Which, Crockett thought, was the way he liked it. He had his memories. They were all he needed.
And last night, the memories had been particularly vivid. Crockett had felt as if Judith were there on the island with him, laughing with her mother.
“Daddy, won’t you go on our picnic with us?”
“Another time, sweetheart.”
“Judith, you know Daddy needs to rest. He works so hard. We’ll go, just the two of us. Maybe we’ll see some porpoises today.”
“Whales, Mama! I want to see whales!”
He had loved them both more than he could ever love himself. He would have died for them, gladly. Instead they were the ones who had died, first Judith, the mother, then Judith, the daughter.
He choked back the tears, but he couldn’t stop the images from coming.
Judith had been so beautiful the night of the Christmas ball in Vienna. Her hair was shining, her eyes never so blue, her face never so happy. She had chosen an off-the-shoulder silver gown startling for its simplicity. There was nothing to distract the eye from the glittering natural beauty of Judith Land.
At first her father hadn’t even noticed the tiara and the choker: they seemed a part of her. Judith rarely bought her own jewelry, and never without first consulting him. He wondered where these exquisite pieces had come from, not that it mattered. On his daughter, they were perfect.
“Are you happy, Judith?”
“Daddy...I’ve never been happier.”
In truth, she had never looked happier. The troubled sighs and temperament of the past weeks had gone. Now she seemed to glow with health and contentment.
Reluctantly, Crockett gave the credit to Count András Balaton. Ever since Judith had rescued him from the refugee camps and brought him to their hotel in Vienna, Crockett had been trying to find out who the dashing young Hungarian really was. Count, my blue butt, he’d thought, absolutely certain the title was a wishful fabrication. But he wouldn’t be the first refugee to think up an interesting past for himself.
The news coming out of Hungary was contradictory and frightening, Crockett had thought. The revolution—if it could be called that—had lasted a matter of days, and had been fiercely and brutally crushed. No one was surprised, least of all J. Land Crockett, who considered himself a proud cynic when it came to human nature. Not all the tens of thousands who had crossed the borders into the West proved to be so-called freedom fighters. There were whores and delinquents and opportunists among them—and good people, honest people. He couldn’t deny that. They’d left behind dead brothers, fathers, mothers, sisters, and they’d fled their homeland because the hope for the future had been sucked out of them.
But Crockett didn’t give a damn about them. Budapest, Belgrade, Bucharest—hell, they were all the same to him. He only wanted to know about the clever, handsome young man who had so effortlessly captured the heart of Judith Land. That was all.
“Don’t look so worried, Daddy. Everything will be wonderful.”
“You’ll let me know if it’s not? You’d tell me if you’re unhappy? Judith, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing. Remember that.”
“I will, Daddy. But please don’t worry. I have every intention of being very, very happy.”
They were the last words he had ever spoken face-to-face with his daughter. The next time he saw her, she was lying twisted and broken and still in the dusty dirt of his Texas ranch.
The light of his life was dead.
* * *
Shortly after lunch, Ashley burst into the farmhouse kitchen. “David? Barky? Hey, you guys!”
A feeble voice answered, “Ash.”
She found David wrapped in a ratty afghan in the living room and gasped at his bruised and bloody face. His eyes and lips were swollen, and blood had coagulated around his nose. But he attempted a grin. “Hey, Ash.” He coughed a little and winced in pain, holding his abdomen. “Rotten day. How’s everything in Boston?”
“David. What happened?”
Haltingly, he told her. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ve been in bar fights worse than this—’cept I usually win.”
Ashley grabbed another afghan and sat on the floor in front of the couch. She was shaking. The fire in the wood stove had died out. It felt cold. “Barky didn’t say where he was going?”
“Uh-uh.”
“But fishing...”
“Ash, has Barky ever gone fishing off his own land?”
“No,” she said unnecessarily. “It’s the piece in You.”
“Of course it’s the piece in You! Frigging millions of people are going to see those stupid jewels. What do we do if someone recognizes them?”
Ashley thought of Sarah Balaton. “Give them back.”
“Oh, sure. Just like that.”
“I should have left them in Switzerland.”
“You should have kept your face out of that stupid magazine.”
“I know.”
David hissed, his energy suddenly gone. “Hell, Ash, I’m sorry. You know what Barky says.” He gave a tight smile. “The egg is broken.”
She hugged the afghan to her. It smelled of her uncle’s stale pipe and smoke from the wood stove. “David, maybe we should call the police.”
“And tell them what? That Barky’s gone fishing and some goon who’s probably long gone beat me up? Big deal. Ash, we can’t lay out the whole story for them. They’ll put us in the loony bin. For God’s sake, Barky may be a jewel thief! Our dad may have been a jewel thief—our own mother.”
Ashley nodded reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right. The man who nailed you—what did he look like?”
“Big bastard—couple of inches shorter than me, but built like a bull, blond, a pro... Ash?”
She had shut her eyes. “David, I’m sorry. I tried to keep you and Barky out of this mess—”
“Forget it. It’s our mess, too. What now? Any ideas?”
She looked at him and tried to smile. “I guess we could pick apples. Barky would like that.”
* * *
Ashley dumped a bucket of sour-smelling slop into the trough and watched the grunting, snorting pigs shove one another to get to it. How like people, she thought, and set down the bucket. She checked the water. It was late afternoon, still sunny and gorgeous, but there was a sharpness to the breeze that foreshadowed the coming of winter. David was confined to the living room couch but had drunk a cup of chicken broth. There was no sign of Barky. She had looked everywhere, calling across the fields, hearing nothing but her own echo and the angry cry of the birds.
Barky was gone. Fishing, she thought.
Except his fishing pole was hanging in the shed, covered with cobwebs, and his truck was standing in the driveway, as always.
She tried to sweat off her frustrations with work, but as she trudged around the farm, she noticed how empty it seemed, how different, without Barky stumping around in his Red Sox cap and his dirty old sneakers.
“Dammit!”
She kicked the slop bucket. It somersaulted down the hill toward the house and landed upside down.
Then she noticed the tall man standing next to the trailer. He was examining a pumpkin. She should be looking for Barky and instead she was selling pumpkins.
But he wasn’t really looking at the pumpkin. He was looking at her.
She regretted kicking the slop bucket
From her position in front of the pigpen, with her hair trailing down her back in a messy ponytail and the legs of her blue corduroys rolled up, she saw he had sun-streaked dark hair and wore a suit. Tan. It looked expensive. He had broad shoulders and long legs.
Not, she thought, your average pumpkin buyer.
He was probably just another vulture—another Pat Oberlin or Rob Gazelle looking for a new angle on the Ashley Wakefield story. “Mystery heiress slops pigs.” Blowing stray hairs out of her face, she decided it would be wise just to ignore him.
With long strides, aware of the visitor’s eyes on her, she headed over to the chi
cken coop. None of the dozen or so hens appeared to appreciate her self-sacrifice as she crept around in the dried hay and manure— “shet,” Barky would say—and located their eggs. They were warm and brown and speckled with dried, and sometimes not so dry, manure. She held out the hem of her shirt and made a hammock for the eggs. There were eight. Not bad.
As she ducked back outside, the sun blinded her momentarily, and she sneezed. Then all at once there was a body in front of her, and a very deep voice said, “Ashley Wakefield?”
She jumped up, and the eggs went flying. They crashed with utterly final splats in the grass, on her sneakers, on his polished loafers. Before she’d recovered fully from the start, she glared at him and said, “Jackass.”
He had green eyes, very, very pale. And the suit was silk. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Well, you did.”
He paused—not hesitated, she noted, just paused, as if to regroup, reassess. Perhaps the You piece hadn’t prepared him for a testy egg collector. “So I see.”
She shook egg goo off her foot. “Is there something I can do for you?” It was a demand, not a polite request.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
Wasn’t there always? He turned his foot sideways and wiped egg yolk and runny albumen off his shoe onto the grass. He grimaced. With its hard lines, his face was striking. He was tanned and solid and didn’t look at all like any of the reporters who had been stalking her.
He gave up on his shoe. “I was wondering if you might have seen a friend of mine. Mac—MacGregor Stevens.”
“A reporter?”
“No. An attorney.”
She wiped her hands on the hips of her pants. “I have an attorney.”
“Parrington, Parrington and Smith of New York. Yes, I know.”
So he had read the You piece. Naturally. A couple of barnyard cats showed up and started lapping up the eggs. Ashley left them to it. She headed down toward the apple trees in the side yard, near the trailer and the driveway. The friend of Mac Stevens followed. Glancing back, she noted his easy stride.
“He’s tall,” he said, coming up beside her. “Late fifties. Gray hair, gray eyes, proper sort of man. You haven’t seen him?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
“Has he contacted you or your uncle or brother?”
“I don’t think so.” She stopped and said suddenly, “You’re at the farm.”
His look was dry, and he didn’t smile. “So it would appear.”
“Then you believe your friend was headed here?”
“Actually, I’m not sure.”
“But why would he want to contact my brother or my uncle?”
“I don’t know that he does.”
Ashley was confused. “Then why are you here?”
“I checked with Touchstone and the institute, and I stopped by your house on Chestnut Street. When I didn’t find you, I guessed you’d come here—a lucky guess, as it turns out.”
She didn’t know why, but she didn’t think he was telling her everything, and she chose not to press him. Given what had happened to David, she opted for caution.
“If you haven’t seen Mac,” he went on smoothly, “there’s a good chance I’m on a wild-goose chase.” He smiled. “Mac and I probably just have our signals crossed. My name’s Carruthers, by the way.” He slipped a hand inside his jacket and withdrew a slim billfold. “Jeremy Carruthers. If you do hear from Mac, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave a message with my office.”
He handed her a business card. His office, she observed, was in San Diego; hardly across town. He was with a law firm called Carruthers and Stevens. “You flew all the way out here to find this friend of yours?”
“Oh, no, not exactly. It’s just a lucky guess. Is your uncle around, by any chance? Perhaps I could ask him.”
Ashley felt herself stiffening, but combated it, unwilling to let Jeremy Carruthers see the effect of his simple question. So that was it. Barky. Mac Stevens was after Bartholomew Wakefield, not Ashley. She shrugged. “’Fraid not.”
“I see. Well, perhaps Mac stopped by when you weren’t here.”
“I doubt it, but when Barky comes back, I’ll ask him.”
“Barky?”
“My uncle.”
“Of course. Well, thank you.”
The pale eyes were fixed on her, and she wondered if he guessed she was holding back. “Are you heading back to California?”
“Not just yet.”
“Then perhaps I could call you at your hotel if Mr. Stevens does turn up. Where are you staying?”
He moved out ahead of her. “Just call the office.”
“It’s the weekend,” she pointed out.
“I’m sure someone will be there to take a message.” He glanced back at her, and squinted in the sun as he walked over to a black Pontiac. Ashley memorized the license number and noted the rental sticker. Jeremy Carruthers gave her a spine-tingling smile. “Thanks for your time. And sorry about the eggs.”
* * *
“Lawyers, my ass,” Ashley complained as she went into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind her.
David was hunched over the big pine table, looking miserable. New, ugly colors had blossomed in his face, and he held his middle, obviously in pain. “What’s up?”
She told him as she put on the kettle for tea.
“Why didn’t you come get me?”
“So you could spit blood on him? Come off it, David.” She reached up and pulled the Yellow Pages off the top of the refrigerator. “I think this whole thing’s strange. Guys coming out from San Diego looking us up. Really.”
David twisted slowly around in his chair. “If this Stevens guy is in his fifties, maybe he knew Barky back before we were born.”
Ashley nodded grimly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, I sincerely doubt they’re lawyers.”
“How come?”
“Paranoia, maybe. I don’t know. I got the license number of Carruthers’s car.”
“You know his name, and he gave you his business address—”
“Could be fakes.”
“You really are paranoid.”
“Looking at you, David, it’s hard not to be.”
Using the old black phone next to the refrigerator, Ashley dialed the car rental agency advertised on the bumper of the black Pontiac Jeremy Carruthers had parked in the dirt driveway.
A polite woman answered, and Ashley asked if there was any way she could trace one of their cars through the license plate number. “Guy ran over my dog,” she said.
“I’m sorry, miss, but that information is confidential. Incidentally, it would take us days to locate the lessor through the car’s license plate. Is your dog all right?”
“He’s at the vet’s right now. Thanks, anyway.”
David shook his head, battered though it was. “Hell of a detective you’d make, Ash.”
“I’m calling San Diego.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Carruthers said someone’d be there.”
Nevertheless, she was surprised when, after four rings, a male voice said, “Carruthers and Stevens.”
“Well, what do you know.”
“I beg your pardon? May I help you?”
She leaned against the refrigerator. “I’d like to speak with Jeremy Carruthers, please.”
“He isn’t in. This is Saturday—”
“But he works there?”
“Yes, of course.”
She still didn’t believe it. “Tall guy? Dark hair, green eyes—”
“May I ask who this is?”
“Oh, just a friend. Is Mr. Carruthers in San Diego this weekend?”
Silence.
“Sir?”
His voice was very grave. “Just what’s this all about?”
“He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?”
“Yes, and he’s also my son. If you don’t mind, I would lik
e an explanation for this phone call.”
His son. Ouch. Ashley tugged the rubber band out of her hair, which was mostly tangles now. “Is MacGregor Stevens the Stevens in Carruthers and Stevens?”
“I have no intention of continuing this conversation without an adequate explanation.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Dammit, woman—”
Ashley hung up.
David rose stiffly from the table. His face went white and he grabbed his chair, but he didn’t complain. “Carruthers checks?”
“So far.”
“Should have asked if either of them has a client named Sarah Balaton or hired a blond goon to come after us. As far as I can see, they’re our best leads.”
Ashley sighed and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll call Caroline and see if she found out anything.”
But there was no answer at Touchstone Communications. At Caroline Kent’s condominium in Back Bay, Ashley got her machine and left a message for Caroline to please call the farm as soon as possible.
8
Jeremy checked into the Lord Jeffrey Inn on the quaint town common in the center of Amherst and immediately went down to the bar and ordered himself a bourbon, straight. There were points to consider about his meeting with Ashley Wakefield. First, her eyes were as bright a shade of blue as on the cover of You. Second, she was holding back on something. Third, she was a god-awful pain in the ass.
But he didn’t think she was lying about not having seen Mac. Somehow Jeremy felt he would have guessed that much.
Then Mac was sliding onto the chair across from Jeremy and smiling wanly as he motioned to the waitress. “A bourbon would go down well about now.”
“Mac—”
“Easy, Jeremy.”
For some reason, Jeremy had expected Mac to look haggard and disheveled, but he was as trim as ever, dressed neatly in tan putter pants and a pullover. His hair was combed and he was shaved. Only in his eyes could Jeremy detect any sign of fatigue or uneasiness.
“How did you find me?” Jeremy asked.
Claim the Crown Page 7