by Lisa Jackson
“If you want to go, I won’t stop you,” Catherine said.
Ravinia narrowed her eyes on her aunt. “But you’ll try.”
“What I don’t want is to have you climbing the fence and coming and going as you please. If you want out, go. But don’t come back.”
Her eyes flickered. “Is this some kind of trick?”
“No, Ravinia,” Catherine said tiredly. “I don’t know where you’ve been all night, and I don’t have the energy to care. I’m going to make the lodge more secure. I guess I should thank you for showing me there are still ways to get in and out. I’ll find them and secure them, and then if you ever want to contact us, you can come to the front gate.”
Ravinia’s face was flushed. “Next time I leave, it’s forever!”
“Then we understand each other.”
Catherine climbed to her feet and forcibly collected herself, feeling both despair and relief over this final decision. She headed upstairs again, aware Ravinia was staring after her, as if she’d lost her mind, and glanced down the length of the gallery to the steps that led to Mary’s room. A faint slip of light showed. Catherine frowned. Daylight was creeping in, but this was lamplight, and the only way there could be lamplight was if the door to Mary’s bedroom had been left open.
She walked to the stairs and looked upward, seeing more light. Carefully, she climbed the steps, and when she crested the last one, she gazed down at the locked door. Only it wasn’t locked. It was ajar.
Catherine wished she’d hung on to the frying pan, and was debating whether to go in search of a weapon or just boldly walk into the bedroom when she saw a figure come out of the room and softly close the door behind her. Catherine didn’t move a muscle as the figure walked from the gloom at the end of the hall across the gallery, toward her, stopping short upon seeing her standing at the top step.
“Ophelia,” Catherine said.
She was holding a leather box in her hands. Mary’s or her own, Catherine couldn’t tell.
Ophelia didn’t say a word as she held out the box to Catherine. Catherine took it silently, a thousand questions racing through her brain as she gazed at her niece. Ophelia was in her late twenties, and her hair was the blondest of Mary’s girls. She was the one who’d wielded the cast-iron pan against Justice, driving him away from Ravinia, saving her sister’s life. Of all of them, Ophelia had the tendency to stay silent and observe, and sometimes Catherine felt she was the niece she knew the least.
“Is this mine?” Catherine asked as she took it.
“It’s the one you were looking for.”
“Mary’s? Where was it?”
“In her room. Behind a panel in the wall.” Catherine stared at her, and Ophelia added, “I used to play in her room. She was nice to me. As soon as I saw you looking for it, I remembered where it was.”
“You knew I was looking for it?”
Ophelia nodded. “You told me you wanted it.”
“No. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Didn’t you?”
Catherine wagged her head slowly from side to side, and Ophelia seemed suddenly embarrassed. “You read minds,” Catherine said.
“Only some,” Ophelia said, disabusing Catherine of that notion. “Only when you’re desperate.”
Catherine absorbed that, wondering how many thoughts of hers Ophelia had read over the years. Until this moment, she’d had no inkling of Ophelia’s particular gift; the girl had hidden her abilities well.
Lifting the box, Catherine asked, “Do you know what’s in it?”
“Her special things . . . There was a pin . . . and some coins . . . and a book.”
In her mind’s eye Catherine saw the pearl brooch and the coins from another century, gifts from their ancestors. They were extremely valuable, but it was the book she wanted. Mary’s journal.
“Are you afraid to open the book in front of me?” Ophelia asked.
“You haven’t looked in it?”
She shook her head.
“Were there any . . . papers with the journal?” Catherine asked diffidently.
“No. Should there have been?”
Catherine had believed the boys’ adoption papers were tucked inside the journal, but before she could respond, quick footsteps sounded below them, coming up the first flight of stairs. Ravinia’s. “Can we talk about this later?” Catherine asked.
Ophelia nodded, and Catherine moved quickly down the third-floor steps, tucking the box under her arm as she passed Ravinia and headed to her own room, where she shut her door behind her and threw the bolt. Then she pulled up the curtains and let the sunlight stream in.
She sat the leather box on her nightstand and carefully opened the lid. The brooch gleamed lustrously, and the coins were scattered along the faded velvet lining on the bottom of the box. There was a hairpin with a line of emeralds, as well, and some earrings that were not heirlooms, just Mary’s favorites. But it was the journal that she wanted. A small booklet with a spiral binder, it was tucked beneath another book, a copy of A Short History of the Colony, a gift to Mary from that lovesick dope Herman Smythe.
Now she slid the journal from beneath Smythe’s chronicle. Gingerly, she opened it to the first page, and a loose folded paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up, unfolded it, and a chill slid down her spine.
C. If you’ve gotten this far, you must really be worried, but the secret’s still safe. If you let him go, I’ll never tell. He’s mine. For now and for always. But if you try to keep him, you know I’ll make him suffer. M.
Her mouth went dry. She had a momentary vision of Mary writhing atop the one man Catherine had ever cared about, and she forcibly stamped it out. It wasn’t the truth. It was only her fear. Mary hadn’t been with him.
But Mary had been pregnant shortly thereafter, and the gleam in her eye had begged Catherine to ask her, just ask her, but Catherine hadn’t had the nerve.
Then.
Now, however, she was beginning to realize she must.
The Portland offices of Bancroft Development were on the east side of the Willamette River, near the Lloyd Center mall. Savannah nosed her Escape into a spot in the underground parking structure and took an elevator to the lobby, then a different elevator to the eleventh floor. Since it was Saturday, the building was generally deserted, except for the street-level establishments, which were on all four sides of the building and included two restaurants, a Starbucks, a women’s clothing store called Lacey’s, and a shop that sold all manner of kitchen items.
She glanced down at the list of names Hale and his employees had compiled for her:
Clark Russo
Sean Ingles
Neil Vledich
There were other names below those top three, as well. Nadine Gretz, the ex-bookkeeper. Owen DeWitt, the much-maligned ex–geological engineer. Bridget Townsend, the office receptionist. And then the temporary workmen Ella Blessert had mentioned.
Savvy concentrated on Clark Russo, the Portland project manager, whom Hale had said he would call. She had his number, as well, and debated about whether she should phone him directly with a reminder or just walk through the door. She opted for the latter, testing the glass doors to see if they were locked. They weren’t, and she pushed into a vacant reception area with several green chenille armchairs and a small sofa grouped near the west window, while a large reception desk took center stage. An anemic ficus tree stood in the corner behind the desk, and toward the other corner was a door that clearly led to further offices.
Since no one was at the desk, Savvy pulled out her cell phone and punched in the number she had for Clark Russo. It rang six times before going to voice mail. Oh, joy. She left a message, then wondered if the number might be to a cell phone and decided to try texting.
Mr. Russo, Hale St. Cloud said he would alert you that I was coming to see you. I’m Detective Savannah
Dunbar, and I’m waiting in the reception area of your offices.
If he was anywhere around, that ought to do
it. In the meantime she checked out the black-and-white photos lining the walls, which were of buildings in varying stages of completion, the last picture being of the fifteen-story edifice she was currently standing in. So, this building had been one of Bancroft Development’s projects. She realized then that one of the names listed at the bottom of the photographs was someone she was hoping to see: Sean Ingles, the architect.
Her cell phone blooped, and she knew she had a text. I’m delayed at a job site. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Russo.
Savannah made a face and eased herself into one of the chairs, relieved to find they were comfortable and supported her lower back. She felt tired, and for once, the peanut butter wasn’t doing it for her. There was a nagging little indigestion going on.
With time on her hands, her mind drifted back to Herman Smythe’s A Short History of the Colony. A lot of information about Catherine and Mary’s ancestors, but not much concerning the present. The girls’ names weren’t even listed, although she knew the first one was Isadora, and she’d met Cassandra/Margaret, Ravinia, and Lillibeth. She also knew of Lorelei, who, along with reporter Harrison Frost, had been instrumental in helping the TCSD track down Justice Turnbull after he’d escaped from Halo Valley Security Hospital. Lorelei was a nurse who’d lived outside of the Colony complex, and Savannah had heard she’d moved with Frost when he took a job in Portland. Lastly, there was another woman who lived in the Portland area, she thought, who was somehow connected to the Colony, but Savvy didn’t have any definitive information on her.
Lang was the one in the department who knew the most about the current clan, but he’d never mentioned anything about any sons of Mary’s, though Catherine had alluded to them. More than alluded. She’d intimated that they had stronger gifts that were harder to control and so they’d been shunted outside the gates. Savannah wasn’t sure exactly what Catherine had been trying to tell her, but she certainly wanted the knife tested, and with her talk about the boys who’d been adopted out and their “superpowers,” it stood to reason there must be some connection between the two. When she got the DNA off the knife, she’d be able to move forward.
Maybe she should try to interview Herman Smythe in person. It was worth a try, although after she was desk-bound on Monday, she wasn’t sure how much legwork she would be allowed to do. She knew he was at Seagull Pointe, a combined assisted living facility and nursing home. She could stop by this evening, maybe, when she got back to the coast.
Her cell phone rang its new default tone, the one Lang had chosen for her one day when he’d commandeered her phone for a while: “Dragnet.” Funny. Pulling the cell from her messenger bag, she examined the name. Hale St. Cloud.
“Savannah,” she answered.
“Hey, Savvy. How’re you doing? You on your way to Portland?”
“Already here, waiting to see Clark Russo.”
“He’s making you wait?”
“He’s on a job site, but on his way back. What’s up?”
He hesitated a moment, before saying, “I missed talking to Kristina this morning, and I wondered if she’d contacted you.”
“Not today. Why? Something wrong?”
“We’ve just been missing each other,” he said, but something in his tone caught Savvy’s attention.
“Did you see each other last night?” she asked.
“No, she had something to do, and I went to bed early.”
“She was up before you? Like, what? At dawn? Doesn’t sound like her.” Kristina had never been a morning person. “Did she have an early appointment?”
“No clue,” he said, then changed the subject. “You know, if you don’t want to wait, I know Clark’s in Lake Chinook, at our job site there. I can give you the address. I’m pretty sure he’s with Neil Vledich, our foreman. The property was red tagged by the city, so there’s no construction going on. They’re just meeting there. You could kill two birds with one stone if you stopped by.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call Clark and tell him to stay put, then. Tell him you’re on your way.”
“Thanks, Hale.”
“Any records you need, Clark’ll help you.” Another hesitation, and then he said, “Just don’t spend too much time on that side of the mountains. The weather’s changing for the worse.”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“I don’t mean to be a broken record, but any documentation you need, I can get for you. You don’t have to hang around there.”
“Message received,” she said, half amused, half exasperated.
“All right. Have a safe trip.”
“Would you tell Kristina to call me when she shows up?” she asked, trying not to sound worried, even though she was. Her sister was just acting strange right now.
“Will do.”
He said good-bye, and Savannah clicked off. Maybe he was right. Maybe this trip wasn’t worth it. She would meet Russo and Vledich and see how she felt about staying or going.
She’d worn her raincoat, so now she slipped the strap of the messenger bag over her head, and as she was in the process, the front door opened and a man stood on the threshold, his expression tense. He stopped short upon seeing her.
“The door’s open,” he said, as if he had to explain himself. “Where’s Bridget?” He looked to the imposing desk.
“Not here. I was waiting for Mr. Russo.”
“He isn’t here, either?” he asked. He was still standing in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter.
“No.” Savvy headed toward him but slowed to a stop when he didn’t immediately move out of the way.
“I’m Sean Ingles,” he said, introducing himself, and stuck out his hand. “I designed this building, and I do work for Bancroft Development.”
Ingles was a slight man with sandy-colored hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a slight hunch, almost as if he were preparing for a blow. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move, so Savannah shook his hand and said, “Detective Dunbar with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department.”
His eyebrows shot up, and his gaze skittered down her front.
Yes, Mr. Ingles, police officers get pregnant, too.
He didn’t say anything about her condition, however. He was clearly processing her words, and it didn’t appear to be a particularly pleasant train of thought. After a long few moments, he said, “Ummm . . . we have a Seaside office.”
“I’ve been there. I spoke to Hale St. Cloud and told him I was coming here.” He’s my brother-in-law, and I’m carrying his baby.
“Oh. Okay.” And then, “Oh, does this have to do with Bancroft Bluff and the . . . ?”
“Donatella homicides. Yes.”
He met her gaze, his brown eyes owlish behind the lenses. “I hope you get whoever did it,” he stated fervently. “If I can help in any way, let me know.”
“Did you design the homes at Bancroft Bluff?”
He physically recoiled, as if she’d struck him. “Well . . . yes . . . most of them. There were a few lots sold to other builders, and sometimes they used their own architects or house designers.” He clenched his teeth and moved his lips, as if he was working himself up to say something. Finally, he asked, “Have you talked to DeWitt? Owen DeWitt? He’s the brilliant geological engineer who okayed that project.” Ingles’s voice was full of repressed venom.
“I’ve put in a call to Mr. DeWitt, but he hasn’t responded.”
“Figures,” he breathed. “He cost the company a lot of money, and I don’t have to tell you that’s a real black mark on my reputation as well as Hale’s.” His lips tightened with repressed fury. “DeWitt’s an incompetent ass who really sold Declan Bancroft a bill of goods.”
Savannah could have told him Declan Bancroft would agree with him 100 percent, but she said instead, “Do you know where I could find Mr. DeWitt?”
“You mean besides in a bottle at the Rib-I?”
“What’s the Rib-I?”
“A steak house and bar. The one that had the double
murder the other night. DeWitt was probably there when it happened. You should ask him. It’s not too far up on Sandy.” He waved an arm in a general direction east, toward Sandy Boulevard, a major artery on the eastside of Portland.
Double murder? Like at Bancroft Bluff? Savannah hadn’t seen the news in the past twenty-four hours or so and realized she was behind the times. “It’s not even nine yet.”
“They serve steak burritos and make-your-own Bloody Marys on the weekends. He’s there.”
“Okay.”
She gave him her card, and he returned the favor. She left the office, wondering if she should stop by the steak house on the way to the job site but deciding against it. Russo was expecting her, if Hale had called him, like he’d said he would, and she didn’t want to miss the opportunity to talk to him, anyway. By the sounds of it, DeWitt might still be at the Rib-I later today, anyway.
She put in a call to Lang and got his voice mail. It was Saturday, she reminded herself. At the beep, she said, “Hey, I just heard about a double homicide at the Rib-I restaurant in Portland. It’s a place DeWitt, the engineer who okayed building on the dune, frequents. Have you talked to Curtis about it? I’m in Portland and thought about going over there to see if I can find DeWitt.” Detective Trey Curtis of the Portland Police Department was a longtime friend of Lang’s, their relationship having started when Lang was with the PPD, before he joined the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department.
Ten minutes later Lang texted her back. A man and a woman killed Thursday night in parking lot. Throats slit. Looks like they were having sex in his truck when he got them. That’s DeWitt’s bar?
Savannah grimaced at the thought of the new homicides. She texted: Yep. I’ll try to see him before I head back.
Lang answered: I’ll let Curtis know.
With a glance out the window to the sky, which was high and gray, she turned south toward the bedroom community of Lake Chinook.
