Trust No One

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone actually say that before.”

  “I told you, what Julius Arkwright is looking for these days is a way to escape boredom.”

  “Considering the fact that you met Julius less than twenty-four hours ago, you sure seem to know a lot about him.”

  “He’s hard to read but not impossible.” Grace drank the rest of her coffee and set the mug down. “I know you meant well, but promise me you won’t set me up with any more blind dates, at least not until I get my life together.” She rose to her feet. “I’d better be on my way. I have to do some grocery shopping and then I am scheduled to meet my consultant for a luncheon meeting. We are supposed to start building my business plan.”

  “What will you do if you don’t come up with a strategy that leads you to your personal calling?”

  “Fire my consultant.”

  Twelve

  The rain had stopped by the time Grace finished her shopping and got behind the wheel to drive back to the lake house. The high cloud cover remained, however, infusing the atmosphere with the peculiar glary gray light that made sunglasses a necessity, even in winter.

  She did not recognize the expensive-looking silver sedan parked in front of the lake house but she knew the blonde in the front seat all too well. Nyla Witherspoon.

  First a visit with the local chief of police and now Nyla had decided to pay a call on her. The day was not improving markedly, Grace decided. She tried to come up with an affirmation that applied to the situation. Nothing sprang to mind.

  She brought her car to a halt and mentally braced herself for the encounter. Nyla erupted from the front seat of the sedan.

  She was a thin, sharp-faced woman who, if she smiled more, would have been quite attractive in a chic, elfin way. But when she was not smiling—which was most of the time as far as Grace could tell—she looked like all she needed was a broomstick and a pointed hat to complete her ensemble. The bitterness and anger that simmered in her eyes seemed to bubble up from someplace deep inside.

  She stalked over to the compact, arriving just as Grace got the door open.

  “Did you think you could hide here in Cloud Lake?” Nyla’s sunglasses made it impossible to read her eyes but her voice was tight with rage. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

  “I didn’t know you were looking for me,” Grace said. She took off her own shades. “You could have called. What do you want, Nyla?”

  “You know why I’m here. I want my father’s money—the money that should have come to me.”

  “I’ve told you before, I don’t have it.”

  “You’re lying. You embezzled it from my father’s corporation. You’ve probably got it hidden in some offshore account.”

  Grace closed her eyes for a couple of seconds and reminded herself that Nyla had some serious issues.

  “I don’t know anything about the missing money,” she said. She tried to pitch her voice to a soothing level. “By the way, I told the police about those emails you’ve been sending to me from your father’s account. It amounts to stalking, you know.”

  “What are you talking about? What emails?”

  “Nyla, if you’re the one who has been emailing me, it has got to stop. The cops are trying to catch your father’s killer. They need your help. Focusing your rage on me won’t do any good.”

  Nyla’s sharp features tightened. “A lot of people, including the police, think that you might be the one who murdered my father.”

  Grace spread her hands. “Why would I kill my employer and cut off the cash flow? Think about it, Nyla. Sprague was the one who brought in the money, not me. It was his name on the blog and on the cookbook. I was just his assistant. Trust me, with your father gone, the cash flow will dry up fast.”

  “You shot him because he found out that you were stealing his money. He probably confronted you, maybe threatened to report you to the police. You had to get rid of him.”

  “That simply is not true,” Grace said. “I was home the night your father was murdered.”

  “Your so-called alibi won’t hold water. Yes, I know they say the security video shows your car parked in the apartment garage that night but that doesn’t mean you didn’t leave the building. You could have slipped out and taken a cab to my father’s house on Queen Anne.”

  “You can’t prove that. No one can prove it, because it never happened.”

  “Your prints were at the scene.” But Nyla sounded less certain now.

  “My prints were at the scene because I’m the one who found the body,” Grace said, struggling to hold on to her patience. “Get real, Nyla. That’s not proof.”

  “Someone must have seen you leave your apartment that night,” Nyla wailed.

  “I’m not lying,” Grace said, trying to de-escalate the situation. “When the cops find your father’s killer, I’m sure they’ll find the money, too.”

  But Nyla was no longer looking at her. She was staring past Grace’s shoulder. Uncertainty flashed across her face. She switched her attention back to Grace.

  “I’m willing to negotiate,” Nyla said quickly. “I’ll give you a percentage. We can call it a finder’s fee or a commission. I swear you won’t walk away empty-handed. Return the money and I won’t press embezzlement charges. Think about it. I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”

  Without waiting for a response, she swung around and went swiftly toward her car.

  Curious to see who or what had distracted Nyla and inspired her to quit the scene, Grace turned and saw Julius coming around the side of the house. She realized he had used the footpath to walk from his place to hers.

  He did not appear to be in a rush but he was covering a lot of ground in an efficient manner. He was dressed in jeans, a khaki shirt, low boots and a black leather bomber jacket. A pair of wraparound sunglasses glinted ominously in the grayish light. The overall effect was rather menacing. Grace understood why Nyla had decided to depart in a hurry.

  Julius reached Grace’s side seconds before Nyla sped past, tires spitting out gravel. He seized Grace’s arm and hauled her out of the way of the small bits of flying rock.

  “Was that, by any chance, Witherspoon’s daughter?” Julius asked.

  “Good guess. Nyla Witherspoon.” Grace tried to gently extricate her arm from Julius’s hand. He seemed to have forgotten that he was holding on to her. “She’s convinced I stole her father’s money and murdered him. But the interesting thing is that she offered me a deal.”

  Julius finally noticed that she was attempting to wriggle free of his fingers. He released her. “What kind of deal?”

  Grace pondered her answer while she opened the rear door of the compact and took out a sack of groceries. “She wants the money so badly she offered to give me a finder’s fee if I return it. No questions asked. She promised she wouldn’t press embezzlement charges.”

  Julius took the groceries from her, holding the heavy sack easily in one arm.

  “Did she say anything else?” he asked.

  “She seems to think that my alibi for the night of Sprague’s murder is weak. She reminded me that my prints are at the scene of the crime.”

  “But all she cares about is getting her hands on the money?”

  “It’s all she has left of her father,” Grace explained. “I think she’s grieving the loss of a relationship she never had. She thinks the money will somehow compensate.”

  “Do you know the source of her issues?”

  “Oh, yes. All of us who worked in the office were aware that Nyla blamed her father for her mother’s suicide years ago.”

  Grace opened the front door. Julius followed her inside and into the kitchen.

  “It feels chilly in here, doesn’t it?” Grace said.

  She went to the thermostat on the wall and checked the setting. The controls were set to the usual daytime te
mperature.

  “This is not good,” she said. “Looks like there may be a problem with the heating system. I’ll give the repair company a call after lunch. Luckily I’ve got the fireplace for backup.”

  “Try rebooting the system first,” Julius said.

  “Oh, yeah, like I know how to reboot an HVAC system.”

  “I’ll take a look at the controls after lunch.”

  She glanced at him. “Thanks.”

  “No guarantees.”

  He set the groceries on the kitchen table and took off his sunglasses. Dropping the glasses into the pocket of his jacket, he watched Grace remove the free-range eggs and a bag of organically grown red peppers from the sack. She set them on the counter next to the refrigerator and returned to the table.

  “Back to Nyla Witherspoon,” he said. “Your theory is that she is more interested in the money now than in finding her father’s killer?”

  “I think the money is important to her for emotional as well as financial reasons. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s also being pressured to get her hands on her inheritance.”

  “What kind of pressure?” Julius’s eyes sharpened. “Is she in debt?”

  “Not that I know of,” Grace said. She reached into the sack and took out the almonds, sunflower seeds and hazelnuts she planned to use for a batch of homemade granola. “Got a hunch her fiancé may be pushing her to find the money.”

  “Dev mentioned a fiancé.”

  “His name is Burke Marrick. Sprague did not approve of him. Kristy, Millicent and I had our doubts about him, too. Marrick showed up in Nyla’s life a few months ago and swept her off her feet. It was a whirlwind courtship. They got engaged within weeks. She thinks he’s Mr. Perfect.”

  Julius got a knowing look in his eyes. “But you and your friends think that Marrick wants to marry Nyla for the traditional reason—her money.”

  Grace opened a cupboard and stored the nuts and seeds on a shelf. “You’re not much of a romantic, are you?”

  “I’m a realist.”

  “Whatever.” Grace removed the Brussels sprouts from the sack and set them on the counter next to the other items she was going to store in the refrigerator. She paused for a moment and met Julius’s eyes. “Here’s what I think—Nyla is afraid that if she loses the money, she’ll lose Mr. Perfect, too. That possibility, coming on the heels of her father’s murder, it’s just too much for her. She’s falling apart—consumed with anger, resentment and a deep sense of loss. Internally she’s probably a cauldron of seething emotion so she’s lashing out.”

  “People who are lashing out are dangerous, Grace.”

  “I know.”

  Julius went silent for a moment. She studied him covertly while she removed the last items from the grocery sack. She could almost see the computer in his head doing its thing, processing a lot of ones and zeroes. Arkwright the Alchemist was calculating; probably working on a strategy. She wasn’t sure that was a good thing. True, she had invited him into her life with the breakfast picnic bribe but she knew that she had to tread cautiously. Men like Julius tended to take charge in a hurry. It was their nature.

  Out of nowhere, one of the Witherspoon affirmations brightened with the intensity of a halogen bulb in her mind. Embrace the unknown. It is the only certainty.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “About the missing Witherspoon money.” Julius looked out the window at the gray surface of the lake as if it were a divining mirror that reflected answers. “It seems to be one of the keys to whatever is going on here. You’re the expert on pithy sayings. I’ll bet you know the one that applies in this instance.”

  “Follow the money?”

  “That’s one affirmation I do believe in,” he said. He met her eyes. “It never lets me down.”

  “I’m sure the cops believe in it, too,” Grace said. “They probably watch television, just like the rest of us.”

  “They may be looking into the money angle but it won’t hurt to have someone from our side take a look as well.”

  She stilled. “Someone from our side?”

  His brows rose. His eyes glittered with dark amusement. “If there’s one thing Arkwright Ventures can provide here, it’s financial expertise. There are people on my staff who are very, very good at following the money.”

  “I see,” she said. She was not certain where to go with that.

  “Now, about lunch and your business plan,” he said.

  “Whoa.” Grace held up a hand, palm out. “Stop. Just a second, here. I need to think about your offer.”

  Julius somehow managed to look bewildered and possibly a bit hurt. “You don’t want me to look into the money angle?”

  “It’s not that.” She paused, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for her objections. The reality was that her impulsive reaction had been emotional, not logical.

  “What is the problem?” Julius asked.

  It was a reasonable question.

  “I know you mean well and I appreciate your good intentions,” she said carefully. “Really I do.”

  “This isn’t a matter of good intentions. It’s a simple, logical approach to a problem.” He looked around the kitchen. “What were you planning for lunch?”

  “Forget lunch,” she said, putting a little steel into the words.

  If he had appeared bewildered and a little hurt a moment ago, he was downright crushed now.

  “I thought there would be lunch,” he said.

  “Pay attention, Arkwright. This isn’t a corporation I’m running here and no one elected you CEO. This is my life, my future. If you’re going to do stuff that impacts one or both of those things, you need to discuss it with me first. You do not just waltz into my house and announce that you’re going to appoint someone I’ve never even met to examine the finances of a man some people think I may have murdered. It may be a good idea or it may not. The point is, I need to be involved in the conversation. Is that clear?”

  There was a charged silence in the kitchen while Julius considered her declaration of independence. Then he evidently came to a conclusion.

  “Okay,” he said.

  She eyed him with deep suspicion. “Okay? That’s it? Just okay?”

  Julius’s expression was one of polite bewilderment. “Should there be more?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “So,” Julius said. “What do you think about having one of the Arkwright financial wizards try to trace the embezzled Witherspoon money?”

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “There are privacy issues, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention legal issues.”

  “Not a problem,” Julius said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It won’t be the first time that Arkwright Ventures has offered its professional expertise to the police for the purposes of some forensic accounting work. I’ll talk to Dev. He’ll coordinate with his contacts at the Seattle PD. He’s worked with them before on cases that spilled over the city limits.”

  “I see.” She thought about that for a moment. “Well, okay, then.”

  “Excellent. I’ll get right on it after lunch.” Julius cleared his throat. “I would remind you that I did not waltz into your kitchen. I just walked in. Carrying the groceries for you.”

  “Whatever.” She pushed herself away from the counter. “All right, we have an understanding. New day, new opportunities to shape the future.”

  “Is that one of the Witherspoon affirmations?”

  “Yes, it is, as a matter of fact. It accompanied the recipe for granola in the Witherspoon Way cookbook.” She paused, trying to decide what to do next. Julius was standing in the middle of her kitchen and showing no signs of going anywhere. She needed to do something with him. “Where were we?”

  “Lunch,” he said, looking hopeful.

/>   “Right. Lunch.” She headed toward the refrigerator, grateful for something concrete to do. “And then my career plan.”

  “We’ll start by making a detailed list of your skill set. But first I have another, off-topic question for you.”

  “What’s that?” she asked. She reached for the handle of the refrigerator door.

  “I need a date for tomorrow night,” Julius said. He did not take his eyes off her. “I have to attend that thoroughly boring business dinner and charity auction that I mentioned to you. I also have to deliver the thoroughly boring after-dinner talk on the thoroughly boring subject of the Pacific Northwest investment climate. Would you consider going with me so that I don’t have to sit at the head table alone? You might be able to keep me from dozing off.”

  She opened the refrigerator, trying to process the invitation.

  All rational thought winked out of existence when she saw the things sitting on the center shelf.

  For a few seconds she just stood there. Her mind refused to accept the reality of what she was seeing. It had to be a hallucination.

  But it was not a dream.

  She screamed, dropped the carton of eggs and slammed the door closed.

  “Not exactly the response I was hoping for,” Julius said.

  He was at her side in the blink of an eye. He opened the refrigerator door. Together they both looked at the dead rat lying on the serving platter. It was surrounded by sprigs of parsley. There was a slice of lemon in its mouth. Next to the platter stood an unopened bottle of vodka.

  “That settles it,” Julius said. “Someone really is stalking you.”

  Thirteen

  At least it wasn’t cooked,” Grace said. She shuddered. “Although whoever put it in my refrigerator went to the trouble of making that poor rat look like it was ready to serve for dinner.”

  Devlin looked up from his notebook. “Poor rat?”

  “I’m no more fond of rats than anyone else,” Grace said. “But it’s really bad karma to kill an innocent creature just so that it can be used to stage some kind of sick revenge fantasy.”