Authors: Diana Dempsey
She had just arrived at
the front door when it opened.
“Come in, come in.”
Charles
stepped back and waved her inside.
He looked very alert for the hour, fully dressed in jeans, topsiders,
and a light gray Stanford tee shirt.
His thinning gray hair was neatly combed.
“Let me turn on a few more lights,” he
said, and bustled away.
Annie paused in the
foyer, experiencing the same reaction to the Boswell/
Waring
home that she had the night of the book party.
So this was what literary superstardom
could buy.
An acre on California’s
coast complete with private beach, designer-decorated interiors, and views to
die for.
The last would not be in
evidence at this hour, though Annie remembered that every room on the
oceanfront side boasted enormous windows with unobstructed vistas of the
Channel Islands and the Pacific.
Charles returned to
usher her into the expansive living room.
Annie remembered it from the signing party: French doors that gave off
onto a wide patio, several cozy sitting areas, and a fieldstone fireplace that
revealed smoldering evidence of a blaze hours before.
Annie sank onto a plump yellow sofa and
had to fight the urge to lie down.
“May I offer you a
brandy?”
He chuckled, scrutinizing
her through thick eyeglass lenses.
“You look as if you might need one.”
“No, thank you.”
She doubted she could keep her eyes open
if she had even a sip.
He settled across from
her on a settee upholstered in brown leather, pushing aside a legal pad covered
with dense script.
Annie was
relieved that again he chuckled.
He
showed no upset whatsoever at her impromptu appearance.
“I can say in all honesty that you’re
the last person on earth I expected to show up at my front door.”
“I can well
imagine.
Again, I am so sorry for
putting you out like this.
I didn’t
know where else to turn.”
“As you said.
Though as far as I’m concerned, you’ve
come to the right place.”
Those words were balm
to her soul.
She let herself relax
further into the sofa cushions.
“I
heard you on the news the other night.
Saying you thought the police were way off base focusing their
investigation on me.”
“It just goes to show
how clueless they are.
It’s getting
to the point where I’m amazed they ever manage to crack a case.”
“You must be so
frustrated.
I know it’s different
than losing a spouse but I was very close to Michael Ellsworth.
I won’t rest until his killer is caught.
And convicted.”
Charles looked
away.
“This has been unbelievably
challenging for me.
But we all have
our burdens to bear.”
He returned
an assessing gaze to Annie’s face.
“You know all about that now, don’t you?
Now that you’ve been falsely
accused.
Of multiple murders, no
less.
And forced to run.
Much like the protagonist in your first
mystery.
It’s very different when
it’s real, isn’t it?”
“There’s no
comparison.
I suppose that if I
make it through this, I’ll be able to use the experience in my writing.”
He surprised her by
laughing.
“Rich material, isn’t
it?
Very rich indeed.”
His hilarity faded away almost as
quickly as it had arisen.
“So tell
me, Annette.
You said you needed my
help.
Exactly what kind of help do
you mean?”
This was it.
The moment she had come here for.
So far Charles had been remarkably
open-minded where she was concerned, which buoyed her hope that, against all
odds, he might actually come through for her.
“I want your help to get me to Mexico,”
she told him.
“Mexico.”
He leaned forward and clasped his hands,
resting his forearms on his thighs.
“As in the very mystery we were just discussing.”
“I believe that if I
can make it there, I’ll be safe until I can clear my name.”
“You expect that to
happen.”
“Absolutely.
Someday.
I have to believe that someday the
police will get their act together and find the real killer.
Or that I will, from a distance.”
With Reid’s help.
He might not be at her side now but
Annie was sure he would not abandon her cause.
He settled back in his
chair, regarded her.
“You’ve had
someone helping you, I take it, until tonight?”
Annie looked away.
However much she trusted Charles, she
would not divulge the role Reid had played in her ability to stay underground.
Charles spoke
again.
“You may not be aware of
this, but there’s a great deal of speculation that Reid Gardner was sheltering
you.”
She returned her gaze
to Charles.
“I’m on my own now.”
“I see.”
He nodded.
“I’ve had that kind of disappointment,
too.”
“Will you help
me?”
She couldn’t keep a pleading
note from creeping into her voice.
“I know it’s asking a great deal.
But you want the real killer caught as much as I do, and so long as the
police are focused on me they’re not really open to other possibilities.
If I’m out of the picture, they will
be.”
Because Reid will force them to.
Together he and I will find something to push Simpson in a more fruitful
direction
.
“I believe you could
sneak me past border patrol.
The
authorities have no reason to be suspicious of you.
And then I’d be safe until this horrible
situation is finally resolved.”
“Interesting
proposition.”
He squinted into the
distance as if giving it thought.
Then he leaned further forward and tapped her knee.
“Annette, I need to ponder this further
and—”
He chuckled again.
“—it’s late enough and I’m old
enough that I’d rather do that in the morning light.
So what do you say to letting me sleep
on it.
In the meanwhile I’ll set
you up in the guest house and you can get a good night’s rest.
I dare say you need one.”
It wasn’t a no.
Maybe that was the most she could hope
for at the moment.
And she was
exhausted.
“That sounds fine.
I’m relieved you’re willing even to
consider it.
I can’t tell you how
much I appreciate your help, Charles.
Despite what you said to the press, and on Facebook, part of me was
afraid you might want to turn me in.”
“That’s the last thing
I want to do.”
Charles rose to his
feet.
“Let me walk over to the
guest house and make sure you’ll have everything you need.
We haven’t had an overnight guest in
some time.”
Annie rose to stretch
her legs, anticipating the happy moment when she would be able to stretch them
out on the bed she was almost delirious imagining.
Outside the huge windows, which dulled
the surf’s roar, the Pacific stretched black and deep into the horizon.
She perched for a moment by the
fieldstone fireplace, enjoying the gentle warmth the embers still produced,
then caught sight of the legal pad Charles had pushed aside to sit down.
He’d probably been writing on it that
evening, basking in the fire’s glow.
An empty brandy snifter remained on a side table.
She wandered over to the settee and
glanced down at the pad, not wanting to pry but curious all the same.
It was immediately
apparent that Charles was plotting a mystery.
The page was divided into six squares,
each with a chapter heading, and in each square were bullet points delineating
several scenes.
The script was
small and neat.
Very little was
crossed out.
It bore no relation to
the hectic notes she produced when she plotted out a new book.
She heard a small noise
and raised her head.
Charles was
watching her from across the room.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
She stepped back from the settee.
“I didn’t mean to snoop.”
“That’s all right,” he
said immediately, but Annie got the idea he was annoyed.
She distanced herself
further from the settee.
“I really
am sorry.
You’re being so
kind.
And I should understand
better than most people that a writer’s work is for his eyes only until he
shows it to someone else.”
He arched his brows.
“You consider me a writer?”
“Well, if you’re
writing, you’re a writer.”
“Not the same as my
wife, though.”
Charles’s mood had
changed somehow.
He seemed edgier
than before.
Annie found herself
wanting to placate him.
“Well, your
wife enjoyed phenomenal success but the act of writing is the same
regardless.”
Her voice trailed off.
“And now
you’re
enjoying phenomenal success.”
“Well, yes and
no.”
Given that she was on the run
from a killer, her literary prowess hardly seemed to matter at the moment.
“And it was hardly a smooth ride at the
beginning.”
“If I recall, a number
of people thought your debut mystery was exceptional.”
Annie noted the
reference to “a number of people” did not appear to include Charles
himself.
“I was pleased to get some
positive reviews.”
“And of course you were
nominated for an Edgar.”
“Which I didn’t
win.”
She produced a
hollow-sounding laugh.
“Naturally Maggie won
several times.
Which she never let
me forget.”
Annie wasn’t sure how
to respond to that.
Eventually she
filled the silence.
“I think you’re
right that we should call it a night.
It is awfully late.”
She
pointed past him, in the direction he’d gone before.
“The guest house is that way?”
“Yes.”
He seemed to snap to attention.
“All right, then.
I’ll show you the way.”
The night air when they
exited the main house was colder and whippier than an hour before.
Annie was deeply grateful she wouldn’t
be spending the night under a bush.
And she was ready to have some time apart from Charles
Waring
.
His demeanor
had darkened notably after he’d spied her reading his notes.
She had to wonder if she had destroyed
for good the positive atmosphere she had felt earlier.
But Charles’s voice was
again friendly as he led her down a longer flagstone path to the guest
house.
“I did think you handled the
hanging scene in your debut mystery very well.
It was truly chilling.”
“Thank you.
I remember spending a lot of time trying
to nail that down.”
In the end,
during the copy edits, her editor had killed the scene.
It wasn’t consistent with the
character’s behavior, she had argued.
Eventually Annie had seen her point, and agreed.
Ahead of her, Charles
pushed open the front door of the guest house.
It was a mini version of the main
residence and, Annie could tell from the foyer, just as gorgeously
decorated.
He stepped back to allow
her to walk past him and, entering the bedroom, Annie caught a glimpse of
herself in a small oval mirror hanging on the wall.
Even days later it still came as a shock
seeing herself with short, spiky blond hair.
It was surprising Charles hadn’t
remarked on it.
He lingered in the
foyer, where he began to fidget with the double-hung window near the front
door.
“This’ll just take a moment,”
he called to her.
“No problem.”
Annie pivoted to regard him, and
stilled.
Seeing him from this new
angle, seeing his profile, his build, she was all at once returned to the
horrors of the night before.
It came back to her in
a cold flash, the coiled rope slung over the killer’s shoulder as he broke into
the cabin.
I did think you handled the hanging scene in your debut mystery very
well
, Charles had just said.
How did he even know about that?
That scene never made it into the published book.