Deadly Intent (7 page)

“What do you want to talk to me about, dear?” Irene plumped a decorative pillow before settling into an easy chair, across from Abbie. “You look so serious all of a sudden. Is something wrong at the restaurant?”

“No. Thank God, Campagne is running smoothly.” Abbie clasped her hands and leaned forward. ‘ ‘I had a rather unexpected visitor last night.”

“Oh. Who?”

“Ian McGregor.”

Irene’s expression registered instant shock. “Ian? What is he doing here?”

“He said he was passing by.”

“I don’t understand. How did he know where to find you?”

“The TV interview. He saw it, heard I lived in Princeton and decided to look me up. Thanks to the Internet, tracking me down wasn’t too difficult.” She paused, knowing how little it took these days to get her mother distraught, but knew of no other way to learn the truth than to speak frankly. “He wanted to know if I remembered the fire.”

Irene’s back went rigid. “Why ask you? If he has questions, he should come to me.”

“I didn’t want him upsetting you.”

“And I don’t want him upsetting you!”

“He didn’t, Mom,” she lied. “He was a little annoying,

which, as I recall, is pretty typical of Ian, but that’s all.” Glad to see that her mother was taking the news without any dramatic change in behavior, Abbie forged ahead. “What exactly did happen that night, Mom?”

“You know what happened. Patrick fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand. It was a nasty habit he had and it scared me to death. That’s why I started sleeping in the next room.”

Another detail the authorities would find interesting.; “Ian claims he heard one of the firemen say something about arson,” Abbie said cautiously.

Irene’s eyes seemed to cloud over for a second or two,! “He said that?”

“Is it true? Did the authorities initially suspect arson?”

“They may have.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, Abbie,” Irene snapped. “I don’t. Who can remember every detail of something that happened so long ago?”

“Don’t get upset—“

“I’m not upset! I’m angry. We haven’t heard one word from that boy, or his sister, in all these years, and now you’re telling me he’s here, stirring up trouble?”

“No, he’s not. Mom, please—“

“Tell him to leave us alone, Abbie.” She sprung out of her chair. Her face was pale, her eyes bright. “Tell him to go away.”

Before she had a chance to answer, Abbie heard the sound of footsteps hurrying across the foyer. A moment later, Marion walked in, a grocery bag in her arms. She was a small, round woman with tightly permed gray hair, chubby cheeks and sharp brown eyes.

Looking alarmed, she glanced from Abbie to Irene.; “What’s going on? I can hear the two of you all the way’ from the street.”

“It’s all right, Marion.” Abbie stood up and walked over to

where Irene stood, kicking herself for having let the situation get out of hand. “Mom got a little upset with me, but she’s all right now.” She wrapped an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Aren’t you, Mom?” Irene nodded. She appeared calmer, but the expression in her eyes said otherwise. Why had she become so distraught at the mention of the fire? Were the memories of that night so vivid and painful that she couldn’t talk about it? Was it simply because of the Alzheimer’s? Or was it more than that?

Abbie spent the next half hour trying to bring Irene back to her earlier state of mind. As badly as she wanted to know the truth about the fire, further questioning would have to wait. Nothing, not even Ian’s threats, was worth getting her mother in such a state of agitation.

While Irene filled a Tupperware container with generous servings of polpette, Abbie chatted about the new dishes she was planning to add to her summer menu, and Ben’s famous triple. She also told her about the new Al Pacino movie that was coming out next Friday. Irene was crazy about Al Pacino.

As Irene began to relax, so did Abbie. Maybe she had made too much of her mother’s behavior. Why shouldn’t she get upset at the mention of a fire that had killed her husband? In her condition, emotional outbursts were commonplace and certainly not a reason to jump to conclusions.

A little after ten o’clock, Abbie got ready to leave. “I’d better go,” she said, “before Brady sends out a search party for me.” Irene handed her the Tupperware container. “Give Ben

a hug for me. And tell him to come and see me. It’s been ages since I’ve seen that boy.”

Abbie felt a pinch in her heart. The three of them had had dinner together only two nights ago.

Seven

When Abbie returned to Campagne, Brady was waiting for her. “Someone’s here to see you,” he said in a low voice. “A man. He says he’s your brother.”

Abbie bristled. Was that what Ian had meant when he had said he’d give her some time? Less than twelve hours? “Where is he?” she asked.

“I took him to your office, although what he wanted was to be seated in the dining room and be served lunch. His exact words were, ‘Bring me something expensive and free.’” That Brady and Ian had not hit it off was obvious. “You never told me you had a brother.”

“He’s a stepbrother, actually. I’ll tell you about him later.” She headed toward her office. “I guess I’d better see what he wants.”

She found him standing at her desk, a framed photo of Ben in his hand. “Put that down,” she said sharply.

At the sound of her voice, Ian turned around. “Good looking boy. Doesn’t look like you, though. Must take after his daddy.”

She crossed the room, snatched the photo from his hand and put it back on her desk. “I don’t want you coming here, Ian.”

“Would you prefer if I came to your house?”

“What I would prefer is for you to disappear.”

His nose up in the air, Ian started walking around the

room, stopping every now and then to look at one of the many photographs scattered about. This glimpse into her private life made her wish Brady had let him sit in the dining room after all. There was nothing about herself on her family she wanted to share with this man.
      
;

“No can do, sis,” he said, turning around. “As I said last night, we have unfinished business.” He laughed, a good-natured sound, as if this visit really was an innocent family reunion. “I don’t see any pictures of your hubby. You do have a husband, don’t you?”

“I’ve already told you my private life is none of your business.”

He raised his hands up in the air, palms out. “Okay,: okay, don’t blow a gasket. I was just curious.” He waited; a beat before adding, “So, did you give some thought to our...little arrangement?”
        
;

“You’re blackmailing me, Ian. I’d hardly call it an arrangement.”

“And I’d rather call it a payback—for all the misery your mother put me through.”

“She didn’t do anything! However your life turned out is your doing, no one else’s.”

He brushed her remark aside with a wave of his hand. “I don’t really care about that. All I want to know is, did you ask her about the fire?”

“No.” Abbie hoped he wouldn’t see through her lie. “I didn’t see any point in upsetting her by bringing up such bad memories.”

“You didn’t even tell her I was here?”

“No, Ian, I didn’t, for the same reason I just stated.”

He gave her a long, probing look, as though trying to decide if she was telling him the truth. Uncomfortable to; be under such scrutiny, she spoke again, this time forcing; a confidence in her voice she was far from feeling, “And!

frankly, I don’t know why I’m still here, listening to your nonsense, when I have a million things to—“

“Because you know damn well you have no choice in the matter.” His eyes had hardened, and all cheerfulness, phony as it had been, was gone from his voice. “I’m holding the trump card here, Abbie. So either you come through with the money, or I call the Palo Alto P.D. and tell them your mother is a cold-blooded killer.”

Go ahead, Abbie, call his bluff. Who are the police going to believe? Two con men or a respectable, law-abiding citizen ?

For a moment, she felt as though she could do it. If she stayed strong and showed him she wasn’t intimidated, he would back off. But although the words were just on the tip of her tongue, she remained silent. She and Ian just stood there, measuring each other, waiting to see who blinked first.

“Tell you what.” Ian reached inside his shirt pocket and took out a cell phone. “Since you still have doubts, I’ll put you in contact with Earl. He’ll convince you.”

She started to protest but he was already dialing. As he waited, he winked at her, looking supremely confident. “Anna,” he said when the call was answered, “this is Ian McGregor. Please have Earl call the phone number I’m going to give you as soon as possible, and tell him to ask for Abbie DiAngelo. You have pen and paper?”

He waited another few seconds before giving the restaurant number, which he seemed to have memorized. “Can you get word out to him today? It’s urgent.” He smiled. “Super. Thanks, Anna.”

He flipped the phone shut and tucked it back in his pocket. “That was Earl’s wife. She said that unless he has already used his three allowed phone calls for the week, you should hear from him sometime today.”

“How will I know the call is coming from the prison?”

“He has to call collect. The operator will tell you the call is from Stateville.”

He had covered all his bases, anticipated all her questions. Was that part of a well-engineered bluff? Or was he telling the truth?

He placed a scrap of paper on her desk. ‘ ‘I wrote down my cell-phone number for you. Call me after you hear from him.”

“I’m not at your beck and call, Ian. I have a business to run.”

Before he could answer, there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Brady stuck his head through the opening. One look at them and he seemed instantly aware of the tension in the room. “Abbie, we have a crisis in the kitchen. Can you come right away?”

There had never been a crisis he couldn’t handle and she doubted there was one now. But she was grateful for the interruption. “I’ll be right there.”

She looked at Ian, who gave a slight bow. “I’ll go.” Then, leaning toward her so his mouth almost touched her ear, he whispered, “But I’ll be back.”

As he walked by Brady, who was holding the door open for him, he added, “I’d lose the attitude if I were you, kid. Nobody likes a wise guy.”

“You should know,” Brady fired back.

He and Abbie followed Ian into the empty dining room and watched him make his way around the tables. Once he was gone, Abbie turned to the young sous-chef. “Tell me there is no crisis, because I don’t think I could handle anything more serious than burned toast right now.”

He shook his head. “I used that as an excuse to see if you were all right.”

“How did you know I needed rescuing?”

“I’ve seen his kind before.” He glanced at her. “How’d you end up with a character like that for a step-brother?”

Brady deserved to know as much as she could afford to tell him. “After my biological dad died, my mother remarried a man by the name of Patrick McGregor, a widower with two children. Two years later, Patrick died and my mother and I moved to Kansas to live with my grandmother who was ill. Ian and his sister stayed in California with their aunt. I haven’t seen either one of them in twenty-eight years.”

“What does Ian want?” She started toward the kitchen. “A loan.” “I hope you told him you’re not the Bank of America.” “Not in so many words, but he got my drift. I think.” “If he didn’t, let me know. I’d love to wipe that smirk of his—“

Brady was interrupted by the sound of shouting voices coming from the kitchen. One of them belonged to Sean, one of Campagne’s two kitchen helpers.

“I told you, Abbie is tied up at the moment,” Sean was saying. “You’ll have to come back.”

“Look, punk,” the other man replied, “I was in this business when you were still in diapers, so don’t tell me what to do.”

“That’s Ken!” Brady on her heels, Abbie hurried to the kitchen, slapping the swinging doors open. Ken Walker stood in the middle of the kitchen, his face an angry red, his hands balled up into fists as though he was ready to strike. In his mid-thirties, Ken had the sturdy, muscular build of a wrestler and a volatile temper. Six weeks ago, after a year in Abbie’s employ, Brady had caught the kitchen helper stealing money from the cash