A Stranger's Wife Page 9

  For a split second Meg had forgotten that Rhea should have been in the house. Obviously she had not been. But where was she?

  Meg said, “Huxley wanted to go out again. I took him for a walk and—”

  The wind shifted suddenly and a shower of sparks from the burning house flew toward them. One of the firefighters dragging a hose across the patio shouted, “Time to leave, Mr. Chastain.”

  Jake said, “Come on, we’d better get out of here.”

  He slipped his raincoat over her shoulders and led her around the garage—its roof now burning—to the driveway.

  “Huxley’s tied up at the bottom of the ramp,” Meg told him.

  “We’ll stop and get him,” Jake said, as firefighters cleared the way for the car to leave. As he drove away, he didn’t even look back at the blazing house.

  It was only when Huxley was in the back seat and Jake was driving south on the Coast Highway that Meg remembered the rental car Rhea had brought for her... and the empty gasoline cans in the trunk.

  She also remembered that both she and Huxley had been convinced there had been someone else on the beach. Her last glimpse of Rhea was of her ascending the cliff steps. Was it possible she had been in the house and Jake had not found her during what of necessity must have been a very brief search? Frightening possibilities and implications flashed into Meg’s mind.

  Had the fire been arson? If so, was someone trying to kill both Rhea and Jake? Had they succeeded in killing Rhea? No, Jake would have found her. Rhea couldn’t have been in the house.

  Did the gasoline cans mean someone had tried to frame Rhea for setting the fire?

  Another chilling scenario presented itself. What if Rhea had not rented the car in her own name, but in Meg’s? What if she, Meg, was the one being framed? Show a car rental clerk a picture of Meg and they would surely confirm that she had rented the Sun bird.

  Shivering violently, her teeth chattering, Meg pulled Jake’s raincoat closer and wished she could awaken from the nightmare.

  “We’ll be home soon, Rhea,” Jake said. “Don’t think about it now—we got out, that’s the main thing. I probably should have had the electrical wiring checked—it was an old house.”

  He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ll turn up the heat. Soon as we get home, you can shed those wet clothes and jump into a hot bath.”

  JAKE FLIPPED ON the cruise control as a precaution against speeding. His adrenaline was still surging. When he had awakened in the smoke-filled house his first thought had been for his wife’s safety. He’d crawled beneath the pall of choking fumes to her bedroom, and not finding her there, had dashed into the bathroom and soaked a towel with water. Holding it over his head, he stumbled from room to room calling her name, his fear for her so great that he ignored his bursting lungs.

  When he had searched the entire house he remembered that Huxley was with them, but there was no sign of the dog either. Praying that the Doberman had awakened Rhea and that they’d both got out, Jake had at last left the blazing house.

  His relief when Rhea came up the beach stairs to him was so great that for an instant nothing mattered but that she was alive and unhurt—and that they were holding each other close. And when she clung to him, he was sure she felt the same way.

  MEG WAS STILL too dazed to fully appreciate the size and splendor of the estate to which they drove. She was vaguely aware of traveling along a private road, pausing as automatic gates slid open, then proceeding along a wide, curving driveway lined by shadowed trees. The driveway ended in a well-lit circle, in front of a house that to Meg’s eyes was surely as large as a city block.

  They climbed stone steps, flanked by enormous urns containing flowers and shrubs, to a wide terrace. Jake unlocked a magnificent carved oak door, and Meg found herself in a vast marble-floored entry hall.

  Almost immediately a silver-haired man clad in pajamas and a dressing gown appeared magically and hurried to greet them. Jake said, “It’s all right, Mason, go back to bed. We’ll take care of ourselves.”

  Jake kept his arm around her shoulders as they climbed a graceful central staircase together and entered a spacious bedroom. The room appeared to be furnished with genuine eighteenth- and nineteenth-century pieces, and Meg caught a glimpse of separate dressing rooms through half-open doors.

  Still in a state of shock, she was on the point of confessing to her deception, but hesitated when she remembered the gas cans in the rental car. What if Rhea had died in the burning house? Meg breathed a silent prayer that that hadn’t happened; reason told her that the fire must have started just as Rhea reached the house, so in all probability she had never gone inside. But what if she had, and Jake had been unable to find her in the smoke? If Rhea were dead, Meg could be accused of murder.

  She decided to hold off telling Jake her story until she could contact Mike Aragon to confirm it. She would have to get hold of him somehow, and quickly.

  “Shall I fix you a drink?” Jake asked.

  “No—thanks,” Meg said hastily. “I’ll just jump into the tub and then go to bed.”

  Jake looked at her for a moment, then asked, “Do you want me to stay with you, or would you prefer to be alone?”

  Meg bit her lip. “Jake, I—”

  His expression seemed carefully blank. “I’ll sleep in one of the guest rooms. Good night.”

  The bedroom seemed enormous, empty and lonely, after he left. Determining that Jake and Rhea each had a dressing room with adjoining bathrooms and huge walk-in closets, Meg went into Rhea’s bathroom, peeled off her wet clothes and filled the tub.

  Clad in one of Rhea’s filmy nightgowns and a matching peignoir, Meg walked over to the bedside table and looked at the telephone. She had to call Mike, but what if Jake were to pick up and overhear? She didn’t want him to learn the truth that way. Jake was already suspicious about her calls.

  There was also a good possibility that Mike wouldn’t answer his phone in the middle of the night. Still, she had to at least leave a message, tell him what happened.

  She picked up the phone, listened to the dial tone for a moment, then tapped in his number.

  To her surprise, Mike answered on the first ring.

  “Mike—”

  “Meg! I’m glad you called. I was going to come and see you and give you a complete report in the morning, but I think the sooner you know about your husband, the better. I’m sorry, Meg, brace yourself—”

  “Hal? You’ve found Hal?” Meg asked faintly.

  “Meg, I’m real sorry. He’s dead. He was heavily in debt to loan sharks—in addition to the legitimate loans you’ve been paying off. He panicked, took off for Mexico with fake ID—apparently fell asleep at the wheel about seventy miles south of the border and crashed over a cliff. He was killed instantly.”

  Meg collapsed weakly to the bed.

  “Meg, did you hear? You’ve been a widow for almost a year. His body was never claimed—you were never notified because the Mexican police didn’t have his real name. I’ll bring the complete report from the Ensenada policia over to your place in the morning. Now that you’re all done with the Chastains—”

  Meg found her voice at last. “I’m not at my place, Mike. I’m at the Chastain’s main house and I’ve no idea where it is. You see, the beach house burned...”

  She related in swift, fragmented whispers the events of the evening.

  When she finished, Mike said, “Okay. Stay put. Don’t tell Jake anything yet until I can find out what happened to Rhea. Where did she leave that rental car?”

  “About three blocks south—no, north of the house on the Pacific Coast Highway. Mike, I should tell you something else. After Jake left London, a man was murdered in his hotel suite. I should have told you before.”

  “Yes, you should have. Look, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. When I call I’ll tell the butler I’m an art dealer and you ordered a sculpture from me. The lady of the house is apparently an antique and art collector.”

 
Meg put down the phone and drew a deep, heart-stabbing breath. Hal was dead. Hal had been running from loan sharks...from her.

  Knowing sleep would evade her now, she wandered about the room, only vaguely aware of the beautiful antiques, marble statuary and paintings, although her attention was caught by a portrait of Rhea above an Italian marble fireplace. Her own likeness seemed to gaze down upon her mockingly. Shivering, Meg turned away.

  She considered checking the medicine cabinet in the bathroom for sleeping pills, but decided against it. She couldn’t afford to fall into a drugged slumber until she knew Rhea was safe.

  A Queen Anne writing desk stood in the window alcove, and she pictured Rhea sitting there, reading her mail, penning notes. Did Rhea keep a diary? That thought tantalized.

  Meg opened the top drawer. There were several invitations to various events, a couple of clothing bills that caused her to blink, an elaborate birthday card still in its envelope. From the postmark, Rhea’s birthday was close to her own; the card had been mailed about a week before Meg’s birthday.

  She was still thinking about this coincidence when she noticed a paperback book at the bottom of the drawer. Curious as to Rhea’s reading habits, Meg picked up the book and a folded sheet of paper slipped out from between the pages.

  Unfolding the paper, she saw that she was holding a letter from an adoption agency in Atlanta, Georgia. The letter was dated six months earlier.

  A muffled drum seemed to beat in her ear as she read.

  Dear Mrs. Chastain:

  In response to your latest call, we wish to advise you that we have learned that your biological mother died five years ago. Therefore we cannot comply with your request to put you in touch with her. However, it might be possible for you to locate your twin sister, as due to her deformity she was placed in State foster care for approximately two years before being adopted.

  The letter fluttered from Meg’s fingers to the floor.

  Twin sister. Deformity... Meg had been born with a clubfoot. The postmark on Rhea’s birthday card had been close to her own birthdate. Meg’s parents had originally come from Georgia...

  But she hadn’t been adopted. Or had she?

  Meg’s parents had been a kind and loving older couple who had passed away before she was out of her teens. People had always commented on the fact that they were so dark and Meg was so fair. Was it possible that they had adopted her but never told her?

  She had never seen her birth certificate; her mother claimed it had been lost. They had used a baptismal certificate to enroll her in school.

  She remembered then that she had not been baptised until she was two years old.

  Picking up the letter from the adoption agency again, Meg reread, she was placed in State foster care for approximately two years before being adopted.

  It all fit, even without the added evidence of their identical looks.

  Feeling suddenly weak, Meg walked unsteadily to the bed and sat down.

  Rhea is my twin sister.

  Rhea had been adopted at birth, but evidently her adoptive mother had not wanted to take on the responsibility of twins, especially one with medical problems. So Meg must have been placed in foster care.

  Thinking about her parents, Meg was forced to admit that they had really been too old to have a baby, but perhaps eligible to adopt a two-year-old with a clubfoot. She remembered how diligently they had taken her to orthopedic surgeons and physical therapists, and spent hours manipulating her Achilles tendon.

  Recalling Jake’s comment about Rhea’s abusive childhood, Meg wondered which twin, ultimately, had been more fortunate.

  Most perturbing was the fact that Rhea had obviously tracked her down but hadn’t told her they were sisters. Reconstructing how this had probably happened, it seemed obvious that after Rhea married the wealthy Jake Chastain, she’d had the time and money to search for her biological mother and had learned for the first time that she had a twin. It must have been a lie that someone had seen Meg at a wedding and noticed her resemblance to Rhea.

  Since she had hired Mike as a go-between, and also kept him in the dark as to their true relationship, it seemed clear that Rhea had more in mind than being reunited with her twin. But what?

  Meg remembered the fire at the beach house. Had she just discovered that she had a twin only to lose her?

  IN A NEARBY GUEST ROOM, Jake paced the floor restlessly. It had taken all of his willpower to leave his wife alone in their bedroom. He had stood outside the door for several minutes, tempted to return to her.

  Hadn’t she looked at him in a way that surely said more clearly than words that she wanted to be with him tonight?

  He was reaching for the doorknob when he heard the faint sound of her voice, speaking in low, urgent whispers.

  Jake froze. She had called somebody. Somebody who was waiting for her call and who wanted to talk to her, despite the lateness of the hour.

  Cursing himself for being a fool to believe Rhea had really changed, Jake had turned away.

  Now he forced himself to face the truth about his wife. She didn’t want a divorce, probably because of the prenuptial agreement. How fortuitous that Huxley had needed to go outside just before the fire broke out. Even if he discounted that coincidence, what about the fact that a man had been killed in the London hotel suite where he should have been sleeping?

  Jake’s blood ran cold. Was Rhea trying to kill him?

  Surely she wouldn’t go that far. Besides, how would she have had the contacts to hire a hit man in London? She had been in St. Maarten at the time. But then Jake remembered that Sloan had been released from prison a couple of weeks ago. Rhea had always been manipulated by her adoptive brother and he was a career criminal. Still, he was on parole. He couldn’t have gone to London either.

  Jake told himself that he was being paranoid. The beach house fire had to be due to faulty electrical wiring, and Roland was probably followed to his London suite and murdered for some other reason. But the rationalizations did little to ease Jake’s suspicions and doubts.

  He knew he was reluctant to believe the worst because of Rhea’s new persona. Even if she had been putting on an act the past few days to keep him from contacting divorce lawyers, some perverse and reckless part of him wanted to enjoy having a dream wife for a little longer.

  But that didn’t mean trusting her. The first thing he had to do was find out who she had been surreptitiously calling.

  Chapter Eleven

  Meg awoke to find Huxley licking her face and a flustered maid at the door trying in vain to coax the Doberman out of the room. Seeing that Meg was awake, the maid said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Chastain. I don’t know how he got the door open. I let him out of the kitchen and he came flying up here and scratched at the door—”

  “That’s all right,” Meg said, stroking Huxley’s silky head and turning her face to avoid both his slurping tongue and the full impact of dog breath. Glancing at the clock on her night stand, she was surprised to see that she had slept until nearly nine.

  She cleared her throat. “Is Mr. Chastain downstairs?”

  “No, ma’am. He left real early. I think he gave Mr. Mason a message for you. Shall I take the dog back to the kitchen?”

  “No. He can stay.”

  “Can I bring you anything?”

  Meg hesitated. “Just my usual.”

  The maid nodded. Evidently this was an acceptable response.

  Meg had just finished dressing when there was a knock on the door, and a voice called, “It’s Guadalupe, Mrs. Chastain.”

  “Yes, come in,” Meg called.

  The maid carried a tray holding a glass of tomato juice. Meg would have preferred orange juice and coffee, but took a sip and discovered it was a Bloody Mary. She put it down.

  Guadalupe, an exceptionally pretty young woman with dark curly hair and friendly brown eyes, said sympathetically, “You look so tired, Mrs. Chastain. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sleep a little longer?” Her English, althoug
h slightly accented, was perfect.

  Immediately drawn to her, especially in view of the butler’s apparent disdain, Meg answered with a smile, “I’m fine, really, thank you... Guadalupe.”

  “Can I get you anything else, ma’am? Would you like me to go and get the message Mr. Chastain left for you?”

  “No, thank you. I’m ready to go downstairs now.” The minute Guadalupe departed, Meg realized she should have taken her up on the offer to bring Jake’s message to her. Meg had no idea which of the many doors opening to the central hall led to Mason’s domain.

  Huxley bounded ahead of her and made a beeline for the far side of the hall. Meg was about to follow when a clipped accent behind her exclaimed, “Ah, Mrs. Chastain, good morning.”

  She turned to see the butler emerging from a nearby room. “Your husband asked me to tell you he was going to see if anything could be salvaged from the beach house, then would probably go to his office for a while. He’ll call you later.”

  “Thank you,” Meg murmured. She had dressed in linen slacks and a white shirt she had found in Rhea’s closet, and felt that if she could fool Jake into believing she was Rhea, she should not be receiving a suspicious look from his butler. But Mason’s expression seemed questioning, to say the least.

  “Mr. Chastain said we were not to awaken you,” Mason continued. “A Mr. Michael Gumm called a little while ago. He said you’d ordered a sculpture from his gallery. I wrote down his number.”

  He handed her a message slip.

  Meg raced back upstairs to call Mike. She supposed the real Rhea would have stepped into a ground floor room to use the phone, but since Meg might have found herself in a closet, the bedroom phone seemed safer. Huxley stayed with her.

  “Michael Gumm?” Meg said, when Mike answered his phone.

  “Short for gumshoe,” Mike explained. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes. Jake’s gone to check the damage at the beach house.”