The Third heiress Page 12

  "What?"

  "Their things. Your parents'. I got rid of most everything, but some papers and some of her jewelry I kept. Don't know why."

  Jill had stiffened with surprise and excitement. "Aunt Madeline, you're wonderful!" she cried.

  There was absolute silence on the other end of the line.

  ''Could you UPS me the box, two-day air? It's not very expensive and I'll send you a check the moment I know the amount," Jill said eagerly.

  "I don't know ..."

  "Please. It's very important," Jill said.

  Madeline made a sound that Jill took to be an affirmative. Jill gave her address on West Broadway and Tenth Street and managed to get Madeline to promise to send the box first thing the next day. She hung up, pleased.

  If she was lucky, there would be something in that box to help her discover the truth about Kate—or about her own ancestry, if it was different. And even if there wasn't, she suddenly ached to have those few possessions that had belonged to her parents. Why hadn't Madeline told her about the box years ago?

  Jill shook her head. That answer was easy. Her aunt hadn't said anything because it had never occurred to her to do so.

  In any case, one thing was clear. She needed to go back to London sooner rather than later. The urge had grown in its intensity ever since Jill had made the decision to go back, and was almost irresistible now.

  Jill went to her bedside bureau and took out her bank book. As she had thought, she had less than three thousand dollars in her savings account. Her checking account had a few hundred in it. "Damn."

  She had to get on the phone and make a few calls. One of the soundmen on The Mask had a wife who was in real estate. Jill couldn't afford to pay anyone a commission, but maybe they might help anyway, given the circumstances of Hal's death and her sudden unemployment. It was worth a try.

  KC also knew tons of people. She might know someone who wanted a sublet right away.

  Jill ran across the studio for her tote, dug out her Filofax, and found the number she was looking for. She was about to dial when her phone rang. To her surprise, it was her aunt.

  "Aunt Madeline?" Jill could barely believe it.

  Without even saying hello, her aunt said, "I just remem-

  bered something. I think your grandfather was bom over there. In England."

  Jill froze.

  Madeline was silent.

  Jill recovered. Breathlessly, images of Kate Gallagher dancing in her mind, Jill asked, "Are you sure?"

  "No. But I seem to remember something like that. I think he might have come to America as a young man."

  It was about four p.m. in London. Quickly Jill dialed the museum.

  To her relief, Lucinda was still there^ and in a moment she had picked up the telephone. "Jill! I am so pleased that you have called," she said enthusiastically. "I have been thinking about you. How are you?"

  "I'm okay," Jill said, dying to tell her what her aunt had said. "Lucinda, do you have a minute or two?"

  "Of course, my dear," the Englishwoman said. There was a smile in her voice. "Are you still haunted by Kate?"

  Jill tensed. "Yes, I am. That's an odd choice of language."

  "Is it? We are very proud of our ghosts over here in England, Jill."

  Lauren had practically said the same thing. "She's on my mind. I just learned that my grandfather might have been bom in England, Lucinda—and I had always thought my family to be American."

  "That is interesting," Lucinda said. "Why don't you try to find his birth certificate? If it's not in New York, maybe we can locate it over here."

  "God. I hardly know where to start. Lucinda, I'm trying to find a sublet for my studio. I want to retum to London to research Kate, but I don't have a lot of money. How much would a flat cost me? Or a room?"

  "London flats are expensive—in decent neighborhoods, that is. Hmm. Let me think about this."

  Jill agreed and Lucinda said, "You know, Lauren came back the other day. Apparently she is now fascinated with her family, too."

  For one moment, Jill was surprised and even disturbed. Then the moment was gone. "What did you tell her?"

  "Nothing. She wandered about by herself. She spent some time, though, in our archives."

  "Can I get into those archives?" Jill asked.

  Lucinda hesitated. "I would have to ask my employer. Being as you are not family."

  "Who is your employer?"

  "It is someone who works for the CoUinswoith Group." There was a pause. "You know, dear, I have a neighbor who has a nice flat right next door to my own flat in Kensington. I believe Allen is going to be out of town for the next few months and is looking for someone to stay and take care of his two cats. Let me check for you and see what I can do."

  Jill's heart began to pound with hope and excitement; she found herself crossing her fingers. "Lucinda, if that flat is available, and it's reasonable, I'll take it. And I love cats—I have One of my own.

  "One more thing, please,'* Jill said, sitting down nervously. "Lucinda, did Hal ever talk about Kate Gallagher? Or express any kind of interest in her at all?"

  The other woman paused.

  Jill stiffened. "Lucinda?"

  "He was intrigued by Anne and Kate," Lucinda said. "He said he wanted to write their story one day. He used to take that locket I showed you to his apartment and stare at it while making notes. Jill, there is something you should know."

  "What?" She barely breathed. Her palms were clammy.

  "About a year ago, Hal told me he had found some letters, written by Kate, to Anne."

  Jill almost dropped the phone. "Oh, my God. Have you read them?"

  > "No. I've never even seen them. In fact, I'm not sure they actually exist." Her tone was cautious.

  Jill was on her feet. "What do you mean? I don't understand."

  Lucinda hesitated again. "I don't really know how to say

  this. I'm not sure I should even be telling you this." She did not continue.

  Jill felt dread. "Whatever is on your mind, please, Lucinda, I would appreciate your sharing it with me. I have to know what Hal was up to." It was only after she had spoken that she realized how odd her own choice of words was.

  "»Very well. He promised to send me copies of the letters, several times, in fact, but he never did."

  "But Hal wasn't a liar," Jill said slowly, very confused. "He wouldn't make up such a story."

  "Jill, the day he called me to tell me he'd found the letters, it was almost midnight. He sounded quite . .. incoherent."

  Jill's grip on the phone was deathly. Her heart lurched. "Incoherent."

  "I hate speaking ill of the dead. He sounded soused, my dear, three sheets to the wind ... absolutely foxed."

  It took Jill a moment to comprehend her. "You think he was drunk?" She gasped.

  "He was incoherent." Lucinda was firm. "I do not know what to think."

  Jill could not move. "Lucinda, if he had those letters, do you have any idea where he might have found them—or where he might have put them?"

  "No, I do not. But they would be priceless—to us and to the family. He would keep them somewhere very safe. They're certainly not here at Uxbridge Hall. Maybe he kept them with him."

  Jill stared bhndly across her studio, an image of Hal with old letters filling her mind. "Maybe you're right. What if they're in his apartment here in New York?"

  . "If you find them, do let me know. They belong at Uxbridge Hall," Lucinda said. "We would want the originals."

  Jill promised to do so. The two women chatted for a few more minutes, Lucinda promising to call her tomorrow after she had spoken to Allen Henry Barrows, and then they hung up. Jill remained stunned. Hal had been fascinated by Kate and Anne; Kate had written letters to Anne. And Hal had

  sounded drunk as a skunk when he had called Lucinda to tell her about it.

  No. Very adamantly, Jill decided that Lucinda was wrong. Hal had conquered his drug problem. She had never seen him drink or do drugs during th
e entire eight months they had been together. Lucinda was wrong.

  Jill was not relieved. First Marisa, now this. Maybe Thomas was right. Maybe she did not know Hal the way she thought she had.

  Hal had a co-op on Fifth Avenue. Jill still had her keys. She hadn't been there since his death, and as she approached the building on the comer of 76th Street, her steps slowed. The doorman outside recognized her and smiled.

  His apartment was on the twentieth floor. It was bright and sunny, facing Central Park. Jill paused in the living room, oblivious to the view of the park and the West Side. Being there was making her feel almost violently ill.

  She had to find those letters. She felt it with every fiber of her being. But she felt paralyzed. Hal's presence seemed to be everywhere.

  Jill closed her eyes. Had he loved her? Or had he loved Marisa? What if he had, in some bizarre way, loved Kate?

  She was never going to forget his last words as he lay dying in her arms there on the road. "I love you ... Kate." As he lay dying, had he confused her with another woman, a woman who, had she been alive, would have been more than a hundred years old?

  No. It was impossible. But why did she have that tiny whispering voice there inside of her head, one that kept repeating a litany Jill had come to hate? Hal and Jill.. .Jill and Kate ... Hal and Kate ...

  Suddenly Jill was angry. She was furious with Hal. He had died, and his death should have been an ending. But instead of the act being final, a door forever closed, his death raised far too many questions and issues, far too much confusion and doubt.

  Shoving her turbulent thoughts aside, Jill walked briskly into the third bedroom, which Hal had used as an office. She

  was there for a reason, and she had to stay focused—^but she was trembhng, her knees felt weak, and her insides remained curdled. She was also unable to shake the ridiculous feeling that Hal would walk through the door at any moment and that she would soon wake up from the worst nightmare she had ever had.

  Jill sat down at the desk, trying not to think about anything other than finding the letters. She began going through the drawers, one by one, methodically, determinedly, her jaw set. She had to find the letters. She ignored his bills and receipts. His desk was neat, because his life had been photography, which meant he had spent far more time in his dark room than in his home office. She riffled through his papers, and froze when she found an address book.

  Instantly Jill opened it to G. Her name and number were printed there. She hesitated, intending to close it and put it back in the drawer. But she could not help herself. She went through it carefully, trying not to feel guilty. Lucinda's number was there, both her home number and her work number at Uxbridge Hall. So was Marisa Sutcliffe's.

  Jill put the address book away. Going through it had been a mistake. It had only upset her—and of course he would have had Marisa's number and address—he had known her for years and years.

  But now Jill was distressed, and Kate was no longer on her mind. A small voice inside of her head told her that if she snooped into his private life now, she would be sorry. In the next instant she found his AT&T long distance telephone bill. Her heart felt like it was working its way up into her mouth. Do not look at it, she told herself. Stay focused. Look for the letters.

  But Jill's hands did not obey her mind. She quickly scanned it.

  There were quite a few calls to London, and not to the same number. Jill had known that he talked to his family often, and it should not be a surprise. But he had been calling three different London numbers frequently. Shaking a bit, Jill opened his address book. He had dialed Marisa's number ten times in the last month. •

  Jill slammed the address book shut. Her pulse raced wildly. A telephone call was not an act of deception. It did not mean that he had still loved Marisa. It did not mean that he had been cheating on her—or that she was merely a fling. It did not mean that he had not loved her, Jill, with all of his heart.

  Or did it?

  Jill jumped to her feet. Coming to Hal's apartment had been a mistake. She was more upset than ever, she had not been ready for this, she would come back another time, when she was calmer—she had to leave, now.

  She needed air.

  Why had he called Marisa ten times in the month before he died? Why?

  The answer was so obvious. Thomas was right. Hal intended to marry Marisa, and once he had known of her divorce, he had broken up with Jill so he could go home and do so.

  But how did Kate fit in?

  Suddenly Jill could not breathe. She ran from the office, grabbing her tote and jacket and racing across the living room to the front door. She pushed it open and stood outside in the hallway, sucking down air. She would come back to search for the letters when she wasn't sick with doubt and grief, when she was stronger.

  At that moment, the elevator door opened, and Thomas Sheldon stepped into the hall. Jill could not believe her eyes.

  He was the very last person she wished to see. "What are you doing here?!" she cried.

  "The doorman said you were up here and I could not believe it," he responded. His eyes were wide, he appeared as disbelieving as she. "What do you mean, what am I doing here? What are you doing here?"

  Jill fumbled for a reply. "I left some things," she began. She stopped. It was clear from his expression that he was highly skeptical of her.

  "You have a key to the apartment," he stated. He did not wait for a reply. "May I have it?"

  She blinked at him. "What?" If she gave him her keys, she wouldn't be able to come back and search the apartment.

  Suddenly his gaze became searching. "Are you ill? Are you going to faint?"

  In that instant, Jill knew she was going to black out. "I need to lie down," she whispered. She could not take the stress anymore.

  Thomas walked past her, unlocked the door to the co-op, and stood aside.

  Jill's intention was to go right to the couch. But the moment she entered the apartment, her insides heaved and she knew she was about to lose her breakfast. Jill ran into the bathroom, where she was violently sick.

  When the retching ceased, Jill clung to the toilet bowl, unable to believe what had happened. It felt like one of the singularly worst and most embarrassing moments of her life. But she did not move, waiting for the light-headedness to ease.

  She heard his footsteps. Jill did not want to turn. She knew he was standing in the open bathroom doorway. She had not had time to close the door.

  He was silent. Then he said, "I'll fetch a glass of water." He walked away.

  Jill wondered if he was, suddenly, being kind. She doubted he had a kind bone—or a sensitive one—in his entire being. She got to her feet, shut and locked the door, and began to rinse out her mouth and wash her face. Jill stared at her pale reflection, once again noticing that her face was too thin, the circles under her eyes far too dark, her jaw-length, layered hair a mess—noticing once again her startling resemblance to Kate.

  He knocked on the door. "Are you all right?" he asked, his tone absolutely neutral.

  "I'm fine," she called, trying to sound normal when she was breathless and shaking. But at least she felt stronger now. She cupped her hands and drank some water, praying for more composure.

  She heard him retreat.

  Jill took one final glance at herself in the mirror, wincing.

  When Jill stepped out of the bathroom it was to find him standing in the center of the corridor, and their gazes briefly met. "I'm sorry," she said.

  He handed her the glass of ice water. Jill sipped it, sitting down in the closest chair, a huge leather affair. She watched him pace and stare out of the huge windows at the co-op's stunning views of Central Park, so green and lush, the cherry trees in full bloom.

  Thomas turned. "Do you have the flu?" His hands were on his hips. His shirt was cream-colored, his tie mostly turquoise blue with a multicolored gold-and-black print. His Rolex glinted on one wrist.

  Jill shook her head. "No. I'm very run-down."

  H
e continued to regard her. "What are you doing here?"

  Jill tensed. "I could ask you the same thing."

  "I own this apartment," he said evenly. "I have every right to be here."

  She gaped at him. "This is Hal's apartment."

  "What are you talking about? I own this co-op. I bought it five years ago because I'm in New York so often. When Hal moved to New York, I told him to go ahead and move in. It would have been absurd for him to rent another flat."

  Jill was stunned. "Hal told me that this was his apartment."

  "You took him too literally."

  Jill knew that had not been the case, not at all. He had lied to her. Why? What had he to gain by lying? Jill could not understand. Another lie, another deception ...

  "Could you be pregnant?" Thomas cut into her thoughts.

  Jill gasped. "Pregnant?"

  "Yes, pregnant."

  Jill stared at him, thinking about KC's reading. Thinking about that card, the Empress. "No. I am not pregnant." The odds, she had told herself, were a zillion to one against it; they had always been extremely careful. But now she knew she had to face the possibility; she would pick up a home pregnancy kit on her way downtown.

  "You seem uncertain,'* he said, studying her. "You seem nervous."

  "You're scaring me," she cried. "But you want to scare me, don't you?"

  Thomas's eyes darkened. "Why would I want to scare you. Miss Gallagher?"

  "I don't know," Jill said honestly. "Because you hate me. Because you blame me for Hal's death."

  Thomas sat down on the couch facing her, unbuttoning his jacket as he did so. Then he ran one hand through his thick, sun-streaked hair. His signet ring glinted as he did so. "I'm not trying to scare you." He looked up at her. "I thought I'd pack up his things," he said slowly. More to himself than to Jill. "But I don't know. I think I'll have someone else do it." He grimaced.

  Jill knew she could offer to do it—and have an excuse to come back—but she wasn't up to that task, either. Jill hugged herself. In spite of herself, she felt a vast understanding for what he Was going through. "I need to pack up some of his things at my place, too. It's terrible."