SECRET ADMIRER an unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist (Totally Gripping Psychological Thrillers) Read online

  SECRET

  ADMIRER

  An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

  PATRICIA MACDONALD

  Revised edition 2022

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published by Warner Books in the United States in 1995

  © Patricia Bourgeau 1995, 2022

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is American English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Patricia Bourgeau to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  Cover art by Nick Castle

  ISBN: 978-1-80405-260-0

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Acknowledgments

  ALSO BY PATRICIA MACDONALD

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Please note this book is set in the 1990s, a time before mobile phones, and when social attitudes were very different.

  Part One

  December, New Year’s Eve

  Chapter One

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  A slice of moon glided between bare tree branches, and brittle tufts of brown grass crunched beneath her feet as Laura Reed crossed the Village Green. Tiny white Christmas lights were still suspended in the trees. By next week the diligent Cape Christian Parks Department would have them all down, but for now they were a twinkling reminder of the holiday just passed. Laura shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets and shivered. She was used to tramping around town in her parka, a heavy sweater, and boots in this weather. But she and her husband, Jimmy, had plans for a New Year’s Eve dinner, so she was wearing stockings and heels, a silk blouse, and a skirt under her good wool coat. The December chill seemed to cut right through her.

  Despite the cold, she loved to walk through town. Cape Christian, a little jewel of preserved Victoriana perched on the southern tip of the New Jersey shore, was picturesque at any time of year. The branches of huge shade trees arched over the quiet streets and screened the rows of old homes that were fastidiously maintained and festooned with intricately carved gingerbread. From almost any corner on Main Street you could catch a glimpse of the ocean, just visible beyond the promenade that formed the eastern border of the town.

  In the summertime huge crowds of tourists flocked here to drink in the quaint atmosphere of another century while they vacationed at the beach. Jimmy Reed had been born and raised in this town, and when he’d brought Laura back here, he’d promised her she would soon grow to love it. He was right. She did love Cape Christian at any time of year, but, like a native, she loved it most in the dead of winter, when the streets were deserted and the town was steeped in silence beside the beating heart of the sea.

  She passed by the Gothic-style Catholic church. The crèche was still set up out in front of the church, a spotlight illuminating the tender scene. She was reminded of the first time they were here for a visit—the Christmas when their son, Michael, was two. She was looking in a shop window when he left her side and toddled over to the manger scene, proudly lifting the baby Jesus from the manger and coming back toward her, his eyes alight. “My baby,” he crowed, to the indulgent amusement of passersby, as Laura hurried to replace the little figure in the manger.

  Laura smiled, remembering, and continued walking between the rows of gaily painted, clapboard-sided stores that made up the shopping area of Main Street. All the windows were ornately decorated. The Christmas season in Cape Christian was almost as busy as a month in summer. In the weeks preceding Christmas Day, visitors came to tour the Victorian guest houses, which were candlelit, garlanded, and tasseled to the hilt. Laura sometimes wondered how people found the time to go touring in the Christmas season. It was all she could do to finish all the baking, shopping, and wrapping that needed to be done.

  But once Christmas Day came and went, Cape Christian returned to its winter slumber. Reed’s Gallery, in the third block of Main Street, was dimly lit. There was no danger of any business at six o’clock in the evening on New Year’s Eve. Jimmy had gone in late in the afternoon to finish up some framing projects, which was the only reason the gallery was open at all. Laura pushed open the front door of the gallery, and a bell tinkled as she walked in.

  Only a few of the track lights in the gallery were lit, although the golden glow from Jimmy’s frame shop upstairs spilled down the stairwell. A gaunt-looking man with a thatch of gray hair sat in a wheelchair beneath one of the spotlights, turning over a book in his large yet delicate hands. He looked up as the door opened. His skin was unlined, and his face was youthful. Two spots of color appeared in his wan cheeks. “Laura,” he exclaimed.

  She smiled at the sight of him. “Hi, Gary. What a nice surprise.”

  “Jim and I had some business to discuss—the fellowship.”

  Laura nodded. Gary Jurik was a local artist and a friend. Jimmy had convinced Gary to apply for a prestigious fellowship that would mean a year of both teaching and studying at the Boston
Museum of Fine Arts.

  “I know you’re going to get it,” she said.

  “I never had any formal training,” Gary protested.

  “Yes, and look at all the success you’ve had that other artists only dream about.”

  Gary’s face turned pink with pleasure at her words. “I suppose,” he said.

  “Is he upstairs?” she asked.

  Gary Jurik nodded and pressed the book down in his lap.

  Laura walked to the foot of the staircase, noting as she passed by that some new paintings had been hung, and many of the paintings displayed proudly wore the blue stickers that indicated they were sold. Jimmy’s timing in opening this gallery had been fortuitous. In these last two years there had been an explosion of interest in art among both tourists and locals and a steady stream of eager customers.

  “Hey, babe, it’s me,” she called out.

  “Be right with you,” he yelled back.

  Laura nodded and returned to where Gary sat. She pulled up a low, rolling stool and sat down beside him. Gary had once mentioned that he hated having to look up at people all the time when he talked to them. Laura could understand that. It seemed a small enough concession to his comfort to sit in his presence. “Whatcha got?” she asked, pointing to the book in his hands.

  “Doesn’t it look familiar?” he asked, extending it to her.

  Laura accepted it from him and looked at the spine. It was her new book, Raoul and the Horse from the Sky, the fourth in her well-received series for children about Raoul and his otherworldly friends. “No dust jacket?” she said.

  “It must be around here somewhere,” said Gary, avoiding her gaze. “It’s Jimmy’s copy. I think it’s your best as far as the illustrations. The horse has such life to him,” he said earnestly.

  “Well, thanks, Gary,” she said, genuinely pleased. “That’s a real compliment coming from you.”

  Gary smiled and blushed again. He was a little younger than Jimmy, about thirty, but from a distance, with the wheelchair and his gray hair, he looked much older. Jimmy told her that Gary’s hair had turned gray when he was seventeen, in the year following the accident. Yet when he smiled like that, Laura thought, he looked positively adolescent.

  She pointed to a new painting of his on the wall, a lyrical, light-suffused watercolor of the Dormley, a grand old Victorian hotel on the beach. “That is a beauty,” she said. “How do you remember the light like that?”

  “It’s always summer in my head,” he said.

  Laura laughed appreciatively, and Gary turned away, wheeling his chair around with a frown as he examined some of the other paintings. “Jim’s got some promising people here.”

  Laura smiled and shook her head. Gary knew perfectly well that none of these painters was any competition for him, but an artist’s ego was always fragile. Gary was Jimmy’s one certified find at the gallery. They had been friends since boyhood. Gary had always dabbled in art, but after the auto accident had confined him to the wheelchair, he had become intent on his work.

  When Jimmy returned to town and opened the gallery, he immediately recognized the commercial potential of Gary’s lovely watercolors of the many splendid Victorian buildings in this town. It was Jimmy who conceived of the stationery, the calendars, and the mugs that were printed with Gary’s different paintings. The series was becoming virtually synonymous with a visit to Cape Christian, the way a box of Fralinger’s saltwater taffy was the de rigueur souvenir of a visit to Atlantic City. Their collaboration had been a financial success for both of them.

  “You think he’s going to replace us?” she asked Gary bemusedly.

  Gary looked at her, startled. There was something innocent about him, which never failed to touch Laura. “Do you think so?”

  “I’m kidding,” she said. “Although it probably is time for him to be finding another protégé. He can’t help himself. It’s in his nature.”

  Gary nodded. “He was born to be a patron of the arts.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Laura. “That suggests somebody with money.”

  “You’re right. A mentor, I guess you could say.”

  “I know I would never have dreamed of doing these books without him pressuring me,” she said, laughing. It was true. She had studied art in school, but always with a practical eye to becoming an art teacher. It was Jimmy who bullied and encouraged her until she got her first book together, Jimmy who sent it to agents and publishers. With every rejection she received, she became more hopeless and he became more determined. And in the end, his faith in her work proved justified.

  “He’s very sure of his taste,” said Gary.

  “Well, if he likes something, he figures it’s just a matter of time until the world follows suit,” Laura said wryly.

  Gary gazed around at the walls. “It must be wonderful to have such confidence,” he said.

  The doorbell tinkled again, and the door opened. A middle-aged woman, bundled up in a scarf and tweedy coat, entered the gallery. She had a haggard complexion and thin salt-and-pepper hair carelessly pinned up in a knot. Her mournful gaze fell on Laura and Gary. “I’m done shopping,” she said without preamble.

  “Hello, Mrs. Jurik,” said Laura. Every time Laura saw Wanda Jurik, she felt sorry for her. Wanda always seemed distracted and on the verge of tears. Laura knew from Jimmy that Wanda had borne the whole burden of supporting them when Gary was young and caring for Gary after the accident. Gary’s father, Karl Jurik, had been a shiftless charmer, an alcoholic who came and went as he pleased, never taking responsibility for his family. He took off for good several years after the accident. A lot of people seemed to fault Wanda, to think she was overprotective, including Jimmy, but Laura could not help but imagine how she would feel if she were in Wanda’s position—if something like this had happened to her own son, Michael. How could a mother ever accept it?

  “Hello,” Wanda said shortly. “Gary, I’ll meet you around back.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Without another word, Wanda turned and left. Gary seemed embarrassed. “Mother brought me down today,” he explained. “My van’s in the shop.” Gary had a customized van equipped with hand controls so that he could drive. “I have to be going,” he said, searching for his coat.

  Laura spotted it hanging over a nearby chair and handed it to him. “It was good to see you,” she said. “Come for dinner next week? How’s Tuesday?”

  “I’ll check,” he said gruffly. “It sounds nice. How’s Mike?”

  “He’s fine.” Laura smiled.

  “Tell him I’ll be over to take him for a spin.” Michael loved to ride in Gary’s lap in the wheelchair, always urging him to go faster. Laura had been appalled when Michael first clambered up and insisted on a ride, but it just made Gary laugh. He seemed to enjoy it.

  Gary pulled on his coat and began to wheel his chair toward the back door. Jimmy had had ramps installed, both at the gallery and at home, so that Gary could visit easily. He stopped the chair briefly at the foot of the stairs. “Good-bye, Jim,” he called up. Then he headed for the back door.

  “Keep her in the road, man,” Jim called back. “Now, Laura,” he commanded, “close your eyes and don’t open them until I say.”

  “Why?” Laura giggled, but she did as she was told.

  She heard Jimmy’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, inhaled the fresh, masculine scent of him passing by her, and then heard the thunk of something being placed on the desk. “All right,” he said. “You can open them.”

  Laura looked and then exclaimed with pleasure. He had taken the dust jacket from her new book, flattened it out, and framed it.

  “Belated Christmas present.” He sighed. “I didn’t get a chance to finish it before. I was so busy trying to finish up the orders.”

  Laura smiled at her husband. He was a rugged-looking, broad-shouldered man, with the easygoing self-assurance of one who had always been abundantly loved. He was one of Cape Christian’s favorite sons, who had triumphed both academica
lly and on the football field, in high school and college, and he’d been on his way to becoming a power player in the business of museum art collections when she’d met him out in San Francisco. Everyone was amazed when he decided to abandon his promising career and return to the East Coast to start a little gallery in his hometown. But he had applied his huge capacity for work and his shrewdness about art to the gallery. It was no wonder he had been successful.

  “This is great,” she said. “Thank you.” She got up from the chair and kissed his bearded cheek. She loved his new beard. She thought it looked sexy, and he never complained about shaving anymore. She turned back to her gift and ran her finger lightly over the frame. “You did a beautiful job.”

  Jimmy looked over her shoulder. “Nice picture of you.” The author photo used on the jacket was one he had taken last summer at the beach.

  Like most people, Laura was critical of her own image. But she did like this particular photo. “It is nice,” she admitted.

  “Hardly does you justice, though,” he said.

  “By the way,” said Laura, “Marta called me today.” Marta Eberhart was Laura’s editor, who three years ago had lifted her manuscript and illustrations from the obscurity of the slush pile and turned her into an author. Laura felt a deep sense of loyalty and gratitude to Marta.

  “Really,” said Jim. “What did she want? How’s the book doing?”

  “It seems to be doing pretty well,” said Laura. “She seems pleased.”

  “Great.”

  “She met a guy from Book World last month who wants to do a story on me,” Laura said, proud of her news. “Some guy named Bob Gerster. He wants to come down, get pictures, do an interview . . .”

  “That’s great,” said Jimmy, shamelessly welcoming an opportunity for publicity. “We can have him at the house, the gallery, the whole works!”

  “Well, wait and see,” Laura cautioned. “He hasn’t called yet. Maybe he’s changed his mind by now.”