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2:35 p.m. Saturday, August 29th, 1992
SAM shot across the room and slid underneath the bed the second she heard the knock at the door. He wouldn’t have knocked coming into his own rooms, so it couldn’t be Turner. But it might be the butler, coming to take care of something the maid would’ve been sent to do if she hadn’t abruptly quit. And the butler’s knock would only be a perfunctory prelude to entering.
After sitting and thinking for a while in a quiet, dark corner of the garage, Sam had fallen asleep and missed her chance to search Turner’s suite while all the guests were eating lunch. Then, as she had been sneaking back in past the kitchen, she’d heard Mrs. Trimble and Padget talking about Mr. Hope and the lawyer being shut up in the study again. Taking this second chance, Sam had slipped up here only a few minutes ago. She’d yet to start searching when that knock came.
She was glad she’d moved fast—only a moment or two after that knock, the knob turned and somebody slowly opened the door and stepped softly into the room. Hiding under Turner’s bed, all she could see were a pair of legs moving around, but that was enough to recognize Elaine Keener.
Then the woman’s high voice called out quietly. “Yoo-hoo. Turner? Are you in here?”
Then Sam remembered some speculation she’d read in the tabloid articles about the Keeners. Gossip had the widow in an illicit relationship with Mr. Keener’s right-hand man. At the time she’d had no idea that meant Turner. When she had learned who Brandt’s trusted aide was, she still hadn’t connected the story with Turner. Because that wasn’t the man she knew. But what with the woman visiting him in this furtive manner, Sam had to wonder. Bailey had said Turner might have changed, but could he have changed that much?
Elaine seemed to finally figure out that no, Turner wasn’t there, because her legs spun around and walked out, the door being eased shut behind them. Sam breathed a sigh of relief and slithered out from under the bed. At least it hadn’t been as cramped as beneath the sofa in the parlor this morning.
She needed to get busy searching the room, before Turner came back or someone else tried to pay him a visit. The first Mrs. Keener was currently unattached, as was the daughter. Talia certainly might show up suddenly. Even seeing Mrs. Trimble trying to sneak into Turner’s suite wouldn’t have surprised Sam.
She started with the wardrobe, where she found a couple of nice blue suits and a couple of nice dress shirts, but no ties. There were several denim shirts, many pairs of blue jeans, and a spare pair of cowboy boots. There was a bible on the nightstand, but not even a clock otherwise. And she found nothing personal in the bathroom but shampoo, toothpaste, an empty glass, and a shaving kit. If such things could be called personal.
It certainly looked as if Turner was still living in a monastic style. That didn’t seem to fit with Elaine Keener creeping into his room, but then he’d always attracted such attention without seeming to want it. That could’ve changed, or the widow might be chasing him the same as so many others had. Without a chance.
Sam had a lot of questions to put to him, but she wasn’t sure where to start, so she’d just see what he had to say for himself and go from there. There was no sense worrying about it ahead of time. Sighing to herself because it might be a while, she sat down on the foot of the bed and waited in the dark.
The door swinging open and the lights snapping to life woke her up. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, not that it mattered, but it was enough that she had to blink the sleep out of her eyes to see Turner stepping into the room. He stared at her for a second, then swiftly shut the door behind him.
He walked halfway across the floor, giving her a good long look, and she returned the favor. She had only gotten a glimpse or had a hazy view of him before now, and she thought he seemed somehow older. Not that it showed. If there were any gray hairs among the blond, she couldn’t see them. There certainly weren’t any wrinkles. He was tanned now, instead of pale, but his skin was still smooth.
He frowned when he spoke her name. “Samantha. Once I saw Bailey, I assumed you would be the leader here, but then you weren’t around anywhere, and I found my locator app pointing to Bailey. Have you passed the mantle of leadership over to him?”
Sam squinted at him. He seemed awfully composed under the circumstances. “No, just my watch, so you wouldn’t be able to track me down. But how did you know I was a leader now?”
“Page showed me the letter you sent her. Technically, she’s my leader now.”
Sam took a startled breath. “What happened to Anya?”
“Don’t worry, nothing horrible happened to her like with the professor. As far as I know. She traded me for Tate—he’s a better helper for her, anyway.”
Thank God Anya was alright. “The professor?”
Turner shook his head. “You don’t know about anything, do you? I guess you haven’t run into anybody else since we landed. The professor died, and his watch was broken, so we can’t go home.”
Well, that explained why nobody had ever come looking for her and Bailey. Sam had known instinctively all along that something must’ve gone terribly wrong with the expedition. Now she knew what.
But she still had a lot of questions. “So who’s in charge now, and what are they doing? And why are you here without your leader?” Tate might be good for Anya, but Page was not the right leader for Turner—with his pretty face to influence her, she probably let him get away with anything.
“There’s only so much I can tell you.” He looked around the room, but at what, Sam didn’t know. “It seems nobody’s really in charge any more. Page and Anya each have their own research, and they’re doing that how they like. Then there’s whatever you’re doing.”
He was fishing for information, but she was the one asking the questions. “And how did you end up here without Page? Have you been this Mr. Hope all along?” According to the news reports, he had been with Brandt Keener for decades. “And where is everyone else?”
Turner twisted his mouth in an odd expression. “You don’t want to know much, do you? How would I know where or when anybody is, if they’re not here and now?” Then he sighed and shrugged. “We were Traveling with Page, but the trip went wrong, again. I ended up stranded in nineteen sixty-two, and ever since then I’ve been on the slow path.”
Sam noticed he hadn’t explained who ‘we’ were or where they’d been going or why. She felt sure he would only tell her what he wanted her to know and no more, and she wasn’t going to press him further. Not right now. But leaning back and propping herself up with her arms behind her on the bed, she did make a comment. After all, it appeared he had been working for Keener for the last thirty years.
“I didn’t get the impression Brandt Keener was a good man.” She waited to see if he’d volunteer any more information.
Turner shrugged again. “In nineteen sixty-two, I didn’t have any money or legal identification. And no way to live. Brandt helped me build a new life so I could take the slow path back to the future. While he had more than his share of faults, he also had his good points. Especially when he was younger.”
Sam nodded. “So as he got older, he would have been making more enemies, and you know how bad they wanted him dead. So who killed him?”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know if he was murdered—the coroner called it a natural death. If somebody did kill him, I don’t know who.”
Sam stared at him in consternation. “You were here that night, three weeks ago, and you witnessed his death. Do you believe it was natural?”
“It’s not for me to decide, and the police apparently didn’t discover any evidence of homicide. I’m not going to try to do their job. If you want to, that’s your call.”
Sitting up straight, she met his eye with a steady gaze. “I do, and I want you to help me. If you can’t tell me who killed him, you must at least know who the most likely candidates are.” Sam meant to find and expose Brandt Keener’s murderer, and one way or another, Turner was going to help her.
“I owed him a lot.” He said that like it explained everything. “But everyone here that night probably would’ve liked to murder Brandt. Except for Padget and Mrs. Trimble and me. I was here. Do you consider me a suspect?”
“I won’t if you help me find the killer. You must have some ideas of your own about what happened. Who do you suspect, and why?”
“My thoughts wouldn’t do you any good.”
Sam stood up and glared at him. “He made you an executor of his estate and trustee for his children—I’d say you have an obligation to see justice done on his behalf. Surely you owe him that.”
“He was my employer, Samantha, and the job is over. He didn’t ask me to be an executor or trustee, and I have no intention of shouldering that responsibility. Nor of assuming the role of judge to decide what is justice. I don’t owe Brandt a thing, not anymore.”
If she couldn’t get him to tell her his own ideas, maybe she could get some concrete details at least. “Are Stanley and Stephanie Brandt’s biological children? Did he really have those tests run to confirm paternity?”
Turner smiled. “Confirmation is a strong word. He did have those tests run, but that was back in the late sixties and early seventies when they were comparing the substances on the surfaces of blood cells. The best that showed was only a probability of parenthood. He still had his doubts. That was why he specified DNA tests in his will. These days they use the RFLP method, which is a lot more accurate and reliable.”
Sam smiled back at him. “Has anyone ever told you that no one likes a know-it-all, Turner?”
“No, they haven’t. But since I would think it obvious how little I actually know, I’m not surprised.”
“I’m sure you know if Brandt had a relationship with the maid, Talia, and what that was.”
“And I’m sure that was their personal business. It certainly wasn’t and isn’t mine.”
That seemed to shut down more questions concerning Keener’s personal life. Sam glanced around the room for something else to comment on.
“You might as well be living in a hotel room.”
Turner simply nodded. “I’ve always been ready to leave. None of us should make the mistake of believing we’ll stay very long in any one place.”
And yet here Turner had been, in one place and one time, working in one job for the last thirty years without going anywhere. Of course, it didn’t appear he’d had the opportunity to leave.
He strolled over to the wardrobe and kicked off his boots. “I’m tired. Perhaps we should save more catching up for another time.”
Sam nodded her head in agreement. She’d gotten all she could out of him for now, but it was clear he was holding out. The question was whether what he hadn’t revealed would help her catch a murderer, and how she could get him to share.
He walked back over to the door in his stocking feet and opened it just enough to check the corridor. “All clear. But be careful, Samantha.”
She slipped out into the hall without a word and scurried across to the back stairwell, which was also empty for the moment. Descending the steps swiftly, she considered Turner. She didn’t believe he was a murderer, but he’d clearly changed a lot. He’d become more controlled. More mature.
But Sam had changed too. He might not be willing to assume the responsibility for discovering the truth, but she’d had authority thrust upon her. And she would get Brandt Keener’s murderer. Even if it were the last thing she did.