STEELE INSEPARABLE PART VIII: Something Wicked This Way Steeles
AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert
SYNOPSIS: S5 continuation; eighth in a series. While the Steeles investigate the murder of a Shakesperian actor, Roselli and Windsor Thomas work to bring about their downfall.
SEQUEL TO: Part I, "Steele in Perspective'; Part II, "Steele-In-Law"; Part III, "Ancestral Steele"; Part IV, "Steele in the Shadows"' PART V: "The Prequel: Requiem in Steele Major"; PART VI: "Notoriously, Steele"; PART VII: "Wife of Steele"
DISCLAIMER: This story is not for profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author does not own the rights to these characters and is not now, nor ever has been, affiliated in any way with Remington Steele, its producers, actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.
Additional characters from outside the RS canon, apart from historic personages, are fictional and created by the author. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've intended from the beginning for this installment in the SI series to be my first stab at a good, old-fashioned, "closed" murder mystery, the format the series writers generally used. A closed mystery or whodunit is one in which the readers doesn't discover the identity of the killer until the hero does. By contrast, the entire Steele Inseparable series is an open mystery, because I've written it so that readers are privy to some of Roselli's actions against the Steeles before they are.
The story's been a long time in the making—over a year, as a matter of fact. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed creating it despite the occasional frustrations and episodes of writer's block.
I'll be posting this as a WIP, so I'm asking in advance for your patience. There may be some down time between posts; if there is, it's because it's unavoidable. But I do promise that I will finish. After all, I'm compelled to: SI part nine, "DoppelSteele", is already on the drawing board!
Thank you again for your interest in my stories and for feedback, when you've cared to leave it. I can't tell you how much it means to me.
MG
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes:--
Open, locks, whoever knocks!
Macbeth, William Shakespeare
Chapter 1
" 'Alas, poor Yorick!' " said Remington Steele. " '—I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it.' "
He paused to glance toward the Rabbit's driver's seat, where his audience of one--his partner and wife, Laura—was rolling her eyes at the northbound Pacific Coast Highway unwinding beneath the wheels.
Undaunted, he continued. " 'Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your jibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?' "
As he spoke, his gestures were becoming more expansive, his voice more resonant, his accent distinctly English, rather than Irish. That he sounded like a younger, handsomer imitation of Derek Vivyan, the has-been film star with whom he'd been briefly enthralled in year two of his tenure as Remington Steele, he never realized for a second.
" 'Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.' "
He'd scarcely closed his mouth on the final syllable when Laura did exactly what the end of his speech suggested: burst out laughing.
He subsided in his seat. "That bad?" he asked in his normal voice.
It wasn't easy to restrain her merriment, but after a sideways glance at him she managed it. "You're really getting into this, aren't you?"
"I've been practicing. After all, it isn't every day one gets the chance to apprentice with the most acclaimed Shakespearian actor of his generation."
"Posing as the apprentice of the most acclaimed Shakespearian actor of his generation. Need I remind you we're on a case, Mr. Steele? Besides, you hate Shakespeare."
"On the contrary. I love Shakespeare. Julius Caesar, Louis Colherne, Marlon Brando, James Mason, John Gielgud, MGM, 1953…Olivier directing himself as Hamlet in 1948, or as Richard III, 1955. And who can forget the master of them all, Orson Welles in Macbeth, declaiming the immortal line, 'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes'."
"He didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"Say that line. He couldn't have. It's not one of Macbeth's. Anyway, movies don't count. They're adaptations. Non-authentic. Faux Shakespeare."
" 'Faux Shakespeare'?" His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "There's no such thing."
"Your grandfather wouldn't have agreed."
She was referring to Lloyd Chalmers, whose namesake Remington was destined to have been, if only his parents' separation in his early infancy hadn't gotten in the way. The elder Chalmers had been a bright light of the London stage between the World Wars, celebrated for his lead roles in Shakespeare's most famous battles between the sexes, Taming of the Shrew and Much Ado about Nothing.
"You can't know that for sure," he objected.
"No, but it's a good guess, given the fact he never tried to break into movies himself. Daniel told Alex Edwards so, remember?"
That comment rendered him silent for a good two miles, as allusions to his late father, Daniel Chalmers, still tended to do. "Know what I wish?" he asked, brightening again.
"Hm?"
"That Hogarth would've chosen another play besides Hamlet for our vantage point to watch over the cast. It's gloomy stuff, and Hamlet himself is such a noodle. I'd have preferred Mac--"
Quick as lightning even though she was driving, Laura laid her right hand across his mouth before he could get the second syllable out.
"Laura, what are you doing?"
"I should've warned you before. Real theater people never say 'Macbeth' out loud. Call it 'the bard's play' or 'the Scottish play', if you have to. Better yet, don't mention it at all."
"Why not?"
"An old superstition. If an actor says the name inside a theater, he or she unleashes the curse."
"The curse?"
"It's been documented for centuries. The only way to counteract it is for the offending party to leave the building, spin around three times, spit, swear and then knock on the door be let back in. Otherwise it's certain accident, injury…even death…for the entire company."
"Yes, but we're not in a theater now. Nor are we actors."
"Maybe not, but it doesn't hurt to practice."
"Well, then, I'd have preferred 'the Scottish play'. There's so much more scope for excitement. Battle scenes…rousing swordfights…Imagine the fun I'd have had, choreographing that sort of thing with one of those chaps, Judd Owen or Lachlan Ford--"
"Mind on the case, all right? Anyway, Hogarth told us why they're performing Hamlet now. Hambeth's founder stipulated that the festival has to alternate the two plays on a yearly basis. They closed last season with 'the Scottish play'." Emphasizing the phrase, she dimpled at him saucily. " 'When in Rome', Mr. Steele."
They were on their way to a theatrical complex near Solvang, about two hundred miles north of Los Angeles. The original name dreamt up by its eccentric founder was The West Coast Society for the Preservation and Propagation of Shakesperian Dramatics. Popular usage had shortened that to The Hambeth Festival, and as Hambeth it was now officially known. Its unofficial mission was to surpass and ultimately eclipse the older, more prestigious Stratford Festival of Ontario, Canada. So far the competition had remained heavily weighted in Stratford's favor. Still, Hambeth had done well over the twelve years of its existence—at least its investors and backers thought so. Those who professed to value art more than money flocked to it for its growing international reputation for excellence and its troupe of accomplished actors.
Art and money both had their places in the Steeles' hearts, but that wasn't the reason they were interested in Hambeth. Remington Steele Investigations had been retained by the current artistic director, Edmund Hogarth, to get to the bottom of a rash of accidents that had plagued the final months of the recently concluded 1987 season. With the new season set to open at the end of February, Hogarth wanted to nip any resumption of his company's "deuced streak of bad luck" in the bud. Remington and Laura were supposed to check the incidents out, provide low-level security for the actors as they returned from their break and prevent further mishaps, all in one fell swoop.
Hogarth was waiting to welcome them upon their arrival at Hambeth's campus on several grassy acres off Highway 101. "It's kind of you to meet us," Laura said as he shook her hand.
"I thought it would look well if the artistic director personally greeted the very first invitees of Hambeth's Visiting Apprentices program," replied Hogarth. He was a massive man with strongly modeled features, his dark brows a marked contrast to his mane of silver hair. "Was I right?"
"Couldn't have devised a better reinforcement for our cover, myself," Remington said.
"Let me make sure I have it straight. Your name is Jim Monkley, Mr. Steele—and Mrs. Steele is Terry Randall?"
"Right," said Laura. "We're married, but Randall is my stage name. Or will be, if I make it through the apprentice program."
Keeping pace with their client, she and Remington took in the open amphitheater, the two playhouses and the various auxiliary buildings that made up the Hambeth complex. "Impressive," Remington commented to Hogarth.
"I'll show you around later, when we have more time. The Hamlet cast is assembling in the rehearsal hall at The Garrick--"
"The Garrick?" asked Remington.
"The larger theater. The smaller one's the Richard Burbage. It's the perfect chance for you to meet everyone and sort out who's who. This way."
Despite its grand-sounding name, the rehearsal hall was nothing more than a large, linoleum-floored room equipped with three long tables set end-to-end and folding metal chairs. In one corner were a water cooler and a smaller table holding a self-service coffee set-up. Obviously the West Cost Society for the Preservation of Shakespeare—or its artistic director--didn't believe in pampering its performers.
But it was the performers themselves who were the real surprise. As Hogarth excused himself momentarily and left, Remington and Laura took a look at the straggling bunch scattered around the room, turned to check one another's reactions, and looked again.
For over a week the Steeles had studied the accumulated profiles of the entire cast, including in-depth bios. It was standard procedure for undercover work on a case; so thoroughly had they mastered the data, they could've recited a chronological list of roles each actor had ever played without thinking twice. The problem was, there wasn't the least resemblance between the stars in the glossy black-and-white photos that had accompanied the files and the ill-assorted men and women before them now.
Since the cast didn't seem to be paying any attention to them, the Steeles continued to observe from just inside the door. "I think that's Cledwyn Rhys over there," Laura remarked in an undertone.
"Where?"
"Checking himself out in the mirror."
"The blonde would-be surfer? He's the Welsh-born sensation whose Henry the Fifth has taken the theatrical world by storm?"
Laura nodded. "And unless I miss my guess, that's Lizbeth Lyons hovering around him."
"Ah, the reigning ingénue. Not that she looks the part. More like its antithesis." Turning with distaste from the display of stiletto-heeled boots, leather pants and excess make-up, Remington was rapidly assessing other faces with his keen gaze. "Look there, Laura, the rather faded blonde just sitting down at the table. Diana Bell, isn't it? Hogarth's wife? The company's first lady?"
"I think you're right. Oh, good, someone who looks like his picture. Aubrey St. Mark."
"In the pretentious, former-leading-man flesh. And the upstart replacement, Judd Owen, right behind him."
"Sexy, smoldering, middle-aged rebel versus sexy, smoldering young rebel."
"Well put, Laura."
"And both of them strangely compelling." She brushed her arm against his, a light touch meant to register on no one's radar but theirs. "This is kind of fun."
His blue eyes laughed down at her. "Yes, indeed, like watching grass grow. I'm kidding, I'm kidding," he added in protest as her elbow jabbed his ribs.
"Right, it's time we got started, Mr. Monkley, Miss Randall," said Hogarth, who had suddenly appeared behind them, accompanied by a young woman with an armload of folders. "Let's make the introductions, shall we?"
It told the Steeles a lot, the way Hogarth had only to clear his throat to cause dead silence to fall and the actors to pull briskly up to the table. "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention," he said. He had the kind of resonant bass voice that could've carried without a microphone over a full orchestra. "Say hello to Jim Monkley and Terry Randall, the first participants in our new Visiting Apprentices Program. They'll be observing with us for the next couple of weeks."
The general welcome was limited to a few indistinguishable murmurs. Hogarth seemed not to notice the lack of enthusiasm as he asked the Steeles to find seats. But it was as plain to Remington and Laura as the speculation in the glances that turned their way. "Chilly in here," Laura remarked to Remington through a tight, bright smile.
"Mm, positively Arctic."
They made themselves unobtrusive at the end of the table farthest from Hogarth, who was saying, "The files Thea's passing out contain the role re-assignments I announced before the break. To avoid any misunderstanding, I'll go through them again. Mr. Rhys takes over as Hamlet from Judd Owen. Miss Lyons, you're our new Ophelia. Morwenna Pascoe from Ophelia to doubling as the Player Queen and Guildenstern. Mr. Owen is Laertes, Mr. Ford Horatio--"
Around the table a wave of reaction was building, most of it negative. In a nerve-grating scrape of metal, the young rebel, Judd Owen, flung himself backwards in his chair, no longer smoldering, but openly furious. The Steeles watched with interest.
Hogarth, for his part, ignored him. "—and St. Mark, the Ghost." He raised his head and gazed down the length of the table. "I trust you've each made good use of the time off to do your prep work. We'll see how well you've done in a moment. Full rehearsal will take place next Wednesday with dress rehearsal the following day. Any questions?"
"One." The quiet voice belonged to Aubrey St. Mark. His dark-lashed black eyes were fastened on Hogarth in a clear challenge. "You haven't told us who'll be replacing me as Claudius."
"I'll be playing opposite my wife this quarter. Director's prerogative…Aubrey."
The other members of the company had stiffened into silence but snuck covert glances at each other and the two men. Hogarth's wife, Diana Bell, seemed to be staring with immense concentration at the folder on the table before her.
Above St. Mark's clipped beard gleamed a sardonic smile. "Quite so. Playing God with the rest of us again…Eddie?"
"Quite so." In an obvious dismissal Hogarth broke eye contact to nod at a man farther down the table. "Our Stratford refugee: Mr. Treacher. Something on your mind?"
Andy Treacher, according to the Steeles' information, was a character actor who'd joined Hambeth the previous year. "If I'm the permanent re-cast for Rosencrantz, does it mean Oliver Arundel's not returning?"
"Hambeth has...terminated…our relationship with Mr. Arundel at his request. And we're willing to do the same for any other actor who's dissatisfied with the way I direct this company." In its circuit around the table, Hogarth's gray gaze lingered longest on St. Mark and Owen. "Have I made myself understood?"
The room plunged again into uneasy silence. Then the short, silver-haired man on Remington's right exclaimed: " 'This apoplexy is, I take it, a kind of lethargy, an't please your lordship; a kind of sleeping the blood, a whoreson tingling. It is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal'."
He sounded so much like a rollicking drunk that a shout of laughter arose from the table, releasing the tension. Even Hogarth's lips twitched in a reluctant smile. Beaming, the little man turned to the Steeles. "Falstaff. Henry the Fifth. Properly delivered, it brings down the house."
"Thank you, Mr. Wycliffe," Hogarth was saying in the meantime. "Shall we begin the read-thorough?"
While the actor playing Francisco spoke his opening lines, Laura tilted her folder up to cover her aside to Remington. "You were saying something earlier about no scope for excitement in this case?"
He glanced thoughtfully from Hogarth to St. Mark. "My mistake, Mrs. Steele. Scottish play or not, I've a feeling we've stumbled on more than enough drama to occupy the both of us." And he gave a sideways motion of the head that signaled, let's get back to work, shall we?
Faithful to their fake identities as hard-working young thespians eager to make a good impression, they bent over their scripts.
Neither of them caught the growing gleam of recognition in Wycliffe's eyes as they returned again and again to travel over Remington's face.
The initial stop on the Steeles' tour of the Hambeth campus was the props department at The Garrick, where the cause of the first accident—a musket that had discharged a real bullet—was kept.
The visitor who arrived expecting to find a dusky space crammed with crumbling treasures would've been deeply disappointed, Laura thought. The reality was an entire wing of the Garrick partitioned into an office and two enormous storage rooms, each brightly lit and well-organized. Ranks of floor-to-ceiling shelves in the center room held a staggering variety of items, pewter mugs to ivory fans to a trio of giant stuffed parrots. The third room was devoted to weaponry; firearms resided in one series of glass cases, swords, knives and lances in another. There was even a flail like the one with which she'd played briefly at the Duke of Rutherford's English castle three years ago.
"Quite a collection," she remarked to Hogarth. At the same she watched Remington wandering about the middle room, hands crammed into the front pockets of his jeans, leaning down now and then to examine an object that grabbed his attention. His demeanor would've fooled anyone but her. Beneath the surface nonchalance he was focused, alert, absorbing the pertinent details with that amazing quickness of his. He'd already determined, and confirmed to their client, that the lock on the hallway door hadn't been tampered with.
His track-shoe-cushioned saunter didn't fool her, either. Try as he might to hide it, his faint frown and the almost imperceptible drag of his right foot told her that his ankle injury was bothering him. The souvenir from their recent run-in with his old lover, Anna Patton, née Simpson, wasn't healing as quickly as he liked to pretend.
"It's not as substantial as the more established theaters," Hogarth replied. "But what you see before you represents a huge investment of time and money. That's why it's under lock and key."
"Is there another way in besides this door?" asked Laura.
"The emergency exits, but we keep them locked and the alarms armed."
"Does anyone else have a key?"
"Only Max Yarborough, our props manager."
"And what's his story?" Remington had paused in his exploration to pose the question.
"Experienced. Trustworthy. We've worked together a long time, Mr. Steele."
"Not an obstacle to grinding an axe, presumably," Remington pointed out. "It hasn't escaped our notice that the lot in the rehearsal hall were a bit…oh, shall we say…discontented?"
"Actors. Never happy unless they're complaining about something. I can say it because I am one."
His expression unreadable, Remington passed into the weapons room. Laura said to Hogarth: "Maybe we should talk about the incident with the musket. It happened at the end of last season, you said?"
"In rehearsal, thank God, or who knows who might've been hurt."
"Tell us about it."
"We were making a change in a battle scene from act five. Nothing major—background business for a bit player."
"Who was on stage at the time?"
"Oliver Arundel. Judd Owen as Malcolm and St. Mark as Macduff. Simon Glasslough, Denis Paige, Jeremy Thorpe and Baird Kennicot were the others."
"Then it was as scene from--" feeling foolish, Laura grimaced, but said it anyway "—the Scottish play?"
Hogarth's mouth curved in amusement. "I see someone's told you about the curse."
"Mrs. Steele? A moment," called Remington.
The nod with which he greeted Laura and Hogarth indicated the entire weapons room. "Pick marks," he said tersely.
Laura looked around at the display cases and then back at him. "What, all of them?"
His quirked brow said the answer was yes. "I'd initiate a complete inventory straightaway," he said to Hogarth, who'd turned a little pale. "One of those is the musket in question, I take it?"
"You know old weapons, Mr. Steele?"
"A passing familiarity. But these are modern reproductions, aren't they? Designed to fire only blanks?"
"We all assumed so. But somehow there was a fragment of a dummy bullet lodged in the barrel that day along with the blank. If Paige hadn't known enough to aim over the heads of his cast mates…"
It was the first lapse the Steeles had seen in Hogarth's aura of authority. It helped humanize him a little. Maybe he really did care about his actors after all.
"You're certain, quite certain, it was live ammo?" asked Remington.
"Oh, yes. The damage is still visible, if you're interested in seeing it."
The Steeles were. Arrived at the theater, they examined in turn the hastily patched depression where the bullet had lodged in the rear wall. "Deliberate sabotage?" murmured Laura as Hogarth moved slightly out of earshot.
"And no shortage of suspects. It appears you and I have our work cut out for us."
"Think the idea's occurred to him?"
"It could hardly fail to, given the tension between him and the actors. Of course, there's another theory that's worth a look."
It was no big surprise that Laura divined his reasoning process and produced a complementary reference to a case. "Sonya Steinmetz. He might be the one staging the accidents, if you'll forgive the expression."
"Exactly the term I'd have used myself if you hadn't beaten me to it."
"I'd like to get the ball rolling by questioning Oliver Arundel. Something tells me there's more to his resignation than unhappiness with the way Hogarth runs the place."
"Excellent suggestion. But let's check the other accident scenes first."
The clues they gleaned from the remaining sites were inconclusive. The cigarette that had triggered the fire in the wardrobe department might have been planted, still burning, in the waste paper basket--or it might have been tossed there in unintentional carelessness by Graham Bishop, the head costumer and a two-pack-a-day smoker. Someone could have tampered backstage with the light board's wiring and given the engineer a nasty shock. Then again, Hogarth had admitted that the system was old and in need of an upgrade. The chunk of backdrop that had broken free, narrowly missing a stagehand's head, showed signs of having been loosened. That the backdrop had been damaged in transit between set design and the stage was an equally valid conjecture.
Coincidence? Or the work of a grudge-holder seeking revenge? Given the lack of hard evidence, it was too soon to say which it was. But a clever, determined individual could easily disguise the latter as the former, as the Steeles had discovered in the past at the Friedlich Sensitivity Spa and the Golden Dugout baseball camp. He or she might've slipped a little in employing a live bullet; it was the only detail that couldn't be explained away. It was also the possible starting point in spotting the thread that tied the occurrences together.
It wasn't politic to communicate that to Hogarth. Instead they closed their conference with him by outlining the plan of attack they would pursue the following day. "We'll each want to spend private time with the actors," said Remington. "The ones who witnessed the musket discharge to begin with. Those whose roles were changed. Anyone who's expressed unhappiness with Hambeth."
"Our pretext will be that as apprentices, we'll need exposure to as many of the stars as possible," added Laura. "You can divide the list evenly between Mr. Steele and me, starting with Aubrey St. Mark and Judd Owen."
Hogarth hesitated. "You don't mean you want me to arrange training periods for you with the actors, Mrs. Steele."
It was another glimpse of the chauvinistic streak he'd displayed at their very first meeting at the agency. "Is there something wrong with that?" asked Laura.
"It's not how we work at Hambeth."
She regarded him coolly. "Then maybe it's time for a change. It's awfully sexist to assume a talented woman can only learn from other women, or to deny her the chance to study with a great artist of either sex. Women are 'actors', too, nowadays, aren't they?"
Their eyes clashed and held. "I'll see what I can do," Hogarth said.
"Oliver Arundel," Remington put in. "We'd like to hear his version of the shooting. Can you put us in touch with him?"
"I have his last known address. Whether he's still living there I couldn't say."
The Steeles exchanged a look.
Driving back towards the highway a short while later, Remington commented, "Not exactly forthcoming, is he? Defeats the purpose of hiring us in the first place. I'm beginning to suspect he's somehow been persuaded to do it against his better judgment."
"Mm," Laura replied absently. She was deep in a puzzle of her own. Something about Hogarth's reaction to her avoidance of the name "Macbeth" while they were in the theater was nagging her. It didn't seem to fit. Where she might've expected him to be apologetic or embarrassed when referring to the curse, she'd sensed amusement bordering on cynicism. He'd made her willingness to abide by the taboos, though they didn't officially apply to her, appear a little ridiculous in comparison.
She wasn't sure what to make of it, or if it held any significance for their investigation at all. But it was definitely interesting.
"Laura, I think it's time we talked about having a baby," Remington said.
And Laura, who'd just taken a bite of sesame shrimp, promptly choked on it.
They were in their room at the aptly named Hamlet Motel right outside of Solvang: clean, cute, and totally conducive to the image they wanted to project of struggling artists on a tight budget. It was a given that as the case progressed they would put in longer hours, but this evening they'd already compared notes and called it a day. Now the cartons containing their Chinese takeout dinner were spread between them on the king-size bed. She had Frances' Christmas gift, a new anthology of ghost stories she hadn't read before, to entertain her; he was snorting with laughter over Monty Python and the Holy Grail on cable TV, his bad ankle propped by a couple of pillows.
They couldn't have been happier together than they were at this moment, Laura thought--not even in one of the romantic settings with which he used to tempt her endlessly in the old days, the Fiji Islands, or a moonlit beach in Maui.
It was positive proof that the old saw "be careful what you wish for" didn't always hold true. For wasn't this exactly what she had wished for so many times over the previous month, when Anna Simpson Patton had set her plan to murder Remington into motion? To have him back in one piece and all to herself? Almost four weeks had elapsed since the danger had ended with Anna's death in a police shootout; by now they should've been taking each other for granted. On the contrary, the honeymoon spirit was so far from abating, Laura had begun to wonder whether she shouldn't occasionally pick a fight with him just to ensure they didn't lose their edge altogether.
Then again, they were overdue for some tranquility. Anna had descended on them with all the destructive force of an earthquake and a category five hurricane rolled into one. And she'd proceeded to shake the Steeles' world to its very foundations. There wasn't a single thing belonging to them that she hadn't threatened, thanks to proof she possessed that Remington had pulled off a major jewel heist seven years before. Their livelihood; their marriage; Remington's freedom and identity; and, in the end, his life.
In the midst of the general upheaval Laura had suffered through a very special, personal hell, one she would never reveal to anyone, not even him. Anna had demonstrated a peculiar genius for pinpointing Laura's pervasive fears and manipulating circumstances to take the fullest possible advantage of them. Of course they all centered on Remington. One by one Anna had exposed them to daylight and subtly, expertly, twisted the knife until Laura was fighting two battles at the same time, one with Anna, the second with her own doubts.
She didn't think anybody could blame her for letting Anna get to her, but it didn't stop her from blaming herself. She should've been stronger, smarter, better prepared for the onslaught. She knew Anna was a con artist; she knew how cons operated. Hadn't she learned from a master—or two, if she counted her father-in-law? She should've recognized the strategy for what it was, Anna doing her damnedest to divide Remington from Laura and lure him to his death, just as she had when she first arrived in Los Angeles to marry Walter Patton.
Instead Laura felt them chip away steadily at her self-command, each of the issues Anna had dredged up one by one. Marriage was only an experiment in novelty for Remington, not a lifetime commitment. Domesticity would at some point begin to bore him. She, Laura, didn't have what it took to keep him interested sexually. He wouldn't have chosen her three years ago if Anna hadn't tried to kill him.
It was an experience she would've avoided at all costs if it were in her power, nor would she have wanted to repeat it. And yet, as sometimes happens in the worst situations, it had proven itself almost a gift. For it had bestowed on her a certainty about her husband for which she could never have brought herself to ask.
Remington himself had seen to it.
Not in an overflow of words, though in that respect he was more up front than she gave him credit for. No, it was his typical method of communicating, through what he did rather than what he said. It started in his first face-to-face encounter with Anna. She had baldly stated that she wanted him back, his marriage notwithstanding. In addition to outright blackmail she'd dangled the fortune she'd inherited from her recently deceased husband in front of him to sweeten the deal. It was obvious she expected the man she'd known alternately as Jean Murrell and Paul Fabrini would leap for the bait without a second's hesitation.
Laura's husband, Remington Steele, had walked out, revolted.
He wouldn't have returned, either, if Laura hadn't devised what she considered a brilliant counter-move to thwart Anna's blackmail scheme. He could pretend to have second thoughts about Anna's proposition and launch what Laura had called a "charm offensive" against her, which would put him in an excellent position to uncover and steal back the evidence. Overruling Remington's vehement objections, she'd finally persuaded him into it.
Afterward Laura had raked herself over the coals good and hard for her recklessness. What the hell was she thinking, practically shoving him into the arms of the woman she rightly feared more than any of the others who'd emerged from his past? But it hadn't taken hindsight to show her the massive effort he'd expended throughout to preserve her trust. Even at it was happening she recognized it. It was there in the touches, gestures and glances that were part of the fabric of their relationship, in his diligence at the office, in his invariable desire for her. And it was what had driven him to risk his life, traveling alone with Anna on her yacht from Malibu to San Diego with the intent of destroying her hold over him before she could do lasting damage to him and Laura.
The truth had manifested itself in a single moment of blinding clarity. Decoding the cryptic clues he left for her, Laura had stumbled across him in the spot where Anna had left him to die, an unventilated shed on her secluded Malibu estate. He was prostrate from the combined effects of heat exhaustion and a couple of untreated wounds—a gash and sprained ankle he'd suffered, it turned out, in an escape attempt gone bad. But he wasn't too far gone to relate how much he'd dared for her sake: a search of the yacht for the incriminating papers hours in advance of his original plan. And the rationale behind it: "It meant I might come home to you that much sooner, Laura."
It would have taken a woman with a much harder heart than Laura's not to have believed him. Not to banish her insecurities once and for all. Not to accept his devotion for what it was, genuine, whole-hearted, unsullied by hidden yearnings for tall, curvaceous blondes with Continental accents and histories almost as checkered as his.
So: she was surer of him now than she had ever been. They were solid, stable, in their love for each other. In defiance of its inauspicious beginning, their marriage was working. They were happy.
And suddenly he wanted to take the chance of messing it up by talking baby?
Was he serious?
His contribution towards helping her cough up the errant morsel of shrimp was to pound her vigorously on the back. "What did you just say?" she wheezed when she could draw enough breath to speak.
"A baby. We've never discussed having one. Don't you think it's time we did?"
"What? Now?"
"Why not? Carpe diem. Seize the day. Isn't that our motto?"
She didn't realize she was staring at him until he reached out and with his index finger closed the jaw she'd dropped. "You'll catch flies that way," he teased.
"A baby?"
He pantomimed rocking an infant in his arms and hummed a snatch of a lullaby to underscore the image. "You," he said. "Me. Us."
Of all the conversations they'd had over the course of their relationship, this was rapidly becoming the most surreal. Remington Steele singing "Rock-a-Bye Baby" to an imaginary child? She wasn't sure whether to administer the proverbial pinch to make certain she wasn't dreaming, or to check his forehead to see if he were feverish.
"I never knew you were so interested in fatherhood, Mr. Steele."
"I never had a reason to be interested, until lately. The question is…" He broke off to grab his pillow, stretching out full length with his elbow propped on it, a posture that always signaled significant investment in the topic at hand. "The question is, do you have the same sort of interest in motherhood? And if you do, how do we go about merging our interests, so to speak?"
"Do you really think this is the time to bring it up? We're in the middle of a case."
"We're always in the middle of a case, Laura. That shouldn't stop us from talking it over, searching for common ground--provided there's common ground to be had."
So he was serious. She swallowed. How serious? More importantly, to what lengths was he willing to press the point? He wore his habitual expression, affectionate amusement, incipient laughter; it didn't tell her a thing.
Except that he was waiting for an answer.
Well, never let it be said that anyone, even her beloved Remington, could pin Laura Steele into a tight corner she couldn't get out of, or maneuver her into a conversation she didn't want to have. Anyway, he had only himself to blame. He was the one who'd modeled evasive behavior to her in the first place.
It didn't take long to dispense with the obstacles between them, or, in other words, the takeout containers. Remington seemed a shade irritated as he watched her gather them up. "What are you doing?"
"You were wondering how to...merge…our interests in parenthood, weren't you?" In playful determination she straddled his hips. "I wouldn't have thought a demonstration was necessary, but if you insist…"
"This isn't quite what I had in mind."
"No?" Bending over him, she nuzzled a trail along his throat, inhaling his fragrance through the open collar of his shirt. With a gentle tug she took the skin at the base of his neck between her teeth and delicately nipped it. "How about now?"
"I know what you're up to, and it won't work."
She was planting tiny, whispering kisses along his cheek as she worked her way over to his ear. "Oh?"
"It's a transparent ploy, using foreplay to avoid answering my question. But you've overlooked one important detail." Even as he spoke, a shiver went through him: her lips and tongue had found his earlobe and the sensitive spot beneath it.
"Enlighten me."
"I'm a man of iron self-control, when I want to be. Staunch…impervious…immovable…"
She looked him solemnly in the eye. "I can see that." In the meantime her left hand was slipping below his waist in a deft caress. A slow smile curved her lips when he stirred beneath her touch. "And I respect it."
The sound he made was a cross between a smothered groan and a sigh of pleasure. "Playing dirty, are we?"
"I certainly hope so."
"Well, as to that, let me remind you--" wrapping his arms around her and pulling her down on top of him "—I know a trick or two, myself. Eh?" Swiftly he rolled her over so that his body was covering hers. Somewhere in the process her blouse was freed from the waistband of her jeans and completely unbuttoned.
She met his feigned innocence with a lifted eyebrow. "Do I even want to ask where you learned that?"
"Pure improvisation. It comes naturally, with the right person." Now it was his turn to dip his head to taste her bare skin, only it was of her breast.
On the TV screen beyond them the Knights Who Say Ni were gleefully introducing themselves to King Arthur and his companions. Remington leaned up on his side just long enough to cut it off with a decisive zap of the remote control. "Where were we?" he mused, resuming his former position. "Ah, yes…right about here, I believe."
His easy surrender gave Laura a moment of smug satisfaction—take that, Anna Patton!—but then it dissipated, helped along liberally by Remington's knee-weakening kisses. Really she didn't deserve to have his attention lavished on her, considering that she'd manipulated him into it—but, oh, God, she was shameless enough to take him by whatever means she could get him…
Neither one of them could believe they heard the first knock at the door. The second and third were equally easy to ignore. But: "It's Peter Wycliffe," called a voice. "From Hambeth."
Wycliffe? the Steeles mouthed in unison.
If he'd grown impatient waiting for them to open the door, he didn't show it, but entered the room beaming. "It occurred to me there was something lacking in Hambeth's greeting to you this afternoon, so I've come to make it up to you." He extracted a bottle of Scotch from the paper sack he was carrying and held it out to Remington.
"Very kind of you," Remington said.
In addition to a bottle of soda and a bag of ice, the bag yielded a trio of plastic glasses. "My cast mates and I owe you an apology for our rudeness," Wycliffe continued once he'd made himself comfortable, drink in hand, in the sole armchair. "In our defense, this afternoon was the first we'd heard of the Visiting Apprentices Program. So you see why we weren't prepared to welcome you."
"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," said Laura.
"I suppose not, after what happened in rehearsal. What can I tell you? It's the Hambeth way."
"Or Mr. Hogarth's way?" Remington asked.
"They're one and the same. Don't let it frighten you away."
"Oh, I think it's safe to say that neither my wife nor I are so easily daunted as that."
"You're a married couple? I wondered. Jim Monkley and Terry Randall. Do I have it right?"
It was the same question Hogarth had asked upon their arrival, posed nearly in the same words. "Right," was Laura's reply.
"I thought so." Leaning forward in his seat, Wycliffe fixed Remington with a look no less good-humored than before, but mixed with a sudden, unnerving sharpness. "Jim—or should I say Jimmy?--Monkley. The role Cary Grant played in Sylvia Scarlett. Not exactly an actor, but a conman with an extraordinary talent for assuming other identities." He turned to Laura. "And Terry Randall. Miss Hepburn was excellent in Stage Door, don't you agree? An actress playing an actress; a play within a play. 'The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower, suitable for every occasion'."
The last sentences were spoken in a pitch-perfect imitation of Katharine Hepburn's voice, New England accent and all. The Steeles stared.
Wycliffe responded with a smile and a nod. "I do appreciate old movies. Something we have in common, it seems."
Then he added:
"The jig is up, children. I know who you really are."
TO BE CONTINUED