“That’s absurd,” Savoy said curtly.
“No,” Ian said, “what passed for police work in this county is absurd. Which brings us to Gem Savoy Forrest.”
Another much thicker folder landed in front of Ian. He didn’t pick it up. He just looked at the sheriff. “Did you check the corpse for broken fingernails, flesh under the nails, bruise marks?”
“Yes,” Rory said curtly. “We didn’t find anything except a suicide.”
“She leave a note?”
“No.”
“Unusual.”
Rory sighed and rubbed his face. “Ward probably found it and burned it before I got there. Look, Gem had just been dumped by her latest too-young lover. She put her hair up fancy, made up her face, turned on the outdoor spa to a hundred and four, and swallowed enough vodka and prescription painkillers to make sure she never woke up again.”
Lacey went to the first of three canvases leaning against the wall. “This painting depicts Cross Country Canyon and Three Savoy’s murder. If you look closely, you can see two figures watching the fire. The trail of flames point directly to the man holding what is probably the match used to start the blaze. So does the unnaturally bent tree.”
Savoy grimaced. “You’ve got a good imagination.”
“So did the sheriff who wrote up the report on Three’s death,” Ian said.
“The next painting depicts the murder of Lewis Marten,” Lacey said. “Note the figure running away, literally stepping off the canvas and—”
“Ms. Quinn,” Savoy interrupted savagely, “I know where this is going. But the artist who painted these died decades before my mother did. These canvases are the result of a sick imagination, not fact.”
The bedroom door opened, revealing a thin, energetic old man. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.”
Savoy stared. “Who the hell are you?”
“David Quinn, now. Back then I was Lewis Marten. You can call me Grandfather, if you like. Gem was my daughter.”
Savoy Ranch
Three days later
70
Sunlight was a golden glory over the land. There was just enough wind to make the tall grass ripple and shimmer like a second, greener sea. Lacey stood behind her Grandpa Rainbow, oblivious to anything but his painting. Ian stood to one side, watching.
A Savoy Ranch vehicle pulled up beside Ian’s rented SUV and parked. Rory Turner got out and walked to Ian. Rory looked older than his age, like a man who hadn’t been sleeping well.
“’Afternoon,” Ian said.
Lacey heard and walked quickly over to the men. “I hope you’re not planning to talk to him until the light goes.”
Rory looked from the gray-haired man to the dark-haired young woman who had ripped his life apart and given his wife a wounded, haunted look. I’m not a Savoy. I never was. How can that be? How could Grandmother do that to her family? It can’t be true!
Yet it was. Sometimes Rory still had a hard time believing it, but each time he dug harder into the recent past or farther into the deeper past, it was easier to believe. Finding the stolen paintings at the ranch house, along with a safe full of the paintings depicting three ways to die had gone a long way toward making everything real.
“I thought you should know that Ward died a few hours ago,” Rory said. “He never admitted calling you, but…” Rory shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Ian didn’t offer any polite social lies about too bad, how sad. He simply nodded.
Lacey didn’t even do that much.
“We thought he was going to make it,” Rory said. “Then Savoy told him that Angelique White had pulled out of the merger. He just turned his face to the wall. I’d say it broke his heart, but he didn’t have one, not the kind we’d understand, anyway. He talked to me before he died.” Rory rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. “You know what a strangler fig is?”
“No,” Lacey said.
“It’s a jungle plant that starts out as a seed that lodges in the crotch of a big, thriving tree,” Rory said. “The seed puts out some leaves, sends down a root or two dangling toward the ground. Then, as the years go by, the roots finally reach the earth and the fig really starts growing. It’s a vine, not a tree, so it can’t support itself. It wraps around and around the big tree until it finally strangles its host. It’s a slow death. Years and years and years. Its leaves take the sun the big tree once lived on, the vines wrapped around the trunk get stronger and stronger. When the tree dies and its trunk rots away, the fig vine lives on supported by its own lethal coils. That’s what Morley Forrest was, a strangler fig who got started by cleaning up after Benford the Second and then by blackmailing Sandra Wheaton over the true identity of her daughter’s father. Then he married his son into the family.”
“Ward wasn’t any angel,” Lacey said.
Rory shook his head. “No, no he wasn’t. He helped his daddy kill Three. He torched Lewis Marten’s studio, not knowing that the man sleeping inside was one of Marten’s rootless artist friends, not Marten himself. Then the Forrests settled in to take over everything the Savoys owned.”
“Must have been real interesting when the first painting turned up with a blackmail demand,” Ian said, looking at the gray-haired artist who wasn’t any man’s idea of an angel.
Rory laughed without humor. “Yeah. They weren’t happy to know that not only had Marten escaped, he’d followed the sheriff when he drove Three home from a party and seen them push Three’s car into the ravine, then set fire to everything. They paid for the painting of Three’s death, of course. Numbered overseas account.”
“And they sweated,” Lacey said, smiling narrowly, “each time a new painting came with another demand. Grandfather liked that better than the money he got, though he liked the money well enough.”
“Don’t expect me to admire the bastard,” Rory said.
“I don’t.”
“Talk about chutzpah,” Rory said. “Selling his own unsigned paintings to greedy gallery owners.”
“It almost got him killed,” Ian pointed out.
“That’s how Ward managed to track him down a few years ago,” Lacey said, “through the galleries the Forrests patronized. Each time a Marten turned up, Ward got the first call. When Ward got too close, Granddad decided it was time to get out.”
“How did Quinn walk away from his truck in the desert and survive without the searchers finding him?” Rory asked. “Or did he tell you?”
Lacey’s eyes closed. She didn’t like remembering how hollow she’d felt when she was told her grandfather was dead.
“He staged the scene near a dirt bike trail,” Ian said. “Then he took a bike out of his truck and rode off. It was a tough five miles to the next road, but he made it.”
“Chutzpah.” Rory shook his head and looked at Lacey. “Savoy wants to know if you’re going to make any claim on the ranch.”
“All I want from Savoy Enterprises is freedom for me, my grandfather, and Susa Donovan to paint here before it’s all paved over.”
“You’ve got it. And it won’t all be paved over.”
“You sound certain,” she said.
“I am,” Rory said. “Bliss and Savoy both decided that they couldn’t change the past, but they could take a stab at the future. They’ll be negotiating with a nature conservancy as soon as the estate is settled. They decided to turn over all the ranch land from the ocean to the ridgeline.” gestured toward the steep hills rising behind them. “The land on the far side will be sold off as quickly as buyers are found. Savoy Ranch is as dead as Ward Forrest.”
Rory gave the blackmailing artist a long, hard look before he turned and went back to his vehicle. A door opened, closed, and the white SUV drove off, leaving Lacey and Ian standing on the bluff where history, beauty, and murder tangled as deeply as light and shadow.
Silently she put her right arm around Ian and leaned against him. He slid his left arm around her and pulled her even closer. They watched as light changed from rich gold
to glowing orange. Shadows slid out of the ravines and licked over the rumpled land that fell away to the sea. Eucalyptus trees whispered darkly as fragments of light tangled within their leaves.
When the last burning ember of sun slipped beneath the indigo sea, Ian tipped up Lacey’s chin with his cast and kissed her softly. “We better get your grandpa packed up. Your parents are waiting.”
“I still can’t believe you agreed to drive all the way to Pasadena for dinner.”
“It beats having a dead artist staying with us at a killer’s hotel.” Ian still hadn’t forgiven her grandfather for the pain he’d caused by not telling her that he was alive. And for leaving her the paintings that had almost gotten her killed. “I’m figuring on parking the old reprobate with your parents, grabbing you, and beating feet for the foothills of Upland.”
“You’re kidnapping me?”
“Now you’re talking. I’m keeping you, too. But don’t worry. My future mother-in-law promised that she’d take care of every detail of the wedding all by herself.”
Lacey’s breath broke. “Wedding? When did I agree to that?”
“When I agreed to let you paint me any old way you wanted to, any old time you wanted.”
“Oh. Then.” She looked him up and down and her smile flashed in the twilight. “Yeah, that’ll work.”
“What are you thinking?” he asked warily.
“Racing stripes.”
“Green?”
“Peppermint.”
“The color or a flavor?”
She licked her lips. “Good idea.”
“I’ve got lots of good ideas.”
“I’ve got lots of paint.”
He gave her a slow, I-can’t-wait smile. “I’m frightened.”
“Yeah. Right. And I’m still channeling the Queen of Atlantis.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, darling. Did their snakes really have racing stripes?”
“Some of them,” she said. “Some of them had checks.”
“Checks? Bet that tickles.”
“Bet you’ll find out.”
About Elizabeth Lowell
Elizabeth Lowell has over thirty million books in print. Her contemporary novels published by PerfectBound are: This Time Love; Desert Rain; To the Ends of the Earth; Remember Summer; Where the Heart Is. The Donovan novels—Amber Beach, Jade Island, Pearl Cove, and Midnight in Ruby Bayou—were instant New York Times bestsellers. Classic contemporary romances by Ms. Lowell include: Forget Me Not; Lover in the Rough; A Woman Without Lies; Beautiful Dreamer; Eden Burning. PerfectBound also publishes Ms. Lowell’s romance-suspense novels Moving Target, Running Scared, and Die in Plain Sight. Ms. Lowell lives in Seattle with her husband, with whom she writes mystery novels under a pseudonym. Please visit www.elizabethlowell.com.
Also by Elizabeth Lowell
Amber Beach
Diamond Tiger
Jade Island
Midnight in Ruby Bayou
Moving Target
Pearl Cove
The Ruby
Running Scared
Secret Sisters
Autumn Lover
Beautiful Dreamer
Desert Rain
Eden Burning
Enchanted
Forbidden
Forget Me Not
Lover in the Rough
Only His
Only Love
Only Mine
Only You
Remember Summer
This Time Love
To the Ends of the Earth
Untamed
Where the Heart Is
Winter Fire
A Woman Without Lies
Credits
Jacket illustration and design by John Lewis
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DIE IN PLAIN SIGHT. Copyright © 2003 by Two of a Kind, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.
Excerpt from WHEN THE STORM BREAKS. Copyright © 2003 by Two of a Kind, Inc.
PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Mobipocket Reader July 2003 eISBN: 0-0607-7142-9
FIRST EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
When the Storm Breaks
Read the exciting new romantic suspense thriller from HarperTorch paperbacks and PerfectBound e-books.
A rainy night in Washington, D.C.
Claire Lambert walks into a nightmare, witnessing a killer in the midst of committing his latest bloody crime.
She runs for her life, and suffers a head injury, losing her memory.
Gone, too, are her purse and her ID—but they’ve been found:
He flipped open the wallet, quickly reading through the information on her driver’s license. Marie Claire Lambert…Georgetown address. And keys to let him in. The man’s mouth twisted upward in a cruel smile.
“You’re dead, Marie Claire.”
Oh God! Oh God! Where should I go?
Claire knew the pepper spray would buy her five seconds, ten at most, since she’d missed hitting his eyes directly. She kicked off her low business pumps and hit her full running speed within a few strides. When she risked one more glance back, she saw the killer running after her.
Her bare feet slapped on the slick pavement as fast as she could make them move. She could feel the force of the man’s will reaching out to her. It was almost a physical touch. She was terrified that she would feel his hand grab her shoulder or hair at any second.
Then she heard the sawing breath of the man behind her. And she knew if he caught her, she would die….
“Heather Lowell is going to set the gold standard for modern romantic suspense. Her writing is fresh, hot, romantic, and scary. I can’t wait for her next book.”
Jayne Ann Krentz
To my parents,
for knowing when to catch me,
and when to let me fly.
And always believing
that the latter was possible.
Chapter 1
Washington, D.C.
July
Friday evening
“Southern Belle, thirty, seeks prince to carry her off to his castle and take care of her forever.”
“What do you think, dear?” Peggy Gallagher looked over the table at her new client.
Claire Lambert shifted in her chair, struggling for a response that wouldn’t offend Peggy. She turned to her friend Afton for assistance, since she had been the one to talk her into joining a dating service in the first place.
“Doesn’t that caption sound like something to grab a man’s attention, Marie Claire?” Peggy pressed.
Deciding Afton wasn’t going to help, Claire thought about her options. She might have been tired after a long day—a long week, really—but not tired enough to let that gem get by her untouched. Joining the Gallaghers’ dating service was humiliating enough, but having a blurb like the one Peggy had suggested appear next to her picture would be pathetic.
Besides, she hated being called Marie Claire.
Claire worked hard to look serious. “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Businesswoman, thirty, has castle, seeks prince to help with upkeep and provide occasional foot massage.’”
Claire’s deadpan expression was angelic. She had spent her formative years torme
nting the nuns at Our Heavenly Savior Catholic Girls School in New Orleans, so getting Peggy’s back up was easy.
Peggy drew herself up straight in her chair, inhaling through her flared nostrils, while across the table, her daughter and business partner covered laughter with a cough. Afton Gallagher truly enjoyed seeing someone make her mother pucker up—it happened so rarely.
Die in Plain Sight Page 41
