Never Sleep With Strangers Read online

  “He must have loved her.”

  “Well, maybe he did. But I can tell you this—he was ready to divorce her when she died.”

  “How do you know?”

  Susan added milk to her coffee. “Because I was here, remember? They were fighting like crazy. Jon has always loved it here. He didn’t grow up with money, you know. The family inherited this place, but it was a disaster, an albatross hanging around his neck when he first came into possession of the property. Cassandra’s family was swimming with cash—she never wanted or needed for anything. Jon’s dedicated to his children’s charities, and these little Mystery Weeks of his make some really big money. Cassandra didn’t like games, hated half of Jon’s friends. She couldn’t bear V.J., because V.J. would never suck up to her. She said whatever she damned well felt like saying—you know her. Cassie tortured Jon every time he held one of these. He’d be in the middle of something, and she’d supposedly be his hostess—and then she’d suddenly decide she simply couldn’t bear it and throw a tantrum or be off. I know Jon had decided that he was done with her when she died.”

  “Susan, maybe they had problems,” Sabrina said, “but how can you possibly know their marriage was over?”

  “Because I know Jon,” Susan purred. She leaned back, lifting her long-nailed fingers in a casual gesture. “But then again, Jon wasn’t the only one fighting with Cassandra. She and Anna Lee Zane had barely been civil to one another all week. For one thing, Cassandra had given a scathing review of Anna’s last book on national television in the States. And, of course, Anna is stunning, and she and Jon have been good friends for a very long time. Cassandra never understood the concept of friendship, especially not between a man and a woman, even a woman who goes both ways. Then again, I admit, I don’t quite get friendships, either. I mean, it’s hard to like a man and not want to sleep with him.”

  Susan shrugged. “But that’s beside the point. Cassie also completely dished Tom Heart in a review that might have cost him a spot in a really important anthology that came out last year. And of course she was also afraid that Jon was sleeping with someone who was a guest here, and she herself was supposedly sleeping with someone else, as well. I don’t know if she really was or wasn’t, since she adored Jon. She really did. She just didn’t know how to be a wife to him. She was always jealous but always taunting him. It was as if she thought she had to let him know at all times that other men found her desirable, that she was a special prize he needed to cherish. Jon never did take well to threats. But then, she threatened everyone all the time—she seemed to need to hold something over the head of every single human being she ever met.”

  “And you fought with her, too, of course.”

  “Of course,” Susan said, smiling. “I’ve admitted I hated her. She was the worst bitch known to man.”

  “Oh, come now!” Brett exclaimed, entering the great hall. He poured himself coffee and sat down at Sabrina’s other side. “Was Cassie really such a bitch? Or was she misunderstood? Maybe it was hard being married to Jon Stuart and giving in to his every whim. She loved cities, glamour, excitement, and he liked to tuck himself away here in the country and watch the wind blow.”

  “That’s not true,” Susan said, staunchly defending Jon. “He has homes in London, New York and L.A., as well.”

  “Poor fellow,” Brett murmured lightly.

  “Poor fellow, indeed!” V.J. announced, sweeping into the room with an audible sniff. She ruffled Brett’s hair. “As if you’re going to be suffering financially after your next contract!”

  Brett smiled sheepishly. “Okay, so I’m not a poor fellow, either. I’m a happy one right now. And I’m going to be really, really rich, as well. You truly should remarry me, Sabrina.”

  “Not a chance, I’m afraid.”

  “Sleep with me, then. Men always buy their mistresses better presents. And we were good together, right?”

  Susan and V.J. were both staring at her.

  “Brett!” she said, nearly strangling.

  He ignored her protest, his eyes suddenly on Susan again. “Here you are, Sue, defending Jon now, but you seemed to be absolutely convinced he killed Cassandra when it happened.”

  “Don’t be silly. He was outside when she fell.”

  “He could have paid someone to do the deed,” Brett said, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Isn’t it rather rude, the way we’re sitting around discussing our host as a potential murderer,” V.J. queried.

  “But it is a Mystery Week,” Brett said.

  As if on cue, Camy Clark came into the room bearing a stack of envelopes. “Good morning, everyone.”

  “Everyone isn’t here,” Susan said snidely.

  Sabrina frowned, wondering why the woman was continually so rude to Jon’s assistant. Camy didn’t intrude; she was quiet and tended to stay out of the way.

  “Well, it’s still early,” Camy said. “But if you’d like—”

  “Ah, you have our character descriptions and our instructions!” Brett said, flashing her one of his devastating smiles.

  Camy flushed, smiling. “Yes, I do. Now remember, everyone is to know one another’s character but nothing else. You’ll receive more instructions as we go along. The murderer will, of course, know who he or she is and where to get the murder weapons. And remember, the murderer may have an accomplice. If you’re killed, you’re dead, but you’re a ghost, and you can still warn others of impending danger and help solve the crime.”

  “I’m dying for my envelope, darling,” Susan told her, drawling the word dying.

  The others laughed. As Camy began handing out the envelopes, more of their number began to arrive: Anna Lee, looking fetching and slim in stirrup pants and a halter top; Reggie in her inevitable flowered dress; Tom Heart, tall and dignified in a smoking jacket and flannel trousers; Thayer Newby in a Jets T-shirt and slacks; Joe Johnston, casual in a golf shirt and chinos; Joshua Valine looking very artistic, with a paint-smudged denim shirt over a plain white T and baggy pants; Dianne Dorsey in a calf-length skirt and sleeveless knit top. And Jon.

  Jon, too, was casual, in a navy denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and form-hugging jeans. His dark hair was damp, as if he’d just showered, and Sabrina couldn’t help but wonder if he’d slept late…because he’d been up late, wandering restlessly around his castle at night. She reminded herself that her door had been bolted. And that just because she hadn’t forgotten a reckless sexual encounter in her youth, there was no reason to assume Jon might have any remaining interest in her whatsoever. Her reputation wasn’t exactly a sparkling one.

  She rose for more coffee. V.J. came up beside her, offering her cup to Sabrina to fill, as well.

  “Ah, you’re watching our host,” V.J. whispered to her as Jon greeted Camy and Joshua, listening to some of their last-minute instructions.

  “He’s an intriguing man,” Sabrina said noncommitally.

  “And, of course, the question remains—is he a murderer? Does Susan really think so? Except I’m sure Susan wouldn’t think of Cassie’s death as murder. To Susan, if Jon did kill his wife, it was justifiable homicide.”

  V.J. shrugged, sipping her coffee. “Honey, to half the people here, killing Cassandra Stuart would have constituted a public service.”

  “Ladies!” Reggie admonished from behind them. “We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Even if the dead caused tremendous ills?” Joe Johnston whispered from behind her.

  “Sabrina,” Camy said, walking across the room to her. She stopped, flushed and corrected herself. “Ms. Holloway.”

  “Sabrina, please.”

  Camy flushed again. “Your envelope. You only get to know your character now. You’ll get instructions later regarding what you’re supposed to do and where you’re supposed to go.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “Do you have mine, dear?” V.J. asked.

  Camy gave V.J. hers, then handed Reggie her envelope, as well.

  “Ouch!
” Reggie exclaimed, looking up. She smiled. “I’m the Crimson Lady, a stripper, trying—or pretending—to reform.”

  “Great,” Thayer Newby groaned, flexing his muscles. “I’m the effeminate male dancer, JoJo Scuchi.”

  “JoJo Scuchi?” Brett said with a laugh.

  “Check yours out,” Thayer warned him.

  Brett read the letter in the envelope and made a face. “I’m Mr. Buttle, the butler. Number two on the New York Times list, and they make me the butler!” he groaned.

  Sabrina, reading her sheet, began to laugh.

  “And who are you, my dear?” Brett demanded.

  “The Duchess. I run the church choir,” she told him.

  “Oh, now that is apropos. The lady who ran naked from her honeymoon suite,” Susan said, staring at Brett. “Neither of you has ever explained that situation,” she reminded him smugly.

  Sabrina had lived with what had happened for a long time now, but she still felt her temper rising and her cheeks reddening, especially since she realized that Jon had been watching the exchange. Waiting for a reply?

  Or perhaps not, because he was the one who responded to Susan. “And I imagine they don’t feel they owe you an explanation, Sue,” he said.

  Susan opened her mouth, then quickly shut it, lifting her chin.

  “Ah, but Susan,” Joe Johnston said, reading over Sabrina’s shoulder, “the Duchess runs the choir by day—and a high-class call girl outfit by night!”

  “Hey, it’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it,” Brett declared. “Does the butler get to be in on it?” he asked.

  “The butler always did it, you know,” Reggie teased.

  “I mean in on the sex,” Brett said.

  “You would,” V.J. said with a sigh.

  “You know I’ve always wanted to make it with an older woman,” Brett stated.

  “Older than what?” V.J. demanded tartly.

  He smiled innocently. “Older than God, darling. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Cute, boy, cute!” V.J. sniffed.

  Dianne Dorsey suddenly started laughing. Sabrina leaned past V.J. to look at her. As usual, Dianne was in black. Black denim shorts, a ruffled black blouse, black socks and black hiking boots. “You’ll never guess who I am.”

  “Who?” V.J. obligingly inquired.

  “Mary, the Hare Krishna!”

  They all started to laugh.

  “Susan, who are you?” V.J. asked.

  Susan shuddered and looked up at Camy accusingly. “I’m Carla, the call girl with the clap.”

  Another round of laughter followed, but Susan was not amused. She glared at Camy. “You did that on purpose!”

  “Sue, chill!” Brett said.

  “Camy didn’t make these up, you know that. We hire writers from the game company,” Jon said impatiently. He sighed. “Trust me, mine is worse.”

  “Why, who are you?” Susan demanded.

  “Demented Dick,” Jon said dryly. “Serial killer, supposedly cured by his cousin, Sally Sadist, the psychologist.”

  “That’s me!” Anna Lee called out.

  “And I’m Nancy, the naughty nurse, hired by Sally Sadist to look after you. Nancy the naughty nurse!” V.J. repeated with a shudder.

  “You think that’s bad?” Joe Johnston said, laughing. “I’m Tilly the transvestite, Demented Dick’s mother!”

  “Hey, Mom!” Jon said, and they all laughed.

  “Oh, no!” Tom Heart groaned, looking at Joe.

  “What?” Joe demanded.

  “I’m Demented Dick’s dad—which means you’re my wife. Ugh!”

  “Well, baby, you’re sleeping on the couch,” Joe told him.

  As they teased, Jennie Albright, the housekeeper, with the help of two younger maids, brought in the food platters, setting them up on the buffet. Jon thanked them and announced, “Breakfast is served. While we eat, Joshua will show you the weapons with which you might be ‘killed.’ We’ll wait until everyone is seated.”

  With a lot of talking and good-natured joking, they fixed plates of food and took their places at the table. Sabrina was glad to find herself next to V.J. rather than Susan, but Brett managed to remain on her other side. He was definitely trying to create the impression that they were a twosome.

  Jon took a seat toward the end of the table between Anna Lee Zane and Thayer Newby. Anna spoke to him, and he lowered his head, smiling. Sabrina couldn’t help but wonder if something had gone on between the two of them, since it was rumored that Jon and Cassandra had both been having extramarital affairs at his last Mystery Week. Still, so much about the past was speculation. What wasn’t speculation, however, was the fact that Cassandra Stuart had died.

  Joshua cleared his throat, smiling. “Ladies and gentlemen, here is the situation. Demented Dick is newly home to take over as heir apparent to the family fortunes, due to the untimely—and unnatural—demise of his older brother, Demented Darryl. Naturally, since he had the most to gain, Demented Dick is a likely suspect in his brother’s murder, but since this is a whodunit, it’s for you to discover who did in Demented Darryl and why. Everyone in the house has a past and is hiding a secret, and it will turn out in the end that everyone had a reason for wanting to do Darryl in. The killer—or killers—are naturally afraid of what everyone else may know, and therefore, one by one, they will begin picking off the others. Now, there are a number of murder weapons, since the killer is to continue his or her spree until he or she is caught or until the entire household has expired.”

  “So shoot,” Joe said. “What are our weapons?”

  “Fine, we’ll start with the pistol,” Joshua said, showing them the gun in question. “Shoots red paint.” He proceeded to lift the other toy weapons as he described them. “Rifle, shoots red paint. Bowie knife, complete with ‘blood’ sack. Jackknife, bow and arrow, heavy vase, rope with noose, poison—actually, it’s a grape drink guaranteed to turn your mouth purple for twenty-four hours—and last but not least, a candlestick. So that’s it, ladies and gentlemen. There will be clues left around the castle, and instructions for your characters will be slipped to you at various times as the week moves on. I’ll warn you all, the first murder is planned for sometime today, so everyone take care. Oh, and anyone who chooses—living or dead—can meet at seven each evening for cocktails, to be followed by dinner at eight, and at that time discuss the case. More coffee, anyone?” he asked blandly.

  “Only if you drink it first,” Anna Lee replied dryly.

  “Sure,” Joshua said. He procured the coffee carafe from the buffet, poured himself a cup, sipped it, then walked around to Anna Lee’s place, pouring her more. Smoothing back his blond hair, he leaned close to her, a teasing light in his eyes. “One can’t be too cautious around here.”

  “I’ll take more coffee, too,” Jon said, pushing his cup forward. “Late night,” he explained.

  “Death by poison!” V.J. said with a shudder. “Well, I’d been intending to go on a diet anyway. I can live without food, but never without coffee.”

  “Never without a good gin and tonic,” Reggie argued.

  “No, never without beer,” Brett corrected.

  “Well, as far as coffee and food—or even cocktails and beer—go, you can indulge now,” Jon said dryly. “The game doesn’t begin until we’ve all exited the dining room. Everyone is then to go to his or her room for the next hour, while Camy and our master sculptor make sure that the weapons you’ve just seen have been properly hidden. If someone finds the weapon with which he or she was to be murdered, it can be used against the killer. But for now, feel free. Indulge.”

  “Well, then, let me have just a wee bit more toast,” V.J. said, adding a touch of a Scot’s accent to her voice.

  “I’ll go for the bacon,” Joe said.

  “Toast for me, too, V.J.,” Sabrina called to her.

  And suddenly everyone at the table was hungry again. They ate like a group of loggers about to head out for hours of hard labor. But, finally, one b
y one, they began to leave. Sabrina, seeing Brett ahead of her, purposely lagged behind, lowering her eyes as she sipped her coffee. When she lifted her gaze again, she was startled to realize that only she and Jon remained in the room. He was seated across the table, studying her.

  “It really is good to see you again,” he told her, voice husky, eyes firmly on her.

  To her dismay, she felt a fluttering in her heart. “Thank you.”

  He sat back, still watching her. She felt as if his eyes were penetrating her skin, and she groped about quickly for something casual to say.

  “So, are you the killer?” she inquired.

  He arched a brow. “Are you talking about the game—or real life?”

  She flushed. “The game.”

  “If I were,” he answered slowly, “I couldn’t tell you. Just as you couldn’t tell me. It wouldn’t be fair.” He leaned forward then, a dry smile curling his lips. “But don’t you want to know about real life?”

  She stared back at him, feeling as if her breakfast had suddenly sunk from her stomach to her feet. “Jon, I didn’t come here to question you or to bring back unhappy memories.”

  “Why not? It’s why most of the others did, both my friends and my enemies. Don’t you want to know the truth? Or did you really run away from me simply because you didn’t give a damn?”

  She wasn’t going to answer that, so she stared at him and demanded, “So did you kill Cassandra? What a question! If you had killed her, you couldn’t tell me, could you? There’s no real difference between the game and real life.”

  “Oh, there’s a difference, all right. As far as the game goes, I can’t tell you if I’m the killer or not. As for real life…no, definitely, decidedly, on pain of every torture God or the devil could inflict, no. I did not kill my wife. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  He arched a brow, sitting back cautiously. “Why? Why should you believe me?”

  “Well, I…”

  “You what? You know me?” he queried, taunting slightly. He shrugged. “You know me,” he repeated mockingly.

  “I don’t pretend to really know you,” she snapped back angrily. “But you were nowhere near her when she fell—”