Lost and Found

  “Is that a fact?” A laconic gleam lit his eyes. “Well, we know differently, don’t we?”

  “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

  “You started it. If you’re not worried about your image, how about having a little concern for mine?”

  “You don’t have an image,” she assured him as she started down the hall. “No one here in Phantom Point knows anything about you except that you’re semi-engaged to me.”

  “That’s just what I meant.” He sounded aggrieved. “I told you, as a semi-engaged man I’ve got my pride.”

  “I thought we agreed that for the price I’m paying you, you would forget your pride.”

  “Not sure that’s going to work. I’m starting to think that the male pride thing is hardwired into the genes.”

  She gave him her most withering look. Was he teasing her? There was no telling from his blandly innocent expression. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. People will assume that in the romance department you’re probably a lot like me.”

  “Ice water in our veins?”

  “You got it.”

  “Just one problem with that picture,” he said, following her around a corner.

  “What?”

  “We both know it’s false. We practically set fire to the sheets that night at the lodge.”

  For an instant the breath caught in her throat. Sizzling memories of their hot, damp bodies coming together in the darkness whirled through her head, rattling her composure. Not for the first time, she reflected. Fantasy Man had been invading her dreams on a regular basis since that night in the mountains.

  It occurred to her that she had better make the ground rules clear.

  “Hold it right there.” She jerked to a halt and spun around to face him. “One of the conditions of this job is that neither of us makes any further reference to what happened at the lodge. Understood?”

  “No, it is not understood,” he said calmly. “We’ve signed a consulting agreement stipulating my services and fees. You can’t go changing the conditions of employment at this stage. If you had any issues, you should have mentioned them before you hired me.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “You know, Mack, it’s not too late to fire you.”

  “There’s a serious financial penalty clause for early termination without cause.”

  “Don’t worry. I can afford it.”

  “Don’t bet on it. There are also legal penalties. You want to fire me? It’ll cost you.”

  He was teasing her. She took her hand off her hips and threw them up into the air instead. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Yeah, it is. You don’t have time to find a replacement for me and you know it. I’m all you’ve got to work with.”

  “A truly sobering thought.”

  “Hey, it was your idea to hire me, remember?” He took her arm and steered her forward down the hall. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

  He did have a point. Resigned to the inevitable, she allowed herself to be hauled off down the broad, tiled hall.

  The upscale community of Phantom Point had been designed from the ground up as a California version of an Italian hillside resort town. The developers had maintained strict architectural controls. All of the residences, with their faux-Mediterranean façades, artfully faded pink, yellow and white stucco walls, gleaming tile roofs and elaborate wrought-iron gates, had been marketed as either villas or palazzos, depending on the size.

  Vesta’s villa was two stories high, with a pool terrace and garden. It was perched on a hillside overlooking the bay and the city of San Francisco. The graciously proportioned rooms were crammed with museum-quality antiques. This was one way, at least, in which she definitely differed from her aunt, Cady thought as she walked into the study. Vesta had chosen to live amid the relics of the past. Her aunt had literally immersed herself in the artifacts of eras that were now frozen in time.

  The study, with its antique French carpets, nineteenth-century bookcases and heavy mahogany desk, reeked of old-world atmosphere. The interior had a shadowy feel, even when it was fully illuminated. The only outside light came through the French doors that opened onto the terrace.

  Mack surveyed the book-crowded room with a thoughtful expression. Then he went to stand behind the large desk. Very deliberately he removed his glasses from his pocket. He put them on and examined the few items positioned on the polished wooden surface as if they were pieces of a puzzle.

  Cady followed his gaze to the antique copper-and-crystal inkwell, plump Art Deco fountain pen, green-glass reading lamp, worn leather blotter and a pad of notepaper. The notepad bore the familiar Nun’s Chatelaine logo.

  “Looks like your aunt was the organized type,” Mack said.

  “Vesta was obsessive about order and neatness, just as she was about everything else. I think clutter made her feel out of control.”

  He nodded, just a small inclination of his head to acknowledge the comment. He went back to studying the desk as if information of vital importance had been etched into the wood.

  “You said you had some questions,” she prompted.

  “Yes.”

  He was starting to make her more than a little uneasy. Annoyed, she folded her arms. “Well?”

  “Let’s take a look at the pool,” he said.

  She froze. “Why?”

  “Just curious.” His smile was enigmatic.

  He crossed the beautifully faded carpet, opened the French doors and walked out onto the tiled terrace.

  Cady followed slowly. The late winter day was cool and crisp. A snapping breeze created whitecaps on the bay. In the distance the city sparkled in the sunlight.

  She trailed after Mack and finally came to a halt beside him at the edge of the pool. She looked down into the turquoise depths, trying hard not to imagine the scene the morning the housekeeper had found Vesta’s body.

  “Okay,” Mack said. “We’ve played enough games. Why don’t you level with me?”

  She looked up swiftly. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do. You didn’t hire me just to find out whether or not your aunt had some last-minute doubts about the financial wisdom of the merger. You brought me here because you believe that Vesta Briggs was murdered.”

  “Mack, I—”

  “You want me to help you find her killer, don’t you?”

  She took a deep breath. This was the first time she had heard her own private fears voiced aloud. They sounded wild and fanciful, just as she had known they would.

  “How did you guess?”

  “I’m not as slow as I look. It’s been obvious from the start of this thing that you were holding out on me.”

  “I read somewhere that drowning deaths are among the easiest murders to pass off as accidental,” she said cautiously.

  “Sure. Just ask any insurance fraud investigator. No marks on the body and the water washes away evidence. But I checked before I left to meet you here. There was a report filed by the local authorities. It said that there was no evidence of foul play. No sign of forced entry. Nothing was stolen, even though just one or two of those French vases in the hall would probably fetch a few hundred thousand from a collector.”

  She flexed her fingers, trying to ease the tension that made her feel suddenly brittle. “I know that her death was ruled accidental. Everyone believes that she had a panic attack and drowned.”

  “But you aren’t buying that scenario, are you?”

  She folded her arms and stared down into the pool. “I don’t know what to think. But I do know that a lot of things feel very wrong.”

  “Let’s take this from the top,” he said a little too patiently. “What’s the motive?”

  “The merger.”

  He looked dubious. “Are you serious?”

  “Doesn’t it strike you that her death is just a little too convenient?”

  “For whom?” Skepticism laced his question.

  “I don’t know yet. Someone who had a lot to gain
by the merger, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” he repeated dryly.

  “Think about it.” She turned, aware that she had to convince him with her logic, weak as it was in several places. “Everyone wanted it to go through. But it’s clear, given the fact that Vesta left those shares to me, that she had developed some last-minute doubts.”

  “I still think it’s very probable that she left those shares to you because she wanted to force you back into the business.”

  “I disagree. She wouldn’t have done that to me. She knew I wanted no part of Chatelaine’s. But she also knew that I would suspect something was wrong if I inherited those shares. She knew I’d ask questions.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “I knew her. I knew how her mind worked.” She hesitated, listening to her own words, and winced. “At least, I understood her thinking processes better than anyone else in the family. You never even met her.”

  “I can’t argue that point. But have you considered the possibility that you may be thinking a little too much like your great-aunt in this instance?”

  She ground her teeth together in silent frustration. “What are you saying? That I’m getting a little obsessive here?”

  “Maybe. And maybe you’re letting your imagination run wild.”

  “Great. Now I’m not only obsessive, I’m also the victim of an overactive imagination. Maybe I hired the wrong consultant.”

  There was a short, hard silence.

  “Could be,” Mack said evenly.

  This was not going well. It was his fault. He had sprung this tricky conversation on her without any warning. She had hoped to work up to it more slowly.

  “Hear me out,” she said quietly. “As an exceedingly high-priced freelance consultant, your job is to satisfy the client. You asked for a motive and I gave you one. I’m telling you that I think that someone who had a lot to gain from the merger may have discovered that Vesta was on the verge of killing it.”

  “And killed her, instead?”

  “Yes. It could have looked like an efficient way to make certain that she didn’t call off the deal,” she insisted. “The killer assumed that with her out of the picture, the proposal would ultimately be accepted by the boards of both galleries because everyone else was in favor of it.”

  “As your exceedingly high-priced freelance consultant, I’m telling you that murder to ensure a merger is a real stretch.”

  “But not a complete impossibility.”

  “No.” He removed his glasses very slowly, folded them and dropped them into the chest pocket of his shirt. “Not a complete impossibility. When it comes to murder, any cop will tell you that nothing is beyond the realm of possibility.”

  “I know it sounds thin to you.”

  “Transparent.” He shook his head. “Cady, a murder investigation is even further outside my field of expertise than rummaging through the financial details of a proposed merger. If you’re serious about this, you need an experienced private eye.”

  “Aside from the fact that I’ve got absolutely no evidence that points to murder, I told you, for a variety of reasons, I don’t want to bring in a stranger to ask questions. It won’t work. Not here in Phantom Point.”

  He looked down into the clear, gem-blue water for a long moment and then raised his head to meet her eyes. “Tell me, why do you feel you have to find out the truth? Why is it your responsibility?”

  She shrugged. “No one else will look beneath the surface. No one else even thinks there’s a problem. I’m the one who got the shares so I’m the one who has to do something.”

  “Try again.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “This is going to be hard enough as it is with both of us cooperating. It won’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell if you don’t start dealing straight with me.”

  Maybe bringing him here had been a mistake after all. She had hired him because he was shrewd and perceptive and because he knew the murky side of the art world, a rare mix. But he was also demonstrating far too much insight into the workings of her own mind.

  It was too late to make other plans. She was committed to this project and she needed him. If the price of his assistance was an honest answer to his question, she had no choice but to pay it.

  “My aunt was not a very lovable woman, Mack. She was very smart, very difficult, very imperious. A real control freak. She may have had lovers at various times in the past, but everyone who knew her will tell you that she never fell in love. The assumption is that she was incapable of loving anything except Chatelaine’s. She lived for the business. In the end the only tears shed at her funeral were mine.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Why do you have to look beneath the surface, as you put it?”

  She looked out across the bay. “I think it’s because I have been told so many times over the years that I have a great deal in common with Vesta. A lot of people are convinced that I will end up just as she did. Cold and alone, with only my work.”

  He watched her for a moment.

  “I get it,” he said finally. “You want to know the truth about how and why she died because, deep down, you’re afraid that she represented your own future.”

  “I think so. Yes.” She turned away from the view to meet his eyes. “Well? Is that enough straightforward honesty for you?”

  “It’ll do. For now.”

  She was afraid to relax. “Does that mean you’ll stay on the job?”

  “I’ll stay.”

  She took a step toward him. “Do you really think I’m crazy to suspect that my aunt might have been murdered because of the merger?”

  “Whatever else you are, you aren’t crazy. Like I said, when it comes to murder, nothing is impossible.” He watched her with bleak intensity, as if he was willing her to accept what he had to say. “I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise anything. You may never get the answers you want.”

  “Life’s like that sometimes.” She sighed. “Doesn’t mean that you don’t go looking for the answers, though, does it?”

  He was very quiet for a long time.

  “No,” he said eventually. “It doesn’t mean that you don’t go looking for them.”

  Fourteen

  Mack came to a halt on the sidewalk. He looked down the length of Via Appia, the colorful boutique-and-restaurant-crowded street that ran along the waterfront of Phantom Point.

  “What’s with all the banners and flags?” he asked.

  “Carnival Night,” Cady said. “It takes place next week. Big annual fund-raiser for the arts here in Phantom Point. It’s supposed to be a sort of Venetian carnival with everyone in masks and costumes. They close the streets to traffic here in the shopping district. All the galleries and restaurants stay open late.”

  He nodded and walked on down the pavement beside her to the entrance of a small gallery in the middle of the block. An oversized sculpture of the Nun’s Chatelaine hung over the front door.

  Cady stopped. “This is the little branch gallery Aunt Vesta opened a couple of years ago when Sylvia finally talked her into semiretirement. Vesta kept an office here. My cousin Leandra runs the showroom. It specializes in late-nineteenth-century art. Not the important pictures. Those go to the San Francisco gallery.”

  He surveyed the doorway. “Think this is going to work?”

  “Why shouldn’t it? I’ve got the perfect excuse for spending the day going through Vesta’s office files. I’m trying to bring myself up to speed on Chatelaine’s financial situation before I decide what to do with my shares.”

  “If you say so.”

  She gave him an impatient look. “You said you wanted to go through her private files at the house. Swell. Great idea. I have no objection. But this was her office. We need to see if she left anything behind here that will tell us why she was backing away from the merger. I’m the only one who can do that without risking a lot of questions.”

  “Fine. Go for it.”

&nbs
p; Cady made a face. “You think it’s going to be a waste of time, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve got a hunch your cousin Sylvia has already gone through your aunt’s desk. Be the logical thing for the CEO to do. It’s what I would have done if I’d been in her position.”

  “Maybe.”

  He started to feel a little guilty for being so negative. “But then again, it might be worth a shot. After all, your cousin apparently isn’t asking the kind of questions you’re asking, so she wouldn’t have looked for answers.”

  Cady brightened. “Right. My point exactly.”

  She opened the gallery door before Mack could offer any further advice.

  He followed her through the opening into a small showroom filled with atmospheric paintings of the Victorian era. Dark portraits, brooding landscapes and a selection of highly romanticized Arthurian themes dominated the offerings. Most of the frames were heavily carved and gilded.

  An attractive, pleasantly rounded young woman with dark hair and vivacious features put down the book she had been reading. She rose from behind a small desk.

  “Cady. Heard you were in town. Good to see you again.”

  Cady hurried forward to exchange hugs and air kisses.

  “Leandra, I’d like you to meet Mack Easton. Mack, this is my cousin Leandra Briggs. She was Aunt Vesta’s personal assistant. Vesta always said that she’d be lost without her.”

  “Fat chance,” Leandra said cheerfully. “Aunt Vesta could have run both branches of Chatelaine’s single-handedly and would have done so right up until the end if Sylvia hadn’t managed to talk her into semiretirement. Our great-aunt was amazing.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Mack glanced at the title of the book on the desk. He wondered how hard it was to break the bad-boy habit, whatever the hell that was. “How long have you been with Chatelaine’s?”

  “Since my divorce eighteen months ago.” She grimaced good-naturedly. “Things were a little rough financially for a while. My ex wasn’t what you’d call real great with money. He racked up a lot of bills during our marriage and I got stuck with most of them. Aunt Vesta bailed me out and then created this job for me.”