Wrong Place, Wrong Time

by Andrea Kane

  “I did not murder Emily Pierson.” Louise had gone deadly pale. “Okay, you’re right—I was there when it happened. I saw her collapse. I’ll never forget the look on her face. I nearly died myself. I froze. By the time I got it together enough to react, it was too late.”

  Monty’s brows rose. “You don’t strike me as the emotionally fragile type.”

  “I’m human. I saw a woman die.”

  “You saw an opportunity. You let that woman die.”

  Louise’s chin came up. “That’s one charge you can’t prove.”

  “You’re right. And even if I could, I’d only be able to get you on failure to render assistance—a misdemeanor, at best, with a two-year statute that’s almost up. Unless, of course, there’s more. Tell me, Ms. Chambers, what happened when Frederick started seeing Sally? That derailed your plan again. Did you decide to get rid of her, too? Is that what happened at that cabin? You hired some punk to drive up and torch the place. But things didn’t go as planned. And the wrong person died. Makes sense. It also explains your sudden interest in Blake Pierson—the rising star of Pierson & Company.”

  “No!” Louise’s voice trembled, and her eyes were damp. “I had nothing to do with Frederick’s death. I cared about him.” She reached for a tissue. “As for your ex-wife, I wouldn’t go to the trouble of having her killed, much less risk my career and my freedom for it. She was a fling, and not Frederick’s first. For that matter, I wasn’t exactly a saint, either. But he and I always came back to each other. That would have happened this time, too. If someone hadn’t murdered him.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll never know, will we?” Monty shrugged. “One thing’s for sure: You’re one hell of an opportunist. The Piersons didn’t know what they were letting themselves in for when they hired you.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re through here,” he announced, turning and heading for the door.

  “Wait,” Louise demanded. “What are you planning to do?”

  Monty paused, glancing back at her. “My job. Figuring out who killed Frederick Pierson.”

  “So you no longer think that someone was me?”

  “Never did. The evidence says otherwise.”

  “What about my job?”

  Another shrug. “That’s up to the Piersons. If it were up to me, I’d kick you out on your conniving ass. But it’s not my call.” Monty’s expression hardened and he pinned her with his stare. “One piece of advice. Stay the hell away from my daughter and Blake Pierson. Your grand plan to snag Pierson’s head honcho is over. If I get even the slightest inkling you’re gunning for Devon, you’ll answer to me. And I’m one tough judge and jury.”

  THE NOTE HAD been insufficient motivation.

  It was morning and Devon Montgomery was making no move to stay away from the Piersons—beginning with Blake. The two of them had left her mother’s house at dawn, arms around each other as they hiked through the snow to Blake’s car. That meant he was her ally as well as her lover. And that made her twice as dangerous. She wasn’t giving up on her crusade to find out what was going on in Vista’s trailer. And with Blake in her corner, who knew what she’d uncover.

  Time to take drastic action.

  DEVON WALKED INTO her living room and dropped her overnight bag on the rug. She sank down on the sofa, dropping her head in her hands.

  She was exhausted. She’d had less than three hours’ sleep. And she still couldn’t figure out what Vista was up to.

  There was a piece missing. But what?

  Her musing was interrupted by Terror, who exploded into the room, barking and jumping up and down with excitement at her homecoming. He leaped onto the sofa beside her and began licking her face.

  “Hey, boy.” Devon rubbed his ears, leaning over to plant a kiss on top of his head. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “Hi, Dev. I didn’t hear you come in.” Merry strolled into the room, munching on an apple. “But Terror did. He actually abandoned his breakfast and an old crew sock to run out and greet you.” Seeing her sister’s drawn expression, Merry broke off, sinking down on the cushion beside her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just tired,” Devon replied. “The week and a half since the fire seems more like a month.”

  “I know what you mean.” Merry nodded. “But there is a silver lining to all this. You met Blake. He’s crazy about you.”

  “The feeling’s terrifyingly mutual,” Devon admitted. “I can’t believe how intense this relationship’s gotten in just a few days. Nothing real happens this fast.”

  “Mom and Dad did.”

  A quick sideways glance. “Yes, they did.”

  “And, speaking of Dad, I can tell he’s getting close to solving these murders. Which means Mom will be home soon. And everything will go back to normal. Maybe better.”

  That was too many pointed innuendos to dismiss as coincidence.

  Devon felt her first surge of optimism where this subject was concerned. “Are you trying to tell me something?” she asked her sister.

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that you and Monty are doing better. Like the fact that you’re learning to read him. Like the fact that you’re starting to believe he and Mom belong together.”

  Merry chewed a bite of apple, contemplating the questions. “I guess so.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it. The way he talks about Mom. The way he’s on overdrive to save her. It’s hard to deny his feelings. And at this stage of his life, yeah, I think those feelings would take precedence over his Evel Knievel nature. As for him and me, we’re taking baby steps. Building trust takes time. We’re not rushing it. For now, we’re just getting to know each other.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Me, too.” Merry finished off her apple. “Have you told Blake about knowing where Mom is?”

  Devon shook her head. “That’s the one thing I’ve kept from him. I might be a lovesick idiot, but I’m not risking Mom’s safety. Blake will either understand, or he won’t.” She rose. “I’m jumping in the shower. I’ve got to get to the clinic.”

  “No problem. I’m e-mailing my econ assignment in, then starting on my problem set for stats. I’ve got lecture notes to review, a take-home exam to polish off—I’ll probably still be pounding away on my laptop when you get home.”

  “I remember those days,” Devon commiserated. “I was a lot better at coping with sleepless nights than I am now.”

  “You’ve got a better reason to stay up now,” Merry pointed out with a grin.

  “Go do your work.” Devon’s lips twitched.

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Merry walked over to the makeshift desk she’d set up downstairs and plopped into the chair. “I’m working down here. It’s closer to the kitchen. I’ll need sustenance to stay alert.”

  Devon was heading for the stairs. “Speaking of sustenance, Monty’s making dinner tonight,” she called over her shoulder. “Blake and Chomper are coming. So don’t plan on getting any work done then.” She disappeared into her bedroom, Terror at her heels.

  Still grinning, Merry turned her attention back to her assignment.

  She’d just finished forwarding it when the doorbell rang.

  Shoving back her chair, she rose and walked into the hallway. “Who is it?”

  “Flowers for Devon Montgomery,” a thickly accented voice responded.

  “Just a sec.” Merry scooted back to grab a bill from her purse. Then she returned and opened the door.

  A deliveryman stood on the stoop, balancing an arrangement of pink, yellow, peach, white, and red roses in front of him. There must have been four dozen of them, accented with baby’s breath and greens, all in an expensive handblown glass vase. So elaborate was the arrangement, Merry could scarcely see the guy carrying them. All she could make out were his uniformed legs and the top of his balding head.

  “Devon Montgomery?”

  Merry stared. “Those are gorgeous. Oh yeah, sorry.” She reached out and carefully tran
sferred the vase from his grasp to hers. “Hang on a sec.” Gingerly, she carried the flowers over to the coffee table and set them down. Then she turned, intending to bring the guy his tip. “Thanks very mu—”

  She never finished her sentence.

  A handkerchief was pressed over her mouth and nose, and strong arms held her in place. A sickening smell invaded her nostrils, and she struggled to free herself. It was no use. Cobwebs danced in her head as the blackness engulfed her.

  DEVON NOTICED THE flowers even before she finished walking down the staircase.

  Her brows arched, and she went into the living room, checking out the arrangement that was swallowing up her entire coffee table.

  “Talk about extravagant,” she muttered, searching until she found the card. She plucked it out of its holder, a twinge of uneasiness in her gut. This kind of dazzling demonstration wasn’t Blake’s style. It was, however, James’s style. She hoped the flowers weren’t from him. She wasn’t up for another round of cat and mouse.

  Anxiously, she scanned the note, which read:

  Dear Devon,

  As beautiful as these roses are, they pale in comparison to you.

  Until later—Blake

  Devon blinked. Okay, so she’d been wrong. They were from Blake. How bizarre. Not only were the elaborate arrangement and the effusive words way out of character, but they were the last thing she’d expected, given Blake’s present state of mind. Maybe he’d ordered them before yesterday’s trip to the farm? Possible. In any case, she’d call and thank him.

  Terror had followed Devon downstairs. As she headed for the kitchen, he dashed into the living room and exploded into a fit of barking.

  “What’s up, boy?” Devon turned to see what was prompting the outburst.

  Terror began wildly sniffing a spot on the carpet, his barks becoming more furious.

  Devon returned to the living room, squatting down and sniffing the area where Terror was rooted. “Yuck.” She wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant odor, which had been masked by the heavy scent of roses filling the air. Up close, the rug smelled like overripe citrus.

  “Merry?” she called, standing up. “Did you spill orange juice on the living-room rug?”

  No reply.

  “Merry?” She turned, searching for a sign of her sister. That was strange. Merry had said she’d be in all day. She’d obviously been here to accept delivery of the flowers.

  A quick check of the town house confirmed that she was out.

  Puzzled, Devon grabbed the cordless phone and punched in her sister’s cell number.

  The line rang.

  So did the phone.

  It trilled right there in the living room, not ten feet away from where Devon stood. She hung up, feeling more than a little unnerved. Merry never went anywhere without her cell, not even to put out the garbage. That Motorola was always glued to her side.

  So why wasn’t it now?

  Devon’s home phone rang.

  “Hello?” She answered instantly, hoping against hope that it was Merry.

  “Just checking on you,” Blake said in greeting. “I wanted to make sure you were holding it together.”

  “More or less.” Devon continued scrutinizing the house for a hint of where her sister might have gone.

  “You sound preoccupied.”

  “I am. I can’t find Merry. She seems to have vanished while I was in the shower.” Abruptly, Devon remembered the flowers. “Oh, thanks for the roses. They’re amazing.”

  “What roses?”

  “You have a shorter memory than I do. The dozens of long-stemmed beauties that just arrived with the card that almost made me blush. Those roses.”

  “I’m drawing a blank.”

  “Very funny. I guess you came to your senses and realized how atypically mushy you’d been.”

  “I’m not being funny. I didn’t send you any flowers.”

  Blake’s tone was too solemn to be teasing, and Devon’s smile faded. “But your name is on the card. I don’t understand….” Her voice trailed off as an ugly possibility struck. “Oh God.” She dropped the phone. “Merry!” She raced through the house, calling her sister’s name. “Merry!” She ran to the front door, reaching for the handle.

  The door was already ajar.

  Devon shoved it open, frantically scanning the grounds around her town house.

  There was a heavy set of footprints ground into the snow, leading from her front door to the parking lot.

  “Oh no,” she whispered. She hurried back inside and scooped up the phone. “Blake, I have to hang up.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Merry. I think she’s been kidnapped.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Forty minutes later, Monty burst through Devon’s front door, in a scene that was eerily reminiscent of two Saturdays earlier.

  “Talk to me,” he commanded, striding into the living room without even removing his coat. “Tell me everything that happened.”

  While Devon talked he squatted down, rubbing his fingers over the area of the carpet where Terror had been sniffing, and bringing his fingers to his nose.

  “Chloroform,” he stated grimly. “The bastard knocked Merry out before he took her.”

  “Why would he kidnap Merry?” Devon demanded. “Just to show me he means business? She’s no threat. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “It could be a scare tactic.” Monty straightened, examining the vase of roses as he spoke. “On the other hand, you’re right. It’s a lame move. More likely the kidnapper thought Merry was you.”

  Devon paled. “How do you figure that?”

  “Whoever did this was a hired hand. He was probably given instructions to deliver the flowers and grab the woman who accepted delivery—assuming that woman would be you.”

  “Instead, it was Merry. Dammit.” Devon raked a trembling hand through her hair.

  “Cut out the guilt. It’s not your fault.” Monty was reaching for the envelope the card had come in. “Let’s not waste energy panicking. Let’s use it to find Merry.” He scanned the envelope. “‘Beautiful Bouquets,’” he read aloud. “Time to give them a call.” He whipped out his cell phone.

  The doorbell rang.

  In a dazed state, Devon went over and opened it.

  Blake stalked in. “Your sister…?” He glanced from Devon to Monty, who was already grilling someone on the other end of the phone.

  “There are traces of chloroform in the living room. She was definitely kidnapped. Monty’s calling the florist to see what he can find out.”

  As she spoke, Monty hung up.

  “The order was placed two hours ago,” he informed them. “The shop manager took the call. She said the caller was a man. She doesn’t remember his voice because it was a lousy cell-phone connection. He claimed to be Blake Pierson. He charged the flowers to the company’s FTD account. He was very specific, especially about the wording on the card. And he was insistent about the delivery time.”

  “Two hours ago I was driving down from the farm with Devon,” Blake said.

  “Exactly.” Monty scowled. “Whoever ordered the flowers knew that. Which means he knew when Devon would be arriving home.”

  “Not based on the time we left he wouldn’t,” Devon clarified. “Blake and I hit a ton of city-bound traffic. The drive took an extra forty-five minutes.”

  “Yet the kidnapper knew just when to ring your doorbell. How?”

  Blake stiffened. His gaze slid to Devon, and he gave her a hard, meaningful look. “Tell him.”

  Monty jumped on that. “Tell me what?”

  “I meant to discuss this with you sooner.” Devon steeled herself for a blowup. “I was on the verge when that whole situation came up with my wearing a wire to trap James. At that point, it slipped my mind.”

  “Stop backpedaling. Talk.”

  A resigned sigh. “A bunch of times since Mom disappeared, I sensed I was being followed. Random occasions. Different places. Always when I was dr
iving. I became superalert, watching in my rearview mirror, pulling over to scrutinize the road. I never spotted anyone. So I figured I was just being paranoid.”

  Monty was every bit as livid as she’d expected. “When were you going to mention this?” He waved away her reply, his forehead creased in concern. “If someone’s following you, they’re probably watching this place. Which means they know I’ve been here almost every day since Sally disappeared. It’s possible they saw me parked outside the night I taped James’s conversation. And they definitely know when you dropped by Blake’s place and how long you stayed. Given all that, you’re an even bigger threat to them than we realized.”

  Devon swallowed, hard. “Does that mean they’d hurt Merry? Especially if they think she’s me?”

  A glint of pain flickered in Monty’s eyes. “They’ve killed already. So I can’t rule it out. But my gut says no. The purpose of kidnapping you would more likely be to keep you out of the way while Vista finishes up whatever the hell he’s working on. It would keep me out of the way, too, because I’d be consumed with finding you.”

  Monty paused. “You said this guy tailing you showed up at random times and places. That means he wasn’t stationed outside your house. He knew in advance where you’d be and where you were headed. Which makes me suspect that…’’ Monty didn’t finish his thought. He strode out of the room and headed for the staircase leading down to the basement.

  “Why the basement? What are you looking for?” Devon demanded as she and Blake followed behind.

  Monty had already reached the concrete floor. “Where do your telephone lines enter the house?”

  “Over there.” Devon pointed at the gray plastic box mounted on the far cinder block wall.

  “That’s why.” Monty made his way over to the box. He tilted back his head to examine the ceiling, spotted the ceramic light fixture overhead. Reaching up, he yanked at the pull string.

  The light came on, illuminating that section of the basement.