Charade (29 page)

table covered with blue and white checked oilcloth. In the center of it were grouped bottles of Tabasco and ketchup, a variety of steak sauces, salt and pepper shakers, and a sugar dispenser. Tanya Tucker was on the jukebox. Back in the kitchen, their flour-dredged, tenderized steaks were being fried in a vat of hot grease. Cat resumed the conversation where they'd left it. "You're very adaptable, aren't you, Alex?" She squeezed a fresh lemon wedge into her glass of water, which was so large she couldn't get her hand around it. "In my former line of work, being able to think on my feet was a requirement." "Would you have used the gun today?" "To save our lives? Damn right." Trying to sound casual, she asked, "Did you ever have to shoot someone?" He stared at her long and hard before saying, "When you're a cop, you think you're trained to handle anything that might come down. But you're not. When you run into an unexpected situation, you do the best you can." That was the only answer she was going to get. She let the conversation lag while he stirred sugar into his iced tea. He was the next to speak. "Where'd you get your training?" "You mean my acting training?" "I know you were an orphan who was reared in foster homes. Beyond that, I don't know anything about your life before you joined the cast of Passages. Where'd you grow up?" She let herself be diverted, thinking that if she told him something of her background, he might be more open to discussing his. What Dean had told her today had disturbed her, but she didn't think it was as cut and dried as Dean had made it sound. She wanted to hear Alex's version of what had happened that fateful Fourth of July, but he wouldn't tell her if she asked. If he ever gave her an account, he would choose the time. "I grew up in the South, actually. That's right," she said, noting his surprise. "Alabama to be exact. After years of vocal coaching, I finally lost the accent." "What was little Cat Delaney like?" "Skinny and redheaded."

"Besides that." She picked up her knife and began tracing the checks in the tablecloth with its serrated blade. "It's not a pleasant story." "I doubt it'll spoil my appetite." "Don't be too sure," she said around a shaky laugh. She began by telling him about her illness. "I beat the cancer but was still puny for a year or so. One day, I felt so weak the school nurse volunteered to drive me home. My dad's car was in the driveway, which was unusual for that time of day. I went in--" The waitress served their salads. "I went inside through the back door, expecting to find Mom and Dad in the kitchen. But the house was very quiet. Later, I remembered that uncommon stillness, but at the time I didn't give it much thought and went looking for my parents." Blood began pounding in her temples as, in her mind's eye, she followed that painfully thin child with unmanageable red hair, pale, skinny legs poking out of wide-legged shorts, new navy blue sneakers on her feet, moving soundlessly along the hallway where her baby pictures smiled down at her from dime-store frames. "They were in their bedroom." Alex stirred in his chair. She sensed him propping his elbows on the table and leaning forward, but she didn't take her eyes off the checked pattern of the tablecloth. She moved the knife blade along the straight edge of a blue square with the concentration of a child trying desperately not to color outside the lines. "They were lying in bed. I thought they were taking a nap even though it wasn't Sunday. It took several seconds for me to figure out what all that red stuff was. When I did, I panicked and ran to the neighbor's house, screaming that something terrible had happened to my mommy and daddy." "Jesus," Alex whispered. "What happened? Robbery?" She dropped the knife onto the padded cloth. "No. Daddy took them both out with a pistol to the head." She looked at him with the same defiance with which she had once faced the child welfare caseworkers, practically daring him to pity her. "I spent the next eight years in the foster care system, being

shunted from home to home until I could take responsibility for myself." "What'd you do?" "About what?" "About school. Money." "Your salad's wilting." "Talk." He speared a leaf of lettuce that was dripping buttermilk dressing, but he didn't put it into his mouth until she resumed her story. "After high school, I got a job as a typist for a large manufacturing firm. But I was going nowhere. Promotions were based on seniority, not merit. It was as unfair as the foster care system." "What was wrong with it?" "What wasn't?" She set down her fork and waved both hands in front of her face as though erasing what she'd just said. "Strike that. That was a gross generalization. Most foster parents are giving and self-sacrificing. It's the concept that needs reform." "It beats putting kids in orphanages." "I know." She decided she'd had enough of the salad and pushed aside her plate. "But a foster home is temporary, and the child-- especially an older child--is fully aware of that. It's a home situation, and that's good. But it isn't your home. You're being allowed to live there, but only for a while. You're only visiting until you get too old, or do something wrong, or circumstances change, and then you'll be moved someplace else. "You perceive the message as 'Nobody likes you enough to want you permanently.' And before long you begin to think you aren't worthy of love, and you start living up to everyone's low expectations --either real or imagined. 'You think I'm unlovable? Well, just get a load of this!' As a defense mechanism, you begin rejecting people and opportunities before they have a chance to reject you." "That's an adult analysis." "You're right. When I was in the system, I didn't realize I was self-fulfilling the prophesies. I was just a lonely little girl who felt unloved and unwanted, and who would do anything to get attention." She laughed ruefully. "I pulled some real doozies. I hated feeling like a charity case." Her eyebrows pulled into a steep frown. "And

then there are people--perhaps even good-intentioned folks don't have a clue how to rear a child. "I hasten to add that this applies to natural parents as well as foster parents. They have no idea that they're inflicting emotional wreckage. A word, a look, even a pervasive attitude can destroy a child's self-esteem. People who would never dream of being physically abusive do irrevocable damage to a child's spirit." "Such as?" "I could bore you for hours." "I'm not bored." She eyed him suspiciously. "You're taking mental notes, aren't you? This will show up in a novel, right? The Perils of Cat Delaney. Believe me, Alex, the truth is worse than anything you could dream up." "I know that from my days as a cop. Go on. This is off the record." "I remember one Christmas," she said after a moment of reflection. "I was thirteen and by then had a grip on how the system worked. 1 knew never to expect too much. But there was another foster child living in the same house as 1, a little girl about seven. The couple also had a daughter that age. "Both the little girls wanted Barbie dolls for Christmas. That's all they talked about. To win Santa's favor, they did their chores, went to bed on time, ate their veggies. On Christmas morning, the couple's daughter unwrapped the Mattel megaseller in all her blond splendor. She got the real thing, dressed in a pink prom dress and matching high heels. "The foster child got a brand X Barbie, a scaled-down, pale imitation. What that said to her was that she wasn't quite up to par, wasn't good enough to have the genuine article. Even Santa Claus didn't think so. "And I thought why--why would someone hurt a child like that? What could have been the difference in price between the two dolls? A few measly dollars? The cost of a rump roast? Wasn't a child's self-image worth more than that? "I'm really in no position to judge because I've never been a parent. It's got to be the most challenging job imaginable. But it's not that hard to understand how hurtful an oversight from Santa Claus can be."

She drew a sigh. "I saw instances like that time after time. I would get so angry over the injustices that were heaped on kids. But, as I learned, the adult world is full of injustices too." Their salad plates were removed and they were served their steaks. "Good Lord," Cat exclaimed. "This could qualify for a zip code." The breading had been fired to a crunchy, golden brown. The meat inside was fork-tender. Alex cut into his. "What did you do after you left the typing job? That's a long way from a starring role in a soap opera." "Obviously I needed more education. I'd saved every penny I could, but I still couldn't afford to attend college. So I entered a beauty pageant." His fork halted midway between his plate and his mouth. "A beauty pageant?" She took umbrage. "Is that so astonishing?" "I figured you for someone who'd think beauty pageants are sexist and exploitive of women." "At that point in my life, I was willing to be exploited for a chance at a twenty-thousand-dollar scholarship. So I invested in the best push-up bra ever engineered and added my name to the long list of hopefuls. Pass the rolls, please." The bread was yeasty and soft and melted in her mouth. "Sinful." She moaned, closing her eyes and licking butter off her lips. "If you think the roll is sinful, you ought to see the expression on your face."

Chapter thirty-eight

Alex's gaze was fixed on her mouth. "Do you realize that everything you do is sexual?" "Do you realize that you have a dirty mind?" "Indubitably." He lifted his eyes to meet hers. "You're a walking, talking turn-on. That's why every man you meet falls a little in love with you." The statement was more disturbing than flattering. "That's not true." "I can name three. No, four." "Who?" "Dean Spicer." She raised one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. "Since I left California, we've been nothing more than good friends." "Because that's the way you want it. He's still in love with you. Second is Bill Webster." "You're way off base there. Bill adores his wife." "She shares my theory." Cat negated that with a firm shake of her head. "You're wrong.

And if Nancy thinks there's anything besides friendship and mutual respect between Bill and me, she's wrong, too. Who else? Not that I'm buying any of this, you understand. I'm just curious." "Jeff Doyle." She laughed. "If he weren't gay, he'd be in love with you," Alex insisted. "As it is, he merely worships the ground you walk on." "You really are into fiction, aren't you? Who's number four?" He let his piercing gaze answer for him. "Do you expect me to believe that?" she asked. "No." "Good. Because it's a crock, and we both know it. You'd just like to sleep with me again." "What are my chances?" "Nil." He grinned in a manner that said he didn't believe her. "Did you win?" "What? Oh, the pageant? No." "Too slender?" "Too stupid." "There's a story, right?" She nodded. "During the preliminaries, we were required to mix and mingle with the judges. One of them was an oily character who was supposed to be a portrait photographer, but he looked like a crooked used car salesman to me. He was so earnest, so willing to put us contestants at ease, that his hands were constantly on us. Touchy-feely. The creepy kind of touching that makes you feel like you've stepped on a slug. "Anyway, he would sidle up to us independently and whisper things like, 'You've got what it takes, sweetheart.' Later we girls compared notes and came to the unanimous conclusion that he was a jerk and a joke. But as the week progressed toward the big competition on Saturday night, he became bolder, more familiar. "His groping was no longer a joke, but none of the girls wanted to be the first to expose him for fear of jeopardizing her score. The old geezer knew this, of course. He was committing sexual blackmail and getting away with it. So I decided--" "Let me guess," Alex interrupted. "You set out to right the wrong."

"Yes. I thought he should be revealed as the slime ball he was. During the dress rehearsal, he cornered me and began discussing my assets and enumerating ways in which he could help me make the most of them. I pretended to be breathless with excitement and gratitude, eager to hear more. So he suggested I join him in his room later, where he could go into more detail. "We set a time. Before going to his room, I left a message for the committee chairwoman that he needed to see her as soon as possible." "You set a trap." "Hmm. Unfortunately, it backfired. Ms. Committee Chairwoman arrived at his door just in time to find him trying to wrangle me out of my blouse. He turned the tables, said I'd come to his room uninvited and offered him my lily white body in exchange for a high score on his tally sheet.

"I suggested that if she didn't believe me, she could consult the other girls whom he'd been groping all week. Which she did. But every last one of them chickened out. "I guess that tacky tiara was more important to them than the truth. So, I was branded a slut who had compromised the integrity of the pageant and was promptly disqualified." "I bet you had plenty to say then." "Actually I was rather terse. As I recall, all I said was, 'Screw this. I'll become an actress instead.' "

Through the remainder of their meal and during the drive back to San Antonio, she told him the rest of her life story. After the fiasco of the beauty pageant, she'd sold everything she owned except for a few changes of clothes and bought a one-way Greyhound ticket to Los Angeles. She worked at the fragrance counter of a department store, earning barely enough to pay for acting classes and a roach-infested apartment. When she was able to afford it, she put together a portfolio of photographs and began touting herself to talent agencies. "Finally, out of the blue, an agent called and expressed an interest in representing me. At first I thought it was a prank call." "I know the feeling." By now they'd reached the outskirts of the

city. Alex took an exit off the freeway. "I felt exactly like that when I first heard from Arnie Villella. What was your first acting job?" "A TV commercial. I spread a non yellowing wax onto a vinyl floor. It aired nationally for over a year. The residuals were good. After that, I did more commercials, worked trade shows, pitching everything from household cleaners to Hondas, appeared in a few stage plays. Then my agent heard about the new character on Pas' sages, and I auditioned for Laura Madison. You know the rest." He stopped at an intersection and turned to her. "Say where." "The TV station. My car's there." He looked at her meaningfully. "Sure?" She knew what he was asking, and had her libido been making decisions for her, the choice would have been much easier. "Yes, I'm sure." As they headed to the TV station, Alex brought her up to date on the progress he'd made during his trip to Houston. "The Department of Justice was lukewarm on its promise to check into the accidental deaths of the three heart transplantees. The agent I spoke with sounded harried and indifferent." "So we're on our own." "More or less. At this point he wouldn't even consider asking the organ banks for confidential information, the UNOS numbers, etcetera. Not until it's determined that crimes have been committed, he said. So, with nothing more to go on, I began checking out death certificates." "Thanks, Alex. You've done wonders with the little you had to go on. It would have been impossible for me to track down Petey." "After what he said about Sparky's size--I think it's worth pursuing further, don't you?" "Absolutely." "I'll try and locate members of the disbanded gang. Although it'll probably be a wild goose chase. First I've got to find a former member. If and when I do, will he or she have had enough interest in Sparky to trace the destination of his donated heart? The odds aren't good." "That woman--Kismet? If we could find her, she might know something." "Yeah, but I'm sure Kismet was an assumed name."