Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 27

They sat in the Mercedes convertible, both breathing hard. Cara's gun was in her lap; Sandy had surreptitiously returned the silenced pistol to his raincoat pocket.

"Sandy what are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I'm buying a vineyard; I was in a lawyer's office upstairs signing a purchase agreement," he half-lied. "Your turn."

"I really don't want you involved in this," she said, shaking her head.

"You told me you were going to Charleston," he said. "Why are you here, and what is it you don't want me involved in?"

"Charleston was just a cover," she replied.

"A cover for what?"

"A cover to keep anyone from knowing that I was coming to San Francisco. Only Thea, my partner, knew."

"I don't understand," he said.

"I don't want you involved," she repeated.

"I got involved last weekend at Edgartown; I remain involved. Please tell me what's going on; maybe I can help."

She was silent for a moment, then sighed and spoke. "I've lied to you," she said."

"I'm sure you must have had a good reason," he replied. "Now tell me the truth."

"It's a long story."

"I've got all the time in the world."

Her shoulders sagged. "All right. My name isn't Cara Mason, it's Helena Martindale. Cara is a family nickname, and Mason is my mother's maiden name."

"Go on."

"I haven't been living in New York for a year; I came to New York on the plane with you; I was in trouble, and Thea offered to hide me."

"Tell me about the trouble."

"I'm… I was married to an Englishman named Peter Martindale. We lived here, in San Francisco, where he runs an art gallery. We were married for a little over two years, and I came to learn that he was… a little strange. I told him I wanted a divorce, and he didn't take it well."

"He didn't want the divorce?"

"No. Not because he was in love with me-he never was, I think. The money for the gallery came out of my inheritance, and he wanted more."

"And you wouldn't give it to him?"

"No. He'd used up nearly half my funds setting up the gallery. I had a lien on the pictures he'd bought, but as he sold them, he never repaid the money I'd loaned him. When I told him I planned to divorce him, he tried to make it up between us. I stayed with him for a while, then I moved in with a friend and filed for divorce. This was about seven months ago."

"Were you having an affair?" Sandy asked.

"No, no. He's a painter named Saul Winner; Saul is in his sixties and has a nineteen-year-old boy for a lover. I moved into his house temporarily, but I continued to go to the gallery, to keep an eye on my investment. Peter got stranger and stranger, and one night a couple of weeks ago, he asked me to meet a client from New York at the gallery, late, while he was in Los Angeles. I wanted to use the opportunity to be in the gallery while he was away so that I could go over the books with our bookkeeper, Sally, to see just how much he'd taken in since he started the gallery. It was a lot, I think, but before I could get the whole picture, I got a call from Saul, who was having a big spat with his boyfriend. I had to meet him in a bar and listen to him cry in his beer for over an hour, and when I came back to the gallery, the street was full of police cars and an ambulance. Sally had been murdered. I thought Peter might have had something to do with it-that maybe I was the intended victim. I ran. I drove to Saul's house, got my clothes, then checked into the Ritz-Carlton under the name of Cara Mason. I called Thea, and she said, 'Come to New York; be my partner.' It was a lifeline, and I grabbed it. You were in the car from the hotel and on my plane." She turned and looked at him. "I was about to grab at you, too, but I felt I had to settle things with Peter first."

"And did you?"

"Yes. We agreed on a property settlement; Peter got to keep all the money I'd loaned him for the gallery and the apartment. I got my freedom. I was upstairs signing the final papers a few minutes ago. I'm now a free woman."

"I'm glad to hear it," Sandy said. "Why the gun?"

"I haven't changed my will, yet. I think Peter may be capable of killing me for what's left of my money."

Sandy sat and thought. So Martindale had lied to him about everything. Helena hadn't been having an affair with Saul Winner, she hadn't been trying to take half the gallery-in fact, she'd given it all to him. And he still wanted her dead. Jesus Christ.

"Where is Peter now?" Sandy asked.

"In Tucson; he called from there while I was in the lawyer's office."

"Is it your lawyer who's upstairs, or Peter's?"

"Both. Different lawyers in the firm represent each of us."

"Here's what I want you to do: I want you to go back upstairs and make a new will right this minute, or at least, revoke the old one. Make sure that the lawyer lets Peter know immediately that it's been done; that should remove any possible motive for murder." He dug his hotel key out of his pocket. "Where have you been staying?"

"At Saul's house."

"Don't go back there, even to get your clothes, and don't call Saul. Who owns this car?"

"I do; it's registered in my name."

"Do you know of somewhere you could stare it for a while? Someplace where Peter won't find it?"

She thought for a moment. "I have some friends who are out of the country for a while, and I have a key to their house; there's a big garage."

"Good." He took the small pistol from her hand. "Where did you get this?"

"It was my father's."

"Do you have a permit for it?"

"No."

"I'll get rid of it; you certainly can't take it to New York with you on the plane."

She shook her head, took the pistol, and put it into the glove compartment. "It was my father's, and I don't want to lose it. I'll just leave it in the car."

"All right; call a cab from the house, then pick up enough new clothes and things to last you a couple of days." He handed her his key. "This is to my suite at the Ritz-Carlton; go there and wait for me, and don't answer the telephone."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to help you disappear," Sandy said. "And by the way, I'm going to keep calling you Cara; I've sort of gotten used to it."

She smiled. "I'd like that; it's what my parents always called me.

He reached over and kissed her. "Go on back to your lawyer's office; I'll see you at the Ritz as soon as I can get there." He got out of the car, and walked her to the elevator.

When she was on her way up, he went back to Martindale's Lincoln, put on the chauffeur's cap and the dark glasses, and drove out of the garage. He found his way to the gallery and parked at the lot across the street, as he had been instructed. He put the cap and sunglasses on the front seat, put the ignition key in the glove compartment and started to get out of the car, then he stopped. Leaving the car door open, he got out and looked around the garage. It was empty of people. He walked around the garage, looking for a soft surface, and he found it in a stack of cardboard boxes that had been broken down flat and left for pickup next to a garbage can. He took the pistol from his raincoat pocket, looked around to be sure he was still alone, then fired two quick shots into the cardboard boxes. He was surprised at how quiet the weapon was.

Walking back to the car, he dug out the handkerchief the pistol had been wrapped in, rewrapped it, and tucked it under the driver's seat. Then he locked the car and walked out to the street, looking for a wastebasket. He found one and got rid of his new raincoat and cap, then hailed a cab.

On the ride to the hotel, he went over his plan carefully.