So it was Nadine. But there’s no way to prove it. First the mink coat and now Paris. With five million dollars, she can afford to live anywhere in the world. How do I handle this? If I tell her that I know, she’ll deny it. Maybe she’ll demand more. Marc will know what to do.
“Nadine…”
One of Kendall’s assistants came in. “Kendall! I have to talk to you about the bridge collection. I don’t think we have enough designs for—”
Kendall could bear no more. “Excuse me. I don’t feel well. I’m going home.”
Her assistant looked at her in amazement. “But we’re in the middle of…!”
“I’m sorry…”
And Kendall was gone.
When Kendall walked into her apartment, it was empty. Marc was working late. She looked around at all the beautiful things in the room, and thought, They’ll never stop until they take everything. They’re going to bleed me dry. Marc was right. I should have gone to the police that night. Now I’m a criminal. I’ve got to confess. Now, while I have the courage. She sat there, thinking about what this was going to do to her, to Marc, and to her family. There would be lurid headlines, and a trial, and probably prison. It would be the end of her career. But I can’t go on like this, Kendall thought. I’ll go crazy.
Almost in a daze, she got up and walked into Marc’s den. She remembered that he kept his typewriter on a shelf in the closet. She took it down and put it on the desk. She rolled a sheet of paper into the platen and began to type.
To Whom It May Concern: My name is Kendall
She stopped. The letter E was broken.
Chapter Thirty
“Why, Marc? For God’s sake, why?” Kendall’s voice was filled with anguish.
“It was your fault.”
“No! I told you…It was an accident! I…”
“I’m not talking about the accident. I’m talking about you! The big successful wife who was too busy to find time for her husband.”
It was as though he had slapped her. “That’s not true. I…”
“All you ever thought about was yourself, Kendall. Everywhere we went, you were always the star. You let me tag along like a pet poodle.”
“That’s not fair!” she said.
“Isn’t it? You go off to your fashion shows all over the world so you can get your picture in the papers, and I’m sitting here alone, waiting for you to return. Do you think I liked being ‘Mr. Kendall’? I wanted a wife. Don’t worry, my darling Kendall. I consoled myself with other women while you were gone.”
Her face was ashen.
“They were real flesh-and-blood women, who had time for me. Not some damned made-up empty shell.”
“Stop it!” Kendall cried.
“When you told me about the accident, I saw a way to become free of you. Do you want to know something, my dear? I enjoyed watching you squirm when you read those letters. It paid me back a little for all the humiliation I’ve gone through.”
“That’s enough! Pack your bags and get out of here. I never want to see you again!”
Marc grinned. “There’s very little chance of that. By the way, do you still plan to go to the police?”
“Get out!” Kendall said. “Now!”
“I’m leaving. I think I’ll go back to Paris. And, darling, I won’t tell if you won’t. You’re safe.”
An hour later, he was gone.
At nine o’clock in the morning, Kendall put in a call to Steve Sloane.
“Good morning, Mrs. Renaud. What can I do for you?”
“I’m returning to Boston this afternoon,” Kendall said. “I have a confession to make.”
She was seated across from Steve, looking pale and drawn. She sat there frozen, unable to begin.
Steve prompted her. “You said you had a confession to make.”
“Yes. I…I killed someone.” She began to cry. “It was an accident, but…I ran away.” Her face was a mask of anguish. “I ran away…and left her there.”
“Take it easy,” Steve said. “Start at the beginning.”
She began to talk.
Thirty minutes later, Steve looked out his window, thinking about what he had just heard.