Deadly Intent (8 page)

register. Abbie had fired him on the spot and later found out he had a gambling problem she hadn’t been aware of.

“What’s going on in here?” she asked, glad the restaurant hadn’t yet opened for business. “Ken, what are you doing in my kitchen?”

“Hello, Ms. DiAngelo.” He removed his baseball hat and held it in front of him. “I came to see if I could get my old job back.”

Brady started to say something, but Abbie stopped him. “I’ll handle it, Brady.” Then, motioning Ken into the utility room, she said, “You know that’s not possible, Ken. First of all, my policy hasn’t changed. You stole from me and that’s not something I can easily forgive. Secondly, as you saw, we’ve already replaced you, with Sean. I couldn’t give you your old job back even if I wanted to.”

“I don’t gamble anymore,” Ken said as though he hadn’t heard her. “And I go to Gamblers Anonymous three times a week. I know it’s working because I haven’t set foot in Atlantic City in over a month.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Ken, but I still can’t give you a job.”

“Are you sure? I’ve been watching the restaurant. It’s busier than ever now that you’ve won that award. You probably could use some extra help in the kitchen. I’d even be willing to settle for a lesser position, until I earned my old one back.”

His stubbornness was one of the reasons they’d had problems with him from the start. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, she repeated, “I can’t do it, Ken. I’m sorry.”

His tone turned belligerent again. “You like kicking a man when he’s down, don’t you, Ms. DiAngelo? That’s all part of that power trip you’re on.”

Abbie stiffened. “You’re out of line, Ken.”

“Maybe you’re out of line. I came here in good faith and admitted I had a problem. I even told you what I was doing to fix it, but none of that matters to you.”

Brady came out of nowhere and grabbed the man by the arm. “That’s it, buster. You’re out of here.”

“I’m not finished!” Ken shouted.

“Oh, yes, you are.” Brady shoved him out the back door. “Ms. DiAngelo didn’t press charges against you the last time because she felt sorry for you, but if you ever show your face in this restaurant again, I’ll call the police myself.” He shut the door and locked it, cutting off the man’s ranting.

“I don’t like the way he’s acting,” Brady said to Abbie. “Why don’t we call the police and ask them to keep an eye on the restaurant.”

Abbie shook her head. “I don’t want to get him in trouble. Or hurt his chances of finding a job elsewhere. Let’s just wait and see what happens.”

She glanced out the window. Ken was gone, but somehow that failed to soothe her already frayed nerves. She wondered what else this day had in store for her.

Eight

Ian sat in Rose’s car, no more than a hundred feet or so from the small blue house, wondering if he should go ring Irene’s doorbell.

Something about Abbie’s reaction earlier, when he had asked if she’d talked to her mother, hadn’t set right with him. Abbie had never been much of a liar, and when he had caught a slight hesitation in her voice and the way she had averted her eyes, he had known she was hiding something. And he wanted to know what.

He was still wondering how to approach Irene, when the front door opened and a woman stepped out, looking hesitant, almost fearful.

Although close to thirty years had passed since he had last seen her, he recognized her right away. Irene DiAngelo. Most of her dark hair had turned gray, but other than that, she hadn’t changed much. She was still the same petite, attractive woman he had known way back when. Something about her was different though. She was acting weird, like she didn’t know where she was, which didn’t make sense since she had just walked out of her own front door.

He kept watching her, one elbow resting over the edge of the open car window, waiting for her to do something. She just stood there, looking uncertain. Then, before Ian could duck, she turned in his direction and stared right at

him, not moving or blinking. Ian cursed under his breath. Jesus, that’s all he needed, for her to call the cops and report a Peeping Tom.

Quickly, he grabbed the Mercer County road map from the passenger seat, unfolded it and held it in front of him while watching Irene from the corner of his eye. The ruse seemed to have worked because she was no longer looking at him, but walking toward a rose bed along the front of the house.

As he watched her, a blue van turned the corner of Shaw Drive and pulled into the driveway. A teenage boy, no more than seventeen or eighteen, jumped out and waved at the woman.

“Hi, Mrs. DiAngelo.”

She looked at the boy as if she had never seen him before. Weird, Ian thought. Really weird.

“I’m here to cut the grass,” the kid said. Apparently her strange behavior didn’t seem to bother him as much as it bothered Ian.

As the kid chatted about the weather, he dragged a lawn mower out of the back of the van and set it on the driveway. But when he started wheeling it toward the front yard, Irene’s expression turned into one of sheer panic. As if she had just seen the devil himself, she spun around and ran back inside the house.

Ian sat there for a moment, his mouth gaping. What the hell was going on? What was wrong with Irene?

Well, he thought, opening the car door, there was only one way to find out. He got out of the Oldsmobile and approached the house at a fast pace, like a man on a mission. The boy had just returned to the van to get his Weed Whacker and was watching him.

“Hi,” Ian said affably. Then, still holding his map, he gestured toward the house. “Maybe you can help me. I’m

a real-estate appraiser. I was sent here by my company to take a look at the houses on this block, but when I rang Mrs. DiAngelo’s bell a while ago, she acted strangely and wouldn’t let me in. She has a problem or something?”

The kid shrugged. “Mrs. Di’s all right. Her memory comes and goes, that’s all. Drop back in an hour or so and she should be fine.”

“What do you mean, her memory comes and goes? What’s wrong with her?”

The teenager unscrewed the cap of a gasoline can and started to fill the lawn mower. “She’s got some disease that affects the memory. I forgot what’s it called.”

“Alzheimer’s?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Alzheimer’s. Most of the time she’s okay. And real nice. Other times, like now, she can’t remember who you are.”

Ian could barely hold his jubilation. Irene had Alzheimer’s. That’s why Abbie had acted so peculiar earlier. And why she hadn’t mentioned the fire or his accusations to her mother. What would be the point if Irene couldn’t remember anything about that night? And if she couldn’t remember, how could she deny the accusations?

If that wasn’t a stroke of pure luck he didn’t know what was. He had been concerned that Abbie would know he was lying and call his bluff, but all that bravado on her part had been a bunch of bullshit. The girl was scared, much more so than he had expected. And now he knew why.

The lunch hour at Campagne was almost over and the kitchen activity starting to slow to a more manageable pace when the call came. Abbie was standing a few feet from the wall phone when it rang. After making certain the staff was too busy to eavesdrop, she picked up the receiver.

“You have a collect call from Earl Kramer at Stateville Prison,” a nasal feminine voice recited. “Do you accept the charges?”

Abbie turned to face the window, aware that her throat had suddenly gone dry. “Yes.” She swallowed. “Yes, I do.”

“Abbie DiAngelo?” The voice at the other end was rough and uneducated. “That you?”

“Yes.” She cleared her voice. “But I’ll have to take this in my office. I’ll only be a few seconds.”

The man laughed. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

As Brady passed by, she handed him the phone. “Brady, would you mind hanging up when I tell you to?”

“Sure.”

Aware his curious gaze was following her, Abbie hurried to her office, locked the door behind her and went to pick up the extension on her desk. Her heart pounded in her chest, but not from the short sprint. “I’ve got it, Brady. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Mr. Kramer?”

“Yeah.”

Holding the phone, she circled her desk and sat down. “Do you know why Ian asked you to contact me?”

‘ ‘Sure I do. You want to know if what I told him about your mother is true.” He paused. “It’s true.”

She closed her eyes and forced herself to count until five. “You know it’s not. Why are you doing this? Did Ian offer you money?” Stupid question. Did she actually expect him to admit it if he had?

“Money ain’t much use where I am, missie. Besides, Earl Kramer ain’t for sale.”

That she didn’t believe. “Why are you coming forward

now? Why didn’t you tell your story to Ian after you were convicted?”

“Because I still had a chance to beat the death sentence on appeal. Now, after two tries, they tell me that’s it, I’m done, so I might as well confess to all my sins, not just those that got me on death row.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been blessed with God’s forgiveness, Miss DiAngelo,” he said with a reverence that sounded as phony as the rest of his claims. “And confessing to all my crimes is my way of repaying His kindness.”

Abbie fell back against her chair. Who was she talking to? A religious convert? Or a shrewd con man? “Ian said you’d be able to convince me, so go ahead. Convince me.”

“How do I do that?”

“What did my mother look like twenty-eight years ago?”

“She was a looker. Great ass.”

“Stick to her facial features, please.”

“All right, let’s see.” He was silent for a moment. “She had dark hair, shoulder-length, wavy. And light-colored eyes. Gray or green.” He paused. “And she had a beauty mark above her upper lip.”

All true, but Abbie still wasn’t convinced. Ian could have given him a description of Irene. “What about the house?”

“It was on El Camino Lane—half a mile or so from the center of town. A big house with a basement and an attic.”

That, too, he could have found out from Ian. She had to ask some pertinent questions, something not everyone knew. But what? She wasn’t exactly an expert when it came to interrogating hard-core murderers. “How did you get into the house?”

“Your mother left the back door open. She told me which room your stepfather slept in, so I went up and made

sure McGregor was sleeping soundly. There was an empty bottle of bourbon on the nightstand and the place reeked of booze, so I knew there wasn’t much chance he’d wake up.”

“Didn’t it bother you that three children were also asleep in that house?”

“Your mother was awake. She wasn’t going to let you kids die.”

Yet by the time Irene had reached Abbie’s room, the upper half of the house was already in flames. If she was awake, why had she waited so long before getting everybody out?

“How could you be sure? Did you wait around to find out?”

He laughed again, a cynical, condescending laugh, meant to make her feel stupid. “What and get caught? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Ian said my mother contacted you through the classifieds?”

“Yeah. Lots of people do it that way, even now. For the average Joe out there, with no connections, a classified ad, worded just right, is about the only way of finding what you want. All you have to do is say something like...” He paused for a second, ‘”Looking for an exterminator to do specialized work.’ Or ‘handyman to do demolition work.’ You’ll get lots of calls, but if you’re patient, sooner or later, you’ll get just the person you want.”

“What did my mother’s ad say?” Maybe she could check the newspaper archives. These days most newspapers kept copies on microfiche.

“Oh, Christ, how am I supposed to remember that?”

“What about the name of the newspaper then? And the date the ad ran? Surely you remember those?”

“Sorry. I was reading more than a dozen papers in those

days, from all over the country. I can’t remember which one Irene used, or the date she contacted me.”

“How convenient.”

This time he heard the sarcasm in her voice, because he reacted. “Hey, don’t blame me if that’s not what you wanted to hear. It don’t change what I know.”

“You mean, what you’re making up, don’t you, Mr. Kramer?”

“That’s for the cops to decide, missie.” He let a second pass. “Are we finished? My fifteen minutes are almost up. You wouldn’t want me to get in trouble, now, would you?”

Abbie felt drained. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from this conversation, or if she had even expected anything at all. “Yes,” she said. “We’re finished.”

“Then will you join me in a prayer, Ms. DiAngelo?”

Startled, Abbie started to say something, but he was already talking. “My Lord, Jesus, you gave your life for me and now I want to give my life for you. I offer you my death, oh Lord, as I offer you my body and my soul—“

Abbie slammed the phone down. What kind of sick monster was this? Did he actually think she was buying his act? And what man made up such outright lies without an ounce of remorse, then prayed for his soul all in the same breath?

She covered her face with her hands and remained in that position, until Brady buzzed her on the intercom to tell her he was leaving.

Maybe all was not lost, she thought as she rose from behind her desk. Maybe there was a way out of this nightmare—a legal way. She didn’t know what it could be, but Claudia’s brother was an attorney. Although he lived in Philadelphia, he and Claudia got together often, and whenever he was in town, Abbie made sure they stopped at

Campagne for lunch or dinner. More important, she knew she could trust him.

With that thought in mind, she grabbed her purse and ran out.

Nine

Thirty-five-year-old Claudia Marjolis and Abbie had met seven years ago, when Abbie had catered the grand opening of Claudia’s first one-woman show. The younger child of an old-money Philadelphia family and a self-admitted rebel, Claudia had astounded her family when she had dropped out of medical school to become a sculptor.

Although her parents had eventually recovered from the shock and supported her wholeheartedly, they still didn’t know what to make of their daughter’s free spirit, a spirit that was reflected not only in her work, which some critics had labeled revolutionary, but in her lifestyle, in the way she dressed and even in the food she ate.

Home and studio shared space in a second-story loft that had once been a candy factory. A bank of windows along one wall offered an unobstructed view of Princeton University’s Holder Tower, one of the most recognized landmarks in Princeton. Half the loft space was taken up by I her work, an eclectic assortment of clay and bronze sculptures of every shape and size. The rest of the space featured a combination living area and kitchen, all done in various shades of red and black. The bedroom was concealed behind one of Claudia’s most intriguing creations—a glass tower made entirely of empty jars. At night, a golden light angled just right lit up the display, making it appear as though it was on fire. Ben loved coming here, partly be

cause Claudia spoiled him rotten and partly because she often took him to the salvage yard where she bought metal scraps for her work.

She was grunting loudly when Abbie walked in, attempting to move a six-foot-long sculpture of a reclining woman across the slate floor. At five foot three and no heavier than a hundred pounds, Claudia didn’t look as though she could budge a feather. Waitressing in a busy SoHo cafeteria during her two years at the Lower Manhattan Art Center, however, had given her an upper-body strength few women her size possessed.

With her mass of red curls that were presently speckled with gray plaster, her big round blue eyes and granny glasses, she looked like a prettier version of Raggedy Ann. Smart and successful, she had never married, although she had come close—three times. All three expectant grooms had been left at the altar, victims of the bride’s now notorious jitters. Abbie often teased her that the movie Runaway Bride was based on Claudia’s life story.

At the sound of the door closing, Claudia turned her head, then straightened, one hand on the small of her back. ‘ ‘About time you got here. This thing must weigh a ton.”

“It looks it.”

Abbie gave the sculpture a second appraisal, her gaze lingering on the woman’s conical breasts, mammoth thighs and tiny feet. She had followed the progress of Claudia’s new endeavor over the last six months, but it wasn’t until four weeks ago that she had realized the block of plaster was becoming a woman.

“Well, what do you think?” Claudia asked, looking like a proud mama.

Her lips pursed, Abbie walked slowly around the statue, taking in every detail. Two black-beaded eyes had been encased into the face and seemed to follow Abbie’s every

move. “Hmm, I’m not sure. When did you decide on the pointy breasts?”

“I knew you were going to ask that.” Claudia picked up a feather duster from the floor and gave the woman’s torso a light brushing. “I got the idea last week after seeing a biography of Josephine Baker. Her breasts were the rage of Paris, you know. They inspired me.”

Abbie slanted her friend an amused look. “Why, Claudia, is there something about you I don’t know?”

“I meant, smart-ass, that I was inspired in an artistic way. Now give me a hand, will you.” She set the duster down and flexed her fingers. “And make sure the rug stays underneath. I don’t want to scratch the floor.”

Abby tossed her purse on a chair. ‘ ‘Where do you want her?”

Claudia pointed at a spot in front of the window. “Over there, so everyone walking down Nassau Street will see her.”

Following Claudia’s cue, Abbie took her position, placing her hands on the statue’s broad back. She started pushing slowly and steadily until it stood at its designated space. The movement must have attracted passersby, because a few pedestrians stopped and looked up, mouths open, which was the exact reaction Claudia had aimed for.

She backed off to admire the effect, nodding approvingly. “Perfect.”

“Did you name her yet?” Abbie asked, knowing how much Claudia hated to title her work. Most of the time, they ended up being called “Untitled.”

“No, but my dealer is starting to pressure me to come up with something. Any ideas?”

“Sorry, my creativity begins and ends in the kitchen.”

“In that case, a cup of coffee might just be what you

need to stir up your creative juices. And I’ve got some muffins I want you to taste. It’s a new recipe.”’

“’What’s in them?” Abbie asked suspiciously.

“Flaxseed, corn and a pinch of jalapeno. Don’t make that face. You’ll love them.” She walked toward the kitchen. “And then you can tell me what’s going on.” She picked up the glass carafe from a black coffeemaker and filled two mugs. “And don’t tell me nothing,” she added, her keen eyes on Abbie’s face. “Because, my dear friend, that troubled look in your eyes, which you’re going to great pains to conceal, is a dead giveaway.”

At first, Abbie hadn’t intended to confide in Claudia, not only because the matter was so personal, but because it would have been unfair to put her best friend in such a compromising position. But once Abbie had made up her mind to ask Dennis Marjolis for help, she knew there was no avoiding taking Claudia into her confidence.

“It’s complicated,” she said, not sure where to start.

Claudia set a plate of fragrant muffins on the counter and climbed onto a red, lacquered stool. “You’re looking at the person for whom the word complicated was invented. So, come on, talk to me.”

Abbie told her everything, from the moment she had spotted Ian at the ball field the previous day, to her telephone conversation with Earl Kramer less than ten minutes ago.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Claudia exclaimed when Abbie was finished. “I’ve never heard of such nonsense. Those two clowns are nothing but flimflam men who engineered that story to make a quick buck. And that letter was written in a moment of desperation. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Abbie broke a piece of her muffin and chewed it slowly. It was surprisingly good.

“Then why haven’t you told Ian to go find himself another patsy?”

“I would have if my mother hadn’t acted so suspiciously.”

“Honey, your mother was just having a bad day. Maybe the memories of that night were too painful for her. Or maybe they triggered something inside her head and she became confused. Didn’t Dr. Frantz explain she would have days like this?”