Beguiled

by Deeanne Gist

Pausing at the open driver’s door, Karl turned. “Do I look scared to you?”

  “It’s just . . . that dog collar the other day. The message inside. It said the same thing as the note left at Rylee’s place when that psycho trashed it. I think maybe you know who’s responsible. Maybe he’s the one blackmailing you. If you want to help Rylee, why don’t you tell me what you know?”

  Karl slapped the dust off his hands and fixed Logan with a good-riddance glare. “If I want to help Rylee, I don’t need your assistance to do it.”

  He dropped into the driver’s seat and yanked the door shut. Logan watched him speed down the short drive and cut the wheel onto East Battery, zooming off like a man on a mission.

  Shaking his head, Logan ascended the stairs to the door and knocked.

  Grant Sebastian opened up immediately, staring a few moments, glassy-eyed, before recognition dawned. “Oh. I take it he’s gone.”

  “Karl? He just left.”

  “I see.” He took a step backward. “Well, in that case come in.”

  The first time they’d met, at the police station, he’d been wearing a pinstriped suit. Now, Sebastian’s high-waisted slacks and sky blue polo made him look like he’d just come from the golf course.

  “So he’s gone?” he asked again, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

  Logan caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. “I saw him drive off.”

  A smile bloomed on the old lawyer’s face, a slow but unmistakable grin, reminding Logan of a man who’d matched the winning lottery numbers to his ticket and was just starting to believe his luck.

  “Come in. Come in.” His voice exultant, he ushered Logan past a stairway and across parquet floors. Whatever his expectations of the old Monroe house had been, Logan was surprised how ordinary it was.

  Nice, certainly, but no more opulent than the Davidsons’ house or the Petries’. The scale was larger, perhaps, and in contrast to the more lived-in homes of Rylee’s clients, this one had a showcase quality, everything arranged with museum-like precision.

  Grant waved Logan into his study, a compact, book-lined room with white woodwork and a set of windows looking out onto the bay. One of them was slightly open, admitting a warm breeze, birdsong, and sounds of the street outside.

  He went straight to the Scotch bottles on the sideboard, sloshing a generous helping of amber liquid into a pair of glasses. He settled into a wingback chair, offering Logan the facing seat, the one with the view, and handed one of the glasses across.

  “To victory,” Grant said, raising his tumbler.

  Logan clinked glasses but did not drink. He was a little uncertain what they were celebrating. But the lawyer’s unexpected mood could work to his advantage. He decided to leave the photocopy of the affidavit in his back pocket for now.

  “You don’t have any children,” Grant said, “so you can’t understand.”

  Logan set his drink on a side table. “Karl’s leaving the nest?”

  “Being pushed is more like it.” Another gulp of Scotch, followed by a laugh. “I never thought I’d see the day. You have no idea how many ultimatums I’ve given him, how many lines I’ve drawn in the sand . . . .” He narrowed his eyes. “We’re speaking off the record here, you understand.”

  He nodded.

  Grant took another gulp, then settled into his chair. “My wife is out with some friends. She’ll be relieved when she gets back. He was supposed to be gone before our return, but it didn’t work out that way. Now it’s settled, though, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Your wife doesn’t care for Karl?” Logan asked.

  He tilted his glass, watching the amber liquid as it captured the light. “She says I raised a monster.” He finished the drink. “And I’ll admit, you don’t get to where I am without breaking a few eggs. But I’ve always tried to offset those necessary evils with a good deed or two.”

  Anger surged through Logan. Wrenching the affidavit out of his back pocket, he slammed it on the side table. “I’d hardly call this an evil that can be balanced out by a ‘good deed or two.’ ”

  Grant picked up the document, fumbling to open his eyeglasses and hook them on his ears. Clearly, the Scotch he’d just consumed was one of many from throughout the day. Perhaps he’d needed some liquid fortification before throwing his son out of the house.

  As he flipped the pages, Grant’s face collapsed. “Where did you get this?”

  “According to Jon Monroe, you defrauded countless widows and orphans during the seventies and eighties. When he confronted you, you refused to make restitution for it. Days after that affidavit was drawn up, Monroe ‘disappeared.’ Days after he disappeared, his wife took a few too many sleeping pills. What really happened to them, Sebastian?”

  Grant’s face went pale.

  Logan squared his shoulders. “You killed them. Both of them. Didn’t you?”

  His eyes flared. “Get out of my house.”

  “Monroe threatened to expose you, so you killed him and his wife. Isn’t that right?”

  Reaching for Logan’s untouched glass, Grant took a deep swallow. “You’ve been watching too many movies, Woods.”

  “There are plenty more copies where that came from.”

  Grant’s scoff was interrupted by a hiccup. “What? You think to threaten me with this? A legal document?” His laugh sounded hard and bitter. “Don’t kid yourself. This is nothing compared to what I just got rid of.”

  Logan’s breath hitched. “Are you talking about Karl? Did Karl kill the Monroes?”

  Wobbling to his feet, Grant steadied himself on the wing of the chair. “Karl has problems. Always has. But as far as I know, the Monroes weren’t among his victims.”

  The old man’s words slurred, but Logan made them out. The hair on the back of his neck stood. “So Karl has killed in the past, just not the Monroes. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Sebastian’s watery eyes sagged like a bloodhound’s, showing red at the bottom. “Jon, he backed me into a corner. I had no choice. But I took care of his girl. Treated her like my own.” Grant swayed, and for a moment Logan thought he’d fall. But gripping the chair tightly, he managed to regain his balance.

  Logan slowly came to his feet. “Rylee, you mean? You call fleecing her of her estate, her home, and her inheritance taking care of her?”

  Grant smacked his lips together, then swooped up the glass of alcohol and finished it off. “I protected her from Karl, didn’t I? If she’d stayed here, in this house, in this neighborhood, no telling what would have happened. I took that girl clear out to the other side of Charleston. All the way to Folly Beach. I took care of her all right.”

  The phone on the nearby desk started to ring. Grant lurched for the receiver, knocking it off the base. The person on the other end shouted into the phone. Grant brought it to his ear.

  “What do you want?” His eyes flashed with anger. He cut the air with his hand. “Haven’t you had enough, Karl?” He gave Logan a look. “Yes, he’s here. But he doesn’t want to talk to you, and neither do I.”

  He started to hang up.

  “Wait.” Logan sprang forward. “Karl, is that you?”

  “I paid a visit to a friend of yours just now.”

  “Rylee?”

  “She doesn’t care about you. I’m talking about that fat, cigar-smoking piece of garbage who spoon-feeds your stories to you. Only he’s not going to be much use to you anymore. He had something of mine. He doesn’t anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I have a message for my father,” he said, “and I don’t think he’s going to remember much of anything he hears right now. So write this down.”

  “What’s the message?” Logan asked.

  “Tell him we’re leaving.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Tell him he’ll never see either of us again. He doesn’t want to have a son, so he won’t. That’s his choice. But he can’t have a daughter, either. That’s my choice. You tell him.�
�

  “Karl?” Logan gripped the phone. “Karl!”

  But the line was dead.

  Logan swung around to face Grant. “He said you can’t have a daughter, either. What does that mean?”

  The old man shrugged.

  Logan grabbed him by the shirt front and shook. “What does it mean?”

  “He’s talking about Rylee,” the old man bellowed. “He wants to take her away from me.”

  Logan didn’t wait for more. He left Grant Sebastian trembling against the desk, calling after him in slurred exclamations.

  He rushed outside, down the stairs, and across the street. He jammed his keys into the ignition.

  Karl was out there somewhere, looking for Rylee. Or maybe he already had her. Logan had to find them.

  Only he didn’t know where to start.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The sunlight beating through the windshield made the seats sizzling to the touch, and Daisy’s a/c didn’t have what it took to cool things down. Rylee’s messenger bag lay on the seat beside her. Inside was a new set of keys, a new list of clients, a new start.

  Running her fingers over the quilted pink and yellow fabric of her bag, she thought about Logan and the effort he’d gone to on her behalf. As soon as she finished walking Toro, she’d call him. Maybe see if he’d like to watch a dvd at her place tonight.

  She checked herself. Make that Liz’s place.

  The trees along Meeting Street shimmered in the breeze. She parked on the curb, then cut down Prices Alley toward the David-sons’ gate, which was half hidden by a covering of creeping fig.

  Despite the heat, chills raced up her arms at the memory of the stalker who’d followed her here and of Robin Hood’s break-in. She shifted the bag on her shoulder, the familiar heft of her rollerblades inside.

  She’d be able to use them with two of her new pets, and though she’d miss the historic district, the smooth sidewalks on James Island would be a nice break from the jarring she got on the cobblestone walkways south of Broad.

  The only sign of the commotion earlier in the week was a tiny ribbon of yellow tape snagged by a boxwood. From the outside, at least. The damage inside the house would take much longer to heal. Her first time back after the break-in had been hard. She plucked the tape off the bush, then made her way to the piazza, slipping her key into the lock.

  “Anybody home?”

  Barking from deep inside the house, the sound of paws rattling the stairs, nails on the wood, prepared her for Toro. Someone had forgotten to put him in his crate.

  He bounded around the corner. She hugged him to her, scrubbing fingers along his short, coarse coat. “Hey there, fella. How’s my boy?”

  Hearing no other sounds from inside, she grabbed his leash from the hall tree. “Okay. Let’s go for a walk.”

  He gazed up in delight, jumping at her hip, catching his paw on her belt loop.

  “Easy, now. Stay down.” Laughing, she sat on the steps outside, letting him run free through the side garden while she slipped her shoes off and reached for the rollerblades.

  Toro trotted along the beds, pausing to scratch once or twice at the ground. The blooming season had long since withered in the South Carolina heat, but the greenery and verdigris benches still exuded charm and a sense of history.

  “Rylee?”

  She jumped, losing her grip on the rollerblade laces. In the archway that led to the alley, Karl stood, a crooked smile on his lips.

  She pressed a hand to her hammering chest. “You scared me to death!”

  “Sorry about that.” He raised his open palms in apology.

  “So what are you doing here?” she asked.

  He walked over, still smiling, and sat down a step below her, leaving a few feet between them. “I should ask you the same thing. Have you ever heard the expression ‘returning to the scene of the crime’? If I were you, I’d give this place a wide berth.”

  “Not a chance.” She pointed to Toro, who stood wide-legged in the distance, peering at the new arrival. “I wouldn’t miss this guy’s workout for the world.”

  Karl nodded. “You really care about these animals, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  As handsome as he was, as friendly as they’d become while she walked Romeo, she was relieved they’d never gone on that dinner. He wasn’t near the man Logan was. Not even close.

  She hoped he wasn’t here to ask her out again. Standing, she balanced on the cobbled walk.

  He cupped her elbow.

  She smiled. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  The breeze was uncomfortably balmy. She grabbed her bag and hooked it over her shoulder. “You ready to go, boy?”

  Toro let out a low growl.

  “Behave yourself.” She made her way across the grass to Toro and gave his head a quick rub. “He’s probably on edge because of everything that’s happened.”

  Karl glanced at Toro impassively, the way he might at an inanimate object.

  She straightened. “Listen, Toro here is going crazy for a walk, so I better—”

  “Rylee,” he said, a strange thickness in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m here . . .” His voice trailed off. “I’m here to rescue you.”

  She tilted her head. “Rescue me? From who?”

  “You know who,” he said. “From my father.”

  “Karl, please.” She knew things between him and his dad were strained. But she had no desire to get stuck in the middle. “Your dad has done so much for me. It makes me really uncomfortable when you—”

  “My father is an evil, manipulative man. Do you know what he did?”

  In spite of the sun on her skin, she felt a chill. She crossed her arms, holding on tight. “I’m sorry, Karl, but I’m not going to listen—”

  “Rylee.” He stepped closer. “He murdered your parents.”

  She froze. Her eyes wouldn’t focus, wouldn’t even blink. Then, sucking in her breath, she took a quick step backward, bumping into Toro. Her rollerblades slipped, but she managed to stay upright.

  Karl rubbed the back of his neck, smiling to himself. “No, that’s not exactly true. He didn’t kill them. He hired someone to do it.”

  Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe. “I’m sorry?”

  “I was just a kid. About eighteen.” He glanced up into the sky. “Your dad had a document that my dad wanted. So he told Marcel to get it, no matter what it took.”

  She took quick, rapid breaths, struggling for air. The messenger bag on her shoulder slid to the ground. “Marcel Gibbon?”

  Karl nodded. “Back then, he was like a mentor to me. Took me under his wing. To me, he was the next best thing to James Bond. But then, I didn’t really know him yet. Just like I didn’t really know my dad.”

  Nausea began to churn in her stomach.

  “He took me along, you know. I watched him kill your dad.”

  Her knees weakened. She groped for the nearby bench, grabbing the back of it for support.

  “Marcel let me have your dad’s cuff links. ‘Something to commemorate the day,’ he said.” Karl’s eyes gentled. His voice grew soft.

  “They’re fourteen-karat gold. Crested with your dad’s alma mater. I wear them around the house sometimes when no one’s home.”

  She was going to pass out. Or throw up. Maybe both. Using the bench as a guide, she hand-walked her way to its front and plopped down.

  He sneered. “Or I did. Until that stupid George stole my jewelry casket and tried to make it look like Robin Hood. Then he gave the thing to Marcel, of all people, to fence.” He shook his head. “It was your father’s, you know. A really cool piece with multiple drawers and doors. I kept my treasures in it. Your dad’s cuff links. Your mom’s perfume. My law professor’s glasses. Everything. Those items would have meant nothing to anyone . . . other than Marcel.”

  She opened her mouth, breathing in. Blowing out. In. Out.

  His lips curled in disgust. “He, o
f course, immediately recognized the cuff links and the perfume vial of your mom’s. And once he did, he realized the significance of everything else.” Raking a hand through his thick blond hair, he gave a bark of incredulous laughter. “And he had the audacity to use that stuff against me. Me. Can you believe that?”

  “My mom’s perfume?” she rasped, touching her pearl-drop pendant. “You, you killed my mother?”

  He sliced a hand through the air. “No. Pay attention. I only witnessed your parents’ deaths. The others . . . they happened much later.”

  Her mind started to reengage. She needed to get away. She needed to get help. But her legs were like rubber, and she feared if she stood up she’d pass out before taking more than a few steps.

  “It was my dad who had your parents killed. Who confiscated the proceeds from your estate sale. Who stole your ancestral home right out from under you. And I’m sick and tired of the way you go all soft around him, like he’s some father figure to you or something. It’s not right.”

  Toro had disappeared around the corner. He was somewhere in the yard, but she didn’t know where. The faint vibration of her phone came from inside her messenger bag. Too far away to retrieve without being obvious.

  Her eyes throbbed in her head. She brushed at them, expecting tears, but the skin, though raw to the touch, remained dry. Her hand was shaking. “If I’d had any idea—”

  “And now he thinks he’s gotten rid of me. From his house. The law firm. All of it.” His smile was full of wicked satisfaction. “He was provoked when he realized everything I’d stolen were items that once belonged to Jon Monroe. But that was nothing compared to his fury when he saw what I did to your apartment.”

  Her breath caught.

  “You should have seen him. He acted like you were his daughter or something. How twisted is that?” He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, then began rolling the sleeves up to the elbows. “Seems that all this time, it was you he wanted, not me. But don’t worry. I’m going to fix that. You’re coming with me. And he’ll never find us.”

  Every instinct she had screamed at her to run. Instead, she listened to her brain.

  Take it slow. No sudden moves. Big, deep breaths.