Claim the Crown

by Carla Neggers

  “He’ll kill her, Jeremy.”

  “He raised her.”

  “He’s raised pigs and chickens, too. To a man like that, they’re all the same.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “I can’t convince her of that.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to.” Mac moved toward the window and smiled grimly. “You’re bigger than she is, Jeremy. You can stop her. Hog-tie her, if you must.”

  Jeremy had to laugh at the idea: she’d have a royal fit.

  But Mac wasn’t laughing. “Do whatever you have to—anything. But keep her away from her uncle.”

  “Mac, talk to her yourself. Tell her. She has to make her own decisions.”

  “Don’t be so honorable.”

  “If I collude with you again, Mac, I’m afraid I’ll lose her.”

  “If you don’t, she’ll get herself killed.”

  With a weary sigh, Jeremy climbed to his feet. Mac had his back turned to him now, one hand outstretched on the wall, bracing him as he looked out the window. He must be exhausted, Jeremy thought. Had he slept at all last night?

  “Do you know where her uncle is?” he asked.

  Mac shook his head. “Not for sure, but I think he’s somewhere on the island.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, dammit, here. He’ll be contacting Balaton.”

  Then, from a distance, came the sound of a motor, for Jeremy a joltingly familiar sound. He flew to the window, swearing, but it was too late. The trim white Cessna 172 was already lifting above the treetops, flying into the cloudy pale dawn sky.

  “Son of a bitch!” He pounded the wall.

  “Maybe this once she’s going to be sensible,” Mac said hopefully.

  “Don’t count on it, Mac.”

  “It’s not her?”

  They ran together to her room and tried the door, but it was still locked. They kicked it in together.

  The room was empty.

  * * *

  The sound of the plane overhead brought Lillian out of her room, pounding down the stairs and running outside, through the freezing wet grass. She reached up to the sky as if she could pull Ashley Wakefield back down to earth, but she felt only the raw wind blowing through her. Where was Ashley off to now? She wished she hadn't goaded her into looking at Judith’s portrait. Why couldn’t Judith have thrown those stupid jewels into the ocean thirty years ago? Then, Lillian thought as she ran breathlessly toward the cliff, none of this would be happening. The money, the Liechtenstein trust itself, was all right—innocuous enough. Money couldn’t be traced or remembered the way jewels could, and the Swiss were so dependably close-mouthed. Ashley and David could have gone on being rich and feeling warmhearted toward their mysterious benefactor...their mother. Judith would have been happy with that course of events; she would have loved the drama of it all.

  As she came to the cliff, the Cessna dipped to the right, as if mocking them all, and disappeared from view.

  And when Lillian turned, Mac was there.

  “I’d hoped I’d manage to avoid you,” he said coldly.

  He hadn’t changed, she thought He was still straight and tall and handsome and so self-righteous. Among the many who’d laughed at her ambitions, he’d been the worst. “How can you be a reporter, lovely Lil? You don’t even know which side Hungary was on in World War II.” The bastard! The problem was, she really hadn’t. He’d goaded her into finding out, studying, learning, asking questions, stretching herself. Of course, that hadn’t been his intention.

  “Mac, I need to talk to you.”

  “Save your energy.”

  She touched his arm. “Leave him alone, Mac— please. Let him do what he has to do.”

  “And what’s that, Lillian?” He smirked in disgust. “It’s amazing to me that after all that’s happened, after everything he’s done to you, you can still want to protect him. My God, Lillian, don’t be so pathetic.”

  “Mac, you’re wrong. He’s not what you think he is.”

  Mac’s arms dropped to his sides, a small gesture, but it made him seem more human, more tired, and Lillian bit her lip, hoping she wasn’t the one who was wrong. He sighed, the anger going out of him. “God knows I can’t hate you anymore, Lillian. Did he tell you to stop me?” He smiled at her moment’s discomfort, reading into it. “I thought as much. Well, tell him you tried.”

  He started into a stand of pines, but she couldn’t let him go. Shivering in the early morning cold, she ran after him. Her toe caught a stone, but she ignored the stab of pain. “Why go after him?” she called softly. “Tell me, Mac. Is revenge worth this kind of risk?”

  He stopped, his shoulders squared, and turned to her in disbelief. “Revenge? Is that what you think this is? No, Lillian—God, no. I admit when I first saw his picture I thought to myself, this man deserves to pay, and pay dearly, for what he did to me. But then I thought of Elaine, the children, the life I’d built for myself. No, revenge certainly wasn’t worth the risk.”

  “Then what is?”

  “The life of a brother and sister who were born innocent into this hell we created. It’s a question of honor, Lillian. But I don’t expect you to understand that.”

  And he disappeared into the shadows.

  30

  David and Sarah arrived in Southwest Harbor, on the quiet side of Mt. Desert Island, around seven o’clock in the morning. “You look terrible,” Sarah told him as she parked the Ferrari on a picturesque street near the water. “Does your leg hurt much?”

  He managed a wan grin. “Yeah.”

  In fact, his leg hurt like hell and he was stiff and sore and irritable, but he didn’t want to take any of the painkillers he’d been given. The stuff made him crazy as well as drowsy, neither of which intrigued him. He hadn’t slept at all during the long ride up. Sarah was a hell of a trooper: she wouldn’t have stopped at all, except David couldn’t bear sitting in the cramped car for long, and they had needed gas and coffee and a bathroom. All in all, he thought they’d made good time.

  David insisted on being the one to call Badger Rock Island, and with Sarah alongside him, he got up on his crutches and hobbled over to a phone booth on the sidewalk. It felt better to be upright, and he wasn’t bothered by the cold damp morning air.

  He dialed the unlisted number Ashley had given him. A prissy-sounding guy answered on the first ring. Shifting all his weight onto his good leg and easing the crutch out from under the arm on the side of his bad leg, David tried to arrange himself so he wouldn’t fall over. It was awkward, he thought, having a busted leg. He said, “Tell your boss I’d like to talk to him.”

  Sarah winced, warning him against such a tone, but David just gave her one of his lopsided grins.

  “Mr. Crockett is unavailable. How may I help you?”

  “You can send someone out to fetch me,” David told him. “I’m in Southwest Harbor.”

  A horrified silence, very brief, followed. “That’s quite impossible.”

  “Look, buddy, you can either come out here to fetch me or I’ll just get some guy around here to give me a ride out. I know where your frigging island is. Makes no difference to me how I get there.”

  “You’re being rude and unreasonable.”

  “I know it. I don’t care if I have to swim—”

  “Just who are you?”

  “David Wakefield.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. “One moment.”

  The one moment was long enough that David had to come up with more quarters, an involved process with the phone and the crutches and the cast, but Sarah came to his rescue.

  The guy on Badger Rock Island came back on the line. “A boat will arrive within the hour to pick you up.”

  Before David could thank him, he’d hung up.

  He and Sarah grabbed something to eat at a coffee shop and walked down to the pier together. “You’re moving very slowly, David,” she said worriedly. “Are you sure you can manage?”

  “No problem.”

  “Such bravado.�
� She smiled up at him. “It’s not a sign of weakness to say you’re in pain, you know.”

  He gritted his teeth as he and Sarah headed down an incline. “I’m in pain.”

  “The boat ride will be rough. Why don’t you just take one of your painkillers?”

  “Can’t. They knock me out.”

  “Well, then,” she said cheerfully, “I’ll just have to see if I can find a store open that sells aspirin. You’ll never make it at this rate, David. At least it will help with the swelling.”

  “But—”

  She grinned. “No buts. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  Trotting up the street, she turned and blew him a kiss. In spite of everything else, David laughed.

  * * *

  It was Andrew Balaton who eased up to the pier, in an ultrafast Chris-Craft racer. He wore a white cap and looked tanned and fit as he jumped lightly out of the boat and introduced himself. Climbing onto his crutches, David limped out to meet him. “That was quick,” he said. “I didn’t expect you so soon. Sarah’ll be here in a minute—”

  Balaton went white. “Sarah?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I forgot, you thought she’d be on her way to Houston.” He gave the older man a lopsided grin. “Well, guess she had ideas of her own.”

  But her father looked truly pained, shaking his head, and he said softly, “I wish none of this had to touch her.”

  “She just wants to help.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Buying aspirin.”

  “Then we can leave now, quickly, before she returns.”

  “Hey—wait just a minute. I’m not running out on her.”

  Balaton seemed to lose all his energy, and he looked at David with pleading eyes. “There’s so much to tell you. Your sister...”

  David reeled. “Ash? Nothing’s happened to her—”

  “She’s missing.”

  Ash!

  “Please...my daughter could be in danger, too. There’s no need—I can explain everything on our way? Perhaps this time Sarah will understand that I do what I do out of love, not because I underestimate her talents or her resolve. Must she be hurt, too?”

  Never mind Sarah. Tell me about my sister!

  As if reading his mind, Balaton said, “I believe I know what has happened to your sister.”

  David leaned on his crutches. Damn, even his armpits hurt. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Moving quickly, Balaton helped him into the boat— although small and wiry, the Hungarian was surprisingly strong—and in minutes, they were pulling out into the bay. Sarah ran out onto the pier, and it was with a wrenching, aching guilt that David watched her drop her brown bag in anger. He couldn’t hear her cry above the roar of the engine, but he could read her lips. She was yelling, “Bastards. Bastards, bastards, bastards!”

  And that, thought David, about summed it up.

  * * *

  By nine o’clock, Ashley was at the Park Avenue law offices of Parrington, Parrington and Smith. Evan, in gray pin stripes for the blustery day, rose to greet her.

  “It’s good to see you, Ashley. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. It seems—” His eyes widened with shock as he studied her more closely. “Ashley. Good heavens. What’s happened?”

  Shaking her head, assuring him she was fine, she paced in front of his massive desk. She had had no sleep, and the past days had taken their toll, obliterating the devil-may-care look about her and dulling the vibrancy of her eyes. She no longer felt young and carefree. Sneaking around the cold, dark and lonely Maine house last night, she’d overheard conversations, accusations, stories, words. The pain and horror on the faces of the people she had seen was real enough, but that Bartholomew Wakefield—Barky— was the source of it was beyond comprehension. Not real. Not fathomable.

  “I have kept you alive all these years; I do not intend for you to be killed now.”

  Was that real? Was that fathomable?

  Evan urged her to sit down; she couldn’t. Her entire body was shaking with too little sleep and too much caffeine. She was tired, jittery, crazy with fear. After dinner, she had sat alone in her room and decided what she had to do. She had locked her bedroom door, and slipping into a black knit body suit, feeling like a spy herself, she had torn open her window. From that point on, she had never hesitated, never doubted. There were no choices left; she had to act.

  The drop from the window was about twelve feet. She and David used to throw each other off the barn roof all the time when they were kids and life was innocent and simple, or had seemed so. This would be no problem.

  But when she’d had one leg out the window, Jeremy had knocked.

  Jeremy. Passion, light, hope, strength. He wouldn’t stand for her to run from him again. This time, she had qualms about deceiving him.

  But his loyalties were torn. Hers weren’t.

  She’d thrown out her other leg and, forcing her muscles to relax, jumped.

  She’d been outside, hovering among the frostbitten marigolds, below the screens of the sun porch, when Mac Stevens had found J. Land Crockett and Andrew Balaton.

  She knew she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t believe them, until she had heard what Barky had to say.

  Now, stopping abruptly, she turned to Evan. “Tell me about the jewels, Evan. What did you find out?”

  A troubled look on his mild face, Evan nonetheless came straight to the point. “First, that we could have established their provenance in 1982 if we’d pursued the matter. As it turns out, they’re relatively well-known pieces. Ashley, are you sure—if you’ll pardon my saying so, you look exhausted.”

  She smiled, reassured by the gentle manner of this prominent lawyer, and, she thought, trusted friend. “I look like hell, Evan—imagine how I feel. But I’ll be okay. Please, just go on.”

  “They were crafted in the mid-eighteenth century, over a period of years, it seems, by a Viennese jeweler for a wealthy land-owning family in Royal Hungary— the Balatons. They were known for their horses and Tokay wine and, from the latter years of the nineteenth century through World War II, were one of the few aristocratic families clamoring for reform of Hungary’s outmoded political and economic system.”

  Ashley nodded as another piece fell neatly into place...further condemning her uncle. Hadn’t anywhere, anytime, anyone but Barky lied?

  Evan went on. “The Balatons were respected and tolerated for their reformist tendencies during the conservative regime that was in power during the interwar period, and they managed to get away with redistributing some of their own vast land holdings, with the idea that others would see that it was not only a just but a perfectly reasonable thing to do. When the regime collaborated with Nazi Germany, however, the Balatons began to have their problems.”

  “They were anti-Nazi?”

  “Vehemently so. Then the Hungarian fascists, a small fanatical group that apparently had little popular support, were placed in power toward the end of the war—”

  “When the Germans occupied Hungary in late 1944,” Ashley added.

  Evan was impressed. “You’re familiar with this period?”

  “I’ve had a crash course, you might say. What does this have to do with the jewels?”

  “I’m getting to that. You see, with the German occupation came a virulent campaign against the thousands of Jews in Hungary. They were rounded up, marched out and slaughtered. Count István Balaton set up a network to hide Jews and smuggle them out of the country, but he was exposed and executed, along with perhaps two dozen Jews then in hiding near Balaton Castle. Apparently they were tortured in front of him, and then he was killed.”

  “How awful.”

  “The story doesn’t get any prettier, I’m afraid. When the Germans were defeated, Hungary was faced with permanent occupation by the Soviet Union. The Balatons were in favor of their country introducing long-overdue land and economic reform and becoming a neutral democratic republic, as became the case with Austria. Young Count András Balaton returned from fig
hting with the Resistance in Yugoslavia, and what was left of the Balaton family prepared to do their part to oust the Soviets. But in 1947, while the Communists were consolidating their power, a band of thugs broke into Balaton Castle. The count was away at the time, but his mother, his two sisters and his young brother were brutally murdered.”

  “Good God.”

  “Horrifying, isn’t it?”

  “How did you find all this out?”

  Evan shifted some papers on his desk, an apparent attempt to dispel some of the melancholy that had invaded the room. “As it turns out, a young Hungarian historian came to see me. He’s been working on the restoration of Balaton Castle for tourism. He recognized the tiara and choker and flew at once to New York.” Evan gave a wry smile. “Apparently he has access to decadent Western magazines. He told me the whole horrid tale. He’s a bit of an ideologue, but I don’t doubt the facts of the case—only his interpretation. The jewelry expert I contacted was able to confirm that the remaining jewels from the safe-deposit box, as well as the tiara and choker, belonged to the Balaton collection.”

  No wonder, Ashley thought, Andrew Balaton had been willing to risk his life by passing information to the West from within the ÁVH. But would the Russians have permitted a man with such a troubled past to become a trusted member of the state secret police? It seemed unlikely, which meant Balaton had probably adopted a new identity.

  And Barky had betrayed him....

  She wouldn’t think about that now. Stick to what you know, not what you guess. She stood at the front edge of Evan’s desk, facing him. “Did the Hungarian historian know how Count Balaton and the Balaton jewels got out of Hungary?”

  Evan hesitated. Then, with a heavy sigh, he handed Ashley a manila folder. “Here. See for yourself.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, in a Park Avenue coffee shop, Ashley closed the folder. She had to see David. Together, she and her brother could stop the insanity that was about to unfold. They had to.