She exhaled on a long note of resignation. Yes, he was right. Although … “Do you believe there’s no connection to Bunny and the journals? Because this is rather a big coincidence, a third anonymous letter whose source could have been the same as the first two.”
He regarded her silently for a long second. “What are you trying to sell me here? What’s your angle?”
“I don’t have an angle. I’m just trying to work out the motivation behind this letter.”
“And?”
Surprised he’d detected the nebulous hint of more in her words, she looked back at him warily. Then, she decided to tell him. “What if the thief read something in the journals and misinterpreted? What if the person referred to as having an affair wasn’t me at all? A lot of the diary pieces are guess who, don’t sue. Names are not named. What if he has the wrong person?”
“That doesn’t explain why he sent the letter to me.”
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t prepared to listen to my side at all, are you?”
“I listened.”
“And now what? You’ll have me investigated?”
“Yes,” he said, that blue gaze unflinchingly direct. “I will continue to investigate. I also think we should speak to the police.”
“The police?”
“You said they were investigating Bunny’s death and, I imagine, the extortion demands. Whether it’s connected or not, they should see this letter.”
Six
“I heard a whisper that Tristan Thorpe’s in town.”
Felicity Farnsworth’s casual comment dropped like a brick into the calm pool of after-lunch conversation, bringing all eyes straight to Vanessa.
Blast.
She’d rather hoped the drama surrounding Emma’s upcoming wedding—she wanted small, while her parents had invited half of Eastwick—would keep the focus off her. That’s the way she preferred things anyway, including at the regular Debs Club luncheons. These women—Felicity, Lily, Abby Talbot, Emma Dearborn and Mary Duvall—were her friends. Smart, warm, kind, inclusive, they’d invited her into their group, onto their charity committees and into their confidence.
Now, more than ever, she felt the weight of guilt because she hadn’t been so forthcoming. In six years of regular get-togethers she’d tiptoed around her past and her reason for marrying Stuart and becoming part of Eastwick society.
Although she had shared much of her angst in battling Tristan over the will, hence the girlfriends’ questions now.
“Is he here about the will contest?” Abby asked.
“Where is he staying?” Caroline wanted to know. “Have you met him, Vanessa?”
“Yes, have you seen the beast?” Felicity continued.
Carefully Vanessa put down her coffee. “Yes, I’ve met with him.” I’ve also fought with him, kissed him, ogled him in swimmers, and accompanied him to the police station. “He’s staying at the Marabella and, yes, he is here about the will. In a way.”
“You sound remarkably calm,” Emma decided. “Is that a good sign? Or are you sedated?”
“Is he dropping the contest?” Felicity asked. “He must know he’s beating a dead horse.”
“Tristan doesn’t think so,” Vanessa replied. “In fact, he’s here because he believes he’s found a way to beat me.”
They all responded pretty much at once, a mixture of scoffing remarks and how-so questions. And so she filled them in on the letter’s allegations, the no-adultery clause in Stuart’s will, and finally this morning’s meeting with the detectives handling Bunny’s case.
Silence followed, an unusual happenstance when this group met. Abby recovered first, although she looked pale and strained. Not only had she lost her mother in sudden and suspicious circumstances, but she’d had to fight tooth and nail to have her suspicions recognized. “What did the police say?”
A lot, Vanessa answered silently, most of it uncomfortable questions about her relationship with Tristan and the—nonexistent—man referred to in the letter. To her friends she said, “They took us seriously enough when we showed them the letter. They asked a lot of questions, but in the end I’m not sure they think it’s the same person.”
“Why not?” Abby leaned forward, intent and focused. “It sounds exactly like the others.”
Felicity nodded. “The lowlife who took the journals is selecting blackmail opportunities straight from the pages. It’s only a matter of time before he hits pay dirt.”
They all fell silent a moment, considering, before Emma asked, “Wouldn’t he have tried to blackmail Vanessa though?”
“Would you have paid?” Felicity turned to Vanessa. “If the letter had come to you?”
“Why would I pay when the allegation is false?”
A couple of them exchanged looks, no one met her eye, and in the ensuing silence the bottom fell out of Vanessa’s stomach. “You think I had a lover? While I was married to Stuart?”
“No, sweetie.” Emma put a hand on hers. “Not us.”
“Then … who?”
“There’s been some talk,” Caroline said.
And they hadn’t told her? Hadn’t mentioned these suspicions once? In all this time?
“You have to admit, you do keep parts of your life off-limits.”
Felicity had spoken no less than the truth. Vanessa had been secretive and this was the perfect opportunity to confide in her friends and garner their advice. That’s what friends were for, after all. Not that she had much experience, especially with her peers, and that made this hard task even tougher.
Her intentions were good, but the words lodged in her throat. Before she could coax them free, Lily returned from the bathroom and there was much fussing over how long she’d been gone.
“I ran into Delia Forrester,” she explained. “I couldn’t get away.”
“Poor you,” Caroline murmured.
“Whatever did she want?” Emma asked.
“A favor.” Lily pulled a wry face. “She needs an extra invitation to the polo benefit. Vanessa, it seems she’s invited your good friend Tristan Thorpe.”
Polo turned out to be a hard, fast and physical game—not for sissies as Frank Forrester had maintained. After several chukkers and with the help of some sideline experts, Tristan was catching on to the skilful intricacies of play and enjoying the breakneck end-to-end pace. As Frank’s binoculars rarely strayed from the field, he wondered if the old bloke had been referring to the off-field action rather than the polo itself.
Tristan had a healthy cynicism for the games played by the beautiful people, and this charity benefit had brought out the best—and worst—players. Which brought his thoughts winging straight to Delia.
Frank had introduced his wife as “My favorite blonde,” instantly tying her to the woman he’d referred to as his second-favorite at the Marabella restaurant. In those first few seconds Tristan rejected the connection out of hand. The two women were as different as Vanessa had claimed.
With her glossy facade and saccharine-sweet affectations, Delia was the kind of woman he’d expected—and