Danger in a Red Dress

  He sighed heavily. “One of us should be ashamed of ourselves.”

  She jumped. He already knew? “What? Who?”

  “Me, of course. I’m leading you on.” He shook his head as if disgusted by his own deception. “Mother has other problems, more serious than merely arthritis. She’s diabetic, has a heart condition, and she can’t or won’t control it or her weight. She’s agoraphobic—she hasn’t stepped foot out of our house since my father walked out fifteen years ago. She’s under investigation by the government, which has put a huge amount of pressure on her, and I’m afraid she’s starting to crack. ”

  “Investigation?” Hannah said tentatively.

  “My father is Nathan Manly.” He spoke stoically.

  “Oh.” Everyone in New England knew the name and the disgrace attached to it. Fifteen years ago, Nathan Manly had destroyed his multibillion-dollar company, stolen the capital, and fled to parts unknown, humiliating his wife and leaving his family without funds. His illegitimate sons (rumors claimed there were a dozen and the number climbed every time the story was told) were abandoned, too. Best of all, Nathan Manly and his money had never been found, lending the Manly scandal the status of legend.

  “I knew I recognized you. From TV!” Sophia almost leaped across the counter. “You’re Carrick Manly!”

  He smiled at her excitement. “Don’t hold it against me,” he said wryly.

  “I would never do that.” Sophia backed up and leaned against the wall, her knees wobbling.

  In the years since Nathan Manly had fled to parts unknown, his son—this son, his legitimate son, his handsome, gifted, and formerly wealthy son—had assumed the status of the protagonist in a Greek tragedy.

  “I’m still interested in the job.” Hannah felt less guilty about keeping her own piddling little investigation quiet.

  “Really?” He smiled at her, his tan perfect, his straight teeth dazzling and white.

  Decision made, she said, “Perhaps we can make it work. Why don’t we sit down and you can give me the details of your mother ’s situation?”

  FOUR

  “There it is.” Carrick pulled into a viewpoint on the rugged Maine coast highway and stopped the car. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, and pointed across the rocky inlet. “Balfour House.”

  Hannah stared at the classic nineteenth-century mansion perched on the cliff. It was massive, two stories of white stone and fanciful turrets, broad balconies, and wide windows defiantly facing off with the Atlantic. “Balfour House?” she repeated. “Shouldn’t it be Manly House?”

  “My mother was Melinda Balfour. She is the last of the Balfours. Since New Englanders do not lightly change their ways, it always will be Balfour House.” Savagely, he opened the door, got out, and leaned one arm against the roof of the Porsche Carrera.

  Hannah got out, too, and looked at the mansion, and looked at him.

  The breeze frisked with the perfect fall of his brown hair, while the sun kissed the blond highlights, giving him a golden aura. But his expression, as he stared at the house, was pensive, still, almost . . . sour. She would have thought he would at least show the enthusiasm he’d shown about the car—and the car wasn’t even his. He told her he was repairing the family fortunes. He told her he couldn’t afford a car like this. He told her one of his friends had insisted he borrow it for the drive up here, and he’d waxed enthusiastic about its handling and speed. Maybe if the house could do zero to sixty in less than thirty seconds . . .

  “Do you not like the house?” she asked.

  “Of course I like it. If it weren’t for Balfour House and its history, I would be a nobody.”

  A nobody. Is that what he thought of people without an exalted ancestry?

  No. He must not realize how condescending that sounded. On the drive up from New Hampshire, he’d been amiable and not at all snobbish, showing off his knowledge of the towns along I-95, then, as they turned southeast toward Ellsworth, regaling her with tales of his mother’s family and how their destiny had been so intimately entwined with the state of Maine. She’d been content to listen, and laugh, and marvel at the luck that placed her in this luxurious car with this wondrous man.

  Now he trained those green eyes at her and said, “You have to understand what a love-hate relationship I have with Balfour House. Mother has quite a decent income in trust from her mother—not a large fortune, but it’s adequate—and every dime of it goes to pay the taxes and do the minimum of upkeep on that pile of sacred stone. Mother could live well in Bangor or Ellsworth, in an apartment with people her own age, but she won’t leave. Balfour House holds her prisoner as surely as any jail. My God, it even boasts a basement with rooms cut so deep into the rock they could be used as dungeons, and there are rumors of secret passages, although when I was a boy I searched and never found a single sign of them.” Ruefulness tinged his smile.

  Gently Hannah told him, “Most elderly patients don’t want to leave their own homes, no matter what the advantage to them.”

  “Mother is not like most elderly patients. She is a difficult woman. I feel almost guilty thrusting you into this situation.”

  “Don’t feel guilty. I always win over my patients in the end.”

  “I can see that it would help,” he said, “if your patient was male.”

  She whipped around to face him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing.” He looked startled at the blaze of her temper.

  Slowly, she relaxed. He’d made an innocuous comment, and she’d flashed back to the Dresser family’s accusations. Carrick didn’t deserve to be associated with them, not even in her mind. “I will do everything in my power to work with Mrs. Manly.”

  “I know you will.” He came around and held her door.

  She stood for one more moment, letting the breeze cool her hot cheeks, staring at Balfour House, and wishing Carrick hadn’t described it as a prison. Sometimes it seemed her whole life had been a prison of poverty and desperation, and she didn’t relish walking into another. But desperation had brought her here, and it would be a better place than the one she’d left, she knew.

  Getting into the car, she settled back as Carrick shut her inside, and returned to the driver’s seat. He steered the narrow winding road, turned off through the electronic gates, and drove to the front door of Balfour House.

  As they walked up the steps, the door opened, and a stocky young gentleman clad in an impeccable black suit stepped out. “Welcome home, Mr. Manly.”

  “Thank you, Nelson. Miss Hannah Grey, Nelson is the able replacement for our old butler, Torres. Emphasis on old. Torres passed on four months ago.”

  “Good to meet you, Nelson.” Hannah smiled and nodded.

  Nelson performed a half bow.

  Carrick tossed his keys to Nelson. “Our bags are in the trunk.”

  Nelson signaled into the house, and another guy dressed in exactly the same pristine dark suit took the keys and hurried to the car.

  “Miss Grey’s bag should be put in a bedroom close to my mother’s suite,” Carrick said.

  “Sir?” In that one word, Nelson managed to convey doubt and amazement.

  “Miss Grey is an RN, a home-care nurse from New Hampshire. Isn’t that right, Miss Grey?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Hannah said.

  “I hired her to care for Mrs. Manly.” Carrick smiled approvingly at her.

  Swept away by his blistering charisma, she smiled back.

  “Yes, sir.” Nelson’s gaze flashed over Hannah.

  She saw some emotion—sympathy? Skepticism?

  “How is Mrs. Manly today?” Carrick took Hannah’s arm and led her up the stairs and into the house.

  Nelson followed. “It’s difficult for me to say, sir. She has not left her bedroom in over a month.”

  “Damn it!” Carrick turned on him. “The doctor said she was supposed to exercise.”

  “According to Mrs. Manly’s personal maid, she constantly uses her wheelchair, refusing eve
n to try her walker.”

  Hannah listened . . . but not really. It wasn’t as if she expected anything different from her patient, and besides, she was too busy gaping like a peasant at the old-fashioned glory that was Balfour House.

  The foyer was round, its floor was black-and-white marble, cut into slabs to form a compass with a wide N at the longest point. The broad mahogany stairway swept up to the second floor in a stately curve, and an old-fashioned elevator, complete with ironwork grille, was tucked into the nearby corner. To the right and through an arch, a long dining room table stood in splendor under a series of crystal chandeliers. To the left, gilded double doors stood open, revealing a spacious grand ballroom. Her gaze rose two stories to the golden-painted cove molding and pale blue ceiling, and in her mind, she was transported to the sheer opulence of the French châteaus in Provence.

  “Hannah, you are going to have your work cut out for you,” Carrick said.

  Hannah snapped her attention back to him. “I can rise to the challenge.”

  “That’s the attitude.” Carrick clapped her on the shoulder. “We’ll go up to see her now. Then, Nelson, dinner and a nice bottle of wine to celebrate Miss Grey’s stay with us. She’s going to be just what the doctor ordered, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll convey your wishes to the cook.” Nelson disappeared into a side door.

  As Carrick and Hannah climbed the stairs and followed a long corridor, Hannah said, “I’ll bet your mother despises him.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Surprised that he didn’t comprehend, she said, “Nelson is a rat.”

  Carrick paused, his hand raised to rap on a door. “He’s doing what I hired him to do.”

  The first tendrils of squeamishness touched her. “The role of butler does not include being a tattletale.”

  “You say that now. Wait until you meet Mother.” Carrick swung the door open.

  The air was stale. The curtains were closed. Mrs. Manly’s deep voice was sarcastic as she said, “The wandering son returns.”

  “Hello, Mother.” He turned on the overhead light, and walked toward the figure in the wheelchair. He leaned down toward her to kiss her cheek. “How are—”

  She interrupted. “Who’s that?”

  Everything Carrick had said about his mother was true. She had a heavy face, with jowls that drooped over a sagging neck. Her mouth was small, her nose large, and she needed to wax her upper lip. Her hair was long and dark, with streaks of gray, and she wore it pulled back and tied at the base of her neck. Thick black-rimmed glasses rested on the end of her nose. She was overweight, diabetic, and arthritic, but she was also an aristocrat to the tips of her twisted and beringed fingers.

  Without touching her, he straightened. “This is Hannah Grey. She’s your new nurse.”

  Melinda Manly did not look at Hannah. She did not deign to notice Hannah. She spoke only to Carrick. “What makes you think I need a nurse?”

  Carrick shot Hannah a conspiratorial smile, the kind that made Hannah wonder if all men were so insensitive. Did Carrick truly believed his mother was too dimwitted to notice or too kindhearted to care? In a patronizing tone, he said, “Dr. Thalmann says you’re not taking care of yourself.”

  “If I’m not, that’s my business. Not yours, and definitely not hers.” Melinda Manly’s voice grew deeper in its disdain.

  “It is my business. You’re my mother.” Carrick leaned over again, this time putting his arm around her shoulders. “And I love you.”

  For all the affection he got in return, he might as well have hugged an oak board.

  Hannah compared this woman to her own irrepressible mother, and felt sorry for Carrick. Before he could make things worse, she interposed herself into the conversation. “Mrs. Manly, I’m trained in home nursing and physical therapy, and I’m an arthritis specialist. Give me a chance, and I could ease your discomfort.”

  “I don’t like people,” Mrs. Manly said precisely.

  “Think of me as a servant,” Hannah invited.

  “Are you mocking me?” Mrs. Manly snapped.

  “Not at all.” Maybe a little. “I met the butler. I saw the man who got our luggage out of the car. You have servants. You have someone who comes in here to clean and make your bed. You may not like them, but you’re used to them. I would simply take over the care of you, and you would treat me as you would any servant.”

  “You’d try and make me do what I have no intention of doing.”

  “You’re in pain. Right now. Your hip is killing you.” Hannah held Mrs. Manly’s dark gaze. “And you have an unpleasant tingling in your toes.”

  “Is that why she won’t use her walker?” Carrick asked.

  Hannah had made some good guesses based on the way Mrs. Manly sat and her own knowledge of arthritis and diabetes. She had captured Mrs. Manly’s attention. And Carrick had fouled up by talking about Mrs. Manly as if she weren’t in the room.

  Hannah subdued a sigh, and waded back into the fray. “I am a specialist in the care of arthritis sufferers. Your son is not going to stop trying to bring someone in, so why not have the best?”

  “The best, heh?” Mrs. Manly pinned Hannah with her contempt. “Who are your people?”

  Hannah stiffened. She should have seen this coming. “My mother grew up in Teignmouth, New Hampshire, and so did I.”

  “That didn’t answer the question. What was her family’s name? What was your father’s name?”

  “Mother, you’re being rude.” Beside his mother’s determination, Carrick sounded feeble.

  “It doesn’t matter, Carrick. I’ll answer her question,” Hannah said. “My mother’s family name was Grey. My father . . . didn’t stick around.”

  “My God. Another bastard. Like the bastards my husband fathered.” Melinda Manly gave a hard crack of laughter. “Carrick, you fool, you brought me a bastard?”

  Before Carrick could answer, Hannah stepped between them, blocking Melinda Manly’s view of her son. “My parents weren’t married, but I don’t put up with that kind of insult, and if you had the slightest iota of courtesy, you’d know better than to spew forth venom like some twisted old snake.”

  “Do you imagine you can teach me manners?” Melinda Manly asked.

  “No. I doubt if anyone could.” Hannah turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

  FIVE

  “And don’t bother me again,” Melinda Manly said as Carrick slammed the door on his way out. She rubbed her eyes and blew her nose; then wearily, she wheeled herself over to her desk.

  God, she was tired. Tired of being in pain, of being afraid, of seeing her world change and knowing she could do nothing to stop it. Tired of the intrigue . . . She retrieved the intercom speaker from the drawer, set it in her lap, and turned it on.

  And there it was. The tap of footsteps, the shuffling of paper, and a low muttered curse.

  Since Torres’s death, when Carrick visited, he always riffled through the butler’s office in the basement, looking for whatever secrets Torres had held in trust for Melinda.

  So far, Carrick had found nothing.

  At the same time, she wondered why her son, an obviously intelligent lad, never thought to wonder how his mother had communicated with Torres about the thousand and one details involved in running a household of this size.

  This intercom, of course.

  Perhaps Carrick didn’t have as much intelligence as she gave him credit for. Or perhaps he gave her credit for none.

  As she expected, she heard a knock on the door of Torres’s office. Carrick called, “Come in.” And, “Hannah! It’s you.”

  Hannah Grey. She was infatuated with Carrick. Stupid girl. She would be better off away from him, away from this place. Melinda ran her gaze around her room. They would all be better when Balfour House washed into the sea.

  Through the speaker, Carrick sounded cheerful, confident. “What do you think about my mother’s condition? Can you help her?”

  That girl a
nswered, “Not unless she cooperates. She’s overweight, which exacerbates her arthritis. Her color is not good. She’s obviously not monitoring her blood sugar, and a stroke is imminent.”

  That was exactly what Dr. Thalmann said. Melinda’s respect for the girl’s competence took a big leap. Maybe she wasn’t merely a spy. Maybe she really was a nurse.

  Melinda pulled her laptop close, tapped in a search for Hannah Grey.

  That girl continued. “She’s intent on killing herself, so I’m doomed to failure.” That girl’s brisk voice sounded nurselike and practical. Yet beneath that matter-of-fact tone, Melinda heard an undercurrent of worry.

  What was she worried about?

  Even as the question formed in her mind, the computer gave her the information: the case before the New Hampshire commission . . . and an unusually long delay in coming to a decision. As Melinda read the details of Hannah’s dilemma, she listened to Carrick’s voice, so much like his father’s—smooth, deep, oh so interested in the woman before him.

  “With you here, at least I’ll have the security of knowing that if something happens to her, there’s a trained person on-site.”

  There were times when Melinda hated her son. Hated him, and loved him, and wished . . . but no. No wishes. Once she’d had a wish come true. Her wish had brought nothing but guilt and anguish, death and destruction. Ever since, she had feared the power of her wishes.

  “You . . . still want me to stay?” Hannah sounded both flabbergasted and relieved.

  “Absolutely. The important thing is that you’ll listen in on Mother’s conversations and watch her for any surreptitious movements.”

  Melinda leaned back in her chair. Ah. Here we go.

  “What?” Hannah asked.

  The rustling stopped, and Melinda could imagine Carrick looking earnestly across at Hannah, seducing her with his handsome green eyes, bending her to his will. “If she doesn’t tell the federal government where my father ’s money is, they’re going to drive her out of this house. Maybe put her in prison.”