“Not on business,” Elaine said. “We have land in Hawaii. You know we plan to retire there. Mac said he’d heard rumors the adjoining property was going to be rezoned for business. He went out there to see what he could do.”
“Was this planned? He never mentioned—”
“Well, no, it came up very suddenly.” Concern reached her warm hazel eyes. “Why?”
“I’m just surprised.” He smiled, forcing the look of skepticism from his face. “Guess I’ve been preoccupied with my own work.... I see you didn’t go with him?”
“I have too much to do here. Do you need to get in touch with Mac? Is it important?”
“Just business.”
“Well, I can have him call you. He’s staying with a friend—an old buddy of his from Yale, I think he said. He didn’t leave a number, but I’m sure he’ll call tonight. He always does when he’s away. Would you like me to have him call you?”
“Please.”
Jeremy drove back to Coronado, where he lived, and went for a long run on the beach. He tried to blot out the recurring image of Mac’s stricken face as he had looked through the pages of photographs of Ashley Wakefield.
Hawaii. My ass Hawaii, he thought. It was just one more element that didn’t fit.
But Mac hadn’t reacted until the third page of photographs. The cover hadn’t bothered him, and neither had the views of beautiful Ashley Wakefield in her batik bandeau, Bill Blass gown or brass-tacks business suit. So it wasn’t her. Which meant, Jeremy thought, that it had to be the grainy photograph of the man on the red tractor that had sent Mac into such a tailspin. The uncle. Bartholomew Wakefield.
With sweat pouring off him, Jeremy did a cool-down walk and listened to the rhythm of the waves pounding the beach. “Hell,” he muttered to himself, “I’m probably just imagining things.”
But later that evening, Elaine Stevens called: Mac hadn’t been in touch. “I called our realtor in Honolulu,” she said. “As far as she knows, there’s no problem with the property and Mac isn’t even in Hawaii.”
Jeremy set his beer on his deck table and sank into a canvas chair. “Elaine, I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Don’t—please. But there’s something you know or at least suspect, isn’t there?”
“Elaine—” He broke off, silently cursing himself. If Mac had wanted his wife to know what the hell he was up to, he’d have told her. And me, too. “I don’t know anything, Elaine.”
He could hear her sharp intake of breath. She was a tough, intelligent and compassionate woman, and in Jeremy’s opinion, Mac would be a fool to play tricks on her—without good reason. But that was the problem. He might have good reason.
“I wouldn’t want you to break any confidences you might have with Mac,” she said, “but if you can tell me I have no reason to worry about him—physically, I mean. If there’s someone else...”
“Oh, Elaine. No, I can’t believe Mac’s having an affair.”
“Then what? Jeremy, you know Mac. He doesn’t just go off like this and...and disappear! He doesn’t lie to me! What if something’s happened to him?”
Jeremy felt the tug of loyalty to Mac—and to Elaine. He could see clearly in his mind the vivid, unreal eyes of Ashley Wakefield, and then Mac’s white face, and the desperation and the hate there.
“I think Mac’s told you something and you don’t feel it’s right to tell me,” Elaine said, without accusation. “I can understand that, Jeremy—even respect it. But if you do have some idea of where Mac is...maybe you can get him to call me. Please. It’s all I ask.”
Jeremy sighed heavily. “All right, Elaine. Give me the weekend. I’ll see what I can do. But you know— maybe he is in Hawaii.”
“I understand. Thank you, Jeremy.”
“For God’s sake, don’t thank me. I probably should have kept my mouth shut.”
He could almost see her smile. “Why start now?” Then she was serious again. “Call me with anything, Jeremy. Anything. It’s better than not knowing.”
After they’d hung up, Jeremy packed a carry-on bag and grabbed a seat on a night flight out of San Diego for Boston, Massachusetts. Maybe he was wrong and Ashley Wakefield didn’t have anything to do with Mac’s strange behavior.
Then again, maybe he wasn’t and she did.
* * *
First thing Saturday morning. Ashley took the tiara and choker to her bank and opened a safe-deposit box. The bank officer flirted with her and asked her if she were free for dinner that evening. Thank you, she said, but she had plans—which she did, more or less, although not with another man. Tomorrow night? he asked. No. In fact, she lamented, she was busy indefinitely. He shrugged off his defeat: what the hell, she’s rich; it was worth a shot. She could read his mind.
As she entered the Touchstone offices, Ashley felt a pang of guilt. Between the ringing phones and reporters stalking the place, Caroline hadn’t gotten any work done yesterday, either. “I’m sorry about all the bedlam around here, Caroline.”
She waved away the apology. “What’s up?”
Ashley sighed. “I’m going out to the farm. I don’t know for how long, but I’ve got to see David and Barky. If you would, have Patti clear my calendar— business and social.”
“Done.” She smiled at Ashley. “Don’t look so relieved, Ash. It’s not a crime to need some help. Now what else can I do?”
“I hate to ask...”
“Never mind what you hate. What do you need?”
She hesitated. “Everything you can get me on Sarah Balaton of Houston, Texas.”
Caroline twisted her mouth to one side. “No questions?”
“She wants the tiara and choker.”
“Holy shit.”
Ashley quickly related the strange call of last night.
“Well, well, well,” Caroline said. “I’ll start sniffing right away.”
“I don’t know how to thank you—”
The vice president of Touchstone Communications scowled. “I don’t want to be thanked, dammit! I’d expect the same treatment from you—and I know I’d get it.”
“That’s right. If there’s ever a time—”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Caroline.”
“Jerk.” She grinned. “Now go on and make peace with the folks at home. Bring me back some apples.”
David had the hood up on his Land Rover, parked in the driveway next to Barky’s truck, and was tinkering with the carburetor. It was a perfect autumn morning, and he had a million things he wanted to get done today. But nothing could beat messing around with his Rover. He could have afforded a fleet of new ones, but it wouldn’t be the same. He knew every idiosyncrasy of this one, and working on it allowed him to grease up his hands, to crawl up inside himself and sort out his problems.
He figured now that his sister had her picture in a national magazine, the shit was going to hit the fan and some of it was going to smack them both right in the face. Someone would recognize the jewels. Barky would be accused of being a jewel thief. There’d be all sorts of crap about statute of limitations, but they’d still think of some reason to haul their uncle’s ass in and throw him in the slammer till his dying days.
Of course, Ashley wouldn’t think any of that would happen. She was an optimist. She believed she could handle the idiots of the world, that the people she knew and admired all lived up to her high standards—especially Barky. David wasn’t so sure. He figured their uncle had to have done something before being saddled at age thirty-four with two infants. Maybe that something was stealing jewels. Who the hell knew?
One thing was for sure: David had never believed his uncle’s declarations of ignorance about the Liechtenstein trust and the collection of jewels. But he’d had nearly five years to talk—thirty if the trust had been set up when David and Ashley were born. If Barky hadn’t talked by now, he wasn’t going to. He was nothing if not muleheaded.
And Ashley. David had never been so pissed off at his sister. She wa
s just plain reckless.
He heard a car turn into the driveway, but didn’t bother to look up. More people than usual had been stopping by to buy pumpkins, squash, whatever happened to be on the trailer. At first David figured it was just the nice weather. Then he realized it was that magazine. The locals had recognized Ashley and Barky in You and come out to the farm to gawk. David didn’t object particularly. He just kept emptying the money out of the coffee can. Barky was keeping to the fields, working hard, more uncommunicative than usual.
“Hey.”
Sighing, David pulled his head out from under the hood. A big blond guy had snuck up behind him. He was wearing a T-shirt too tight for his broad chest and arms and stretch jeans that left no doubt about the muscles in his legs. David reached for a dirty rag and began wiping his hands. “What can I do for you?”
“You David Wakefield?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sister Ashley?”
“Uh-huh. Why?” Couldn’t be Ashley’s latest romantic interest, he thought; too meaty.
“You know she’s put the jewels in a safe-deposit box?”
David thought, well, hell, and wiped his fingers one by one. “What jewels?”
“Don’t be a smartass. The tiara and the necklace.”
“Choker,” David corrected. “And it’s tee-ara. Not long i.”
“You want me to bust your head open?”
“Not especially.” He wasn’t lying. Although several inches taller and no slouch himself, David was beginning to realize the guy was a pro. Definitely not Ash’s type. “So what if Ash has put them in a safe-deposit box? As far as I’m concerned, that’s the first smart thing she’s done this month.”
“You’re her brother. I’ll bet you can get them out.”
“Wrong.”
“Then you can get her to get them out.”
“Now why would I want to do that?”
“I’ve got a party interested in having them, that’s why. Says they don’t belong to you.”
“Anyone I know?”
“None of your business.”
“Does said party want to buy them or just take them?”
“Don’t make no difference to me.”
David now realized he was in an untenable situation. Damn Ashley. Then, at the thought of her, his heart began to pound. “Have you talked to my sister?”
“Nope.” He gave an apelike grin. “Just missed her. Anyway, too many hounds on her tail right now— don’t need my picture in the paper. Figured you’d be able to help. But I’ll track her down if I have to. You know?”
David knew. “I wish I could help.” He spread his hands as if he were utterly helpless and gave an exaggerated shrug. “But you know how it is.”
The guy balled up his powerful hands into fists, but David, a participant in more than his share of barroom brawls, edged sideways along the Rover’s front fender and felt his muscles tightening. If he hadn’t gotten himself sandwiched between the Rover and his would-be assailant, he would have made a swift and calculated retreat.
But such was not the case. He tried out a smile. “How ’bout some coffee? Tea? No need for us to get violent, you know.”
“I don’t trust you, Wakefield.”
One of the powerful fists started up. David swore to himself, knowing he was caught, and quickly lunged toward him, trying to get inside the blow and push him away. It was his only real hope. And a slim one.
But the guy was a pro, and he slammed his fist into David’s ribs, preventing him from pushing back and beating a hasty path to hell out of there. Even with the stunning pain of the blow, David’s momentum carried him into the other man, who responded instantly by shoving David back hard, separating them to give him room to throw more punches.
Caught off balance, David instinctively tried to protect himself, but a sudden left jab snapped his head back. He tucked his arms in and ducked, expecting the right hook aimed for his solar plexus. The blow ended up glancing off his arms.
Swearing, gulping in air past the pain in his ribs and head, David slammed at him with a left jab and a right cross, but the blows missed, and the guy came at him again, hammering his head with a left, nailing him hard with a right cross.
Somewhere David heard Barky’s voice. “What goes on here?”
And then his insides were being ripped out and he was spinning, sinking, tumbling, and finally he hit something hard and unyielding. The driveway. He was breathing dirt. He couldn’t move.
Far away Barky was yelling, “You son of a beetch,” and there was a car starting and the screech of tires. David curled up into a fetal position. The pain pulsed through him, and he decided he was just going to lie there and never move again.
* * *
Barky got him inside and onto the tattered living room couch, next to the warmth of the potbelly wood stove. His old uncle sighed irritably and brought him ice. “Damn,” David said, “my head hurts.”
“That’s your headache, not mine.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Stupid to take on a man like that.”
“Think I had a frigging choice?”
“Language.”
Barky stumped out of the room and returned in a few minutes with two cold wet cloths. David dabbed his bloody nose and gravel-scraped cheek. When he coughed, it was as if he were being carved for dinner.
“Your ribs aren’t broken,” Barky said. “Cracked, maybe. I will tape them.”
“Don’t touch me.”
But Barky was already thumping upstairs. He brought down a shoebox of ace bandages from Ashley’s days playing high school field hockey and David’s playing soccer. He made David remove his shirt and told him not to simper.
“Did you get the bastard’s license plate?” David asked.
“No. What did he want?”
“The tiara and the choker.”
“Ahh.”
“Don’t ‘ahh’ me, Barky. What’s going on?”
“The egg is broken.”
It was one of Barky’s favorite sayings. Once an egg was broken, there was no putting it back together again—and no use trying. Ashley and David called this their uncle’s Humpty Dumpty philosophy.
But David wasn’t in the mood for it. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”
“My basket was full,” Barky said patiently. “An egg was bound to drop out sooner or later.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You shouldn’t excite yourself.”
“That bastard was going after Ashley.”
“If necessary, I will see to your sister.”
Barky wrapped the bandages tight and pinned them with thirty-year-old diaper pins. When he was finished, he nodded, satisfied. “Clear liquids for today, tomorrow you will hurt, and then you will be angry and bruised. Probably you won’t want to do heavy work for a few days, but there is much else to be done here. You and Ashley can make applesauce together. It’s been a long time since you two worked together on the farm. Yes, that’s a good idea.” He handed David his shirt. “Make applesauce while I’m gone.”
“What do you mean while you’re gone? Where the hell are you going?”
Barky removed his Red Sox cap, revealing a balding head and a fringe of gray-streaked golden brown hair, his warm brown eyes fastened on his nephew. “I go fishing,” he said.
“Fishing? You haven’t been fishing in years!” The yelling prompted another stab of pain, and David lay back with a moan, taking quick, shallow breaths. “Dammit, Barky, are you in some kind of trouble?”
Wiping his brow with the back of his wrist, Barky put on his cap and patted David on the shoulder. “Trust me, David.”
“Barky!”
His uncle didn’t flinch, didn’t turn, didn’t glance back as he walked into the kitchen. David heard him sticking another log on the fire in the cook stove.
“Are you a jewel thief?”
The screen door creaked open and shut with a soft thud. David rolled off the couch, spun dizzi
ly and fell to his knees, gasping in agony. He swore and tried to call his uncle, but his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. Finally he collapsed onto his side.
He lay there until the roaring in his ears stopped and the nausea subsided, and then he moved slowly, holding on to the couch as he dragged himself to his feet. He walked into the kitchen, then outside. Standing in the driveway, he listened to the wind and the animals. Barky was gone.
7
J. Land Crockett sat in an overstuffed chair on the windblown sun porch of his isolated Maine summer house, on his island in Blue Hill Bay. All around him, he could smell and hear the sea. It was cold and damp out on the porch, but he was bundled up in a heavy sweater and thick blankets. He was an old man with fierce deep blue eyes and sagging, wrinkled skin. He liked the cold. It reminded him he was still alive, even if he didn’t particularly care. Sometimes he’d sit out on the porch all night. He found comfort in the shadows there.
And he liked Maine in the fall. The lobsters were more plentiful, the ocean quieter, the tourists gone. He was a billionaire and a recluse, the nominal head of a diversified corporate giant. Crockett Industries. The company would carry the family name long after he was gone. It had begun as Crockett Oil on Spindletop in 1901, when for the first time in his life Johnny Crockett had been in the right place at the right time. Not one to stand on ceremony, the soft-spoken, unpredictable Texan was Johnny to everyone—rich, poor, educated, illiterate, it made no difference to him. Nor was he one to give a damn about money. He always said if he didn’t have so much of it, he’d probably have gone broke.
When Johnny died in 1941, control of the Crockett fortune and the Crockett Oil Corporation went to his son, a tougher, harder man than his father. Crockett to everyone, never Johnny and rarely Land, he was just as unpredictable as his father, but he was also impatient, gruff, often remote. In the late 1950s, he’d turned the day-to-day running of the company over to his son-in-law and retired to his ranch northwest of Houston and his island off the coast of Maine. As his fortune had grown into the billions, he’d removed himself further and further from human contact.
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