“Did he know she was sleeping with Elliott?”
“I have no idea. As for Elliott, I don’t know what he felt about Melissa’s death. It was a very long time before John became seriously interested in another woman. But he did, finally, and he and Cleo married. It wasn’t long before Elliott got to Cleo, screwed her brains out, and everyone knew-but not John, not until after she left. I suppose she was sleeping with Tod Gambol, too, since he left when she did.”
“But everyone knows now that she didn’t run away with anybody, Albia. Someone murdered her. And buried her, hoping her body would never be found.”
“Isn’t that interesting? Nicola, did you sleep with Elliott Benson?”
Nick didn’t answer her immediately. She was remembering how she once wondered how John had arrived at his office without her seeing him. A hidden private exit, what a good idea. Nick said, “Sleep with Elliott Benson? That’s a novel thought. Another man old enough to be my father. Oh, he’s as polished as an Italian count, as sleek as both you and John, but I’ll tell you the truth, Albia. Whenever I see him I am reminded of a Mafia movie character with his pomaded hair and his expensive Italian suits. Whenever he looks at me, speaks to me, I want to go take a bath.”
“Cleo didn’t think he was bad at all. To be honest about this, I didn’t believe so either, at least not at first. Yes, he was my lover for a time as well. Too bad it wasn’t because he adored me, no, he just wanted something else that belonged to John. I suppose I’m included in that group. And, fact is, he’s not a very good lover. Sure, he maintains his body well, and says all the right things, but he’s selfish. He’s used to expensive call girls who lick the bottoms of his feet if that’s what he wants. He has difficulty remembering to give as well as receive when he’s with a woman he isn’t paying. And like I said, the both of them still pretend to be friends. What games men play.”
“Albia, do you think it makes any sense at all to sleep with another man when you’re engaged to be married? Why would you even be engaged if you wanted to sleep around?”
“Any number of women do it all the time. They want the power, the money that marriage would bring them and they want the excitement a lover brings. It’s not a big mystery. Don’t be coy, Nicola.”
Nick walked over to John’s desk, sat down in his big, comfortable leather chair. It steadied her, sitting behind his impressive desk. She picked up a pen and tapped it against the beautiful maple. She remembered Linus Wolfinger doing the same thing until everyone wanted to strangle him. She tapped the pen again, then once again. She said, seeing the look of annoyance on Albia’s face, “Did you spread rumors about me sleeping with Elliott Benson?”
“Of course not. It was common knowledge.”
“I see. How odd that I didn’t know. I do know you are the one who wrote me the letter supposedly from Cleo. It couldn’t be anyone else, and you also wrote with great detail about Melissa.”
Albia was framed by that beautiful window, the sun surrounding her. She looked powerful, otherworldly, her stance, the tilt of her head identical to John’s.
Nick felt the sudden taste of sour bile in her mouth. It tasted like fear, fear of this woman whom everyone saw as an elegant creature they admired and respected, a woman who was powerful in her own right. They didn’t see Albia Rothman as a person who could have started off her adult life murdering someone. For John, for her little brother, whom she adored.
“I didn’t write you anything, Nicola.”
Nick let it go for the moment. What had she expected? A confession? She said after a moment of silence, “I can’t believe Cleo ever slept with Elliott Benson. Nor with Tod Gambol. She loved John.”
“Oh, but Cleo was a little harlot. John wouldn’t believe me until I finally showed him photos that I had a private investigator take of her and Elliott, all cozied up in his small house on Crane Island. It’s all private, you know, the nearest neighbor is a good half mile away. I might add that he and John both have used that house. If they happen to have each other’s woman at that house, they make sure to leave a small token, a small trace of it. Perhaps you’ve been there, Nicola?”
Nick shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I knew her. I really liked Cleo. She loved John, I’m sure of that.” She realized that only about fifteen feet separated them. She said, “Albia, it’s time to admit that you wrote me the letter, that you made up that journal confession to save me, to make me leave Chicago and leave John. You did it to help me, didn’t you? Please tell me. You wanted to protect me, didn’t you?”
Albia shrugged. “Yes, all right, no reason to lie about it now. Yes, I wrote you the letter, for all the good it did. You’re back and now you want everyone to pay. John didn’t try to kill you, Nicola.”
Nick’s heart was thudding so loudly she believed that surely Albia would hear it, that Albia must know she was so scared she was ready to pee in her pants. The words just came out, she couldn’t stop them. “If it wasn’t John, then was it you, Albia?”
A perfectly arched eyebrow went up a good inch. “Me? Goodness, no.”
“You hired someone to try to run me down, to burn down my condo, with me in it.”
“It strikes me, though, that just maybe you were the one to set fire to your own condo.”
Nick laughed, couldn’t help it. “That’s idiocy.”
Albia shrugged. She took a step back, leaned against the window, crossed her arms over her chest. She looked mildly amused. “So it was your lover who tried to kill you. It was Elliott Benson. I called him, you know. He told me all about you, told me that poor John had picked the wrong woman yet again. And he laughed then, a very pleased laugh.”
“Albia, who killed Cleo?”
“Tod Gambol. After all, he was the one to run away, wasn’t he? As I said, Cleo was a slut. John has always been so innocent, so trusting, so unsuspecting. They say people always search out the same sort of person again and again, doesn’t matter if that person is rotten. John’s the classic example. Melissa, Cleo. Then he chose you, and just look at what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything, Albia. Did you have the same man come to LA to kill me while he was riding a Harley?”
“I’m really tired of all this nonsense, Nicola. All this will blow over. John didn’t kill Cleo, he didn’t try to kill you, and neither did I. I want you to leave now. I honestly believe you should take yourself as far away as possible. I did my best to get you away from here. You should get away again, Nicola.”
“No, I’m staying this time, Albia. I want to know who’s trying to kill me.”
Albia examined a beautifully manicured nail a moment. “You’re not very bright, given all your education. I have no idea about any of this. However, I saw last night at that ridiculous dinner you and your FBI friends set up how you and that one agent were looking at each other. You’ve already taken another lover. John saw it as well. He knows you’re sleeping with that Federal cop. That’s really sad, Nicola. You’re not at all worthy of someone as fine as John Rothman.”
“Probably, from your point of view, no woman is good enough for him, Albia.”
“Well, that’s probably true. I’ve taken care of him since our mother died.”
“I’ve wondered if your mother really died accidentally?”
“What a ridiculous thing to say. You’re nothing but a little bitch with a big mouth. I’m glad you’ll soon be out of our lives. And you will be, one way or another.” And with that, Albia walked across the room, pressed her finger against one of the wall panels, and watched it silently open. Then she was gone, just like that, gone without another word.