by Bonnie Vanak
In one hand, she carried the Louis Vuitton dog carrier filled with half the money Cooper had tucked away in the cottage for safekeeping. Meg stuffed the carrier into the trunk. She would get those memos, no matter what. Too many people had already been hurt.
No one was ever getting hurt because of her again. Ever.
Chapter 19
At precisely 9:00 a.m. Cooper paid a visit once more to the law firm of Baxter and Baxter in Boston. The dragon receptionist and the overweight security guard would not turn him away again.
This time, he had his brother. Power of the badge, which Derek flashed at the receptionist when he demanded to speak with Bert Baxter’s assistant.
She nearly swallowed her gum.
They were escorted into a private conference room. When Mrs. Sandors joined them, her gaze darted back and forth as if she expected demons to crawl out from the bookcases lining the walls.
As he and Derek sat, she went to the window and peered out. Was the woman expecting company? Perhaps company she didn’t want?
“We need to talk with Mr. Baxter immediately,” Derek told her.
“He’s not here.”
“Do you have any idea when Mr. Baxter will return to the office?” Cooper asked.
The assistant turned back, pacing the small room. “I don’t know if he’s coming back. He hasn’t shown up to the office in three days.”
Cooper exchanged glances with his brother.
“Has anyone called the police?” Derek asked.
The woman nodded, looking very troubled. “His wife filed a missing persons report.”
Derek leaned forward. “Sit down,” he said in a voice that brooked no disobedience. “Do you have any idea where Mr. Baxter is?”
She finally sat down, tapping the table with the edge of one well-manicured nail. “No. And neither does the FBI.”
Cooper sat up even straighter. “Why are they looking for him?”
The woman’s gaze searched the room.
Derek’s expression smoothed out. “Mrs. Sandors, I assure you if you cooperate, it will be easier for you.”
She lowered her voice. “We’re a small firm, and our specialty is estate law and tax planning. The agents said Mr. Baxter had been working with one of our wealthy clients to hide money in offshore shell corporations to avoid taxes. Specifically, the Cayman Islands. They came here with a subpoena for all Mr. Baxter’s files.”
He exchanged glances with Derek. Could Meg’s ex have roped Baxter into something illegal, such as tax fraud or money laundering? In addition to making out a fake will for her grandmother, leaving him the sole trustee and heir?
Cooper patted the woman’s trembling hand. He was a calm, reassuring presence, letting Derek play bad cop. “You did the right thing in cooperating with the authorities. What about Mrs. Baxter?”
The assistant shook her head. “She was out of town with the children and is supposed to return this morning.”
“Which client files did the agents take?” Derek demanded.
The woman glanced around again, her mouth working like a fish’s. “Miles O’Neary.”
A chill rushed down Cooper’s spine. The same Irish mobster connected to Meg’s ex. He only gave her a reassuring smile. “Then you still have access to Letticia Taylor’s updated trust agreement and her last will and testament.”
No answer.
“I need a copy,” Derek told her.
Mrs. Sandors rose. “I’ll make you a copy.”
But soon the assistant returned, looking more agitated than ever. “It’s not there. I don’t know where it could be.”
“Perhaps the FBI took it?” Cooper suggested.
“No, I saw all the files they took and made notations of each one.”
They thanked the woman and left. Cooper’s unease grew. Bert Baxter was missing.
“Where do you think he is?” he asked Derek as they reached the truck.
Derek fished out his cell phone. “I have a bad feeling I know. Let me make a couple of calls.”
As his brother did, Cooper paced by the truck. Good thing Meg was back at the inn with Nick. Because the more he learned about what her ex had been involved in, the more he was convinced she was in danger.
* * *
The sun was high in the clear blue sky as Meg headed north toward her grandmother’s farm. She picked up her cell phone from the center console. Still no service.
Meg would feel better if Cooper were with her. But he was more interested in covering his own tracks.
Bert had represented the Taylor family for years. He was loyal. Randall had trusted him as well. Bert was her last resort.
She thumbed the cell again, trying to call Cooper to let him know her plans. No signal. You’re on your own now, kiddo.
The jagged tips of the White Mountains and the vista of evergreen, hickory, maple and birch trees passed in a blur. Meg scarcely noticed the rolling hills for all the memories churning inside her.
Good memories, before her brother Caldwell died, before her mother and father did nothing but argue. Memories from when she was little, and they spent summers here, driven to the farm by her indulgent parents who wanted them to experience fresh air and clean living before they dashed off to Paris or Rome or London. The cows lowing in the dairy, the frantic chickens scratching the ground for hidden kernels of corn, and the happiness rushing through her as she sat on the rubber tire swing hanging on the thick oak tree by the farmhouse, and Caldwell pushed her so high.
So high she felt like flying, and laughed for the joy of it.
Staying at Cooper’s farm had reminded her of those innocent, carefree days when she had been loved and cherished. Meg had fallen in love with the man sworn to protect her life. She’d felt part of his family, something solid and lasting. Woven into the fabric of their lives was a cord of unity nothing could break. She’d desperately wanted to belong to that fabric.
And she’d forgotten she was a stranger, an outsider who owned the company that caused the death of their beloved Sabrina.
Overhearing Cooper, Derek and Nick talking about her only served as a reminder that she wasn’t one of them. A Palm Beach princess, a wealthy socialite who couldn’t be trusted.
An hour later, she pulled onto the winding dirt road leading to the farm. Her blood raced with anticipation as the two-story weathered farmhouse came into view. The wraparound porch had sagging boards, and the barn was faded and needed repairs, but this was the only real home she’d ever known.
She pulled into the gravel driveway and parked before the house. A deep feeling of peace came over her. This was why she’d fought against selling the property. Prescott would never understand the roots she’d placed here, the importance of having a home that wasn’t a glitzy mansion or a polished, opulent showpiece to impress others.
Walking up the rickety steps, she stood with her hand on the tarnished brass doorknob. Prescott cared only about money, not her heritage. He’d thought the one-hundred-year-old farmhouse was nothing more than rotting lumber.
This was the kind of place Cooper would love. Big and rambling, presenting all kinds of challenges to fix.
It would make a perfect retreat center for veterans wounded in the war. She thought of Caldwell, and the familiar knot of grief rose. Instead of the piercing ache, it was a dull toothache kind of throb.
Maybe she’d finally learned to let her brother go, let go of the past.
Meg unlocked the front door and the memories washed over her like a rush of warm air. Ghostly childish laughter echoed in the hallway as she stepped inside. Only this time, not like last year when she and Gran had sadly packed away all the rest of Caldwell’s things, the laughter didn’t haunt her.
It warmed her inside. This was why she’d refused to let the farm go. Here, her brot
her and his boisterous, impish nature lived forever.
The house smelled musty and stale. All the windows had been painted shut, except one. Meg went to the kitchen and unlocked the casement window to let in the cool, refreshing air.
She tried her cell phone again and laughed. Dead. Just like when Cooper had found her, she’d forgotten to charge the battery. No matter. Bert said he would be here by five o’clock.
Glancing at her wristwatch, she settled at the kitchen table to wait.
* * *
Perfect day for a carriage ride. Sharp blue skies overhead and a cool, crisp breeze. The company was good—Coop’s sister and mother, and the horse was eager to trot.
He handled the reins with confidence. Knew horses, had grown up with them at the farm before the old man kicked him out. Since turning sixteen and surviving on the streets, Nick learned to trust his instincts.
Why were they screeching a warning now, as if something had gone totally wrong?
Sitting beside him on the driver’s seat, Aimee chattered about horses. He listened with half an ear, pausing now and then to check on Fiona. In the carriage backseat, Coop’s mom hung an elbow over the side, enjoying the ride.
Jenny the housekeeper was back at the inn along with Hank and two other hired hands who worked on the farm. They were airing out rooms, making the inn ready for guests again.
Still, he felt uneasy.
Meg was secure in the cottage. He’d checked on her before leaving. She’d been engrossed in her laptop. She didn’t like looking at him. Couldn’t blame her. Most women didn’t, not with his ugly face. Nick knew the violence simmering inside him, knew most could sense it. He’d never hurt a woman, not an innocent one. And definitely not a woman his best friend wanted him to protect.
He handed the reins to Aimee, instructing her to keep them nice and tight. Aimee grinned like crazy. Nick patted her shoulder, glad to see her misery gone.
“I wish Cooper and Meg could see me now,” Aimee chortled. “Next Cooper will let me ride Adela.”
“Later,” he cautioned. “Does Meg ride? You think she’ll know how to saddle one of the geldings and join us?”
Maybe that’s why he had this nagging feeling tickling his belly. What if Meg took one of the horses out? He didn’t like her leaving the farm, though technically the fields by the river were still farmland.
“Oh, she’s very good, but she’s not going riding. She took Mom’s car.”
Nick felt like someone punched him hard. “What?”
“I saw her as we were heading down the hill.”
“How the hell did she get the keys?”
Now he was shouting, but Aimee wasn’t afraid of him. She only gave him a look that clearly said “duh” in kidspeak. “Mom told her she could have the car any time she needed. Keys always hang on a peg in the kitchen pantry.”
Ten kinds of swear words in ten different languages rang through his head. He fished out his cell phone.
“What’s Meg’s phone number?”
Aimee didn’t know. Fiona gave it to him. Nick dialed the number, but it kept ringing.
He grabbed the reins from Aimee.
“We have to get back.”
“But Meg didn’t do anything wrong!”
“No, I did, Peanut. Not your fault.” He coaxed Adela to turn and flicked the reins hard. “Giddyap!”
They stopped before the cottage. The door was unlocked, but Meg wasn’t there.
Nick tore through the house and found the office with a laptop on the antique desk. Maybe she left a clue on the laptop. He could hack into all kinds of systems, but this time it wasn’t necessary. Next to the laptop was a folded note.
He snatched it up and scanned it. And then dug out his cell phone and called Coop.
His friend answered on the first ring. “Coop, Meg’s gone. She left you a note that she went to meet Bert the lawyer at her grandmother’s farmhouse. She printed the address on the note.”
A string of curses followed. “That’s impossible.”
“She took Fiona’s car.”
“Whoever she’s meeting isn’t Bert Baxter, Nomad. Because I’m at Derek’s precinct. This morning Bert Baxter’s body turned up in the harbor when someone reported a floater. He’s been positively ID’d.”
Nick’s blood turned to ice. “Damn it, I’m sorry I let her go, Coop. I didn’t know. I called her cell phone, but it kept ringing.”
“Probably no cell service. It’s a mountainous area.”
“Coop, let me go after her...”
“No. The farm is only forty minutes outside of the city and I’m already headed that way. I need you with Mom and Aimee. Don’t let them out of your sight. I’m certain this Kimball guy is involved.” Cooper lowered his voice. “Derek found out he’s linked to Miles O’Neary. He worked for him. And O’Neary was a client of Baxter’s. All three are connected.”
After Cooper updated him, Nick glanced out the cottage window at Fiona and Aimee, standing by Adela and petting her. “Kimball is the same guy who stole the security cameras and was a guest at your inn?”
“Right. I need you to go through the inn and make sure it’s secure. Search Kimball’s room one more time, Nomad. No booby traps. My family comes first.”
Thumbing off the phone, Nick hurried out of the cottage.
Coop had instructed him to stay with his mom and Aimee, and he would. Nick only hoped Coop could get to the farmhouse before Meg did.
Because as his instinct aptly warned, Meg was walking straight into a trap.
Always he’d been there for his best bud. Thick and thin. He’d do anything for Coop. Including ignoring his direct orders.
His guts kicked, and he knew this was the right thing to do. Nick went outside, his hand atop one lean hip where his SIG Sauer rested.
Time to call in the cavalry.
Even if the commanding general didn’t want the cavalry to respond.
* * *
Bert was twenty minutes late. For a man who claimed to be desperate, he certainly didn’t care about being punctual.
Restless, Meg glanced at her watch again. Might as well do something instead of pacing the kitchen. Mentally, she inventoried the house. The missing will might be here, so why not the missing microchip? Randall had been here before with Gran, had helped her move a few things when the auction house came to collect the antiques to sell them.
With all its nooks and crannies, the house was full of hiding places. In the smallest bedroom upstairs, the closet had a hidden doorway that led to a secret passage.
Almost all the house had been cleared out, but for the master bedroom and a few pieces of furniture in the living room and kitchen. The closet still contained some of Caldwell’s favorite playthings. The baseball mitt he had used to play catch with their grandfather. And the things Meg had loved to play with as a child...
Like her grandmother’s heart-shaped jewelry box.
Her breath caught. Could the microchip be in the box? Randall had said the chip was “close to your heart.”
Filled with hope, Meg raced up the stairs.
An overpowering sickly sweet scent assaulted her senses as she opened the master bedroom door. Odd. Maybe an animal had climbed in through the chimney and died.
She found the jewelry box in her grandmother’s top bureau drawer. But it contained only rhinestone costume jewelry Gran had let Meg use.
Meg opened the closet and the smell got stronger. She reached on tiptoe, but couldn’t get the baseball mitt from the top shelf. Switching on the overhead light, she pushed back the hangers holding clothing Gran had meant to donate. The stepladder was back there against the wall. She shoved all the hangers to the side and winced at the stench... It was much worse back here...
The dead face of her ex-husband stared bac
k at her.
Screaming, Meg pinwheeled her arms and fell back, landing hard on her bottom. Panic clogged her veins and made her heart stutter. She gasped for breath, struggling to control herself.
Meg closed her eyes. Opened them.
Prescott was still here, sitting on the closet floor, a bullet hole piercing his forehead.
The killer might still be around. For all she knew it was Bert, and she was in a load of trouble. Meg raced down the stairs, heading for the kitchen to grab a knife.
Barely had she grabbed the old butcher knife when the front door slammed. Her heart thrummed like a war drum. She tucked the knife into her back jeans pocket and remembered what Cooper told her about catching an enemy off guard. Then she pulled out her sweater from her jeans and hid the knife handle by leaving the sweater untucked.
“Meg, sweetie? Are you here? I got worried about you and they sent me to look when you went racing off.”
The dulcet tones of Paula Jones, the widow, filled her with relief and confusion. Why would Paula come after her and not Nick?
“Where’s Nick?”
The woman came into the kitchen, her expression worried. She carried a big black satchel and peered at Meg with myopic, round blue eyes as big as robin’s eggs. “Nick? Who’s Nick? Are you all right, dear?”
“Paula, how did you find me? Why are you here?”
Instead of answering, the woman removed her spectacles and tugged off the wig. She plucked out something from her eyes. Contacts, Meg realized with frozen horror.
Wrinkles vanished beneath a swipe of a handkerchief Paula removed from her purse. The widow in her late sixties had turned into a plain-faced brunette who looked to be around thirty.
“I’m Claire. Claire O’Neary.” The woman’s smile widened as she withdrew a gleaming pistol from her purse and pointed it straight at Meg. “Your husband’s lover. Why am I here? Because I’m going to kill you, you little bitch.”
