A Stranger's Wife

Chapter One

He had been following her since she left the market. Sure now, Meg Lindley quickened her pace. Only two blocks to go, but the dark street was deserted and a muffled footfall told her he was gaining on her.

Dead leaves, a legacy of an unseasonal Santa Ana wind, crunched under her feet as she broke into a run. Overhead, drifting clouds formed a vaporous army, overpowering the moon.

Gripping the grocery bag tightly, she heard the can of beans clunk against the jar of peanut butter. She twisted the handles of the swinging plastic bag twice around her fist.

She knew she couldn’t maintain her speed; her right foot was already dragging. Splints and casts in early childhood had stretched her Achilles tendon to the point that no one would have guessed she’d been born with a clubfoot, and she rarely limped unless she was extremely tired. But she’d been on her feet for twelve hours, and adrenaline couldn’t overcome the aching fatigue.

Even if she made it to the house, there was no way she’d be able to unlock the door before he caught up with her.

My only chance is to surprise him, she thought. I’ve got to do the unexpected.

Stopping dead in her tracks, she wheeled around to face him.

She had a quick glimpse of a man whose shoulders strained the leather jacket he wore, and whose expression registered surprise as’ she swung the grocery bag as hard as she could.

He was too tall for her to reach his face, but she heard him grunt as the bag struck his chest, winding him. Groceries crashed to the pavement, the jar shattering, as Meg and turned sped away.

Headlights turned the corner ahead, the twin beams momentarily blinding her. Desperately she ran out into the street, waving her arms. The car swerved, accelerated around her and roared off into the darkness.

Meg raced down the center of the street, breath grinding in her throat, right past her house. He wasn’t going to trap her on the shadowed porch, she decided.

Nobody walked after dark in this neighborhood of modest houses, most with security bars on the windows. She doubted anyone would come to her aid if she screamed.

A barking pit bull leapt at a chain-link fence as she sprinted past. She briefly considered flinging herself over the fence and taking her chances with the dog, but fending off ravaging teeth seemed more daunting than fighting off a rapist.

She was certain that was what her pursuer had in mind, since he must have known from observing her in the market that she wasn’t a candidate for robbery—she’d spent her last ten dollars on groceries and had to rummage through her pockets for enough change to pay the bill.

Meg forced herself to run faster. If she could circle back to the boulevard, with its traffic and lights, surely he’d give up the chase—

Wait! a surprisingly civilized voice called after her. I’m not going to hurt you.

Right.

She didn’t see the gray cat streak across the street until it was too late. The cat darted under her feet, tripping her. She sprawled on the ground, wincing as she scraped her hands on the blacktop.

In the seconds before her pursuer caught up with her, she grabbed her keys from her pocket. Damn him, he wasn’t going to get his way without a fight.

His shadow loomed over her and she rolled aside and scrambled up on her knees, her keys raised ready to rip his face.

The moon sailed out of the clouds, its pallid glow illuminating his face. Her heart pounding, Meg was surprised to see there was nothing sinister about his features, which under other circumstances she might have described as pleasantly rugged.

He took a step backward, reached into his pocket, withdrew something. I’m sorry, Mrs. Lindley. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve not been able to catch you at home and I didn’t want to approach you at work. I’m a private investigator.

She saw now that he was dangling some sort of badge from his outstretched hand. He extended the other hand toward her. Please, let me help you up. My name’s Mike Aragon.

Meg hesitated, then stood up on her own, keeping her distance. What do you want? And what’s the big idea of stalking me?

Could we at least get out of the street? This isn’t the choicest of neighborhoods.

She backed away, keeping her eyes fixed on him. He followed her to the sidewalk.

Just what are you investigating, Mr. Aragon? Meg asked. If you’re a skip tracer looking for my husband, you’re out of luck. I’ve no idea where he is.

I’m not looking for your husband. I was sent to offer you a proposition that would be mutually advantageous to you and my client.

And who is your client? Meg asked, curious.

Look, we can’t talk out here on the street. I noticed an all-night coffee shop back there near the market. How about I buy you a cup of coffee and explain? I’ll be glad to replace those groceries you tossed at me, too.

Tom between curiosity and bone-weary fatigue, she rubbed her grazed hands on her jeans. Curiosity, and a sense that her situation couldn’t get any worse, won out. Okay, let’s go.

They walked back down the street. Several lean cats were licking at the spilled peanut butter; the dented can of beans had joined the flotsam in the gutter. She made a mental note to come and clean up the mess in the morning.

The coffee shop was empty except for a bored-looking waitress and a couple of short-order cooks arguing in Spanish behind the kitchen partition. Meg led the way to a table in the window, but Aragon said, How about that booth in the corner? and made for it without waiting for a response.

Once seated, he asked, You want something to eat? Go ahead and order anything you want. I’m on an expense account.

Meg ignored the offered menu. Hot tea.

He ordered a pot of tea, black coffee for himself, and when the waitress left, he placed a manila envelope on the table in front of her. Prepare yourself for a surprise.

Meg opened the envelope and slid out a photograph.

She stared, blinked, then leaned closer. This is—I don’t understand. I never wore my hair like that, I don’t own those clothes...yet...

He remained silent as she studied a portrait of a woman with ultra-short blond hair, wide-set blue eyes that regarded the camera as if it were an inquisitor, and full lips that pouted rather than smiled. She wore an expensive-looking jacket unbuttoned over spectacular cleavage, and her long fingers, posed under her chin, were decorated with several rings, one of which was a wedding band.

Aragon still hadn’t spoken. Meg whispered, This is eerie. It’s me—yet it isn’t me.

Exactly, Aragon confirmed, picking up the picture and slipping it back into the envelope as the waitress brought their drinks. When she left, he said, She’s my client, and your double, Mrs. Lindley. Oh, your hair is longer and more of a honey color. But your eyes are the same shape and color. If we could replace your worried look with that damn-you sneer of hers, your features would be nearly identical.

Who is she? Meg asked, still staring at the envelope.

"She’s the former Rhea Pensby, who married Jake Chastain about eighteen months ago. And if the name Chastain doesn’t mean anything to you, he’s an entrepreneur who builds hotels, resorts and shopping malls here and in Europe."

What does she want of me, and how did you find me?

Let me answer the second question first. A friend of hers saw you when you and your husband catered a wedding up in Santa Barbara about a year ago. The friend had pictures of the wedding and you were in one of them. My client was traveling and busy with other things, and several months went by before she asked me to find you. By then your catering business had gone under—I guess when your husband took off. I found out you were working for another caterer and moonlighting at the movie theater.

Trying to pay off the debts Hal had left in his wake, Meg thought. Just thinking his name scalded her soul.

You lost just about everything, didn’t you? Aragon’s tone was sympathetic. Your business, your house, your car.

Never mind that. What does my look-alike want? If it’s to baffle her guests with a caterer who’s her double, I’m up for it.

It’s a little more complicated than that.

How complicated?

She’s willing to pay well—

If it’s something illegal, immoral or fattening, forget it.

No—it’s just a minor deception. She wants you to take her place for a couple of days. Pretend to be her. No one will be hurt by the masquerade—you’ll simply go to the opening of a new hotel in the Caribbean, cut a ribbon and attend a party afterward. None of the people there have met her personally.

Meg frowned. So why can’t she go herself?

He leaned forward, his voice low. Before I go into any more detail, I’d like to know if you’re interested and also if we can count on your complete discretion. As you can imagine, if it got out that she sent a ringer, people would be upset—especially her husband.

So he doesn’t know? This is beginning to sound fishy.

If I can give you valid reasons for secrecy and for her wanting you to impersonate her, would you be interested?

Maybe, Meg said hesitantly. I don’t know.

What if she’d pay you ten times what you can earn in a month working two jobs? Not to mention a nice trip to the Caribbean? All for a couple of days’ work.

It sounds too good to be true, and in my book that usually means it is.

What if, as an added inducement, I were to find your missing husband for you?

Meg blinked. Did your client authorize you to do that?

As a matter of fact, yes, she did. You have to understand, she’s a woman who has almost unlimited funds at her disposal. Paying you—and me—is small change to her. She can hide our checks in her monthly clothing account.

But how did she know Hal had left me?

I gave her a full report on you before she asked me to contact you with the proposition.

Meg sipped her tea. She was beginning to feel a surrealistic fog closing in, probably due to fatigue, she decided. Maybe she was dreaming this whole encounter. She’d certainly fantasized even more exotic ways of paying off their creditors and finding Hal—if only to ask him why, why?

If you agree, we’ll have to move fast. You’ll have to be in St. Maarten the day after tomorrow. We’ll need to get you to a hairstylist and pick up the clothes you’ll need, which, of course, will be yours to keep.

Look, I am interested—who wouldn’t be, in my situation? But I need to hear a good reason why Rhea Chastain wants to deceive her husband over this. And what if he shows up?

He won’t. He’s in Paris and then going on to London, on business there. He isn’t due back here for a couple of weeks.

Why isn’t she with him?

Because he wants her to open the Caribbean hotel for him. She may fly to London to join him after the opening ceremonies.

So why doesn’t she want to go to the Caribbean?

Her brother is dying. She wants to go to him in San Francisco. But her husband... well, let’s just say he doesn’t approve of her brother’s life-style, or of the disease that’s killing him. Her brother isn’t expected to live more than a matter of days, and Rhea doesn’t see the need to upset her husband by canceling the Caribbean trip to go to San Francisco—not when she has a look-alike who’s desperate for extra cash.

What sort of a husband would be upset that his wife went to see her dying brother? Meg couldn’t imagine such cruelty. But then, she hadn’t foreseen that the man she loved would walk out without a word, leaving her with massive debts, a failed business and a house in foreclosure.

Well, there was more to his dislike of her brother than his disease. He was involved with drugs and mixed up in a lot of other illegal activities, and he’d served time.

I see. But still...if the man is dying—

Rhea told me she had been able to slip away to see him a couple of times without her husband’s knowledge when he was away on business, but now they’ve run out of time and it’s a matter of saying goodbye.

Why can’t she tell the people in St. Maarten that she’s sick and can’t go? She could tell her husband the same thing.

You know what I personally think? I think if this little impersonation works out this weekend, she might ask you to stand in for her again in the future when she doesn’t want to be bothered with some chore. Her husband is a self-made man, of the old school, who thinks a wife should also be a helpmate. He expects her to pull her weight, but she thinks hosting fashionable parties in Orange County is her only obligation, and that she shouldn’t have to be bothered with the little people—i.e., the staff of a Caribbean hotel and a few local dignitaries.

Meg thought of the hours she’d slaved in a kitchen today, preparing salads and vegetables and making soup for fifty people, followed by an evening of selling movie tickets and popcorn....

Mrs. Lindley—what do you say, will you do it?

This woman—Rhea Chastain—her life is so different from mine. I’m not sure I could play the part of rich society wife.

Aragon’s eyes flickered over her face. Believe me, she wasn’t born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Before she married Chastain and moved out here, the differences between you might have been more noticeable. She’s more tanned and toned now, and she’s lost most of her Southern drawl—in fact, she’s worked hard at losing it. Besides, you aren’t going to be playing the part of a society wife. You’re just going to cut a ribbon and attend a party. You’ll probably do both with more class than Mrs. Jake Chastain.

You don’t sound as though you particularly like her.

He shrugged. I hardly know her. I just don’t admire the parasites of the world, especially the beautiful ones who use people.

But she’s doing this in order to see her dying brother. Doesn’t that count for anything?

Yeah, I suppose her motives, this time at least, aren’t completely selfish.

If you checked my situation, I suppose you know I’m hanging on by my fingernails. I’m trying to pay off debts. I wouldn’t want my creditors to think I’ve skipped out, too. I’d need time to contact them, and the people I work for, to ask for time off.

You’re only going to be gone a couple of days. There’s no need to contact creditors. You’ll be back before they miss you. You can call in sick, or plead a family emergency to the caterer and the movie theater.

Meg played with her teaspoon. Doubts nagged, but refused to coalesce into rational objections. All right, she said at length. I’m probably crazy, but I’ll do it.

Before you leave I’ll need your husband’s social security number, driver’s license number if you know it, credit card numbers, a picture, general description and anything else you can think of that would help a search—names of any family and friends, for instance.

He glanced at his watch. It’s after midnight. Maybe I’d better walk you home. A faint grin plucked at his mouth. We wouldn’t want any stalkers following you, would we?

WATCHING AS THE PI and the woman left the coffee shop, the man in the shadows nodded to himself, satisfied that all was going according to plan. Yes, he thought, she’ll do nicely. And since she’s alone in the world, she won’t be missed after she’s served her purpose.

Chapter Two

Meg caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window as she walked into LAX with Mike Aragon.

The stranger she had become wore a casually elegant cream linen pantsuit and soft kidskin shoes, which, although brand-new, were luxuriously comfortable, even on her right foot. The nape of her neck felt strange minus her mop of hair, and the unaccustomed jewelry felt awkward, heavy. Having her hair shorn to within a couple of inches of her scalp had been less traumatic than the bleaching process. She’d closed her eyes and assured herself it would all grow out.

Mike Aragon wheeled a cart bearing monogrammed leather suitcases. She hadn’t seen the contents; there’d been no time. In her shoulder bag was what appeared to be the real Rhea Chastain’s passport, credit cards Meg didn’t expect to use, and a bundle of cash. There was also a gold cigarette case and matching lighter.

But I don’t smoke, she’d protested to Aragon.

Rhea’s been trying to quit—Chastain hates the habit, he’d replied laconically.

I don’t know enough about her, Meg fretted, as the enormity of what she was doing hit home.

You’ve got the prepared speech I gave you. Memorize it on the plane. Other than that, smile a lot.

He led her to the first-class check-in and she was asked for photo ID. Handing over Rhea’s passport, she held her breath until the clerk returned passport and ticket and wished her a pleasant flight. The monogrammed suitcases disappeared down the conveyor belt, en route to San Juan. From there she’d fly in a private jet to St. Maarten.

I’ll walk you to the gate, Aragon said. You don’t have much time before your flight leaves.

She walked beside him in silence, fighting an urge to turn and run. A couple of passing flight attendants—female—gave him appreciative glances. Must be those shoulders, Meg thought.

When they reached her gate, he turned to her. Well, good luck. The weekend should be a piece of cake. The money in your purse is your advance—you’ll get the rest when I meet your return flight on Monday.

How can I be sure you’ll be here? she asked nervously.

I’ll be here. I don’t get my final payment until then, either. But if you’re worried, this may reassure you. He handed her an envelope.

Inside was a receipt for a five-hundred-dollar retainer to be applied to a search for one Harold Lindley, formerly of Lindley Catering of Los Angeles, signed and dated by A. Michael Aragon, Licensed Private Investigator, with a Santa Ana address, and phone and fax numbers.

Good luck, Mrs. Chastain. See you Monday.

In the instant before she started down the concourse, Meg noticed a muscular man standing at one of the pay telephones, looking over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met for only a second, but there was something chilling and malevolent about the way the man’s flat gray stare flickered over her. Meg felt another qualm as it occurred to her that the woman she was impersonating had a circle of friends, relatives, acquaintances... and possibly, enemies.

MEG HAD EXPECTED smiling, dusky-skinned islanders to meet her in St. Maarten, and was ashamed of her own ignorance when her driver—a freckled, red-haired young man—greeted her by saying, Welcome to two countries, Madame Chastain...Holland and France. We will drive through Phillipsburg, the Dutch capital, and then proceed to Le Marigot, which is the French capital.

I’ve had a long flight, Meg said. I’d like to leave any sight-seeing until tomorrow, after tonight’s grand opening. Perhaps we should go straight to the hotel?

"Oui, madame—but the route I mention is on the way. I merely thought you would like to know where you are going, and naturally, if you