Into the Darkness (35 page)

“Hey,” he called. I turned back. “If this guy left without telling you why or where he was going, he’s not worth much more of your time and effort.”

“You and my father sound alike.”

“We have good reason to. We’re both homegrown,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks,” I said, and hurried out, passing his very curious daughter, who looked as if she was about to pounce on her father to hear why I had wanted to speak to him.

I thought about stopping at the store to tell my parents what I intended to do, but I hesitated, because I knew that my father, especially, not only would try to talk me out of it but might forbid me from doing it. It was easier just to go home, get what I needed, write a note explaining, and leave. When I reached our street, I broke into a jog again. As I ran, I thought how interesting it was that this Marcus Norton was trying to buy the property that Brayden had discovered and that he and I had considered our own private wonderland. I had no idea why he would want to purchase it other than what Mr. Richards had suggested: another property to hold for investment reasons. But still, it lingered in my mind and seemed somehow to be a piece in this puzzle I was trying to solve.

When I reached home, I went on my computer and looked up Marcus Norton Investments in Portland. I
found it listed on NW 5th Avenue. The description fit what Von Richards had described. I called and asked to speak with Mr. Norton.

“He’s not in right now,” his secretary said. “I expect him back in about three hours.”

“That’s perfect,” I said.

“Perfect for what?” I could hear her surprise and the near laughter in her voice.

“I need to see him. It’s urgent.”

“What’s it in regard to?”

“It’s personal. I’ll be there in around three hours. My name is Amber Taylor, and I live in Echo Lake.”

“Well, he has a full schedule.”

“Please, just fit me in for ten minutes,” I begged.

The desperation in my voice softened her, and she said she would fit me in when I arrived.

As soon as I hung up, I ran up to my room and dug out the money I kept in a dresser drawer for special occasions or reasons. I made sure that my cell phone was charged, put a few other necessities into my purse, grabbed a light jacket, and went down to write the note.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m sorry I upset you both last night. It’s very difficult to get someone else, even you two whom I love so much, to understand why I’m so involved with Brayden and disturbed about him after knowing him for so short a time. Maybe I’ll find a way to do that later. In any case, I decided he was worth my making a little extra effort to understand and perhaps help in some way. Please don’t worry about me.
I’m off to Portland to talk to someone who might know more about the Matthewses. I’ll call if I’m going to be home late.

I love you both very much.

Amber

I almost wrote
Amber Light
for my father’s sake, but just the thought of doing that brought tears to my eyes, and I didn’t want to be some weepy girl right now.

Right now, I wanted to be a determined young woman who would get the answers to her questions and solve all of the mysteries herself.

There would be plenty of time to be weepy if that was where the journey led me.

I was soon to know.

When I saw that there was heavy traffic heading toward Portland, I was afraid that I would arrive after Mr. Norton’s business hours and it would turn out to be a wasted trip. That was the only excuse I had for speeding and going through what must have been a radar trap. I was practically in tears when the highway patrolman signaled for me to pull over.

“In a rush?” he asked when he walked over to my car window.

I took a deep breath and said, “Yes. I’m afraid to miss an appointment.”

“Imagine how many you’ll miss if you crash,” he said. “Let me have your license and registration, please.”

I dug it out and handed it to him. He looked at it, started for his vehicle, and then suddenly stopped as if he had heard something or someone. I watched him stare at my picture for a long moment, turn slowly, and come back to my car. I was afraid there was something wrong with my license and I would be in even more trouble. Maybe he wouldn’t let me drive on. But he surprised me.

“What guarantee do I have that you will slow down and stay within the speed limit?”

I looked at the traffic and then at him. “I’ll try,” I said. My honesty brought a smile to his face.

“Try harder, Amber Taylor,” he replied, and handed my license and registration back.

“Thank you. I will.”

“You’d better. We don’t want you eternally late for an appointment.”

He stepped back. Very slowly and carefully, I pulled back onto the highway.

“Someone’s watching over you, Amber Light,” I muttered, and shook my head, still amazed at my good luck. I couldn’t even begin to imagine giving my father the news of my getting a speeding ticket on top of rushing off to Portland without first telling him and my mother. I did watch my speed. Staying within the limit didn’t make all that much difference in my arrival time in Portland, either. I was well within the three hours I had arranged with Mr. Norton’s secretary. The city was busy. I was close to rush hour, but I found a place to park close to the address of Marcus Norton Investments.

Earlier, I had feared that I would arrive in a rainstorm, but as if my urgency and enthusiasm had the power to control the wind, the clouds began to thin out and part, until blue sky was everywhere. For a moment, I stood looking at the busy traffic and the pedestrians streaming out of buildings and hurrying to their own vehicles. Now that I was there, I was very nervous. What if this Marcus Norton was a very mean, brusque man? Von Richards’s comments suggested that he was
that sort. What if he didn’t feel it was proper to give out information about any of his tenants? I would be so embarrassed if he asked me to leave. I rehearsed how I was going to approach him and exactly what I would say to get him to be forthcoming and not think I was a total nutcase.

The Marcus Norton Investments offices were on the first floor of a building with a glazed version of architectural terra-cotta, which was basically an enriched molded clay brick. It was obviously one of the older buildings and not very tall. None of the buildings in Portland were, to protect the views of nearby Mount Hood. I knew a little about the city because Dad had told me that its economic and industrial boom had sunk at the start of the First World War. It was a shipping town, and business had been heavily damaged. Real estate and the lumber industry had brought it back and stimulated the expansion of the dock facilities. My father loved getting into conversations with old-timers about all this.

Despite my determination, when I entered the company’s small lobby, I could feel myself trembling. The receptionist, a thin, dark-haired woman with hazel eyes and thin lips, looked up from her computer keyboard. I imagined that she was in her late fifties if not early sixties. Growing up around jewelry and colors made me more critical than most my age when it came to hair dye jobs, makeup, and clothing, I think. I thought her short hair looked as if it had been dipped in a pool of cheap ink. With her very fair complexion, the contrast made the poor coloring job even harsher.

“Yes,” she said, as if I had asked a question. Her lips tightened like those of someone who didn’t want to be disturbed. Whatever she was doing was challenging her, I imagined. Just my luck to be greeted by someone already in a bad mood, I thought.

“I called earlier today. My name is Amber Taylor.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, Mr. Norton has an attorney in his office at the moment. I have no idea how long he’ll be occupied. He didn’t tell me about this meeting,” she added, as if she had known me for years and I was someone who would give her great sympathy. “It’s not unusual. I don’t know why I keep a daybook anymore. I have no idea how long this meeting is supposed to go. You can wait or come back another day.”

“Oh, no, I can’t. I drove all the way from Echo Lake, remember?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t remember where you came from.” She pushed some papers around and looked at what must be her notes. “Yes, I see it. Well, I can’t rush him out of a meeting. You’ll have to decide what to do.”

“I’ll wait,” I said, and sat on the small settee that faced his office.

She looked at me askance. “I can’t imagine what could possibly bring someone your age this far to see Mr. Norton.”

“It’s very important to me,” I said. I knew she was expecting me to reveal it all, but I wasn’t going to chance her deciding that it wasn’t important enough to take up her boss’s time. She waited for me to say more. Instead, I reached for one of the magazines. They were all about
real estate or finance, nothing I would otherwise pick up. When I opened one, she smirked and returned to her work.

It was nearly twenty minutes before the door opened. There were two men stepping out, one very tall with styled light brown hair and a bronze tan. He wore a gray-black pin-striped suit and a black tie. I didn’t think he could be more than in his mid-thirties. The man beside him was a good six inches shorter, stout, with thin, balding ash-gray hair in puffs over his temples and down the back of his head. His nose was a little wide, but he still had striking iceberg-blue eyes. Although he had what Mom would describe as a barrel chest and wide hips, his face was narrow, his cheeks even a bit sunken. He looked my way while he was shaking the other man’s hand.

“Okay, Alex, let’s close this thing by the end of the week. Good work,” he said.

The younger man smiled. Then, when he turned and saw me sitting there, he paused and widened his smile.

“Things are looking up for you, Marcus,” he told Mr. Norton, who shrugged and held his grin.

“So, what do we have here, Mrs. Douglas?” Mr. Norton asked the receptionist.

“Amber Taylor. She’s come here from Echo Lake to see you on a personal matter.”

“Oh.” He widened his smile. “Well, come right in, Miss Taylor,” he said. He looked toward the young man who was standing at the entrance. “Call me,” he told him.

“Will do.”

He stepped back for me to enter his office. It looked
twice as big as the lobby. There was a wall bookcase on the right, with a settee like the one in the lobby in front of it and a glass coffee table and two soft-cushioned chairs. There was another soft-cushioned chair off in the right corner. The office walls were covered in a dark pecan paneling. On the left was another, larger table with some blueprints spread over the top and a few chairs around it. The wall on the left had a number of plaques, framed letters, and pictures. There was a large bay-style window behind the oversized dark walnut desk. All of the papers on it were neatly stacked. In front of the desk were two more soft-cushioned chairs.

Mr. Norton closed the door and moved quickly to his desk, as if he needed to have it between him and anyone visiting. He nodded at one of the chairs. “So what can I do for you, Miss . . .”

“Amber Taylor,” I said, taking the seat.

He sat. “Amber.” He smiled, folded his hands together, and sat a little forward. “So?”

“I live next door to the property you rented recently in Echo Lake.”

He didn’t say anything immediately. He just looked at me for a moment. “Who told you I rented a property in Echo Lake?”

“Didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t rented.”

“Oh.”

“Why are you inquiring about that, anyway?” he asked, losing the softness of his smile quickly.

“The family, the Matthewses, moved out abruptly yesterday. I want to know where they went,” I said.

He continued to stare at me, his eyes filling with impatience, waiting for me to continue. It was easy to see that he was the kind of man who disliked small talk. My father would call him a bottom-line man, the sort who wants you to get right to the point and not try to influence him first with conversation designed to set it up more attractively.

“Why?” he asked.

“Well, I know that Mrs. Matthews wasn’t well, and just before they all had to move, she . . . got worse. Their son, Brayden, was supposed to come to my house that day, and when he didn’t show up, I tried to reach him, but he never responded. On our way home from dinner at a local restaurant, we saw the small truck and Mr. Matthews leaving the house. Brayden never answered his phone. I called and called. I’m very worried about him, and I thought that if he was nearby, I could maybe speak to him and help him.”

Mr. Norton just continued to stare at me, making me feel very uncomfortable.

“I mean . . . well, we were becoming very close. I was hoping that his family would stay in Echo Lake and he would finish his last year of high school in my school. It’s very important to me to speak to him again,” I added when he still didn’t speak. I waited. The silence was very unnerving. “I know that it might not be legal or ethical for you to give out personal information, but I assure you, Brayden won’t be upset.”

“What did you say your name was?” he asked, picking up a pen.

“Amber Taylor. My family owns the Taylor Jewelry Store in Echo Lake. It’s been there for years and years.”