Drawing Close: The Fourth Novel in the Rosemont Series
Page 1
Drawing Close
Barbara Hinske
Copyright © 2016 Barbara Hinske
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotations within book reviews or articles. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or places or events is coincidental.
Also by BARBARA HINSKE:
Coming to Rosemont, the first book in the Rosemont series
Weaving the Strands, the second book in the Rosemont series
Uncovering Secrets, the third book in the Rosemont series
The Night Train
Available at Amazon and for Kindle.
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ISBN-13: 978-0-9962747-1-5
ISBN-10: 0-9962747-1-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016936739
Casa del Northern Publishing
Phoenix, Arizona
Dedication
To Judy Angulo, whose wit, grace, and courage are an inspiration. I’m a better person for knowing you.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Thank You
Just For You!
Acknowledgements
Book Club Questions
About the Author
Connect with the Author Online
Chapter 1
Maggie Martin stared until the image was seared in her brain. She recognized the eyes of the child in the photo; the tilt of her chin. Even sick and in a hospital bed, Nicole Nash bore an unmistakable resemblance to her father. The little girl was Paul’s daughter. Her late husband’s mistress must have been pregnant when the cheating bastard had died.
She dragged her eyes from the photo and looked at the man she had married not more than twenty-four hours ago. John Allen held her gaze, and smiled. She opened her mouth to speak but the announcement from the gate agent drowned her out. “Flight 722 to Cornwall will begin boarding in fifteen minutes.”
Maggie stood abruptly. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.” She was moving away from him, through the crowd, before he had a chance to reply.
Maggie strode down the concourse, weaving through the horde of travelers rushing to make their connections. All she knew was that she had to move, to process this revelation of yet another of Paul’s betrayals, before she embarked on her honeymoon. How was it that Paul always managed to cast a shadow on her happiness—even from the grave?
She passed the women’s restroom, then turned back and made her way to a sink. She put her hands in the basin. The water was far too hot for a public restroom, but the stinging heat was therapeutic. She looked at herself in the mirror as the water ran over her hands.
So Loretta Nash may have been pregnant when Paul died of a heart attack. Why was this throwing her for a loop now? She was starting a new life with Dr. John Allen, DVM. What was wrong with her? She needed to get hold of herself.
She walked to the automatic towel dispenser and attempted to dry her hands on the six inches of paper towel it provided. She checked her watch and gasped. She had been away far too long—their departure was in ten minutes. They couldn’t miss their flight. She wouldn’t spoil the beginning of her new marriage.
Maggie shoved her way through the line of women waiting to get into the restroom and broke into a run as soon as she got free of them. She could see John, standing at the gate, looking anxiously in her direction. She raised one hand over her head and waved at him. It took a moment, but he finally saw her and smiled.
She pushed past a young couple trying to corral a couple of toddlers into strollers, and rushed into the gate’s now-deserted waiting area. John came forward to meet her as the gate agent announced, “Last call for passengers of Flight 722 to Cornwall.”
“There was a long line. Sorry,” she said breathlessly as she picked up her purse and carry-on.
“I was getting worried. I tried to call you, but you left your purse here.”
Maggie nodded in the direction of the gate. “We’d better hurry.”
They handed their boarding passes to the gate agent and walked down the ramp to the plane.
“I thought maybe you had second thoughts,” he said.
“Now you’re talking crazy, Dr. Allen. Nothing of the kind. You know very well that there are never enough stalls in a ladies’ room.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him squarely on the lips. “This will have to hold you until Cornwall.”
***
Maggie pulled up the blanket the flight attendant had given her and nestled against her new husband. John was a proficient sleeper and being on an airplane was no exception. He was reclined in his seat, sound asleep.
Maggie, however, was wide awake. Even though she was exhausted from their wedding the day before, she couldn’t force her mind to be quiet. Constantly thinking she needed to get to sleep wasn’t helping her, either. They’d land at Heathrow at six a.m. local time, after the overnight flight from the States. If she didn’t sleep on the plane, she’d be miserable on the train ride from the airport to Cornwall.
She glanced at her husband. What a gem he was, surprising her with this trip. Penzance. She’d wanted to go there since she’d read The Shell Seekers more than twenty years ago.
Maggie closed her eyes and her mind seized on the unwelcome revelation of a few hours before. Before she and John boarded their flight, they’d been happily sipping coffee, scrolling through her tablet, looking at the photos her kids had sent her of the events leading up to and during the wedding. Susan had snapped a photo at Mercy Hospital, where she’d taken her nieces and their new friend M
arissa Nash to visit Marissa’s very sick little sister. Their friend’s mother was also in the picture.
Maggie threw off the blanket.
Marissa’s mother was none other than Loretta Nash. The Loretta Nash from Scottsdale, Arizona. The woman her late husband, Paul Martin, had been having an affair with. The one he had been supporting in lavish style—probably the reason he’d started embezzling from the college where he’d been the “esteemed” president for years.
Maggie released her seat belt and gingerly crawled over John, taking care not to wake him. She needed to move, stretch her legs, go to the bathroom—do something. Why does this bother me so much? Hadn’t she accepted all of these betrayals by Paul and moved on? Hadn’t she just married the love of her life on the lawn of Rosemont?
Maggie paced in the dim aisle, passengers on either side sleeping or reading quietly.
What could she do about this now? Nothing. She owed it to John and herself to put this aside. She’d deal with it all when she got home, at Rosemont.
Maggie returned to her seat, fished the natural supplement out of her purse that Judy Young insisted would help her sleep like a baby on the plane, and put it to the test.
Chapter 2
Chuck Delgado roused himself when he heard the garage door open at the other end of the house—Frank Haynes’ house. Although he and Haynes were both successful businessmen and members of the Westbury Town Council, his visit tonight was occasioned by their clandestine dealings. Specifically, he wanted to discuss their mutual involvement in the infamous fraud that had almost bankrupted Westbury. Delgado checked his watch in the thin moonlight filtering through the closed plantation shutters. Midnight. He’d been sitting in the massive leather chair in Haynes’ home office for more than two hours. He’d thought about leaning back and propping his feet on the teakwood desk, but decided against it. He’d have fallen asleep. Better to let Haynes find him waiting patiently—alert and upright—in the dark room.
The back door opened and Haynes whistled to his border collie, Sally, to join him outside for her last comfort break of the day before he headed to bed. Some watchdog, Delgado thought. The mutt grabbed the bone out of his hand the minute he jimmied the door open and hadn’t made a sound since. Delgado smiled. He hadn’t done any breaking and entering for decades, but he still had the knack. Like riding a bicycle—once you learned how, you never forgot.
Footsteps along the hallway told him he wouldn’t have long to wait. He took a deep breath. Haynes moved swiftly across the dark room and tossed a stack of papers onto the desk before turning to retrace his steps to the door. Delgado waited until Haynes was silhouetted in the door frame before he spoke.
“Workin’ late again, Frankie?”
Haynes tripped on the rug and caught himself on the mahogany molding framing the door. He spun to face the speaker.
“You been doin’ a lot of that, lately. Spendin’ too much time whimpering over that ‘financial analyst’ of yours with the sick kid. Or are you busy covering your tracks so you don’t get arrested for fraud, too?”
“How in the hell did you get in here, Charles?” Haynes sputtered as he regained his footing and approached the desk.
“It was easy, Frankie. Haven’t lost my touch. And that dog of yours is worthless,” he said, gesturing to Sally who was waiting for her master in the hallway.
Haynes came around the side of desk and perched on the corner, facing his partner in crime. The cliché about regret leaving a bitter taste in one’s mouth was true; his mouth had tasted like bile for months. He should have known better than to get involved with the Delgado brothers in this scheme that Ron Delgado convinced him was a legitimate loan from the town’s pension fund. Some financial advisor and upstanding member of the community Ron Delgado turned out to be, Haynes thought.
The minute he learned that Chuck was involved, he should have backed out. The fact that Chuck was a member of the Westbury Town Council lent him an air of credibility he didn’t deserve. Rumors had circulated for years that Chuck Delgado was connected to the Chicago mob. And now he, Frank Haynes, was up to his eyeballs in this thing.
“Why are you here? We decided to lay low and avoid each other, except for council meetings, until this investigation is over.”
Delgado nodded. “That’s why I’m visiting you here, in the middle of the night.”
“Go on.”
“I got some very distressing news, Frankie.” Delgado rose and stood nose to nose with Haynes. “Distressing for both of us. I think maybe you set me up.”
Haynes swallowed hard. Delgado’s breath was stale but without the customary aroma of alcohol. Delgado had come to deliver his message sober.
“That Smith kid—the young attorney that’s on loan from Stetson and Graham to help Scanlon—the one that we own? I met with him and he gave me copies of all of the incriminating documents that the town subpoenaed from the offshore banks.”
Haynes nodded.
“They mention me and our esteemed former Mayor William Wheeler—may he rest in peace.” Delgado leaned in. “Not one word about you. Anywhere.” Delgado scrutinized Haynes’ face. “Do you know how that happened, Frankie? You’re in this as deep as Wheeler and me. How in the hell did you arrange that?”
“Is that what this is about?” Haynes pushed himself from the desk and began to pace. “Why do you think I’m not implicated?”
“Your name isn’t on any of the documents Smith gave me.”
“And you think that ends the matter?” Haynes turned away. He didn’t dare show his relief that his Miami contact had removed any reference to himself or his bank accounts from the records of the offshore banks. It had cost him an arm and a leg and been worth every penny. “Smith wouldn’t give you everything. For all you know, the remaining documents mention me. I could now be alone in their crosshairs. You may have extricated yourself at my expense, Charles.”
A slow smile spread across Delgado’s face. “Hadn’t thought of that, Frankie boy. You may be screwed.”
“Your concern is heartwarming.” Haynes paused and regarded Delgado thoughtfully. “What did the documents show about you and Wheeler?”
“I’ll give you a copy. Mainly just our signatures on paperwork opening the bank accounts and authorizing wire transfers.”
“That may be too thin for them to prosecute on. I’ll bet they’re trying to build their case with new evidence. This whole thing is being orchestrated to induce us to do something stupid. Like this,” he said, pointing to Delgado. “We don’t want to play into their hands. We need to stick to our plan.”
Delgado shifted his portly frame from one foot to the other. “You could be right about that.”
“I know I am. We’ve dodged the bullet this long and I think we can continue to do so. If they had anything on us, we’d already be in jail.”
Delgado nodded. Haynes took him by the elbow and steered him to the back door. “Go home. Lay low, and don’t do anything stupid. Leave the Smith kid alone.” He swung Delgado to face him. “And don’t ever break into my home or anywhere else associated with me again. I can promise you I won’t be the gracious host next time.”
Delgado straightened and pulled his arms free. “You might want to get yourself an alarm system, Frankie boy. You and that mutt of yours are easy prey.”
Chapter 3
John and Maggie walked hand-in-hand along the causeway at low tide, back to Penzance. The abbey-fortress atop St. Michael’s Mount filled the sky behind them. “Breathtaking view from the chapel,” John remarked. “Well worth the climb up to it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you read that plaque about Jack and the Beanstalk? Legend has it that the giant lived there.”
Maggie nodded, brushing a strand of hair off of her face and attempting to secure it behind her ear. He eyed her closely.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know. What’s there to say? I feel certain that Nicole Nash is Paul’s daughter. Susan and Mike’s half-sister, born af
ter Paul died.”
“Loretta’s made no mention of it. Don’t you think she would have tried to get child support from Paul’s estate after he died if Nicole were his daughter?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Maggie said. “Now that you mention it, I suppose she would have. It makes sense.” They continued to stroll in silence.
“Unless she’s not sure who the father is.” Maggie stopped and looked up at John.
“I guess that’s possible,” he conceded. “But I wouldn’t think it likely.” He took her in his arms. “I hate to see you unhappy. You’ve been consumed by that mess at Town Hall. You act like you’re personally responsible for everyone that lost money from the pension fund even though you didn’t even live in Westbury when it all went down. Don’t add this to your worries.”
“You’re right. Whether Nicole is Paul’s daughter isn’t my issue, one way or the other.” She sighed heavily and leaned her head against his chest. “It’s just unsettling, that’s all. What else am I going to learn about Paul? Haven’t I had enough? How will Susan and Mike feel if they ever find out about all of the bad stuff that their dad did?”
John looked into her eyes. “Do you ever plan to tell them?”
“Not if I don’t have to. At least not yet. Maybe someday. Or I could write it down for them to read when I die.”
“Wouldn’t that be harder on them? To learn about it when you’re not there to answer questions?”
“Good point. I’m just not ready.”
“Fair enough. Some advice?” John asked. Maggie nodded. “Leave it alone for a while longer. Get past this fraud business and get used to having me underfoot.”
Maggie laughed. “That last bit will be easy. I’m going to love having you underfoot. What about my suspicions about Nicole Nash? Should I say something to Loretta?”
“I wouldn’t,” John replied. “What would you say? I think my late husband is your daughter’s father? What’s she supposed to say to that? If your suspicion is true—and I’m not saying it is because lots of unrelated people bear a striking resemblance to one another—Loretta knows, and she’ll make it public if and when she wants to.”