Double Bluff

By Claire McNab

TV star Madeline Shipley is being stalked, but is she really the prey of a psychotic fan? Investigating the suicide of businessman Hayden Delray’s wife, Carol receives threats that could be meant to lever her off the case. As she becomes more involved, the danger widens to include her family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bella Books
• Release date: Feb 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781642470932

Book preview

Prologue

My Madeline,

You haven’t given me that special, private smile lately, and you know I’ve been watching every show. And when I turned on the set Friday night you weren’t there. I don’t want to see that bitch Kimberley filling in for you again. I want you.

Where were you? You never said you wouldn’t be there. I don’t like that. Not telling the truth can hurt you, hurt you so much.

Pain is so hot, isn’t it? Feelings and sounds. From shrieks to a final whimper.

Delicious.

Marquis

Chapter One

Stalkers fall into three categories, said Carol. First is the rejected lover—someone you had a personal relationship with, but told to get lost.

Madeline Shipley leaned back in the dressing room chair submitting to the ministrations of a makeup woman. All my rejected lovers are delighted to be rejected. What’s the second sort?

Carol watched as Madeline’s copper hair was brushed into sleek curves to accent the symmetry of her face. Second is the stranger stalker, who’s simply doing it for crime—rape, robbery, that sort of thing.

Nothing so normal. I’d say this guy’s getting a real charge out of it—first flowers with a note, and now he’s writing letters to me.

Therefore, as is entirely appropriate, this one’s in the third category, the celebrity stalker.

Madeline grinned at Carol’s dry tone. You’re a celebrity in your own right, Carol. You can have a stalker of your own.

Irritated by her levity, Carol said coolly, It isn’t anything to laugh about. Whoever it is has a relationship with you only in his head, but to him it’s absolutely real, although he may never have actually met you.

A promo for Madeline’s show flashed on the screen of the on-air monitor mounted above the makeup mirrors. Chin high, gray eyes wide, she stared soberly from the screen. The voice-over was muted, but Carol had heard the familiar words often enough: "At seven the award-winning Shipley Report! Madeline Shipley brings you the news behind the news…the stories, the information, the insights you must have for today’s changing world…"

I’ll finish. Thanks, June, said Madeline to the makeup woman. When they were alone she leaned forward to check her teeth for lipstick, then smiled provocatively at Carol’s reflection in the mirror. You’re looking good, darling. Of course, I’ve always had a weakness for blondes.

Carol refused to be deflected. You called me because you said you wanted my advice.

Madeline’s smile faded. I do. She rummaged in a blue leather briefcase beside the chair. This one came in the mail today. I saved the envelope too. It was posted locally. As she handed Carol the typed letter enclosed in a plastic sleeve she added, And aren’t I smart to think about fingerprints?

Carol was frowning over the letter. You’re brilliant, she said absently.

He’s getting a bit tiresome, whoever he is. I’ve had obsessive fans before, of course. And I suppose it’s exaggerating to say he’s a stalker—he’s only written to me.

He could be watching you, too.

You make me feel so secure, Carol.

And there have only been letters? No phone calls?

Everything’s been in writing and he always signs himself Marquis. The first ones got thrown out, but once I realized I might have a genuine fruitcake writing to me, I got Jim to start a file.

Jim?

Madeline made a face at her. "If you ever went to the trouble of coming to the station, you’d know Jim Borlie was my new personal assistant. Would you believe Jim and I went to school together? We’d lost touch, but he contacted me a few weeks ago and I gave him a job. Anyway, he’ll be here in a minute to brief me on any last-minute changes, so you can meet him. She passed over a black folder. Here are the rest of the letters. You will stay, won’t you? We can have dinner afterwards."

I don’t know, Madeline, I’m very busy…

Madeline carefully removed the tissues protecting the neckline of her tailored pale green dress from the heavy studio makeup. You always seem to get the high profile cases. I can’t imagine why they don’t assign you to some ordinary, grubby little murder for a change.

Carol grimaced. I wish they would. Tala Orlando’s death has the media sharks in a feeding frenzy.

I can’t believe she killed herself. Madeline swung around in her chair, her expression somber. At the dinner party the night before she died she was in great form. Suicide seems so out of character. I’m sure it was a stupid, pointless accident. Don’t you think so?

I don’t know yet. Carol knew that many people who later committed suicide would exhibit quite cheerful behavior after they had made a firm decision to die because they felt relief that their emotional suffering was going to end.

Or you’re not saying. Madeline was clearly exasperated.

Of course Tala Orlando’s death would have been big news at any time, but as it had been a particularly slow news week, the media excitement had been even more frenzied when her body had been found, seated in the front seat of her burgundy Rolls, its engine still purring reliably, in her locked garage. MEDIA MOGUL’S MYSTERY DEATH, the headlines had screamed.

It could have been a standard suicide, but the evidence wasn’t conclusive and persistent rumors that there was something sinister about her death had kept interest in the case hot. That afternoon Carol had attended a media briefing where she had made calming our inquiries are continuing noises to impatient reporters.

The media interest was understandable. Tala Orlando had been a larger-than-life personality with a rags-to-riches career as an independent television producer. Now, Carol thought soberly, she was chilled flesh in the morgue refrigerator, waiting for Carol to decide whether a crime had been committed and when to release her body to the family.

Madeline put her hand on Carol’s arm. Tala and I were friends, even though professionally we were at war over the time slot for her new quiz show. She was so vital—I have trouble believing I’ll never see her again.

I can’t say you’ll be the first to know, but I’ll tell you when there’s something concrete.

Why do I bother cultivating you, Carol? Madeline’s tone was sardonic. "You never give me an exclusive on anything. I mean, one of my best friends dies, and you won’t even give me any details, in spite of the fact I’ve answered every question you asked about her."

"Could it be that the Shipley Report will be doing a special on Tala Orlando? Is that why you want to pump me?"

Anger flashed across Madeline’s face. Look, Carol, I’m not pumping you for information to put in some program. I was close to Tala and I’m terribly upset that she’s gone. I miss her and I don’t understand how she could have died. That’s why I want to know.

Embarrassed by her own cynicism, Carol said placatingly, Forgive me, but it seems everybody wants to get the inside word. Wanting to change the subject, she picked up the black folder Madeline had given her. Who’s touched these letters?

Just Jim and me. Madeline looked a little smug. You’ll be wanting to fingerprint us both, I know.

I won’t be involved, Madeline. This should go to the locals. I’ll call and make sure they take it seriously.

Madeline was obviously taken aback. "But I expected you to do something about it…"

I’m sorry. It just isn’t possible. Carol flipped over a page in the folder. It could be someone who has a grudge against you. How about your ex-husband?

He’s not ex, Carol. We’re separated. Permanently. I just haven’t got around to divorcing him. She stood to brush any specks of makeup from her dress. I don’t think for a moment it’s Paul sending these letters. He’s overseas, and besides, it’s not his style.

Have you spoken lately?

No, and I don’t intend to. We’ve got nothing to say to each other and—

She broke off as there was a soft knock at the door. The soft-bodied man with rounded shoulders came into the dressing room. He smiled broadly when he saw Carol. Inspector Ashton! I’m Jim Borlie. He shook her hand warmly. It’s great to meet you. Frankly, I’ve admired you from afar for years. He looked at the folder in her hands. Madeline’s told you about our little problem with the letters.

I’ll be taking them for analysis.

She regarded him with interest. Jim Borlie was new at the station, and Carol automatically considered him as a possible source of the letters. Even if Madeline had gone to school with him, she couldn’t know what he was like now. Neatly dressed in tan slacks and a blue pullover, he was about Carol’s height but with disproportionately small hands and feet for a man. He had wide-set brown eyes and very even white teeth that made his smile particularly attractive. His manner was amiable, easy-going.

He handed Madeline a metal clipboard. No probs. Everything’s going smooth as silk tonight, but just to make sure I’ll go and check the studio.

At the door he was shouldered out of the way by a tall, strongly built man who barged into the room. Jesus, Madeline!

Composed, Madeline said, Carol, do meet our station manager, Gordon Vaughan. Gordon, this is Detective Inspector Ashton.

We’ve met, briefly. He gave Carol a perfunctory nod. Vaughan’s dark hair was flecked with gray and he had a predatory face, with a hook nose and a heavy jaw. Shoving a sheet of paper at Madeline, he said, This just came through on my personal fax machine. The guy’s obviously a psycho. While Madeline read the fax, Vaughan said to Carol, The media briefing about Tala was the second item on our six o’clock news. His mouth curled cynically. I must say you’ve made an art form out of saying nothing much, Inspector. You’ll understand that as a close friend of the Orlando family I’m very interested to know what you really think about her death.

Perhaps we can discuss it tomorrow, Mr. Vaughan. I’ll be calling to make a time to see you, just to clear up a few matters.

I hope this whole thing can be wrapped up soon, Inspector. It’s very hard on the family and friends. He switched his attention to Madeline. Well? What do you think?

Madeline was pale, but she said nonchalantly, It’s not a big deal. He’s written to me before.

Why wasn’t I told about it? Vaughan sounded aggrieved. That’s why we have security at the station.

Madeline shrugged. I asked Carol to have a look at the letters—

We can handle this internally. Vaughan took a deep breath. There’s no reason to get the police into the act.

Madeline was matter-of-fact. Gordon, if I ran to you every time a would-be fan sent me something like this I’d spend most of my time in your office.

Your safety is my responsibility, he said flatly.

At the least the local police should be advised, said Carol. And it’s quite conceivable another media personality has been his target before. If so, tracing him might not be difficult.

Carol, I’d like you to be involved.

Carol tried not to show her impatience. Madeline, I’ve already explained why I can’t.

Perhaps you’ll change your mind, said Madeline as she handed her the fax, "when you know that he mentions you."

Chapter Two

TO: GORDON VAUGHAN

Madeline wasn’t there Friday night at seven. You should make her obey you, Gordon. She needs to be punished, don’t you agree? I’ve asked her, over and over, to smile for me, to say, hello, Marquis, I’m thinking of you. That’s all, but she won’t do it.

If I were you, I’d whip her, a little harder each stroke, to show her who’s boss. Or battery acid in her eyes. Her wide open eyes. Then she’d be sorry.

That blonde whore cop can’t protect Madeline, no matter how often she’s with her. Night and day, it makes no difference.

Perhaps I’ll get them both in a crowd. They’ll think it’s water first, then the burning will start. And the screaming.

Marquis

Carol looked up as Mark Bourke came into her office. She gestured to a chair. How were your holidays?

Great. Roughing it in the Outback in a four-wheel drive is the way to go. We went right up to the very top of Cape York. Forgot all about work and got a suntan.

A suntan? Carol inspected the blistered red of his nose.

He showed no resentment at her amused tone. So Pat got a suntan. I sort of colored up.

I’m delighted you’re feeling fresh and ready to go. That’ll be a help on the Orlando case, which is turning out to be a headache. I’m being politely leaned on to hurry up and make up my mind why she died.

It boils down to accident or suicide, doesn’t it?

It’s true the mixture of tranquilizers and alcohol she’d taken would have made her confused and disoriented, so she could have started the car and then passed out. I get the impression that’s what a lot of people want to hear.

You’re not considering murder?

I’m considering everything. She picked up