Good Sister, The

by Diana Diamond

  Peter meant to keep her safe, and she appreciated that. But being safe wasn’t enough. A bird was safe in a cage, and it was exactly the cage that she had to smash. Peter couldn’t help. He had built the cage to keep her safe. Catherine had slammed the door to keep her rival from flying out into the open air. She had to escape from both of them.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I really do appreciate your concern. But this is a chance I have to take.”

  He thought of what else he might say. And there was nothing. At least nothing that was believable, or that might make a difference. When he was walking back to his own office, he prayed that he might be wrong. Perhaps he had been totally wrong about Padraig O’Connell. Perhaps, after wallowing through his weakness and greed, the man was ready for a serious relationship. He hoped so, although the thought of Jennifer lying in Padraig O’Connell’s embrace was more than he could bear.

  She was the only passenger in the twin-turbo charter that cut diagonally across Connecticut and broke out over the water at the base of Cape Cod. She picked out the towers of Boston ahead on her left and Provincetown off to her right. Minutes later and she was out over the Gulf of Maine with the million-island coastline coming into view.

  Jennifer had no illusions about what was ahead for her. Padraig would wear his contrition like a bloodstained bandage. He would douse her in flattery while pouring on his Irish charm and lightning wit, all in his thickest and most lovable brogue. The temptation to cave in, especially while bobbing at sea in the shelter of a lonely island, would be strong indeed.

  But she was determined to exact a price. Padraig would have to explain, to her satisfaction, exactly what Catherine meant to him. He would have to convince her that Catherine was no longer a factor in any of his business or personal equations, and that he could be committed, as she was, to putting an end to her sister’s domination. Whether intentionally or not, he had bored into their area of vulnerability and played the two sisters against each other in whatever combination it took to keep the cash flowing. All that was going to end.

  She looked down at the islands that were passing below, remote, uninhabited outposts of the continent reaching out into the North Atlantic. Peter’s anxieties came back to her. This was not a place where she could easily be rescued. But it suited her purposes exactly. She was just going to have to take her chances.

  The plane was losing altitude and beginning a wide turn in toward the mainland. She heard the flaps lower and the landing gear snap into place. Mount Desert Island stretched out to the right, and Blue Hill Bay was under the left wing. Seconds later she was bouncing across the runway of a small executive airport that never could have handled a larger airplane.

  Padraig was waiting, jaunty in an open windbreaker and officer’s cap, to take her garment bag and lead her to his car. He was chatting instantly, describing the boat like an old salt in terms he had picked up from Mike. Then he was into their voyage through the rocky passage and out into Blue Hill Bay. In his telling, Mike did little more than make the coffee. And the scenery! They were driving through the glorious fall colors, but he insisted that they looked different when seen from the water. “It’s a heavenly place, darlin’. If it were any prettier, it would need a pearly gate.” His banter was incessant, a nervous flow delivered in his excited tenor voice. It was almost as if he was afraid to let her get a word in.

  He turned down a gravel path toward a shed that sagged on splintered pilings and seemed about to topple into the sea. Then he was out of the car and rushing up a wobbly gangplank, her baggage in hand. Jennifer took in the setting. It was as pretty as Padraig had described. But, as Peter had warned, it was also desolate, close to the edge of the earth. She followed Padraig into the shed, trying to keep her balance.

  They came out the other side onto a narrow pier and Jennifer got her first glimpse of the trawler. Suddenly she felt very secure. It was a big boat, high out of the water, with seafaring lines. She stepped quickly across the dock, thankful that she was wearing sneakers, and nearly leaped aboard. To her mind, the boat was far less likely to sink than the building and its pier.

  “Welcome aboard,” Padraig said, rendering her a snappy salute. “May I show you to the admiral’s quarters.” He led her through a sliding door into the main saloon.

  “Wow!” Jennifer said.

  “Wow, indeed,” he answered. “Hardly the hold of a slaver!” There was a sofa covered in forest-green sailcloth down one side of the space and matching armchairs facing in from the other side. A wide cocktail table was in the middle. Between the two chairs was a built-in entertainment center with a television, CD player, and sound system. The wooden brightwork, polished deck, and forest-green furniture gave the cabin the feeling of a posh men’s club. Forward, on the port side, was a galley that compared favorably with her own kitchen. More compact, to be sure, but just as well equipped. To the right was the captain’s chair, raised up like a bar stool behind a steering wheel and a bank of electronic gauges and screens.

  “And your quarters,” Padraig said, gesturing to steps that descended at the aft end of the cabin. He stepped back so that she could go ahead.

  “Wow again!”

  There was a queen-size island bed with night tables, a full closet, and a door to her private head. Inside, there was a fullstall shower, not just the hand sprayer she had used on Peter’s sailboat.

  “You like it?” he asked anxiously.

  “‘Hardly the hold of a slaver,’” Jennifer quoted.

  The bedspread and the curtains were patterns of astrological maps in deep blues and silver. Masculine, perhaps, but neutral enough to serve any woman’s taste. There was enough drawer space for one of Catherine’s wardrobes.

  “And,” Padraig pointed out, “a sturdy lock on the door, just in case you stoke fires in my loins.”

  “I brought a pistol,” she answered.

  “Thoughtful,” he said. Then he explained that his cabin was in the bow, as far away as it could be without being in the water. “Why don’t you unpack and freshen up. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll take her to sea.”

  She looked at the lock after he left and decided she wouldn’t need it. Padraig seemed as nervous as an adolescent on a first date. Nothing so far had been intimidating to her. Her job, she thought, would be to quiet him down so that they could talk seriously. Only then might the lock come in handy.

  Peter was late getting to his office. He had been on the phone with the aircraft company that chartered executive jets to Pegasus, awaiting confirmation that Jennifer’s plane had landed safely. He had breathed a sigh of relief that he knew was unnecessary. Both Jennifer and Catherine flew all over the world, commercially and in executive aircraft. He had never worried about them before. Besides, the flight was the least dangerous part of Jennifer’s journey. There was no reason to feel relief. His anxiety was just beginning.

  Padraig had been an escape artist when it came to signing documents. The agreement he had cavalierly offered to sign was still lost somewhere in the legal processes. The divorce agreement he had signed had never been filed. At this moment, Padraig would have a husband’s claim on ownership of Pegasus should anything happen to his wife.

  And what might happen? A sinking that only Padraig would survive? That wasn’t likely. Peter knew the kind of boat they were aboard and doubted it could be sunk, at least not without allowing enough time to escape in the tender. An explosion, then? The boat would blow up while Padraig was ashore; he would find only smoldering wreckage with no trace of his wife. Probably not. Even a small-town police force in Maine would find that suspicious, and as an investigation could easily trace the exact location and cause of an explosion. A swimming accident? That was likely. Jennifer loved to swim and Padraig didn’t. So, she went swimming over the side and took a cramp in the cold water. Credible, especially if they found an unmarked drowned body.

  But then he caught himself. Jennifer felt safe, and she was no fool. She had done her own investigating of the auto accident and ha
d found good evidence to show that Padraig wasn’t to blame. More to the point, she had been alone with him on many occasions since, and nothing had happened to her. When someone had tried to break into her apartment, Padraig had been in Hollywood.

  Peter had to admit to himself that his fears of foul play were really a by-product of his loathing for O’Connell. He hated the thought of the egotistical actor being with either of the sisters. He had tried to keep Jennifer away from him, to no avail. He had advised Catherine to take whatever financial loss was involved in order to be rid of him. She had refused. Both of them had decided to trust Padraig.

  But there was a difference between his concern for Jennifer and his concern for Catherine. Peter was beginning to admit to himself what he had suspected for years. He was in love with Jennifer. It was a feeling he had suppressed for the sake of Pegasus, to remain impartial between the two heiress daughters. When he had noticed her interest, he had closed his eyes and turned away. And then, when he admitted his interest, she was the one who had ignored the signals. But now, with all his promises to their father fulfilled, he was planning to leave the company. And once he left, he would be free to announce his feelings and pursue them with all his strength.

  That, he tried to tell himself, was the reason he was frightened. He was terrified that the liaison on the lonely coast would bring Jennifer and Padraig back together, that Peter would lose the woman he was just beginning to hope for. He knew it was unworthy of him to try and stop her from finding happiness, even if he wasn’t part of it. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t rid himself of the fear that Padraig was dangerous and that something awful was about to happen to Jennifer.

  He was lost in thought when his secretary broke in to announce a phone call. A Mr. Redmond was calling from Los Angeles. Redmond? Peter had to search his memory for the name. Of course! Phil Redmond, the security company’s man in Los Angeles.

  “Good morning, Phil. You’re up early.”

  “Well, I wanted to get to you first thing. We finally came across the photographer you were looking for. Like you predicted, he couldn’t keep action photos of Padraig O’Connell a secret forever. He did a bit of blabbing, and he happened to be talking to one of his colleagues that we’d interviewed. The man remembered our interest and called me last night to suggest a price. He wanted ten thousand just for fingering the guy. We settled for three.”

  “Who is he? Peter snapped.

  “Turns out to be a Beverly Hills private detective. Photography is just a sideline, but he’s gotten pretty good at it. Padraig O’Connell isn’t the only star in his portfolio.”

  “Phil, I don’t care about the detective. What I need to know is who hired him.”

  “Oh, Miss Pegan. Your boss.”

  “There are two Miss Pegans. Both of them are my boss.”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. Is it important?”

  “Life and death, and right at this moment.”

  “Sorry. I’ll get back to you right away.”

  Peter found himself holding a dead phone. He set it down slowly as his mind began to whirl. Catherine, he thought. Why would she hire someone to photograph her with Padraig? To prove to her sister that Padraig was unfaithful? Why? She had already delivered that message to Jennifer, and she probably could have caught the bastard with any number of other women. That just didn’t make sense. And then to send the photos to her sister: Why would she want to court her sister’s hatred and fire up her anger? What could she possibly hope to gain?

  So it had to be Jennifer. It wasn’t impossible that she would want her husband followed, particularly after the evidence that he might have been involved in her accident. She would have gotten the photos of his philandering and then been enraged when she discovered that he was cheating with her sister. And then … the rest made sense. Then, in her anger, she could have remembered the out-of-work actor who lived in her building and trained in her gym. It was Jennifer who wanted Catherine thrown from the building. It was Jennifer who wanted revenge.

  But there were holes in the case, and he wanted to find them. Who had tried to break into Jennifer’s loft? It had to be one of the players, and it certainly wasn’t Jennifer. Unless it was coincidental, just another New York break-in that had nothing to do with the attempt on Catherine’s life.

  But either way, whether Catherine had ordered the photos or Jennifer had gotten them as part of checking up on her husband, Padraig wasn’t involved. His only crime was switching from one sister to the other to follow the money.

  Then Peter had another thought. Suppose it was Jennifer who had prompted the rendezvous. She had tried to get even with her sister. Maybe now it was Padraig’s turn.

  The dockmaster threw off the lines, and with a soft gurgle, the Maineman eased back from the dock. Jennifer, in jeans and a sweater, was out on deck, taking in the docking lines and coiling them for storage. Padraig, up on the flying bridge, pushed one engine forward, swinging the bow around to the bay. A minute later Jennifer was by his side, high atop the trawler, ghosting out into a flat sea.

  “Is this something you learned in your adventure films?” she teased.

  “Heavens, no. I never drove any of those boats. My double did. All I did was pose while they tossed a bucket of water in my face.”

  “So, when did you become a yachtsman?”

  “Yesterday, as a matter of fact. I took a lesson from Captain Bligh on the way over from Camden. Seems easy enough. Just move these things frontward and backward to make the boat move, and turn the wheel to aim it where you want to go.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “I made some crib notes for anchoring. You’ll have to read them to me when we get there.”

  She was laughing again. No one but Padraig would set out to sea with crib notes.

  They were heading south, into a channel between two stone islands. There was a fishing shed hanging off the edge of one of them, long abandoned, with its roof holed and its windows blown out. Jennifer sighed as they passed it. “I was hoping that was the place you were taking me to.”

  “Much too luxurious! You and I are stripping away the frills and extras. We’re getting back to nature.”

  Now she could take in the fall colors along the shoreline, reflected as abstracts in the edge of the sea. Beautiful! But she couldn’t let herself be seduced. She had to keep a clear head.

  They passed between the islands and the bay opened up in front of them. The tiny villages, grouped around moored workboats, grew smaller behind them.

  Peter rushed out of his office, ordering his secretary to forward the expected call to Catherine’s office. She was already on the phone, so he paced impatiently around her conference table until she finished and hung up.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded.

  “Catherine, did you hire the detective who took those pictures?”

  She looked confused. “The photos of Padraig … and …”

  “You,” he filled in for her. “The ones that Jennifer got in the mail.”

  “No. Of course not. Did Jennifer tell you that?”

  “No one told me. That’s why I’m asking.”

  She laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I want my picture taken in such an unflattering pose?”

  “To break up your sister’s marriage,” he challenged.

  “Peter, my sister’s marriage was already broken up, as the photos clearly showed.”

  He turned back to his pacing. “If it wasn’t you …”

  Catherine came around her desk. “Then what?”

  Peter stopped abruptly. “Do you know where they were meeting? The name of the charter company? The boat? Anything?”

  She was shaking her head. “No! Why would I know? Jennifer didn’t invite me along.”

  Should he believe her? What she said made sense. There was no reason to have herself followed and photographed, and certainly no need to send the pictures to her sister. That would be a mindless act of cruelty.

  It ha
d to be Jennifer. And if she was the one striking back, then it was Padraig O’Connell who was in danger. Not that Peter cared about O’Connell, but he did care about Jennifer. Somehow he would have to find her and save her from herself.

  Catherine’s secretary broke in. There was a call for Peter. He picked up the telephone on the conference table.

  “Phil here,” the Los Angeles detective said.

  “Go ahead,” Peter snapped.

  “Catherine Pegan. She told him she wanted pictures, and she told him where and when. Only this is the crazy part. The photographer didn’t know who the guy was until he printed the negatives. Then he saw a chance to make some real money, so he took the photos to Padraig O’Connell. O’Connell bought the prints and the negatives.”

  Peter held the phone for a second and then reached out and drew Catherine near. “Phil, I want you to repeat that word for word. There’s someone here with me who needs to hear it.”

  He gave the phone to Catherine, who put it up to her ear. For a moment her face was expressionless. Then her lips tightened and the color drained from her cheeks. “That’s a lie!” she suddenly snapped, and slammed down the phone. She and Peter were inches apart, Peter staring into her face, but she turned away from eye contact.

  “Catherine … why? You and Padraig?”

  She pulled away from him. “None of that is true. Not one word of it. They’re all lies, and I know exactly who planted them. That’s the way she is. She’s just covering up because she tried to kill me. It was Jennifer who hired that creep, and all this is part of her scheme.”

  “It was your check. You hired the detective,” Peter reminded her. “Why Catherine? Why would you set out to destroy your sister? And for what? You have everything. What more could you want?”