“Rafe!”
My outraged exclamation came on top of Mrs. Garrison’s, and Rafe ducked, utterly unabashed.
We took the brandies out to the veranda, watching evening close in, until the big trees blended with the dark sky. Lights came up in the stable yard suddenly, under lighting the foliage dramatically. We strolled down to the stable to check on the horses. Dice sprang from a straw-filled corner of Orfeo’s stall, prrrowwing softly with the inner contentment of a full stomach. I wondered how much flounder he’d had.
“You’re a naughty boy, bothering the dogs.” But I softened the scold by scratching his chin vigorously.
He pulled his head away, eyed me balefully, and jumped down. Rafe chuckled.
“Can’t tell that one a thing, can you?”
“Well, he’s been warned.”
Rate’s arm around my waist tightened. “‘I told you so,’ “ he chanted in a nasal nag.
“Dice’s not foolish.”
“I didn’t imply he was.”
“And he takes his job as stable cat to Orfeo very seriously.”
“I’ve noticed.” And Rafe was beginning to nibble my face with kisses.
The gong sounded, startling us both.
“Phone call.”
Mrs. Garrison was on the veranda when we turned the curve of the drive.
“There’s a phone call for Miss Nialla,” she said, sounding surprised and a little troubled.
“For me?”
“Probably Michaels,” Rafe muttered, his fingers closing around my arm reassuringly as we walked up the steps.
“Nialla Dunn Donnelly?” asked a man who was not Detective Lieutenant Michaels.
I glanced frantically at Rafe even as I stammered out a reply. Rafe mouthed something to Garry and then went up the stairs three at a time, but I didn’t hear the click of the upstairs extension.
“Heard you’ve been having some real uncomfortable accidents lately, Miss Dunn Donnelly. You need some protection.”
“Protection? I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person.”
“Oh, no I don’t,” the man said in a snarl. Did he sound like Caps Galvano? I couldn’t remember having heard Galvano over the phone. “I’ve got the right party, all right, sister. Had your saddle girth cut, didn’t you? Your gelding spooked? Yeah, sister, I’d say you needed protection bad.”
“I have protection. I’ve got fences and guard dogs and a husband to protect me from con artists like you.”
From his end I heard a sort of surprised snarl and felt that I was handling him and his threats properly.
“High and mighty all of a sudden, ain’t you?” The vicious taunt was too confident. “Feel safe with fences and guard dogs. But how long will that fancy husband of yours protect you when he sees what I have to show him?”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I don’t think so. Not with the photos I’ve got in front of me.” “Photos?”
“Yeah, some pretty, pretty pictures of you and someone else. In a pretty compromising position. In fact…”
“You couldn’t have any such photos.” “Oh, couldn’t I?” The angry snarl was back in his voice. “You got a short memory, sister. The night of June eighteenth?…”
I slammed the phone down. He had to be lying. He had to be. I’d’ve seen a flashbulb go off. And the candles that Marchmount had insisted on couldn’t have given off enough light for a picture. I was trembling so badly I had to hold on to the phone table, and it wobbled. Mrs. Garrison came bustling in from the kitchen, and I wanted to run from her, but I couldn’t move. Oh, God, what did I do now?
“The nerve of some people!” Mrs. Garrison’s eyes were sparkling with indignation. She enfolded me in her arms, patting me on the back with comforting gestures. “How can they think of such filthy things? The very notion… I’d heard of such people, peddling faked-up photographs, just to get money from nice people who don’t want their names ruined. But I never really believed such tales. How could anyone…”
“What do you mean, you couldn’t trace that call?” Rafe was bellowing. “You had enough time. No, I don’t need police authorization when I get crank calls. But, by God, the next time I ask you to trace a call, you better do it, my good woman, or you’ll be damned sorry you didn’t.
Threaten you? I don’t threaten! As you’ll find out.”
He was still damning the operator as he stamped downstairs, his eyes a brilliant blue. Then he caught sight of me, and his expression altered. He was down the last of the stairs and had me in his arms before the sob in my throat could be born. Mrs. Garrison’s comfort had been strangely debilitating; his embrace was bracing. I swallowed my fear.
And nearly choked on it as the phone rang again, shrilly, viciously. But Rafe grabbed it. From the violent look on his face I knew that it was the blackmailer. He listened for just a moment.
“No, buster,” he said in a deadly calm voice, “my wife is not coming to the phone. You’ve got me to deal with. What?” This time Rafe held the phone where I couldn’t hear. “No. No, bud, that won’t work. Send those photos to me if you feel inclined, send ‘em to The Daily News, wherever you want. But I tell you this, loud and clear, not one red cent would you get from me, and all you’ll get from the editors is a get-lost. So get lost. Shove it, boobie!”
He jammed the phone down on the cradle only long enough to disconnect that call, then began dialing again so hard the base jumped half across the table, until Mrs. Garrison steadied it.
“We can dispense with this kind of nonsense right now. Threaten my wife in my house, will he? He’s made another mistake.”
“You’re not calling the police?”
He paused, stared at me incredulously, and then dialed the last two digits. “You’re damned right I’m calling the police.”
“But, Rafe, if he…”
“There’re no ‘ifs’ in dealing with a blackmailer, Nialla. You give them one bloody cent, and you’ll be paying for the rest of your life.” The fury in his face faded a little, and he pressed my head against his neck. “I know what I’m doing, Nialla. Believe me, I do. Hello? This is Rafe Clery. I want to speak to Detective Michaels. No? Then have him call me back as soon as you locate him. How’s that?” The cords of his neck stood out against my forehead, and he didn’t seem to breathe for a moment. When he spoke again it was in that dead, cold, expressionless voice, the soft kind that no one ignores. “I’ll repeat my message. Loud and clear, Sergeant Cartland. This is Rafael Clery in Syosset. I expect to hear from Lieutenant Detective James Michaels within the next half-hour, because if I don’t, I know who to report.”
He put the phone down so deliberately there was only a faint clink when the plastic met the cradle.
I struggled away from him, bitter at such a betrayal. He caught me by the shoulders and held me, his eyes still blazing, his face grim.
“Nialla, you got sucked into paying off before, and what happened? Running didn’t do any good. It never does.”
“But he said he had pictures… Rafe, how could he?” Rafe’s eyes darted, warning me that Mrs. Garrison was there. I gasped and burst out crying.
“Exactly, Nialla. How could he?” He scooped me up in his arms, carried me to the sofa. “We need some brandy, Mrs. Garrison.”
“Rafe, there wasn’t any flash,” I cried when she’d left. “There wasn’t.”
“Whether there was or wasn’t isn’t the point, Nialla. Get a grip on yourself. I know what to do.”
“But if he does send the photos…” “Nialla”-and he shook me, his hands hard and hurting on my arms-”can’t you get it through your head? Those shots aren’t worth anything to anyone but you. Your fear is his currency. D’you honestly think that one more pornographic photo is going to make any dent in what pours in to most rag newspapers? Well, if you were bedding Richard Burton, possibly.”