A Secret in Salem

by Sheri Anderson

  “Maybe hair of the dog?” John asked.

  Jackson grimaced, and Chance answered for him, “Strongest coffee you’ve got, and make his a double.”

  John poured each of them coffee from a silver-and-crystal French press and shoved the porcelain creamer and sugar to them.

  “Appreciate your coming here,” he said. “Those walls in your place have ears.”

  “Named Richie,” Chance said.

  “Do you think he was involved?” Jackson said, not wanting to believe it. True, their father was a crook, but they didn’t think he was a killer.

  “No,” Chance insisted too strongly before John could answer.

  Jackson and John gave him a quizzical look.

  “The other day I asked him about Mum’s hangover tablets, and he said there were none left,” Chance admitted.

  “We can get the bottle dusted for fingerprints, if I’m right,” John said.

  “You are,” Chance said, chagrined. “I picked this up from Willy on the way over. There are traces of cyanide.”

  “Bingo,” John said.

  The word was punctuated by the ringing doorbell.

  “My prints are definitely on it,” Chance said. He pulled the white plastic bottle out of his pocket and set it on the table.

  John thought for a long moment. “We need to know who had access to this that day,” he said as he picked up the bottle with a napkin. “I need to talk to your sister.”

  From the other room, they could hear giggling and laughter.

  “I’ll call her,” Jackson offered.

  He moved toward the terrace for mobile reception and ran smack into Abby.

  “Oh!” She jumped.

  “Hi,” was all he could manage. He was a mixture of embarrassment and attraction. “’Scuse me,” was all he added as he went outside.

  Abby’s hand went to her lips as she watched him go.

  Belle appeared in the doorway, apologetic. “Dad, I didn’t realize you were having a meeting. Abby and Chelsea came over to say good-bye.”

  “It is what it is,” John said graciously. “Do you know Chance Gaines? Chance, my daughter, Belle.”

  “So nice to meet you,” Chance said and offered his hand.

  “And her sister-in-law Chelsea Brady,” John added as Chelsea appeared.

  Chance recognized her name. “Are you the one who tried to help our mum?”

  Chelsea nodded. “Shawn and I were at the accident site.”

  “He saved Charley’s life, not only then, but with the blood match.” Chance was truly grateful.

  Chelsea nodded again.

  “Did I hear that it was your camera that took the photos of the crash site that ran in the Spectator?,” he continued.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Your brother and I already had this out,” Abby chimed in to Chelsea’s defense.

  “Photos?” John said behind them. “Chelsea, were there others that none of us saw? Maybe the surrounding area? Anyone in the vicinity?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “I need to see them,” John said simply. “All of them. Did you delete them?”

  “Nope. They’re right here in my camera,” Chelsea offered as she pulled the camera out of her bag.

  Abby’s MacBook Air was now on the dining table, and John was scrolling through the myriad photos of a dead Olivia Gaines and the crumpled bright yellow Aston Martin that lay in a heap in the street behind Chelsea and Shawn.

  Shawn had joined them, while Belle took an excited Claire for fresh pink polish in the hotel spa. With all the talk of death and destruction this was no place for Claire.

  John studied the trajectory of the car and made notes as the doorbell rang once again. This time they heard Marlena answer it.

  It was Charley.

  “How are you feeling today?” Marlena could be heard as she asked gently, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “I can be stoic when I have to be, Dr. Evans,” she said. “Don’t know where that came from, but I can.”

  When Charley appeared in the dining area, the first person she spotted was Shawn. She lit up like a Christmas tree for the first time since the accident.

  “Great to see you,” she said warmly.

  “You too,” Shawn answered as he gave her a light peck on the cheek.

  “Take a seat,” John said warmly.

  Charley’s smile was beautiful, and she had a glow about her like Marlena. He could see why they responded so well to each other.

  “You’ve been through this a number of times, I know, but I needed to know who else was in the house the day of the accident,” John said.

  “I’m not sure of everyone. I wasn’t in for part of the day. But when I was it was just—Dad—” Her voice cracked as she said it. “Kelsey, of course, and the landscaper was there, I know.”

  “Do you know his name?” John asked.

  “Sam,” Charley answered. “Mum hired him away from Trump when she was in Southampton.”

  John added his name to the list. “He’s not who you saw on the bicycle?”

  Charley blanched. She might be stoic, but she had to shake off the memory. “No, Sam’s African American.”

  Abby raised her hand. “Man on a bicycle? I think he’s in one of the photos.” She moved to the computer and leaned over to scroll through them.

  Jackson couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “There.”

  “Blow it up as large as you can,” John directed.

  With a few keystrokes, Abby enlarged the photo as much as she could. It was heavily pixilated, but you could make out the shape of his head and that he had short-cropped but curly dark hair and a golden skin tone.

  John tapped his pencil on the table.

  “Why would that mean anything?” Chance asked.

  “Are there any other photos?” John asked.

  “Not of Chelsea’s, but of course I’ve got a slew of photos I took with my phone,” Abby said as she avoided Jackson’s gaze.

  “All synced?” John asked.

  Abby got where he was going. “Faces in iPhoto.”

  For those uninitiated at the table, John explained that it was a software program that used face recognition to identify and organize a user’s photos by the people in them.

  “Hang on,” Abby said as she named the face “Bicycle Man” and clicked on Faces. After a few seconds, eight photos showed up, including three different people.

  “Not perfect,” John said. “But a start.”

  “Wait,” Abby said. “Him.” She pointed at a shot from Olivia’s funeral. In the background behind Richie’s car was the Kasagians’ stretch Phantom.

  John turned the computer screen to ward Charley.

  She gasped as she flashed back to that fateful moment on the road. Her mother dizzy, the wind through their hair, the bicyclist appearing out of nowhere, and her vain attempt to stop the car from slamming into the guardrail.

  “That’s him,” she said firmly. “The man on the bicycle is Gemma Kasagian’s driver.”

  It was no secret that Gemma resented Olivia’s beauty and talent. But what was her driver doing in the hills when he should have been at that party? And how did he tie into any of this in the first place?

  “John, look there,” Charley said, noticing two pictures below. “Is that him at Dalita’s party?”

  John turned the computer around again, and Abby studied it with him.

  “Absolutely,” John said.

  “How could he be in both places at once?” Chelsea asked. She too was curiouser and curiouser.

  “Check the time code on the photos,” Abby suggested, but John had already started.

  “Eight thirty and eight fifty-two,” John reported. “Enough time to get from the crash to the yacht?”

  “On a bike? Easily,” Chance offered.

  “And he was late to the party,” Abby declared. “He’s the guy Dalita’s father was reading the riot act to as I was leaving.”

  It all began t
o fall into place.

  “What we’d have to do is link him to the house,” John presented coolly.

  “The security cameras in the house are motion-activated,” Jackson said.

  “I guess we know what we need to see,” John said, rising from the table. “Where is the security company? They should have tapes archived.”

  John Black was back in spades

  “We need all the data from last Friday backward for a week,” John told Manny, the burly Russian owner of Monte Carlo Sécurité, the premier home-security company in the principality.

  “Who’s gonna pay?” Manny asked Chance and Jackson, fully aware that the Gaineses’ assets were frozen solid.

  “I am,” John said, handing over his black American Express card.

  Manny bit the card playfully and growled happily.

  “Let’s start with Friday, as early in the morning as possible,” John said. “And the camera covering the foyer and the front bar.”

  After a few moments, Manny pulled up the Gaines Villa tapes, and they all watched. Nothing. Nada.

  Manny scanned through several hours’ worth of footage. Once again, zip.

  “The lives of the rich can be so boring,” Manny complained.

  A third round of tapes and there was no movement.

  “Wait,” John said firmly. “Go back.”

  “Why?” Jackson questioned.

  “I hear someone arguing.”

  The tape was played again, and John asked the boys what was to the left of the foyer.

  “The maids’ quarters,” Chance said.

  “Any camera covering that?” John asked.

  “Nope. That’s an invasion of privacy, man,” Manny said. “How twisted are you?”

  “It shows the hallway, though,” Jackson reminded Manny. Why he needed to remind someone they’d paid handsomely over the years, he wasn’t sure, but this was no time to be picky.

  Manny inserted the tapes from camera four, and they could hear the arguing more loudly. It was in Portuguese, however, and none of them understood the argument.

  “We need an interpreter,” Chance said, frustrated as hell.

  “Or we check the supplement bottle for those fingerprints I mentioned. Maybe they’ll match his.” John said, pointing at the screen.

  Coming from Kelsey’s room was a male figure, the only parts visible, his side and arm. But in his hand was a white bottle that looked a lot like the one that held Olivia’s favorite red capsules.

  “Shane, I need a connection here in Monaco,” John said into FaceTime on his phone.

  Shane was in his office in London and pleased to hear from his friend.

  “The Monaco Police Force can’t be beat,” Shane assured him. “It’s new, but they have a link to our fingerprint base here at headquarters.”

  “Thanks, my friend,” John said.

  “Before you go, how are things?” Shane asked.

  “It’s as though we’ve never been apart,” John told him. “When we’re back at the ranch, you and the kids need to visit.”

  “Be well,” Shane said, then cautioned, “and don’t push too hard. Though I know saying that to you is like pissing in the wind.”

  John hung up and turned to Chance and Jackson. “I’d better go this alone. If you’re at police headquarters, there’ll be all kinds of questions.”

  “How long should this take?” Jackson asked.

  “The databases are unbelievably quick these days,” John told him. “By the time we get back to the hotel, we may have answers. Then again, maybe not.”

  “I need to get back to the house sometime today,” Jackson said. “Starting a full inventory for the Security and Exchange blokes.”

  “Abby Deveraux is leaving today,” John said with a glint in his eye.

  The attraction between Jackson and her had been palpable.

  “I guess I can start it tonight,” Jackson said casually. “It’d be rude not to say goodbye.”

  Chance gave him a “what the hell?” look.

  Jackson said, “She’s the one with all the pictures.”

  Then admitted to himself wryly, The thing I nearly clocked her for might very well solve this murder.

  “DAD’S ARRAIGNMENT IS NEXT TUESDAY,” CHANCE TOLD HIS brother as they were heading up to the Churchill Suite in the private elevator.

  “Will he go?” Jackson asked.

  “He has no choice,” Chance admitted. “And he initially said he was pleading guilty, but now that he’s in a drunken haze, I have no idea.”

  “What if he refuses?” Jackson asked.

  “It’ll only prolong the inevitable.”

  “Jail time.”

  “Look, he only screwed the investors out of a billion or so. He may only get thirty years, and be out in twelve with good behavior.”

  “Good behavior?“ Jackson scoffed. “Our father? Right…”

  “If he doesn’t pay somehow, he’ll be a pariah forever. And so will we,” Chance said.

  “Not that we aren’t now,” Jackson rued, recalling his humiliation at Le Big Ben.

  They crossed the hall and rang the doorbell to the suite.

  Marlena answered. “Hi,” she said. “Where’s John?”

  “He’ll be here soon,” Jackson said as they entered. “Thought I’d get back to say good-bye and thank Abby and Chelsea.”

  Marlena looked confused. “Abby got a call, and they left here about twenty minutes ago. She said they were meeting you.”

  “We haven’t spoken,” Jackson told her.

  “Guess what that means?” Marlena said. “That girl’s up to no good.”

  Little did Marlena know, it was actually quite the opposite.

  The gangplank to the Kasagians’ überyacht was longer than Abby remembered.

  “It’s got to be amazing inside,” Chelsea said to Abby, who was wearing glasses and had her hair pulled into a ponytail.

  “Are you here for the job interviews?” an officious gay crew member crooned. “Step it up, girls.”

  They hustled up the ramp and inside, where there was another crew member with a clipboard.

  “Make sure you include all your references.” The petite blonde smiled. Abby recognized her as one of the bartenders at Dalita’s party, but luckily, the ditz looked right through her.

  “Thank you.” Abby smiled as they took job applications.

  “French, German, Italian, English, Chinese…” Chelsea said as she looked at the form in multiple translations. “Covering all the bases, I see.”

  “Gotta be able to impress all the guests,” chirped the bosomy blonde. “At least one waitress for every language.”

  “I worked at the Brady Pub,” Chelsea said under her breath. “Wonder if that qualifies me as Irish?”

  “Probably.” The girl smiled and moved on to other no-doubt totally unqualified job hunters.

  “There’s Kelsey,” Abby said as she poked Chelsea in the ribs.

  “Very pretty,” Chelsea said with a bit of sadness as the stunning young Portuguese woman walked toward them.

  “You made it,” Kelsey said.

  “Yes, thanks for the call. You said they’re hiring ten girls, so I brought a friend,” Abby said. “I met her at Olivia Gaines’s funeral,” she continued, lying.

  “Really? I met Abby there too,” Kelsey said as she studied Chelsea’s face. Chelsea had spiked her hair and changed her makeup drastically at the suite. She looked more punk than proper and was barely recognizable.

  “Could we talk privately?” Kelsey asked Abby. “You don’t mind, do you?” she added to Chelsea.

  “No, not at all,” Chelsea said. “I need to fill this out anyway,” she continued, indicating toward the form.

  Abby and Kelsey moved a short distance away, behind one of the many majestic Mediterranean fan palms that graced the first deck of the ship. Kelsey’s nerves were showing as she quietly asked, “How much will you pay me?”

  “That depends on what I get at the party. It’s for Carla
Bruni and President Sarkozy, right?” Abby asked.

  Kelsey nodded, making sure no one was listening.

  “Five-hundred-euro minimum,” Abby said. “Up to five thousand if I get something scandalous.”

  Kelsey steeled herself and nodded again. “I’ll make sure they hire you. As for your friend…”

  They looked over to Chelsea, who was pretending to be taking in the spectacle of the multimillion-dollar surroundings

  “She really needs the job,” Abby said. “She’s been having an affair with that felon Richard Gaines for a year, and now he’s dumped her. They were going to get married.”

  Kelsey burst into tears and wailed, “Emilio was right.”

  “What?” Abby said, wide-eyed, as the line of other applicants swiveled their heads to stare.

  “He’s a bastard!” was all Kelsey could say, and she fled the room, crying.

  Abby shrugged and joined Chelsea.

  “Bingo,” she chimed, echoing John’s word from earlier.

  The bosomy teenager approached. “Done with the forms?” she asked Chelsea and Abby as if she hadn’t seen Kelsey’s meltdown.

  Abby put on her most self-deprecatory frown. “After seeing your choices, I don’t think we could cut it.” Abby mourned as they handed back the blank applications.

  “But thanks.” Chelsea smiled.

  As they’d gotten the info they needed, they sashayed through the crowd and onto the dock.

  Chelsea’s phone rang. It was Belle, freshly mani and pedied. “Where are you guys?”

  “ISA’ing, why?” Chelsea smiled.

  “My dad’s on his way back, and there’s news,” Belle said with urgency. “And what do you mean you were ISA-ing?”

  “You did what?” Shawn said, wide-eyed, to Chelsea and Abby as he faced the assembly in the dining room of Command Central.

  “Both Dad and my mom were cops, Shawn,” she reminded her brother.

  “So was he and Hope,” Shawn said, stunned. “That doesn’t mean I’d go undercover.”

  “Well, we did, and did a pretty damned good job, if I say so myself,” Abby added, pretending to polish a badge on her perky breast.

  “You look like sluts!” Claire declared, then scampered off, flashing the new Hello Kitty decals on her bright pink fingernails.