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“Some psychic communication going on there, huh?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure I believe in any of that stuff. I just know that's what usually happened.”

“So what made you think about it today?”

Had she heard from her friend? Or had she needed some time alone, an escape to work out problems?

“Nothing in particular.” Her voice changed, became more cheerful. She was putting up those damned social walls again.

“When's the last time you were there?”

“I don't know. A while ago.” She paused and then, to his surprise, continued in a softer tone. “We could only get there on horseback, but a few years ago we discovered this old cart trail that wound up one side of the mountain. An old hermit lives up there, about half a mile down from our cliff.”

There was something significant here. Scott had no idea what. Or why. But his instincts were loud and clear. As they'd been the day before, when she'd disappeared and gone all the way to the Hotel Del to use the bathroom.

Ignore them, man.

“A hermit,” he said, mind racing in spite of his directive. “Did he ever talk to you?”

“Sometimes. Whenever we stopped. He was a nice guy. Stooped, skinny, with this long gray beard. Grand-fatherly, sort of like a gnome. I think he kind of adopted me and my friend. You know, growing up in the west you hear about these guys who live their whole lives alone in the mountains or the desert, but I'd never met one before.”

She was talking. Telling him more about her life in five minutes than he'd heard in almost two years of living with her.

He'd never met one of those old hermits. But, like her, he'd always heard about them. “So, he lives up there all alone?”

“Yeah. He's a pretty amazing old guy. He was actually born up there.” Scott couldn't help grinning at the quiet animation in Tricia's voice. This was one of the most captivating sides of the woman who was turning his world on a different axis. A side he saw far too seldom.

“He says, and I believe him,” she went on, “that his great-grandfather was a merchant in San Francisco—a competitor of Sam Brannan's. You ever hear of him?”

The cement was getting hard under his butt. “Wasn't he the guy from San Francisco who made a mint during the Gold Rush?”

“Yeah, by selling shovels!”

“I remember reading about him in high school. When he heard about the discovery of gold, he bought up every axe, pick and shovel to be had, then ran through town telling everyone about the discovery of gold….”

“Something the two men who'd found it wanted to keep secret, of course,” she said.

“Yeah, old Sam Brannan never dug for gold but it made him richer than most. A true entrepreneur.” Scott's voice didn't drip with admiration.

“Remind you of someone you know?”

“More than one.” The cool night air, the full moon and the sky filled with stars, were perfect for a man who was searching for peace.

“Money can do funny things to people, huh?”

“You speaking from personal experience?” he asked.

“You see me spending lots of money?” The edge was back in her voice.

“You were telling me about your hermit friend. Something about his great-grandfather and Sam Brannon?” he asked quickly before she could shut down on him.

“When Sam got so rich in town, virtually running the hermit's great-grandfather out of business, the destitute man settled on one of the northernmost mining trails off what's now Highway 49 to run a depot with his wife.”

Tricia never used names. Not her friend's. And not the hermit's. Scott figured that was intentional. He rubbed the back of his neck, telling himself he didn't care. Her secrets—or reasons for keeping them—were nothing to do with him.

As the old saying had it, ignorance was bliss. And if she was involved in something illegal, his ignorance was also his innocence.

“His grandfather and father were born up there.” Tricia was continuing with her story. “So was he and so were his six older brothers and sisters. After the Gold Rush, when all the trails closed down, his grandparents and parents stayed up there, raising their kids off the
land, growing their food, home-schooling them. At one time they had quite a ranch. But eventually as the trails disappeared and the area grew more and more remote, all his siblings moved away. He never did.”

“Did he ever marry?”

“Not that I know of. He didn't say. And I didn't ever ask questions.”

Because that was her nature? Or did she not ask questions because she hadn't wanted any questions asked of her? And even if that was so, how could he find fault with it? In the beginning, Tricia's lack of inquisitiveness was one of the qualities that had drawn him to her.

Scott glanced over as the big metal door squeaked open. They really needed to oil that thing. Cliff looked out at him, revealed by the fluorescent bulb inside.

Scott raised his eyebrows. An answering shake of the head from his engineer, assured him that all was well. With a quick nod, he let Cliff know he was fine. The older man went back inside, leaving Scott in darkness.

“How does he get his food?” he asked Tricia now.

“Grows most of it.” She paused and he heard water running in the tub. He'd never met a woman who liked bubble baths as much as Tricia did.

Not that he was complaining. As soon as he could afford it on his paycheck, he was going to knock out the front wall of the master suite and install a jetted tub big enough to fit them both—with McCall faucets.

“Otherwise I'm not sure. Maybe he has someone who brings stuff up from Reno.”

Scott straightened, stood, his palms sweating. Was Reno the closest major city to this mountain retreat, then? Did that mean
she
was from Reno?

Had she just given him the first real piece of information about herself? Was she starting to trust him?

It shouldn't matter. Didn't matter. Couldn't matter.

But it did.

Scott spent another five minutes telling her good-night, all the while admonishing himself to forget it. Let go of things that weren't his business.

And by three in the morning, when he lay in his bunk in the station still wide-awake, listening to Joe snore above him, he knew he wasn't going to disregard a damn thing. He already felt responsible for the death of one woman; he wasn't going to stand by helpless a second time.

T
homas had known Leah was having her period. What did that say about their relationship?

That they were intimate.

Tricia sat at her sewing machine early Monday morning. She'd slept little the night before. Mostly by her own choice. The couple of times she'd fallen asleep she'd woken up from nightmares soaked with sweat. There'd been no Scott to comfort her.

The nightmares were getting worse.

Thankfully she had a lot of sewing to get done for a drop-off on Coronado Tuesday afternoon. Her only client—a Coronado dry cleaner—was keeping Taylor fed and clothed. Not that Scott wouldn't help if she'd let him.

Where was her gold metallic thread? She'd seen it recently. Glancing up at the peg board of threads in front of her, Tricia's gaze moved down the rows. And, as all the colors blended together, forgot what she was looking for.

Instead, visions of Leah and Thomas Whitehead together flashed through her mind—making her sick. It couldn't be.

But Leah had been in his car. That much was irrefutable. They'd had breakfast together and been involved in an intense conversation.

Dropping the one-of-a-kind evening gown she was redesigning from off-the-shoulder to something a bit more becoming to the wealthy—and rather plump—Mrs. Gainhurst, Tricia stumbled down the dark hall to an equally dark kitchen. The sun wouldn't be up for another hour.

But she needed some coffee. Laced with brandy. Not that she had any in the house. She hadn't drunk alcohol since she'd found out she was pregnant with Taylor.

Before that, however…

No, she couldn't go back to that time. Those memories would take her so far off course she risked being unable to return to the present…

Holding her head, Tricia leaned against the cupboard, waiting for the coffee to drip. She'd made it strong. Just because she hadn't had any sleep didn't mean her son would be lacking energy.

Leah and Thomas? Eyes closed, she lifted her head to the ceiling. There had to be some logical explanation. A legal battle, maybe. Or some favor Leah was begging for her kid's charity. Thomas, in his newly elected position and with his obsessive need for voter appreciation, would be a good bet for big bucks.

It couldn't be any more than that. As she reached for
a coffee mug, a moment of peace settled her stomach, if not the nerves that felt ready to jump out of her skin.

And the blood on the car seat?

Sloshing coffee over the side of the cup, Tricia set the pot down, slid down to the cold linoleum floor and buried her head in her hands.

Either Thomas and Leah were intimate enough for him to know that she was having her period. Or Leah had been in his car hurt—and he was covering that up by lying about his knowledge of Leah's private bodily functions.

For the life of her, she couldn't figure out which scenario was worse.

Both made her wish she was dead.

 

When the next call came in from the team of San Francisco detectives, Thomas was out speaking to a group of impressionable young men at California's most elite all-boys' boarding school, Kingsley Prep. His high school alma mater. Sitting on the dais at ten-thirty Tuesday morning wearing a black silk suit, white shirt and his red Kingsley tie, he started when the cell phone vibrating against his hip indicated an incoming call.

Recognizing the number showing on the phone's display, he felt his smile slipping, but just for the split second it took to steady himself.

The only reason Kilgore Douglas would be calling him here was if there'd been more trouble over the Montgomery woman's disappearance. He'd hoped to be done with all of that. Had counted on it.

The talk didn't go particularly well, the boys much less impressed than he'd expected. They hadn't laughed at many of the little asides he'd delivered to charm and engage them. Which was further cause for internal unrest. He generally came away from these talks buoyed, remembering his own busy days within the walls of Kingsley, recalling his early popularity. And usually that was accompanied by the adulation and respect the current group of boys heaped upon him. After the past week, his worry over Leah, he'd really been looking forward to this morning.

Thomas didn't like being disappointed.

Nor did he like being summoned.

“What's this about?” he asked his attorney as they met in front of the police station.

“Forensics went through Montgomery's condo with a fine-tooth comb. They found something.”

Holding the door for his attorney, Thomas followed the other man inside. “I have not seen that woman since Monday morning. I certainly didn't kill her.”

Would he never be free from the pangs of regret? The loneliness? Didn't anyone understand how hard this was on him?

“I know.”

Good. That felt better.

“I'm assuming there's still no word on her whereabouts?”

Douglas's form-fitting navy suit jacket moved as if one with his shoulder as he shrugged. “Not unless
that's what we're here to find out.” He switched his brown leather briefcase to his left hand, reaching with his right to push the elevator button. In this particular precinct the interrogation rooms were all on the second floor.

When he'd met this team less than two years ago, they'd been on the first floor. In another precinct. Closer to downtown.

Just thinking about those first days after Kate's disappearance, reliving, even from this distance, those nights of coming home to a house devoid of his wife's energy was enough to make him stumble a step or two.

That was why he tried not to think about Kate, beyond acknowledging the constant emptiness in his house, his life. When he thought of all the money he'd spent on private detectives only to turn up nothing…

“Let me do the talking,” Kilgore Douglas said as the elevator doors slid open on the second floor.

“I prefer to speak for myself.”

“And anything you say can and will be used—”

“I know the drill, Counselor,” Thomas said, forcing himself to smile at his employee and friend. “I appreciate that you're just doing your job and looking out for my best interests as a friend, but I'm not guilty of anything. And until I'm accused, I simply want a second set of eyes and ears, not a defense attorney.”

“Fine.” Douglas's smile was somewhat distant. “Agreed.”

Kilgore Douglas might be the highest paid attorney
in Thomas's firm, but Thomas, even semiretired, was still the rainmaker.

San Francisco Gazette
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Page 24. Section E

“What's with you today?” Patsy Benton, owner of Island Dry Cleaners in Coronado, watched as Tricia hung up the garments she'd brought in.

Startled at the pointed look from the woman who was the closest thing she had to a friend these days, Tricia bent down to her bag. She drew out a long brown dress, reached for the cheap metal hanger that gave clothes points where they should be rounded, and shrugged. Taylor was in front playing with Doris, the older woman who handled the counter for Patsy.

“Just tired,” she said when she was fairly sure she could pull off a nonchalant air. Truth was, she needed something from Patsy but hadn't quite decided whether to ask for it.

The risk was so great. Either way.

“Scott's at the end of another four-day shift. I haven't been sleeping well.”

“Yeah, well, if I had that man in bed beside me, I'd be awake when he was home!” Patsy, a self-made woman, was a little rough around the edges, but completely genuine. Tricia trusted her more than she trusted most people—other than Scott, of course.

And for someone who didn't even trust herself, that said a lot.

“You got your hair cut,” she said now, glancing over. Patsy had just turned thirty-five and, having recently taken a course that had convinced her she could create
any reality she wanted, was bound and determined to be beautiful and married by thirty-six.

“Yeah.” The muscular, five-foot, three-inch woman brushed her hand against the short, dishwater-blond bob. “I'm scheduled for a makeover next week.”

The back room, smelling like freshly laundered shirts, felt safe, evoking a sense of security. “You don't need a makeover,” Tricia told her, not for the first time. “You just need the right clothes to enhance your attributes, and a bit of confidence will take care of the rest.”

This morning Patsy was wearing a tight black short-sleeved shirt that emphasized her oversize biceps. And a pair of army pants. On a more petite girl, the outfit would be cute. On Patsy, the getup looked masculine.

“I've got clothes out the wazoo.”

“Mmm-hmm. I know. But not the right ones.”

“And next you're going to be telling me that you're the person to provide me with them. And charge me an arm and a leg for sewing up some rags from the remnants you've got stacked in that sewing room of yours.” The words were laced with Patsy's signature sarcasm.

“I'll do it for nothing.”

Patsy's generous mouth literally dropped open. “I know you're a whiz at fixing things,” she said, motioning toward the silver lamé cocktail dress Tricia was hanging. “But fixing things isn't like starting from scratch.”

Judging by Tricia's cheap jeans and T-shirt, she couldn't blame Patsy for doubting her abilities. She
certainly wasn't putting any supposed designer talent to use on herself.

“I know.” Tricia's breath was coming in short, tight spurts. What was she doing? Testing the waters? If she could take one small step, maybe she could follow it with a leap?

Was she completely insane?

“I play around with ideas,” she said now, choosing her words carefully. “You know, drawings and stuff. I've been thinking lately that it'd be fun to actually try to do more with them.”

“You really think you can?”

I know I can.
“I'm not sure, which is why I wouldn't charge you. But I'd like to try.”

For Patsy. No one else. Just this once. Because the other woman had been so good to her, paying her in cash, no questions asked, right from the first.

And because she needed something to focus on, something challenging, if she was going to keep the demons at bay and retain her sanity. She needed a diversion if she hoped to have the capacity to deal with whatever lay ahead.

Patsy, head tilted, half grinned. “If you're serious, I'm going to take you up on that,” she said. “I'll pay for whatever supplies you need, material, everything.”

“Okay, but only because I spent my last fifty-eight dollars on a bus pass this morning and I want to get started right away.” Picking up her empty garment bag, Tricia folded it, shoving it down inside her purse.

Leaning against the desk in the back room where she spent most of her days, Patsy frowned. “You know, woman, with the money you've spent on those passes, you could've bought a clunker car that'd be a whole lot more convenient for your city-to-island runs.”

Uh-huh, and then she'd have to get a driver's license….

“But when it broke down, I'd have neither the car nor the money for a bus pass.”

“I'm surprised McCall doesn't let you take his truck. It's not like he needs it sitting there for days at the station.”

What was it with the people in her life lately? Pushing for answers to questions they'd never asked before. Had she been here too long? Was it time to move on?

Or was it some subtle change in her that had prompted the change in them?

“Scott and I keep all our possessions separate. Things stay neat and clean that way.”

“You're nuts, girl.” Patsy rolled her eyes. “I'd have had that man to the altar a year ago.”

“There's a lot to be said for doing things my way,” Tricia said over her shoulder as she headed for the front of the shop. She could hear Taylor laughing, hear his little tennis shoes on the outdoor carpet by the door. Maybe it was a bad idea to ask Patsy for help. “With fewer expectations, there are fewer reasons for disappointment, which means fewer arguments.”

“Yeah.” Patsy was right behind her. “But think of all the making up you're missing out on…”

A gold lamé gown with black Lycra strips across the bust and below the waist hung at one end of the room-length revolving rack that held orders waiting for pickup. A three-year-old designer gown.

A Kate Whitehead original.

Tricia stopped so abruptly Patsy bumped into her.

“What?” the dry cleaner asked, looking around them in concern.

Tricia shook her head, focused on the floor for the second it took to get her breath back. “Nothing.” She glanced up at Patsy, eyeing the confused woman for a long moment.

In the end, she didn't have a chance to make any decisions. Tricia just opened her mouth and the words that came out were nothing like the little speech she'd rehearsed on the bus. It was after reading the paper on the way over this morning that she'd begun thinking about it.