“He is now,” Patrick said sharply. “Don’t you care at all?”
She stared at him openly. “I don’t remember him. How many times must I tell you before you get it through your head—I don’t remember. I must have known he was my father. Otherwise why would I have been with him? But I don’t remember anything about it.” Her voice rose uncontrollably. “How many times must I say it? I don’t remember, I don’t remember, I don’t remember!” She bit down on her lip to stop the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her, and she turned away, unable to look at him any longer.
“All right,” he said after a long moment. “I suppose I have to believe you.” His face was unreadable. “The question of the money was also explained. It was yours, withdrawn from your various accounts, all legal and proper.” He gave her a cool look. “It’s been redeposited, by the way.”
“But why?” she echoed, puzzled. “What did I want with that much money?”
“You’re the only one who can answer that, if you choose to.”
“Damn you, Patrick, I...”
“All right, if you could,” he amended.
“You know what it sounds like to me?” she said after a long moment. “It sounds like blackmail money.”
“What could you have done to warrant blackmail that we didn’t already know about?” His voice was cynical.
She opened her mouth to protest then shut it again. It would be useless to argue further. He’d believe what he wanted to believe.
He rose, his tall body towering over her, and she shivered slightly, longing for all sorts of things, longing to simply lean her head against his hip. “Lieutenant Ryker said he’d keep in touch. He also found out how you were being poisoned.”
“So he believes me?” she said in a defeated voice. “Finally. How was it done?”
“It was in the cranberry juice. No one but you touches the stuff, so whoever put it there knew you’d be the only one likely to drink it.” His face was impassive. “I’ll go get rid of it.”
“Why don’t you have some yourself?” she muttered sweetly, low enough so he couldn’t hear as he started out the door. He stopped and turned for a moment, and she thought perhaps he had heard her after all.
But he hadn’t. “About Friday night,” he began, bis voice huskier than usual.
She froze, and she could feel her face draining of color. “Yes?” she said without looking at him, very busy with the newspaper.
“I should have never come in your room. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, and I certainly shouldn’t have touched you, considering our situation. It won’t happen again.”
He left the room before she could answer, and she stared unseeing at the crossword puzzle in front of her. The pencil point broke.
“Oh, won’t it?” she said to herself softly, determinedly. “We’ll see about that.”
When Ermy and old friend Willy arrived downstairs, somewhere between noon and one, Molly was in the midst of luncheon preparation, and she turned a deaf ear on their requests for eggs and sausage.
“It’s lunch time,” she said flatly. “And I’m not used to cooking. You’ll have to make do with coffee and muffins until I’m finished, which should be in about an hour.” She pushed a stray strand of hair off her sweating brow.
“Now, Molly, dear, you don’t know how to cook,” Aunt Ermy said heavily. “If you’ll simply let me take over I’m sure I’d do a much more competent job. And then Willy and I could have our breakfast. Surely you must realize that you’re being unreasonable?”
“Am I?” She looked at than coolly. “Well, this time you’re going to have to humor me. I intend to cook all the meals that Mrs. Morse isn’t here for.” She smiled sweetly, turning back to her labors. There was a moment of annoyed silence, and then Aunt Ermy stomped into the dining room.
What with clearing off their messy dishes, resetting the crumb-strewn table, and dashing back and forth between recipe book and stove, the lunch was more than an hour in coming, a fact which bothered her not one bit. When it was almost ready she started out the back door to look for Patrick, who’d disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of the barns.
Molly saw her before she came up to him. Lisa Canning was dressed all in pale lilac, the pants fitting her perfect legs with nary a bulge or wrinkle, a scarf tied carelessly around her throat. Molly ducked behind some hay bales, then edged closer, eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversation. It was wrong. It was an invasion of privacy. It was irresistible.
“Where were you yesterday?” she was asking in her low, attractive voice. “I waited and waited. I thought we had decided we were going to meet.”
Patrick’s withdrawal was clear even before he spoke. “I had things to think about, Lisa,” he answered shortly, with less sympathy than he usually seemed to direct toward her.
“What things?” she demanded, pressing her lithe body closer to him until Molly wanted to scream. “I thought we’d made all the decisions that had to be made.”
“You made the decisions, Lisa,” he answered. “I neither agreed nor disagreed.”
Lisa moved away then, and from Molly’s vantage point she could see the anger in her beautiful eyes. “I never thought you’d be like this.” Her voice was petulant. “I’m not used to being jilted, Pat. If that’s what you’re doing. Ever since that baby-faced little bitch of a wife came back you’ve been making excuses for not seeing me. It wasn’t like that before she went away.” She moved back to him, her slender body swaying seductively. “Come on, Pat. You don’t love her. You’re just piqued that she’d have nothing to do with you, and you know it. She’s a child, darling, and a spoiled one at that. Why don’t you send her off to get a divorce and put an end to this charade? And then we’d have time to learn whether there might be something for us? Don’t you think we deserve it?”
