join the others in the lounge.
The rain, though it was little more than a mist now, seemed to Autumn like prison bars. Standing at the window in the lounge, she wished desperately for sun. Conversation did not sparkle. When anyone spoke, it was around or over or under Helen Easterman. Perhaps it would have been better if they’d closeted themselves in their rooms, but human nature had them bound together.
Julia and Lucas sat on the sofa, speaking occasionally in undertones. Autumn found his eyes on her too often. Her defenses were too low to deal with what one of his probing looks could do to her, so she kept her back to him and watched the rain.
“I really think it’s time we talked about this,” Julia announced suddenly.
“Julia.” Jacques’s voice was both strained and weary.
“We can’t go on like this,” Julia stated practically. “We’ll all go crazy. Steve’s wearing out the floor, Robert’s running out of wood to fetch and if you smoke another cigarette, you’ll keel over.” Contrarily, she lit another herself. “Unless we want to pretend that Helen stabbed herself, we’ve got to deal with the fact that one of us killed her.”
Into the penetrating silence, Lucas’s voice flowed, calm and detached. “I think we can rule out suicide.” He watched as Autumn pressed her forehead to the glass. “And conveniently, we all had the opportunity to do it. Ruling out Autumn and her aunt, that leaves the six of us.”
Autumn turned from the window and found every eye in the room on her. “Why should I be ruled out?” She shuddered and lifted her arms to hug herself. “You said we all had the opportunity.”
“Motive, Cat,” he said simply. “You’re the only one in the room without a motive.”
“Motive?” It was becoming too much like one of his screenplays. She needed to cling to reality. “What possible motive could any of us have had?”
“Blackmail.” Lucas lit a cigarette as she gaped at him. “Helen was a professional leech. She thought she had quite a little gold mine in the six of us.” He glanced up and caught Autumn with one of his looks. “She miscalculated.”
“Blackmail.” Autumn could only mumble the word as she stared at him. “You’re—you’re making this up. This is just one of your scenarios.”
He waited a beat, his eyes locked on hers. “No.”
“How do you know so much?” Steve demanded. Slowly, Lucas’s eyes swerved from Autumn. “If she were blackmailing you, it doesn’t necessarily follow that she was blackmailing all of us.”
“How clever of you, Lucas,” Julia interjected, running a hand down his arm, then letting it rest on his. “I had no idea she was sticking her fangs in anyone other than the three of us.” Glancing at Jacques, she gave him a careless shrug. “It seems we’re in good company.”
Autumn made a small sound, and Julia’s attention drifted over to her. Her expression was both sympathetic and amused. “Don’t look so shocked, darling. Most of us have things we don’t particularly want made public. I might have paid her off if she’d threatened me with something more interesting.” Leaning back, she pouted effectively. “An affair with a married senator . . .” She sent a lightning smile to Autumn. “I believe I mentioned him before. That hardly had me quaking in my shoes at the thought of exposure. I’m not squeamish about my indiscretions. I told her to go to hell. Of course,” she added, smiling slowly, “there’s only my word for that, isn’t there?”
“Julia, don’t make jokes.” Jacques lifted a hand to rub his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Julia rose to perch on the arm of his chair. Her hand slipped to his shoulder.
“This is crazy.” Unable to comprehend what was happening, Autumn searched the faces that surrounded her. They were strangers again, holding secrets. “What are you all doing here? Why did you come?”
“It’s very simple.” Lucas rose and crossed over to her, but unlike Julia, he didn’t touch to comfort. “I made plans to come here for my own reasons. Helen found out. She was very good at finding things out—too good. She learned that Julia and Jacques were to join me.” He turned, half blocking Autumn from the rest with his body. Was it protection, she wondered, or defense? “She must have contacted the rest of you, and made arrangements to have all her . . . clients here at once.”
“You seem to know quite a bit,” Robert muttered. He poked unnecessarily at the fire.
“It isn’t difficult to figure out,” Lucas returned. “I knew she was holding nasty little threats over three of us; we’d discussed it. When I noticed her attention to Anderson, and you and your wife, I knew she was sucking elsewhere, too.”
Jane began to cry in dry, harsh sobs that racked her body. Instinctively, Autumn moved past Lucas to offer comfort. Before she was halfway across the room, Jane stopped her with a look that was like a fist to the jaw.
“You could have done it just as easily as anyone else. You’ve been spying on us, taking that camera everywhere.” Jane’s voice rose dramatically as Autumn froze. “You were working for her, you could have done it. You can’t prove you didn’t. I was with Robert.” There was nothing bland or dull about her now. Her eyes were wild. “I was with Robert. He’ll tell you.”
Robert’s arm came around her. His voice was quiet and soothing as she sobbed against his chest. Autumn didn’t move. There seemed no place to go.
“She was going to tell you I was gambling again, tell you about all the money I’d lost.” She clung to him, a sad sight in a dirt-brown dress. Robert continued to murmur and stroke her hair. “But I told you last nigh
t, I told you myself. I couldn’t pay her anymore, and I told you. I didn’t kill her, Robert. Tell them I didn’t kill her.”
“Of course you didn’t, Jane. Everyone knows that. Come with me now, you’re tired. We’ll go upstairs.”
He was leading her across the room as he spoke. His eyes met Autumn’s half in apology, half in a plea for understanding. She saw, quite suddenly, that he loved his wife very much.
Autumn turned away, humiliated for Jane, sorry for Robert. The faint trembling in her hands indicated she’d been dealt one more shock. When Steve’s arm came around her, she turned into it and drew the comfort offered.
“I think we could all use a drink,” Julia announced. Moving to the bar, she poured a hefty glass of sherry, then took it to Autumn. “You first,” she ordered, pressing the glass into her hand. “Autumn seems to be getting the worst of this. Hardly seems fair, does it, Lucas?” Her eyes lifted to his and held briefly before she turned back to the bar. He made no answer. “She’s probably the only one of us here who’s even remotely sorry that Helen’s dead.”
Autumn drank, wishing the liquor would soften the words.
“She was a vulture,” Jacques murmured. Autumn saw the message pass between him and Julia. “But even a vulture doesn’t deserve to be murdered.” Leaning back, he accepted the glass Julia brought him. He clasped her hand as she once again sat on the arm of his chair.
“Perhaps my motive is the strongest,” Jacques said and drank once, deeply. “When the police come, all will be opened and studied. Like something under a microscope.” He looked at Autumn, as if to direct his explanation to her. “She threatened the happiness of the two things most important to me—the woman I love and my children.” Autumn’s eyes skipped quickly to Julia’s. “The