Promise Not to Tell

“I understand,” she said. “But it occurs to me that what you are witnessing is a change of generations in the Kennington family. The old man, as you call him, is gone. Now that he’s dead, the younger family members are taking charge. They may know some of the history of your relationship with the rest of the Kennington family—”

  “That’s just it. I don’t have a relationship with the Kennington people.”

  “Well, you do now. My advice is to deal with it.”

  He glared at her. “Are you on the Kennington side of this thing?”

  “I’m not taking sides. I’m offering advice.”

  “I don’t need advice.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to give you some. Don’t worry, it’s free.”

  Cabot raised his eyes. “And worth exactly what you’re charging?”

  She looked at him. “Do you want my advice or not?”

  He groaned. “I know you’re trying to be helpful. What’s your advice?”

  “We both know that Xavier had nothing to do with what happened all those years ago.”

  “I’m not arguing that point.”

  “So try to look at him as an individual in his own right. He’s a young man who is going through some perfectly natural growing pains while simultaneously becoming the collateral damage that always comes down when divorce happens. With things in a bad way at home, it’s not surprising that he has suddenly developed a deep curiosity about his long-lost, mysterious cousin.”

  “I’m not mysterious and I was never lost. The lawyer, Burleigh, sure knew how to find me. So did Xavier.”

  “Well, it’s not as if you were trying to stay hidden,” she said. “Not like Quinton Zane.”

  “Assuming he’s still alive.”

  “Assuming that, yes.” She swallowed some of her wine and lowered the glass. “Speaking of our investigation, where do we go next?”

  “Good question.” Cabot seemed relieved by the change of subject. “I’ve been thinking about that. We can keep talking to people who worked with Sandra Porter. Sooner or later we might catch a break. But, as you said, the cops are already pursuing those leads. I think we need to refocus on our own case.”

  “Hannah Brewster’s death?”

  “If there is a connection between Brewster and Porter, we might have better luck finding it from our end.”

  Virginia rested one arm along the back of the sofa. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve told you from the beginning that if we’re right that someone is looking for the missing money, it’s because something changed in the equation—something that must have happened fairly recently. It occurs to me that Brewster was not the first person connected to Zane’s operation who died on that island up in the San Juans.”

  “You’re talking about Abigail Watkins? The woman who owned the Lost Island B and B? But I told you, there was nothing mysterious about her death. She had cancer.”

  “You said she sold the B and B shortly before her death to raise a little cash.”

  “That’s right. Rose Gilbert bought it. She allowed Abigail to stay there until the end.”

  “The Seattle housing market is hot, but that’s not so true up in the San Juans. Properties on the more remote islands can sit on the market for months or even years, especially a big, old Victorian that needs a lot of upkeep.”

  “Sometimes you just get lucky when you’re trying to sell property. The right buyer comes along at the right time. In this case it was Rose Gilbert. Are you saying there’s something suspicious about the transaction?”

  “I’m saying we need to go back to the start of this thing and question every coincidence,” Cabot said.

  He leaned forward and opened his laptop on the coffee table. Virginia watched him search real estate databases.

  “Nothing,” he announced after a few minutes. “There’s no record of the sale. The B and B was never on the market. As far as the property tax records are concerned, the Lost Island B and B still belongs to Abigail Watkins, which means it is now part of her estate.”

  “I don’t think Abigail had a will. Like Hannah, she didn’t want anything to do with legal stuff that could be used to track her down.”

  “Yet Rose Gilbert moved in shortly after Watkins died and told everyone she did a private transaction with the previous owner.”

  “No one on the island would have questioned that,” Virginia said. “Certainly Hannah never did. As far as I know, Rose Gilbert didn’t show up on the island until after Abigail’s funeral.”

  “Maybe there never was a deal between Watkins and Gilbert,” Cabot said.

  Virginia frowned. “Are you suggesting that Rose Gilbert just moved in one day and started running the B and B business?”

  “Ever heard of squatters? They move into foreclosures and vacant properties all the time. But I’ll admit it seems unlikely that the average squatter would take over a bed-and-breakfast operation.”

  “Well, she’s not exactly running it on a paying basis,” Virginia said. “She keeps talking about needing to make some major repairs to get ready for the summer season. You saw for yourself, the top floor of guest rooms is closed.”

  “It might be interesting to know a little more about Rose Gilbert. I’ll have Anson go to work on that in the morning. Meanwhile, thanks to you, we do know two very important things about Abigail Watkins. The first is that she had a connection to Zane.”

  “And the second?”

  “She’s dead,” Cabot said. “No matter who you are or how much you try to hide, there’s always paperwork and records associated with dying.”

  He concentrated intently on his laptop. When he looked up again, Virginia could tell by his diamond-sharp eyes that he had found something.

  “Abigail Watkins had only one surviving family member, a half sister,” he said. “Rose Elaine Gilbert.”

  Comprehension whispered through Virginia. “Rose wasn’t just some casual buyer who showed up at the right moment to buy the B and B. She knew her half sister was dying. She probably figured she was Abigail’s legal heir.”

  “Probably.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Rose keep quiet about her connection with Abigail Watkins?”

  “Maybe because Rose has been lying to us from the beginning.”

  “I assume we’re going to talk to her again?”

  “Yes,” Cabot said. “As soon as possible.”

  Virginia took out her phone. “I’ll see if I can get reservations on the private car ferry tomorrow. Shouldn’t be hard at this time of year. I’m assuming you don’t want me to call Rose and make reservations at the B and B?”

  “No,” Cabot said. “We’ll take her by surprise.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Rose Gilbert hit the switch on the ancient coffeemaker and went to stand at the kitchen window. She thought about how much she hated the island.

  It was seven o’clock in the morning. She was still in her robe and slippers. There was no reason to get dressed in a hurry. The most thrilling event of the whole damn day—the arrival of the ferry and departure of the ferry—wouldn’t take place until midafternoon.

  Not that she cared about the arrival of the ferry. She wasn’t expecting any guests. It was a weekday and there were no reservations. She didn’t know which was worse, spending the days alone in the big house or making polite chitchat with the customers.

  The only reason she kept one floor of rooms open was so that she could maintain the illusion of being a real innkeeper. The locals were suspicious enough as it was.

  She had certainly never expected to stay this long. She had been trapped on the island since December, faking her way through the bed-and-breakfast business while she waited for Tucker to find the key.

  It had all seemed so simple back at the start. After Abigail’s death she had come to the island to pack up her half si
ster’s things and make arrangements to put the old Victorian on the market. She had hoped to make a little money on the sale of the house.

  But she had discovered Abigail’s diary, and that had changed everything.

  She had flipped through it, expecting to find it dull reading at best. Abigail had been a weak, pathetic screw-up all of her life—just the kind of naïve idiot you’d expect to get swept up into a cult. But the details of Abigail’s time in Quinton Zane’s cult had proved to be downright riveting.

  So much money had been raked in and most of it had vanished into a secret account. In the end, of those who had once known the location of the key, only crazy Hannah Brewster had been left alive.

  The plan to get the information out of Brewster had failed. She had jumped to her death rather than deal with what she believed to be the reincarnation of Quinton Zane.

  The only lead left was Virginia Troy, who seemed entirely unaware of just how valuable she was. But Troy had complicated things by hiring Cabot Sutter.

  The coffeemaker finished the brewing process. Rose turned away from the window and poured herself a mug full of coffee.

  Just another boring day on the island from hell.

  She was startled by the sound of gravel crunching under tires. That made no sense. The ferry wasn’t due to arrive for several hours. Maybe one of the locals had stopped by for some reason.

  Reluctantly, she got to her feet and went through the lobby. She twitched the curtain aside and frowned when she saw who was coming up the front steps.

  She opened the door.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  CHAPTER 37

  The small parking lot behind the Lost Island Bed-and-Breakfast was empty except for Rose’s big four-by-four.

  “No surprise,” Virginia said. “It’s still February.”

  She did not know why she felt compelled to explain the obvious to Cabot. The Lost Island B and B had always seemed sad and forlorn, even before Abigail Watkins had died. It had not improved since Rose Gilbert had taken over.

  But today, for some inexplicable reason—maybe it was just her nerves—the old Victorian appeared more unwelcoming than ever. The drapes were pulled across the windows and there was a No Vacancy sign behind the glass in the front door.

  Cabot continued on around the old house and brought his vehicle to a halt in the front drive. He sat quietly for a moment, contemplating the gloom-filled structure. Then he reached into the back seat for his windbreaker and gun. He adjusted the windbreaker so that it covered the holstered pistol on his hip, but he did not fasten the front. A chill went through Virginia when it dawned on her that he wanted to be able to get to his gun in a hurry if necessary.

  Well, there isn’t much point wearing a gun if you can’t get to it quickly, she told herself.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She unclipped her own seat belt and reached into the back for her parka and her cross-body bag. She got her door open, jumped down and walked around the front of the vehicle to join Cabot.

  Together they went up the front steps. Cabot pressed the buzzer.

  There was no response. Cabot waited a few seconds and then rapped sharply on the front door. Again there was no answer.

  “Rose must be inside,” Virginia said. “Maybe she’s in her room upstairs and can’t hear the buzzer.”

  “Or maybe she’s trying to discourage business.” Cabot tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. He opened the door and walked into the small lobby.

  Virginia followed him. “That’s weird. Feels like the heat is off.” She glanced into the parlor. “No fire going, either.”

  Cabot went to the foot of the stairs. “Rose Gilbert? This is Cabot Sutter. I’m here with Virginia Troy. We need your help.”

  There was no response. Virginia did not hear any footsteps overhead.

  Cabot glanced back over his shoulder. “Wait here.”

  She wanted to ask why but when he reached inside his jacket and took out his gun, she decided she probably would not like the answer. He used to be a cop, she reminded herself. Old habits.

  He went quickly through the downstairs rooms, checking the office, the kitchen and the parlor.

  A short time later he returned. “The place feels empty but I’m going to check upstairs. Stay here until I get back.”

  “All right,” Virginia said. “But it’s starting to feel like something is very wrong. Be careful, okay?”

  Cabot took the stairs two at a time, his gun in his hand. When he disappeared on the landing above, she heard the muffled sound of his footsteps. After a moment he knocked on a door. She assumed he was standing at the entrance to Rose’s private quarters.

  Cabot called from the top of the stairs. “No answer at her door. I’m going in.”

  “Not alone.” Virginia went swiftly up the stairs. “Something has happened. Let me try talking to her before you do anything else. You’ll scare the living daylights out of her if you open that door with a gun in your hand.”

  Cabot did not argue.

  She joined him at the top of the stairs. Cabot motioned her to move to one side of the door before he flattened his back to the wall and reached out to grab the knob. Then he signaled her to speak.

  “Rose, it’s me, Virginia. I’ve got Cabot Sutter with me. We just want to be sure you’re okay.”

  No answer.

  Cabot turned the knob. The door was unlocked. It swung open with a few squeaks of the hinges. A cold draft of air carrying an all-too-familiar odor floated out into the hallway. Virginia got a little sick to her stomach.

  “No,” she whispered. “Not again.”

  But she was speaking to an empty hallway. Cabot was inside the room. She forced herself to follow him.

  Rose’s body was crumpled on the floor just outside the entrance to her private bath. Her robe and nightgown were stained with a lot of blood. There was more blood on the floor under her head.

  Cabot crouched beside the still form and touched the throat. “Two shots. One in the chest. One in the head.”

  Virginia’s stomach clenched. She hoped she wasn’t going to throw up.

  “Just like Sandra Porter,” she whispered.

  “Gilbert’s been dead for a few hours. Looks like she was killed this morning. Hard to be certain because the room is so cold. I’m going to take a quick look around before we report this.”

  “I’m not even sure who we should report it to,” Virginia said. “There’s no police station on the island. There’s a volunteer fire department. The man who runs the general store is in charge of handling emergencies. I suppose we should contact him.”

  Cabot stood, crossed to the dressing table and took some tissues out of a box. He went into the bathroom and started opening drawers.

  Virginia pulled herself together, opened her handbag and removed some tissues. “I’ll take a look through her bureau and closet. Any idea what we’re searching for?”

  “No,” Cabot said. “But anything that connects Rose Gilbert to Quinton Zane or someone at Night Watch would certainly be useful.”

  “What do we do if we find something? There are rules about disturbing crime scenes.”

  “We’re not going to steal anything. We’re going to use our cameras to take pictures of whatever we find.”

  “Right.”

  Virginia went quickly through the bureau. The top two drawers contained an assortment of nightgowns, sweaters, socks and underwear. All of the garments looked as if they were about the right size for Rose’s chunky frame.

  There was more clothing in the lower drawers but the items were not folded. Instead, they looked as if they had been scooped up in a hurry and dumped into the drawers. They also looked much older and faded from years of washing.

  Curious, she unfolded one of the nightgowns
and held it up to take a closer look.

  “It’s the wrong size,” she said, baffled.

  Cabot came to the door of the bathroom. “What?”

  “The clothes in the top drawers look like they would have fit Rose, but the things in the bottom drawers are much too small for her. They probably belonged to Abigail Watkins. It looks like Rose never bothered to get rid of them after she moved in here.”

  “So?” Cabot went back into the bathroom and opened the cabinet.

  “So, a woman might keep a dead woman’s sweaters, but only if they fit. She certainly would not wear a dead woman’s underwear or her nightgowns.”

  Cabot came back to the doorway, intrigued.

  “Maybe it was just too much trouble to get rid of Watkins’s things,” he suggested.

  “Maybe. But it feels creepy to keep a dead woman’s underwear. At the very least I would have thought that Rose would have packed up the stuff and stored it in the basement.”

  “I think what this tells us is that, initially, at least, Rose wasn’t planning to hang around for long,” Cabot said. “But something made her change her mind.”

  Virginia finished the search of the bureau and went to the nightstand. There were some old needlework magazines inside. She picked them up, not expecting to find anything useful.

  Underneath the magazines was a large, unsealed envelope. There was no address. She raised the flap and looked inside. There were several sheets of paper and another, smaller envelope.

  “Cabot?”

  “Find something?”

  “I don’t know.” Virginia tipped the envelope over the bed and looked at the pages that cascaded out onto the quilt. “Photocopies,” Virginia said.

  Cabot moved toward her. “Of what?”

  “I’m not sure. Letters, maybe. Looks like Abigail Watkins’s handwriting. She had amazing handwriting. Very neat, very precise—just like her needlework.”

  “Use your camera,” Cabot said. “Get pictures of every page.”

  “Okay.” Virginia was about to reach into her handbag for her camera when she remembered the smaller envelope. Unlike the larger envelope, it was yellowed with age. It, too, was unaddressed and unsealed. She opened it. A photograph slipped out and fell onto the bed.