Secret Sisters (24 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

“Thank you for seeing me today, Madeline.” Louisa sank slowly into a chair and clasped her hands in her lap. “I know you and your friends have been through a very difficult experience. I should have called first. But given what has happened, I was afraid that you would not agree to talk with me. So I took a chance and drove out here, instead.”

“What is it you want to say to me?” Madeline asked.

Louisa's car was parked in the driveway. She had arrived shortly after the early ferry had departed, taking Daphne and Abe to the mainland in Abe's rented car.

Louisa was as cold and composed as usual, but it seemed to Madeline that her eyes were bleak with a grim mix of resignation, pain, and the kind of grief only a mother could know. But there was also something quite fierce and determined about her. It occurred to Madeline that a woman caught up in such a maelstrom of emotion was a very dangerous creature.

“It's about Xavier,” Louisa said.

Madeline waited. She knew she probably ought to say something along the lines of
I'm sorry for your loss
, but the truth was she was not
sorry that Xavier was gone. In addition, her intuition warned her not to trust Louisa any farther than she could spit, so there didn't seem to be much point in going with the polite social niceties. She wondered if Jack's approach to such things was starting to rub off on her.

Louisa had asked to speak to her alone, but Jack had quietly shaken his head, indicating that was a nonstarter. Louisa had witnessed the low-key signal. Her mouth had narrowed to a very tight line, but she had obviously realized that she did not have any bargaining power. She had accepted his presence without further comment. He stood at the window now, his back to the glary gray daylight. He was wearing his leather jacket. It was unfastened to reveal a glimpse of the holster underneath. He did not take his eyes off Louisa.

“My son had a mental breakdown last night,” Louisa said. “The police believe he came here with the intention of setting fire to this house while you and your friends were sleeping. I am not here to defend his actions. Please believe me when I tell you that my entire family has been devastated by what has happened. We are in shock. Xavier's nerves have always been somewhat fragile. But I swear we had no reason to think that he would go over the edge the way he did.”

“I understand, Mrs. Webster,” Madeline said. “What, exactly, do you want from me?”

“My son is dead. There is nothing more he can do to harm you. I would take it as a great kindness if you and your companions—” She paused to glance uneasily at Jack. “If you and your friends would let things rest.”

“What do you mean by ‘rest'?” Madeline asked.

“By now I'm sure the local media have contacted you, asking for your version of events.”

There was the faintest of question marks at the end of the sentence. Louisa paused and waited.

“We are not giving any statements to the media, if that is what is
worrying you,” Madeline said. “The police advised us that there is an ongoing investigation.”

“Of course.” Louisa looked faintly relieved. “Thank you. But I'm afraid it won't be long before the national media pick up the story. We all know they have the power to destroy lives, not to mention careers.”

She stopped speaking again. This time Madeline did not try to fill in the silence. After a few seconds, Louisa continued.

“As I'm sure you know, my son Travis is preparing to run for office. He feels a calling to public service, but if his brother's breakdown is cast in the wrong light, Travis's future could be ruined before he even has a chance to prove himself.”

“What do you see as the right light?” Madeline asked.

“The family has discussed the situation in great detail. We feel that the best way to handle things is to simply tell the truth.”

“Always an interesting approach,” Madeline said.

Louisa bristled. “I'm not asking you to lie. Xavier suffered a mental breakdown. He stole a boat, took it out into open water, and killed himself by setting the vessel on fire. All I'm asking is that you let the Webster campaign public relations people handle the media.”

“In other words, you want us to let the Webster campaign put its spin on the story. They plan to just skip over the part where Xavier came here to torch this house and then fired a number of shots at my consultant.”

Louisa clenched her handbag. “My son was the only victim and he's dead. There is no point airing the details of the incident in the press. The campaign spokesperson knows how to deal with this sort of thing. She will stress that Travis intends to make accessible, affordable mental health care a major issue once he is elected.”

“If it helps, I can assure you that I have no interest in giving interviews to the media,” Madeline said. “But I'm not going to cover up what happened here last night. Nor am I going to stop asking questions about Tom Lomax's death.”

“I'm sure I don't have to point out that the members of my family are not the only ones who have a vested interest in trying to keep this situation under control.”

There was a new, steely chill in the oddly hushed atmosphere. Madeline did not have to glance at Jack to know that he had felt it, too. They were now coming to the real reason Louisa had driven out to the cottage.

“I beg your pardon?” Madeline said.

“I didn't want to bring this up, but you leave me no choice,” Louisa said. “In exchange for your cooperation in this matter, I am prepared to make sure that the media do not learn that Sanctuary Creek Inns is experiencing serious financial difficulties.”

Anger flashed through Madeline. She controlled it with an effort of will.

“Sanctuary Creek Inns is not in financial trouble,” she said.

“Let me be clear, Madeline, my husband is a very powerful man in financial circles. If he expresses concern for the financial stability of your hotel chain, the rumors will be picked up immediately. Among other things, it will make financing for renovations and new properties extremely difficult to obtain.”

“Louisa, are you threatening me? Because I do not respond well to threats.”

“Perhaps you should reconsider your response. Rumors of financial problems will cause you a great deal of trouble, but you may feel you can survive them.”

“I will survive them.”

“Do you think you can survive rumors that your hotel chain may be the target of an arsonist?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“There has already been one fire at a Chase property—the Aurora Point Hotel. Three months ago your grandmother was killed in a hotel
fire. If the traveling public is convinced that some demented individual might strike a Sanctuary Creek Inn at some point in the near future, the results could be quite devastating for your chain. No one will want to book a room in a hotel that might have been targeted by a madman.”

Madeline went cold.

“I don't think there is any need for further clarification, Louisa,” she said. She was amazed by the unnatural state of calm that had settled on her. “That is definitely a threat. Do you agree with me, Jack?”

“No doubt about it,” Jack said.

He reached inside his jacket. Panic tightened Louisa's face for an instant. But she relaxed somewhat when she realized that he was not going for his gun.

He removed a digital voice recorder and hit
rewind
and then
play
. Louisa listened in stunned shock when her own voice came out of the machine, sharp and clear.

“Do you think you can survive rumors that your hotel chain may be the target of an arsonist?”

“Bastard,” Louisa whispered. She bolted to her feet and looked at Madeline. “You are a very foolish woman. You don't know what you're up against.”

Clutching her bag, Louisa made for the door without another word. Madeline followed more slowly and stood in the entrance, watching Louisa get into her car.

Jack moved to stand behind Madeline. Together they watched Louisa's car speed down the drive toward Loop Road.

“Now what do we do?” she asked softly.

“We fight fire with fire,” Jack said.

“Dear heaven.”

“Unfortunately, it's the only thing some people understand.”

“You mean it's the only thing thugs understand.”

“Yeah, that's what I mean.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

“We're too late,” Abe said. “Someone else got here first.” He surveyed the apartment, his face grim with disappointment. “Damn. Jack isn't going to like this.”

The Seattle address for the woman they knew as Ramona Owens had proven to be a two-story apartment complex in a quiet neighborhood. There was no on-site manager, no cameras, and no serious security.

Abe had experienced no trouble with the main entry door or the door of apartment six. But he was right, they were too late, Daphne thought. Until that moment she had been both excited at the prospect of discovering Ramona's secrets and terrified at the possibility of getting caught. But at the sight of the chaotic scene in the living room, she was overwhelmed with disappointment and a simmering anger. Ramona had very likely killed Tom, and she had, at the very least, been an accessory to the attempted murder of Madeline and Jack. But it looked as if she had gone to the grave with her secrets.

Abe took out his phone. “Jack. Yeah, we're at the address, but someone else has already been here and gone. Whoever it was tossed
the place. Sure. We'll take a look around, but the guy who did this job was pretty damn thorough. What?” Abe glanced at Daphne's plastic-sheathed hands. “Of course we're both wearing gloves. Give me a little credit. I watch TV. Okay. Later.”

Daphne studied the living room. The space was in chaos. The furniture had been overturned. Cushions had been ripped open. The television had been removed from the wall.

“This is pretty much how my apartment looked the day I got home from the cruise,” she said.

“Someone came here looking for something.”

“Whoever it was must have been desperate,” Daphne said.

“Jack says to take a fast look around and then get the hell out of Dodge.”

“I'll take the bedroom,” Daphne said.

She went down the hall and stopped short when she saw the expensive lingerie and the array of sex toys that littered the floor.

“Oh, my,” she said very softly.

She checked the bathroom and then went back down the hall.

“I know this probably isn't too useful,” she said, “but I can tell you with a fair degree of certainty that Ramona had a lover.”

Abe looked at her across the top of the kitchen counter. “How do you know?”

“Little things,” Daphne said. “An interesting assortment of sex toys, for example. Also some very pricey lingerie. Investment pieces, I think. The kind of stuff you buy to wear for someone else.”

Abe gave that some thought. “Was she entertaining a man or a woman?”

“Judging by the nature of the sex gadgets, I'd guess that her visitor was male, but that's sheer speculation.”

“Maybe one of the neighbors can give us a description.”

“I wouldn't count on it. Looks like the kind of apartment complex
where people mind their own business. Short-term stays. That means high turnover.”

“You never know,” Abe said. “Let's go. There's one more thing we need to check.”

“What?”

“Her mailbox in the lobby. You'd be surprised how frequently people forget to check the U.S. mail.”

Ten minutes later they were back in the car, heading for the interstate. Daphne made the phone call to Madeline and Jack.

“Ramona was paying monthly rent on a storage locker. We lucked out. Next month's bill was in her mailbox. We're on our way to the facility.”

•   •   •

The storage locker facility was located in a semirural area about a mile off the interstate. It was protected by a chain-link fence and a gate that was standing wide open when Abe and Daphne arrived. The attendant was sitting in a small office, watching videos on his computer. He barely looked up when Abe drove through the gate.

Daphne had been holding her breath while they approached the gate. She exhaled after they drove through.

“Okay, that was easier than I had expected,” she said. “What would you have done if he had asked for your ID?”

“Showed it to him. All he would have cared about was whether I knew where I was going. We've got a locker number. That's all you usually need to get into one of these places. So long as the rent gets paid, no one asks too many questions.”

“I guess a storage locker in a place like this is about as anonymous as a person can get in this day and age.”

“Simple and low-tech works every time.”

Abe brought the car to a halt in front of locker number 435, the
number on the invoice they had found in Ramona's mailbox. It was a small locker, secured with a padlock. Abe got the bolt cutters he had purchased at a hardware store and snapped the lock. The door rolled up into the ceiling with an aluminum clatter.

There was only one item in the locker—a small roll-aboard suitcase.

“This looks interesting,” Daphne said.

Abe moved forward. “Let's see what we've got.”

He unzipped the suitcase.

“You were right,” Daphne said. “This was her version of a safe house, the place she planned to retreat to if the con went south. She intended to grab that suitcase and run, maybe to the airport or maybe hit the road.”

“But she never made it back here,” Abe said. “Whoever searched her apartment didn't know about this locker. That means she didn't trust him.”

“Or her,” Daphne said. “This was Ramona's secret.”

“Like Jack always says, a secret is only a secret as long as only one person knows it. Stands to reason that a professional con would probably have a few trust issues.”

“I'm beginning to think that a lot of people have trust issues.”

Abe started to rummage through the contents of the suitcase. “I trust you.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, so casually, so calmly, that for a second or two she didn't think she had heard him correctly. Such a statement should have been a very big deal, she thought. In fact, it
was
a very big deal, but he had said it as though it were a simple fact of life as far as he was concerned.

“Thank you,” she said, oddly rattled and uncertain how to proceed. “I am . . . honored. Not sure that's the right word.”

He flashed her a quick grin. “Neither am I, but I guess it will have to do for now.”

“No,” she said, suddenly very sure. “No, it doesn't have to do for now. I trust you, Abe.”

Abe smiled, satisfied, and went back to the suitcase.

It was neatly packed with the bare essentials a woman on the move might need: a change of underwear; a couple of sets of dark, nondescript clothes; a few travel-sized cosmetics; a pair of studious, black-framed glasses; a dark-haired wig; a bucket hat designed to shield the face—and a large, thick envelope.

“I think,” Abe said, “that we should get out of here before we open that envelope. There is always the possibility that someone else might find this place. Be better if we weren't inside if that happens.”

“Good plan.”

Abe stowed the suitcase in the trunk of the car, tossed the envelope to Daphne, and then closed the locker.

They drove sedately back through the front gate and turned onto the road that would take them to the interstate.

Daphne opened the envelope very carefully. Her fingers shivered a little.

“You do realize this could be construed as tampering with evidence,” she said.

“Someone used a crazy person to try to torch all of us in our beds last night,” Abe said. “The police on Cooper Island do not inspire confidence. I think we've got a good reason to try to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“This is true.”

Very carefully she removed the contents of the envelope. There was another, smaller envelope inside and another set of IDs featuring Ramona's picture. In the driver's license photo her hair was cut short. She wore the black-framed glasses and the wig that had been packed in the suitcase.

Daphne set the ID aside and opened the second envelope. Several
photographs fell out. The pictures looked as if they had been taken with a long-range camera lens. There were also three printouts of newspaper articles dated just over twenty years earlier and photocopies of several pages from a small notebook. The writing on the lined pages was cramped and sloppy.

Last but by no means least, there was a photocopy of a California driver's license issued to Norman Purvis.

Daphne stared at the items, hardly daring to believe what she was seeing. Then she glanced at the headlines on the newspaper articles.

“What have we got?” Abe asked.

“You'd better find a place to get off the interstate,” Daphne said. “You need to see these.”

A short time later Abe parked in a strip mall lot, shut down the engine, and picked up the pictures and photocopies.

“Well, hell,” he said softly.

Daphne handed him the photocopy of Purvis's driver's license.

“I think we're looking at copies of the contents of that damned briefcase,” she said. “Ramona knew she was involved in something dangerous. She probably kept a copy of everything she found, thinking it would be insurance.”

“Same mistake Tom Lomax and Edith Chase made.” Abe took out his phone.

“Jack, it looks like we found copies of the contents of that briefcase that got sealed up in a certain wall eighteen years ago. They were in a getaway suitcase that Ramona stashed in the storage locker. You need to see this stuff. I'm going to scan in everything we found and email it to you.”