by Karen Harper
“They won’t. I don’t know exactly who was behind the wheel last night—and maybe before—but I have a theory. When I explain, you’ll see why I still think I should send you back to Naples. You’ve done a lot here already.”
“But I have plans to do more. Go through the diary I verified was hers and started to read this morning, though some of the earliest and latest pages are damp and the ink has smeared. I want to help you with those papers. Certainly, I need to talk to Win Jackson again at Shadowlawn since Spencer Clawson said he was to be appointed with Jasmine to oversee the estate—despite the fact it didn’t entail money.”
“But there may have been a salary or bequest—or fame—involved. Maybe we’ll turn up something about that in those wet papers.”
Cheered by her resilience and loyalty, Nick ate his omelet and bacon fast because he was starved, but as he toyed with the bagel, his mind was racing fast, too. Most women would have cut and run after what happened last night. He knew Claire could be stubborn and strong, and she was giving him strength now. Except for Heck and a couple of people he used as resources for South Shores, he hadn’t bared his soul to any outsiders. But, somehow, Claire wasn’t that anymore.
“Okay,” he said, almost as if to bolster himself for this. “You heard Spencer mention a possible buyer for Shadowlawn from Grand Cayman Island last night.”
“Right. You looked like he’d hit you over the head. I was going to ask you about that again today.”
“Heck, who works for my South Shores pursuits on the side, recently linked someone I’ve been trying to trace to Grand Cayman. To put it mildly, this man has it in for me, a very rich, dangerous man with a long reach.”
Nick knew his voice had turned bitter. Man, what would she make of listening to all this? And her obsession with body language? He saw he was gripping his butter knife as if he’d stab his bagel with it. She was waiting patiently for him to go on. She reached over and put her hand on his knee.
He took a deep breath and told her, “I’ve been trying to track a man named Clayton Ames for years because I believe he ruined my father financially, then killed him and made it look like a suicide.”
Her head jerked, so he knew he’d surprised her. “I’m sorry. That’s horrible—to live with, and for him to die that way. You mentioned ‘the slur of suicide’ once. Someone your father trusted?”
So just how perceptive was this woman? He cleared his throat and nodded. “A former business partner, and, supposedly, a friend. I even used to call him ‘Uncle Clay.’ He knows that I know. He could have had me killed a long time ago, even when I was young, but he enjoys the cat-and-mouse game. He likes to toy with his prey. He thinks I’ll never prove it. Because I was walking close to you after the Sorrento trial, for all I know, the shots that killed your boss and hit you could have been meant for me, though I doubt someone Ames hired would miss. Or he just meant to torment me more, to remind me he could have me taken out at any time. If I’m actually to blame for Fred Myron’s death and your arm—”
“But, even if it was to warn you, it wasn’t your fault. Did you hire me just to help me out because you felt bad about my being shot?”
He gripped her wrist. “No. No, I was walking over to hire you because you’re good, and I needed your help.”
“So South Shores—is that a front to track this Clayton Ames?”
“No, it’s a charity I fund with money, time and expertise to help others who are going through hell over someone’s suicide, especially if it might be a murder instead—like trying to help Jasmine. But now, what if this whole thing is a setup of some kind? I mean, Ames found out I was representing Francine, he learned Shadowlawn was in financial crisis, made her an offer to buy just to defy me—I don’t know. It’s a damned spider’s web.”
“But he wouldn’t be behind Francine’s death, would he? Tormenting you because he killed her and made it look like suicide? He’d want her to go through with that new will, one maybe he promoted, so he could buy Shadowlawn. At least that’s a possibility.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
“So you can’t locate him but you think he’s in Grand Cayman? Isn’t that where a lot of fortunes are hidden? Do you remember John Grisham’s book The Firm? The bad guys were all hanging out in Grand Cayman.”
Still holding her hand, he sat back in his chair and sighed. This woman not only excited him but she could calm him. He wanted to hold her, protect her—he wanted her.
“Sorry,” she said, scooting her chair closer to his. “I don’t mean to bring up fiction, but then ‘truth is stranger than...’ You were blessed to have a wonderful father, and it’s the tragedy of your life you lost him so early and in such a horrible—and dirty—way.”
“He made some mistakes. But, yeah.”
“My parents did, too. Talk about fiction. By reading all the time, by escaping to fictional worlds, my mother hid from reality—her bad health, daughters who needed her, her unfaithful husband. I think characters in her books were more real to her than Darcy and I. All that to say I understand childhood loss and pain that never quite goes away.”
Staring down at their linked hands, he nodded. “Sorry to unload all my trauma on you, but it helped. We have to get going. Let’s finish up here and head out. I have damp papers all over my room to, hopefully, dry in the air-conditioning I’m running full force. The car trunk was fairly sealed when the tow truck pulled it out, but things are damaged. I’m putting a Do Not Disturb sign on my room door so the maid doesn’t have a fit when she sees the mess. I’ll go up and shave and be back here to get you in a half hour. And, however fast Heck likes to drive, he can just follow my rental car to Shadowlawn today. Besides his replacing my equipment, I’m going to have him call my insurance company, because, as Bronco would probably put it, I’ve got other fish to fry.”
“Or other frog legs in peanut oil.”
They stood over the remnants of breakfast. He’d devoured his; she had eaten little.
She walked him to the door. “Claire, I know I should send you home.”
“I’ll go soon, but I want to talk to Win again—and Jasmine. You need me for that.”
“I need you for more than that,” he blurted. Hell, he shouldn’t have said that. Nor should he make a move, but he pulled her to him, just meant to hug her, but when she responded, they were kissing again, holding tight, he pressing her against the door, and the bed was so near and—
“We can’t,” she murmured when they came up for air.
Damn, could she read his mind? “I know. Not now anyway.” He held her shoulders hard as if that would help him to control himself. “Listen, I didn’t realize how much support you’d be to me, not only in this case, but personally.”
“You put yourself in all your cases, I can tell, but this one’s very important.”
“Especially now if that bastard is involved from Grand Cayman or whatever luxury hole he’s crawled into lately. But I don’t want you to get hurt by being too close to me—like at the courthouse, like last night.”
“Nick, what if it’s not even him? What if it’s the person who harmed Francine who thinks we’re getting too close? We just have to be sure we’re not followed or spied on—drones or whatever.”
“Yeah, I didn’t tell you, but Ames could be behind that, too. You’re right that he’d want Francine to live to make that new will, but he’s very good at staging a suicide when it’s murder. I don’t mean to sound paranoid, though he’s made me that way. Maybe he just wants a beautiful Southern home to fix up, but that’s not him to be out in the open. I’ve made his life enough of a living hell, and he’s made plenty of illegal foreign investments so he has to hide out.”
“But, as you said, a man that rich and devious can have a long reach.”
He nodded. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we’ll have Heck follow us. Don’t let him
know you’re in on all this about Ames because I’ve sworn him to secrecy. If there’s a reason we all need to work together on that, too, we’ll tell him then.”
“All right.”
“Anytime you feel you should leave here, I’ll get you home safely, I promise. But if I decide it’s time for you to go, you’re out of here, understand?”
She nodded.
Maybe one more day here, and he’d send her home, he tried to convince himself. He wanted to keep her with him, but that might not keep her safe. He bit his lower lip and nodded back at her, when he wanted to do so much more.
20
When Win Jackson arrived midmorning at Shadowlawn to photograph the interior of the house, it was quite a production. Claire thought it seemed like the arrival of royalty, or as nervous as Neil seemed, at least a visit from a Hollywood producer.
Jasmine greeted Win on the front veranda with air kisses on both cheeks. Claire knew they were close, but how close? Maybe Francine had known what she was doing when she planned to soothe them both over the loss of Shadowlawn by appointing them joint advisors to the State of Florida or what Francine’s old lawyer had called an “altruistic” buyer—and Nick feared might be his archenemy.
Neil stood back, leaning forward but arms crossed in the mixed body language of welcome and wariness. Bronco hurried to help Win with his gear. Claire was surprised to see that the large, old-fashioned camera his shop assistant had been cleaning was evidently his camera of choice. A tripod followed with suitcases of gear, then lights with collapsible stands and poles.
Neil finally greeted Win as “My favorite movie buff.”
“Cinephile is the latest buzzword for that, my man,” Win replied, rather too grandly, Claire thought, and Nick, standing behind her, gave a short snort.
From where they were seat-belted into the backseat of his SUV, Win produced two huge, cut glass vases of pinkish-lavender blooms. Was that lilac? This time of year? In Florida?
“Indigo from my garden,” he announced. “Hugely symbolic for this place, of course—right, Bronco, since your ancestor oversaw the cultivating of it here? I’ve agreed to let Jasmine put out jasmine in vases—” he pronounced it vahses “—but indigo was once the lifeblood of this plantation, so these will be in most of the photos.” With a flourish, he handed one vase to Jasmine and one to Bronco, who looked so nervous suddenly that Claire was afraid he would drop it.
Neil served lemonade and cranberry muffins to everyone in the dining room, then sat with them himself. Win offered a toast to the plantation and announced the name of the picture book would be The Shades of Shadowlawn.
“After all,” he declared with his goblet raised, “the word shade used to mean a disembodied spirit or ghost. Nothing like a double entendre for a title, right, Bronco?”
The big man, who seemed somehow out of place in this dining room with the damask tablecloth, china and glassware, said only, “Right.”
The house, Claire thought, had turned rather festive, which was a change in mood around here. Perhaps Jasmine and the plantation staff were hoping a picture book would bring in needed funds for Shadowlawn’s restoration so she could afford to keep the place. But could she then afford to keep her staff? And would she want a retro-looking metal trailer and a monster museum on the grounds?
As Win left the dining room to set up for a shoot in the parlor, Claire overheard Neil ask him, “Will you have time to make that short movie for me to advertise my museum? I see you don’t have the movie camera.”
“It’s in the SUV. Best refer to your promo piece by the proper term of ‘trailer’ now, Neil. Not really my cup of tea, but I told you I’d do it for a small fee. Depending on how much staging I have to do with the way you keep things arranged here, this shoot will take me two days and then we’ll get to it. After all, I’m not Superman—though I guess I could don that old costume you have. Yes, I’ll do that and film your collection of fright masks, too, for the trailer.”
A Superman costume and fright masks? Neil hadn’t showed them masks or costumes except the Black Lagoon monster’s. What else hadn’t Neil shared? She planned to ask Win some things later, so she’d work that in about Neil, then ask him directly, too. Francine’s right-hand man Neil Costa was sounding stranger all the time.
* * *
Nick walked Jasmine upstairs to the bedroom that had been Francine’s, because she was nervous about how Win would “stage it,” as he said, and she wanted to put some things away before he took over here.
“I know he’ll take several shots of this portrait,” she told him, gesturing at the large painting on the wall. “But I don’t want him to play up our ancestor’s suicide off that veranda, so close to where Mother died. I know he’s going to do a section in the photo display on the ghosts—everyone agrees ghosts sell—but it just makes me upset.”
“You’re afraid the connection between this Rosalie—”
“Rosalynn,” she corrected him.
“Right, Rosalynn. You’re afraid linking her and your mother would suggest that your mother committed suicide, too? But, I’ve been telling you, that’s your best defense, Jasmine. Either that or an unintentional overdose so—”
She turned toward him. “How can you scold me for not admitting she’d kill herself after what you’ve been through with your father?”
“I wasn’t. I just—”
“You were going to. You’ve struggled for years to prove your father didn’t kill himself, and I don’t want that stigma on my mother. Ironic our parents were once a couple, and this hangs over both their heads. Someone tampered with my mother’s meds, I swear they did, but who?”
“Motive, opportunity—you tell me. Neil? Bronco?”
“You left out Lola. She got what she wanted and knew I’d make Mother choose between us—her conniving little ‘foster daughter’ and me, her flesh and blood. That’s what you should be working on, clearing me!”
“Then who killed her? Who maybe thought she knew too much? Jasmine, haven’t you thought Lola might resent you, too—might have accused you in court of your mother’s death? So who killed her?”
For a minute, Nick thought she’d heave the two flashlights she was putting in the bedside table drawer at him. But she turned away from glowering at him to stare at the portrait as if it had answers.
Damn, he wished Claire was here to translate all this smothered female, mother-daughter angst. This grown woman had been so hurt by Francine’s care for poor Lola that she was willing to accuse her of biting the hand that fed her, so to speak?
And Lola had pointed the finger at Jasmine, so wasn’t that, literally, a dead end? He knew time was running out. Lola’s ashes were in that puppet head Claire had described, but this woman, his client and friend, could be arrested at any time for murder one—maybe for two murder ones. To defend her well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask her directly if she had harmed her mother. He still believed in Jasmine—didn’t he?
And he wished in all this, that damned portrait of the Civil War matriarch of this blasted haunted house would quit staring at him. He looked away from Jasmine and glared back at long-dead Rosalynn.
“Don’t look at her, or she’ll get to you.” Jasmine interrupted his agonizing as she rearranged some photos on the dresser and put several others in the drawer. “How Mother slept in here, I don’t know. She said she felt protected here—ha! A lot of good it did her. But you know,” she said, turning back to him again, obviously relieved to be changing the subject, “I guess I’ll have to let Win have his way when he photographs here.” She shrugged. “I know Win. He’ll have it anyway.”
* * *
Claire bided her time, waiting to get Win alone. Meanwhile, she tried to read Francine’s diary, sitting in the back corner of the parlor where he was setting up his shots. Besides parts of the diary having smeared ink, Francine’s
handwriting was hard to read, small and loopy, some of the earliest entries faded—and still damp, as was the last section—but Claire was getting more familiar with it. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she felt she was getting so much closer to her. Here, years ago, Claire had deciphered, poor Francine had worried that Jasmine was not only too independent but rebellious. Though Lexi was only four, how Claire sympathized with that concern, with Francine in general.
Win fussed endlessly with lighting and the angles, ordering Bronco here and there. But when he finally got what he wanted, he sent him out and said he’d call for him later. She wasn’t sure she liked Win anymore. He was not quite snobbish, but definitely elitist, however fine a line that was.
It had amused her to see that Win actually disappeared under a black drape behind his large-format camera at times, as if he were some Civil War–era photographer. She had come to feel that was the essence of the man, someone who could pop in and out of any situation, who could hide his innermost thoughts but then be quite generous and grandiose with sharing what he knew. Well, she hadn’t known many artists, and she considered him to be one so maybe she should cut him some slack.
“Should I leave, too?” she asked.
“You evidently have something to say.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to learn from a master.”
“Learn what, pray tell?”
“More about Shadowlawn and how you view it. I trust your vision.”
He disappeared under the black drape and clicked away as several of his klieg lights, or whatever they were, popped to nearly blind her.
When he emerged again to move his camera and the vases of indigo, he said, “What is it you want to know, Claire? For starters, Bronco’s a lot deeper and brighter—and more explosive than he seems.”
“I’ve noticed that. You should do my job. And Neil?”
“Deep and borderline devious, whereas everything about Bronco’s right on the surface. So what’s that you’re reading?”
