Jinxed

by Carol Higgins Clark

Norman's cell phone, which was attached to his belt buckle, rang just then. He picked it up, said hello, and listened. He shook his head several times, then finally hung up.

  “Okay, everybody. It's been decided. The fire marshals are being conservative about this. Precautionary. The fires aren't here yet, but they're too close for comfort. We've got to evacuate the area. Time for you all to go home.”

  “Oh,” Adele moaned. “I just knew I was going to have a breakthrough this afternoon.”

  “Next time, Adele,” Norman said dismissively. He turned to Ricky. “Do you want to come down to the radio station with me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  For the moment all thoughts of Whitney were pushed into the background.

  46

  Charles Bennett had a sleepless night. He'd been watching television and had caught the story on Lucretia's upcoming wedding to that gigolo. It made him sick. It was so obvious that Edward Fields was after her money. So what if he'd given her one piece of good advice when he suggested that she invest in that dot-com. Lucretia had told Charles once, when they were chatting across the fence, that she decided to get out while the getting was good and nobody could talk her out of it. If it had been up to Fields, she would have been left holding the bag like all those other investors who had lost most of their worth.

  Lucretia was so cute, he thought. And she's so full of life. Ever since Charles's wife had died five years ago, he'd contented himself with his garden. He had no interest in dating.

  “Not at my age,” he'd say to anyone who tried to fix him up. Charles remembered how much he'd hated dating when he was a young man. He had worked steadily in the movies from the time he was in his early twenties and often felt that was the main reason many girls wanted to go out with him. When he finally met his wife, he was so relieved that he'd never have to go out on another first date. He knew she was the one. That was fifty-seven years ago, and he'd never dated again!

  Charles wanted to ask Lucretia to join him for dinner right after she moved in. They were talking across their backyards when that oily wimp showed up and called her “sweetheart.” Charles could tell he was being sent a message and had walked away in disgust. Since then, whenever Lucretia was alone by the pool, he'd made a point of saying hello. If Edward was there, Charles steered clear of that side of his yard.

  This morning Charles had gotten out of bed, tired from a lack of sleep, and had gone into town to do some errands, including buying a present for Lucretia's wedding. By the time he got back, a television van was parked in front of Lucretia's house, and the caterers were busily setting up tables in the backyard. The TV cameraman was walking around, recording all the activity. Charles still hadn't decided whether he would attend the wedding or not. The whole thing rubbed him the wrong way. He knew that Lucretia would be in for a bad time. Worse yet, Charles was worried: Who knew what the guy she was marrying was capable of?

  Charles wondered what Phyllis thought of the whole thing. She'd been the maid in that house for more than twenty years. Charles certainly didn't know her well, but he'd seen her numerous times over the years when he and his wife were at parties that the previous owners, the Howards, had thrown. Now there was a great couple. Charles laughed. They didn't even mind when Phyllis besieged a game show producer at one of their gatherings, begging him to put her on his show. The producer had a hard time convincing Phyllis that he couldn't use her because he had met her several times, and after the game show scandals of the fifties, the rules were very strict.

  Charles made himself a cup of tea and sat down at the dining room table with the newspaper. He read the headlines, but his mind kept wandering back to everything that was going on next door. I know, he finally decided—Lucretia's car isn't there. Maybe I'll just walk over, drop off the wedding present, and see if I can chat Phyllis up a little bit. Get her take on the situation. Not that I can do anything about it, but I'd certainly like to try.

  47

  Rex hid behind a large oak tree for several minutes, watching the woman he had seen behind the barn. She was walking slowly back through the vineyards toward the house. When he got a good look at her, he realized who she was: the woman in the gift shop! He had stopped in there before the meditation class.

  Just what was she doing digging up the land? Probably looking for a bone, he thought. And on her lunch hour, no less. This was definitely not good news. If she found Whitney in the barn, it would all be over.

  Twenty-four more hours, he thought. Twenty-four hours and this will be over. Satisfied that there was no one else around, Rex ran for the barn door, hurried inside, and shut the door quickly. He stood still for a moment, his heart pounding. Thumping noises were coming from the corner where the car was. He couldn't believe it. Whitney must be crazy. She was obviously trying to attract attention.

  Racing over, Rex opened one of the back doors of her Jeep.

  “Stop it,” he growled. “You're getting me plenty mad, and you don't want to do that.”

  Whitney froze.

  “I come out here to be a nice guy and bring you some food, and look what you do!”

  Whitney's whole body tensed up. She could tell Rex was very nervous, which could be dangerous. She realized that she had better not antagonize him.

  “I got you a sandwich for lunch. And as you may or may not know, there's a little toilet in a closet in the corner of the barn. It might not be the most luxurious, but something tells me you'll appreciate it. If you try anything, I will shoot you. Then I'll go and shoot your family. Got it?”

  “I don't have to go,” Whitney managed to utter spitefully through the gag in her mouth. She couldn't help herself. If he thought he was going to insult her dignity by standing over her while she “used the facilities,” he had another think coming. She was just happy that she hadn't had anything to drink before she left the house that morning.

  “Well, aren't you the little camel?” he said in an amazed tone. “Feisty, too. I bet you don't want lunch then, either.” He threw the bag into the back section of the car. “It's going to be tough to eat when you're all tied up.”

  Restraining himself from slamming the door of the Jeep, Rex quickly left the barn. Hurrying toward the creek, he decided to take another path back to the house. He'd hike up the mountain and come down much closer to the lodge. If anyone saw him, they'd think he was coming from an entirely different direction.

  One thing was certain: He wanted to get as far away from Altered States as possible. Once Eddie arrived, he'd talk to him privately and then hit the road. If the woman from the gift shop discovered Whitney, he'd be in big trouble, and he didn't need any more trouble. Rex was only too familiar with the police and police procedures. He realized that if Whitney was found, he might be incriminated. Even though Whitney had never seen him, there were probably fibers from his clothing in her car. He had to talk to Eddie. And he'd warn him about that Regan Reilly, too. He caught her checking him out today in the meditation class. She was too nosy for her own good.

  Rex started sweating as he hiked up the mountain. What had seemed like an easy job was getting messier and messier. Who would have thought that Eddie would be all over national television this weekend? Who could have imagined they'd hire a private detective to try to find Whitney? Who could have predicted that some idiot who worked at the winery would be digging up the area behind the barn where he stashed her?

  When Rex reached the top of the mountain, he detected a faint smell of smoke. He had heard that there were wildfires all over the northern hills. He looked down at the barn, which stood alone, far away from the other buildings at Altered States. If fire hit the property, that would be the last building anyone would be concerned about. It was such a junk heap, they'd probably be happy it went up in smoke.

  “Sorry about that, Whitney,” he muttered under his breath. “It doesn't look like you're going to make it to your Aunt Lucretia's wedding. You may never make it to another wedding. I really wish I could help you out.” He turned, vowing never to la
y eyes on that barn or Whitney, ever again.

  48

  In the Lower East Side apartment of the recently captured art thief, New York City detectives were gathering evidence. They seized a computer, address book, personal papers, answering machine, and caller ID box. The box held the numbers of the last one hundred calls that were made to that number. A quick scan showed numerous calls from cell phones in the New York area. They were easy to identify because most cell phone users in New York City had a number that began with 917.

  The calls that were recorded had all been placed in the last week.

  “I can't wait to find out who these numbers belong to,” one of the detectives declared.

  In a closet the detectives found ski masks, burglar tools, paintings, antique clocks, tapestries, silverware, ceramics, and glassware—all obviously stolen.

  “Nice to see he has good taste,” one of the investigators muttered.

  “Well, isn't this cute!” the detective in charge called out. He pulled a framed picture off a crowded shelf in the living room. The picture had been partially hidden by all the knickknacks and junk that were vying for space.

  “What have you got there?” his partner asked.

  “A barbershop quartet, except they don't have matching hats and bow ties. It's matching tattoos.”

  “Holy smoke.”

  Four guys who did not exactly look like upstanding citizens were holding up their T-shirts. The picture had obviously been taken in a bar after they'd all had more than a few drinks. Every one of them had a tattoo of a skull and crossbones below the navel.

  “Sexy, huh? Something tells me these guys are bonded by more than drinking and tattooing.”

  49

  This is just so delightful,” Nora said admiringly when they walked into the main lodge.

  Lilac looked pleased. “Thank you. We love it here.”

  “Regan tells us you haven't owned the winery for very long.”

  “No, we haven't,” Lilac said as she made her way behind the reception desk.

  “I didn't realize how popular this area had become for its wineries,” Nora continued.

  Lilac laughed. “The outside world is just discovering the wineries of the south central coast. And new vineyards keep springing up all over. The area had a number of wineries operating in the late 1800s and early 1900s that were closed because of Prohibition, this being one of them. It wasn't until 1962 that the first post-Prohibition winery opened in Santa Barbara County.”

  “The weather is perfect, the scenery is breathtaking, and you're not far from Santa Barbara—or Los Angeles, for that matter. You're close to the ocean, and you have the mountains in your backyard.” Nora turned to Luke. “Maybe we should buy a house here.”

  Luke put his arm around her. “You say that about every place we visit.”

  “I know.”

  Regan helped her parents with their bags. Lilac gave them a corner room at the end of the hall that was larger than the one Regan was staying in.

  “I guess she knew you guys were coming. My room is a lot smaller.”

  “We're paying,” Luke remarked wryly.

  “Well, I wonder what she's saving for Lucretia.” Regan sat down on the chaise longue in the corner and looked at her watch. It was only a little after two. “What would you like to do this afternoon?”

  “Lilac said she'd love to have us all on the deck out back for a glass of wine at five o'clock. Then dinner,” Nora replied. She turned to Luke, who was already stretched out on the bed. “Honey, what do you feel like doing until then?”

  “This feels pretty good.” Nora laughed.

  “I wouldn't mind a little snooze, and then we can take a walk.”

  “The gift shop is across the way,” Regan told them. “And I'm sure Earl would love to meditate with you.”

  “No thanks,” Luke answered hastily.

  “I figured that.” Regan chuckled. She stood up. “I want to try to reach Whitney. Even though her mother's not concerned, I am. Why don't you relax for a while. I'll be around.”

  The blast from the engines of twenty-one motorcycles assaulted the peaceful silence of the room. All three of them jumped. “What's that?” Nora cried.

  “I don't know!” Regan ran to the door and down the hall, Luke and Nora close behind. Lilac had already run out the front door, practically in a panic. The door was left wide open.

  Outside in the parking lot a gang of bikers surrounded a white Rolls-Royce.

  “Mom, Dad . . . something tells me Lucretia has arrived.”

  50

  Polly and Sarah liked to go into the center of town in San Luis Obispo on Saturdays. On weekends the town was teeming with students from Cal Poly, as it was known locally, formally called the California Polytechnic State University. San Luis Obispo, twenty miles from the coast, was a charming city nestled among lush rolling hills. Polly and Sarah had grown up in those hills and returned there to “live out their lives in the town where they were born, and where the motel was invented in 1925,” as they liked to say.

  One might wonder why they liked to go into town on Saturdays when it was so busy. They both felt that it gave them a jolt to see all the kids sipping coffee at the cafes, shopping, hurrying up and down the tree-lined streets of stores and cafes.

  “On Saturdays it's most vibrant,” they'd say. “That and Thursday nights when we have the Farmers' Market street fair.”

  They'd checked the computer before breakfast, but so far there was no word from Lucretia.

  “Do you think she's just going to ignore us?” Polly asked.

  Sarah sipped her coffee and thought about it for a moment. “I don't think so. We just sent the e-mail to the television station last night. Lucretia might not have received it yet. Should we try and call her? She might be listed in the book in Beverly Hills.”

  “No way! If she doesn't get in touch with us, then too bad about her. And if the TV station wants to come talk to us about the secret, then so be it.”

  “Polly! You are naughty.” Sarah chuckled as she took a bite of one of the homemade blueberry muffins she'd baked the day before. Mine are so much better than the ones Polly makes, she thought. But Polly insisted on baking sometimes and never used a measuring cup. It drove Sarah crazy.

  After breakfast they drove into town, Sarah at the wheel. Polly had given up driving. They parked the car, walked around, did their errands, and finally arrived at their favorite cafe for lunch. They were seated outside, at their request, so they could watch all the passersby. It was a beautiful day, not uncommon in their area. They'd generally sit and have lunch, and then linger over a cup of tea, before heading home.

  Polly and Sarah had a corner table, right next to an outdoor newsstand. Sarah's seat faced the array of magazines and newspapers on display. One local newspaper was hanging from a hook, front and center. Sarah squinted to get a better focus on the headline.

  “What in tarnation?” she asked softly.

  “What's the matter?” Polly demanded. “You want to change seats or something?”

  “Lord, no.” Sarah jumped up. “I'll be right back.” Because there was a railing that surrounded the outdoor tables, she had to go back through the restaurant and go out the front door.

  As she walked past the tables, Polly called to her, “Where are you going?”

  Sarah ignored her. She went over to the newsstand and bought a copy of Luis Says, the area's oldest local newspaper. The family paper was now run by Thaddeus Washburne, Jr., the seventy-year-old son of the founder. The front page center headline read: OUR VERYOWNLUCRETIA STANDISH BACK IN THE NEWS.

  There was a little picture of Lucretia in the top corner of the front page.

  Sarah paid for the paper and hurried back to the table, breathless at the effort. “Will you look at this?” she asked Polly, who had decided to just sit back and wait until Sarah collected herself. She could get so darn excitable sometimes.

  “What?”

  “There's a story here on Lucretia.”<
br />
  Polly leaned forward. “What does it say?”

  Sarah turned the page. “Oh, Lord!”

  “What?”

  Sarah's mouth was moving as she read the page, but no sound was coming out.

  Once again Polly sat back. We'll get to it, she thought, in what Polly had dubbed “Sarah's time.”

  Sarah shook her head and turned the page again.

  “Oh, Lord!”

  “What?”

  “There's a picture of the three of us taken when we danced in that festival on the beach.”

  “Give me that.” Polly grabbed the paper from Sarah's hands. The picture of Lucretia, Polly, and Sarah kicking their legs up was in the center of the page with the caption “Lucretia Standish with two unidentified chums as they danced at the Festival by the Beach. Circa 1919.”

  “Unidentified?” Polly snapped. “How could they not know our names?”

  “And where did they get that picture? I don't think I've ever seen it.”

  Polly started to read the article.

  “It doesn't say anything new,” Sarah said quickly. “Let's get our check and stop at the newspaper office. We may as well let them know who we are so they can run a correction.”

  “You're darn tootin'.”

  51

  Frank and Heidi were having a bad day. They'd visited two other potential investors, and only one of them had coughed up a check. It was for a measly thousand dollars.

  “That won't even pay our doughnut bill,” Heidi complained. “We're up the river, Kipsman, and we're without a paddle.”

  They were heading north on 101, on their way to Altered States.

  Frank couldn't believe they were going to the winery that Whitney's family owned. He didn't dare mention that to Heidi. He realized that meant Lucretia Standish was related to Whitney. Maybe she'd be willing to invest in the movie because Whitney had such a good role.