The Signature (A Perfect Forever Novel)

by Ward, Susan

  Devon continued to stare into her yard, though Krystal Stafford had long since disappeared into the house. The green lawn with its hammock and meager scattering of redwood furniture lost its luster without her. It was an unspectacular backdrop: the house, a tiny cottage, blue paint and white trim, clearly long neglected. The yard was winsomely spread with whimsical touches, like the pink clay unicorn wind chimes dangling from their flowering apple tree.

  An unspectacular backdrop for a spectacular woman. It was so apt. Before Oregon, seeing her, he would have thought this absurd.

  Sunlight adored Krystal Stafford’s face. She had spent years as a nocturnal being, sweating and singing onstage beneath the harsh illumination of spotlights. But her flesh seemed to sip the light and color around her, making them more vivid, making them her own. Her face had the delicate beauty of classic literature. Her overall look was American wholesomeness: straight hair resembling golden wisps of spun corn; vivid, crystal blue eyes like the sky on a spring morning in the Rockies; a complexion the tone of southern California’s ivory sand, but without the apricot tint of the afternoon sun. And then there was the light dappling of freckles across her nose. Yes, wholesome. Her mouth was round, the color and shape of her lips both sweet and erotic. It made you want to brush them with your fingers, then taste them with your lips.

  Staring at the closed back door to her house, Devon tried to discern what he was feeling. Words were clustering in his head, but not the ones he wanted. Definitely not the ones that had sent him here.

  What was this she caused in him? Fascination for the mysterious? Fascination for the erotic? Fascination for the dew of innocence she somehow carried? Fascination for the tragic…or was it lust? She was a beautiful woman.

  He knew himself well, but he didn’t know the answer to this. Perhaps it was because he had never run across a woman before who was such a collection of contradictions: mystery, eroticism, purity and the tragic.

  The ring of his cell phone punctuated his dreamlike study of her house. “This is Devon.”

  “I had lunch with Jordan today in a Chinese restaurant. I’ve been bothered by my fortune cookie all afternoon. I need the help of an uncommonly intelligent man. Confucius asks, ‘Can you cure cynicism or is it a terminal condition of the heart.’”

  Devon laughed softly. “You’ve got the wrong number. You’ve only reached a hack, not an uncommonly intelligent man. Or perhaps you think I’m cynical because I’m unmarried and that’s why you’ve contacted me. If you’re looking for an expert on cynicism, you should call Danny. I’m the hopeless romantic among the brothers, remember? What’s going on, Kara?”

  His sister-in-law laughed softly. It sounded effervescent, like tinkling bells. It made him smile. He loved his family. They were people he would have liked even if he weren’t related to them.

  “I went to the beach today, stopped at your house in Malibu, and you weren’t there,” she said, in a chiding almost motherly manner. “Suitcase gone, two to be exact. Laptop from desk. Not even a call to the family. I was elected by secret ballot to make contact and find out what’s going on. You’re not in California if you didn’t see the puff of smoke.”

  Devon grimaced. He’d forgotten to call two days ago, before he’d taken off from Los Angeles up the California coast by car to come to Oregon. He was thirty-eight, single, had spent the first ten years of his career traveling the wars and the hotspots of the world as a foreign correspondent, and had taken a bullet that had nearly killed him with the rebels in Croatia...hence the worry. Hence the expectation of a call. He’d written a column and ridden desk since Croatia. He was in Coos Bay, Oregon, and they were worrying at home. His life at times held the satire of a Saturday Night Live skit.

  “I’m in no more danger, Kara, than a leggy blonde. Other than the dangers of thigh lock, let the family know I’m safe.”

  Jesus Christ, what had made him say that! He was not a man who made lewd remarks. Where the hell had that come from? He could almost hear her blush through the phone.

  He added quickly, “I’m on assignment, Kara. I should be gone no more than two weeks. I’m in the continental United States. I’m not interviewing urban gangs. Safety.”

  There was a long pause. Then, “I preferred the notion of the leggy blonde. You don’t get enough thigh lock. You work too hard, Devon, for a romantic.”

  Devon laughed softly, walking back into the house to pop a CD into the player. He adjusted the volume and said, “Danny must be back on the West Coast. You’ve been cavorting in low company again if you can make those remarks.”

  “I don’t make those remarks, Devon, because I usually cavort in your company, of my four brothers-in-law. The provocative comments didn’t shock me. They pleased me. Lets me know that you are aware you’re a man. You’re not going to be young and gorgeous forever. Enjoy it while you can. It’s been five years since Beth walked out. Since Croatia. You hardly date. For a hopeless romantic, Devon, you’re lousy at it.”

  His laughter silenced. I should let my family tell me what they think of me more often. Have I become jaded by all that has happened? He’d never before connected the pieces. He didn’t like the pattern they formed.

  He’d been fanatical, a workaholic in those days. He was as vain as the next man. He’d enjoyed the notoriety and acclaim for his work that didn’t intrude on his public privacy, the greatest benefit of being a writer. Then, that damn bullet. After years of dedication and work, that a freak of timing should bring a Pulitzer, media frenzy, and an endless series of awards and ceremonies into his life was the ultimate displeasure for a serious journalist.

  The ultimate sham: the reporter becoming news. He’d hated every moment of it more than he’d hated the slow, painful process of recovering from a bullet in the stomach. He was sure that the bastard he’d been because of it was more than two-thirds the reason Beth had walked. The other third was that, when the furor died down, he’d still be a workaholic.

  Then after the loss of Beth, to discover that even fleeting fame like his could bring about a flood of the most interesting propositions from women he would have never had a chance with before the bullet, hadn’t helped his cynicism. He’d shut down through the storm to survive. It was his nature. He was a quiet, private man. Had he forgotten to reawaken now that it was long over?

  Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, Devon poured himself a glass of wine and asked, “So—how do I go about not being lousy at being a romantic?”

  “The thigh lock wouldn’t hurt the process, kiddo.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice. His lips turned up in a grin. “I’ll keep that in mind, Kara. You wouldn’t happen to have the number of a leggy blonde. I’m not feeling sufficiently energetic this first excursion out after a long hibernation.”

  With a low, mischievous whisper, she taunted, “Out of character lewd remark, wine and that music...Confucius say, ‘I think you already found one.’ Call me next week.”

  Devon snapped his phone shut and tossed it on the bed. There was a mountain of work on his desk screaming out to him. He still had his Sunday column to finish. Instead, he reclined on his bed, feeling a nagging intrusion he wasn’t about to define. Rummaging in his pocket, he pulled out a unicorn tied on a yellow ribbon and lifted it to his nose. Morgan was right. The ribbon carried Krystal’s scent.

  Listening to Krystal Stafford’s music, he thought, I don’t know what I’ve found, Kara. I only know it wasn’t what I expected.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Devon leaned back in his functional desk chair. His thoughts were more claimed by his reasons for being in Coos Bay rather than by the completion of his column, which he would have to send off to LA fairly soon if it were going to make print. All things considered, his first day in Oregon was a tremendous success. It was little wonder he couldn’t focus on the trite opinions trying to form in his mind.

  The latest presidential campaign speeches were lackluster musings compared to the woman he’d studied all afternoon.
He was comfortably entrenched fifty feet away from a sure-fire front page story, and there wasn’t another reporter within a hundred miles to fight for the scoop.

  It had been a long time since his career had held the thrill of that. All that remained was to establish contact with Krystal Stafford. There was no doubt in Devon’s mind that he had, indeed, found her. Or rather, had been led straight to her by a surprisingly unexpected source.

  His eyes drifted across the stack of pictures, police reports, and newspaper clippings littering his desk, stopping at the very letter responsible for this incredible turn of events. He’d almost tossed the boldly penned note into the trash, dismissing it as a hoax or a prank by one of his coworkers.

  He had a reputation of having sensational stories seemingly dropped into his lap, and it wouldn’t be the first time one of his co-reporters had played this type of practical joke on him. They were commonplace at the Los Angeles daily where he worked. Every indication was that this was yet another one, probably at the hand of Derek Roy, his close friend and fellow journalist. And yet, something in his gut told him it was not.

  That carefully-worded letter had betrayed very little. He received a hundred equally meaningless leads a week, leads more often than not that proved worthless. And, after all, if the entire Los Angeles press corps and the federal authorities couldn’t find Krystal Stafford, how was he to believe that he should be so fortunate as to have her literally handed to him on a silver platter?

  Every ounce of logic tugged at him to conclude it was another of Derek’s jokes. When he’d pulled the Stafford custody case two years ago, he hadn’t even wanted to cover it—it had to be a joke. Even now, he couldn’t say what had made him hold onto the letter. No one was born that lucky.

  He had kept it for four weeks, studying it, trying to figure out why he wasn’t dismissing it with the dispatch it deserved. Four weeks later he had conceded that it had, indeed, been a joke and Derek was no doubt laughing himself drunk after watching him study the damn letter for a month. He tucked it into a file folder and forgot it.

  Two months later, the second note arrived: I’ll be at Krystal’s house, Sunday morning at six.

  All right, Devon had thought, I’ll bite. If Derek wants to get his jollies by leading me on a merry chase, the least he could do is see it through. But why the devil did he have to pick the crack of dawn?

  So, bundled up against the foggy California morning, he had driven out to Krystal Stafford’s closed up Laurel Canyon home, deciding that the least Derek would owe him for this was a good breakfast out.

  Warming his hands in the lining of his jacket, he had turned down the loose gravel drive toward the elegant wood and glass structure, which was carefully tucked in the overgrowth of shrubs and trees. It was a lonely site at this hour, when most people were still in bed. Tired and annoyed, he had wondered why Derek just wouldn’t show up and end the prank. Was making him wait all part of the gag?

  He’d been about to leave when an unfamiliar voice stopped him. The rioting of blood through his veins had nearly knocked him flat. Of all the things he’d considered, what had unfolded next had never crossed his mind

  * * *

  “Devon Howard?”

  The low, raspy voice with its thick upper-crust British accent made him whirl. Morgan Katz. It was not a face that anyone could mistake. It was handsome, in a harshly masculine way that was more than a little intimidating. Devon noted the very familiar features he had seen staring out at him from a photo on his desk of Krystal Stafford with her lover.

  “Yes, I’m Devon Howard,” he said.

  “I think it best we talk inside,” Morgan said without preamble, moving past him. “There isn’t much traffic up here at this time of day, but you can see the house from the road, and every so often sightseers come here to see where Krystal and Nick lived out their farce of a marriage.”

  Morgan made quick work of drawing back the thick overgrowth of shrub and unlocked the door with a key from the ring in hand. That Morgan still carried a key said a lot about his relationship with Krystal. Silent, Devon followed the legendary singer into the house.

  Morgan tossed his expensive leather jacket across the back of a large sofa and sank down on a wingchair, popping a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. Through the haze of smoke, those harsh black eyes watched him.

  “Krystal had no choice but to run, if that is what you’re wondering,” Morgan stated abruptly, his eyes sharply on his face, waiting for reaction. “Nick would have killed both her and Katherine if she’d stayed. He was that out-of-control back in those days. Coke. He was a freebaser. Fried his brains with it. Drugs have a way of messing up even the sanest men, and no one would say that Nick had ever been completely sane. Not where Krystal was concerned. He would have killed her. That’s why she ran.”

  “You know this for a fact or because Krystal told you this?”

  “I know it because I was there, from the beginning. A witness to it all.”

  “A witness or a participant?” Devon asked shrewdly.

  Morgan’s shoulders shrugged lazily. “We were friends, Howard. Then lovers. Public opinion aside, I had nothing to do with what happened between the Staffords. Nick Stafford put their marriage on destruct mode long before I entered the picture. If Nick hadn’t terrified Krystal into divorce, she would have ended the marriage years before our involvement. She’s absurdly old fashioned.”

  “Have you spoken with Krystal since she ran?”

  Again, all Devon got was a slight shake of the head. Perhaps if he hadn’t spent thirty minutes waiting in the misty cold or if he hadn’t been pulled too early from a warm bed after a late night, Devon would have had more patience to fence with him, but, as it was, he didn’t.

  “Morgan, exactly what is the point of this? Half the LA press has already written about your affair with Krystal Stafford. It’s old news. It wasn’t worth half as much print as it got, but who am I to argue against what sells papers? As far as news goes, this is damn poor. Or are you so used to taking yourself too seriously that you think every word you utter is news?”

  Morgan’s composure irritated Devon. Katz knew damn well Devon wouldn’t leave. There was always the story they had to get. Slowly, Katz lit another cigarette before answering.

  “I want to help Krystal. I kept my mouth closed two years ago. Krystal wanted it that way. She was such a child in so many ways, and maybe out of some misguided sense of loyalty she thought she was protecting me and her father. She should have thrown every card face up on the table and let what would happen, happen. I should have broken the silence back then, despite what she wanted.”

  “So now you want to unburden your conscience by granting an interview and this is supposed to somehow help Krystal?” Devon’s scowl betrayed his annoyance and confusion. “Maybe I’m dense, but how will any of this help her? By handing her over to the press, you might very well jeopardize her freedom.”

  “It’s time someone put into print the complete truth about why she ran. About Nick. About why she went underground.”

  “Underground?” Devon repeated, wondering if he had heard Morgan correctly.

  “You know, the land of no identity. Safe houses. Safe people, who don’t care who or what you are, who risk everything to hide you. To protect the women and children whom no one seems to give a damn about any more.” Morgan’s sharp, dark eyes lifted to Devon’s face. “I was under the impression that you were knowledgeable about this.”

  The “underground railroad.” Suddenly, it all made sense why Morgan had contacted him. A year ago, he had nearly been jailed after publishing a series of stories on three women who had fled underground with their children. His series of stories had put the plight of these women in the forefront and had earned him, for all his effort, a subpoena to appear before a federal judge to answer questions in the ongoing investigations.

  There had never been any thought in Devon’s mind to cooperate. These women had given him their trust, had placed the safety of
themselves and their children in his hands, and even the disgruntled threat of jail, delivered by a judge who had been an unflattering subject in Devon’s piece, couldn’t alter the course of his conscience. What had started as a consciousness-raising project had ended in an all-out battle over the First Amendment and freedom of the press.

  He had never imagined that Krystal Stafford would have resorted to such radical measures. That she would erase her identity. He had assumed her to be in Europe or South America, safe with her child, in luxury. She had been raised in a world of privilege and money. What he was hearing was illogical in all ways. Was that why the federal authorities couldn’t find her? Illogic turned into shrewd success.

  It was hard to conceal his welling excitement. “How do you know all this?”

  “One night, Krystal showed up at my door, bloody and beaten, begging me not to call the police or let anyone know where she was. I don’t know how she got away from Nick. But she was certain if he found her, he’d kill her. One look at her was enough to convince me she was right. I hid her in my house. She lay in bed almost unconscious for three months, while Nick used the courts to threaten her, terminate the joint custody, freeze her assets, and try to flush her out. I wanted her to press charges against him. Her attorneys took photographs of what Nick did to her, if you care to see them. I wanted her to stay and fight it out. We had made plans to marry.”

  Morgan took a long drag off his cigarette, watching alertly the surprise on Devon’s face.

  “She was afraid that she and Katherine wouldn’t live long enough to see Nick behind bars,” Morgan continued. “She doubted that he’d be sent to jail, even if convicted. Wife battery doesn’t seem to be much of a crime in this country, even when the woman is no longer your wife. With what had happened back then in LA, the outcome of the Simpson case, I don’t blame her for having refused to give the system another chance.”