Hidden

by Fern Michaels

  “What is it, Mama?” Max looked inquisitively at her.

  “Nothing, sweetheart. Someone sent a special letter, that’s all.”

  “But what is it?” Max was becoming insistent.

  “Nothing important. Work stuff. Now you go with Aunt Rini. I’ll see you after school.” She kissed him on the head, picked up her keys, and walked to her car. She started the engine and reread the letter. She didn’t recognize the name Jacob Taylor. She knew Clive Dunbar and David Wilson, but not Jacob Taylor. Maybe he was new. But what should she tell him? She was worried about the notebook. What if he asked for it? If so, she would only speak directly to Clive. Colette wasn’t a suspicious person by nature, but she had seen a great deal of nastiness in the Millstone house. Arthur and Rowena were not nice people. She decided that she would call Mr. Taylor during her break at work and find out what he wanted from her.

  Meanwhile, Thompson, aka Taylor, was waiting in his hotel room to get the call. Hours went by. Nothing. He called the messenger service, and the person who answered confirmed that the letter had been hand-delivered to Ms. Petrov. What was taking her so long? He knew he would get a major tongue-lashing from Arthur if he didn’t have any information soon. He was certain that Arthur was wearing out the carpet in his office, huffing and puffing.

  During her break, Colette looked into her tote bag to get the letter and make the call. She dug around and couldn’t find it. Then she dumped the contents onto her desk. No letter. Then she remembered that she had left it stuck to the visor of her car. It would take too long to go to her car, so she decided to phone the law office instead. Perhaps they could give her Mr. Taylor’s cell-phone number. She still had the main number in her contact list. Things had been hectic since Mr. Randolph’s passing and her swift dismissal. Then there was the packing. Through the transition, it hadn’t occurred to her to delete phone numbers she no longer had any reason to use. At that moment, she was grateful.

  She pressed the green “call” dot on her phone. As the phone rang on the other end, she thought about how upset she was that Arthur and Rowena hadn’t had a proper funeral for Randolph. They were going to plan a memorial sometime in the future. It was obvious to Colette she was not going to be invited, and knowing Rowena, the memorial service would be by invitation only.

  She snapped out of her reverie when the receptionist answered. “Dunbar, Wilson and Chase. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hello. This is Colette Petrov.”

  “Hello, Colette. How are you?” The receptionist remembered that Colette had worked for Randolph Millstone for three years and phoned often to speak to Clive.

  “I’m very well, thank you. May I speak to Jacob Taylor?”

  “I’m sorry. Who did you ask for?” the receptionist queried.

  “Jacob Taylor?” Colette hesitated.

  “There’s no Jacob Taylor here, Colette. Are you sure you have the right number?”

  “I’m sure. The card said Dunbar, Wilson and Chase, but I left it in my car, and I still had your office number in my contact list. What about Mr. Dunbar? Is he available?”

  “No, I’m sorry, he’s away on business; and then he’s going to take a short vacation. Can I take a message for you?”

  Colette gave the phone an odd look. No Jacob Taylor? “No, that’s all right. I’ll try again next week. Thank you. Bye.”

  “Bye, Colette.”

  Colette had a bad feeling about this. Yesterday, someone had said they found her employee badge which wasn’t missing, and now a letter from someone who doesn’t exist. Her fight-or-flight instinct was firing off signals. Again. The first time was when she had been dismissed from her position with Millstone Enterprises. Arthur and Rowena had made it abundantly clear that Colette should disappear as soon as possible.

  Now she was wondering if it was time to disappear again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Millstone Manor

  If someone had taken Arthur’s blood pressure at that moment, they would have called the paramedics. He was shrieking at the top of his lungs. “What do you mean you haven’t made contact?” He snapped his fingers at Rowena to pour him another scotch.

  Rowena stretched her long legs and sashayed to the console where Arthur kept his single-malt scotches, bourbons, and cognac. He held up three fingers indicating how much liquor to pour. The equivalent of three fingers wrapped around the glass. Rowena laughed to herself. If he means his, I’ll have to use four of mine.

  Arthur could barely control his rage. “You are supposed to find out if she signed it, does she know what was in it, and where it might be! It shouldn’t be this hard! You had better speak to her in person by tomorrow, or I’ll be on my way out there and you’ll be on your way out. Do I make myself clear?”

  Rowena handed him the tumbler of scotch. Maybe that would calm him down. Rowena couldn’t understand why Arthur was so exasperated of late. Yes, several months before Randolph died, he had told Arthur to “start making other plans.” What Randolph meant was that they were going to have to move out of the mansion into a place of their own, for one. The other, Rowena suspected, was that Arthur might find himself no longer a part of Millstone Enterprises. If Randolph decided to cut Arthur out of his will, or at least to leave him something much smaller than the family fortune, something both she and Arthur feared he might do, Arthur would be left up the proverbial creek without a paddle.

  Rowena knew that Randolph had been aware of Arthur’s past gambling problems and that they were possibly becoming a problem once more. Perhaps Randolph had been planning to put Arthur on a tight leash. Rowena figured that Arthur was probably seriously in debt. Just how seriously was the question. Judging from how Arthur was behaving, he probably owed a staggering amount, requiring that he inherit more than a token amount if he were to avoid serious repercussions. One thing she knew for certain, the people Arthur was dealing with were not nice people.

  On more than one occasion, Rowena walked into Arthur’s study as he was writing out checks to himself. One evening, before he got home from the office, she went through the drawers of his desk and found the checkbook. Rowena was surprised he hadn’t locked it away. Perhaps he thought no one would be rummaging around in his desk or he had simply forgotten to lock it. Lately, he had been hitting the booze in large quantities, so it wasn’t totally surprising that he might have forgotten. But there it was for her to get a good peek. It appeared he was siphoning off money in dribs and drabs. Checks for a few thousand dollars every other week or so. Nothing that would set off any alarms. Heck, a few thousand dollars would just about cover one day of Rowena’s purchases. But now things seemed to be escalating to disturbing heights.

  Rowena watched Arthur guzzle the scotch. That’s when she started putting it together. She figured Arthur had gotten deep into debt and that Randolph had found out. Randolph had bailed him out once. But he had warned him that it was the first, last, and only time it would happen. For a while it appeared that Arthur had kicked his habit, but Rowena was sure that appearances were deceptive, especially after she got a glimpse of the checkbook.

  No one else realized that he had gone back to gambling. It seems that after placing a few small bets, he started winning. The more he won, the more he gambled, until he started to lose. Then the more he lost, the more he gambled. She couldn’t comprehend how much he might owe, but his behavior screamed a lot.

  Arthur slammed down the phone again. “I don’t know what I pay him for.”

  “He was supposed to confirm where she lived.” Rowena almost felt sorry for Thompson. Almost.

  “Well, now he needs to confirm whether or not she signed the will.”

  “But you don’t know whether or not she knows anything. She was only supposed to witness his signature. That doesn’t mean she was supposed to read the whole thing. She may know absolutely nothing.” Rowena refilled both their glasses.

  “But that’s the point, Rowena. There are several pieces to this pu
zzle. Are you dense? We need to know. Did she witness his signature? Did she know what she was signing? Does she know where it is? Three simple questions. That’s all he has to ask her.” Arthur took a big pull of his drink. “She shouldn’t have any objections to answering them.”

  “I suppose you’re right. They are simple questions.” She took a swig of her drink. “So, do you think he’ll make contact with her tomorrow?”

  “He’d better. Or you will be making a lot of phone calls to people who bought the furniture.”

  “Me? Why me?” Rowena protested.

  “Because you are in this as much as I am,” Arthur huffed.

  * * *

  The following morning, Rowena knew she had a lot of paperwork ahead of her. She went through all the pages in the file Amber had provided, matching the material there with the data in the Excel computer file. She didn’t want to take either at face value. Begrudgingly, she painstakingly crossed off the names on paper if they were in the computer. If not, she would add them to the Excel data file. It was tedious work and wreaked havoc on her manicure. Her long nails kept getting caught between the keys, causing her to curse every few minutes. She had been working on the task for hours, but it was the only way to consolidate and organize the information. She also cursed Amber because much of the information had not been entered into the computer file as it should have been, creating more work for Rowena. She understood why Arthur didn’t want anyone from his office getting involved. There were already too many loose ends. They didn’t need curious eyes producing problems should they decide to do some sleuthing on their own. The Millstone estate was too visible. They couldn’t take any chances.

  Rowena highlighted the columns and sorted the data by state. There were three major antique dealers who had bought several pieces each, but she didn’t know if any of the items had been sold to consumers. How could she find out quickly? And what excuse would she use? “Hey, did you happen to find a will that would blow our lifestyle?” Nah. She got up and poured herself some brandy. Then it came to her. She could say, “My husband has been very depressed over his father’s death. Everything happened so quickly, and a few items from the estate were mistakenly sold.” OK.

  That sounded good. Now the big question was would she have to go to each dealer and check every piece on her own? That could be problematic. Some of the furniture might have to be broken apart. Buy back everything? That was an option. But Arthur would have to come up with a lot of money to do it that way. And then where would they put the pieces? They’d have to find a storage unit. If Arthur was in as dire straits as she thought, she might have to sell some of her jewelry. Scratch that. If they were going to lose everything, she was at least going to get out with her diamonds and gold. She figured she could raise well over $300,000 on her own. But only if it was necessary to get away. And if it came to that, then screw Arthur. If it came to that, he was on his own.

  Rowena culled the lists. There was one dealer outside Boston, one in New York, another in Kentucky, who collectively had purchased the largest number of pieces. Then there were a few smaller dealers in New Jersey, Connecticut, Vermont, and Pennsylvania. It could take weeks, perhaps months, to track everything down. She picked up the phone and called Arthur’s office.

  When he answered, without even acknowledging her, he said, “I hope you have a solution.”

  “And hello to you, too, darling.” Rowena gave the phone an annoyed look. “I have an idea, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Arthur growled.

  Rowena ignored his tone. “There are too many pieces scattered over seven states. I can’t see how we could go to each place and try to scrutinize everything without drawing suspicion. We can’t very well go into a shop with crowbars and start tearing the furniture apart. Because that’s what it’s going to take. Crowbars. We inspected every piece before the sale and could not find a thing. Which means we will have to dismantle each and every piece. And that means you and I, Arthur. We can’t trust anyone else.”

  “Aren’t you the astute one?” Arthur continued to bully her.

  “Listen, Arthur. I’ve been working on this all morning. We need to contact all the dealers and buy everything back, put it in a large storage unit, and take every piece apart.”

  Silence. She could hear the clinking of a glass. Arthur was probably pouring himself a drink. “Arthur. Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, dear. Buy it all back. Put it in storage. Pry each piece apart.” His voice was unusually calm.

  “Well? What do you think?” Rowena was getting impatient.

  “Do it. Let’s just get this over with.”

  “Really? You want me to go ahead?” Rowena wasn’t sure if Arthur was of sound mind and wanted to be absolutely sure she had heard what she had heard.

  “Yes. Do it! I’m still waiting to hear from Thompson. If he doesn’t make contact with that woman today, I am going to have someone else take care of it.”

  “OK, Arthur. Just be careful.” Rowena actually sounded like she cared. Well, sort of. But only to the extent that it would affect her if the plan went horribly wrong.

  Arthur hung up without saying another word. In point of fact, they could have everything sent back to the estate. There surely was enough room in one of the outer buildings, but that would draw attention. No. It had to be off the property. She checked for nearby facilities and found a storage facility with enough space several miles away. Close enough to be convenient, far enough for no one to notice. They had to be careful.

  Rowena made a list of the dealers she would contact first. Arthur didn’t mention how they would pay for any of it, so she assumed it would be covered by Millstone Enterprises. And that is what she would tell the dealers. Let everyone fight for payment later. Right now, that was not her concern and quite likely never would be. Paying people, that is. Getting the furniture was the only thing she cared about. With that in mind, she began making phone calls.

  The first dealer, in Kentucky, would be open later that day. The second one was in New York. She made the plea that her husband was very depressed over losing his father and regretted selling everything in haste, and would it be possible to purchase them back? She actually got some sympathy from her little boo-hoo story. Fortunately, it had only been a matter of weeks since the dealer had actually received the pieces, so the pieces were still in the original crates. They hadn’t begun to process them, so returning them shouldn’t be an issue. One down. To expedite the transfer, Rowena planned to rent a truck or two to pick up the items. She tried to make the transaction and shipping as seamless as possible. They would have enough to deal with once all the furniture was in the storage unit.

  The next call she made was to the dealer in Kentucky. If she could reach the others quickly, she could do one big sweep and have the furniture back in less than a week. She would also give the truck drivers a cash incentive. It occurred to her to give the dealers a cash incentive also. After another dozen phone calls, she had secured almost every piece.

  The financial inducement made the dealers quite amenable. The transactions were swift. She was rather pleased with her display of business savvy. There was only one piece that had found its way to a consumer, the Louis XVI sideboard. She thought she could probably persuade the new owners to sell it back to her, but the dealer wasn’t keen on giving Rowena the buyer’s personal information. She’d deal with that later. Besides, she had personally checked that particular item before the estate sale. She was certain the will was not hidden there. Of course, Arthur would have a conniption fit, but he would have to give her credit. She had done a remarkable job. At least for the moment, Arthur should be in a better frame of mind.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Buffalo, New York

  Thompson was getting nervous. Why hadn’t she called him? It was lunchtime. Surely, she would have taken a break. Maybe he should just go downstairs to the housekeeping office? He snapped his fingers. He’d call her from the house p
hone and ask if she had gotten his letter. Then he would ask if he could stop by and ask her a few questions. She wouldn’t be able to run away, and she might feel safer in her own environment. The question was should he be dressed as himself? Why not? He really wasn’t doing anything illegal. He was simply seeking information for his employer. But why was this job giving him a creepy feeling? There was a tense undercurrent in his communications with Arthur. Anger and desperation, Thompson thought.

  His job was to find out whether or not Ms. Petrov had witnessed a signature. And to find out whether she saw where Randolph Millstone had put the document. There was nothing truly shady about finding out about those two things. But the subterfuge he had used involved more deceit than was usual in his investigations, and therefore seemed shadier.

  Thompson took the elevator to the lobby, went to the phone banks, and asked to be connected to housekeeping. A woman answered. “Housekeeping, Colette speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hello, Colette, this is Jacob Taylor from Dunbar, Wilson and Chase. I believe a letter was delivered to your home this morning,” he half asked.

  Colette’s heart started to pound. She didn’t know who it was who was pretending to be from Dunbar, Wilson and Chase, but she was going to find out. She might be naïve when it came to men, but when it came to life in general, she was pretty savvy. “Yes, Mr. Taylor. My apologies for not calling you sooner. We have had a busy day this morning. A lot of people checking out. And in. You mentioned something about Mr. Millstone? What is it that you need from me?”

  “Do you have a few moments to sit down with me? If it isn’t any trouble, I could come to your office. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  Colette put him on mute and looked over her cubicle. There was a lull in the confusion, and she had a lunch break coming up.

  “Are you close to the Curtiss?” Colette thought she heard familiar music in the background. The music they played in the hotel lobby. Then she checked the caller ID and saw the call was coming from an internal line. It was not from the cell number on the card.