Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 55

Sandy walked Sam Warren and his wife to their rental car. After taking the morning easy he was feeling much better.

"Sandy, you don't have to see us off," Warren protested as they walked down the front steps of the house. "You ought to be in bed."

"Really, Sam, I feel quite well now; I wish you could stay for lunch, so we could talk more."

"I really do have to get back to New York. You're not my only client, you know."

"I know, but you always make me feel that I am."

The two men shook hands, and Warren drove away. Sandy walked slowly back into the house and met Cara, who was coming down the stairs

"I woke up, and there was nobody in bed with me," she pouted. "You shouldn't be up."

"I feel fine now," he said. "Except that I'm very angry."

"You have every right to be," she said. "He's violated our home, tried to harm us both. And I think he's too smart for the police, at least for the Napa County sheriff's department. I mean, the sheriff is a sort of bumpkin, and that deputy who's supposed to be investigating can't be more than twenty-five."

"You realize what Peter was trying to do, don't you?"

"Frighten us, I expect."

"No, he was trying to kill you, then blame it on me."

Cara paled slightly.

"That would be his idea of the perfect revenge, wouldn't it?"

"I'm afraid it would," she said.

"You know him; do you think he'd try again?"

"It wouldn't surprise me; I told you he was obsessive, and I don't think he could let this go, particularly after we humiliated him publicly. Maybe the suit was a mistake."

"Not as far as I'm concerned," Sandy said. "I hope you're wrong about the police."

"It's not the police that make me think he won't get caught. Peter is extremely clever; he wouldn't have done what he did unless he was convinced he would get away with it. It's not like Peter to put himself at risk."

"You said it was unlike him to provoke a physical confrontation, too," Sandy said, "but that's exactly what he did last night."

Cara shook her head. "He thought he had an advantage; he thought he could disable you in the dark, then have me all to himself. I told you he had no compunctions about attacking a woman. His plan went wrong, but only because he failed to hit you hard enough, and I was lucky enough to get my arm inside his noose."

"I see your point," Sandy said. "So you think he's still afraid of confrontation?"

"I know he is," she replied.

"Then," said Sandy, "I think the thing to do is to confront him."

Cara looked at him narrowly. "Sandy, what are you thinking of doing?"

"I'm thinking of confronting him."

She came to him and put her arms around his waist. "Listen to me, my darling," she said. "If you kill Peter, you'll simply put yourself in still more jeopardy. I mean, Peter is a problem, sure, but if you become a murderer you'll have to deal with the police, and that could be infinitely more difficult than dealing with Peter."

"I don't think I have to kill him," Sandy said. "I think, if he's the coward you believe him to be, it will be enough for me to make him believe that I'll kill him, that he's made me desperate enough to do that."

"I don't like this," Cara said.

"Neither do I," Sandy replied, "but I don't know what else to do." He went to the phone, got the number of the gallery from the operator and dialed the number.

"Hello?" Peter Martindale's voice said.

Sandy took a deep breath. "This is Bart." he said. "We have to meet."

There was a long silence, then Martindale spoke. "Where?" he asked.

"At the same place we met the first time out here. Take the four o'clock boat."

"All right," Martindale replied.

Sandy hung up and turned to Cara. "I have to go to San Francisco," he said.

"I'm coming with you."

"No, it's better if you aren't involved."

"But I am involved, right up to my ears."

"I'm going to take your car."

"Sandy, I'm coming with you."

Sandy shook his head and got her car keys from the hall table.

"Sandy-"

"No, my darling," he replied. He kissed her, then got a raincoat from the hall closet. "The forecast is for cool in the city today," he said, then left the house. He walked to the car, then stopped. He was unarmed. He walked around the house and, peeking through a window to see that Cara was not in the kitchen, he entered through the back door. Half a dozen knife handles protruded from a wooden block on a counter. He chose a slim, sharp boning knife, wrapped the blade in some paper towels, put the knife in his raincoat pocket, and returned to the car.