Harry watched her give Maltrose one of her brilliant smiles.
Chuck Maltrose was not so sanguine. He shot Harry a covert, wary look.
Harry wondered if the crazy stuff actually showed in his eyes, or if Maltrose was merely reacting to the remnants of anger that were undoubtedly still evident. He just needed a few more seconds to pull himself together, Harry thought. He would be fine in a minute.
Fortunately Molly took immediate charge of Chuck Maltrose. Harry listened as she chatted with him about the impending storm. By the time they had concluded that the rain would hit fairly soon, Harry had himself back under control.
“So now we know there’s another blue Ford out there somewhere,” Molly said as she slid into the passenger seat of the rental car. “What do we do next, Sherlock?”
“I’ll stop at a pay phone and put in a call to Fergus Rice.” Harry turned the key in the ignition. “He can notify the cops.”
“There must be a zillion blue Fords.”
“Yes, but with any luck, there won’t be that many with a dented right front fender.”
“Still, it seems like a long shot.” Molly flopped back against the seat. “This thing just doesn’t make sense any more. The motive doesn’t seem logical.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. There may be another motive.” Harry frowned as he pulled out onto the road. “One we haven’t considered.”
“There are only so many motives in the world. Revenge, passion, and greed sum up almost the entire list.”
“So far we’ve been concentrating on revenge,” Harry noted.
“I find it hard to believe that I’m the target of two disgruntled inventors,” Molly said flatly. “One, maybe. But two? And we can forget about passion. My life simply has not been that exciting until recently.”
“That leaves us with greed.”
Molly wrinkled her nose. “Killing me isn’t a real good way of getting the foundation to finance someone’s grant proposal.”
Harry stared at the road ahead as it all started to come together in a rush of crystal clear perfection. The theory assumed form and substance with such speed that he could only marvel at how he had overlooked the obvious for so long.
“Last night,” he said carefully, “when I walked into your shop, you were assuring Brooke that you wouldn’t be idiotic enough to turn control of the foundation assets over to anyone else.”
“Darn right.”
“Molly, what does happen to those assets if you’re out of the picture?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. If something happened to you, would Kelsey become the trustee of the Abberwick Foundation?”
“Not until she’s twenty-eight. I drew up the papers that way because I didn’t want her to get stuck with the burden of running the foundation until she’d had a chance to finish school and get started on a career.
“Who becomes the trustee if you’re gone?”
“Aunt Venicia.”
Harry whistled soundlessly. “I should have seen it from the beginning.”
“What on earth are you talking about? Surely you aren’t about to accuse Aunt Venicia of plotting to murder me? That’s ludicrous. She could care less about running the foundation.”
“Not her. The man she’s going to marry.”
Molly stared at him, stunned. “Oh, my God. Cutter Latteridge.”
19
Molly panicked. “Stop the car. I have to get to a phone. I’ve got to warn Aunt Venicia.”
“Take it easy,” Harry said. “Venicia is safe enough for the moment. Cutter isn’t married to her yet. If he harms her now, she’s useless to him. He needs her alive until after the wedding.”
“That’s true, isn’t it? He doesn’t stand a chance of getting his hands on the foundation until after the marriage.” Molly closed her eyes in a silent prayer of gratitude. “Thank heavens Aunt Venicia insisted on a big wedding that takes weeks to plan.”
“Yes.”
“But what are we going to do?”
“Nothing for the moment.” Harry’s elegant hands flexed on the wheel. “We haven’t got a dime’s worth of proof that Latteridge is behind this. We need background information on him. If he’s an expert, he’ll have a history. I’ll get Fergus on it immediately.”
Molly began to calm down. As soon as she was thinking clearly again, the questions descended in a flood. “This is wild. How on earth could Cutter have planned and carried out such a bizarre scenario?”
“Whoever he is, he’s set up elaborate schemes before. This isn’t the work of an amateur. He knows how to take care of the details.” Harry’s expression became very intent. “At least when it comes to the window dressing part. He’s not so good at murder.”
“For which we can thank our lucky stars.”
“All right,” Harry continued, “we’re dealing with a professional con artist. As I said, he’s probably got a record of some kind. We’ll find it and use it to focus the attention of the authorities on him.”
Molly considered. “He knew about the Abberwick Foundation. Only someone who is familiar with the world of inventors and invention would have been aware of my father and the fact that he had made arrangements to establish the foundation.”
“True. He could have met your father or your uncle at one time.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?” Harry asked. “I certainly knew about your father’s work long before I met you. A lot of people involved in the commercial application of robotic devices were aware of Jasper Abberwick.”
“I suppose so,” Molly agreed.
The storm that had been threatening for the past few hours finally struck. Rain splashed on the windshield. Harry switched on the wiper blades.
The drive toward Portland continued in silence for several miles. Molly glanced at Harry from time to time, aware that he had fallen into one of his thoughtful moods. She knew that he was examining the problem of Cutter Latteridge from every possible angle. She could almost feel his razor-sharp intellect dissecting the situation.
“When, precisely, did Latteridge first appear on the scene?” Harry finally asked.
“I told you, Aunt Venicia met him on a cruise that she took in the spring. Why?”
“I’m trying to figure out the timing,” Harry said. He lapsed back into silence.
A few miles later he spoke again. “I think I’ve got enough to give Rice. I’m going to find a phone.”
A short while later a gas station loomed in the mist. Harry slowed the car and eased it off the road and into a parking area. He shut off the engine and opened the door.
“I’ll be right back.” He got out, shut the door, and loped through the rain to the limited shelter of the phone booth.
Molly watched him through the rain-washed windows. From time to time ghostly ripples, an unfamiliar awareness of danger, went through her. At first she did not understand. She knew that she was scared and extremely worried about Venicia’s safety, but this other sensation felt as though it emanated from outside herself.
It wasn’t until she saw Harry replace the receiver and start back toward the car that she realized she was picking up a distant echo of his own awareness of the danger they faced.
It was not unlike the sensation she experienced more and more often when she was in bed with Harry. Alien, yet familiar.
Harry broke into her disturbing thoughts when he opened the car door and got in behind the wheel. “It’s pouring out there.” He ran his fingers through his damp hair to get rid of the moisture. He scowled when he saw Molly’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Molly cleared her throat. If he had felt anything at all during the past few minutes, he was not about to acknowledge it. “Nothing.” She managed a weak smile. “I’m just a little anxious, that’s all.”
“Not surprising under the circumstan
ces.” Harry turned in the seat, his expression intent. “I talked to Rice. Told him to start looking into Cutter Latteridge’s background. With any luck he’ll have some preliminary information for us by the time we get back to Seattle.”
“But what are we going to do about Aunt Venicia? We can’t allow her to continue to date a murderer.”
“If you try to warn her about Latteridge, you’ll put both her and yourself in extreme danger.” Harry reached across the seat to squeeze her hand. “Let me handle it, Molly.”
“You always seem to end up in this role.”
He released her fingers and put the car in gear. “What role?”
“Playing the hero. It hardly seems fair. Someday someone ought to save you.”
He gave her an odd glance as he drove out of the parking lot. “I’m no hero.”
“Yes, you are. Trust me, I know one when I see one.”
* * *
The green light on Harry’s answering machine was blinking frantically when he walked into his study late that afternoon. There were three messages.
“Your private line,” Molly observed. “Must be family calls.”
“With any luck one of them will be from Fergus Rice.” Harry punched the playback button. “I told him to use the private number.”
The first call was from Josh. He sounded upbeat.
Harry? It’s Josh. Thought you’d like to know that the hospital discharged Grandpa this morning. He’s on crutches, but he swears he’ll be back in the racing pit tomorrow night.
The second call was from Danielle.
Harry, this is your aunt. I understand you’re going to give Brandon a list of venture capitalists. He says he’s determined to go outside the family for financing. I don’t think it’s wise for him to do that. Please give me a call. I want to discuss this with you.
“I knew Aunt Danielle would start acting like a nervous hen when her only chick tried to leave the nest,” Harry said.
Molly glanced at him. “What will you do?”
Harry scrawled Danielle’s name on a pad of paper. “Talk to her. Persuade her to lay off Brandon.” He waited for the next voice, hoping it would be Fergus Rice with information. It was.
Harry, it’s Rice. Give me a call as soon as you get in. I’ve got some news that I think will interest you.
Harry reached for the phone and punched in the number. Fergus answered on the first ring.
“It’s Harry. What have you got?”
“The good news is that I got lucky right off the bat, thanks to your guesswork. I started by checking a couple of charitable foundations which operate along the same lines as the Abberwick Foundation. You know, the kind that make grants for scientific and technical work.”
“What did you find?”
“It looks like Cutter Latteridge is an alias for a con man named Clarence Laxton. He’s had a half-dozen different names during the past five years. He specializes in scamming foundations. Been pretty successful at it from what I can tell, but he got caught by investigators a year ago.
“Any jail time?”
“No. He literally vanished hours before the authorities moved in. When they got to his office, it had been cleaned out. There was no trace. He covered his tracks very well. You’ll be interested to know that until now there’s been no indication that he’s ever resorted to violence.”
“I think the violence is new for him,” Harry said. “His original goal may have been to work himself into a position of trust.”
“In other words, he would have eventually offered his consulting services to Molly?”
“Exactly. Maybe he figured he could persuade her to turn the day-to-day running of the foundation over to him. After all, he was about to become a member of the family, and he had a working knowledge of engineering technology.”
“He probably thought that he could drain the assets and then disappear,” Fergus agreed. “But when she hired you, he panicked and concocted another plan. One that required him to get rid of Molly altogether.”
“He used Wharton Kendall, a rejected inventor, as a stalking horse.”
“Makes sense,” Fergus said. “This guy has a reputation for doing his research. He would have known who you were and that you were a potential threat to him.”
“So what’s the bad news?” Harry asked.
“I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. Sort of depends on your point of view,” Fergus said. “It looks like Latteridge left the country this afternoon.”
Harry felt everything inside him go very still. “You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be under the circumstances. A man answering Latteridge’s description was on the two-thirty flight to London. He had a passport, luggage—the works.”
“The passport was in Latteridge’s name?”
“According to my sources. I’ve talked to my friends in the police department. The problem is, we don’t even have proof of fraud, let alone murder or attempted murder.”
Harry put his hand over the receiver to speak to Molly. “Latteridge got on an international flight at SeaTac earlier today.”
Molly’s eyes widened. “He’s gone?”
“Looks like it.” Harry heard Fergus say something on the other end of the line. “What’s that?”
“I said, it looks like this thing is over, Harry.”
“That’s what you said when you told me Wharton Kendall had gone over a cliff.”
“This times it feels real,” Fergus said. “You know these guys. Once the con goes sour, they pull a vanishing act.”
“True.”
Molly frowned. “I wonder if Aunt Venicia knows he’s gone. I’d better call her right away.”
Harry shook his head. “We’ll go see her in person. This isn’t the kind of news you deliver over the phone.”
Molly sighed. “You’re right.”
“Harry?” Fergus sounded confused. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here. I wonder what made Latteridge suspect that someone was getting close.”
“I don’t know,” Fergus said. “Maybe your sudden trip down to Oregon worried him. He would have kept very close tabs on your movements. And he does have a history of getting out of the picture just in time to avoid the authorities.”
“A good con man always knows when to cut his losses.”
“Exactly,” Fergus said. “You want some more of the details?”
Harry picked up a pen. “Let me have everything you’ve got.”
Giving the bad news to Venicia was one of the hardest things Molly had ever done. She was grateful for Harry’s solid, steadying presence. He stood beside her in Venicia’s newly redecorated mauve-and-green living room while Molly explained that Cutter Latteridge was never coming back.
Venicia’s initial reaction of irate disbelief gradually crumpled, first into stunned shock and then into tears. Molly began to cry, too. When she got too choked up to continue, Harry calmly and gently filled in the details.
“But he was a man of comfortable means,” Venicia protested as she dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “The house on Mercer Island…”
“He took possession of the house with an elaborate scam,” Harry explained. “The banks and the realtors are scrambling to put all the pieces together, but it looks like he established a phony line of credit with an East Coast bank and used it to con the real estate agency and the escrow company.”
“And the yacht?”
“Same story,” Harry said. “The yacht broker is still trying to sort out the mess.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Venicia sniffed sadly. “He was such a gentleman.”
“His good manners and charming ways were part of his stock-in-trade,” Harry said.
Venicia looked at Molly with woebegone eyes. “I’ve been nothing but an old fool, haven’t I?”
??
?Wrong on both counts.” Molly hugged her tightly. “You aren’t old, and you definitely aren’t a fool. Cutter or Clarence or whatever his name is conned all of us, Aunt Venicia.”
“He’s conned a lot of other people, too,” Harry said. “He’s an expert.”
“An expert at hurting people.” Venicia stiffened. “What if he returns? You say he’s dangerous.”
Molly looked at Harry.
“It’s not likely that he’ll come back to Seattle any time soon, if ever,” Harry said. “At heart he’s a con artist, not a killer. Fraud is his thing. He needs anonymity to pursue his business. His main goal now will be to bury his Cutter Latteridge identity so that he can go back to work on a new scam somewhere as far from here as possible.”
Venicia shrank back into the enfolding cushions of her designer chair. “Now I know why he had begun to pressure me to move the date of the wedding forward. He said he couldn’t wait to marry me.”
“He was starting to get nervous because of my presence in the picture,” Harry said. “He probably sensed that the con was in danger of blowing up in his face.”
“I’m supposed to go for one more fitting on my gown,” Venicia whispered. “It’s so lovely. And it cost a fortune.” She reached for a fresh tissue. Then she paused and looked at Molly. “I’ve just had a thought.”
“What’s that?” Molly asked.
Venicia smiled with the natural resiliency of a woman who had been married to an inventor for thirty years. “We’ll tell the boutique to fit the gown to you, dear.”
Ten days later Molly was in the process of measuring out a tiny smidgeon of saffron when she heard the shop bell jingle. She glanced toward the door and saw a young woman dressed in a studded leather belt, black vest, and jeans hovering anxiously in the doorway. The woman had short, spiky hair that had been tinted dead black. Her bare arms were decorated with a variety of tattoos. She wore little round glasses on her nose.
“Are you Molly Abberwick?”
“Yes, I am.” Molly smiled. “Can I help you?”