by Joanna Wayne
“Welcome to Cape Diablo.”
The man’s tone didn’t match his words.
“Thanks. I’m Jaci Matlock, the new tenant.”
“Yeah, I know.”
So this was the caretaker. He didn’t look that bad for a recluse who’d spent half his life on a secluded island. He was as unfriendly as she’d expected. She’d have to play this just right to get him to talk to her about the past, or even let her into the boathouse.
“Follow me,” he said.
An icy tremble slithered down Jaci’s spine as she started up the shadowy path toward the house. The crimes might have occurred thirty years ago, but the air seemed alive with dark and possibly deadly secrets.
The situation was a forensic student’s dream, unless…
Unless it turned into a nightmare.
JOANNA WAYNE
A CLANDESTINE AFFAIR
To Amanda Stevens and B.J. Daniels who, as always, were a ball to work with. And a special thanks to Denise Zaza, our wonderful editor, who puts up with all three of us and whose editorial insight and guidance is invaluable.
And, of course, to all of you readers who help us keep writing the stories we love by buying our books of intrigue, passion and happy endings.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When not creating tales of spine-tingling suspense and heartwarming romance, Joanna Wayne enjoys reading, traveling, playing golf and spending time with family and friends.
Joanna believes that one of the special joys of writing is knowing that her stories have brought enjoyment to or somehow touched the lives of her readers.
Books by Joanna Wayne
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
662—BEHIND THE VEIL
675—MYSTIC ISLE *
714—ATTEMPTED MATRIMONY*
753—AS DARKNESS FELL †
771—JUST BEFORE DAWN†
795—A FATHER’S DUTY
867—SECURITY MEASURES
888—THE AMULET
942—A CLANDESTINE AFFAIR
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jaci Matlock—The cold murder case is just a project until she becomes obsessed with finding the truth about what happened that murderous night on Cape Diablo thirty years ago.
Raoul Lazario—He’d expected a challenge when he came to the island to see Carlos, but he wasn’t prepared for Jaci Matlock or the danger that threatened her.
Mac Lowell—He is the investigating officer who’d made detailed photos of the crime scene and blood splatters the night the Santiago family had disappeared.
Bull Gatlan—The man who delivers visitors and supplies to Cape Diablo.
Enrique Lopez—Friend of Carlos and Alma, but his interest seems to lie in seducing Jaci.
Ralph Linsky and Jack Paige—Detectives from Everglades City.
Carlos Lazario—Raoul’s great-uncle, a friend to Andres Santiago and caretaker of Cape Diablo. A man with secrets of his own.
Alma Garcia—She’d been the Santiago children’s nanny until they’d disappeared. Now she’s delusional and wanders the island in a tattered white dress.
The Santiago Family—Andres had run a smuggling operation and built the once-beautiful Spanish villa that dominates the island. Medina was the daughter of a fallen Central American dictator and Andres’s second wife. Their two daughters, Pilar and Reyna, disappeared alongside them thirty years ago.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Jaci Matlock could look at crime scene photos by the hour and never once get bored. But after a half hour in a Naples, Florida, art gallery with her mother, she was all but climbing the walls. Even the flute of bubbly the gallery owner had pressed into her hand didn’t help, though she’d have hated to face the evening without it.
Her mother stopped in front of an abstract that looked as if it had been painted by a menopausal chimpanzee. She stared at it for a minute. “I hate to imagine what the artist was thinking when she painted that.”
“Another night of reruns?” Jaci offered.
“Or when will my daughter come for a real visit?”
“I’m standing right next to you. That feels like a real visit to me.”
“Two days and one night is not a real visit. Are you sure you can’t stay longer?”
“If I did, I’d be rambling through the house alone. You’re leaving for a month’s cruise Wednesday.”
“You could use a vacation yourself. We could go to Europe for a couple of weeks when I get back, just the two of us. Paris is lovely in the fall.”
“Or we could have lunch at that new French restaurant you were telling me about. I can possibly spring for the tip.”
“I’m not kidding, Jaci. You spend far too much time wallowing in the morbid. Clarence and I could give you the trip as an early present for earning your graduate degree.”
Her mother’s husband, Clarence Harding III, could definitely afford it. And to give the old fart credit where credit was due, he was generous with his darling wife, Evelyn and Jaci as well.
But Jaci was far too independent—and stubborn—to live on her stepfather’s handouts. Thankfully, her father had started a college fund for her before he’d died. That, a part-time job waiting tables and the small inheritance she’d received from her dad’s parents had let her earn her undergraduate and Master’s degrees with a minimum of loans.
Almost. She still had one major hurdle to pass.
“If I don’t complete my thesis project this semester, I won’t be getting the degree,” she said, omitting the fact that spending two weeks stalking Paris boutiques with her mother would be far more punishing than any assignment Professor Greeley could dream up.
“I know you have your paper to write, but surely you could work on that just as well in Paris.”
“It’s not a paper. It’s a project.” They’d had this conversation before, and if her mother didn’t consider forensics an F word instead of a science, she’d have remembered that.
Actually, the project should already be half-finished, but Jaci had run into a major complication. After six years of literally getting away with murder, the killer in her research crime had found religion and confessed to everything.
The family of the slain woman was thrilled to have closure. Jaci was back to square one as far as her project was concerned. Not a lot of hypothesizing she could do on a case that was solved by the killer’s confession, and she hadn’t found another cold case that spurred her interest the way that one had.
“Oh, look, there’s Mrs. Baxter and her son, Matthew. He’s a surgeon,” Evelyn crooned. “Nice looking—and single.”
Which meant her mother had dreams of match-making dancing in her head. Jaci sized up the guy as he approached with an overweight, middle-aged woman dripping diamonds. He was Caucasian, just under six feet, medium build, dark hair, lighter mustache. No visible tattoos or distinguishing marks.
She groaned silently. Maybe she had spent too many hours buried in evidence. Actually, the guy was cute, but then so were beagles. Dogs required a lot less energy than a relationship, and she didn’t even have time for them.
She half listened while her mother and Mrs. Baxter exchanged greetings, then met Matthew’s eyes briefly when her mom made the introductions. Jaci put out her hand, and fro
m the second his closed around hers, she was mesmerized—by the painting hanging just beyond his right shoulder.
“It’s the Santiago house.”
Matthew let go of her hand. “Excuse me?”
“That painting,” she said, walking around him to stand in front of it. “It’s the house where the Santiago family was living when they disappeared.”
“I’m sorry. Were they friends of yours?”
“Not likely. I wasn’t even born when they went missing.”
“My daughter’s studying to become a forensics scientist,” her mother said, almost apologetically.
“That’s interesting,” Matthew said. “How did you choose that for a career?”
“It kind of chose me.” She didn’t bother to explain; her attention was focused on the painting. She barely managed a “nice to meet you” when the surgeon and his mother moved on.
“You certainly scared him off fast enough,” Evelyn said. “I’m assuming that was your purpose in fawning over that macabre painting.”
“It’s not just a painting. That’s the house on Cape Diablo.”
Her mother stepped back, tilted her head slightly and studied the picture. “What’s Cape Diablo?”
“One of the mangrove islands off the coast. It’s not that far from here.”
“The bougainvillea looks as if it’s bleeding all over that decaying villa. It’s repulsive.”
So were the facts. A wealthy but scandalous drug runner, his wife and two children had disappeared from the house and the island thirty years ago. The only clue to what might have happened to them was splattered blood found in the boathouse.
The crime had fascinated Jaci since she was eleven and had heard her father and his partner talking about it one night when they’d thought she was asleep.
“I can’t imagine why an artist would want to create something so morbid,” Evelyn said.
“That’s nothing compared with what you hear and see on the nightly news.”
Her mother put her hand on Jaci’s shoulder. “You are so much like your father.”
The hint of melancholy in her voice surprised Jaci almost as much as the mention of her father did. He’d been dead eleven years and they’d been divorced for three before that. Her mother probably hadn’t mentioned his name a dozen times since the divorce, and never since his funeral.
All Jaci had known of the facts surrounding the divorce was that it had broken her dad’s heart. It had broken hers, as well. And Clarence Harding III’s entrance into the picture so soon after hadn’t made matters any better.
Jaci stepped closer to the painting and studied the artist’s signature, “W. St. Clair.” It was almost hidden in the trunk of a mangrove in the bottom right corner of the canvas.
Her mother had already moved on. Jaci joined her in front of a painting of a blue heron perched on the bow of a sinking sailboat. “Are you familiar with the work of W. St. Clair?” Jaci asked.
“No. Is that who painted that horrid picture?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t plan to become familiar with his work.”
His? Maybe. But Jaci had the feeling the painting had been done by a woman. She wasn’t sure why.
“Do you have a pen?”
Her mother fished a silver ballpoint from her Prada handbag and handed it to her. Jaci scribbled the artist’s name on the napkin she’d been holding under her champagne glass, then slipped the napkin into her skirt pocket as she returned the pen.
“You surely aren’t thinking of buying that painting,” her mother said. “The house looks as if it came straight from a nightmare.”
“On my budget? Are you kidding? I’m just curious about the artist. But the Santiago disappearance would make a fascinating subject for my culminating project. And it’s nearby,” she added, thinking aloud more than making conversation.
“You wouldn’t actually visit Cape Fear, would you?”
“Cape Diablo, Mother, and there’s no reason not to go there. It’s a nice quiet, secluded island amid ten thousand others in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“I don’t like it. In fact, I’m getting a really bad feeling about the place.”
So was Jaci. It was probably the crimson paint splattered like fresh blood. But she was desperate for a project, and the murder case was still as much a mystery as it had been thirty years ago.
Besides, there was nothing to fear on the island—nothing but isolation and an aging mansion that likely held deadly secrets hidden within its crumbling walls. All within an hour of the mainland by a fast boat.
The night hadn’t been a waste, after all.
FOR THE NEXT TEN DAYS, Jaci ate, slept and breathed the Santiago murders. She was so engrossed in the details, she half expected old Andres Santiago to be standing by her bed when she woke up in the morning.
But who knew what might happen when she actually reached Cape Diablo? She was headed there now, booked into one of the small apartments in what had once been a lavish pool house, or so said one of the many articles she’d read on the Santiagos’ disappearance.
She’d tried to reach Wilma St. Clair and had finally tracked her down to a residence in South Dakota, of all places. But the artist was out of town on her honeymoon and there was no way to reach her.
Jaci had also tried to get in contact with Mac Lowell, the cop who’d taken the detailed pictures of the blood splatters on the boathouse wall the night the family had disappeared.
That was a wash, as well. He’d quit the force right after that and moved out of the area. He’d later in herited his mother’s Everglades City beach house and went to visit on rare occasions. Jaci was still hoping to contact him.
She’d left word with the neighbors and also stuck a note beneath the door, asking him to call her—covering all bases in case he made a trip back to the area.
His partner that night was also unavailable. He’d been killed in a car crash about the same time Mac had moved away.
The good news was that once Professor Greeley intervened on her behalf, the Everglades City Police Department had released copies of the blood splatter photos and the pertinent police records.
The bad news was that other than the photos, the police reports left a lot to be desired. Crime scene investigations from thirty years ago, especially when the crime involved a smuggler’s family living on an island that hadn’t fallen under the jurisdiction of a big-city police force, didn’t even approach today’s standards.
Jaci swatted at a mosquito that was circling her in search of a target not coated in insect repellent. “How much farther?”
Bull Gatlin kept his eyes straight ahead. “Another ten minutes or so.”
She hoped the trip wouldn’t take longer than that. It was already dusk, and she didn’t want to be out in these waters with nothing but the moon and stars to light their way.
She didn’t see how the pilot could find Cape Diablo as it was. One island followed another, all looking pretty much the same: swamp grasses, sand, jungles of mangroves that grew along the edge of the water.
Walking trees. That’s what her dad had called the mangroves when he’d taken her fishing out in the gulf. The tangled red roots made the spindly trees look as if they were walking on the incoming surf.
Jaci settled back into the memories. At age thirteen she’d been certain losing him was the end of the world. She still missed him, especially on nights like this when she could all but hear his deep, rumbling laugh and see the sweat trickling down his brow below the grungy old hat he’d worn on their fishing excursions.
He’d considered himself an ordinary cop, but she’d be happy if she could be half as good at locating evidence and solving crimes as he’d been.
“You plan to stay long?”
The boatman’s question yanked her back to the present. “I’m not sure.”
“You brought a lot of luggage.”
“Only four bags and my laptop.”
“That black duffel could hold enough for a year-long st
ay. Felt like it, too, when I put it in the boat.”
So what was he—the luggage patrol? The duffel contained her research material, and that was none of his business. “I won’t be staying a year.”
“Bet not. Most folks don’t stay more than a few days.”
“Why not?”
“Not much to do there. No TV. No entertainment ’less you like to fish, and you need a large boat to do that right, one you can take out in the open waters of the gulf.”
“No distractions. No demands. That’s the beauty of a secluded island.”
“Cape Diablo’s secluded, that’s for sure. I’m the only one who goes out there regularly, and that’s only ’cause I get paid to do it. Last man who had this job was murdered right there on the island.”
“When did that happen?”
“About three months ago. Pete got mixed up with some crazy broad who went around killing people for the fun of it. That’s the kind of folks you get on Cape Diablo. Woman like you won’t stay long.”
If his plan was to give her the creeps, he was succeeding. She studied him while he steered the boat through one of the narrower channels. He was scrawny with blond scraggly hair that fell a couple of inches past his collar.
Maybe forty. Maybe not. Hard to tell, since his face showed the signs of too much sun and not enough sun block. Looked pretty much like your basic beach bum, but his name had been given to her when she’d made the rental arrangements.
“Do you run a regular shuttle to Cape Diablo?” she asked as he slowed to maneuver through a narrow spit.
He rubbed his fingers through his unkempt beard. “I bring mail and supplies out twice a week. Occasionally I make an extra run to transport a tenant.”
“Only an occasional tenant?”
“Yeah, but then I’ve just been on the job a few months, and we’ve had a run of bad weather this year, tropical storms popping up like mushrooms.”
