Betrayed by Trust

by Ana Barrons

  Once inside the workshop, she slammed and locked the door behind her, then leaned against it, shivering and struggling to catch her breath. Her legs were shaking so badly she lowered herself to the tile floor. Cold dread squeezed her gut.

  No. Joe wouldn’t do this.

  She fumbled the White Mountain Observer out of the dripping plastic sleeve. The giant front-page headline knocked the wind out of her: “Dead Capitol Hill Aide Had Dirty Secrets.” Plastered across the entire upper fold of the paper was a glamour shot of Blair in a revealing dress.

  As though sex was all that defined this woman. Her sister.

  “Oh, Blair,” she whispered. The lump in her throat prevented her from swallowing.

  There was only one way the reporters outside could have found out about Blair and Alan, only one other person outside Alan’s family who knew. She’d hidden it from her parents to spare them, from her friends because she didn’t want their pity. But she had told Joe in confidence, months after they had begun their long-distance friendship, long after he’d convinced her he was more interested in talking to her than in getting background information about Blair. He had just confided that his mother walked out on him when he was seven, and Catherine had wanted him to know she understood how it felt to be betrayed by your own flesh and blood.

  She’d told him because she trusted him, because she believed he cared for her as deeply as she had come to care for him.

  “Oh God, Joe. How could you do this to me?”

  Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Alan had told someone and that person had told a reporter. Sure, that could be it. She scanned the article below the photo, praying this nightmare was not of Joe’s making. Then she spotted his name, and her pulse began pounding in her ears.

  According to a story by Washington Herald reporter Joseph Rossi, Miss Morrissey had a long history of sexual liaisons with married men, including the husband of her sister, Catherine Morrissey, of Ossipee, New Hampshire.

  Catherine slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, but she couldn’t stifle the truth.

  Joe Rossi had used her.

  Chapter One

  Late June

  The cab pulled up in front of a 1920s yellow brick apartment building near the corner of Connecticut Avenue and Cathedral—a stone’s throw from the National Zoo. The driver popped his trunk and pulled out two bulky duffle bags while Catherine stood blinking into the bright, hazy sunshine of a typical summer day in Washington, D.C. The air reeked of car exhaust and hot asphalt. Zoo visitors clogged the sidewalks in spite of the ungodly humidity and a temperature above ninety degrees.

  She dragged her bags up smooth cement steps shaded by a blue awning and into an elegant lobby with marble floors, elaborate crown molding accented with gilt and a crystal chandelier overhead. Two wingback chairs and a love seat formed a small sitting area in front of a decorative marble fireplace. She sneezed as the icy air hit her. God, she hated air-conditioning. Almost as much as she hated this city. The young man behind the reception desk glanced over.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. There was a lilt to his voice that Catherine registered as Caribbean. Jamaican, maybe.

  “I’m Catherine Morrissey,” she said. “I’ll be staying in apartment 508 until the end of July. My mail is being forwarded here.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. He stared at her, no doubt searching for a resemblance between this tall brunette and her blonde sister. He wouldn’t find it, not now. If she and Blair had been standing side by side, it would have been hard to miss, despite her efforts to play down their physical similarities.

  “I’m still your sister, Cathy.”

  “No, you’re not. As far as I’m concerned you don’t exist.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the young man was saying. “So sorry.” He came around the desk and reached for her bags. “Let me help you with these.”

  “I can manage, thank you.” She read his name tag. “Martin, did you know my sister?”

  He looked surprised. “Not really, Miss. I wasn’t here long when she, uh...”

  “Were you working the day shift when she disappeared?” He nodded. “Do you happen to know who was working the night shift? I imagine there are at least two shifts, right?” No doubt the D.C. police had interviewed the desk clerks, but she intended to talk to as many people as possible who’d had any connection to Blair. Someone in this city knew something.

  “The night guy who was here, he’s gone.” Martin wiped his hands on his jacket and stuck them in his pocket. He was nervous. Why?

  “Do you happen to know how I could get in touch with him?”

  “No, Luis, uh... He died.”

  “Oh,” she said. Martin’s head was bowed, as though troubled by the other man’s death. They’d probably been friends. “I’m sorry to hear that. Had Luis been ill?”

  “Murdered, Miss.” He raised his head but didn’t meet her eyes. “Right around the time Miss Morrissey disappeared.”

  * * *

  “She’s here.”

  “Perelli?”

  “Yeah.”

  A sigh, then silence.

  “So, what do you want me to do?”

  “Deliver the invitation. Are you close by?”

  Perelli chuckled. “Oh, yes.”

  “Write what I told you. Neatly.”

  “I have excellent penmanship. I excel at using sharp objects.”

  “Don’t be overeager, damn it.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Be sure to keep that in mind.”

  * * *

  Catherine let herself into Blair’s apartment, dropped her bags and leaned back against the door. Her gut felt cold. The police hadn’t said a word about the deskman, Luis Ramirez, having been murdered, and none of the newspapers had reported it. How many other people would she need to interview to find out what had happened to Blair?

  She’d been in the apartment once, when Blair first went missing. The police had asked her to come down and take a look around, see if she spotted anything that might help them figure out where her sister had gone. Rather than admit that she and her sister had been estranged for years, she had come. Her first impression had been that there was no way Blair could have paid for the brand-new furniture on a Hill aide’s salary without taking on massive debt. Once she took charge of Blair’s finances, it became clear that her sister hadn’t paid for any of it. Someone had bought the furniture for her.

  Who was it, Blair? Was it the man who killed you?

  Tears stung her eyes and she rubbed them with the heels of her hands. Someone had murdered her sister and left her to rot on a tiny island in the Potomac with a statue of Teddy Roosevelt and a couple miles of trails that wound through marsh, swamp and forest.

  Exactly the kind of place Blair would have avoided like the plague.

  Despite growing up in the White Mountains, Blair had never taken to the great outdoors, not for hiking or skiing—or for screwing. She’d have taken the cramped backseat of a car or a hard floor any day over the woods, even if the lucky boy promised to lay down a nice, soft sleeping bag on a bed of pine needles. The woods had scared her spitless.

  So how had her murderer lured her out to the tiny island?

  Catherine heaved a huge sigh. She had believed herself finally numb, yet the pain intruded. For so long her normal state had been the gnawing, all-consuming ache of grief. Lately, feeling normal meant feeling nothing at all.

  Except when the anger reared its head.

  She rubbed at the furrow between her eyebrows, willing herself back into the numb state that was her only respite. If only she could talk to her sister, one more time.

  “I’m still your sister, Cathy.”

  I miss you, Blair. And I’ll find the bastard who did this if it’s the last thing I d
o.

  Blair’s couch was long and wide, upholstered with muted pink and white lilies on a tea-washed background. A hint of musky, sensual perfume lingered in the soft, overstuffed cushions—no doubt a scent Blair had worn often. She flopped down and closed her eyes while she replayed snippets of her conversations with William Sadler, the lead detective on the case.

  “We have a suspect in custody. A handyman who did some work in your sister’s apartment.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Syrian national. Can’t release his name, but the medical examiner is releasing her remains for burial.”

  “But it’s only been nine days. How do you know we won’t be burying evidence?”

  “The forensics people have gone over the body with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “But you still don’t know the cause of death.”

  “Trust me, Miss Morrissey.”

  Trust him. Right.

  From late May until the end of the school year, she’d had plenty of time to think about what Detective Sadler had told her. The more she thought about it, the less sense the business about the handyman made. And Sadler had stopped returning her calls, even after she left messages telling him she was coming to town.

  Well, she was here now, and she would hound him until she got some answers.

  She wedged a pillow under her head and curled up on the couch, inviting the exhaustion she’d been fighting all day to sink into her limbs, lulling her into stillness. If she lay here long enough, she’d doze...

  A sharp ring yanked her upright. For a moment she was back in the limbo after Blair’s disappearance, nerves stretched tight, the sound of a phone tearing her gut to shreds. Have they found her? Is she alive, or—

  Another ring.

  She swung her legs over the side of the couch and stumbled into the bedroom, then picked up the white phone on Blair’s nightstand. “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing. No background sounds. Nothing.

  She waited several beats. “Is anyone there?”

  Click.

  She set down the receiver, uneasy. Who had been on the other end? It couldn’t have been anyone who knew Blair. Right? The story had been on the news all over the country. A telemarketer?

  Frowning, she wandered back into the living room—and spotted it.

  A white envelope lay on the floor under the small lamp table beside the door. Funny, the corner was sticking out, yet she hadn’t seen it when she first walked in. Her frown deepened.

  The envelope hadn’t been there when she arrived. She was sure of it.

  She went to the door and picked it up. It was square, ivory rather than white, and heavy. There was a Washington, D.C., address embossed on the back flap. Some kind of invitation? She flipped it over and stared at the very neat, rather elegant script.

  It was addressed to her. Catherine Morrissey. She whirled toward the door, half expecting someone to be standing there. It must have been slipped under the door while she was in the bedroom, but by whom? The desk guy, Martin, had been shocked when she introduced herself as Blair’s sister. Other than Detective Sadler, who else knew she was in town?

  Catherine peered through the peephole but there was no one standing at the door. She cautiously opened it, stuck her head out and checked the hallway. Empty. She closed the door and flipped the lock, then tore the envelope open. There was another envelope inside. This one wasn’t sealed. She slipped the card out and read. It was an invitation to a formal reception to benefit the Democratic Party at the home of a Mrs. Alistair Eberhart on Friday, June 27. Two days from now.

  Who in the world was Mrs. Alistair Eberhart, and why was she inviting Catherine to a Democratic fundraiser?

  It had to be a mistake.

  She studied the card, puzzled, then flipped it over absently—and got another surprise. Someone had written her a note in blue ink.

  “Catherine,” it said. “Wear the black Versace with the tiny beads on the neckline. It will suit you much better.” There was no signature. A chill ran down her spine.

  It will suit you much better.

  Could the person who wrote the note have been involved in Blair’s disappearance? Could it be her killer? The card fell from her fingers. She stared at it lying on the floor, message-side up.

  Wear the black Versace with the tiny beads on the neckline.

  Her head swam and she steadied herself against the door.

  It will suit you much better. What did that mean?

  She pulled herself together and walked into Blair’s bedroom, then crossed to the closet and opened the mirrored doors. The closet was literally stuffed with clothes. After all these months, the smell of Blair’s perfume hung in the air.

  Catherine’s gaze moved over the silk blouses, expensive skirts with matching jackets, slim slacks in varying shades of black, white and tan. At one end of the closet Blair had hung her dressy clothes—several formal-length gowns, a few short, black cocktail dresses, two or three in white, one deep purple, a red dress covered in sequins. Catherine pushed each black dress aside, searching for the tiny beads at the neckline. It wasn’t until she reached the very end of the closet that she spotted it, covered by a clear plastic bag.

  She lifted the hanger out and pulled up the bag. Tiny white beads lined the bodice, vivid against the deep black fabric. Without thinking she held it up to her body in the mirror. It was a slim-fitting, full-length gown made of a soft, delicate material that would mold to the body. In the dim light of the bedroom the fabric shimmered as though tiny stars were embedded in the material. A long slit ran up the back and spaghetti straps hung limply over the sides.

  Beautiful. Elegant.

  She checked for a price tag, having seen several hanging from the clothes in the closet, but there was none. So Blair had probably worn it.

  And someone wanted Catherine to wear it two days from now.

  She laid the dress carefully on the bed and sat beside it, hands tucked between her knees. What in the world was going on? Wealthy, powerful people went to formal fundraisers for political parties, not schoolteachers. Blair had worked for Representative Jerry Green from New Hampshire and had come into contact with many people fitting that description in the three years she had lived in Washington. Had slept with plenty of them too—of that Catherine had no doubt. She shuddered. It was entirely possible that her sister’s murderer had lain naked in this bed. And it was equally possible that it was he who had invited Catherine to the reception at Mrs. Eberhart’s house. Her gut tightened.

  Had he been on the other end of the phone a few minutes ago?

  Maybe he wanted to kill her too.

  She swallowed. Or maybe the person who’d sent the invitation knew something about Blair’s death and wanted to tell her personally. She ran her hand gently over the gown, then leaned over and sniffed the fabric. The same musky scent that permeated her sister’s couch filled her senses. Yes, Blair had worn it.

  She shook her head. Nothing made sense. One thing was clear, however.

  Whoever was summoning her knew she wouldn’t be able to stay away.

  Chapter Two

  Catherine experienced a moment of intense anxiety as she climbed the steps of Mrs. Eberhart’s brick Georgetown mansion. She was thinner than Blair and an inch or so taller, but with a slightly shorter heel the black Versace gown fell perfectly. When she had first tried it on she was dismayed by how revealing the bodice was. But no article of clothing had ever made her feel more feminine. Or sexier. She fingered the tiny beads and pressed the doorbell.

  A butler opened the door. “Good evening,” he said.

  Jeez, he had a British accent.

  “Good evening,” Catherine said as she stepped into a lavish foyer with a black-and-white marble floor, huge crystal chandeli
er and porcelain vases stuffed with flowers. She was desperately fighting off the butterflies. Now that she was here, what was she supposed to do? She had no idea who this Mrs. Eberhart was, and vice versa. The invitation, envelope and all, was tucked inside her bag just in case. She had even rehearsed what she would say.

  I’m as baffled as you are about the invitation, Mrs. Eberhart. Whoever sent it obviously knew my sister well enough to know the contents of her closet. Oh, did I mention that my sister was Blair Morrissey?

  She had nearly chickened out several times, but she finally convinced herself that a society hostess surely entertained many guests she didn’t know personally. Besides, it was a fundraiser, and who would guess that Catherine Morrissey was closer to penniless than anyone in the room?

  She took a deep breath, crossed the foyer and walked through an arched entryway leading into a huge room filled with formally clad guests holding crystal flutes. A waiter appeared instantly at her side, balancing a tray with several glasses of champagne and sparkling water.

  She took the champagne.

  She moved a bit farther into the room, sipping from her glass, meeting curious glances with a smile and nod of the head. Here and there a face was familiar, from TV news, maybe, or the covers of magazines. These people were movers and shakers in this city—if not literally, their money certainly made things happen.

  Act as though you belong. Small talk was not her thing, but with enough champagne—not too much—she would chat up whoever approached her. Someone in this room had invited her, and she’d be damned if she would leave until she found out who. She straightened her shoulders and took another sip. Blair would have been completely in her element here.

  “I want to marry a rich man and live in a mansion, Cathy. That’s my goal.”

  “You’ll do more than that, Blair. You’re so smart.”

  In the next instant someone bumped her arm and cold liquid splashed onto her chest. She gasped and held the glass away.

  A man’s deep voice said, “Oh, damn, I’m so sorry.” He simultaneously took the glass from her hand and thrust a handkerchief into the other.