by Nora Roberts
To a woman like Laurel, the memory of a young man who’d treated a child and her infatuation gently should have no shadows. But Matt was using it to swipe at her for something she couldn’t understand. He’d even implied that she might be thinking of Louis when they were together. How could he possibly believe . . .
Here, her thoughts broke off again as a new idea crept in. A fascinating one. Matt was plain and simply jealous.
“Ha!” Laurel uttered the syllable out loud and flopped back against the car seat. Her photographer sent her a sidelong look and said nothing.
Jealous . . . well, that was certainly interesting, even if it was still unreasonable and asinine. But if he was jealous, didn’t it follow that his feelings for her were more involved than she’d let herself believe? Maybe. Or maybe he was just being typically insufferable—as she’d almost forgotten in the first heady waves of love that he was. Still, it was something to think about.
They had to stop the car in a thick tangle of traffic and bad-tempered blasting of horns. “I’ll get out here and go up on foot,” Laurel told her photographer absently. “Pull over as soon as you can.” Stepping out, Laurel went to work.
Matt was out on the street as well. The noise in the Vieux Carré might have been a great deal more pleasant than what Laurel was dealing with, but the heat was only slightly less intense. He could smell the river and the flowers, a combination that had come to mean New Orleans to him. At the moment, he hardly thought of them. For the past hour, he’d been very busy.
A trip to the police station and a few carefully placed questions had earned him the information that no official search had ever been issued for Elise or Charles Trulane. A missing-persons report had never been filed on either of them. The note, the missing clothes and painting gear had been enough to satisfy everyone. Matt wasn’t satisfied.
When he’d questioned further, he’d hit a blank wall of indifference. What did it matter how they’d left town or if anyone had seen them? They had left, and ten years was a long time. There was plenty of other business in New Orleans to keep the force busy other than an adultery that was a decade old. Sure, the lab boys would play with his little chunk of metal when they had the time, and what was he up to?
Matt had evaded and left with fewer answers than he’d had when he’d gone in. Maybe he’d draw a few out of Curt.
Turning a corner, Matt strolled into a dim little bar where a trio was playing a cool, brassy rendition of “The Entertainer.” He spotted Curt immediately, huddled in a corner booth with papers spread all over the table. There was a glass of untouched beer at his elbow. Matt had a quick flashback of seeing Curt exactly the same way during their college days. The smile—the first one in hours—felt good.
“How’s it going, Counselor?”
“What?” Distracted, Curt looked up. “Hi.” He tipped the papers together in one neat, economical movement and slid them into a folder. “What’s up, Matt?”
“The same,” he told the waitress, indicating Curt’s beer. “A little legal advice,” he said when he turned back to Curt.
“Oh-oh.” Grinning, Curt stroked his chin, the only resemblance to his sister Matt could see.
“Advice, not representation,” Matt countered.
“Oh, well.” When the waitress put Matt’s beer on the table, Curt remembered his own.
“If I decided to add to my portfolio, would you consider Trulane Shipping a wise investment?”
Curt looked up from his drink, his abstracted expression sharpening. “I’d say that was more a question for your broker than your lawyer. In any case, we both know your portfolio’s solid. You’re the one who gives me tips, remember?”
“A hypothetical question then,” Matt said easily. “If I were interested in speculating with a New Orleans-based company, would Trulane be a wise place to sink my money?”
“All right. Then I’d say that Trulane is one of the most solid companies in the country.”
“Okay,” Matt muttered. He’d figured that one was a blind alley. “Why do you think no one’s touched Elise Trulane’s inheritance?”
Curt set down his beer and gave Matt a long, level look. “How do you know about that?”
“You know I can’t reveal a source, Curt. Fifty thousand,” he mused, running a finger down the condensation on his glass. “A hefty amount. Interest over ten years would be a tidy little sum. I’d think even a man like Trulane would find some use for it.”
“He doesn’t have any claim on the money. It’s a straight inheritance in Elise’s name.” He shrugged at Matt’s unspoken question. “The firm handled it.”
“And the lady just lets it sit.” Matt’s brow rose at his own statement. “Strange. Hasn’t your firm tried to track her down?”
“You know I can’t get into that,” Curt countered.
“Okay, let’s take it hypothetically again. When someone inherits a large amount of money and makes no claim, what steps’re taken by the executors to locate the beneficiary?”
“Basic steps,” Curt began, not sure he liked the drift. “Ads in newspapers. In all likelihood an investigator would be hired.”
“Say the beneficiary had a husband she wanted to avoid.”
“The investigation, any correspondence pertaining to it, would be confidential.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Matt toyed with his beer as the piano player did a quick, hot rip over the keys. “Did Elise Trulane have a will?”
“Matt—”
“Off the record, Curt. It may be important.”
If it had been anyone else, Curt would have brushed it off and found some handy legal jargon to evade the question. He’d known Matt too long and too well. “No,” he said simply. “Both she and Louis had wills drawn up, but Elise took off before they were signed.”
“I see. And the beneficiaries?”
“Standard wills for husband and wife without issue. Marion and Charles have their own money.”
“Substantial?”
“Putting it mildly. Marion’s a very wealthy woman.” Then, because he anticipated the question before it was spoken, he added, “Charles’s investments and his savings sit collecting interest as Elise’s do.”
“Interesting.”
Curt kept his eyes level—not emerald like his sister’s, but sea green and calm. “Are you going to tell me what all this is about?”
“Just covering all the angles.”
“It has something to do with what you and Laurel are working on—for Susan.”
“Yeah.” Matt swirled his beer as he studied his friend. “You’ve met Susan?”
“I was out at the house.” A faint color rose under Curt’s skin, bringing Matt a picture of the time, years before, when Curt had fallen hard for a premed student. “She told me about Anne, and the letters.” Curt’s gaze came back to Matt’s, reminding him that Curt wasn’t an impressionable college student any longer, but a man with a sharp legal mind and a quiet strength, despite his dreaminess. “Are you going to be able to help her?”
“We’re doing what we can on this end. Since you know her, and she’s confided in you, maybe you can keep her calm, and out of it, until something breaks.”
“I’d already planned on that,” Curt said simply. “You taking care of Laurel?”
Matt grimaced, remembering how they’d parted a few hours before. “Nobody takes care of Laurel,” he muttered.
“No, I guess not.” Distracted again, Curt slipped his folder into his briefcase. “I’ve got an appointment, but when there’s more time, I’d like a few more details on this.”
“Okay. And thanks.”
Alone, Matt brooded into his beer. Too many loose ends, he mused. Too many pieces that just don’t fit. Two people might turn their backs on friends and relatives, especially in the first impetus of love, but not on more money than most people see in a lifetime. Not for ten years.
Either love made them delirious, he concluded, or they’re dead. Dead, to him, made a lot more sense.
Lea
ning back, he lit a cigarette. If they’d had an accident after leaving Heritage Oak, didn’t it follow that they’d have been identified? He shook his head as theories formed and unformed in his mind. It all tied together, somehow, with Anne Trulane. And if one of his theories was right, the one he kept coming back to, then someone had killed not once, but three times.
He studied the thin blue wisp of smoke and swore. It was too late in the day to allow a thorough check of Louis’s whereabouts on the day of Elise and Charles’s disappearance. And tomorrow was Sunday, which meant he probably couldn’t get his hands on the information he needed until after the weekend. Monday then, he thought, and crushed out his cigarette. On Monday, no matter how reluctant Laurel was, they would start digging back, and digging thoroughly.
Rising, he tossed bills on the table and strode out. Maybe it was time they had a talk.
***
Laurel was totally involved with her story when Matt walked into the city room. He started toward her, glanced at the clock, then went to his own desk. Deadline was sacred. When he sat down across from her, he noticed the expression on her face. Unholy glee was the closest he could come.
Laurel nearly chuckled out loud as she dashed off the story. A three-car pileup, a lot of bent metal. Not normally anything she’d have found amusing, but no one had been hurt. And the mayor’s wife had been in the second car.
Better than a sideshow, Laurel thought again as she typed swiftly. The mayor’s wife had dropped all dignity and decorum and very nearly belted the hapless driver who’d plowed into her from behind, sandwiching her between him and the car stopped at a light in front of her.
The air, already steaming, had been blue before it was over. Maybe it was the heat, or the pressure she’d been under for the last few days, but Laurel found this a much-needed comic relief. It would’ve taken a stronger person than she not to be amused watching a prim, nattily dressed woman with a wilted corsage grab a man built like a truck driver by his lapels and threaten to break his nose. And that had been before her radiator had blown, spewing water up like a fountain.
Ah, well, she thought as she finished up the report, it would do every man good to read that people in high places get their fenders dented and their tempers scraped, too. Page one, oh, yes indeed.
“Copy,” she shouted, glancing at the clock. Just under deadline. Her smile was smug as she turned back and found her gaze linked with Matt’s. A dozen conflicting emotions hit her all at once, with one fighting to push aside all the others. She loved him.
“I didn’t see you come in,” she said carefully and began to tidy the disorder of her desk.
“Just a few minutes ago. You were working.” The bedlam of the city room went on around them with shouts of “Copy!” and rushing feet and clicking typewriter keys. “Are you finished?”
“Soon as the copy’s approved.”
“I need to talk to you. Can we have dinner?”
She hadn’t expected that cautious, slightly formal tone from him, and wasn’t sure how to deal with it. “All right. Matthew—” The phone on her desk rang. Still thinking about what she would say to him, Laurel answered, “City room, Laurel Armand.”
Matt watched her expression change, the color fluctuate before her gaze jerked back to him. “I’m sorry,” she began, indicating the phone on his desk a split second after he’d already started to reach for it. “You’ll have to speak up, it’s very noisy in here.” She heard the faint click as Matt picked up her extension.
“You’ve been warned twice.” It was a whisper of a voice, sexless, but Laurel didn’t think it was her imagination that she sensed fear in it. “Stop prying into Anne Trulane’s death.”
“Did you send me the snake?” Laurel watched Matt punch another extension on the phone and dial rapidly.
“A warning. The next one won’t be dead.”
She couldn’t control the silver shot of panic up her spine, but she could control her voice. “Last night, you were in the swamp.”
“You have no business there. If you go in again, you won’t come out.”
Laurel heard someone across the room yell out a request for coffee, no sugar. She wondered if she was dreaming. “What are you afraid I’ll find?”
“Anne should’ve stayed out of the swamp. Remember that.”
There was a click, then the drone of the dial tone. Seconds later, Matt swore and hung up his own phone. “Not enough time for the trace. Any impressions on the voice? Anything you recognized?”
“Nothing.”
He picked up her pad, where Laurel had automatically recorded the conversation in shorthand. “To the point,” he muttered. “We’re making someone very nervous.” Someone, he thought as his own theory played back in his head, who may have killed three times.
“You’re thinking about the police again,” Laurel decided.
“You’re damn right.”
Laurel dragged a hand through her hair as she rose. “Listen, Matthew, I’m not saying you’re wrong, I just want some time to think it through. Listen,” she repeated when he started to speak. “Whoever that was wants us to back off. Well, for all intents and purposes we will be for the weekend. I want some time to go over my notes, to put them together with yours, hash it out. If we do go to the police, on Monday,” she added with emphasis, “we’d better go with all the guns we have.”
She was right, but he didn’t like it. Several ideas for nudging her out of the investigation ran through his mind. He’d have the weekend to choose the best of them. “All right, check in with Don. I’ll get my notes together.”
Instead of the rare steak and candlelight Matt had planned on, they ate take-out burgers and chili fries at Laurel’s drop-leaf table. Their notes were spread out—Matt’s made up of scribbles Laurel thought resembled hieroglyphics while her own were sketched in precise Gregg shorthand. They hadn’t taken the time—and both of them separately agreed it was just as well—to touch on their earlier argument or the reasons for it. For now they were professionals covering every angle of a story.
“I’d say it’s safe to assume we have enough circumstantial evidence to conclude that Anne Trulane’s death was something more than an unfortunate accident.” Laurel wrote in a composition notebook, a valiant attempt to organize their snatches of words and phrases into coherency.
“Very good,” Matt murmured. “That sounded like something Curt would say to the jury.”
“Don’t be a smart aleck, Bates,” she said mildly. “Pass me that soda.” Taking it, she sipped straight from the bottle and frowned. “We have Susan’s claim that Anne was afraid of dark places—the swamp in particular—which has since been corroborated by Louis, Marion and Binney. We have the stolen letters from Susan’s hotel room, my nasty little box, a hefty shove in the swamp and an anonymous phone call.”
Because she was writing, Laurel didn’t notice that Matt snapped the filter clean off his cigarette when he crushed it out. “The first interview with Louis and Marion . . . nothing much to go on there but emotion, which you don’t like to deal with.”
“It can be useful enough,” Matt said evenly, “when you look at it with some objectivity.”
She opened her mouth to hurl something back at him, then stopped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snipe. Brewster,” she went on briskly. “We know he thought he was in love with Anne, wanted her to leave Louis. No conjecture there, since he said so himself.” She underlined Brewster’s name heavily and continued. “We also have Marion’s corroboration of the first part of that, and Anne’s reaction to it. My second interview with Louis leads me to believe that he either didn’t know about Brewster’s feelings or didn’t think they were important enough to worry about, as Brewster’s still employed by his company.”
Laurel rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, the first and only outward sign that she was tired. “The gist of it is that we agree it seems unlikely Anne would’ve gone into the swamp without some kind of outside pressure—and that it’s less likely she woul
d have continued to head deeper unless she had no choice. In my opinion, Brewster’s still the obvious candidate.”
Matt flipped over his pad to a new set of notes. “I spoke with Curt today.”
“Huh?” Laurel looked up at him, trying to tie his statement with hers.
“I wanted some corroboration on a theory I had.”
“What does Curt have to do with this?”
“He’s a lawyer.” With a shrug, Matt lit a cigarette. “As it turns out, I was luckier than I expected, as he works for the firm that handles Elise Trulane’s inheritance.”
Laurel put down the bottle she’d lifted. “What does that have to do with any of this?”
“I’m beginning to think quite a lot. Listen.” He skimmed through his notes. “Fifty thousand dollars, plus ten years’ interest, has never been touched. Charles Trulane’s money sits moldering. Untouched. There would’ve been a very discreet, and I’m sure very thorough investigation on behalf of the bank to locate them.” He flipped back a few pages, then lifted his eyes to Laurel’s. “No missing-persons report was ever filed on either Elise or Charles Trulane.”
“What’re you getting at?”
Very carefully, he set down his pad. “You know what I’m getting at, Laurel.”
Needing to move, she rose from the table. “You think they’re
