Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [20]
It was no use. No one could escape the inevitable, and that meant the people at the shopping mall, too. Somewhere in her gut, Angela knew that what she had envisioned was not a freak act of nature. Somebody had to be making plans to blow up the mall. Maybe, just maybe, if she hung around Timberwoods and kept her eyes open, she could find out who it was. She had a reason to be there—the displays. Animated figures lost beads and buttons and needed touching up. She wouldn’t actually work on them. Just pretend to be checking. No law against that.
Breaking the burned match in an onyx ashtray, she hopped up from her chair and pulled a Vuitton suitcase from the huge walk-in closet. Without thought to color or coordination, she pulled a mass of clothes from the scented hangers and tossed them into the depths of the softsided suitcase covered in intertwined L’s and V ’s. Scooping up a handful of little plastic cases and jars, she dumped them into a plastic pouch and buckled the suitcase. She would check into the nearest hotel and decide what to do next.
A timid knock sounded at the door and Irma, the old housekeeper, poked her head around the corner. “Miss Angela, we have to go to a motel for a while. I talked to the plumber and the electrician and they said we can’t stay here. Your mother asked me to pack a bag and she’ll pick it up. She wants to know where you’re going to stay. She’s upset over this . . . this . . .”
“Is she? Tell her I’ll let her know where I’m staying when I decide.”
“Miss Angela, I told her one of the pipes in the bathroom broke. I didn’t tell her . . .”
“You didn’t tell her it was me who flooded the house? I appreciate you covering for me, but it wasn’t necessary. I’m sure my mother knows what happened. I’ll own up to it. Don’t worry about it. Thanks anyway, Irma.”
“And, Miss Angela,” the elderly housekeeper continued, “there’s a man and a lady downstairs to see you.”
“Me? Who are they?” She snapped to attention.
“I don’t really know, Miss Angela. With all the confusion and your mother not here . . .”
“Thank you, Irma. I’ll be right down.”
Angela’s hands were shaking. She needed something to calm her. In her mother’s bathroom there were more tranquilizers. That would do it.
Biting her lower lip, Angela walked down the stairs, her boots squishing on the water-sodden carpet. In the foyer she saw a tall, good-looking blond man with his back to her. Obviously not an insurance adjuster. He was with pretty, dark-haired Heather Andrews from Timberwoods Mall.
“Angela, this is Felex Lassiter,” Heather intoned gently when she saw Angela. She pasted a friendly smile on her lips but had a haunted look in her eyes. “We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. Okay? Is there somewhere we could go that would be out of the way?” She glanced at the crew of electricians parading through the foyer.
Angela nodded, heading for the den. She wondered briefly if the water had reached her father’s private sanctuary at the far side of the house. She smiled as she sloshed into the room and plopped down on the nearest chair. The tranquilizers hadn’t really had a chance to work yet, but just knowing she had taken them seemed to calm her.
Lex addressed the girl. His voice was pleasant and contradicted his frown. “Looks like the plumbing’s on the fritz.”
“Yes. I accidentally left the water running upstairs,” Angela said calmly.
“You accidentally left the water running?”
“Uh-huh,