by Karen Harper
Nick spoke up. “You don’t think he’d put them back?” Claire clutched her purse with the diary tighter; she needed that to discover and settle things, so she could get back to her own daughter.
“Let’s just say the man’s had his eye on things here for years. Enough said,” Neil concluded and went out and shut the door.
“I wouldn’t put a lot of stock in those innuendos,” Claire told Nick. “Win and Neil don’t get along, though they obviously work together when they have to.”
“According to Bronco, Neil wants Win to make a promo film for his museum,” Nick said. “Are you listening?”
“Of course, but I do think we should consider asking Jasmine if we can take these things with us. I have the diary, but I mean both boxes. She and Neil know we have access to them now and, if they haven’t been tampered with already, they could be. We can work on boxes after we talk to Francine’s old lawyer.”
“Okay, boss. What would I do without you?”
* * *
In the end, Jasmine let them take the two boxes, so they carefully listed the contents on an inventory—including the diary—Heck typed up, dated and had her sign temporarily into their possession. Nick carried the boxes out to the trunk himself. Jasmine had fussed some about the diary—said she didn’t know about it and what could be in it—but Claire had been adamant about looking at it. She could tell that Jasmine had caved on that just so she didn’t seem to be making a scene over it.
Neil had given them such a hearty lunch that they decided to drive straight to see Francine’s old lawyer, retired attorney Spencer Clawson, then have dinner later. If Claire wasn’t too tired, she said she’d planned to study Francine’s diary. She was desperate to understand the woman more. The business memoranda, bank statements and minutes of committee board meetings, which Nick planned to go over, didn’t look promising to her.
“Look, Nick,” she said, pointing as they approached the St. Augustine Usina Bridge which spanned a wide stretch of the Intercoastal Waterway en route to Vilano Beach where the attorney lived. “It reminds me of the bridge over Lake Monroe where we saw Fiend Face.”
“You’re right, but don’t remind me.”
They drove over the arched bridge without a problem. Beach traffic was coming out, not in, this time in early evening. They found Shoreside Drive and the address. Nick drove into a curved, brick-paved entry and parked under an arch alive with hot pink bougainvillea, its colors fading as evening set in.
“A bit more house than your favorite attorney has,” he told her. He made sure the car was locked. He was nervous about the boxes in the trunk as well as all his business things in the car. It was almost nightfall, but he scanned the area for a drone, then scolded himself as he took Claire’s upper arm—she still favored her wounded one—and rang the doorbell. A young woman with long blond hair opened it.
“Nick Markwood and Claire Britten to see Attorney Clawson.”
“Hi, I’m his granddaughter, Lindsey. He told me to bring you right in. Could I get you a drink? Water? Coffee? Some of the expensive Scotch he still sneaks despite his surgery?” she asked with a big smile.
“Ah, coffee would be fine, right, Claire?”
“I’d appreciate that. Thanks, Lindsey,” she said, then as the girl led them into the house, she whispered, “and thanks, Nick.”
“Caffeine for my favorite PWN,” he told her.
A thin, white-haired man sat in a recliner he had tipped back, looking out over a dimly lighted pool, some dwarf palms and the beach before the big, Atlantic Ocean reached away into the growing darkness.
He shook hands with them and asked Nick about his law firm, evidently glad to have attorney talk. Lindsey served them coffee and disappeared before Nick managed to turn the conversation to Francine’s will that was never made.
“I jotted some notes,” Spencer said, shuffling under a newspaper from the table next to his chair. “Now where is that?”
Nick’s gaze slammed into Claire’s. So how competent was this elderly invalid? Man, he was starting to read her thoughts and he was pretty sure she read his—some of his.
“Oh, here we go.” He put on a pair of reading glasses. “Oh, yes, the really new thing here was, if she died or became incapacitated, the oversight and care of the estate was to go jointly to her daughter, Jasmine, and to Dr. Winston Jackson but to be deeded to the state or possibly sold to an altruistic owner.”
Nick’s head snapped up. He drew in a sharp breath.
“Really? The care of it to Jasmine and Win Jackson? But not financial control?”
“Not included. Both of them were to be advisors to whoever controlled the estate. You know, as much as Francine loved Shadowlawn, I believe she thought there was a curse on it from the past. I don’t think she wanted her only child to have to shoulder that. Oh, I didn’t put it down here I see, because we never got as far as the wording before my heart attack—and Francine’s sad demise—but I believe Jasmine and Win Jackson were to have input on something like artistic control. That’s it, artistic but not financial since ownership would have passed from Jasmine.”
“Artistic control could mean indirect money,” Nick said. “A salary for advice.”
“But Jasmine and Win working together is not the thing that really surprised me, since Francine had known and trusted him for years—why, I know him too—but it was that she talked of considering a buyer. And not Win Jackson.”
“The State of Florida?” Nick asked.
“If that didn’t work out, some private investor who had heard about the estate somewhere—knew you were her new lawyer for it, too, as I recall, though I must admit, all that major surgery and anesthetic has dulled my brain at times. They say I’ll make a good recovery, but I don’t think so. Good would be going back to work, having my wife back, my son living closer than Milwaukee.”
“So what do you know about this other buyer, the one who might have known I was taking over as her lawyer?” Nick prodded. Should they trust everything this man said, especially since he seemed shaky? Nick was racking his brain to think who he might know who would invest in something as huge as Shadowlawn.
“She didn’t give me his name, said he wanted to remain private through some sort of trust. But this buyer had sworn to keep the history and integrity of the estate alive, redo the place, control public visits. I don’t believe she had discussed it with Jasmine and was hesitant to do so. But I do know Francine said the possible buyer was living somewhere on Grand Cayman Island in the Caribbean.”
Nick just stared at the man. Then out the window toward the ocean, now a black mirror that reflected the three of them. A coincidence, when he’d learned not to trust that?
“Nick?” Claire prompted. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Fine. I just wish I had the investor’s name or contact information, because I’d like to—check him out. Sir, if you recall anything else about this, please call my number here.”
“I have your Naples number.”
“This is my private cell. You’ve been a big help to us,” he told the man, scribbling his number on the back of a business card.
They left after a bit more small talk. The moment they stepped outside—it was starting to rain lightly—Claire said, “Do you think Win could be more involved than we thought?”
“I’m glad he’s coming to Shadowlawn tomorrow. Maybe he knows something about this investor.”
“Does it matter now? Spencer didn’t think Jasmine knew of it. And if she did, she’s too stubborn about keeping control to let a stranger in on things. Is that what you were thinking when you—you went blank for a minute?”
“Yeah, exactly,” he said, feeling guilty for the first time that he wasn’t leveling with her about his past, his father’s death, his pursuit of Clayton Ames. But he didn’t want to confuse things with his crusade agains
t Ames, or scare her off. Still, he had to protect her in case her growing closeness to him put her in danger.
He said, “Let’s head back to the hotel and get over that big bridge before we stop to eat. You’ve got me spooked now about it.”
“Do not use the words spook, ghost or haunted, please.”
He breathed a sigh of relief as they passed the bridge and headed toward town. The back-from-the-beach traffic had ended now, and they were pretty much alone on the road. He was glad to see only a ditch with water on their right side rather than the wide Intercoastal or the ocean. He had to call Heck as soon as they got back to dig deeper into Ames’s ties to Grand Cayman. It could be that Ames had learned Nick was working for Francine and checked her out. He’d obviously contacted her so why hadn’t she told Nick she was thinking of a buyer/investor?
It began to rain hard. Nick turned the windshield wipers up another notch. Damn dark on this stretch of road. Trees, the ditch off to the side and not much else.
From nowhere, a car without lights on behind them crashed into their rear. Again, hard. Sudden. So sudden. He’d been looking ahead, hadn’t seen it coming. He tried to veer away, control the car. Claire screamed.
Nick clenched the wheel as their car jumped, shuddered and seemed to leap into the blackness of the ditch, front down. Water slammed into the windshield.
“Brace!” he shouted much too late. “Brace!”
19
Claire thrust her good hand toward the dashboard to brace herself, but on impact, their airbags exploded, crashing into their upper bodies. They deflated fast, but Claire’s seat belt also held her hard. Blackness but for the car’s headlights in the murk. Nightmare? No, this was real.
The car, front down, sinking, hit bottom, jerking them again. Not too deep here. Was it? Water like ink smeared the windows. Gurgles. Bubbles, going up. Car lights, dashboard too, still on.
“We have to get the windows down before the power stops,” Nick said, his voice loud. “Too much pressure to open the doors. Don’t panic. We have to get out and up.”
At first she could not believe he was going to let the water in. The road had been deserted but someone would come. They had to keep the air in!
“Claire, do as I say,” he commanded, as he started to roll both windows down. “Unhook your seat belt. We have to get out or we’ll drown.”
Lexi! She had to get out of here for Lexi!
The windows were coming down too fast, she thought, as water started to pour in. They were going to die! She wanted to scream at Nick, cling to him.
But somehow she found courage and a lot of anger that someone did this to them. “Yes,” she cried. “Out and up.”
She remembered her meds. She’d brought the day ones in her purse and had started to carry the night liquid with her, too. Trained to never leave them, she fumbled for her purse by the dimming lights of the instrument panel. She pulled her purse over her shoulder. Never do that in a plane crash, she recalled. Take nothing with you, but this could mean taking her life with her.
“Hold your breath.” Nick’s voice still sounded steady. “When there’s enough water, we’ll get out. I’ll help you.”
Dear God, please help us, she prayed as water poured in. It was cold. Some things in it. What if a gator...?
She held her breath, then floated higher in the car to grab the last of the air. Nick’s face broke water. He gasped in the air, too. He reached for her, squeezed her shoulder.
Then the lights all went out to leave them in utter darkness.
They were going to lose the things in the trunk—maybe proof Francine killed herself—or Jasmine did it for her. Is that why someone...
“It’s too hard,” she cried. “The water—too hard to get out.”
“It won’t be in a minute. If you can’t get out that window, I’ll come around for you, pull you out. Don’t be afraid. Hold your breath—now!”
She did. Endlessly as the last of the air in the car was washed away. But he was right. The water stopped pouring in. She was already floating. Her lungs were going to burst. Now! Nick had said now!
She felt her way through the open window, started to push out. Then he was there, outside the car, hard hands on her, pulling her, then pushing and kicking them upward. They quickly broke the surface in a gush of bubbles. They sucked in air.
As they struggled to get out of the water, their feet did not touch bottom. It wasn’t far to the steep bank of the ditch. The night was as black as the water, stars overhead, beautiful stars.
“Watch your bad arm,” he said, but she paddled with him to the edge. There was no shore, nothing to hold on to. Nothing but Nick, which seemed enough. They were out. Alive. And together.
As he boosted her up to cling to a tree branch, headlights approached on the road but went right past them. It could be daylight before someone saw the car, if then. No lights, no houses around here. It might have been days—weeks—until someone found them.
“Who would have done that?” she gasped, still out of breath. “Not just by chance—like Fiend Face.”
He didn’t answer. He struggled to get a handhold and crawled up on the grass, then dragged her after him until they leaned, panting, on level ground against a tree. They looked back at the car. The left side of the back bumper was barely visible above the surface of the water. That car could have been their coffin and the ditch their grave.
Though she wasn’t cold, she began to tremble. Nerves. Shock. She watched as he craned his neck to look all around. He finally spoke. “No, we weren’t hit just by chance.” Sitting on the grass, his back against a tree, he pulled her into his arms, onto his lap, and held her tight with her head tucked under his chin, much as Claire sometimes held Lexi to comfort her—or herself. She clung to him hard. They stayed like that, silent, breathing. She began to shake harder. He held her tighter.
“The car behind us had no lights,” he whispered. “I didn’t even see it until too late. I just want to be sure whoever did it isn’t coming back to check that it did the job. It’s so damn deserted on this stretch right here. We must have been followed and this—this attack—was planned.”
“Nick, my cell phone may work. It’s here in my purse,” she said, when she realized it was still over her arm. “I grabbed it for my meds, but...”
He loosed her and shook his head. “It’s probably doomed, but try it. I can’t believe you have your purse when I lost so much in the car. Maybe someone knew that,” he said, muttering a curse as Claire dug into the damp interior of her purse and pulled out her cell.
“Oh, I put Francine’s diary in here, too, so it wouldn’t get knocked around,” she told him. “I hope it’s still legible.” She pressed the button on her phone. Its face lit.
“Thank God,” he said. “For everything. Call Heck.”
“What about the police?”
“I’m going to get you out of here with Heck, then get the police, then get the car out. This is getting too dangerous for you, so I’ve got to send you home.”
“You mean to the hotel.”
“Yes, then home. If the police need your version of this, they can talk to you, but I was the driver.”
“But I can’t just go home. We’re obviously getting somewhere. Someone is really shook we’re getting close. I’m going to read the diary.”
“There are things you don’t know,” he said. “Things I haven’t told you.”
She shuddered. For the first time, she really felt cold. “About Jasmine or someone you suspect?” she asked. “You need to tell me. If you’ve been holding things back about this case...”
“I don’t think it’s related to this case. Or at least, I didn’t until something Spencer Clawson said tonight.”
“What? You angered someone in an earlier case?”
“Call Heck. Let’s ge
t him out here, see what we can salvage of my car, the boxes in it—and this case.”
“I’ll call him when you tell me what you’re talking about, what you’re afraid of. Nick, you owe it to me.”
“I do. But we need help now. I’ll have to report this to the police and tell them I have no clue who did it.”
“But you do. And not someone tied to Francine’s murder?”
“Probably not, but with that man I never say never. Just trust me for now. I want to get you back safely, and we’ll talk tomorrow, I promise.”
“All right, but you’re not sending me home like some kid who’s been bad in school.”
“Claire, you’ve been nothing but good for this case and for me.”
His voice snagged. It sounded like this big, bold man might cry. She wanted to hug him but she punched in her phone log, touched Heck’s number and handed the phone to Nick. The only light for miles around seemed to be her phone, shining on his wet face. Was that a tear? As he told Heck what happened, she turned away so he wouldn’t see she was crying, too.
* * *
“It’s been one hell of a long night,” Nick told Claire as he joined her on her hotel room balcony for breakfast the next morning. He hadn’t shaved. Beard stubble might be in style, but he’d always hated feeling grubby. A much-needed shower and finally a change of clothes took the little time he’d had in his room after spending hours with the police and the tow truck driver. And laying out damp paper after paper from the boxes to dry in his room.
“The car’s a disaster,” he told her, “but some of the documents in the trunk may be salvageable. My laptop and phone are dead, but Heck had copies of some things, and I can get much of it restored from the cloud. He’s getting me another laptop and phone. The report I filed with the police states that I don’t know who did that to us or why.”
“Which isn’t quite true?” she asked as she lifted her orange juice from the room service tray. “What if they find out you reported our being jammed by a car with a masked driver on our way here just four days ago?”
