by Vicki Hinze
His phone rang. “Sorry.” He answered it, thankful for the reprieve. “Brandt.”
“Ben, it’s Mark.”
“Yeah, Mark.” His gaze locked with Kelly’s. A man could get lost and stay lost in those blue eyes.
“I’ve got the ownership information you wanted on that beach house.”
“Great.” He shifted on the pew, putting a little distance between them.
“For forty years, it belonged to a woman named Bethany Bennett.”
“Never heard of her.”
“I’m surprised,” Mark said. “She lived here most of her adult life—a local artist.”
“Oh, wow. You mean Beth Bennett.” Kelly showed no reaction to hearing the name. Not a flicker. “She did paintings and pottery.”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“I knew Beth,” Ben said. “I haven’t seen her in awhile. Did she move away?”
“She died three months ago.”
Another loss in the village that had gone unnoticed while he’d been distancing himself from everyone and everything. “What happened to her?”
“Natural causes, according to the death certificate. I put a call into Hank Green to see if I could get some specifics out of him.”
Hank had been the coroner for as long as Ben could remember. “Wait a second. If she’s gone, then who owns it now?”
“Kelly Jean Walker.”
Kelly. Ben stiffened. “Um, related?”
“Yeah, her niece and only surviving relative. She inherited it, but someone else paid the taxes. Today, in fact.”
“Who?”
“A lawyer from Atlanta. Alexander Denham.”
A chill swept up Ben’s back. “He was at Chessman’s dinner party. I met him. We talked about historical landmarks.”
“Yeah, I remembered you mentioning that.”
“This smells funny, Mark. I’m not sure why, but—”
“Yes, it does. And thanks to Kelly, I now know why.”
“Kelly?”
“She suggested we check the ownership of the beach houses flanking Beth’s. Guess who owns them.”
“Denham?”
“Think closer to home.”
“Gregory Chessman?”
“Exactly.”
Ben sifted through everything, taking into account this new information. “So what does that tell us?”
“It tells us that someone is going to a lot of trouble to hook you to Kelly, and they’re really nervous about something to do with that beach house.”
“You’re sure they’re one and the same?” he asked, certain Mark would surmise he meant his Kelly and Beth’s Kelly.
“Positive,” Mark said. “I ran her background twice.”
Ben resisted the urge to ask if she was married.
“Her folks died when she was a kid. Samuel Johnson was her guardian. No relation to her—”
“Then why not Beth?” A blood relative would have priority when it came to custody.
“Beth wasn’t stable. At least not enough to get custody, though she did try. But Kelly’s parents designated Samuel as her guardian and according to the case file, Beth had been committed to a mental hospital twice.”
Everyone in the village considered her crazy, but Nora swore she was just an eccentric artist with an active imagination.
Mark went on. “Kelly’s dad and Samuel grew up together and stayed close until her dad died.”
“What have you got on him?”
“No immediate family, but guess who turned up in his background check?”
“Chessman?”
“No, but close,” Mark said. “Paul Johnson.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not. Samuel is his uncle.”
“What?” Kelly whispered from beside him.
Ben tilted the phone. “Give me a minute. It’s complicated.” He spoke again to Mark. “But Paul didn’t recognize her. Clyde, Mel, and Harvey have canvassed all over the village. No one knew her.”
“Paul wouldn’t know her. Samuel’s branch and Paul’s branch of the family are estranged and have been for thirty years. I don’t know why. But Samuel is the self-made man and the hated rich uncle. No interaction.”
How was Kelly going to take this? It was a lot to digest. “I see.”
“Not yet,” Mark said. “It gets even more bizarre.”
It couldn’t possibly.
“Something happened early on. I can’t tell from the paper trail what exactly, but in short order, this attorney, Denham, took over Kelly’s guardianship. I’m still waiting on a lot of the personal stuff, so the reason may turn up. I can tell you she looks good on paper. No arrests, no record, or anything like that. Not even a parking ticket.” Mark let out a little chuckle. “She’s got as much money as you do. That’ll be good news for her to hear.”
“She’ll need some.”
“Yeah, I expect so.”
Ben again fought the urge to ask if she was married, had a family. “What does she do?”
“Pretty much what you used to do—philanthropic work.”
“What kind?”
“Building centers for at-risk teens mostly, and funding programs for latchkey kids. I spoke to a hotel concierge in New Orleans. He said they had a drive-by shooting and a kid was killed. A few days later she showed up out of the blue saying she was going to build a place they’d be safe. She was there about a week and went to leave to site a center location, but her Jeep wouldn’t start. A part-timer working for him got her a rental—the red Jag. She left the hotel that night and never returned.”
“I see.” Ben let his gaze lose focus a second, processing that.
“You’re not going to believe who that part-timer was, Ben.”
“Who?”
“Richard Massey.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not,” Mark said.
Which tied right back to Chessman. “What about the other guy? Did you personally get in touch with him?”
“Denham?”
“Yeah.” Kelly looked eager to know what he was hearing. He held up a wait-a-minute finger, certain seeing it would exasperate her. It did; her sigh could power a windmill.
“He was out,” Mark said. “I left a message on his voice mail.”
Ben filled him in on the fax from Massey’s Emily.
“Ben, the way I see it, someone’s playing connect-the-dots between you two. It’s transparent.” Mark paused. “Well, between Susan and Kelly. Do you have any idea why?”
“Other than the obvious physical similarities, no, I don’t.” Ben couldn’t stand not knowing any longer. “When are you expecting that personal information?”
“Not sure. I’ve got inquiries out. Waiting to hear.”
“Let me know when you do, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, Mark.” Ben bit back his disappointment at not knowing if she had her own family. That was the one thing Kelly and he most wanted to know, which probably made him the most selfish person in the world right now.
He closed the phone and tucked it into his pocket.
Her eyes gleamed. “So who am I?”
She didn’t doubt he knew. Astute woman. “Your name is Kelly Jean Walker.”
“Kelly Jean Walker.” She let it roll off her tongue, tried it out. Then whispered it again.
“Ring any bells?”
“Not really.” She hiked a shoulder. “But I like it. Does that count?”
“It all counts.”
Excitement danced in her eyes. “What did Mark learn about the beach house? I definitely remember it, Ben. I see myself sitting on the rocker on the front porch.” She swept back her hair. “Who owns it?”
Ben had to force himself not to look away. She was going to be disappointed. Deeply disappointed, and then deeply saddened. He hated to have to tell her about her aunt. Should he?
On top of everything else, it could be too much for her. Maybe he should check with Harvey or Lisa first. Just to be sure he
wasn’t doing anything to make this harder on her.
“Ben, I asked a question.” Her impatience sharpened her tone. “Who owns the cottage?”
Humbled by her faith in him, he was reluctant to damage it or put her to a further test. But one look at the set of her jaw made it apparent there was no way she would give him the luxury of first checking with Harvey or Lisa. It was better to tell her here. At least being at the center, if she freaked out, they were close by and could immediately assist.
He twisted the band on his watch, covering his uncertainty, blinked, then blinked again. “You do.”
Edward took advantage of the night and parked his Impala two blocks down the street and a block over from the beach house. There was a reason Gregory wanted this place, and Edward had pieced together enough from Johnson’s and Chessman’s actions, which were not exactly working in tandem, to know that something in addition to that nasty guardian business was at play here—and he was betting it had to do with NINA. But whether that connection was with Johnson or Chessman, Edward didn’t know.
Massey was NINA connected, and he interacted with Johnson. So it likely was him. But Chessman wanted this beach house, and Johnson might well be just interacting with Massey on his orders. Regardless, why this beach house?
Strangely enough, Harry, big and brawny and slow on the uptake, had first raised that question. In a sense, it stunned Edward, because he truly hadn’t considered that there was more involved than the error forcing the woman and Brandt’s paths to cross in the first place. But after that phone call intercept between Johnson and Massey, Edward had known plenty. And while he wasn’t eager to play in NINA’s ballpark, he couldn’t just bail and be safe. So his back was against the wall.
Then she’d come to the beach house. With Benjamin Brandt. And Paul Johnson had lain in wait for them there. Johnson had arrived first, which meant he had prior knowledge of the beach house and hadn’t followed the woman there. For all the plotting and planning, her arrival had made her a target of opportunity.
So what was significant about this beach house?
Edward walked down the sidewalk, a beach bag slung over his shoulder. He wore jean shorts, a T-shirt with a sailfish emblem on its front, and sneakers: what locals called “Florida formal.”
Lights inside the little houses burned, and through filmy curtains, Edward could see people inside. Homes flanking the beach house were dark. Empty. That was odd for this area, even considering the downturn in the real-estate market. Properties along the beach brought in healthy rental incomes and rarely sat vacant.
More and more mysterious …
Edward double-checked his surroundings, scanning, looking back over his shoulder. The street was quiet. Dinnertime. He hopped the short picket fence, cut across the lawn, and headed to the back—the beach side—of the property. Sand stretched to the moonlit gulf. The sound of waves hitting the shore muffled other noises.
Edward pulled down his bag, unzipped it, and pulled out his tools. He popped the lock on the back door, which was old and clearly intended to keep out honest people. He opened the door and went inside, then clicked on his flashlight. If anyone happened to notice the light, they’d ignore it. From the looks of the place—trash and newspapers crumpled and tossed into every corner—it was being used often as a shelter by transients.
He made his way through and nearly tripped down a staircase in one of the bedrooms. He hadn’t expected to see it there. One-level home, on the water. Surely the beach house didn’t have a basement.
Edward went down the stairs, hyperalert. No sense anyone was around. No sounds or scents. Nothing. He took the bottom step and fanned the opening with light.
The room was about ten by ten, cinder block and concrete, and not a thing was in it. He walked down and looked under the stairs, saw a door, and opened it. A tunnel?
Great. Just great. Someone is running drugs.
The aunt had been an artist, but also a health nut. She wouldn’t be running drugs. And it didn’t seem to fit her pattern, but assigning patterns to anyone was dangerous business. Chessman? Maybe. But her? Drugs? That would take a significant stretch.
So how did she figure into this? Or did she?
And where exactly did that tunnel lead?
20
We’ll have more information on you and your life soon,” Ben promised Kelly at the cottage door. “I know it’s hard, but be patient. It won’t be long now.”
Ben scrawled a phone number on the back of his business card. “This is Alexander Denham’s phone number. Call and talk to him. Mark’s been trying to get in touch, but the guy’s either freezing him out or out of pocket. Either way, Mark hasn’t yet gotten him.”
She took the card. Her hand trembled. “Thanks.”
Ben obviously noticed. “Why don’t I stay with you while you make the call?”
Her tummy fluttered. “Would you mind?” Heat crept up her neck, flooded her face. “I’m being a wimp about this, and I’ve already imposed so much on you that I hate to ask, but it’s daunting and—”
“Kelly, no.” Ben stepped closer. “You haven’t imposed at all. I’m as involved as you are, though in a different way, and I know what it’s like to face something unknown on your own. It is daunting … and more.”
He understood perfectly. She’d so misjudged him initially, and now she saw his admirable qualities. “Thank you, Ben. If you’re sure you can spare the time, then please do stay.” She gave him a faltering smile. “I’m really nervous.” And grateful that she didn’t have to explain that she stood at the edge of her comfort zone and had to step out of it.
She might well discover that she didn’t like herself very much or that she had spouted but not touted her Christian principles. That worried her most of all. Being a disappointment to God. What believer wouldn’t be a total wreck about maybe facing that in herself?
She had no idea what to expect, but not a single living soul had even noticed her missing and notified the authorities anywhere in the United States … Well, that didn’t bode well for her, and she’d be foolish not to admit it—if only to herself and to God.
Ben walked back over to the kitchen counter and honestly seemed pleased not to be leaving. “No problem. You’re worrying about learning bad things, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” She laced her fingers in front of her, not sure what to do with them. “I’m unclaimed, Ben. There’s got to be a reason.”
Sympathy etched into the lines of his face, softened the hard angle of his jaw. “Maybe you take trips without notice. Maybe those around you do. Maybe your plans were to be unavailable for awhile.” He offered her a reassuring look. “There could be a thousand reasons a missing persons report hasn’t been filed, Kelly.”
Her nerves sizzled and snapped. “And one could be that no one knows or cares.” Unable to handle seeing pity in his eyes, she turned and picked up the phone. Her palms were sweaty.
“Coffee or tea?”
“Tea,” she said. Sweet.
He smiled, grabbed the kettle, filled it, and then set it on the stove. Twisted the burner knob. “I don’t believe that no one cares.”
“You don’t know me, Ben.”
He chuckled. “I know you far better than you think.” He pivoted from the stove, planted his hands on the countertop, and looked across the bar to her. “I fully intended to hate you, Kelly. Because you look like Susan, because you wore her cross and drove a red Jag, because you made me remember things I didn’t want to remember but can’t forget.”
She sat at the table, her knees giving out on her. She was attracted to him, probably more than she should be, maybe more than she had a right to be, and he hated her? Oh, God, with everything else, I must deal with this too?
Be patient with him.
“But,” Ben said.
“Thank goodness there’s a ‘but,’” she quipped before she could stop herself.
Ben’s expression grew tender. “I couldn’t do it.”
That s
he hadn’t expected. “You couldn’t?”
“No.” Ben grunted. “Though I have to admit it took me a couple hours to conclude you weren’t running a scam or doing anything else nefarious.”
That fell just shy of miraculous. “I’d pretend to be offended at it taking you so long, but considering Susan and the surrounding circumstances, a few hours is really pretty terrific.” She dared to hope that he meant what she thought he did. “So you’ve decided to trust me, then?”
“It wasn’t a conscious decision. I’m not even sure exactly when it happened, but when you shared your story at the center, I felt it.” He lowered his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. “But I was too fixated on Susan’s cross to remember anything you said, so it took a little longer to accept it.”
She let out a little groan. “You have no idea how valuable that is to me right now.”
“I don’t. But I can imagine.”
She smiled and studied his eyes. Fascinating eyes. Gray, soft and piercing at once, unusual and captivating. Caught staring, she looked away. It wasn’t right. She could be committed, have a family. She had to honor her commitment, even if she had no memory of one.
The teakettle whistled. Ben moved to the stove.
It’d be easier to keep her thoughts in check if he wasn’t so attractive. But he was, so she’d just have to work harder at it. Resolved, she took a deep breath and then dialed the number.
Please don’t let me find out I’m an awful person. Please …
“Hello.” A woman answered.
Kelly didn’t recognize the voice. “Hello. This is Kelly Walker. May I speak to Mr. Denham?”
“Kelly?” The woman sounded uncertain.
“Yes.”
“Is it really you?” Stunned. She was stunned.
Kelly stiffened. “It’s really me.” She looked at Ben and shrugged. “Who’s speaking, please?”
“It’s me, Doris Brown.” She harrumphed. “This is no time for you to be teasing me, Kelly Jean Walker. I’ve been half-crazy worried about you.”
This Doris cared about her. It rippled through in her crackling voice. “Why have you been worried?”
“Girl, you’ve called me every Sunday since you moved out of this house. Without fail. And you didn’t call me yesterday. I went straight to Mr. Denham first thing this morning, and he’s hiring half the world to look for you.”
