“An unopened credit card statement. There were gas charges at stations all the way up the coast. The last fill-up was not far from the ferry terminal that services Cooper Island.”
“So you and Travis concluded that maybe Purvis had made it to Cooper Island, after all,” Madeline said.
“By then Travis was convinced that the PI had evidence linking Egan to the deaths of Seavers and the woman. He knew that if Purvis had made it this far and if Egan hadn’t killed him—which was evidently the case, according to Louisa—then there was only one place on the island Purvis could have spent the night.”
“The Aurora Point Hotel,” Madeline said. “Everything ended here.”
“We still had no idea what had happened to Purvis, but the fact that your grandmother had closed the place down less than a week after Purvis checked in made us wonder if there was a connection. Travis was afraid that Edith Chase had somehow gotten her hands on the blackmail evidence. He figured if anyone knew the truth, it would be old Tom Lomax.”
“Ramona posed as Tom’s granddaughter,” Daphne said.
“Yes.”
“So if Ramona had been so helpful at every step of the way, why did Travis murder her?” Madeline asked.
“He didn’t,” Patricia said.
“Oh, crap,” Madeline whispered. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
Patricia’s face turned a blotchy red. The gun in her hand trembled. “I was the one who went to meet her that night in the parking lot behind the diner. She was expecting Travis, who had promised to give her a few hundred thousand dollars as payment for the work she had done. She wanted out, you see; she wanted to leave the country. She was getting scared. She demanded her commission.”
“Who was Ramona?” Madeline asked. “Why did you think you could trust her?”
“She was my sister,” Patricia shouted.
Rage electrified the atmosphere around her.
“You murdered your own sister?” Daphne said.
“She was sleeping with him,” Patricia said, her voice very tight. “I found out they were having an affair behind my back. She betrayed me. My own sister betrayed me with my husband.”
“Why come back here?” Daphne said, stunningly calm, as though there weren’t a gun at her head. “Maddie’s right. You should be on your way out of the country.”
“She can’t go,” Madeline said. “Not until she finds the pictures. Right, Patricia? I don’t think you came here just to murder me. You’re here because Ramona warned you that Tom Lomax had figured out that the three of you were all involved in the plot.”
“She said he had photos.” Patricia gave the crowded room a desperate survey. “I tried looking for them but it’s hopeless. Lomax was a hoarder. So today there’s going to be another fire. And when the ashes cool they’ll find your body and the body of your friend. An electrical wiring problem. Very common in old houses. I learned that from Travis. He had a flair for the technical stuff.”
“Are these the photos you’re looking for?” Madeline asked.
She held out the first of the three incriminating photos. Patricia snatched it with her free hand and looked at it, distracted for a few seconds. But the barrel of the gun did not waver. She looked up quickly.
“That’s Travis outside the condo that Ramona was renting in Seattle,” she said. “The bastard met her there. That’s where they fucked. Let me see the others.”
“Sure. My favorite is the one of you and Ramona having coffee together in a small diner. It’s clear you two knew each other. I imagine that will interest the police, since they’re having a problem pinning Ramona’s murder on Travis. This picture makes it clear that you knew the victim quite well. That will make you an instant suspect.”
Panic flashed across Patricia’s face. “Lomax saw us together? Let me have that picture.”
Daphne watched Madeline very steadily. Madeline tightened her grip on Sunrise Sisters and tried to send a silent message.
“Help yourself, Patricia,” she said.
She tossed the remaining photos toward Patricia. The pictures sailed across the room, fluttered wildly, and rained down on the floor.
“Bitch,” Patricia yelped.
She started to swing the gun toward Madeline.
Daphne lurched to the side, crashing awkwardly into Patricia. The move didn’t take Patricia off her feet, but she staggered.
The gun roared. Madeline felt an icy sensation on her left thigh but she was already in motion, the framed picture gripped in both hands.
The leading edge of the frame slammed into Patricia with Madeline’s full weight behind it.
Patricia screamed, stumbled back, lost her balance altogether, and went down hard on her rear. The gun fell to the floor. Daphne went after it.
Madeline slammed the picture downward. Patricia threw up an arm to ward off the blow. Glass shattered.
“You murdered both of them,” Madeline shouted. A volatile cocktail of pain and grief and rage splashed through her in hot waves. She slammed the steel frame down hard on Patricia’s upper arm and shoulder again and again. Blood flowed. “It’s because of you that Grandma and Tom are dead. It’s your fault.”
“No,” Patricia got out. Shock and panic blazed in her eyes. “No, stop. Stop. You’re crazy.”
She tried to scramble out of the way, but she was trapped between the wall and the end of the ancient couch. Madeline moved in for another blow with her steel weapon.
“Maddie, stop,” Daphne yelled. “That’s your blood. Stop.”
The frame was snatched out of her hands before she could strike.
“That’s enough,” Jack said gently. “I’ve got this now.”
She stared at him through a haze of fury and grief and pain.
“Jack,” she whispered.
“I know you want to kill her, but trust me, it’s better if you don’t,” he said.
She thought about that, trying to make sense of it. Jack eased her away from the sobbing Patricia.
“Okay,” Madeline said finally. “Okay.”
“Shit,” Jack said. “Daphne is right. Most of the blood is yours.”
She looked down and saw that the denim on her left leg was soaked with blood.
“Oh,” she said.
The room started to spin around her.
Jack scooped her up and put her down on the sagging sofa. He clamped a hand over the bleeding wound and pressed down hard.
“Hurts,” she said.
Jack ignored her complaint. He pressed harder.
One of the cops—it had to be the chief, Madeline decided—looked at an officer.
“Get the first-aid kit, Mike,” he said. “Then get an aid car out here.”
The officer slammed out of the cottage.
Daphne peeled off her jacket and crouched beside the sofa.
“I can handle this, Jack,” she said.
Jack hesitated and then, seeing that she had created a makeshift pressure bandage with her jacket, he moved aside.
Madeline looked up at Jack. His eyes were very fierce.
“You got my message,” she said.
“The idea of you making homemade corn bread with sour cream was enough to make me very nervous,” he said.
She nodded, satisfied. “Love you.”
“Love you.”
Daphne kept up the pressure on the wound. “How are you doing, Maddie?”
“It hurts like frickin’ hell,” Madeline said. “Oh, God, Daph, I thought she was going to kill you.”
“But she didn’t. You saved my life, Maddie.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. You saved both of us, in fact. I was terrified.”
“Just like I was the night you saved me. We’ll both be okay, though.”
“Yes, we will be okay.”
“Secret sisters f
orever and all that stuff, right?”
“Forever,” Daphne said.
Madeline gave up trying to fight the spinning universe and the pain. She slid into the night.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
“It’s hard to believe that the corn bread recipe was what made Tom start to wonder if Ramona really was his granddaughter,” Madeline said. “After all, he wasn’t much of a cook. I’m surprised he even noticed the secret ingredient in both recipes.”
“My guess is that he had probably picked up several small clues along the way but had tried to ignore them,” Jack said. “Posing as a long-lost relative is a tricky con. Hard to stay in character over time.”
They were gathered in Madeline’s hospital room. The hospital was in Seattle. She had been airlifted off Cooper Island almost immediately after the shooting. Jack and Daphne had followed in the rental car. They had made it to the hospital just as Madeline was coming out of surgery. Neither had left her bedside during the night. Abe had flown in from Phoenix early that morning.
The surgeon had assured everyone that the wound would heal well and leave an interesting scar.
“I’ll bet Ramona messed up several times,” Abe said. “But that recipe might have been the final touch. What were the odds that the new Mrs. Travis Webster had exactly the same secret ingredient in her corn bread recipe?”
“It wasn’t the recipe,” Daphne said.
They all looked at her.
She reached into her purse and took out one of the photos of Ramona that Tom had taken. She set it on the bedside table. Reaching back into her purse, she removed a photocopy of the newspaper picture of Patricia displaying her corn bread.
“Tom was an artist with his camera,” Daphne said. “He looked through the lens with an artist’s eye. If you compare the picture of Patricia Webster with one of Ramona, you can see a certain family resemblance in the profile. I have a hunch that Tom noticed the similarities at some point and started to wonder.”
“That’s it.” Abe snapped his fingers. “You’re right and you’re brilliant. And if Lomax had already started to doubt Ramona, the corn bread recipe might have been enough to make him really curious.”
“So he started following her when she left the island,” Jack said. “He located the condo she was renting and took those pictures of Ramona and Travis together as well as the shot of Ramona and Patricia having coffee. He knew then that he had been conned, but it was too late. He had already told her about the briefcase and what it contained. By the time he put it all together, Ramona and the briefcase were long gone.”
“He wasn’t planning to try to blackmail Webster?” Abe said.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” Jack said. “I think Tom Lomax made the mistake of confiding his secret to his so-called granddaughter. She took the briefcase out of the wall. Later, after he realized that he couldn’t trust Ramona, Lomax went back to room two-oh-nine—probably intending to move the briefcase to a safer location. But by then it was gone.”
“That’s when Tom called me,” Madeline said. She pushed herself higher on the pillow stack, sucking in a sharp little breath when fresh pain lanced her thigh. Jack frowned and started to lunge for the call button. She shook her head. “I’m okay.”
Jack did not look convinced, but he subsided back into his chair.
“Tom told me that he had to talk to me in person,” she continued. “I arrived just as Travis was staging Tom’s death to look like an accident or an interrupted burglary.”
“Travis heard your car in the driveway,” Abe said. “He hid upstairs. And then he concluded that he might as well take the opportunity to get rid of you, too. He had already gotten rid of your grandmother. But he couldn’t be sure how much you knew about what was in the briefcase, especially since it was obvious that Tom had contacted you. He tried to take you out at the same time.”
“But he didn’t get the opportunity because I had already called the cops,” Madeline said. “And then I made the call to my new hotel security agency.”
“After that, the bad guys never stood a chance,” Daphne declared.
“We at Rayner Risk Management pride ourselves on providing first-class service,” Abe assured her.
“We’re sure it was Ramona who searched my condo in Denver?” Daphne asked.
Jack nodded. “Travis admitted that he sent Ramona there to try to get a handle on how much you knew about the events of eighteen years ago. Ramona didn’t find anything in your condo, but she took your computer just to be on the safe side.”
“So, what with one thing and another, I’m out a computer,” Daphne said.
“You’ll want to replace it,” Abe said. “I could help you select a new one.”
“Thank you,” Daphne said.
Abe grinned. “Like I said, we’re a full-service agency.”
Daphne winked at Madeline and then turned a glowing smile on Abe. “What do you say you and I go get a latte? I hear they actually have a Starbucks in Seattle.”
“No kidding?” Abe pushed himself up off the windowsill. “Very progressive town.”
They went out into the hall, leaving Madeline alone with Jack. He got up and moved to stand beside the bed. He loomed over her and took one of her hands in his. The strength in his fingers felt good, she thought. It was the kind of strength you could rely on for a lifetime.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay.” She smiled. “I know things have been a little hectic lately, but you haven’t changed your mind, have you? We’re still getting married, right?”
“Hasn’t anyone told you that once I make up my mind to do something, I’m like a freight train?”
“I believe that particular personality characteristic has been mentioned once or twice. As I understand it, anyone who happens to be standing in your path has two choices—get out of the way or get on board.”
“You’re on board?”
“For the whole trip.”
He leaned over the railing and kissed her. When he raised his head, she saw the promise of a lifetime in his eyes.
“It’s going to be good,” he said.
“Yes. It’s going to be very good.”
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM THE NEXT HARDCOVER BY AMANDA QUICK
’Til Death Do Us Part
AVAILABLE APRIL 2016 FROM BERKLEY BOOKS
She belonged to him.
He was locked inside a cage the size and shape of a coffin. A dark thrill heated his blood like a powerful, intoxicating drug.
When the time came he would purify the woman and cleanse himself with her blood. But tonight was not the time. The ritual had to be followed correctly. It was a crucial part of the sacrament. She must be made to comprehend and acknowledge the great wrong that she had done. There was no finer instructor than fear.
He huddled inside the concealed lift, listening to the sounds of someone moving about in the bedroom on the other side of the wooden wall panel.
He peered through the narrow crack in the paneling. Excitement sparked when he caught a glimpse of the woman. She was at her dressing table, adjusting the pins in her deep brown hair. It was as if she knew he was watching and was deliberately taunting him.
She was passable in appearance but he had seen her on the street and had not been particularly impressed with her looks. She was overly tall for a woman and her forceful character was etched onto her face. She was dangerous. It was all there in her unnerving eyes.
No wonder he had been sent to purify her. He would save her from herself.
She was not the first woman he had saved. Perhaps this time he would finally be cleansed.
The lift had been installed inside the thick walls of the old mansion for the purpose of conveying an elderly, infirm lady from one floor to another. But the woman had died a few years ago, leaving the big house to her granddaught
er and grandson. He had been told that neither of them made use of the device. Having been locked inside the cage for what felt like an eternity, he understood why. The air was close and still and the darkness was almost as absolute as that of the grave.
The woman rose from the dressing table and moved out of sight.
He was free to descend in the lift at any time. It was operated by an arrangement of ropes and pulleys that could be controlled from either inside or outside the compartment.
He’d had a helpful chat with one of the many tradesmen who came and went from the mansion on the days when the woman held her salons. The man had informed him of the usefulness of the lift for conveying heavy items between floors. He had also mentioned that the woman and her brother never used the lift. Evidently the woman had a fear of being trapped inside the cage.
He heard the muffled sound of the bedroom door opening and closing. And then silence.
He slid the cage door aside and opened the wooden panel. The wall sconce had been turned down quite low, but he could make out the bed, the dressing table, and the wardrobe.
He moved out of the lift. The heady exhilaration he always experienced at such moments roared through him. With every step of the ritual he came closer to achieving his own purification.
For a precious few seconds he debated where to leave his gift. The bed or the dressing table?
The bed, he decided. So much more intimate.
He crossed the room, not concerned about the soft thud of his footsteps. The guests were gathering in the library on the ground floor. Voices were raised in conversation and someone was playing a piano to entertain the crowd. No one would hear him.
When he reached the bed he took the velvet pouch out of the pocket of his overcoat and removed the black jet ring. A fashionable item of memento mori jewelry, the stone was engraved with the image of a skull. The woman’s initials were painted in gilt on the black enameled sides—C. L. When the time came, a small twist of her hair would be tucked into the locket concealed beneath the skull stone.
He slipped the ring back into the pouch and placed the gift on the pillow where she could not fail to notice it.