Promise Not to Tell

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  The big house had been designed originally as a summer residence for a wealthy timber baron with a large family. The owners had entertained lavishly. In those days there would have been several servants on the staff, Virginia reflected. The laundry room contained a deep sink designed for soaking soiled linens, shelves stacked high with towels and sheets, and a large laundry chute.

  Louann was in the process of taking some sheets down from a shelf.

  “Mind if I ask you a question, Louann?” Cabot said.

  “What?” she said.

  “Do you remember any of the people who were staying here the night that Hannah Brewster died?” Cabot asked.

  Louann frowned. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” Cabot said. “It’s what you might call an occupational hazard.”

  “Well, I can’t help you because I didn’t meet any of the guests—didn’t even know there were some staying here. You see, I wasn’t on the island at the time. I was attending a weeklong yoga retreat down in Oregon.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Sutter.” Octavia Ferguson regarded Cabot with an expression of aloof disapproval. “Why in the world do you want to open up the past? No good can come of it. I assume you’re doing this for the money. How much is my granddaughter paying you?”

  In Cabot’s experience, the people who were most afraid to open up the past were usually the ones most shackled to it.

  Three minutes after being introduced to Octavia Ferguson, he had concluded that Virginia owed her edge and her streak of determination to her grandmother. Octavia was a formidable woman. He was sitting across from her now, and it was easy to imagine her as a stern professor in front of a room full of students. She wouldn’t have had any patience with those who failed to study for an exam or the ones who turned in their papers late.

  Toned and fit, she was in her late sixties or early seventies. Her hair was cut fashionably short and tinted a discreet shade of blond. She was dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a blue-and-white-striped sweater. She wore small gold studs in her ears but no wedding ring.

  It was early evening and Cabot realized he was hungry. After catching the last of the two ferries required to get back to the mainland, he and Virginia had driven straight down the interstate to Seattle. Octavia Ferguson’s Victorian house on Queen Anne Hill had been their first stop.

  Octavia had clearly been pleased to see Virginia, and she had initially regarded Cabot with a welcoming air. He got the impression that she had been both surprised and possibly even a little relieved to see Virginia in the company of a man. Evidently, Virginia was not in the habit of bringing men by to introduce them to her grandmother. He was pretty sure that Octavia would frown upon the serial dating thing.

  The welcome hadn’t lasted long. Octavia’s barely veiled curiosity about him had been transformed first into shock and then deep wariness when she had learned that he was a private investigator.

  Virginia spoke from a window that overlooked a magnificent garden. “Octavia, please, just listen to what we have to say before you jump to conclusions.”

  Watching the two strong-willed women deal with each other was both fascinating and a little scary, Cabot thought.

  “From everything you’ve told me, Hannah Brewster had serious mental health issues,” Octavia said. “The authorities made it clear that she took her own life. Why would you waste time and money looking into her death?”

  “I think there is at least a reasonable chance that Hannah was murdered,” Virginia said, “or perhaps driven to take her own life. As far as I’m concerned, it amounts to the same thing.”

  “That seems highly unlikely,” Octavia said. “But even if it’s true, it’s a matter for law enforcement. You have no business being involved in a private investigation.”

  She shot Cabot another disapproving look. He kept his mouth shut. A smart man did not step between two quarreling lionesses.

  Virginia turned away from the view of the gardens and faced her grandmother.

  “This is my business,” she said. “And it’s Cabot’s business as well. Here’s the bottom line: if Hannah was murdered, then there is a very real possibility that her death is connected to what happened at Quinton Zane’s California compound. Our biggest concern is that Zane himself may still be alive.”

  Octavia flinched as if she had been jolted by an electrical charge. Pain, rage and horror flashed across her face. An instant later the emotions vanished behind a mask of cool control.

  “That’s impossible,” she said. “It’s been twenty-two years since that monster murdered your mother and so many others. How could anything that happened so long ago affect the present?”

  “We don’t know,” Virginia admitted. “But Cabot has a theory.”

  Reluctantly, Cabot decided it was time to speak up.

  “I agree that it’s possible Hannah Brewster was a victim of her mental health issues,” he said. “But I think that, under the circumstances, the situation needs to be checked out.”

  Octavia eyed him, making no secret of her opinion. She blamed him for encouraging Virginia to stir up the past.

  “The authorities assured me that Quinton Zane was dead,” Octavia said. “I was told that he attempted to escape the country on a private yacht that he stole. There was a fire on board. They found the wreckage.”

  “They found the wreckage of the burned-out yacht but they never found Zane’s body,” Cabot said.

  Octavia clasped her hands very tightly together. “They told me that wasn’t uncommon in disasters at sea.”

  Virginia looked at her. “I think Hannah Brewster was convinced that she saw Zane shortly before she died.”

  Octavia froze. “Impossible,” she whispered.

  “Hannah painted a picture showing him in modern dress. She even included a portion of his car.”

  “Why would she paint his picture?” Octavia demanded. “Surely if she saw him, she would have told you or said something to the authorities. She wouldn’t have painted a portrait.”

  “I think she painted the picture because she couldn’t be sure of what she had seen,” Virginia said. “She was well aware that she suffered from hallucinations. She always told me that the only way she could get at the truth was to paint it. After she finished the last painting of Zane, she took a photo of it and then sent the camera with the photo to me. She destroyed the original because she was terrified that Zane would see it.”

  “Those are the actions of a very disturbed woman.” Octavia clenched the arms of her chair and switched her attention back to Cabot. “You still haven’t finished telling me your theory, Mr. Sutter.”

  Mostly because I wasn’t given the opportunity, he thought. He let it ride.

  “I’m still working on it,” he said. “But the bottom line is that if Hannah was murdered, it was most likely because there’s something new in the equation.”

  “Such as?” Octavia demanded.

  He glanced at Virginia, silently asking her approval before he moved on to more dangerous ground. She gave him one short, curt nod.

  He turned back to Octavia. “Virginia tells me that her mother was a bookkeeper before she joined Zane’s cult.”

  “She worked as a bookkeeper because that no-good artist she insisted on marrying couldn’t make enough money with his silly sculptures to put food on the table,” Octavia said through her teeth. “Kimberly was a gifted mathematician. If she were still alive, she would be teaching math at the college level.”

  Virginia’s jaw tensed but she said nothing.

  “A lot of money rolled in off Zane’s operation,” Cabot said. “At the time, my brothers and I were too young to pay attention to that aspect of the matter. But later when we started looking into the cult’s finances, we discovered that all the money disappeared right around the time Zane did.”

  “Of course. He was
in it for the money right from the start. He was a thief and a scam artist.”

  “Yes, but he probably didn’t keep his own books,” Cabot said, trying to sound patient. “They would have been very complicated books because he needed to find ways to hide the money—offshore accounts, maybe.”

  Octavia looked stricken. “You think my daughter helped him hide the money? How dare you suggest that she was a criminal. She was one of Zane’s victims.”

  “What I know,” Cabot said, “is what I just told you. A lot of money disappeared at about the same time that Zane did. If he did die at sea, he never got a chance to cash in on the profits from the cult. That means that money might still be out there, somewhere. If your daughter worked as his bookkeeper, she would have known where the money was hidden.”

  “But Kimberly is dead,” Octavia said.

  “Maybe because she knew too much about the cult finances,” Virginia suggested quietly.

  Octavia seemed frozen with pain, unable to respond.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cabot saw Virginia squeeze her eyes shut and turn back to the view out the window.

  “According to Virginia, Hannah Brewster was your daughter’s closest friend in the compound,” Cabot continued. “If Kimberly did hide the money for Zane or if she knew where it was hidden, the one person who might also have known the location of the funds was Hannah Brewster. And now she’s dead, too.”

  “Twenty-two years later,” Octavia said. She shook her head, bewildered now. “There can’t be a connection.”

  “Maybe not,” Cabot said. “But in my business, money is always a powerful motive.”

  A long silence fell on the room. The old-fashioned tall clock ticked relentlessly.

  Eventually Octavia stirred. “But you and Virginia just said that Zane might still be alive. If you’re right, he got his money twenty-two years ago. That makes your theory utter nonsense. He’d have no reason to come looking for it now.”

  “Not unless my mother hid it and took her secret to the grave,” Virginia said quietly.

  Octavia digested that for a moment. “There’s still the question of the passage of time. If Zane didn’t get his hands on the money twenty-two years ago and if he is still alive, why would he wait so long to go after Hannah Brewster?”

  “That brings us back to the essence of my theory,” Cabot said. “Something has changed. When we identify the trigger incident, we’ll get some answers.”

  Octavia sighed. “I don’t understand. How will you even know where to start looking?”

  “We’ve already begun the process,” Cabot said. “But the more we know about the past, the better. Would you be willing to answer a few questions?”

  Virginia did not move. He knew she was expecting her grandmother to tell him to go to hell. But he didn’t think that was going to happen. Octavia had tried to close the door on a painful part of the past, but now that door had been pried open. She was a trained academic. It was her nature to seek answers.

  “Ask your questions,” she said quietly. “I doubt if I can give you any helpful information, but I certainly don’t want Virginia to blame me for standing in the way of the truth.”

  Virginia had the good sense to hold her tongue.

  “Thank you,” Cabot said.

  Octavia met his eyes. “If you’re right, if that bastard Zane is still alive, I will be happy to get a gun and kill him myself.”

  “You’ll have to get in line,” Cabot said. “And I’d better warn you, it’s a very long line.”

  “Who’s at the front?” Octavia asked. “You and your brothers?”

  “No,” Cabot said. “My foster dad, Anson Salinas.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Got to tell you, that went much better than I expected,” Virginia said. “Octavia has refused to answer most of my questions about the past.”

  “Probably because she doesn’t have many answers and she doesn’t like the ones she does have,” Cabot said.

  They were alone in the elevator of Virginia’s condo building. It was located only a few blocks from the Space Needle, but the view of the iconic Seattle landmark had been obstructed by a host of new business and residential towers.

  The building had a large footprint—it covered a big chunk of a city block—but it was not a tower. In fact, it was only six stories high. The ground floor was home to some small shops, cafés and a coffeehouse.

  The elevator stopped on the third floor. When the doors opened, he gripped the handle of the small, wheeled overnight bag that Virginia had taken to Lost Island and followed her out into the corridor.

  “My place is at the end of the hall,” she said.

  Cabot looked toward the far end of the corridor and noted the Exit sign marking the emergency stairs. No surprise. When he had gone apartment hunting after arriving in Seattle, he had only looked at units that were located near the fire stairs.

  “What do you mean when you say Octavia doesn’t like the answers she does have?” Virginia asked.

  Octavia had responded to the questions he’d asked, but she wasn’t able to supply anything that was new or substantive. She hadn’t even been aware of the death of her son-in-law or the fact that her daughter and granddaughter had been swept into Zane’s cult until after Kimberly had taken Virginia to live in the first compound outside of Wallerton.

  “Your grandmother blames herself for having driven your mother into the cult,” he said.

  Stunned, Virginia went very still, her key half inserted into the lock.

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “Octavia blames my father for having destroyed my mother’s life. And she blames me for being the cause of my parents’ marriage. She thinks that if my mother hadn’t gotten pregnant, everything would have turned out differently.”

  Cabot reminded himself that he wasn’t a trained psychologist. “Maybe I read her wrong,” he said. “Families are complicated.”

  Virginia’s mouth tightened. “No kidding.”

  “It’s just that there was something about her expression and her tone of voice when she answered my questions.”

  “She’s angry and bitter.”

  “That, too. But she doesn’t hold you responsible. Like I said, she blames herself.”

  Virginia shoved the key into the lock. “Trust me, she blames me and my father. And she’s got a point. If it hadn’t been for me, my mother probably wouldn’t have ended up in Zane’s cult.”

  “My mother’s father blamed me and my dad, too. The old man figured that if he disowned my mother, she would see the light, dump my father and go home. Instead, she wound up in the cult.”

  “What makes you so sure you’re not wrong about your analysis of your grandfather? Maybe deep down he blamed himself for being so hard on your mother. That’s probably why he left you a little bequest.”

  “Maybe.”

  “At least my grandmother and I are still speaking to each other,” Virginia said.

  “Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Okay.”

  The door of the neighboring apartment opened. A tiny, wiry woman who appeared to be somewhere between eighty-five and a hundred peered out. She was dressed in a sky-blue velour tracksuit and sturdy walking shoes. There were a lot of rings on her wrinkled fingers. She studied Cabot with undisguised curiosity and then beamed at Virginia.

  “Oh, you’re back, dear,” she said. “I see you have a new friend. Are you going to introduce me?”

  Virginia looked at her. “Hi, Betty. This is Cabot Sutter. Cabot, this is Betty Higgins.”

  “How do you do, Ms. Higgins,” Cabot said.

  “Call me Betty, dear. How long will you be staying?”

  “I’m not staying,” Cabot said. “This is Virginia’s overnight bag. I’ve my own apartment on Second Avenue.”

  “Just a few blocks away. Very convenient.
” Betty switched her attention back to Virginia, eyes narrowing in a speculative manner. “He doesn’t look like one of your artist friends, dear.”

  “No,” Virginia said. “Cabot’s in another line of work.”

  “You mean he has a steady job? Oh, how nice. A position with benefits, perhaps?”

  “It has a few,” Cabot allowed.

  Betty smiled approvingly.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Betty,” Virginia said. “Cabot is a . . . friend. From the old days.”

  “What old days?” Betty snorted. “You’re too young to be able to talk about the old days.”

  “Cabot and I were acquaintances for a time when we were kids,” Virginia said. “We lost track of each other until recently.”

  “Ah, childhood friends,” Betty said. She brightened. “And now you’re reunited. Are you married, Cabot?”

  “No, ma’am,” Cabot said.

  Betty was practically sparkling now. “Excellent.”

  “If you’ll excuse us, Cabot and I have had a long day,” Virginia said. “We’re going to go out, have a drink and get something to eat.”

  “Lovely,” Betty said. She winked. “Don’t let me interfere with your date.” She made to close her door and stopped. “By the way, next time you schedule a repairman, feel free to leave the key with me. I’ll be happy to supervise. A woman who lives alone ought to be careful about letting strangers into her place when she’s not home. You just never know these days.”

  Virginia went very still. “What are you talking about? I didn’t schedule any repairs while I was gone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well, then, it must have been someone the manager sent up. He looked like a plumber. He let himself in and your alarm didn’t go off, so obviously he had a key and the code.”

  Virginia stared at her. “Yesterday was Saturday.”