“Ah, there we go.” Desdemona studied the screen in front of her. “That gibberish you see there is what I found when I recovered the lost work. Just random characters. Tony's right. A child could have typed them. What do you think?”
“Let's see when this work was done.” Profoundly grateful for an excuse to move on to a topic that he could comprehend, Stark leaned over the keyboard and punched out a command with one hand.
The time that the gibberish had been entered into the computer appeared on the screen. Eight-fifteen.
Desdemona stared at the screen. “That was right around the time that Vernon was killed.”
Stark pondered the gibberish. “The question is, who typed this nonsense? Vernon or the killer?”
“And why would either of them type it on my computer?”
“Good question.” Stark studied the long string of characters for a moment. There was a pattern there. He could feel it. “I think it's more than garbage.”
“What do you mean?”
“It may be an encrypted phrase.”
Desdemona's eyes widened. “This is code?”
“Yes.”
“But you have to have a special program to encrypt a message, don't you? I don't have one.”
“It would have been simple for someone to load the encryption program from a floppy disk, code this message, and then remove the program from your computer's memory.”
“But that would mean someone deliberately left this message for me.” Desdemona shook her head. “It makes no sense. How could he be sure I'd get it?”
“It was a good bet that you'd check to see what was in the lost work file the first time you turned on the computer.”
“I suppose so. But what made him think that I'd recognize an encrypted message if I saw it?”
Stark considered the obvious. “Maybe the message wasn't left for you.”
“I'm the only one who uses this computer.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.” Desdemona looked up at him expectantly. “Can you decode this?”
He wished he could decode her as easily. “Probably. But first I have to get my magic decoder ring out of the cereal box.”
Half an hour later Desdemona whisked into Exotica Erotica with two tall lattes that she had purchased at Emote Espresso.
She waited as a woman in a pin-striped, skirted business suit concluded her purchase of a long, fluffy feather boa, an erotic novel, and a pink and gold box of condoms. The woman smiled at Desdemona on the way out. Desdemona nodded.
“I'm going to have to stock more feathery things,” Kirsten said as the door closed behind the shopper. “Anything with feathers on it seems to sell like hotcakes.”
“I know what you mean. I go through a lot of swans in my business. Here, have a latte.”
“A shot of caffeine. Just what I needed. I've been swamped all afternoon. This is the first break I've had, and I can't leave the shop. I'm the only one here.”
“Where's Henry?” Desdemona set Kirsten's latte down on the counter. “I thought he was supposed to help out.”
“Ian called and asked him to go down to the Limelight to meet with some potential money people.”
“Hmm. I wonder if that means Ian has given up on trying to persuade Stark to became an angel?”
“Ian never gives up. You know that. He is tireless in his pursuit of financial stability for the Limelight.” Kirsten removed the top from the latte cup and took a sip. “How are things going?”
“Mom and Dad just hit town. The Cactus Dinner Theater got shut down earlier this week. Financial problems.”
Kirsten made a face. “So what else is new? Have they met Stark yet?”
“A little while ago. It was a near thing. Dad segued immediately into his Concerned Father role. I swear, if I hadn't stopped him, he would have demanded to know whether or not Stark's intentions were honorable.”
Kirsten's brows rose. “How did you stop him?”
“I made it clear that Stark and I have only a casual dating relationship.”
“Casual?” Kirsten choked on her latte. “I'd hardly call it that. You're sleeping with him. How long do you think you can keep Benedick in the dark about that? Everyone else in the family knows it.”
“Is that so?” Desdemona was irate. “I'd like to know how everyone else can be so darn sure of my personal business. Stark has not spent so much as a single night at my apartment, and I have never spent a night at his house. What makes everyone think we're sleeping together?”
Kirsten grinned. “Gosh, I don't know. Call it Wainwright intuition.”
Desdemona groaned. “What am I going to do, Kirsten? When Dad realizes that I'm in love with Stark, he's going to start making noises like an old-fashioned patriarch. I just know he will.”
“So let him. He's good in that role.”
“He'll expect Stark to either marry me or get out of my life and never darken my door again. He'll demand that Stark make a choice.”
“Let Stark make his own decisions.”
“I can't do that,” Desdemona said. “I don't dare put any pressure on him at this stage. Stark doesn't know what he wants yet.”
“I wouldn't be too sure of that.”
17
Stark sat in the shadows of his study and brooded over the message on the screen in front of him. Decoding the encrypted words that had been left on Desdemona's computer had been child's play for ARCANE. The message, itself, however, was anything but playful.
Client: This is to let you know that I have id'd you. Did you think you could hide behind the anon address? As proof that I know who you are, I'm leaving this where I know you will be sure to find it. You're always fooling around with this computer. Price of my silence is fifty thousand. Same arrangements as last time.
Stark recalled Desdemona's euphoric relief when she believed that they had discovered evidence that Tony was definitely not the person who had attempted to steal ARCANE.
He wondered how she would react when he told her the bad news. The evidence was starting to indicate that her stepbrother was in this mess up to his ears. He might well have been the mysterious “client” who had hired Vernon Tate to steal the encryption program.
Desdemona had been mistaken earlier when she had assured Stark that she was the only person who ever used her computer. Good old Tony had not only used it, he had installed the software and modified the original programs. The Wainwright family screwup knew his way around a computer. And the computer he liked to fool around with the most was Desdemona's.
It had no doubt been difficult for Tate to identify his client. To do it he would have had to backtrack through the anonymous server's files, a complex task, even for a skilled hacker. But once he knew Tony's true identity, things would have gotten much easier. It would have been no great trick to trace Tony to the Right Touch computer.
After a long while, Stark picked up the phone and dialed the Right Touch number.
“She's not here, Stark,” Juliet sounded a little breathless, as if she had run into the office to answer the phone. “She went down the street to Exotica Erotica. By the way, as long as I've got you on the line, I want to invite you to dinner tonight.”
“Dinner?”
“To celebrate Uncle Benedick and Aunt Celia being back in town. Everyone will be there. Bring Jason and Kyle.”
“Where is this dinner being held?”
“Same restaurant we used for Desdemona's birthday. We'll be in a private room at the back. When you arrive, just tell the hostess that you're with the Wainwright party. See you.”
Stark hung up the phone and dialed a second number.
Kirsten answered on the first ring, the energetic enthusiasm of a shopkeeper having a good business day vibrating in her voice. “Exotica Erotica.”
“This is Stark. I'm looking for Desdemona.”
“She's right here”
Desdemona came on the line. “Hi, Stark. What's up? Did you decode the message?”
??
?Yes.” He gazed at the glowing screen and wondered how to tell her that her precious stepbrother was looking more guilty than ever. “It's a blackmail note.”
“Blackmail?”
Stark read it to her. “My hunch is that the note was left by Vernon Tate for his client. He had learned the client's identity and wanted fifty thousand dollars to guarantee his silence. He was probably killed immediately after he'd typed and encrypted this note.”
“But that doesn't make any sense. Why would Vernon have left the message on my machine?”
Stark let the silence grow heavy. But if he entertained any hope that Desdemona's famed Wainwright intuition would do his dirty work for him by providing the obvious conclusion, he was doomed to disappointment.
“Wait, wait, I've got it,” Desdemona's voice was suddenly brimming with excitement. “Tate never intended the client to read the blackmail note on my computer.”
“What makes you think that?” Stark asked gently.
“Don't you see? Vernon simply used my machine to type out the note and to encrypt it.”
“On that, we agree.”
“He probably intended to print out the encrypted message on my printer and mail it to his so-called client, whoever that is.”
“Uh, Desdemona…”
“But he got interrupted by the killer before he could finish,” she concluded triumphantly.
“You think he used your computer as a typewriter to produce a note he then intended to put into the mail?” Stark closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of his chair. “The famed Wainwright intuition in action, I assume?”
“You've got to admit it makes perfect sense.” Desdemona chuckled. “Even you can't argue with my logic on this, Stark.”
Argue with it? He could crush her weak, absurd, faulty logic in two seconds flat.
All he had to do was point out to her that there had been no need for Tate to use the Right Touch computer and printer. Tate had his own hardware at home. And the blackmail note clearly stated that the message had been deliberately left where Tate knew his client would find it—on the Right Touch computer. Everyone, including Tate, knew that Tony was on Desdemona's computer all the time.
The correct conclusion was inescapable. At the very least, Tony was Vernon Tate's mysterious “client.” If one concluded that the killed-in-the-course-of-a-burglary hypothesis was a little too convenient and too much of a coincidence under the circumstances, one could take it a step further. One could make a damned good case for casting Tony in the role of murderer.
Tony had a solid motive for killing Vernon Tate. Tate was trying to blackmail him. The casting of Tony as the bad guy would also explain why Desdemona had escaped with her life. Shooting his own stepsister had probably been a little too much for Wainwright.
Tony had probably had a bad case of nerves after the murder, had panicked, and jumped on the first plane out of Seattle. He had covered his tracks by leaving a message on Bess and Augustus's answering machine.
“We're making real progress here, Stark,” Desdemona said. “We're going to solve this thing.”
“You think so?”
“I feel certain of it. See you at dinner tonight. Tell Kyle and Jason that the restaurant does pizza.”
Stark replaced the phone gently in its cradle. He sat quietly for a moment, contemplating the screen. After a while he rose and walked to the window. He stood looking out over the city and the sweep of Elliott Bay.
He was a fool to hope that Desdemona would someday come to feel the kind of bone-deep loyalty to him that she felt toward her stepbrother. How did a man even begin to compete with a woman's childhood hero? Stark wondered.
There would be no hope at all if he got Tony sent off to prison, Stark thought. Desdemona would never forgive him.
With a supreme effort of will, Stark forced himself to stay focused on the logic of the situation. This was no time to get dragged down into the chaos of emotion. There was too much at stake. At all costs, he had to make Desdemona see the truth about Tony. If Wainwright had become a killer, he was more than just an annoying screwup, he was genuinely dangerous. A man who had killed once could kill again.
Stark knew what had to be done, and he told himself that he would do it. But he also knew that Desdemona would not thank him for forcing the truth upon her.
No one ever thanked the messenger when the news was bad.
Desdemona finally got her key into the lock on the third attempt. She sighed with relief, pushed open the door, and let herself into the haven of her loft apartment.
She closed the door quickly, dropped her purse on the nearest table, and hurried across the room. She collapsed into the big red armchair in front of the high windows.
She was still shaking. She had been struggling to control the tremors ever since she had taken Stark's call at Exotica Erotica.
Stark believed that Tony was Vernon's client. He believed that Tony had killed Vernon.
True, Stark had not actually made the accusation aloud yet, but Desdemona knew that it was only a matter of time. She had heard it in his voice.
She had rushed to give him an alternative scenario, but she knew her logic had been flawed. There was great, gaping holes in it, and if she could see them, it was a cinch that Stark had seen them.
Desdemona took several deep breaths. She splayed her fingers wide across the plump arms of the red leather chair and willed herself to stop trembling. She had to stay calm. She had to think clearly and rationally. This was no time to give in to the natural Wainwright tendency to succumb to emotion.
She made herself think about the situation clearly. She had to rely on her intuition and her knowledge of her family.
The first and most important fact was that Tony was not a thief. He could not have been Vernon's client.
The second fact that she understood in her bones, even if she could not yet prove it, was that Tony was not a murderer. Desdemona told herself that she was realistic enough to acknowledge that anyone, Tony included, could kill under certain circumstances. But for Tony, or any other Wainwright for that matter, murder would have to be committed in the heat of intense fear or rage or in self-defense. It wasn't an act that could be cold-bloodedly plotted out beforehand.
And whatever else one could say about Vernon Tate, he was simply not the kind of man who inspired a great degree of passionate rage, not even if he was trying to blackmail you.
Her logic was faultless, Desdemona thought. It was backed up by her intuition. But she could not prove anything. In the meantime, she had a terrible conviction that Stark was moving remorselessly forward along his own trajectory.
She had to find a way to deflect him from his path and aim him in another direction before he managed to make Tony look guilty.
The phone rang, jarring her out of her morbid thoughts. Desdemona climbed slowly out of her chair and walked across the room to answer the summons. She picked up the receiver, hoping the caller was not Stark. She wasn't ready to deal with him.
“Kid, is that you?”
“Tony.” Desdemona clutched the phone. “Where are you?”
“I'm back in Seattle,” Tony said in a strange voice. “But I'm not at my apartment.”
“What's wrong? You sound very strange.”
“Probably because I've just realized that something really weird is going on around here. Desdemona, don't freak, but I think someone is trying to set me up for the murder of Vernon Tate.”
“Set you up?” Desdemona gazed blankly out the window. “What are you talking about?”
“I got home an hour ago. Someone was in my apartment while I was gone.”
“How do you know?”
“I wasn't sure at first. I just had a feeling that something wasn't right. Know what I mean?”
“Yes.” Desdemona did not question Tony's intuition. He was a Wainwright.
“I unpacked my suitcase and started to toss some dirty shirts into the hamper. But when I opened the hamper I realized that the green shirt I h
ad left on top of the pile of clothes was no longer on top. I'm sure it was the last thing I threw into the hamper before I left for L.A.”
“I don't understand. Where was it?”
“Farther down in the heap.”
Desdemona frowned intently. “Someone went through your dirty clothes? Why on earth would anyone do that?”
“I don't know, but I got really nervous. I went through the entire apartment to see if anything had been stolen. Nothing had been taken, but something had been left behind.”
“Tony, no offense, but this isn't the last act of a dinner theater mystery. Don't drag out the big revelation. What did you find?”
“A gun. A thirty-eight,” Tony said. “It was in the bottom of the hamper.”
“My God.”
“Vernon Tate was killed with a thirty-eight, wasn't he?”
“That's what one of the cops said, yes.” Desdemona's knees threatened to collapse.
“And the police didn't recover the murder weapon, did they?”
“No,” Desdemona whispered. “At least, not that I heard.”
“Guess where someone intended that gun to be found,” Tony said bleakly.
“Oh, my God.” Someone really was trying to make Tony appear guilty of murder, Desdemona thought. “But who was supposed to discover the gun? And when?”
“How the hell should I know? Maybe the police were supposed to find it later, after enough so-called evidence had accumulated to warrant a search of my apartment.”
“Evidence?”
“Yeah. Evidence. Planted evidence. I'm sure the gun in my hamper was just the beginning.”
Desdemona went cold. “That explains the message on my computer.”
“I decided I'd better lay low. I got rid of the gun. I'm in a motel out on Aurora Avenue. I'm registered under another name, Stone Morgan.”
“For heaven's sake, Tony, wasn't that the name of the character you were supposed to play in that soap you've been trying to get off the ground?”
“Yeah. It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment. Listen, kid, I'm a little spooked. Don't tell anyone, not even the family, that I'm back in town yet, okay? I need some time to figure out a way to deal with this mess.”