To Laney, With Love

by Joyce Sullivan

  “I’ll try to find a place to park,” Ben replied, driving farther down the lane. They ended up parking on the next block near a cluster of apartment buildings. As they walked closer to the gates she could see two security guards standing inside the entrance to the grounds. The grounds were spectacular. A shaded velvet lawn studded with shrub beds and statuary made for a grand entrance to a buff-colored clapboard house with blue awnings capping the diamond-paned windows.

  It gave Laney an odd feeling to think that Reese might have lived here with another woman. But she couldn’t change the past. The most she could hope for was a way to understand it.

  She threaded her way through the crowd of people and addressed one of the guards. “Excuse me. Would you tell Mrs. Walker that Laney Dobson is here to see her?”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard said. “We’ve been given strict orders not to let anyone in the gate. The Walkers aren’t receiving visitors today.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Walker will see me if you’ll pass on the message,” Laney insisted.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but until I hear otherwise, the Walkers are not to be disturbed. You can try again tomorrow,” he suggested helpfully.

  A reporter turned on Laney and stuck a microphone in her face. “Do you know the Walkers? Do you know the identity of the person who was found dead in their Whistler chalet? Do the police have any suspects?”

  Laney stared at the reporter in dismay and realized the cameraman was rolling tape. The last thing she wanted was for her husband’s possible bigamy to be front-page news. Another microphone suddenly appeared under her nose.

  She felt a hand grip her arm. “No comment,” Ben said firmly and dragged her out of the crowd.

  “I guess jumping the fence is out of the question,” she muttered.

  Ben grinned. “At the moment. But I have another idea that won’t get us arrested for trespassing. We need some help from people who know this area. I have a few contacts in the regional branch office. If my memory serves me correctly, one of them has a relative who writes the society column for the local paper. Judging from the size of that house, we’re dealing with some major money.”

  “I’m game.” Laney slid into the passenger seat. “If that doesn’t work, we can try the library. Maybe there was a wedding announcement posted in the paper with some background information on the bride and groom. For all we know, Kristel Walker may be bending the truth a bit to keep the world from knowing she was married to a bigamist. Which may be precisely why she killed him.”

  Early afternoon traffic crowded Marine Drive. It took them half an hour to drive past the ritzy West Vancouver shops of Ambleside and thread through the more mundane commercial district of North Vancouver to Lonsdale Quay with its classy promenade and distinctively nautical modern architecture.

  Fortunately, they found Dale Hibbard in his office. Laney was grateful for Ben’s judicious explanation that they were looking into the unexpected death of a friend in Whistler the night before. The partition walls separating the office space in the building offered limited privacy.

  Dale nodded and scratched the gray whiskers studding his jaw. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he told them. “It’s actually my mother-in-law who writes the column, but she’s a barracuda and I wouldn’t recommend asking her anything unless you want the conversation—or her interpretation of the conversation—broadcast all over town. But I assume you’re talking about the body found in the home owned by A. J. Butterfield’s daughter. I heard about the murder on the radio this morning as I drove to work. The news report said the identity of the victim wouldn’t be released until family members had been notified, but they hinted the victim may be a friend of the family, who was staying in the house. Apparently, a couple of rental cars were spotted on the scene.”

  Laney was relieved Dale didn’t press for more details. Evidently he didn’t share his mother-in-law’s passion for rumors.

  Ben’s brows stitched into a dark seam. “Butterfield, as in the Butterfield car dealership we passed on the way over here?” he asked.

  “Yep. One of many Butterfield car dealerships. Except A. J. Butterfield died a few years ago and his son Nelson is running the show. I suspect everything you’d want to know about the Butterfield family will be all over tomorrow’s paper, if it didn’t make today’s edition.”

  “Do you know where Nelson Butterfield lives?”

  Dale laughed. “Everybody knows where he lives—on top of the British Properties.” He pulled a pad of paper from his cluttered desk. “I’ll draw you a map. You can’t miss the house—it’s a baroque mansion modeled after some famous house A.J. saw once on a trip to Rome. It’s got the biggest fountain you’ve ever seen, smack-dab in front of it.”

  They thanked Dale for his help, and wove through the maze of partitions to the elevator.

  “What do you think?” Laney asked Ben in the privacy of the elevator.

  Ben pursed his lips and glanced down at the map. “I think things are growing more complex by the minute. Kristel may not want to talk to us, but I have a feeling her brother Nelson might be interested in what we have to say.”

  Laney tucked her hand in the crook of Ben’s arm and felt buoyed by the thought that they were making some progress. “Let’s not bother with the map just yet. Chances are we’ll find security guards at his front gate, too. The car dealership is closer. I have a feeling someone there will be able to get a message through to Nelson Butterfield in a hurry.”

  THE BEAMING SMILE on the dealership manager’s face dimmed in wattage when Laney showed him the family photo in her wallet and told him precisely what she wanted of him.

  “I think Mr. Butterfield will want to speak to us, don’t you, Mr. Wong? I, for one, would like to know how my husband could possibly be married to his sister.” Laney had never played hardball in her life, preferring a more genial approach to getting what she wanted—particularly when it came to dealing with the fragile egos of writers, professors and nine-year-olds—but she was catching on fast. And she hadn’t even said please.

  Of course, Ben’s no-nonsense expression and the fact he loomed head and shoulders above the manager helped. Mr. Wong escorted them into his office and invited them to be seated.

  Darting an uncertain glance at Laney and Ben, his stubby fingers reluctantly punched in a phone number. “This is Sam Wong. My apologies for phoning at an inconvenient time, but it’s urgent I speak with Mr. Butterfield.”

  Laney noticed a damp sheen of perspiration appear on Mr. Wong’s bald head as he waited for. Mr. Butterfield to come to the phone.

  “Nelson, it’s Sam. I have someone in my office who insists on speaking with you.” Mr. Wong’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “I don’t know how this is possible, but she showed me a picture and says she is also married to your sister Kristel’s husband. She tells me she will go to the media with the story if you don’t agree to meet with her.”

  Mr. Wong’s ebony eyes widened. “Yes, sir. I will pass on the message.”

  Laney leaned forward as Mr. Wong neatly hung up the phone.

  “Mr. Butterfield will meet you here in twenty minutes. You are to enjoy the hospitality of my office in the meantime. May I offer you some coffee or a soft drink?”

  Laney’s stomach rumbled. She’d hadn’t had an appetite for breakfast and her body was reminding her she needed fuel. “Coffee, please. Cream, no sugar.”

  “I’ll take mine black,” Ben said.

  The manager nodded and left them alone. Feeling pleased with herself, Laney shifted in the comfortable leather-padded chair and glanced at Ben’s handsome face. A shock of midnight hair fell onto his forehead. “Well, that was easy,” she said. “Twenty minutes. I wasn’t expecting him to drop everything to come see me that quickly.”

  “No, but I wonder if he wasn’t expecting to hear from you.” Ben fingers stabbed at the hair drifting onto his brow. Tiny lines she’d never seen before fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

  “What do you mean?�
�� Laney felt a dart of alarm nick her breastbone. Since she’d discovered Reese’s body last night, her heartbeat seemed to have settled into a permanently erratic rhythm.

  “Just that I think he was expecting you to contact him. I’m pretty sure that’s why McBain told you how we could get Kristel Walker’s address. Think about it. Why would a police officer do that?”

  He had a point. “Why do I have the feeling you’re not going to say it was because of my powers of persuasion?”

  The slow grin that inched over Ben’s face as his gaze raked her from her boots to the top of her head made Laney’s toes curl in feminine awareness.

  “As delightfully charming as those powers are,” he remarked with obvious amusement, “I think we’ve been set up. We’ve probably been followed since we left Whistler. Heck, Dale Hibbard is probably being questioned as we speak. Now, I may have been watching too many cop shows, but my gut instinct is screaming that Nelson Butterfield will show up wearing a wire.”

  “Oh, my God! Should we leave—”

  “Hey, don’t panic.” Ben reached out and brushed his knuckles over the back of her hand. Laney felt the effects of that stroke travel up her arm like a tiny current of electricity. It had definitely been too long since she’d been touched by a man. She couldn’t remember her last romantic encounter with Reese. The niggling fear that he’d left because he’d fallen out of love with her hovered unanswered in her thoughts.

  She tried to focus on the problem at hand.

  “It doesn’t matter if the police follow us. Let them,” Ben continued evenly, making Laney wonder just what, if anything, fazed him. “It’ll just prove we’re telling the truth. Leaving now would only make us look guilty.” Apparently single parenthood, lost mittens and being the object of a police tail didn’t hit any of his pressure points.

  The door opened and a curvaceous blonde, wearing a black sweater and matching skirt, carried in a tray of coffee and chocolate-drizzled croissants. Laney noticed the young woman cast Ben a look of appreciative interest as she set the tray on the manager’s desk, but Ben barely seemed aware of her presence except to thank her for the coffee. Laney decided that part of Ben’s appeal was the fact he was totally unaware of the effect he had on women. Of the effect he had on her.

  A gleam came into his blue-black eyes as he smiled at Laney over the rim of the foam cup as if she were the only woman in the world. His voice, of course, was ever practical and kept her feet solidly planted on the ground. “Besides, I’m more than a little curious to hear what Nelson Butterfield has to say.”

  “WHAT is THIS ABOUT?” Nelson Butterfield demanded coldly as he strode into the office and closed the door firmly behind him. He struck Ben as the kind of man who always got what he wanted, ruthless and sharp. Scott and Josh would have taken one look at Butterfield’s craggy features and his bristle-brush, military-style haircut and pronounced him “lean and mean.” Ben noticed Butterfield didn’t remove his camel overcoat, which suggested he didn’t plan to stay long and might well be wearing a wire.

  “I’m Laney Dobson. This is my friend Ben Forbes,” Laney said with the grace of a duchess. “No doubt you’ve been in contact with the Whistler police, so there’s no need to explain how we’ve come to be here. But I have every reason to believe your brother-in-law was my husband Reese, who disappeared fourteen months ago in an avalanche.” Laney held out a family photo from her wallet to Butterfield. “This is our family. We have a son, Josh. He’s nine.”

  Butterfield eyed the small photo as if it were a particularly disgusting object. Then, letting out a heavy sigh, he pinched it between his fingers and held it closer to the light from the window. His narrow brow furrowed. “I admit there is a resemblance,” he muttered.

  “There’s more than a resemblance,” Laney insisted. “I know that’s my husband.”

  Butterfield handed Laney back the photo, his mustard-brown eyes narrow with suspicion. “Just what is it that you want from me? I find your sense of timing—how shall I say it?—extraordinary. First, you happen to find Graham’s body. Now, poor Graham hasn’t been dead twenty-four hours and you’re seeking me out and making threats about the media. Maybe the police would be interested to know of your actions.”

  Laney folded her arms across her chest as though aware the bright purple and yellow pansies knitted into her sweater might undermine her tough-as-nails stance. “I apologize for the threat, but it was necessary. I’m not exactly keen about broadcasting my husband’s apparent bigamy to the world and I’m sure your sister feels the same, which leads me to why I requested this meeting. I need your help, Mr. Butterfield.”

  “My help? Is that a clever euphemism for a monetary inducement to ensure your silence?”

  Ben rose to tell Butterfield exactly what he thought of his suggestion, but Laney gave his wrist a restraining tug, signaling she preferred to deal with the jerk herself.

  Her chin jutted up and a shower of steel sparks glittered in her eyes. “No, Mr. Butterfield. I don’t give a damn about your money, but I do give a damn about what my son thinks of his father. And what I’m going to have to tell him. I find it hard to believe Reese would walk away from us like that...I’d much prefer to believe he suffered some injury in the avalanche that affected his memory. Or was forced to flee someone or a situation that meant him great harm. If I could talk to your sister Kristel, maybe we could piece together what happened and try to figure out who would have a reason to kill him.”

  Laney approached Butterfield. Her frank expression made Ben’s heart ache. Her doubts and fears and determination were mirrored in her eyes and the trembling of her lips. “But your sister refuses to see me. I understand she’s suffered a terrible shock—that your family has been dealt a blow—but I need to talk to her and I’m hoping you can arrange it. This can’t wait. Sooner or later the police will have to release a statement to the media. If your brother-in-law’s picture ends up in the Globe and Mail, there are hundreds of people who may recognize him as Reese Dobson and we’ll have a full-scale speculation scandal on our hands. I’d rather take offensive action and provide an explanation up front.”

  Butterfield was silent a moment and Ben saw the shell of hardness lift from his features. “I don’t know if it’s possible,” the wealthy man said finally, rubbing his forehead. “She’s devastated. She hasn’t left her room since she heard the news. She’s always been frail and sensitive.”

  Laney nodded in understanding. Ben knew the sudden glimmer of tears glistening in her eyes were for Kristel’s grief.

  “I don’t mean her any harm,” Laney said softly.

  “It doesn’t matter. She won’t like you,” Nelson said bluntly.

  A faint smile tweaked Laney’s lips as she sniffed and tucked her hair behind her ears. “I don’t see why she would.”

  “You’ve got a point there.” Butterfield moved away from the door and shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “You know, I never cared much for Graham. Kristel fell for him big-time, but I always thought he was too smooth. Slick. He’s the last kind of guy I’d want on the showroom floor selling cars these days. Sincerity is what sells nowadays. And you, Mrs. Dobson, have sincerity written all over you. I’ll talk to Kristel. But she’ll have questions. You said your husband disappeared when?”

  Laney told Butterfield the exact date.

  Ben eased himself into the conversation. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Graham?”

  Butterfield shook his head. “I honestly don’t. We got along all right and he seemed to blend in well with our circle of friends. Graham was in importing and exporting specialty wines, but he traveled to meet with his clients so I’ve never met any of them. He didn’t invite any of them to the wedding, but it was a small ceremony—only a few guests. His business partner Dallyn Vohringer was there, however.”

  “My husband was a financial analyst,” Laney said. “He’s always appreciated fine wines. He kept our wine cellar stocked with finds from his business travels.”


  Ben cleared his throat. “Any hint there was trouble in the business between Graham and his partner?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. The company’s proven to be very successful. Kristel told me I could stop worrying that Graham had married her for her money.”

  Ben had no doubt Reese was accomplished at making money hand over fist. “Would you mind if I asked what date they were married? The police told us it was about six months ago.”

  Butterfield flicked him a cautious glance. “July tenth.”

  “Do you know when they met? That would give us some indication if Laney’s amnesia theory holds any water.”

  “I think it was in March, but I wouldn’t swear to it in court. She brought him to Easter dinner at our place, but I think they’d just been on a few dates. That’s not exactly the information one confides to an overprotective older brother. You might try talking to Dallyn. I’ll give you his phone number and address.”

  He consulted with an electronic notebook he pulled from the inside breast pocket of his overcoat. Extracting a business card from another pocket, he picked up a pen from the desk and wrote down the address for them. He handed the card to Laney. “Maybe this will help find answers for your son. Give me a call at five at the cellular number listed on my card and I’ll let you know if I’ve had any luck in persuading Kristel to see you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Butterfield,” Laney said, examining the card.

  “Call me Nelson. We’ll probably all be better acquainted before this is through and the police arrest Graham’s killer. I hope to God they discover an explanation for this mess soon.”

  Laney nodded. “Whatever the explanation is—the only way we’ll find it is by working together.”

  Ben gathered up their coats. They had a Vancouver city map in the rental car. Dallyn Vohringer was about to have unexpected visitors.