Charade (5 page)

Chapter Seven

October 10, 1991

Cat Delaney circulated through the ballroom like a bright butterfly, lighting briefly to chat with one group of party-goers before flitting off to the next. Everyone with whom she spoke was dazzled by her verve and vivacity. "She's incredible." Dr. Dean Spicer, who'd been proudly observing Cat from the sidelines, turned toward the man who had extended the compliment. Dean had been Cat's date to countless social affairs, and he knew many of the people with whom she worked. However, this tall, distinguished gentleman was a stranger to him. "Yes, she is rather incredible," he replied conversationally. "My name's Bill Webster." Dean introduced himself as they shook hands. "Weren't you Ms. Delaney's cardiologist?" "Initially," Dean said, pleased that his name had been recognized. "Before our personal relationship got in the way." Webster smiled with understanding, then returned his gaze to Cat. "She's a charming young woman."

Dean wondered who Webster was and why he'd been invited to this network-sponsored, black-tie gala to commemorate the one-year anniversary of Cat's transplant. Executives from network affiliate stations were there, along with commercial sponsors, members of the news media, talent agents, actors, and others who had a vested interest in the success of Passages. Curious about Webster, Dean asked, "How'd you recognize my name?" "Don't underestimate your notoriety, Dr. Spicer. You've become almost as famous as your companion." "Fan magazines," Dean said with a self-effacement he didn't truly feel. He enjoyed the public recognition he received for being Cat Delaney's "significant other," as a Hollywood gossip columnist had recently labeled him. "The publicity generated by the tabloids hasn't detracted from your renown as a cardiologist," Webster told him. "Thank you." He paused. "I only wish I could give all my patients as good a prognosis as Cat's. Her recovery has been remarkable." "Are you surprised?" "Not at all. I expected it of her. She's not only an exceptional patient but an exceptional individual. Once she made it through the first difficult weeks of recovery," Dean continued, "she resolved to live to a ripe old age. She'll make it, too. Her greatest asset is her optimism. She's the pride of the entire transplant program at our hospital." "I understand she's a very vocal proponent of organ transplants." "She speaks on behalf of donor awareness and frequently visits the transplant patients who are waiting for organs. When they get down, she encourages them not to give up hope. They look upon her as an angel." He chuckled and smiled affectionately. "They don't know her as well as I do. She has the fiery temper redheads are noted for." "In spite of her temper, you're obviously an admirer." "Very much so. In fact, we plan to marry soon." That wasn't entirely the truth. He planned to marry Cat. She continued to hedge. He'd asked her many times to move into his Beverly Hills home, but she still resided in her beach house in

Malibu, claiming that the ocean was therapeutic, vital to her spiritual and physical health. "I draw strength just from gazing at it." She also maintained that her independence was essential to her well-being. The independence issue was a flimsy excuse for them not to marry. Dean certainly didn't intend to shackle her to the kitchen stove once she became his wife. In fact, he wanted her to continue her career. The last thing he needed was a hausfrau. They dated each other exclusively. No ghosts from past relationships haunted either of them. Upon her full recovery, he'd been delighted to discover that they were sexually compatible. Each was financially secure, so it wasn't a matter of unbalanced earning capacity. He could see no viable reason for her continued refusal of his proposals. He'd patiently deferred to her wishes, but now that her transplant was considered a total success and her stardom was firmly reestablished on Passages, he intended to apply more pressure for a commitment. He had resolved not to give up until Cat Delaney was wholly his. "Then congratulations are in order," Webster said, raising his glass of champagne. Dean returned Bill Webster's smile and clinked glasses.

While listening to an advertising executive wax poetic about her incredible courage--he'd never before actually touched someone who'd had a heart transplant--Cat was looking beyond his shoulder at Dean and the man to whom he'd been talking for the last several minutes. She didn't recognize him; her curiosity was aroused. "Thank you so much for all the cards you sent during my convalescence." As unobtrusively as possible, she pulled her hand from the ad exec's clasp. "Please excuse me now. I just spotted a friend I haven't seen in a while." With the practiced ease of a diplomat, she negotiated her way through the crowd. Several people tried to engage her in conversation, but she paused only long enough to exchange pleasantries and respond to congratulations and compliments.

Because she had looked so bad for so long before her transplant, she felt quite justified in her conceit over how fantastic she looked tonight. Her hair had regained its luster, although the steroids she'd had to take immediately following the surgery had turned it a darker, but no less vibrant, shade of red. For tonight's festivities, she'd swept it into a topknot designed to appear haphazard. Her eyes, described as "laser beam blue" almost every time her name appeared in print, had been artfully enhanced with makeup. Her skin had never glowed so healthily. She was showing it off in a snug-fitting black sequined minidress that left her arms and back bare. Of course, the dress had a high neckline that fastened halter-style at the back of her neck. She hadn't wanted to expose her "zipper," the scar that ran vertically from the hollow of her throat to the center of her breastbone, where the ribs separated. Every item in her wardrobe had been chosen to conceal that scar. Dean insisted that it was hardly detectable and fading more each day, but she could still see it clearly. She knew that the scar was a small price to pay for her new heart. Her self-consciousness about it was undoubtedly a holdover from childhood, when she'd often been wounded by thoughtless or cruel comments by her classmates. Illness had made her an object of curiosity then, just as being a heart transplantee did now. She had never wanted to spark pity or awe in other people, so now she hid her scar carefully. Although she felt fabulous tonight, she would never take good health for granted. Her recollections of her illness were still too vivid. She was grateful to be alive and able to work. Her resumption of the Laura Madison role, and all the physical demands it placed on her, had caused no health problems. Now, a year after her transplant, she'd never felt better. Grinning, she moved up behind Dean and slid her arm through his. "Why is it that the two most attractive men in the room are monopolizing each other and depriving the rest of us?" Dean smiled down at her. "Thank you." "Likewise," the other man said. "The compliment is especially welcome coming from the belle of the ball."

She executed a mock curtsy, then smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Cat Delaney." "Bill Webster." "From . . . ?" "San Antonio, Texas." "Ah, WWSA! You're that Webster." She turned to Dean and said in a stage whisper, "Top dog. Owner and CEO. In other words, kiss up." Webster chuckled modestly. His name was known and respected industry-wide. He appeared to be in his midfifties. There was an attractive feathering of gray at his temples, and his suntanned face had accommodated maturity very well. Cat liked him instantly. "You're not a native Texan, are you?" she asked. "Either that or you conceal your accent." "You have a good ear." "And great legs," she said, winking. "I concur," Dean said. Webster laughed again. "I'm originally from the Midwest. I've been in Texas almost fifteen years. It's become home." "Thank you for tearing yourself away long enough to attend the party," she said sincerely. "I wouldn't have missed it." He nodded toward Dean. "Dr. Spicer and I have been talking about your remarkable recovery." "He deserves all the credit," she said, smiling up at Dean. "He-- and all the doctors and nurses in the transplant program--did all the work. I was just their dummy." Dean placed his arm around her slender waist and said proudly, "She's been an ideal patient, first for me and then for Dr. Sholden, who took over her case when our relationship progressed to the point where medical considerations could have become clouded. As you can see, it turned out all right." Cat sighed theatrically. "It's been all right since I got those blasted steroids adjusted. Of course, I had to give up my mustache and chipmunk cheeks, but one can't have everything." The unpleasant side effects of the steroids had disappeared once her dosage had been lowered. She'd regained the pounds she'd lost and now held steady at her ideal, pretransplant weight.

Even before the "zipper" became part of her body, her slight figure had never had centerfold potential. She'd been a gangly, skinny child. Adolescence hadn't paid off for her as it had for many girls; the fervently desired curves had never developed. The angular bone structure of her face and her vibrant coloring were her best assets. She'd learned to maximize them. Cameras loved them. "I'm an unabashed fan, Ms. Delaney," Bill Webster was saying. "Please, call me Cat. And unabashed fans are my favorite kind." "Only a very important luncheon appointment can keep me from tuning in Passages every day." "I'm flattered." "I attribute the show's enormous success to you and the character of Laura Madison." "Thank you, but you're far too generous. Passages was successful before Laura Madison was written into it. And it held its own in the ratings during my absence. I share the show's success with everyone involved, the scriptwriters, the whole cast and crew." Webster looked at Dean. "Is she always this modest?" "To a fault, I'm afraid." "You're a very fortunate man." "Hey, guys," she said, "I think it only fair to warn you that one of my pet peeves is being talked about as though I'm invisible." "Sorry," Webster said. "I was just picking up the conversation where we left off when you joined us. I had just congratulated Dr. Spicer on your impending marriage." Cat's smile faltered. Angry heat rushed to her head. This wasn't the first time Dean had fabricated their engagement. His self-esteem wouldn't allow him to take seriously her declinations to his repeated marriage proposals. In the beginning, their developing friendship had jeopardized his objectivity as her cardiologist. Throughout her illness and following her transplant she'd relied on that friendship. During the past year, it had advanced to a deeper, more mature level. He was important to her, but he continued to misread the nature of her love for him. "Thank you, Bill, but Dean and I haven't set a definite date." Despite her attempt to hide her irritation with Dean, Webster must have sensed it. Self-consciously he cleared his throat and said,

"Well, there are a lot of people here wanting your attention, Cat, so I'll say good night." She extended her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope our paths will cross again." He squeezed her hand. "You can count on it." She believed him.

Chapter Eight

October 10, 1991

The day was only minutes old when they decided they'd had enough of the video games. After the darkness of the arcade, where one individual's features were more or less indistinguishable from another's, the fluorescent light in the empty shopping mall seemed unnaturally harsh and bright. They laughed at having to give their eyes time to adjust. The mall's stores and cafes had been closed for hours. Their voices echoed in the cavernous atrium, but it was a relief to carry on a conversation without having to shout above the electronic cacophony inside the arcade. "You're sure it'll be okay?" Jerry Ward shot his new companion the cocky, confident grin that belongs exclusively to happy, well adjusted, sixteen-year-old boys. "My folks'll be asleep by now. They don't wait up for me." "I don't know. It seems strange for you to invite me home with you just like that. I mean, we hardly know each other." "What better way to get to know each other?" Jerry saw that he still had some convincing to do. "Look, you just got laid off and

need a job, right? My dad's got a business. He's always hiring new people. He'll find something for you. "And tonight you need a place to crash. It'll save you some bucks to stay at my house. We've got a guest room. If you're nervous about what my mom and dad will think about you spending the night, I'll sneak you out first thing in the morning and introduce you to them later. They never have to know you slept over. So, relax." He laughed and spread his arms wide. "Okay? You cool?" Jerry's amiability was contagious and earned him an uncertain smile. "I'm cool." "Good. Wow! Look at those blades!" Jerry jogged to a sporting goods store. In the window were displayed in-line skates and all the safety paraphernalia. "See that pair there, the ones with the green wheels. They're bad. That's what I want for Christmas. And the helmet, too. The whole outfit." "I've never tried roller blading. It looks dangerous." "That's what my mom says, but I think by Christmas she'll come around. She's so glad I can finally do normal stuff that she's a real soft touch." Jerry gave the display one last covetous glance before moving on. "What do you mean, 'do normal stuff?" "What? Oh, nevermind." "Sorry. I didn't mean to butt into private matters." Jerry hadn't intended to give offense. But he'd been a geek for so many years, and was so glad no longer to be one, that he hated reminders of his infirmity. "It's just that, see, I was sick when I was a kid. I mean, real sick. From age five until last year. In fact, it'll be a year tomorrow. Mom's having a big party to celebrate it." "Celebrate what? If you don't mind my asking." They'd reached the exit doors. The guard on duty was slumped on a bench, sound asleep. Jerry faced his new friend, his face filled with doubt. "If I tell you, promise you won't think I'm a dork." "I won't think you're a dork." "Well, some people get really weird about it." Jerry took a quick breath. "I had a heart transplant." The declaration was met with a guffaw of disbelief. "Yeah. Right." "Swear. I almost died. They got a heart for me just in time."

"You're serious? No shit? Jesus Christ." Jerry laughed. "Yeah. My folks firmly believe He had something to do with it. Come on." He pushed the door open and was confronted by a cold, damp wind. "Aw, hell. It's raining again. Every time it rains this hard, the creek out by our place floods. Where's your car?" "That way." "Mine's in that area, too. Want me to walk with you?" "No. Just pull up in front of Sears. I'll follow you from there." Jerry gave a thumbs-up sign, pulled his windbreaker up over his head, and charged into the downpour. He didn't see his companion glance back at the sleeping guard. Following the successful surgery, the Wards had bought Jerry a brand-new compact pickup. He proudly swung it into the lane in front of Sears, tooted the horn twice, and watched in his rearview mirror as the other car pulled up behind him. He sang along with the radio and added a few bass percussion sounds as he negotiated the familiar streets that led from the Memphis suburbs to a rural area. He kept his speed moderate so as not to outdistance the car following him. If one didn't know his way around in this neck of the woods, it was easy to get lost after dark. As he neared a narrow bridge, Jerry reduced his speed. Just as he'd predicted, the creek below was running swift and high. He'd almost reached the middle of the bridge when his pickup was rammed from behind. "What the--" Jerry was pitched forward by the impact, but his seatbelt restrained him. Then he was slammed backward by the recoil, and it felt like someone had driven a hot spike through the back of his neck. He cried out in pain and reflexively reached for his neck. Just as he let go of the steering wheel, the other vehicle gave his rear bumper another vicious nudge. Wood splintered and snapped as the pickup crashed through the rickety barricade. For only an instant the small truck was airborne, then the grille splashed into the swirling, dark waters. Within seconds the swift current was slapping against the windshield. Screaming hoarsely, Jerry groped for the seatbelt release. It sprang open and he was free. In the darkness he searched for the door handle