CHAPTER ELEVEN

1

“Robbie and I located Renée Eastman’s car, sir,” Deputy Jeff Beal said as he sat across from Eric Montgomery on Wednesday morning.

Eric looked up from his paperwork. “Where?”

“In the garage of the vacant cottage to the south of the Eastman place. The lock on the manual door had been broken recently, I’d say within the last couple of weeks.” Jeff shook his head. “It shouldn’t have taken us so long to find it.”

“Sometimes the most obvious place is the best spot to hide something,” Eric said. “Sounds to me like right next door to the crime scene was a fairly clever hiding place. What did you find in it?”

“In the glove compartment was registration, car insurance documentation, car keys, and what Robbie called a ‘cosmetics case’ loaded with lipsticks and mascara and other whatnots women use. A couple of coats were hanging in the back. We took a quick look in the trunk and found a couple of suitcases and something Robbie called an ‘urban weekender.’ Looked like a big duffel bag to me. We didn’t open them, of course.”

“You didn’t find a .22-caliber revolver in the car?”

“I would have told you that first thing, sir.”

“So we still don’t have the murder weapon.”

“No, but the car is at Forensics now. Maybe they’ll find it. It could be in one of the suitcases,” Jeff added hopefully.

“Right.” Eric glanced down at the papers he’d been reading. “This is the Nicolai Arcos autopsy report. He had four puncture marks on his back. They were cauterized, so they must have come from a Taser.”

“So he was hit twice.”

Eric nodded. “He was a big man, and from the amount of drugs in his system one hit might not have been enough. Scratches on his nose and forehead indicate he probably landed on his face. Then the murderer flipped him over and shot him through the right eye at close range. But here’s the really interesting part. Ballistics show that the gun used to kill Renée Eastman wasn’t the same one used to kill Arcos. The bullets don’t match.”

“But they were both .22s,” Jeff said slowly. “You’d expect someone to use a .38 to be certain of a kill.” Eric nodded again. “So someone knew Renée Eastman had been shot with a .22.”

“Yes. They also knew she’d been shot in the right eye. And they found something else unusual.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Jeff admitted.

“Arcos dressed flamboyantly—all part of the exotic-artist image according to Ken Nordine. Arcos also liked jewelry, especially a platinum hoop earring with a half-carat diamond and an heirloom tiger’s-eye ring. Nordine said Arcos had other stuff, too, but those two pieces seemed to be his favorites and any jewelry he wore was expensive.”

Eric continued, “When Arcos was found, he had his wallet with over two hundred dollars in it and the earring and ring—he wasn’t killed during a robbery.” Jeff nodded. “What I didn’t tell Nordine was that Arcos was also wearing four long strings of purple metallic Mardi Gras throw beads.”

“Throw beads?” Jeff echoed.

“I’ve never been to Mardi Gras, but I’ve read about it, so I did a little more research. The beads are just cheap decorations people throw off the floats to the crowds lining the streets.”

“Well now, isn’t that interesting,” Jeff said seriously with a slightly befuddled look on his face.

“Beal, my point is that they’re cheap. You can order five dozen from the Internet for less than ten dollars.” Jeff raised his eyebrows. “I also learned that there are usually three bead colors—green, gold, and purple—that have meaning. Green is for faith. Gold is for power.” Eric waited a second before saying with significance, “And purple is for justice.”

2

Ian Blakethorne stood watching a gleaming white Learjet 45 as it taxied, accelerated, then rushed down the sixty-foot runway. It lifted off, the white of the jet contrasting with the background of a clear, cerulean blue sky and the crystalline, rainbow colors refracting through the mist of Aurora Falls. Ian closed his eyes for a moment, wondering where the jet was headed—to the Caribbean, he hoped, not knowing why. Today, he simply had a desire to visit Jamaica. Instead, he would be having lunch with his father at Blakethorne Charter Flights.

Ian walked back to the terminal. He remembered the original building, which had been small and intimate. As the business grew, his father had expanded the terminal to over twice the original size when Ian was barely twelve. He recalled preferring the old, small version, perhaps because it reminded him of what life had been like before the car wreck, when his father sometimes brought him to the airport to see an incoming or outgoing flight, then take him into the terminal to Cici’s Café, where he always had a banana split.

Five years ago, his father had decided to expand the business, adding rentals of high-end recreational vehicles as well as lavish medium-to-large tour buses. Everyone had told him he was overextending himself, but the venture had taken off with a speed that seemed to astonish even Lawrence. Ian remembered his father boasting about renting buses to rock bands like the Dave Matthews Band and The Pretenders, although Lawrence had only the vaguest knowledge of their music or history. He’d only known they were rich and famous.

Shortly afterward, Lawrence had demolished the old terminal and built a new one that had impressed the locals, who said it looked like a commercial airport. It featured wide corridors, tastefully decorated waiting areas, three fast-food outlets, two casual bistros, a formal restaurant, and a myriad of stores, including drugstores, bookshops, a discount store, a luggage shop, and five bars. Lawrence Blakethorne always laughed when he recalled architects hotly telling him five bars were far too many. Years later, he could boast that they accounted for more income than all the restaurants put together.

Ian took the escalator to the second floor and strode to the wide double doors at the end leading into his father’s office. Lawrence gave Ian a quick wave with one hand while holding a phone set in the other, talking loud and fast. Ian nodded, but rather than sitting down, he wandered around the office.

Naturally, his father had designed his own office, not leaving it to the more modest tastes of the architects. The room occupied the entire space at the back of the corridor. He’d picked a deep royal blue for the rich carpet that contrasted with the much lighter, steel blue walls decorated with large, beautifully framed photographs of jets, impressive twin-engine airplanes, and his own first plane: a used single-engine red and white Piper, which was still carefully maintained and sitting at the rear of a hangar. A huge mahogany desk dominated the room, with a heavy, beautiful mother-of-pearl gemstone globe mounted in gold, sitting near the left corner. It had been given to him by Patrice last Christmas. The globe’s luminescent colors sparkled in the light flowing through bay windows completely covering the wall behind the desk and overlooking the runway where the Learjet had just ascended.

On the credenza sat an eighteen-inch-long mahogany model of the Bell XS-1, the first aircraft to exceed the speed of sound at Mach 1.06 on October 14, 1947. The plane had been flown by West Virginian Charles Yeager and christened Glamorous Glennis after Yeager’s wife. Ian had given his father the model four years ago, just after Lawrence had finally met the now-retired Major General Yeager. Ian remembered with pride that Lawrence had never acted more pleased with a gift.

“It’s a deal, then,” Lawrence said firmly. “We’ll talk about it later this evening, but right now I have an important lunch guest waiting. Good doing business with you.”

Lawrence beamed at Ian. “Sorry I didn’t have time to go out to lunch with you, Son,” he said, hanging up the phone.

“You never go out to lunch.”

“Well, I intended to make an exception today. I ordered something good brought in from one of the best terminal restaurants, though. Should be here in about twenty minutes. Have a seat. You’re giving me the jitters walking around here like you’ve never seen my office.”

“Sorry.” Ian sat down in a plush chair across from his father’s desk. “You look tired, Dad.”

Lawrence shook his head and rubbed a spot in the middle of his forehead. “It’s this damned Star Air merger. They’re making it about five times harder than it needs to be. Trying to show how important they are, I guess.”

“Are they that important?”

“Not as important as they think they are, but we need them.” He winked. “Not that we’ll let them know.”

“I wasn’t planning on announcing it.”

Lawrence laughed. “I’m sure you weren’t.” His smile faded slightly. “You know, a few of our executives have expressed some worry about how quiet you are. They seem to think because you’re not walking around here like a big shot, letting everyone know your old man owns Blakethorne and you’ll soon officially be joining the company, you’re not … well … dynamic enough.”

“In other words, I’m too shy to be an asset,” Ian said calmly.

“That’s exactly what they mean.” Lawrence leaned back in his chair and looked appraisingly at his handsome, composed son. “You want to know what I think?”

“Of course.”

“I think people respond to a friendly but reserved man of intelligence who actually listens to them and gives them a response indicating that he’s really listened, not a cliché line he’s repeated ten times already that day, nor a man who is so hearty and full of practiced charm he makes your teeth hurt.” Lawrence leaned forward. “You, Ian, are the first man. You are the man to whom people will respond. And you are my son, my heir. You are exactly the person we need to be second-in-command here at Blakethorne Charter Flights.”

Ian swallowed. “Well, Dad, I’m overwhelmed.”

“I’m not flattering you. I’m simply telling you that if I could have chosen a son, he would be you.”

“That’s high praise, but I’m afraid you’re giving it to me because the Star people have expressed reservations about me.”

“Not at all.”

“Because I don’t want to spoil this deal for you, Dad,” Ian went on. “I know how important it is to you.”

Lawrence’s dark eyes narrowed, a small twitch starting beside the left one. “You’re not to listen to a word of criticism from them. You don’t have to be rude to them—that’s not your way—but I want you to take their ‘suggestions for improvement’ with a grain of salt. Ignore them. This is our business, Ian. They’re lucky we’re even considering a merger, and I don’t want you to forget it—not for one damned minute!”

“All right, Dad. Don’t get so wound up.” Ian smiled. “I’ll just keep on being attentive, diplomatic, unflappable me.”

“You’re damned right you will! And if they don’t show you the proper respect…”

“By God, we’ll blow them off the face of the map!”

Lawrence looked startled at his son’s ferocious face and then laughed when he saw Ian beginning to grin. “That’s not a bad idea considering the way I’m feeling this morning. I’ve been on the phone all morning about the two new hangars we’re building. You can get one hell of a headache from talking about hydraulic doors and lift straps and auto latches and riding arenas and—”

“Stop! You’re giving me a headache.”

Lawrence quieted abruptly and studied Ian. “You do look a little pale today.” As usual, his gaze went directly to the thin scar on his son’s forehead that disappeared into his dark hair. “You’re not getting those headaches again, are you?”

“They started going away when I was seventeen and I haven’t had a hint of one for over two years,” Ian said seriously, referring to the headaches he’d suffered after the car wreck that nearly killed him when he was ten.

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in…” Lawrence lifted his arms. “God, I don’t know how long. You know, Sunday morning when you seemed a little off…”

“You thought I was losing ground. Dad, I’d just had too much to drink the night before. You know I rarely drink—I’m not used to it. Anyway, I’m sorry for being such a buzzkill at brunch.”

“Well, I don’t know what a buzzkill is, but apparently it’s bad if you have to apologize for being one. I need to apologize, too. It’s this damned merger that’s got me going. I work at it seven days a week; I get irritable.”

“I know,” Ian said softly. “I understand.”

“Good. Well, what I want from you now is honesty. Brutal honesty.” Lawrence watched his son sit absolutely motionless, his face almost frozen. “Are you really okay with my marriage to Patrice?”

Ian continued to stare at his father for a moment and then smiled broadly. “Yes, Dad. I’m glad for both of you. This is way overdue.”

“That’s not how everyone feels.”

“You mean Grandmother.”

“Well, I was thinking of her in particular. I mean, she’s dead, but you know how she’d react to this marriage, and the two of you were so close, you must be bothered by how she would have felt.”

“I did love Grandmother, but I didn’t think she was right about everything. Besides, as she would say, the dead are beyond earthly cares.”

“I suppose she would.” Lawrence smiled. “She and I didn’t have many religious discussions.”

“She didn’t have many religious discussions with anyone until she passed her seventieth birthday. Then she wanted me to start going to church with her.”

“And like a good grandson, you did to please Abigail. You idolized your mother. You would have gone with her anywhere, anytime. That’s what almost caused your death.”

Silence spun out for a minute before Ian said quietly, “I didn’t idolize Mom. Actually, I felt as if I barely knew her.”

Lawrence sat bolt upright. “Son, you did idolize her. You spent most of your time with her. You read stories to each other, you played games together—”

“No, we didn’t. And it’s not just that I forgot about those things after the accident. They never happened.”

“But your grandmother said—”

“Grandmother said that’s what life was like for Mom and me. Did Patrice ever say so?”

“No, but then I never questioned her about what went on in our house. She had her own life. She wasn’t around constantly.”

“Well, sometimes Mom went flying around the house, cleaning although we had people to do that. Or she’d get all wound up about how the grounds looked and plant more flowers—lots of flowers, When I got older, she spent most of her time in her room, lying down, or listening to music, or staring in the mirror or out of the window. In the summer, she sat at her fishpond in the hedges, reading or smoking cigarettes. When I tried to talk to her, she hardly answered.. She didn’t ask what I’d been up to or if I was behaving myself or even get mad at me for doing something I knew I shouldn’t have done. You see, sometimes I’d test her, just to see if I could make her angry. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have many friends, but she didn’t act at all like their mothers did.” Ian’s blue-gray gaze grew troubled. “Was it me? Was I a disappointment to her?”

Lawrence slowly shook his head, picked up a gold pen, and began turning it nervously between his strong fingers. “I’ve never told you this, but your mother had a form of what they call bipolar disorder now. Back then, medications weren’t as effective at treating it.”

“She had bipolar disorder?” Lawrence nodded. “But I don’t remember her ever being in a hospital or going away to rehab.”

“As I said, Abigail’s case wasn’t serious.” Lawrence halted. “Well, I’ll just be honest. Your grandmother wouldn’t hear of her being sent away, even to a rehab facility for a few weeks.”

“She was ashamed of Mom?” Ian asked in angry dismay.

“No! Not at all. She just thought of Abigail’s problem as being an illness, not a condition that could easily be treated by drugs. Your grandmother adored Abigail. I think she was terrified of hearing that there was something seriously wrong with her mind, something that doctors couldn’t cure, something that would only get worse with age.” Lawrence looked down at his desk. “I should have told you long ago. I should have done something, in spite of what Abigail’s mother thought.” Lawrence dropped his pen, reached for it but couldn’t seem to close his hand around its narrow length. He ignored it and looked at Ian. “I’m sorry, Son. I didn’t know how much Abigail shut you out of her life.”

“You were never home to see it,” Ian said without reproach. “You left early in the mornings and didn’t come home when most of the other dads did. You were always working.”

Lawrence held his son’s gaze. “I started this place from nothing. I devoted myself to Blakethorne Charter.”

“Grandmother always told me your parents were poor.” Ian hesitated. “She told me you married Mom for her money.”

“Goddammit!” Lawrence shouted. “I knew she told other people that, but to fill my own son’s head with that crap was unforgivable! That woman—” Lawrence broke off, his tanned face suffused with fury.

“She said your only attraction to my mother was the money Grandfather had left her when he died.”

“Well, I hope I don’t have to tell you that’s not true. Your mother was gentle, kind, warmhearted, and beautiful in that pale, delicate way of hers.” He finally managed a grin. “She even passed on her most beautiful feature to her son, Dreamy Eyes.”

Ian rolled his long-lashed blue-gray eyes. “Please don’t tell me you started that nickname.”

“Me? You think I’d call my son Dreamy Eyes?” Lawrence scoffed. “Blame that one on the little girl in rehab that had a crush on you. The nurses picked it up and it went around town.”

Ian laughed. “I remember that girl. Mostly I remember Catherine Gray, though. I had a crush on her.”

“I remember.”

“She was working in the rehabilitation unit that summer—volunteering,” Ian said almost idly. “She spent so much time with me. She’s the one who read with me and played games with me.” He laughed. “We even watched soap operas together. And she didn’t forget me after I went home. She visited me every two or three weeks for the next year. After she went to school in California, she always stopped by when she was home on holidays.”

“Good lord, Son, you sound like you’re in love with her.”

Ian’s gaze grew more alert. “Do I?” He smiled. “Catherine’s just a great person. I wish she hadn’t gotten involved with James Eastman.”

“A lot of people think he’s a great person. At least they did until he got involved with that trash.”

“Renée?”

“Who else? You met her.”

“She was nice to me.”

“Oh God, Ian, you look at the world through rose-colored glasses. Of course she was nice to you—you’re handsome and young. You didn’t have much contact with her, though, and you’re not a gossip. Take my word for it—she was beautiful and charming and a whore. I don’t know why James didn’t divorce her within the first year of their marriage. What a fool he was when it came to Renée! Even your grandmother, who thought the Eastmans walked on water, lost respect for him.”

“Well, that must have been a blow to him,” Ian said sarcastically. “Dad, did Patrice resent that Grandmother left all of her money to me and none to her? You can be honest. Don’t try to shield my feelings.”

Lawrence stared at Ian, his dark gaze candid. “No, Son, I can honestly say that your inheritance didn’t bother Patrice. I would know if it had.” He tapped his fingers on the table. His parents had been excellent business partners. They had made a great deal of money together and his father decided, maybe urged by his mother, that he wanted to leave most of his fortune to Abigail. “Your mother was gentle and frail. I also think your grandfather knew she wasn’t emotionally stable. He didn’t want her to have the pressures of a career, but he did want her to be very comfortable. He’d already died and when I met her she was a wealthy woman, but she had no goals in life except being a wife and mother.

“Patrice was different,” Lawrence went on. “Even when I met her when she was thirteen, she was driven. Her father left her a very generous trust, which she used wisely for law school and investments of her own. After your grandfather’s death, your grandmother continued successfully with her own business ventures.

“She told Patrice she intended to leave her fortune to you—not to both of you. Patrice always suspected this was because of the accident that almost killed you. No one could convince your grandmother that you’d completely recovered. She wanted you to have a substantial nest egg in case your health failed because of your injuries. Patrice learned to accept her mother’s peculiarities a long time ago. She didn’t resent the inheritance being left solely to you. She was doing fine on her own. Besides, now she’s marrying me. She’ll never have to worry about money.”

“I’m glad. It’s bothered me, but I was afraid if I asked her, she’d … well…”

“Lie to you to make you feel better?” Ian nodded. “She would have told you being left out of the will didn’t bother her, but she wouldn’t have been lying.”

“I feel so much better.”

“I wish I’d known you were worried. I could have put your mind at ease.” Lawrence smiled easily. “Anyway, since your grandmother’s will was probated a couple of months ago, you’ll have your own money to invest in our business. You’ll be my partner, legally and financially, so unless you have doubts or unhappiness about my marrying Patrice, I’d say this situation is just about perfect.”

“I guess it is,” Ian agreed.

“You guess? Is something troubling you, Son?”

“Only that I promised Grandmother I wouldn’t invest my inheritance in Blakethorne Charter.” Ian waited a moment and then shook his head. “But Grandmother didn’t always know what was best. And as she herself said, the dead are beyond earthly cares.”

3

“Good afternoon. Nordine Gallery. May I help you?”

“Bridget, it’s Mrs. Nordine. I need to speak to Mr. Nordine.”

“Oh, Dana!” The twenty-six-year-old manager could not see Dana Nordine’s grimace at Bridget’s use of her first name. “You sound so tense that I hardly recognized your voice.”

“I really need to speak with my husband.”

“Oh well, we had to open early and we’re packed with people wanting to see Nicolai Arcos’s work. You know how the value of an artist’s work soars after his death.”

“Yes, I know that, Bridget.”

“And Arcos was murdered!” Bridget Fenmore’s excitement resonated loudly before she seemed to come to herself. “I mean, it’s awful. I didn’t know him very well, but he was young and talented and … well, what happened to him is just terrible!”

“Yes, it was. Everyone is shocked.” And some people are elated, Dana thought. “Bridget, I need to speak to Mr. Nordine.”

“Well, Ken’s talking with some customers right now. I don’t think he wants to be interrupted. Could I have him call you back?”

Dana tried to make herself sound halfway pleasant. “I’m at the hospital with our daughter. She’s very sick. She needs to be admitted and I want to speak to my husband.”

“Mary’s sick? What’s wrong?”

Dana fought to hold on to her patience. “I don’t have a definitive diagnosis yet, but I will in a few minutes. Please get Ken.”

“He’s talking with Mr. and Mrs. Addison and I think he’s just about to make a sale.”

“Ken can explain to the mayor and his wife that his daughter is very ill—which she is—he needs to speak to his wife, and he’ll get back to them as soon as possible. In the meantime, you take over. After all, technically you are the business manager of the gallery, not just a glorified receptionist.”

“Of course I’m not a glorified receptionist!” Bridget returned hotly, just as Dana had known she would. Bridget Fenmore made certain everyone knew the importance of her position at the Nordine Gallery. “It’s just that Ken told me not to disturb him for anything, especially when he looks like he’s getting close to making a sizable sale.”

Dana’s small bit of remaining patience snapped. “Bridget, I have the Addison’s cell-phone number in my directory. I will call them, explain that our daughter is sick, tell them that Ken knew she was ill when I took her to the doctor’s earlier, and that we are now at the hospital waiting for him. I’ll also include the information that Ken has asked not to be bothered for anything if he thinks he has a couple of fish on the line.”

Dana smiled tightly in satisfaction at Bridget’s gasp at her crude reference to the mayor and his wife, potential buyers, as “fish on the line.” “The Addisons would be horrified to think Ken would put selling a painting before his own child’s health,” Dana continued. “I guarantee, Bridget, that information would quash any sales from them and also that Evelyn Addison will spread the news over half of Aurora Falls by bedtime, in which case I wouldn’t expect the gallery to be packed tomorrow.”

“You needn’t make threats, Dana,” Bridget answered sharply.

“It seems that I must. Now, get Mr. Nordine. Immediately.”

Dana heard the phone handset thump down on a desktop before Bridget muttered, “God, what a bitch! No wonder he gets so pissed off.…”

Idiot, Dana thought savagely. But Bridget had a voluptuous body, large dark brown eyes, and long, thick, near-black hair, unlike Dana’s light ash brown that for years she’d been dying as close to Renée’s shade as possible. Bridget looked like Renée—not quite as beautiful, but close. If Dana had not been gone the day Bridget Fenmore applied for the manager job, the young woman would have been out the door before Ken ever got a look at her. Unfortunately, Ken had hired Bridget two months ago and he looked at her frequently—far too frequently. And he intended to keep her as an employee until … Dana closed her eyes. Until when?

“What do you want?” Ken asked abruptly.

Dana took a deep breath. “I want to tell you that the pediatrician sent Mary to the hospital.”

“Why?”

“Why? Ken, don’t you remember how bad she felt this morning?”

“No, not really,” he said vaguely.

“She barely ate and she said her stomach hurt. We sent her to school anyway. They called me two hours ago saying Mary was really in pain and feverish. The pediatrician saw her immediately and sent me directly to the hospital. He thinks she has appendicitis.”

“Appendicitis!”

“Yes, Ken. She told me her tummy has hurt since the middle of the night. If this has been going on for a while, there’s a danger of her appendix rupturing, so she’ll need an appendectomy soon. You have to meet me here now.”

“At the hospital?” Ken asked distractedly. “You want me to come to the hospital now?”

“Of course now.”

“Dana, people were lined up outside the gallery at ten this morning because of the Arcos exhibit. This place is full of people. I can’t leave now. Besides, you have all the insurance information and her birth certificate and—”

“What would I need her birth certificate for?”

“I don’t know.” He spoke away from the phone, telling someone he’d be with them in just an instant. “Dana, Bridget and I are too busy to even think straight. This is the biggest day we’ve ever had. You can handle this thing with Mary. I don’t know why you’re even calling me. You and Dr. What’s-his-name know more about Mary’s condition than I do. Besides, he’s such an alarmist—she’s probably just fine. The other doctors will see that and there won’t even be an operation. Anyway, I’m busy as hell, so get a handle on things and get back here as soon as possible. I need you.”

“Oh, you need me, do you?”

“Sure I do. I told you we’re crowded as hell. I tell you, I can get double, maybe even triple the asking price for some of Arcos’s work.” He muttered to someone else again and then spoke distractedly to Dana. “Give Mary a kiss for me. Get back soon. I tell you, Dana, this is the great time for me!”

For you, Dana thought furiously after he’d hung up. Not for Mary, not for me. For you. He used to think when he married a woman from a well-heeled background, that had been great for him. Since he’d bought the rights to all of Arcos’s work, though, now had become the great time for him—maybe the greatest.

Dana looked blindly down the busy hospital hall, her gaze hardening as her mind focused on the handsome, self-involved, unethical man to whom she’d given so much for so long. She didn’t even realize she spoke her single thought aloud: “Well, Ken Nordine, we’ll just see how long your latest great time lasts.”