Winter's Edge

  There wasn't much left. Several drawers full of lace underwear that she'd lost her heart to, those itchy nightgowns, and the sweaters and shirts. And one very beautiful eyelet and cotton dress of pure white. The woman Molly had begun to think of as her predecessor didn't seem to go in for simple things like this, and she wondered if it had actually belonged to someone else. For the time being she could wear it if the occasion demanded a dress, which seemed unlikely. From what Patrick had said, it seemed as if she were to be kept in total seclusion. Until her memory returned, Molly thought she might prefer it that way.

  She glanced down at her clothes. Sooner or later she would find out how to get hold of her money. She'd need to buy at least a few new things—she couldn't spend all her time in two pairs of faded jeans and a few sweaters. Then again, maybe she could. After all, who was she trying to impress? If it was Patrick Winters, it was obviously a lost cause.

  "I've got a trunk full of clothes up there." Molly walked into the kitchen. "Have you any idea where I could send it?"

  Mrs. Morse looked up from her luncheon fixings in surprise. "Send it?" she repeated blankly.

  "Yes." Molly reached out and snatched a piece of sliced carrot. "I don't want them anymore. They're not at all my style."

  "I was wondering if you'd ever learn that." She offered her another carrot. "I'll have Ben take care of it for you when he comes in for lunch."

  "Ben?"

  She looked at her oddly. "My husband," she said after an uncomfortable silence. "You've only known him since you were sixteen."

  Molly shrugged with embarrassment. "Will lunch be ready soon? I'm starving."

  She nodded, an even more uncomfortable look passing over her face. "Mrs. Winters, I don't know if it's my place to say this, but…"

  "Have you always called me Mrs. Winters?" Molly interrupted, snatching one more carrot.

  "Since you've been married. Before that you were Molly to me and Ben."

  "Then I think I should be Molly again." She smiled warmly at her. "Mrs. Winters doesn't seem like me at all. Molly at least seems a little closer to who I feel like."

  "All right. If that's what you want." She glanced uneasily toward the door. "I think I'd better tell you something before they come in for lunch."

  It was there, a tiny fluttering of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She managed a calm smile. "Tell me what, Mrs. Morse?" She leaned against the counter, hoping she looked nonchalant.

  "It's common knowledge around here that they're going to be married as soon as the divorce is final." She said it all in a rush, clearly eager to get it over with.

  Molly looked at her blankly. "Who's going to marry whom?"

  "Patrick. It looks like he's going to marry Mrs. Canning. Her husband passed away the day you left here and it looked like they started making their plans right away." She looked miserable. "I thought you'd better know, in case you started getting… well, getting ideas."

  "What kind of ideas would those be? That my husband shouldn't be getting ready for wife number two before he's gotten rid of wife number one?" She couldn't keep the trace of bitterness out of her voice. "Who's Mrs. Canning? Do I know her?"

  "You and Lisa Canning used to be thick as thieves," Mrs. Morse replied grimly. "She and Patrick are out riding now. I'm expecting them in for lunch any minute now. If you want I can give you a tray in your room. It couldn't be very pleasant for you, dearie. It's always been that way between Patrick and her, ever since she married old Fred Canning and moved here five years ago. Though I used to think it was more on her side than his."

  "Then why did he marry me? For the money? He told me I was rich."

  "I was never really sure of why he married you, honey. I guess I hoped that he loved you."

  "But he didn't. Did he?"

  She wouldn't answer, busying herself with the dishes. Then she looked up. "All I know is that Pat wouldn't have done something like that. If he'd wanted that money there were other ways he could have gotten it."

  Like killing me, she thought, unable to hide from the chilling notion.

  At that moment there was a commotion in the yard, and with a false calm Molly moved to the window and looked out. And some of the pieces fell together in the puzzle.

  At first her attention was drawn to the man who was still, ostensibly, her husband. He looked as if he were born in the saddle. He was tall and gorgeous in the bright sunlight, his long, muscled legs easily controlling the spirited bay, and Molly had no doubts at all as to why she had married him. By his side was her erstwhile friend Mrs. Canning, a well-preserved beauty of indeterminate age, her white blond hair expertly tinted and coiffed, her face youthful, her figure opulent and desirable. Everything Molly was not. She laughed and put one hand on Patrick's arm, and the look he gave her was one that sent such a flashing wave of jealousy through Molly that she felt sick. She might not remember Patrick or the woman, but that emotion was an old and comfortable foe.

  The woman dismounted from the horse in one lithe movement, and suddenly Molly realized why she looked vaguely familiar. She belonged in that bedroom upstairs, with the pink-tinted satins, in those sophisticated and expensive clothes. They were made for a woman like her, and Molly wondered who had decorated that bedroom and chosen those clothes. Had it been Patrick? Or the helpful Mrs. Canning? Or had Molly tried to turn herself into a clone of the woman Patrick loved?

  They were already seated when she walked into the dining room. "Molly, darling!" Mrs. Canning rose and enveloped her in a warm and highly scented embrace. Poison, Molly decided, a fitting enough scent, and then cursed herself for knowing the names of perfumes and not of her closest friends.

  "We missed you so much," the woman continued, her heavy gold bangles digging into Molly's back. She drew away and looked into her face, frowning. "You don't look at all well, my dear. And where did you get those awful clothes?"

  "From my room," she answered lightly, drawing away as unobtrusively as she could manage. "It's good to see you again."

  Her luminous eyes were warm and friendly and just ever so slightly assessing. "Darling, it's so good to see you! We were paralyzed when you ran off like that, absolutely paralyzed." She moved back to the table and put one possessive hand on Patrick's arm. "Weren't we, darling?"

  Molly half expected to see painted fingernails like red claws. Wasn't the Other Woman always supposed to have red fingernails? The hand on Patrick's forearm was well-shaped, with pale, well-manicured nails. And not nearly as interesting as the tanned, muscular forearm beneath it, Molly thought hopelessly.

  Patrick had risen. He simply looked at her, an unwelcoming expression on his face. Molly thought of her room with a faint trace of longing, then steeled herself.

  He didn't look like a man who could kill. He simply looked like a man surrounded by too many women.

  Another motive, though. If Molly died, Patrick would have her money and revenge for her running away with another man. He'd also have the beautiful Mrs. Canning, and Molly had to admit that most men would have found that incentive indeed.

  "Wouldn't you rather have a tray in your room, Molly?" he asked in a cool voice. "You've just gotten out of the hospital, and you look tired."

  "Heavens, no!" she said so brightly she wanted to wince. "I need to get back in the swing of things. I need to spend time with friends and family. Loved ones," she added with a pointed, saccharine look at Patrick.

  She might have pushed him too far. He shoved back from the table, but once more Lisa put a restraining hand on his arm, and he subsided with a glare in Molly's direction.

  "Pat says you have amnesia," Lisa murmured. "How fascinating. It sounds like something out of a bad novel."

  "It is," Patrick growled.

  "I'm surprised he told you," Molly said, ignoring him. "I get the impression that my husband doesn't quite believe me."

  His response was a disbelieving snort. Lisa's hand tightened warningly on his arm, and Molly couldn't tear her gaze away from that possessive clasp.


  "Of course he believes you, Molly. Why else would you have run off without a word to me, your dearest friend? Or to your husband, or anyone? You must have had a reason, and if you could only remember I'm sure you'd tell us everything."

  Molly looked at them both. The dearest friend, with her phony, cooing concern and her possessive grip. The husband, watching her with stony distrust.

  They could have been in it together, Molly thought. Her disappearance benefited everyone. It was no wonder she'd run.

  "Of course," she said calmly, helping herself to the plate of delicate sandwiches Mrs. Morse had provided. She was famished, and she didn't care if her abstemious so-called friend watched as she devoured her lunch.

  Molly shoved a sandwich into her mouth, then reached for another. "So tell me," she said in a conversational voice, "what's been happening with you two while I've been away?"

  Patrick promptly choked on his coffee.

  It had been an illuminating meal, Molly thought several hours later as she sat cross-legged on her bed, staring down at the telltale handkerchief. Lisa was obviously adept at awkward social situations, Patrick had been totally uninterested in putting a smooth front on anything. Clearly everyone knew about Lisa and Patrick—just as clearly, it was supposed to be ignored.

  Molly played the game very well. She made all the right responses, slipping easily into the role of younger friend. So easily that she suspected that was how it used to be with the three of them.

  Lisa and Patrick, tolerant of the exuberant teenager who followed them around. She could almost see it, almost remember it.

  Why hadn't he married Lisa? Belatedly, she remembered Lisa's elderly husband. Mrs. Morse said he'd died recently, yet Lisa hardly seemed the grieving widow. It was too bad the old man hadn't died ten months ago and saved everyone a great deal of trouble. Patrick could have married Lisa instead of settling for his wealthy fifth cousin twice removed or whatever she was.

  She stared down at the scrap of cloth in her hand. Those orange streaks looked oddly familiar, yet she couldn't trace them. They were neither rust nor blood stains, and she wondered why the police hadn't taken it for evidence. Had she hidden it from them? If so, why?

  So many questions. She was still hungry, and she was exhausted. Patrick had left the table abruptly, Lisa vanished soon after, and Molly could only imagine where they were and what they were doing.

  She didn't want to.

  She lay back on her bed, tucking the handkerchief beneath her pillow. She wasn't ready to have anyone see it. She wasn't certain what it signified, but right now it was the only clue, the only advantage she had. She wasn't about to let anyone else get a look at it until she was good and ready.

  Chapter Five

  « ^ »

  Amnesia. What a crock! Who did Molly think she was, expecting them to believe such a cock-and-bull story? Maybe in romance novels, maybe in TV movies, but not in real life.

  It was just a little too damned convenient. As long as she pretended not to remember anything, she was buying herself time.

  But she couldn't keep it up forever. Sure, her eyes looked wide and guileless as she looked at each of them in turn, but she could be acting. She'd gotten damned good at it.

  If she wasn't faking, then things were even more dangerous. If that too convenient amnesia was the real McCoy, it could disappear as quickly as it came. Leaving her with a clear memory of what had happened to her just a few short weeks ago.

  And what had happened to the man known as George Andrews.

  That couldn't be allowed to happen. She was going to have to die. Sooner or later.

  And sooner would be a much more acceptable alternative.

  Molly woke up in darkness, disoriented, panicked. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She sat up in bed, switching on the light, trying to still the fear that washed over her. She was just feeling stir crazy—she hadn't wanted to go outside for fear she'd run into Patrick and Lisa. An hour of their company had been about all she could handle. She knew she wouldn't be allowed to take the car anywhere until she'd proven her trustworthiness to that self-righteous, adulterous pig of a husband, even though the car might very well belong to her. Willy had disappeared as soon as he got up, and she didn't even have his doubtful company to distract her. There was a stack of mysteries in the bookcase, but to her disgust once more her memory failed her. She may not have known her own face, name, or even how she drank her coffee, but all she had to do was read the opening paragraph to remember whodunit. She still hadn't met the other occupant of the old stone farmhouse. Cousin Ermintrude White, known to her as Aunt Ermy, said Mrs. Morse, was off on one of her incessant rounds of visits. Molly could tell from the housekeeper's look of disdain that Ermintrude White was not looked upon with affection in this household. Indeed, most of Mrs. Morse's approval seemed reserved for Patrick, despite his lapse in taste when it came to Mrs. Canning, and for Molly, a fact which surprised her. Here was one person who didn't hold her previous bad behavior against her. Perhaps if one dug deep enough there were excuses, but at that point Molly couldn't begin to fathom what they could be.

  Nor was she particularly interested in hearing the details of all the evil she had done, at least, not from the one person who seemed to like her. Molly was simply glad to bask in the sudden affection. She was a good woman, Mrs. Morse, and it felt oddly encouraging to have her approval.

  She heard the heavy footsteps first, followed by the peremptory knocking on her door. She leaned back, waiting, knowing perfectly well who was coming upstairs in such a towering rage. She had no intention of reacting if she could help it.

  The door flew open and Patrick stood there, tall and lean against the doorway, and for a moment she felt a little clutching sense of longing. One that disappeared when she realized this wasn't a friendly visit.

  "I would have thought," he said, his voice cold and cutting, "that you would have the common courtesy to abide by the schedule in this house. I should have known it would be too much to ask, but nevertheless I not only ask it, I demand it. You will come downstairs for drinks right now and be polite to our guests. I suppose even you are capable of that much." The withering contempt cut through her as she lay there motionless. "Now!" He moved into the room menacingly, and she sprang from the bed before she could stop herself.

  He laughed then, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. "I'm glad to see I'm at least able to frighten you into decent behavior. We'll be in the library." He started out the door, stopped and turned. "By the way, in case you've forgotten, you usually dress for dinner."

  Molly could see from the faint light in the hall that he was still wearing his faded jeans, and she shrugged with a fine show of bravado. "I have no clothes," she said simply. "These will have to do."

  "By that I assume you mean that your extravagant wardrobe no longer interests you and you wish to go out and spend a similar sum or more." He shrugged. "Be my guest. Mrs. Morse can accompany you if you insist. After all, it's your money."

  "How much money is there?" she demanded, scrambling off the bed.

  "I wondered when you'd get around to asking," he said with an unpleasant laugh. "As a matter of fact, it was your seeming disinterest in money that almost had me believing your cock-and-bull story about amnesia. I should have known you couldn't keep it up."

  "I merely wanted to know," she said in a cool voice, "if I have enough to buy you off. If I give it to you would you let me go?"

  She'd managed to startle him. "I don't want your damned money," he said bitterly.

  "Then what do you want from me? Why did you marry me?" She scrambled off the bed, starting toward him. She was deliberately trying to goad him, and she told herself she was simply wanting to get the truth from him. And she knew she was lying.

  She was trying to goad him into touching her again. She wanted to see if his touch still made her tremble, as it had last night.

  He backed away, not bothering to hide his uneasiness. "Be down in five minutes, Molly. Or I'll come back
to get you."

  It was supposed to be a threat. It sounded more like a temptation to Molly.

  She waited just long enough before leaving the room, running down the curving stairs swiftly, two at a time, knowing if she hesitated she would lose her courage. Stopping before the living room door, she heard the noise of glasses and ice, quiet laughter and camaraderie that would vanish the moment she appeared. But appear she must—her husband had so decreed. Taking a deep breath, she ambled into the room with studied unconcern.

  Patrick ignored her when she entered the room, busying himself at the bar.

  "There you are, darling!" Lisa greeted her. She was curled up on the sofa like a contented cat. "Did you have a nice afternoon?"

  "Lovely," she replied politely. "And you?"

  Lisa cast a meaningful glance at Patrick's back, and her smile was unbearably smug. "Very stimulating."

  Molly gritted her teeth, glancing around the room to see Willy, who seemed to be viewing the proceedings with a great deal of faintly drunken amusement.

  "How are you tonight, Willy?" she greeted him, desperate to remove herself from Lisa's arch glances. She didn't need her far from subtle reminder of what she'd been doing with Molly's husband.

  "Good enough, m'dear," Willy answered, raising a dark amber drink in greeting. "Glad to see you decided to join us after all."

  She felt a sudden spurt of anger at all of them. They must have discussed poor little Molly in their various condescending tones, conspiring to torment and embarrass her. Well, she wouldn't let them down, she decided suddenly, throwing herself down into the most comfortable chair in the room and glowering at them all like a spoiled teenager.

  Patrick stalked over to her to thrust a tall glass of bright red liquid at her. "Here you are," he said with false solicitude, and she controlled the urge to throw the drink back in his face.

  "What is it?" she demanded suspiciously.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Your usual. Cranberry juice, just as Aunt Ermy ordered for you, though tonight without the vodka. I assume you aren't allowed to drink after your supposed blow on the head." His voice was cool and disbelieving, and she barely controlled an equally snappish answer.