by Andrea Kane
The rustle of paper. “She lives in that brownstone her parents left her on the Upper East Side. She runs a business out of there, too—some kind of high-class matchmaking service.” Gabelli read Monty the address.
“Thanks, Rich. Give me an hour. Then let the dogs out.” Monty blew out a breath. “I hope Morgan Winter can handle this.”
“She’s not a kid anymore, Monty. She’s a grown woman. She’ll be fine.”
“You think so? I’m not so sure. She didn’t just lose her parents that night. She found them, murdered. The kid was traumatized. The only thing that kept her from going completely over the edge was knowing the killer was caught, locked up, and given life without parole. Now I have to tell her he wasn’t.”
IT WAS ONE o’clock, and Morgan’s stomach was growling as she hurried back into the brownstone. She hadn’t eaten a thing all day. In fact, she hadn’t had a minute to breathe since she’d unlocked the doors to Winshore LLC five hours ago. Business at the boutique social agency was hopping. The phones had been ringing off the hook when she left her newest employee, Beth Haynes, and dashed out for her eight-thirty therapy session. They were still ringing when she called to check in a short while ago. The good news was that Beth had informed her Charlie Denton was running late and had pushed back his appointment until three o’clock. That gave Morgan a window of opportunity during which to cram down her sandwich—assuming it was delivered in the next hour.
She brushed the snowflakes off her coat and hung it up, rubbing her arms as she glanced around. Done in rich woods and Oriental rugs, the ground floor was the business hub of Winshore. The second floor, also designated as part of Winshore’s office space, was equally elegant but much cozier. It consisted of a cushy sitting room for interviews and a large, airy living room for photo shoots and fashion consultations.
Upstairs was for relaxation and comfort.
Downstairs was all business and bustle.
Well, not all business. There were personal touches, too: recent client wedding photos on the credenza, some funky art pieces on the desks, and—thanks to Jill Shore, Morgan’s partner and dearest friend—an array of eclectic holiday decorations purchased on her travels. This included an eight-foot Christmas tree that barely cleared the ceiling, a handcrafted Hanukkah menorah Jill had found in Israel, and a Kwanzaa display.
Morgan smiled as she squeezed by the tree to get to Beth’s desk. “No one can accuse us of shortchanging the holidays.”
“That’s certainly true.” Beth blew a few pine needles off her pink cashmere sweater. “And Jill’s still not finished yet. She said something about bells to commemorate the winter solstice, and books to explain its ancient roots.”
Morgan’s amused gaze flitted around the room, settling on the nook beside the fireplace. “Well, we do have one empty corner. I guess that’s the one that’ll take on the winter solstice theme.” She grimaced in response to a loud growl from her stomach. “Any idea if Jonah’s on his way?” she asked hopefully.
Jonah Vaughn was the delivery guy for Lenny’s, the best and the busiest kosher deli in New York. Located on Delancey Street, Lenny’s delivered overstuffed sandwiches to offices all over the Lower East Side and Brooklyn. And while Winshore was clearly outside that delivery zone, Morgan and Jill had a special “in” with the owner. Lenny was Jill’s grandfather. And since Morgan had grown up as a member of the Shore family, he was like a grandfather to her, too.
Beth gave her the thumbs-up. “You’re in luck. Jonah called from the truck right before you walked in. He should be here in ten.”
“Thank goodness. I’m about to pass out from hunger.”
“Well, hang on. Reinforcements are on their way.” Beth swiveled her chair away from the computer and stretched. She was a fresh-faced young woman of twenty-two with a sharp mind, great people skills, and a psychology degree from Northwestern. Morgan had met her at a seminar and snatched her right up. After six months of training, Beth was well on her way to being a fantastic interviewer.
“Anything urgent I should know about?” Morgan picked up the stack of phone messages and began sifting through them.
“A slew of new inquiries.” Beth jotted down a few additional notes. “Speaking of which, how was your meeting at the Waldorf? Rachel Ogden is barely older than I am, but she sounded like a dynamo on the phone.”
“She is.” Morgan handed Beth the information forms Rachel had filled out, together with Morgan’s notes from their interview, ready to be organized in a new client file. “At twenty-five she’s already a high-powered management consultant. I have a few guys from our database in mind for her. Starting with Charlie Denton. He’s in his forties, but Rachel prefers that. I think they’d really hit it off.”
The phone rang again, and Beth blew out her breath. “Break over. Probably another new client.”
“Part of why these calls are coming in fast and furious is Elyse’s doing,” Morgan replied, grinning. “She makes commercial announcements before every spin and aerobic class, and pitches Winshore while perched next to every Lifecycle and treadmill.” Affection laced her tone when she spoke of Jill’s mother, Elyse Shore. The woman was a pistol. She ran an upscale gym on Third Avenue at East Eighty-fifth Street, where the term “word of mouth” took on a whole new meaning.
The front door of the brownstone opened and Jill burst in, shaking snow off her coat. “It’s coming down hard. That’s the bad news. Now the good news. I saw Jonah’s truck. Lunch has arrived. Not a minute too soon, either. My stomach’s growling like something out of a horror movie.”
Shrugging off her coat, Jill continued to talk as she ran her fingers through her hair to dry it. She was more striking than beautiful, with red-gold hair, dark eyes in contrast, and a wide, sensual mouth. And when she smiled—which she did often—her entire face lit up.
“It’s a good thing corned beef has renewing powers,” she informed Morgan. “My afternoon’s going to be crazier than my morning. Back-to-back meetings, first with our accountant, then with our new software designer. Pushed to save money, then pushed to spend it. By six o’clock, my brain will be fried.” She waved away any outstanding concern. “Not to worry. I’m picking up the winter solstice decorations on my way home. The last of the office will be decorated tomorrow morning. Oh, and I’m meeting Mom for dinner. We’re going over the final party details.”
Jill rubbed her palms together for warmth, her eyes sparkling as she contemplated the holiday celebration Winshore was hosting for its clients. “You won’t even recognize Mom’s gym when we’re through with it. Lighting, music, decorations. And enough food to sink a ship. It’ll be fantastic. Before I forget, Dad left a message on my cell. He’s flying in from D.C. tonight. So save some time.”
At long last, Jill stopped to catch her breath, and Morgan found herself marveling, yet again, at her friend’s tireless energy. That was Jill—the whirlwind. She lived life to the fullest, and pushed all the boundaries in the process. She was all about reveling in whatever the world had to offer, and if anyone existed who didn’t like her, Morgan didn’t know about it. Jill was a proverbial breath of fresh air, a sister in all ways but blood, and Morgan adored her.
“Morg?” Jill was eyeing her speculatively, her brows knit with concern. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just hungry.”
With a quick sideways glance, Jill verified that Beth was on the phone with a client. Then she crossed over and pulled Morgan aside, lowering her voice as she spoke. “No, you’re not just hungry. You’re exhausted. It’s no wonder Dad’s worried about you. Which, in case you haven’t figured it out, is why he’s coming here straight from the airport. Did you have another bad night?”
Morgan shrugged. “I’ve had worse. Then again, I’ve had better. It’s par for the course these days.”
Jill frowned. “Maybe I should cut back on the whole decoration thing, at least for this year.”
“Don’t you dare. Your holiday spirit has nothing to do with my nightmares. If anything, it dive
rts me.”
“Not really. You’re a mess.”
“I know.” Morgan didn’t try denying it. “I’m not sure why they’ve hit me so hard this year. Dr. Bloom says it’s a subconscious vicious cycle. Reading my mother’s journals triggered a stronger-than-usual connection to her and my dad; that connection prompted me to delve deeper into her journals, which, in turn, triggered more nightmares.”
“But the nightmares were worse than usual even before you found those journals buried in that box of your mother’s things. It’s been weeks since you were yourself.”
Morgan sighed, massaging her temples. “I just have this weird, creepy feeling. I can’t seem to shake it.”
Before Jill could reply, the front door buzzer sounded, followed by a rhythmic knocking and a bark of “Lunch!”
No second announcement was needed. Jill hurried over and yanked open the door. “Hey, Jonah,” she greeted the teenager who tromped in.
“Hey.” Tall and gangly, Jonah was swallowed up by his down parka and boots, with only a lock of sandy hair and the puffs of cold air he was exhaling visible. But the telltale aromas of deli meat wafting from the brown bag he carried were the only ID required.
“You’re a lifesaver.” Jill snatched the bag, opening it for an appreciative sniff. “Corned beef on rye with mustard, and a Dr. Brown’s cherry soda. All’s right with the world.”
Shoving back his hood, Jonah acknowledged Jill’s statement with a nod. “I’ve heard those words about ten times in the last hour.”
“I’ll bet.” Jill dug around in her purse and pulled out a bill, stuffing it into Jonah’s gloved hand. “Get some pizza instead.”
“Thanks.” Gratefully, he pocketed the tip. “But I already ate. I had two pieces of your grandmother’s noodle pudding—kugel—” he amended, using the Yiddish word Lenny had taught him. “After all, I have a reputation to uphold.
“I’ll bank this,” he murmured on that thought.
Despite being Welsh, Jonah had been gobbling up Rhoda’s kugel since he was old enough to take the subway to Lenny’s by himself. Everyone teased him about it, but his addiction had landed him this delivery job. Lenny had hired him on the spot, offering him decent pay and unlimited kugel, while affectionately labeling him “The Kosher Kid.”
But the best perk of his job had been Lenny introducing him to Lane. Interning for a photographer with Lane’s skill and notoriety was the opportunity of a lifetime.
“Ah,” Morgan ventured. “Another donation to your camera fund.”
“Yeah.” Anticipation flickered in Jonah’s eyes, and his customary monotone took on new life. He was a quiet kid, and a bit of a geek. But he was a whiz at computers. As for photography, Morgan knew that was his passion, as was this new internship of his. Anytime those subjects came up, he lit up like Jill’s eight-foot Christmas tree.
“I saw a cool camera on eBay,” he announced. “A Canon Digital Rebel XTi. It’s got everything—even a self-cleaning sensor—anyway, if it’s still there after Lenny pays me on Friday, I’m bidding on it.”
Jill waved her arm at the three computer stations. “If you need extra money this month, our system could use a few software updates and a maintenance check. How about it?”
“Sure.” He scratched his head. “I’ve got two weeks’ vacation from school starting next week. I can put in a few days here.”
“Great.”
Jill and Jonah lapsed into computer jargon, and Morgan used the opportunity to pluck her sandwich out of the brown bag and head for the kitchen.
She was halfway there when the front door buzzer sounded again. She looked over her shoulder in time to see Jonah open it. A tall man in a wool overcoat stepped inside. His features were concealed by a turned-up collar, but he had dark hair and a no-nonsense stance.
He folded down his collar and unbuttoned his coat. There was something decidedly familiar about him. Which meant he must be a client. And that meant she could kiss her pastrami good-bye.
“Hey, Jonah,” he greeted the boy. “Making a lunch delivery?”
“Yeah.” Whoever the guy was, Jonah looked surprised to see him here. “I’ve got a couple of extra sandwiches. Did you want one?”
“Nope. Already ate. But thanks.” The man’s dark gaze eased from Jonah to Jill. “I’m looking for Morgan Winter. Is she in?”
“Do you have an appointment?” Jill responded in her friendly-but-noncommittal tone that said Winshore didn’t accept walk-ins.
“No. But it’s important that I see her. Is she around?”
His voice—Morgan recognized it. And it didn’t belong to a client. Or a walk-in.
It was a wrenching memory from the past.
“I’ll check,” Jill was carefully saying. It was obvious she’d picked up on the urgency in his tone. “May I ask your name?”
Morgan had already begun retracing her steps when he replied.
“Yeah. Tell her it’s Pete Montgomery.”
THREE
Jill looked baffled.
The name meant nothing to her. But it meant a life-altering moment to Morgan; the end of childhood, the beginning of a nightmare.
“Detective Montgomery.” She approached him on autopilot.
“So much for that scrawny little girl,” he said, extending his hand. “I feel old.”
“You don’t look old. You look the same.” Morgan’s mind was racing. She wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe his visit had nothing to do with the past. Maybe he was here for himself, to seek out the right someone.
Doubtful. He wasn’t the type. Plus, the way he’d announced himself—it smacked of police business.
She glanced down at his left hand. He was wearing a wedding ring. So much for partner seeking.
He followed her stare, awareness flickering in his eyes. He knew she was seeking confirmation—and why. “Can I speak to you alone?”
“Of course.” Nodding, she led the way to the first-floor conference room. She could feel Beth’s curious gaze and Jill’s anxious one. She probably should have offered them an explanation, or at least an introduction. But she was having trouble holding it together.
She shut the door behind them and turned to face him. “How are you, Detective? It’s been a long time.”
“Long enough for you to grow up and start your own business.” He eyed her for a moment, then glanced around the sleekly decorated conference room. “Nice setup. I checked out your website. It says that Winshore is a boutique social agency. What’s that—a high-class dating service?”
Morgan sensed he was trying to put her at ease, and she forced a smile. “It’s a specialized matching agency. Jill and I started it up for busy professionals who are looking for a life partner, but whose lives and careers make it impossible for them to invest the time and the energy necessary to find the right person. We provide one-on-one screening, and sophisticated methods of personality analysis and matching. We’ve got dozens of success stories. Marriages, happily-ever-afters, lifelong partnerships.”
“Okay, then, a matchmaking service for rich CEOs who want you to weed out the crud for them.” Detective Montgomery shot her a wry grin. “Sorry. I’m just yanking your chain. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t,” Morgan assured him. “Believe me, I’ve heard just about every comment there is to hear—from curiosity to good-natured teasing like yours to outright insults. I can handle them all.”
“Sounds like you love your work.”
“I do. We benefit a large chunk of the New York population who are comfortable professionally and financially, but are still very lonely.” She paused, then found herself sharing the rest. Somehow she needed him to know—because of who he was, because of how he’d factored into her life. “That’s the bulk of our business. But recently I started up a separate branch, in honor of my mother. It’s composed of women who’ve survived abusive relationships and are looking for healthy ones. For those clients, our fees are waived.”
He got it. She saw unders
tanding flash across his face. “That’s a great tribute to your mother. I’m sure she’d be proud.”
“I hope so.”
“You said your partner’s name is Jill—I assume you mean Jill Shore, the congressman’s daughter? Which would explain the name ‘Winshore.’”
“Yes.” A nod. “You know that Elyse and Arthur became my guardians. I grew up with Jill. She’s like a sister.” Morgan broke off, fiddled with the raglan sleeve of her sweater. “Detective Montgomery, please forgive me for being blunt, but you picked a really awkward time to drop by. The holidays are still very painful for me. This year’s worse than usual. And now you show up…” She swallowed. “Please tell me how I can help you.”
“Why is this year worse than usual?”
His gruff question caught Morgan off guard. It was almost as if he knew something she didn’t.
“I’ve been sorting through some memorabilia,” she replied carefully.
“Is that the only reason?”
She’d forgotten what an intuitive man he was. There was no point in supplying half-truths.
“Actually, no. But it’s the only reason that makes sense. The rest—it’s just a feeling. A creepy, unsettled one that’s been hanging on for weeks. There’s no basis for it. I just can’t shake it.”
“Oh, there’s a basis for it. It’s called a mental connection, or a sixth sense, or whatever the hell you call that inexplicable link that sometimes exists.” Detective Montgomery dragged a palm over his jaw.
There was no denying where this was headed, and a cold knot formed in Morgan’s gut. “The reason you’re here—it has something to do with my parents’ murders?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his mouth thinned into a grim line, his brows drawn. “Nate Schiller didn’t kill your parents.”
