Trust No One

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “The inn was originally built as a private hospital for the mentally ill. That was back in the late nineteen hundreds. After the asylum was closed, it went through several different owners who all tried to turn it into a hotel or resort. The last owner named it the Cloud Lake Inn. The place has been boarded up for years.”

  “The story I heard is that you stumbled onto a murder in the basement of the place when you were sixteen. You confronted the killer.”

  There was another long silence on the other end of the connection.

  “Just how much research did you do?” she asked, clearly wary.

  “You rescued a little kid. Damn near got yourself killed in the process. But it was the killer who died.”

  “It was a long time ago,” Grace said. “I try not to think about it.”

  “Is that what you positive-thinker types do? Try to forget the bad stuff?”

  “Yes,” she said very firmly. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Ten days ago you came across another murder scene.”

  “So?”

  “Finding Witherspoon’s body must have dredged up a lot of unpleasant memories. And in Witherspoon’s case, the killer is still at large, so I’m guessing you’re having a hard time trying not to think about the past.”

  “What’s going on here?” Grace asked. “Are you the one playing analyst now?”

  “Just looking at facts,” Julius said. “Connecting dots.”

  “You don’t need to remind me of any of it, believe me.”

  “You’re scared.”

  Another silence stretched across the distance between them. For a moment Julius wondered if Grace would deny her fear.

  “I’m . . . uneasy,” Grace said eventually. “I didn’t think I would be so nervous, not here in Cloud Lake.”

  “Because you’re not in Seattle, where the murder occurred? I get the logic. But it’s deeply flawed and, therefore, not working. Want to tell me why you jumped as if you’d touched a live electric wire when your phone pinged you about a new email?”

  “I did not jump.”

  “You flinched and not in a good way.”

  “There’s a good way to flinch?” Grace asked coldly.

  “Let’s use your word. Uneasy. The ping made you uneasy.” He decided to try out one of the theories that Devlin had mentioned. “Old boyfriend giving you trouble?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” Grace said.

  She said it so matter-of-factly and with such assurance that he was inclined to believe her. But it also brought questions. There must be a few old boyfriends scattered about in her past.

  “Someone else who is bothering you?” he pressed.

  There was another short pause.

  “I’ve been getting weird emails at night,” Grace said finally. “The messages are short, just snide little variations of the affirmations taken from the Witherspoon cookbook and the blog. I would say it was just some disgruntled client but the creepy part is that they’re all coming from Sprague’s personal account.”

  A chill went through him, heightening all of his senses in the old, unpleasant way. He was acutely aware of the crisp night air, the featureless surface of the lake and the soft rustle of tree branches. You had to assume that the enemy could be anywhere.

  “You’re right,” he said. “That is very creepy.”

  “There’s something else,” Grace said. “The day I found Sprague’s body, there was an affirmation pinned to his pajamas. Someone, presumably the killer, had printed it out from a computer.”

  He got the feeling that now that she had blurted out the truth she wanted to keep going.

  “You told the cops about the affirmation at the scene?” he asked.

  “They saw it for themselves,” Grace said. “I didn’t touch it.”

  “Did you report the emails that you’ve been receiving?”

  “Of course,” Grace said. “I was told that someone would look into the matter. Every time I get one I forward it to the detective in charge of the investigation but I think he believes I might be sending them to myself.”

  “Motive?”

  “To enhance my appearance of innocence.” Grace exhaled deeply. “The bottom line is that the cops haven’t come up with anything so far.”

  “Do you have any idea who is sending the emails?”

  “Maybe,” Grace said. She was speaking more slowly now, choosing her words. “Sprague did not have a good relationship with his adult daughter, Nyla Witherspoon. In her own weird way I think she was jealous of those of us who worked in the Witherspoon offices—especially me.”

  “Why you in particular?”

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  Julius felt as if he had just fallen off the dock into the cold, dark waters of the lake.

  “You were having an affair with Witherspoon?” he asked without inflection.

  “Good grief, no.” Grace sounded astonished, not offended. “What in the world would make you think that?”

  “Gosh, I dunno. Not like there’s any history of bosses sleeping with the women on their office staff.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?” she asked. This time there was an edge on the words.

  The lady had claws. Julius smiled, oddly satisfied. Good to know she hadn’t been sleeping with Witherspoon. Good to know she could draw blood if you pushed her too far.

  “No,” he said. “A long time ago I was warned not to get personally involved with the people who work for me. That way madness lies.”

  Grace startled him with a burble of laughter. “Oh, wow, you get your affirmations from Shakespeare. Not sure the Witherspoon Way affirmations can compete.”

  “It’s a strict policy, not an affirmation, and I didn’t get it from Shakespeare. I got it from my next-door neighbor.”

  “Harley Montoya? What does he know about the dangers of office relationships? I thought he was devoted to his fishing and his garden. He and my neighbor, Agnes, have been rivals in the annual Cloud Lake Garden Club competition ever since he moved to town.”

  “Harley wasn’t always retired.”

  “Of course not,” Grace said. “Sometimes I forget that he was a successful businessman before he moved here.”

  “The quote about the dangers of getting involved with employees isn’t an affirmation, just a realistic assessment of the potential risks. I don’t do affirmations. I have a couple of rules instead.”

  “Really?” She sounded intrigued. “What are they?”

  “Rule Number Two is Everyone has a hidden agenda.”

  “I’ll bet that’s a hard rule to live by.”

  “Actually, it’s pretty damn useful. You can’t be successful in my world unless you know what is really motivating your clients, your competition and the people who work for you. When it comes to closing the deal, you need to know everyone’s real agenda.”

  “I thought money was at the top of the list for people in your world.”

  “Everyone involved will certainly tell you that,” he said. “People like to think they base their high-stakes business decisions on rational financial logic. But that’s not true. They make decisions based on emotion, every damn time. Afterward they can always find the logic and reason they need to back up the decisions.”

  “And you take advantage of that insight to make lots of money, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “I don’t always win but I usually know when to cut my losses.” Time to change the subject. “You said you think Nyla Witherspoon might have been jealous of you and the other members of Witherspoon’s staff. Are your colleagues receiving those emails?”

  “I asked Millicent and Kristy that question. Neither of them has received the emails but they agreed that Nyla is the most likely culprit.”

  “Did you get anything from Witherspoo
n’s estate?”

  “Heavens no,” Grace said. “No one on the staff was in Sprague’s will. He paid us all very well but he left his entire estate to Nyla.”

  “And now a large chunk of it has gone missing.”

  “It’s news to me but if you and Devlin know that, then it’s safe to say that Nyla is also aware of the embezzlement by now. But I started getting the emails immediately after Sprague was murdered—before anyone realized that someone had been stealing from the Witherspoon Way accounts.”

  “If she started emailing you because she wanted to take out some of her anger and jealousy on you, then the missing money would have served to enrage her all the more.”

  “A cheerful thought. You really are not a glass-half-full kind of man, are you?”

  He watched the moonlight ripple on the jewel-black lake for a moment.

  “Have you talked to Dev about the case?” he asked.

  “Some,” Grace said. “But I haven’t gone into great detail. The thing is, I don’t know Devlin very well. Between you and me, I think he has some doubts about my innocence.”

  Julius decided that it was not a good time to confirm her theory.

  “Does Dev know you’ve got a stalker?” he said instead.

  “I haven’t told him about the emails, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes, it’s exactly what I mean.”

  “This isn’t his case,” Grace said. She sounded defensive.

  “Did you mention them to Irene?”

  “No. I don’t want to make her any more concerned than she is already.”

  “Dev is the chief of police in this town. He needs to know what’s going on. Talk to him tomorrow morning.”

  Grace hesitated. “Okay. But there really isn’t anything Devlin can do about this.”

  “Dev’s a good cop. He might have some ideas. Meanwhile try to get some sleep.”

  “Oh, sure, easy for you to say.”

  He couldn’t think of a response to that. He had a feeling he wouldn’t get a lot of sleep, either.

  “Good night,” he said again.

  “Hang on, I’ve got a question. You said that your father came around asking for money after you got rich.”

  Should have kept my mouth shut, he thought.

  “That’s right,” he said. “So?”

  “Did you give him the loan?”

  “He and I both knew it wouldn’t have been a loan because he would never have repaid it.”

  “Did you give him the money?” Grace asked quietly.

  Julius looked out over the water. “What do you think?”

  “I think you did a deal based on emotion. You gave him the money and I have a hunch it was never repaid.”

  Julius’s mouth twitched at the corner. “Right on both counts. It was the worst investment I ever made. Still don’t know why I did it.”

  “The why is easy,” Grace said. “He was your dad. You broke Rule Number Two for him.”

  “No surprise that it turned out badly.”

  “You did what you had to do.”

  “Good night,” he said.

  “Wait, what’s Rule Number One?” she asked.

  “Trust no one.”

  He ended the connection and clipped the phone to his belt. He stood at the end of the dock for a while longer, meditating on the conversation.

  It hadn’t really been phone sex, he decided. But talking to Grace had seemed a lot more intimate than any of the sexual encounters he’d had since his divorce.

  • • •

  He was right about one thing—sleep was hard to come by. At two-fifteen he got up, pulled on his jeans and a jacket and went outside into the cold night. He walked to the end of the dock and looked across the expanse of dark water toward the Elland house.

  The back porch light was still on and a weak glow illuminated the curtains in all the windows. He knew the night-lights would still be on at dawn when he went past the house on his morning run. They had been lit up all night, every night since Grace had arrived in Cloud Lake.

  Eight

  The phone rang just as Grace dropped a slice of multi-grain bread into the toaster. She glanced at the screen, saw her sister’s name, and took the call.

  “Are you calling to tell me that you’re pregnant again?” she asked. “If so, congratulations.”

  “I’m calling,” Alison said, “because I just saw the news about the embezzlement at the Witherspoon Way Corporation. Are you all right?”

  Alison was using her crisp, no-nonsense lawyer voice. That was never a good sign.

  “Word travels fast,” Grace said. “And, yes, I’m fine.”

  Phone in hand, she walked to the window. It was her favorite time of day. The late winter sun was not yet up, but there was enough early light in the sky to transform the surface of the lake into a steel mirror. As she watched, a man dressed in gray sweats came into view. He was running at an easy, steady pace, as if he could run forever. He followed the public path that traced the shoreline. The lights were on in her kitchen. She knew that if he looked at the house he would see her. She waved.

  Julius raised one hand, acknowledging the greeting. For a few seconds she could have sworn he actually broke stride, perhaps even considered pausing to say good morning. But he kept going.

  She had been living in the lake house for nearly a week. Although she had met Julius for the first time last night, she already knew his running schedule. He went past her place every other morning just before dawn. This was the first morning that she had waved at him. Until last night he had been an interesting stranger. Today he was a man with whom she had shared some secrets.

  “I’m worried about this new development,” Alison said. “Embezzlement is dangerous territory. There’s a strong possibility that it was the reason for Witherspoon’s murder.”

  Grace watched Julius until he was out of sight. When he was gone she switched the phone to speaker mode and put the device down on the counter. She reached for the jar of peanut butter and a knife.

  “In a horrible way it would be almost reassuring to know that there was a logical motive like money involved,” she said. “Otherwise Sprague’s death makes no sense.”

  She glanced at the clock. The early morning call was unlike Alison, who lived a well-scheduled, well-organized life that revolved around home and work. Even the birth of her first child a year earlier had done little to disturb the efficient household. She balanced career and family with an aplomb that made other women marvel.

  Grace knew that at that moment Alison was putting the finishing touches on breakfast, after which she would dress in one of her tailored business suits before heading to her office. Alison looked great in a sharp suit. Actually, she looked terrific in just about anything, Grace thought. Her older sister was tall and willowy. But as a successful lawyer who specialized in estate planning, Alison elected to project a conservative air. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a strict twist that emphasized her classic profile. Sleek, serious glasses framed her eyes.

  “The problem with the embezzlement motive is that it points to someone who was working directly for Witherspoon,” Alison said grimly.

  “That had occurred to me.” Grace took the lid off the jar of peanut butter. “You’re worried that the cops will think I was the one doing the embezzling, aren’t you?”

  “You’re the one who made Witherspoon so successful.”

  “That’s not true,” Grace said. “Why do I have to keep explaining that Sprague Witherspoon was the genuine article—a man who truly wanted to do good. And, yes, he had been doing very well financially in the past eighteen months. But that’s just it. Why on earth would I want to kill him? Why would any of us in the office want to murder him? He was making himself and everyone around him quite wealthy. Besides, we both know I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about constr
ucting an embezzlement scheme.”

  “Embezzlement is a lot easier than most people think,” Alison said. “There are so many ways to siphon off money from a successful business like the Witherspoon Way.”

  “Oddly enough you are not the first person to mention that to me lately.”

  “I can’t believe you walked in on another murder,” Alison said. “Statistically speaking, the odds of a person who isn’t in law enforcement or connected to the criminal world stumbling into two different homicide scenes must be vanishingly small.”

  “Statistics was never my best subject. I keep reminding myself that coincidences do happen. That’s why they invented the word.”

  “How are things going there in Cloud Lake?” Alison asked.

  “Okay. I’m not making much progress on finding a new career path, though.”

  “Give yourself some time. It’s not like you haven’t had a couple of major shocks lately, what with the murder and then finding yourself unemployed.”

  “Tell me about it,” Grace said. The toast popped up in the toaster. She removed it, set it on a plate and spread some peanut butter on it. “But as much as I’d like to blame my lack of momentum on those things, I don’t think that’s the real problem.”

  “What is the real problem?”

  Grace hesitated, unsure of how much to confide to Alison. There was nothing her sister could do except worry. But they were family, after all. They had never kept secrets from each other, at least not for long.

  “The dream is back, Alison. And so are the anxiety attacks.”

  “Damn. I was afraid the trauma of Witherspoon’s death might drag everything to the surface again. Maybe you should make an appointment with Dr. Peterson.”

  “I already know what she would say. She would remind me to practice rewriting the dream script before I go to bed and to remember to use the breathing exercises and meditation techniques on a regular basis and, if necessary, take the meds. I’m doing all of that. It’s just that—”

  A small amount of peanut butter dropped off the knife and landed on the counter.