Lost and Found

  “Not surprising. It’s a small community.”

  Well, at least he was talking.

  “Stanford is telling everyone he had always intended to turn over the operation of Austrey-Post to Randall when he felt he was ready.”

  “Anybody buying that story?” Mack asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it matters.” She paused. “What matters is that Randall has finally got his hands on the family firm.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thanks to you,” she added deliberately.

  He said nothing.

  “You’re a hero. Again.”

  “It was just a job.”

  Was that really all it had meant to him? Just a job. She wasn’t feeling depressed, she decided. The sensation flowing through her now could be more accurately described as melancholia.

  Which was the old-fashioned word for depression.

  “Thought you said you quit.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mack said. “I did, didn’t I? By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention.”

  “What?”

  “Our cover is getting a little frayed around the edges.”

  “Cover?” She pulled herself together with an effort and tried to focus on the conversation. “You mean the engagement thing?”

  “Yes. The engagement thing.”

  Silence.

  “Well, it served its purpose,” Cady said, searching for a neutral tone. “It worked. I suppose it doesn’t matter if it’s getting thin in terms of believability. We don’t need it any longer.”

  “Guess not,” he agreed, in a voice that was even more carefully balanced than her own. “Unless—”

  She seized on that. “Unless?”

  He looked at her. “Are you satisfied that exposing Felgrove’s fraud is the end of the matter? Or do you still believe that your aunt was murdered?”

  She tilted her head back against the chair and contemplated the question. “I think it’s possible that Stanford or Jonathan Arden had something to do with the way Aunt Vesta died. They had every reason to want her dead. They must have realized that she was onto the scam when she postponed the vote on the merger.”

  “You may be right, but it will probably be impossible to prove.”

  The mists of melancholia grew thicker. “I know.”

  More silence.

  “You want me to keep looking?” Mack asked after a while.

  The question took her by surprise. She thought about it for a moment.

  “I’d like to know the truth,” she said eventually. “Even if we can’t prove anything in a court of law, I would very much like to know for sure what happened that night.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You will?”

  “If that’s what you want,” he said.

  She glanced at him, trying to read the unreadable expression on his face. “Thank you.”

  “No guarantees.” He tapped his fingertips together once. “But I might be able to check out a few angles.”

  “Such as?”

  “See if I can find out exactly where Felgrove and Arden were on the night your aunt died. Maybe apply some pressure. See how they react if I push them.”

  She thought about that. “Arden isn’t even around to be pushed. You said he pulled a midnight move out of his apartment.”

  “Doesn’t mean I won’t be able to determine where he was the night your aunt died. And if he looks like a good candidate, Ambrose may be able to trace him through his financial transactions. Guys like Arden live on credit cards, usually someone else’s.”

  She studied him for a moment. “You don’t think Arden’s the killer, do you?”

  “If,” Mack said, “and I emphasize the word if, your aunt was murdered, I think Felgrove is the more likely candidate. Not only did he have more to lose, he was less of a pro. That makes him more inclined to have done something desperate, reckless or stupid.”

  “Unlike Arden.”

  “Arden is very much a pro. As you can see, when the going got tough, he got going. He knows when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.”

  “So the next step is to find out where Stanford Felgrove was on the night Aunt Vesta died?”

  “One of the next steps.” Mack looked meditative. “Does Felgrove swim?”

  “Sure. He’s got a pool. Owns a boat that he keeps down at the marina. Why do you ask?”

  “It occurred to me that if someone did drown your aunt, he would have had to be reasonably comfortable in the water. From what you’ve told me, Vesta Briggs was a strong swimmer.”

  “Yes.” A shiver swept through her. “But she was eighty-six years old. And she was a small woman. A man Felgrove’s size could easily have held her under until she died.”

  “But she would have fought?”

  “Oh, yes.” A flicker of unease went through her. “Aunt Vesta would have fought.”

  “And maybe screamed for help?”

  She hesitated, thinking of the neighbors. “Yes. If she’d had a chance to scream, she probably would have done so.”

  “The pool terrace is screened by hedges and plants but it’s outdoors. No one reported any screams that night?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “There are other ways to get rid of an elderly woman.” Mack looked out over his fingertips into the night. “She could have been the victim of a mugging or a burglar or a car accident. Yet the killer, assuming there is one, chose the pool. He accomplished his goal without leaving any marks on the body. No blows to the head, for example. He had to know there would be a struggle because your aunt was at home in the water. Not an easy target, even if she was eighty-six and small.”

  “I agree that a murderer who wasn’t comfortable in the water probably would have chosen another venue. But like I said, Stanford Felgrove can swim.”

  There was a short pause.

  “This habit your aunt had of swimming alone at night. Lot of people know about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would Felgrove have known?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence.

  “Does he dive?” Mack asked softly.

  That stopped her cold. “Dive? As in scuba dive?”

  “When you think about it,” he said slowly, “the easiest way to drown someone without risking a lot of screaming and a hand-to-hand struggle would be to do it from under the surface.”

  “Oh, my God.” Like a dead man’s hand gripping your ankle and hauling you down into the murky darkness.

  “A diver with an oxygen tank and a mask could drag his victim under and hold her there as long as necessary,” Mack concluded, his expression reflective. “No splashing. No screams. No marks.”

  It was too much. The image was too vivid. She could no longer hold back the memories. They surged up out of the depths and slammed through her with the force of hammer blows. She was suddenly breathless, drenched in an icy sweat. Her heart pounded. She could almost feel the cold fingers wrapped around her ankle dragging her beneath the surface.

  “Cady?”

  She ignored him, unable to speak coherently now. She shoved herself up out of the chair, gasping for air. The anxiety attack had struck so hard and fast that there had been no time to fend it off with the usual rituals of deep breathing and calming thoughts.

  “What the hell?” Mack was on his feet.

  “Just…just give me a minute.” She went toward the French doors, instinctively seeking to escape the intense claustrophobia that was closing in around her. “Need to get out. Need to move. Stupid panic attack.”

  She wrenched open the door and stumbled out into the garden. The fresh air helped a little. She forced herself to inhale from the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t easy. She started to pace, trying to work off the excess adrenaline that was hurtling through her system.

  Mack fell into step beside her. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about that pill you said you carried in your key chain?”


  “Maybe. Not yet.” She came to a halt and concentrated on her breathing. “I’ve been through this before. But it’s been a long time. I’d almost forgotten how bad—”

  “Take it easy.” He stopped behind her and began to massage her shoulders. “You’re so tense you feel like you might fracture. Relax.”

  “Easier said than done.” But she was regaining control. The tightness in her chest was starting to ease.

  They stood there together in the shadows. Mack continued to work on the rigid muscles of her shoulders, his hands strong and warm and deeply soothing. She ignored the tingling in her hands and focused on her breathing, willing her pulse to slow to a normal pace. She could do this. She had done it before. She knew the techniques.

  After a while the worst was over. She still felt unnaturally alert and painfully aware, but the terrible jittery sensation was fading.

  “Never realized panic attacks were so physical.” Mack flexed his hands on her shoulders.

  “They say it hits you with the same impact as if you’d walked around a corner and came face to face with a tiger. But there is no tiger and you know there is no tiger, but you can’t convince your body of that. Your system goes into instant fight-or-flight mode.”

  “Even though there’s nothing to flee or to fight.”

  “Yes. For me it has always been more like a terrible claustrophobia. Almost a drowning sensation. The way it was at the lake that day.”

  “Either way, you’re left dealing with one hell of a chemical cocktail in your bloodstream.”

  “It can make you wonder if you’re going crazy or having a nervous breakdown,” she whispered. “Everyone says that’s probably what happened to Aunt Vesta the night she died. They say she must have had an especially acute attack.”

  “Panicked and drowned.”

  “Yes.”

  “But she was a good swimmer so even if she did suffer a panic attack,” Mack said, “she probably would have made it to the side of the pool. The same way you managed to get out of the chair, open the doors and walk outside into this garden a few minutes ago.”

  She swallowed. “After you’ve had a few panic attacks, you recognize them. You can learn to move through them. It’s not easy but it can be done.”

  “Your aunt was a pro when it came to handling them, right?”

  “She’d had a lifetime of experience.” Cady glanced at him. The light from the living room cast half of his face into deep shadow. “What are you thinking?”

  “That someone, possibly Stanford Felgrove, really did kill your aunt. Now all I have to do is find a way to prove it.”

  Along time later he woke up, aware that she was not asleep beside him. He put out a hand and found only cooling sheets.

  Damn. This was getting to be a habit. At least he knew where to look for her.

  He shoved aside the covers, got out of bed and found his pants. He went downstairs to the vault room. As he had expected, the door was open. Light blazed inside the chamber.

  Cady was inside. She had climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the balcony where she was in the process of trying her little gold key in a small chest inlaid with lapis lazuli and gold. Mack watched her for a moment.

  “Find anything?” he asked eventually.

  She jumped at the sound of his voice.

  “Sorry,” he said gently. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I’m all right.” She put the chest back on a shelf and closed the glass door. “I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d try a few more locks.”

  “No luck, I take it?”

  “No. But I’m making progress.” She descended the spiral stairs slowly. The folds of her robe flowed around her, giving her an ethereal air. “Is something wrong?”

  “We never finished the conversation we started earlier. The one about the engagement thing.”

  “You said you were going to stay on the job. I assumed that meant we’d maintain the cover story.”

  “A lot of people are starting to have serious questions about the authenticity of our engagement.”

  “I don’t see any problem,” she said with astounding nonchalance. “The fact that you deal in information doesn’t mean we can’t also be engaged, does it?”

  He felt the muscles of his belly tighten. “Well, no. When you put it that way, I guess not.”

  “That’s that, then.” She reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled coolly. “The engagement thing stands.”

  Twenty-five

  There was a chill in the air on Carnival Night, but the sky was clear. Cady stood at the rear of the stage and watched Sylvia and Eleanor Middleton bestow a seemingly endless number of awards on an equally endless string of runners-up and winners in the costume contest. As each name was called, her job was to carry the ribbon to the front of the stage and hand it over to Sylvia, who, in turn, presented it to the prizewinner.

  They had done six presentations so far and Cady was already bored.

  She was not the only one who was losing interest in the proceedings. Midway through the awards ceremony, few in the crowd were paying attention. Those who were curious or personally vested in the results must have found it difficult to hear the announcements over the loudspeaker. The tide of noise and laughter had risen steadily throughout the evening. The music that swirled out of the cafés and bars added to the good-natured din.

  At the front of the stage, Sylvia, gowned in a flowing Renaissance-style cloak, prepared to hand out the next prize as Eleanor made the announcement.

  “…and the winner in the junior mask design division is Benjamin Tanner…”

  Via Appia and the surrounding streets and lanes were thronged with costumed revelers. The sidewalk cafés were filled. Strings of brightly colored lights and billowing banners marked the entrances to shops, galleries and boutiques that had remained open for the event.

  From her position on the colorfully draped stage, Cady had a bird’s-eye view of the crowd. She could not see Mack and Gardner, however, although she knew where they were. Earlier, the two had commandeered a table at one of the outdoor cafés. They had vowed to hole up there with the twins and a monster pizza until the awards ceremony was finished.

  Undaunted by the fact that she was losing the attention of her audience, Eleanor droned on cheerfully into the microphone.

  “…second runner-up in the adult amateur costume design…”

  A frisson of awareness passed over Cady. Beneath the heavy folds of her black cloak, she felt tiny goose bumps on her arms. Oh, damn. Not again. Not now. The last thing she needed was another panic attack.

  There was a small flash of silver at the edge of her eye. She turned quickly and was just in time to see light glint briefly on a shimmering mask. In the next instant it was gone as the costumed figure vanished back into the throng.

  Electricity trickled across the back of her neck, stirring the small hairs there.

  Take it easy. Just one more mask in a sea of masks.

  But it had been a silver mask. Full face coverage, not just the eyes.

  So what? There were dozens of silver masks in the crowd. Eleanor Middleton’s mask was silver, for that matter.

  She knew what it was that was making her edgy. The mask she had glimpsed a few seconds ago was identical to the one she had found inside the box that had been delivered to Jonathan Arden.

  There was no reason to think Arden’s mask and costume had been unique. Besides, he had skipped town, according to Mack. Why would he take the chance of showing up here in Phantom Point on Carnival Night? It made no sense.

  On the other hand, when you got right down to it, how much risk was actually involved for Arden? Tonight he was just one more masked reveler among many. Talk about being incognito.

  “…and in the category for best professional costume design in the traditional style we have five nominees…”

  The disturbing restlessness was almost overpowering now. She had to get another look at that mask, Cady thought. She would feel a
whole lot better if she could just assure herself that it was not concealing the face of Jonathan Arden.

  She glanced toward the front of the stage. It would take Sylvia and Eleanor another twenty minutes to get through their list of nominees and prizewinners.

  She stepped behind the heavy red and gold banners that concealed the framework at the rear of the platform and caught the attention of a young woman who was working with the electrical equipment.

  “I’ve got to leave for a while. Can you take charge of the ribbons?”

  “Sure.” The woman hurried up the steps and disappeared around the banners.

  Cady picked her way through the maze of cables and wires that littered the pavement at the foot of the steps.

  The stage had been erected at the mouth of a service alley that opened onto Via Appia. The easiest way out was through the narrow passage that connected to a side street. She followed the route, intending to use the next intersection to work her way back to the place where she had spotted Arden. She hoped that he was still in the vicinity. If he had wandered off, she might not be able to find him in the crowd.

  She arrived at the end of a short lane and turned the corner to return to Via Appia. The crowd was much thinner here, a block off the waterfront. There were several masked-and-gowned people congregated around tables that had been set out in front of a restaurant, but otherwise she had no difficulty moving quickly.

  She was halfway toward her goal when she felt another prickle of awareness. Instinctively, she halted in the shadows of one of the few doorways that had not been decorated with a string of lights.

  Arden was walking swiftly toward her down a short cross-street that led to the marina. She held her breath as he went straight past her.

  When he reached the cluster of tables that had been set up on the sidewalk, she moved out of the doorway to follow him.

  Another chill shot through her. Why would Arden come here tonight? He should have been a thousand miles away.

  As she watched, he went quickly past the restaurant and melted back into the shadows. She realized that if he continued in that direction, he would arrive at the marina.

  As far as she knew, Arden did not own a boat.

  She drifted in his wake, allowing plenty of space between them. The handful of noisy revelers in the area gave her adequate cover until she reached the end of the street.