Twelve
Michael studied the dark stains on the garage floor with a kind of grim fascination. Draining the brake fluid from an intended victim's car was a hackneyed device, one expected from time to time on any self-respecting action-adventure show. Viewers and readers alike developed a certain fondness for old, reliable angles in the same way they appreciated the new and different. Though it took on a different picture when it became personal, the car careering out of control down a steep mountain road was as old as the Model T. He'd used it himself, just as he'd used the anonymous gift of champagne. And the bogus-telegram routine, he mused as an idea began to stir. Just last season one of Logan's heroines of the week had been locked in a cellar—left in the dark after going to investigate a window slamming in the wind. It too was a classic. Each and every one of the ploys used against himself and Pandora could have been lifted from one of his own plots. Randall had pointed it out, though he'd been joking. It didn't seem very funny.
Michael cursed himself, knowing he should have seen the pattern before. Perhaps he hadn't simply because it had been a pattern, a trite one by Hollywood standards. Whether it was accidental or planned, Michael decided he wasn't about to be outplotted. He'd make his next move taking a page from the classic mystery novels. Going into the house, Michael went to the phone and began to structure his scene.
He was just completing his last call when Pandora came down the hall toward him. "Michael, you've got to do something about Sweeney."
Michael leaned back against the newel post and studied her. She looked wonderful—rested, healthy and annoyed. "Isn't it time for your afternoon nap?"
"That's just what I'm talking about." The annoyance deepened between her brows and pleased him. "I don't need an afternoon nap. It's been over a week since the accident." She pulled a leather thong out of her hair and began to run it through her fingers. "I've seen the doctor, and he said I was fine."
"I thought it was more something along the lines of you having a head like a rock."
She narrowed her eyes. "He was annoyed because I healed perfectly without him. The point is, I am healed, but if Sweeney keeps nagging and hovering, I'll have a relapse." It came out as a declaration as she stood straight in front of him, chin lifted, looking as though she'd never been ill a day in her life.
"What would you like me to do?"
"She'll listen to you. For some reason she has the idea that you're infallible. Mr. Donahue this, Mr. Donahue that." She slapped the leather against her palm. "For the past week all I've heard is how charming, handsome and strong you are. It's a wonder I recovered at all."
His lips twitched, but he understood Sweeney's flattery could undo any progress he'd made. "The woman's perceptive. However..." He stopped Pandora's retort by holding up a hand. "Because I'd never refuse you anything—" when she snorted he ignored it "—and because she's been driving me crazy fussing over my wrist, I'm going to take care of it."
Pandora tilted her head. "How?"
"Sweeney's going to be too busy over the next few days to fuss over us. She'll have the dinner party to fuss over."
"What dinner party?"
"The dinner party we're going to give next week for all our relatives."
She glanced at the phone, remembering he'd been using it when she'd come down the hall. "What have you been up to?"
"Just setting the scene, cousin." He rocked back on his heels, already imagining. "I think we'll have Sweeney dig out the best china, though I doubt we'll have time to use it."
"Michael." She didn't want to seem a coward, but the accident had taught her something about caution and self-preservation. "We won't just be inviting relatives. One of them tried to kill us."
"And failed." He took her chin in his hand. "Don't you think he'll try again, Pandora, and again? The police can't patrol the grounds indefinitely. And," he added with his fingers tightening, "I'm not willing to let bygones be bygones." His gaze skimmed up to where her hair just covered the scar on her forehead. The doctor had said it would fade, but Michael's memory of it never would. "We're going to settle this, my way."
"I don't like it."
"Pandora." He gave her a charming smile and pinched her cheek. "Trust me."
The fact that she did only made her more nervous. With a sigh, she took his hand. "Let's tell Sweeney to kill the fatted calf."
Right down to the moment the first car arrived, Pandora was certain no one would come. She'd sat through a discussion of Michael's plan, argued, disagreed, admired and ultimately she'd given up. Theatrics, she'd decided. But there was enough Jolley in her to look forward to the show, especially when she was one of the leads. And she had, as they said in the business, her part cold.
She'd dressed for the role in a slim, strapless black dress. For flair, she'd added a sterling silver necklace she'd fashioned in an exaggerated star burst. Matching earrings dripped nearly to her chin. If Michael wanted drama, who was she to argue? As the night of the dinner party had grown closer, her nerves had steeled into determination.
When he saw her at the top of the stairs, he was speechless. Had he really convinced himself all these years she had no real beauty? At the moment, poised, defiant and enjoying herself, she made every other woman he'd known look like a shadow. And if he told her so, she wouldn't believe it for a moment. Instead he merely nodded and rocked back on his heels.
"Perfect," he told her as she walked down the main stairs. Standing at the base in a dark suit, Michael looked invincible, and ruthless. "The sophisticated heroine." He took her hand. "Cool and sexy. Hitchcock would've made you a star."
"Don't forget what happened to Janet Leigh."
He laughed and sent one of her earrings spinning. "Nervous?"
"Not as much as I'd thought I'd be. If this doesn't work—"
"Then we're no worse off than we are now. You know what to do."
"We've rehearsed it a half-dozen times. I still have the bruises."
He leaned closer to kiss both bare shoulders. "I always thought you'd be a natural. When this is over, we have a scene of our own to finish. No, don't pull back," he warned as she attempted to. "It's too late to pull back." They stood close, nearly mouth to mouth. "It's been too late all along."
Nerves she'd managed to quell came racing back, but they had nothing to do with plots or plans. "You're being dramatic."
With a nod, he tangled his fingers in her hair. "My sense of drama, your streak of practicality. An interesting combination."
"An uneasy one."
"If life's too easy you sleep through it," Michael decided. "It sounds like the first of our guests are arriving," he murmured as they heard the sound of a car. He kissed her briefly. "Break a leg."
She wrinkled her nose at his back. "That's what I'm afraid of."
Within a half hour, everyone who had been at the reading of the will, except Fitzhugh, was again in the library. No one seemed any more relaxed than they'd been almost six months before. Jolley beamed down on them from the oil painting. From time to time Pandora glanced up at it almost expecting him to wink. To give everyone what they'd come for, Pandora and Michael kept arguing about whatever came to mind. Time for the game to begin, she decided.
Carlson stood with his wife near a bookshelf. He looked cross and impatient and glowered when Pandora approached.
"Uncle Carlson, I'm so glad you could make it. We don't see nearly enough of each other."
"Don't soft-soap me." He swirled his scotch but didn't drink. "If you've got the idea you can talk me out of contesting this absurd will, you're mistaken."
' I wouldn't dream of it. Fitzhugh tells me you don't have a chance." She smiled beautifully. "But I have to agree the will's absurd, especially after being forced to live in the same house with Michael all these months." She ran a finger down one of the long, flattened prongs of her necklace. "I'll tell you, Uncle Carlson, there have been times I've seriously considered throwing in the towel. He's done everything possible to make the six months unbearable. Once he pretended his mother was ill, and he had to go to California. Next thing I knew I was locked in the basement. Childish games," she muttered sending Michael a look of utter dislike. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Carlson take a quick, nervous drink. "Well, the sentence is nearly up." She turned back with a fresh smile. "I'm so glad we could have this little celebration. Michael's finally going to open a bottle of champagne he's been hoarding since Christmas."
Pandora watched Carlson's wife drop her glass on the Turkish carpet. "Dear me," Pandora said softly. "We'll have to get something to mop that up. Freshen your drink?"
"No, she's fine." Carlson took his wife by the elbow. "Excuse me."
As they moved away, Pandora felt a quick thrill of excitement. So. it had been Carlson.
"I quit smoking about six months ago," Michael told Hank and his wife, earning healthy approval.
"You'll never regret it," Hank stated in his slow, deliberate way. "You're responsible for your own body."
"I've been giving that a lot of thought lately," Michael said dryly. "But living with Pandora the past few months hasn't made it easy. She's made this past winter miserable. She had someone send me a fake telegram so I'd go flying off to California thinking my mother was ill." He glanced over his shoulder and scowled at Pandora's back.
"If you've gotten through six months without smoking..." Meg began, guiding the conversation back to Michael's health.
"It's a miracle I have living with that woman. But it's almost over." He grinned at Hank. "We're having champagne instead of carrot juice for dinner. I've been saving this bottle since Christmas for just the right occasion."
He saw Hank's fingers whiten around his glass of Perrier and Meg's color drain. "We don't— " Hank looked helplessly at Meg. "We don't drink."
"Champagne isn't drinking," Michael said jovially. "It's celebrating. Excuse me." He moved to the bar as if to freshen his drink and waited for Pandora to join him. "It's Hank."
"No." She added a splash of vermouth to her glass. "It's Carlson." Following the script, she glared at him. "You're an insufferable bore, Michael. Putting up with you isn't worth any amount of money."
"Intellectual snob." He toasted her. "I'm counting the days."
With a sweep of her skirts, Pandora walked over to Ginger. "I don't know how I manage to hold my temper with that man."
Ginger checked her face in a pretty silver compact. "I've always thought he was kind of cute."
"You haven't had to live with him. We were hardly together a week when he broke into my workshop and vandalized it. Then he tried to pass the whole thing off as the work of a vagrant."
Ginger frowned and touched a bit of powder to her nose. "It didn't seem like something he'd do to me. I told—" She caught herself and looked back at Pandora with a vague smile. "Those are pretty earrings."
Michael steeled himself to listen to Morgan's terse opinion on the stock market. The moment he found an opening, he broke in. "Once everything's settled, I'll have to come to you for advice. I've been thinking about getting more actively involved with one of Jolley's chemical firms. There's a lot of money in fertilizer—and pesticides." He watched Patience flutter her hands and subside at a glare from Morgan.
"Software," Morgan said briefly.
Michael only smiled. "I'll look into it."
Pandora tried unsuccessfully to pump Ginger. The five-minute conversation left her suspicious, confused and with the beginnings of a headache. She decided to try her luck on Biff.
"You're looking well." She smiled at him and nodded at his wife.
"You're looking a bit pale, cousin."
"The past six months haven't been a picnic." She cast a look at Michael. "Of course, you've always detested him."
"Of course," Biff said amiably.
"I've yet to discover why Uncle Jolley was fond of him. Besides being a bore, Michael has an affection for odd practical jokes. He got a tremendous kick out of locking me in the cellar."
Biff smiled into his glass. "He's never quite been in our class."
Pandora bit her tongue, then agreed. "Do you know, he even called me one night, disguising his voice. He tried to frighten me by saying someone was trying to kill me."
Biffs brows drew together as he stared into Pandora's eyes. "Odd."
"Well, things are almost settled. By the way, did you enjoy the champagne I sent you?"
Biffs fingers froze on his glass. "Champagne?"
"Right after Christmas."
"Oh yes." He lifted his glass again, studying her as he drank. "So it was you."
"I got the idea when someone sent Michael a bottle at Christmastime. He promises to finally open it tonight. Excuse me, I want to check on dinner."
Her eyes met Michael's briefly as she slipped from the room. They'd set his scene, she thought. Now she had to move the action along. In the kitchen she found Sweeney finishing up the final preparation for the meal.
"If they're hungry," Sweeney began, "they'll just have to wait ten minutes."
"Sweeney, it's time to turn off the main power switch."
"I know, I know. I was just finishing this ham."
Sweeney had been instructed to, at Pandora's signal, go down to the cellar, turn off the power, then wait exactly one minute and turn it on again. She had been skeptical about the whole of Michael and Pandora's plan but had finally agreed to participate in it. Wiping her hands on her apron, the cook went to the cellar door. Pandora took a deep breath and walked back to the library.
Michael had positioned himself near the desk. He gave Pandora the slightest of nods when she entered. "Dinner in ten minutes," she announced brightly as she swept across the room.
"That gives us just enough time." Michael took the stage and couldn't resist starting with a tried and true line. He didn't have to see Pandora to know she was taking her position. "You all must be wondering why we brought you here tonight." He lifted his glass and looked from one face to the next. "One of you is a murderer."
On cue, the lights went out and pandemonium struck. Glasses shattered, women screamed, a table was overturned. When the lights blinked on, everyone froze. Lying half under the desk, facedown, was Pandora. Beside her was a letter opener with a curved, ornate hilt and blood on the blade. In an instant Michael was beside her, lifting her into his arms before anyone had a chance to react. Silently, he earned her from the room. Several minutes passed before he returned, alone. He gazed, hot and hard, at every face in the room.
"A murderer," he repeated. "She's dead."
"What do you mean she's dead?" Carlson pushed his way forward. "What kind of game is this? Let's have a look at her."
"No one's touching her." Michael effectively blocked his way. "No one's touching anything or leaving this room until the police get here."
"Police?" Pale and shaken, Carlson glanced around. "We don't want that. We'll have to handle this ourselves. She's just fainted."
"Her blood's all over this," Michael commented gesturing to the bloodstained letter opener.
"No!" Meg pushed forward until she'd broken through the crowd around the desk. "No one was supposed to be hurt. Only frightened. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Hank." She reached out, then buried her face against his chest.
"We were only going to play some tricks," he murmured.
"First degree murder isn't a trick."
"We never—" He looked at Michael in shock. "Not murder," he managed, holding Meg as tightly as she was holding him.
"You didn't want to drink the champagne, either, did you, Hank?"
"That's when I wanted to stop." Still sobbing, Meg turned in her husband's arms. "I even called and tried to warn her. I thought it was wrong all along, just a mean trick, but we needed money. The gym's drained everything we have. We thought if we could make the two of you angry enough with each other, you'd break the terms of the will. But that's all. Hank and I stayed in the cabin and waited. Then he went into Pandora's shop and turned things upside down. If she thought you did it—"
"I never thought she would," Ginger piped up. Two tears rolled down her cheeks. "Really, it all seemed silly and—exciting."
Michael looked at his pretty, weeping cousin. "So you were part of it."
"Well, I didn't really do anything. But when Aunt Patience explained it to me..."
"Patience?" There were patterns and patterns. A new one emerged.
"Morgan deserved his share." The old woman wrung her hands and looked everywhere but at the bloodstained letter opener. She'd thought she'd done the right thing. It all sounded so simple. "We thought we could make one of you leave, then it would all be the way it should be."
"Telegram," Morgan said, puffing wide-eyed on his cigar. "Not murder." He turned to Carlson. "Your idea."
"It's preposterous." Carlson mopped his brow with a white silk handkerchief. "The lawyers were incompetent. They haven't been able to do a thing. I was merely protecting my rights."
"With murder."
"Don't be ridiculous." He nearly sounded staid and stuffy again. "The plan was to get you out of the house. I did nothing more than lock—her—in the cellar. When I heard about the champagne, I had a doubt or two, but after all, it wasn't fatal."
"Heard about the champagne." It was what Michael had waited for. "From whom?"
"It was Biff," Meg told him. "Biff set it all up, promised nothing would go wrong."
"Just an organizer." Biff gauged the odds, then shrugged. "All's fair, cousin. Everyone in this room had their hand in." He held his up, examining it. "There's no blood on mine. I'd vote for you." He gave Michael a cool smile. "After all, it's no secret you couldn't abide each other."
"You set it up." Michael took a step closer. "There's also a matter of tampering with my car."
Biff moved his shoulders again, but Michael saw the sweat bead above his lips. "Everyone in this room had a part in it. Any of you willing to turn yourselves in?" His breath came faster as he backed away. "One of them panicked and did this. You won't find my fingerprints on that letter opener."
"When someone's attempted murder once," Michael said calmly, "it's easier to prove he tried again."
"You won't prove anything. Any of us might have drained the brake lines in your car. You can't prove I did."
"I don't need to." In a quick move, Michael caught him cleanly on the jaw and sent him reeling. Before he could fall, Michael had him by the collar. "I never said anything about draining the lines."
Feeling the trap close, Biff struck out blindly. Fists swinging, they tumbled to the floor. A Tiffany lamp shattered in a pile of color. They rolled, locked together, into a Belker table that shook from the impact. Shocked and ineffective, the rest stepped back and gave them room.
"Michael, that's quite enough." Pandora entered the room, her hair mussed and her clothes disheveled. "We have company."
Panting, he dragged Biff to his feet. His wrist sang a bit, but he considered it a pleasure. Charles, looking dignified in his best suit, opened the library doors. "Dinner is served."
Two hours later, Pandora and Michael shared a small feast in the library. "I never thought it would work," Pandora said over a mouthful of ham. "It shouldn't have."
"The more predictable the moves, the more predictable the end."
"Lieutenant Randall didn't seem too pleased."
"He wanted to do it his way." Michael moved his shoulders. "Since he'd already discovered Biff had been visiting other members of the family and making calls to them, he was bound to find out something eventually."
"The easy way." She rubbed the back of her neck. "Do you know how uncomfortable it is to play dead?"
"You were great." He leaned over to kiss her. "A star."
"The letter opener with the stage blood was a nice touch. Still, if they'd all stuck together..."
"We already knew someone was weakening because of the warning call. Turned out that Meg had had enough."
"I've been thinking about investing in their gym."
"It wouldn't hurt."
"What do you think's going to happen?"
"Oh, Carlson'll get off more or less along with the rest of them, excluding Biff. I don't think we have to worry about going to court over the will. As for our dear cousin—" Michael lifted a glass of champagne "—he's going to be facing tougher charges than malicious mischief or burglary. I may never get my television back, but he isn't going to be wearing any Brooks Brothers suits for a while. Only prison blues."
"You gave him another black eye," Pandora mused.
"Yeah." With a grin, Michael drank the wine. "Now you and I only have to cruise through the next two weeks."
"Then it's over."
"No." He took her hand before she could rise. "Then it begins." He slipped the glass from her other hand and pressed her back against the cushions. "How long?"
Pandora struggled to keep the tension from showing. "How long what?"
"Have you been in love with me?"
She jerked, then was frustrated when he held her back, "I'm not sitting here feeding your ego."
"All right, we'll start with me." He leaned back companionably and boxed her in. "I think I fell in love with you when you came back from the Canary Islands and walked into the parlor. You had legs all the way to your waist and you looked down your nose at me. I've never been the same."
"I've had enough games, Michael," she said stiffly.
"So've I." He traced a finger down her cheek. "You said you loved me, Pandora."
"Under duress."
"Then I'll just have to keep you under duress because I'm not giving you up now. Why don't we get married right here?"
She'd started to give him a hefty shove and stopped with her hands pressed against his chest. "What?"
"Right here in the library." He glanced around, ignoring the overturned tables and broken china. "It'd be a nice touch."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"It's very simple. Here's the plot. You love me, I love you."
"That's not simple," she managed. "I've just been accessible. Once you get back to your blond dancers and busty starlets, you'll—"
"What blond dancers? I can't stand blond dancers."
"Michael, this isn't anything I can joke about."
"Just wait. You buy a nice white dress, maybe a veil. A veil would suit you. We get a minister, lots of flowers and have a very traditional marriage ceremony. After that, we settle into the Folley, each pursuing our respective careers. In a year, two at the most, we give Charles and Sweeney a baby to fuss over. See?" He kissed her ear.
"People's lives aren't screenplays," she began.
"I'm crazy about you, Pandora. Look at me." He took her chin and held it so that their faces were close. "As an artist, you're supposed to be able to see below the surface. That should be easy since you've always told me I'm shallow."
"I was wrong." She wanted to believe. Her heart already did. "Michael, if you're playing games with me, I'll kill you myself."
"Games are over. I love you, it's that simple."
"Simple," she murmured, surprised she could speak at all. "You want to get married?"
"Living together's too easy."
She was more surprised that she could laugh. "Easy?"
"That's right." He shifted her until she was lying flat on the sofa, his body pressed into hers. When his mouth came down, it wasn't patient, wasn't gentle, and everything he thought, everything he felt, communicated itself through that one contact. As she did rarely, as he asked rarely, she went limp and pliant. Her arms went around him. Perhaps it was easy after all.
"I love you, Michael."
"We're getting married."
"It looks that way."
His eyes were intense when he lifted his head. "I'm going to make life tough on you, Pandora. That's just to pay you back for the fact that you'll be the most exasperating wife on record. Do we understand each other?"
Her smile bloomed slowly. "I suppose we always have."
Michael pressed a kiss to her forehead, to the tip of her nose, then to her lips. "He understood both of us."
She followed his gaze to Jolley's portrait. "Crazy old goat has us right where he wants us. I imagine he's having a good laugh." She rubbed her cheek against Michael's. "I just wish he could be here to see us married."
Michael lifted a brow. "Who says he won't be?" He pulled her up and picked up both glasses. "To Maximillian Jolley McVie."
"To Uncle Jolley." Pandora clinked her glass to Michael's. "To us."
* * * * *