thanks to Paul's publicity people, the tabloids falsely reported on her bizarre behavior and drug addiction, and the public began to wonder if Paul Fiori had not had good reason to leave his crazy wife. Charlotte was dropped from all Hollywood social functions, while Paul and Larissa became increasingly popular. On the day Larissa delivered their little boy, Charlotte fled for the safety and anonymity of Port Ariel.
To their credit, neither of her parents had said, 'I told you so.' This was an expected lack of response from her timid, gentle mother but downright miraculous from her bombastic, cocksure father. She attributed it to his recent stroke that had left him partially paralyzed and emotionally stunned. Her parents had left her alone to read, watch television (anything except Street Life), and to wander around the six acres of manicured grounds surrounding the white-columned house Max had modeled on Tara in Gone With the Wind. After a couple of months, when her depression didn't lift, she'd decided to seek professional help in the form of Dr. Warren Hunt.
Four weeks later their affair had begun and she'd wanted him as badly as she'd once wanted Paul Fiori. True, he wasn't as handsome and charismatic as Paul, but he was much brighter, far more educated, and absolutely adored her. And, oh, how her battered ego wanted his adoration after Paul's devastating rejection. Wanted, needed, hungered. The only thing standing between them was Warren 's vapid little wife Tamara.
Charlotte wandered over to her vanity table and sat down, gazing into the large mirror. Charlotte knew she wasn't a classic beauty, but she was striking. Sunlight poured through the west window picking up the copper highlights in her short, sleek chestnut hair. When she blinked, long lashes swept over her gold-flecked green eyes and her skin shone like fine porcelain in the strong natural light. She didn't look thirty. She didn't look a day older than Paul's twenty one year old silicone-and-bleach creation Larissa. Well, not much older. And she certainly looked better than Tamara, who didn't even try to be stylish like her twin sister Lily. Of course Lily was no threat. Warren didn't like her. She didn't think he really liked Tamara, either. It was only guilt that held him to her-guilt and fear of the fallout from a divorce.
Warren worried about what scandal would do to his reputation in a town of twenty thousand people. But as soon as he got his divorce, Charlotte knew she could convince him to move somewhere more cosmopolitan where they both could shine. New York City would be nice. Expensive, yes, but her father was dying and she knew he intended to leave his fortune in her hands, not his wife's. Muriel didn't even like to write checks. She could never handle Bishop Corporation. Charlotte, on the other hand, had a brilliant business mind and could run the company from far away. Yes, New York City would be very nice. An apartment in Manhattan, a second home in the Hamptons…
Someone tapped at her door. 'Come in,' she called absently.
In a moment her mother's small, white face appeared. Muriel Bishop always looked slightly anxious, vaguely worried, but at the moment she appeared positively terrified. 'Honey, that nice deputy Ted Hysell from the sheriff's office called,' she said tremulously. 'He thought your daddy would want to know…'
After years of living with the impatient Max, who interrupted constantly, Muriel finished only half of her sentences. The others trailed off into fluttering uncertainty.
'Daddy would want to know what, Mother?' Charlotte asked, picking up a silver-backed brush and fluffing her glossy hair.
'You won't believe this. I can hardly take it in myself. I mean, such a terrible thing… It really makes you wonder… I want to believe in God, but when something- like this happens…'
'Mother, what is it?'
Muriel's hand touched her throat, then her trembling lips. She looked like she was going to cry. 'It's that pretty Tamara Hunt, your doctor's wife… She's dead.'
Charlotte 's brush stopped in mid-stroke. She met her own gaze in the mirror and hoped her mother didn't see the satisfaction in the green depths of her eyes.
Deputy Ted Hysell waited for a relatively private moment, then called his girlfriend, Dee Fisher. She picked up on the fifth ring.
'What were you doing?' he asked.
'Taking care of Ma, what else? I wish I could afford to put her in a nursing home.'
'You're a nurse.'
'Was. Thanks to Andrew St. John, my illustrious career ended two years ago. Besides, I didn't plan on spending my life taking care of my mother. So much for my troubles. Why are you calling?'
'Got some news I thought you'd like to hear.'
Dee shifted from one tired foot to the other, running a hand through her short, curly brown hair. 'Well? Do I have to guess?'
'Tamara Hunt was murdered.'
'Murdered,' Dee said without emotion. 'When?'
'It must have happened last evening because she was out on Hyacinth Lane underneath a limb brought down by the storm. Her sister Lily and Natalie St. John found her.'
'Natalie St. John?'
'Yeah. I guess she's here on a visit.'
'Visiting Daddy Dearest. She hardly ever comes home. Wonder what she's doing here now?'
'She didn't discuss it with me,' Ted said.
Dee either ignored or didn't catch his sarcasm. 'So how's old Natalie looking these days?'
'Looking?' He'd just told her a woman had been mur dered and she was concerned about another woman's appearance. Ted shook his head in amazement. 'She looks good. Hair's long. Slim as ever.' Silence. Ted realized his mistake and added quickly, 'Of course she's not my type.'
'I could tell,' Dee said coldly. She touched her face. The skin was dry and she'd gained twelve pounds over the past year. She suddenly felt unattractive and depressed. 'I guess the animal doctor was freaked out. She liked Tamara, God knows why.'
'I liked Tamara, too. She was a good woman, Dee.'
'Well, I couldn't stand her,' Dee snapped, suddenly angry at the offended tone in Ted's voice. He didn't like her criticizing Tamara and she didn't like his protectiveness. 'I worked at her stupid suicide hotline for a year. Volunteered hours of my time. And after my trouble at the hospital, she made me quit.'
'You told me it was Warren who called you and ordered you not to come back.'
'So? He's her husband.'
'He's also a jerk and what he did wasn't her fault.'
'Pardon me. She was a saint. The whole country will be in mourning over her death.' Dee took a breath. 'So what about the animal doctor? Did she immediately call for Daddy?'
'No, Natalie didn't.'
'I know her name is Natalie. I remember her all too well from high school. Part of that stuck-up group that wouldn't wipe their shoes on me.'
Ted sighed. 'I don't think you really knew any of these people. Natalie's not bad.'
'She's a bitch,' Dee said acidly. 'Not that she had any right to be so snobby. Her mother took off and joined the Manson family.'
'Dee, the Manson family was long gone when Natalie's mother left.'
'And then there's her father,' Dee went on, seething. 'He killed poor Eugene Farley on the operating table two years ago.'
Ted's face flushed. Dee had once been in love with Eugene Farley. He'd been head accountant at Bishop Corporation, where Viveca Cosgrove was an executive, and he'd dumped Dee for Viveca. Dee remained obsessed with him, though, and she was certain he'd return to her when his affair with Viveca ended. Instead he'd been arrested for embezzlement. During his trial, Dee had taken the night shift at the hospital and come to the courtroom every day.
The jury returned a guilty verdict. As a seemingly limp Farley was led out of the courtroom, he'd suddenly snapped to life. With amazing speed he grabbed a deputy's gun and shot himself in the head. Everyone screamed and hit the floor, dodging the hail of bullets they thought would follow. But no other shots were fired and when the screaming stopped, someone checked Farley to find him still alive. They'd rushed him to the hospital and St. John operated. Dee was a surgical nurse. She'd hurried back to the hospital, slipped into the operating room and watched Eugene Farley die on the table. For two years she'd never stopped talking about Farley, claiming his death resulted from Andrew St. John botching the operation.
