Authors: Fern Michaels

Christmas At Timberwoods (2 page)

BOOK: Christmas At Timberwoods

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“You can see everything from here, can’t you?”

Heather kept her expression neutral, hoping Angela’s question was an idle one. It was possible to read a touch of paranoia into it. “Pretty much. That’s just part of my job. You were saying?”

“Oh. Where was I?” Angela looked fixedly at Heather as if she had the answer.

“You were talking about things you saw sometimes.”

Angela nodded and pushed a straggling lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Once I got so upset I didn’t eat, and I ended up in the hospital.”

“When was that?” Heather asked, not really wanting to know.

“A while ago the doctors said I was hypersensitive. God!” Angela exclaimed pitifully. “I wish I wasn’t. But this feeling—that something bad is going to happen at the mall—is so strong. I wanted to talk to someone who works here,” she said in an almost inaudible voice. “Maybe it’s just me.”

Heather didn’t know whether to say yes or no to that. She noticed that Angela hadn’t offered specifics about her current prediction.

“Angela, as far as I know, it’s business as usual. Christmas is crazy, of course. But that’s nothing new. I appreciate your coming to talk to me about your concerns, but if you don’t mind my saying so, we all know that the holidays can be difficult for a lot of people. So,” she reasoned, “it isn’t just you. But it sounds to me like you might need someone who knows more than I do to talk to. You know, professional help—”

“I told you, I’ve had the pleasure. Several times. Different psychiatrists,” Angela retorted. “They scribble prescriptions and hand you a bill. They don’t listen. Not really.” She scowled. “Guess I’m experiencing another one of my ‘fits,’ as my mother calls them.”

“Angela, I—” Heather hesitated. “I don’t know what to say.” Tactful and true. And the best she could do.

“I want to ask you a question. When’s the height of the season?”

“The week before Christmas.”

Angela paled as she mentally counted the days. “Today is December fifteenth.”

“Yes, and Christmas Day is next Thursday. The stores are open until six on Christmas Eve,” Heather said, alarmed. “Why?”

Angela rubbed her temples. “Ten days to Christmas.” Her voice was a choked whisper, frightening Heather again.

“Angela, your parents—what if I went with you to discuss this? Would that help?” Heather’s manner was slightly cajoling. She wanted Angela Steinhart out of her office as soon as possible, and missing lunch had nothing to do with it. Not a Christmas went by without some people going off the deep end. She hoped and prayed that Angela wasn’t going to do the same thing, but it wasn’t her job to psychoanalyze or open up a holiday hotline for the unstable.

“What for? They’ll tell you it’s a nervous condition or another of my bids for attention.” Angela laughed uneasily. “My mother wants me locked up. If she finds out I’ve come to you, it’ll give her all the ammunition she needs to have it done. Regardless of what my father wants. And do you know something? At this point, I almost don’t care. Sometimes I think my mother’s right. Maybe I am a lunatic.”

The blunt speech ended as suddenly as it had begun. Angela shook her head and got up, slinging her bag over her shoulder and going to the door without a word of good-bye. Heather was speechless as she watched her visitor leave the office. She breathed a sigh of annoyance.
Why did she have to come and dump on me?
she thought.
Now I’ll probably have to fill out a report.

And the report would have to be filed with her boss, the chief of security. It did come under the heading of strange and unusual circumstances. Heather groaned. Security would overreact and say that they were following mandated guidelines. Instead of seeing that Angela Steinhart was in need of psychiatric help, they would go off the deep end themselves and create chaos. The bomb squads would arrive with their sniffer dogs, all the employees would have to work overtime, the Steinharts would be alerted, and Angela herself would be hauled in for questioning.

And all because an imaginative girl had bad dreams—Heather would bet anything that had been the trigger for Angela’s forebodings—and let holiday jitters get to her. Throw in a dysfunctional family and everything intensified. She’d wanted to vent or simply wanted attention and was obviously afraid of her parents. Well, Heather got to vent, too. She would do what everyone else did around here: she would dump on Felex Lassiter.

Breezing through the outer office, past the receptionist’s desk and down the wood-paneled corridor, she opened the door to the office which bore Felex Lassiter’s name and title. Nodding to his assistant, she said, “I’d like to talk to Felex.”

The assistant managed a thin smile. “Go in. Don’t tell him I sent you.”

Heather opened the door marked PRIVATE.

“Can’t you read?” he said with a wink.

“Felex, something’s come up. But first, pour me a drink, will you? A really, really small one,” she directed firmly. “And in answer to your next question, I’m not driving home for another two hours.”

Felex Lassiter pushed his chair back from his desk and frowned at the beautiful woman opposite him. His eyes narrowed. She was upset. Sometimes he wasn’t sure she had what it took to handle the high level of stress that came with working in a big, famous mall like Timberwoods. Her guts weren’t encased in steel like the others in security. Not that it was now, or had ever been, his decision to hire her. Dolph Richards, the mall’s obnoxious CEO, had insisted, saying she had the best-looking legs he had ever seen.

It wasn’t politically correct to say so out loud, but Lex had to agree. His pulse took on a faster rhythm as he watched her. He’d been attracted to her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, and instinct told him she had felt the same. So why hadn’t he ever asked her out? A simple movie date, a dinner, something? Shrugging away his thoughts, he walked over to a compact glass and chrome cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey.

“Easy does it,” he said as he poured a scant shot and handed her the diminutive glass. “It’s not quitting time yet, and I’m not supposed to keep this stuff around.”

She took it from him and held it. “Lex, I want to talk to you about something. I’m not quite certain I know how to handle this—I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Start by finishing your drink and we’ll take it from there.”

Gratefully, Heather sipped at the liquid. She sipped again and felt herself relax.

Settling into a chair, she crossed her legs, willing herself to be calm, playing for time. She did a swift mental review of what she knew about Felex Lassiter. He was cool in a crisis, levelheaded, and always considerate—a man whose strength could be depended upon. In his early thirties, his good nature and quiet authority won him the respect of his associates, while his handsome blond looks and athletic build won winsome smiles from the female assistants and junior execs.

Heather agreed with the consensus that Lex wasn’t all about razzle-dazzle—unusual for a public relations man. It seemed people just naturally responded to his sincerity. Wasn’t this the reason she had sought him out now to help her gain some perspective on the Angela Steinhart problem? In truth, Heather was strongly attracted to him, but he had never made a move to kindle a relationship outside the office.

“Lex, did you meet Angela Steinhart?” she finally began.

Lex nodded. “Of course. She designed those fantastic Christmas displays. Best ever. Talented artist. Very imaginative.”

“Maybe too imaginative.”

Lex looked quizzically at Heather. “I’m not following you.” He waited patiently for Heather to make her point.

“Today she came to see me and told me that she thinks something bad is going to happen at the mall.”

“Like what? A commando raid on the cookie store?”

“Ha ha.” Heather set aside her drink. “She didn’t really say. But she made it clear enough that she, um, sees things and then they happen.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“She wasn’t. Just said that accidents happen and she knows about them beforehand and that it’s been going on for a while. Meaning, I think, that she has visions.”

“Go on.”

Heather recounted the story of Angela’s visit. “The strange part is that in less than a minute she had me half-convinced that something was going to happen. But what can I do?”

Lex sat upright, listening intently. Concluding her story, Heather lowered her voice and got up to pace the office.

“Absolutely nothing.” Lex’s tone was measured and calm.

“I don’t want to believe it. I’d rather think that this is what she says her parents think it is—a bid for attention, pitiful though it may be. However, I do have to file a report, and when security reads it we both know what’s going to happen.”

“Right,” Lex agreed, considering her last statement. “These days they overreact.”

“Exactly. I’d hate to bring all that aggravation down on Angela’s head, but what else can I do?”

“Pull a few strings and bring in some outside manpower. But keep things quiet.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “I was thinking the same thing. But I wish I knew what we’re up against. If anything.”

“You don’t have to know. Just cover your bases, that’s all.”

“I wish she had told me more. I can’t even make an intelligent judgment. Heck, I don’t know anything about premonitions or ESP.”

“I do, in a limited way.”

Heather shot him a disbelieving look and hesitated, remembering the troubled expression in Angela’s eyes. “Really? Tell me.”

“Sure. How about over dinner? On me.”

“Ah—okay.” Her lips curved in an accepting smile. “I’d like that. It’s been a long, long day.”

“Why are you fidgeting?” Her voice held the barely disguised note of harshness that was always present when she addressed her only child; so different from her usual languorous speech.

“I have to talk to you. It’s important,” Angela pleaded, her thoughtful brown eyes watching her mother intently. “And you have to listen to me. I had another vision.”

Sylvia Steinhart evaded Angela’s gaze. “For heaven’s sake. Can’t you see I’m in a hurry? You always do this to me. Today is the stockholders’ meeting and I don’t have a spare minute.”

“But I need to talk to you,” Angela persisted, reaching out to touch her mother’s arm. “It’s about those things I see . . .”

“You mean those things you say you see!” Sylvia Steinhart backed off a step, a look of impatience on her face. Then, to change the subject, to talk about anything besides Angela’s delusions, she asked, “When was the last time you wore clothes that weren’t covered in paint and craft glue? You reek of both. A little perfume and a pretty dress wouldn’t kill you.”

“I have work to do.”

“Oh yes. Such important work. Doodling and daydreaming.”

“It’s important to me,” Angela retorted.

“Hmph. You hardly ever come out of that glorified closet you call a studio.”

“That’s where I work, Mother. And I’m happy there.”

“Well, I’m sorry we let you take over that room. It’s always a mess.”

“Don’t, Mother. Just don’t. Take the time to listen.”

“Oh, really, Angela.” Sylvia snickered, turning her back on her daughter. “Not now. I’ve got to look and be my best, and you’re upsetting me.”

“It’s always ‘not now.’ Every time I need you, you’re either going to the office or the theater. If it isn’t the theater, then it’s the hairdresser. When will you have time to talk to me? Give me some idea!” Angela’s exasperation was edged with defiance, but her eyes were filled with unshed tears.

Sylvia glanced up from fastening the clasp on her watch and saw that Angela hadn’t budged. “Time is money,” she began, then stopped herself. “Oh, that must be it. You need money. Here.” Sylvia reached into her purse, opened her wallet, and pulled out five crisp twenty-dollar bills. She tossed them on the shiny surface of the cherrywood table, hoping to distract her daughter.

“I don’t want your money, Mother.” Angela’s voice shook with emotion. “I want to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Something’s going to happen, something terrible—”

Sylvia’s mouth tightened. “I’m not as indulgent as your father, Angela. And I refuse to hear anything more about these so-called visions of yours. Most of the psychiatrists said it’s only your way of getting attention,” Sylvia scoffed.

“Most. Not all.”

Sylvia waved a dismissive hand. “Right. One did diagnose you with dissociative personality disorder, whatever that means. And there was that last one—the doctor you liked, who kept talking about ‘fugue states.’ I wasn’t sure if he was a shrink or a piano teacher.”

“Guess what. That term actually means something,” Angela said softly. “Too bad you’re not interested in finding out more.”

“I’m just thankful they all gave up and no one else knows. If word got around, I’d never be able to show my face in public again.”

BOOK: Christmas At Timberwoods

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