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.
