Claim the Crown

by Carla Neggers

  “I’ve been watching the Wakefield farm.” Mac’s bourbon arrived, and he took a big gulp, holding it in his mouth before swallowing. He placed his forearms on the table and leaned over his glass, then ran one finger along the rim. “The uncle’s not there, is he?”

  “No, but I understood he’d be back.”

  “I doubt that.” Mac smiled bitterly. “I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.”

  Checking an impulse to throttle Mac for information, Jeremy took a large swallow of his own bourbon and welcomed the path of fire down to his stomach. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Mac sighed heavily. “No.”

  “Mac.”

  “Don’t push me, Jeremy.”

  “Elaine—”

  “This has nothing to do with her—or you.”

  “She’s worried.”

  “I suppose she has a right to be. Tell her—” He looked away. “Tell her whatever she needs to hear to give her peace of mind.”

  “She needs to hear you’re all right, Mac—not having an affair, not crazy, but safe and normal and doing the kinds of things Mac Stevens does. Chasing after old farmers isn’t what you do, Mac.”

  “It’s what I should have done a long time ago.” He lifted his glass, looked at it for a moment as if it possessed answers he didn’t and then drank. “Tell Elaine I’ll call her as soon as I can, all right? When this thing’s finished, we’ll go away. We’ll talk, and I’ll tell her everything—things I should have told her long before now. That’s the best I can do, Jeremy.”

  “What about Ashley Wakefield?”

  Mac shrugged, setting his glass back down. “This needn’t involve her.”

  “I have a feeling she won’t see it that way.”

  “It won’t matter. I just—” He shut his eyes briefly, as if in pain. “I just hope to hell I’m not too late.”

  Jeremy felt his throat tighten. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Mac smiled sadly. “You can convince my wife her husband isn’t getting senile.”

  “All right.” It was the least he could do, Jeremy thought. “I’ll head back in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Jeremy. Stay out of this. Please.”

  “Mac, you’re not in any danger, are you? I saw your face yesterday morning...”

  This time the smile had a touch of the old humor, the wry wit for which MacGregor Stevens was known. “Good heavens, have you ever known me to step in front of traffic? I’m too old for that sort of thing, Jeremy. I’m merely settling an old score—getting answers to some questions that have been nagging me over the years. It’s intensely personal, but not dangerous. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with Elaine or you or the firm.”

  “Do you know anything about this Liechtenstein trust, Mac?”

  “No, nothing.” He pushed his glass to the center of the table and rose, for the first time ever looking older than his years. “Have another drink on me, Jeremy— and a good flight home. Trust me.”

  “I always have.”

  * * *

  The old alarm clock in Ashley’s girlhood bedroom blared at five o’clock the next morning, and she sat bolt upright in the lumpy bed, banging her head on the slanted ceiling. The blue-flowered wallpaper had yellowed and was starting to peel, a tangible reminder of the passage of time. She had bought the paper when she was thirteen, with money she’d made selling sweet corn off the trailer, and hung it herself. The seams hadn’t matched very well.

  Feeling old and grown up, she shut off the alarm. She remembered sitting in this room and wondering what she would be like at thirty. She was almost there now. She liked the kind of kid she’d been. Hardworking and smart-assed. Hell, she was like that now, too. But different. The money had changed her, she supposed. And time. But she liked her life now. She didn’t want to go back to the past. Back to this, as much as she loved it.

  It was chilly and damp, and the wide pine-board floor was cold on her bare feet. She yawned and stretched, still feeling fuzzy. In Boston, she would be asleep under her hand-stitched throw, sprawled in silk pajamas on her queen-size bed. The chords of classical music on public radio would awaken her, not a cheap alarm clock and a rooster.

  She pulled on some old clothes—patched corduroys and a red-and-white Boston University sweatshirt, heavy socks, beat-up sneakers—and tied her hair back. Yawned again and went to work.

  Leaving David sleeping soundly in his old room, Ashley, rather virtuously she thought, did the morning chores alone. She started a fire in the cook stove in the kitchen. Then she moved outside and fed the chickens, the pigs, the sheep, the cats. She collected eggs. She hauled wood. She checked the vegetables on the trailer and emptied the change out of the coffee can. Pumpkins were selling like crazy. Finally, she looked up at all the ripe apples hanging in the two trees in the side yard. Barky would have her and David out picking them to make applesauce and apple butter, maybe some jam.

  Where was he? Why didn’t he call? He never went anywhere. He was the original stick-in-the-mud. Hated traveling to Northampton.

  Fishing.

  She couldn’t hang around the farm all day, she decided. She’d go nuts.

  Back inside, she fixed herself a breakfast of fresh eggs cooked on the wood stove, toast and coffee. Barky always bought whatever coffee was on sale. She had argued with him about acidity, caffeine levels and soil quality, but he remained unimpressed. She had gotten in the habit of buying fresh beans at a shop on Charles Street and keeping them in her freezer, grinding just enough for her two cups in the morning.

  But after the fresh air and all her work, she was delighted at how good the cheap coffee tasted. Its strong, bitter flavor reminded her of her uncle, and she realized how much she missed him. She had never been to the farm when he wasn’t there.

  “Good God,” she mumbled to herself in the quiet kitchen. “What if he never comes back?”

  It was unthinkable.

  A little while later, the telephone rang. She pounced on it, praying it was Barky, but instead Caroline Kent said, “Up with the crows this morning, Ash?”

  “The roosters. Hi.”

  “You sound awful. What’s wrong?”

  Leave it to Caroline to sense despair, Ashley thought, and told her what she’d found since coming to the farm. “But we’re doing okay. What did you get on Sarah Balaton—anything?”

  “Of course. You want just the facts?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. Sarah Balaton is in her late twenties, lives in a high rise near Galleria in Houston. She’s a vice president of finance for Crockett Industries.”

  Ashley began loosening her braid with her fingers. “So she’s no slouch.”

  “No way. Got her M.B.A. from the University of Texas.”

  Ashley couldn’t resist. “How did you find all this out?”

  “Two former clients from Texas,” Caroline said proudly. “But to continue. Sarah Balaton isn’t just any hardworking female exec. She’s Texas money and high society. Her daddy’s Andrew Balaton, president and CEO of Crockett Industries, and Sarah’s his only kid. He and her mama are long divorced. Sarah grew up all over the place, but she’s known as a Texas honey.”

  “Who’s her mother?”

  “Frances Balaton DiDomenico. Lives in San Antonio.”

  “Great. Anything else?”

  “Daddy’s first wife was Judith Land.”

  Ashley blinked in surprise. “The actress?”

  “As far as I know, there was only one Judith Land. She and Balaton were married shortly after Christmas in 1956 in Vienna; he’s a Hungarian refugee. She met him in the camps after the Hungarian Revolution. It’s all common knowledge, Ash. She died the following August. I mention it because not everyone married the legendary Judith Land—in fact, he was her only husband—and because she was the only child of J. Land Crockett, reclusive oil billionaire and chairman of Crockett Industries.”

  “Daddy and Sarah’s boss,” Ashley said, ruthlessly untanglin
g a snarl. Her eyes watered.

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks, Caroline.”

  “Shall I stay on the case?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  * * *

  Sarah Balaton sat on the monstrous pale pink couch in her ultramodern condominium in a high rise near Galleria. For the first time since her adolescence, she was biting her nails. She should never, never, never have called Ashley Wakefield. How could she have been so emotional? So impulsive? So stupid?

  Her father wasn’t speaking to her. He had left for New York last night—on business, his personal secretary had said. Crockett Industries had a corporate condominium in Manhattan, and her father went there frequently, both on business and for pleasure. But this trip seemed too sudden. Too coincidental.

  She sobbed silently to herself. What have I done?

  Perhaps her misjudgment had come in contacting her father, not Ashley Wakefield. Sarah realized she should have known he would refuse to acknowledge the similarities between the jewels on the cover of You and the jewels in the photograph of the Countess Balaton’s portrait. “The Balaton jewels are a myth.” Well, they weren’t.

  She had debated showing him the photograph of Judith Land wearing them at the Christmas ball in Vienna. They must have been smuggled out of Hungary—by her father? No, it didn’t make sense—and ended up with Judith.

  Maybe her father had blotted out that night. Maybe it was too painful to remember.

  But how had Ashley Wakefield ended up with them?

  Sarah’s thumb throbbed. She pulled it out of her mouth and surveyed the damage. It amazed her that she was still this vulnerable where her father was concerned. Was she still the little girl who adored her absent father and chewed her fingernails to shreds every time she did something to disappoint him?

  She jumped up. A walk would do her good. A “blue norther” had come down and pushed out the humidity that had gripped South Texas in an oppressive, smelly haze and sticky heat for two weeks. The air was clear now, and delightfully warm, the sky high and cloudless. A perfect Sunday morning.

  She took the mirrored elevator down to the showcase lobby. Her building was filled with people who were like herself—at least on the surface. They were wealthy, educated, upwardly mobile professionals. They were the doers and the risk takers.

  And yet Sarah didn’t think there was anyone like herself. Wherever she went, she felt like an alien. She didn’t belong.

  Suddenly, fervently, she wished there was someone in her life she could trust, wholly and without question, someone she could turn to, knowing he would be there. Then, perhaps, she could begin to feel she belonged somewhere.

  She snorted in self-disgust. “Don’t be such a simp.”

  But was it so wrong to want to love and be loved? What was she betraying?

  As she moved to the double doors, a man in a navy blue suit fell in beside her. “Good morning, Ms. Balaton,” he said smoothly.

  Her eyes widened as she looked up, but she said nothing. There was no need. He was a security guard for her father—a competent, loyal bodyguard.

  Clearly Andrew Balaton was having his daughter watched. To protect her, she wondered, or to stop her?

  And she thought, from what?

  * * *

  It was almost noon when Jeremy drove back out to the Wakefield farm. He stood next to an old rag mop at the side entrance and knocked at the door, but no one answered. The maroon Jaguar was still in the driveway. From the article in You, he knew Ashley Wakefield drove one. She was here.

  He followed a thwacking sound around behind the red shed to a woodpile, where a tall dark-haired man was swinging an ax. Sweat poured down his face, turning the dirt and dust there to mud. His swing was slow and uneven—painful, it seemed.

  David Wakefield. The twin brother and cobeneficiary of the Liechtenstein trust.

  As Jeremy moved closer, he noticed the purples and yellows of fresh bruises, the places that had swelled, the places that were scabbed over. “Jeremy, there’s no danger...” For whom, Mac?

  He put out a hand as he introduced himself, and they shook. “I met your sister yesterday afternoon,” Jeremy said pleasantly.

  “Right.” David winced in pain, holding his abdomen. “She told me.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, just trying to chase away some ghosts and goblins with a little physical labor.”

  Jeremy could see David Wakefield was used to physical work, probably relished it. “You look as if you’re in pain.”

  He grimaced, stretching a bit. “Yeah.”

  “What happened?” Jeremy asked casually.

  “I smart-assed the wrong guy. Come on inside, I’ll fix some iced tea—”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Something up?”

  Jeremy hesitated as he quickly reexamined his decision to leave Massachusetts. Seeing David Wakefield added a new element—or did it? They were wealthy people—extraordinarily, mysteriously wealthy—and they’d just had their names plastered across the entire country. Mac didn’t have to be the only one pestering them.

  “I’m leaving this afternoon,” Jeremy said. “I stopped by to tell your sister I’ve talked to Mac Stevens. He’s fine. He’s planning to conclude some business in New York, then fly back to San Diego.” The lie slipped out of his mouth, but whatever Mac was doing didn’t need to involve the Wakefield twins. “It was a case of mistaken identity. Your uncle reminded Mac of an old friend. The picture in the magazine wasn’t that clear.”

  David leaned against the ax, letting it support his weight. “You sure?”

  “I’m convinced. David, I’ve known Mac a long time, and I don’t see how he could know a Massachusetts farmer.”

  “Ashley checked you out, you know.”

  He smiled. “I’m not surprised. I imagine all this publicity has brought the crazies out of the woodwork.”

  “She doesn’t believe you and Stevens are lawyers,” David said gravely, studying Jeremy.

  “Tell her I’ll send her a copy of my diploma—or I’ll tell her myself. Is she around?”

  “Up wandering the fields.”

  “I see.” He felt an odd disappointment. “Tell her I missed her. It’s been nice meeting you both. If you’re ever in San Diego, look me up.”

  9

  Ashley leaned over the wire-mesh fence and talked to the chickens. The temperature was dropping fast, and it was almost dark. She had put on her uncle’s red-and-black plaid jacket to do the evening chores. David had aggravated his injuries with his wood chopping, and she’d banished him to his room with bowls of cream of carrot soup and homemade applesauce. They had passed a very frustrating afternoon.

  There had been no word from Barky. No sign of the blond thug. Nothing more from Jeremy Carruthers. Nothing at all from his friend MacGregor Stevens. Tomorrow, Ashley thought, she would get in touch with Sarah Balaton—even if Sarah didn’t call, as promised. Perhaps that would lead to something. If not, at least she’d feel better for having acted.

  Then she might consider talking to the police. She wasn’t sure. David was against it, but...she just didn’t know.

  The chickens clucked aimlessly in their yard. They were Rhode Island Reds, the most beautiful of chickens, but she didn’t know them. When she was a girl, she would have names for all of them. Cartwright... Lefty. ..Mary...Ho. If they died of natural causes, she’d bury them in the field above the barn. Vividly, she could remember carting a dead chicken up on a shovel and dumping it in a hole; she’d even made little tombstones.

  Most of the time, however, they didn’t die of natural causes. When their laying days were over, Barky would butcher them. By then they’d be tough, stringy old birds and he’d have to stew them for hours. Ashley could remember sitting up in her room doing her algebra to the smell of Lefty stewing on the cook stove. Barky had never had any patience with her sniffles at the dinner table. She should be glad to have food to eat, he’d say. He didn’t believe in b
eing sentimental over a chicken.

  Could such a man have stolen diamonds, pearls and emeralds? It didn’t seem feasible.

  Turning from the chicken coop, Ashley looked out across the road and the fields to the hills beyond. The sun was disappearing in a glow of orange and red, and the air was fresh and brisk. God, she thought, she loved this place.

  Someone—something—made a noise. It sounded like a groan.

  Ashley spun around. “David?”

  The wind blew sharply in her face. She tried to blot out the normal sounds of the farm. Standing very still, she looked all around her.

  There was an unfamiliar dark shape down by the trailer, alongside the driveway. It was lying prone next to the pumpkins piled at the base of the trailer. Ashley’s knees buckled. She ran, tripping down the slope, her heart thudding.

  “David!”

  The kitchen door slammed, and David was leaping out of the house, yelling to her in a panic. “What’s wrong? Ash, you okay?”

  “There’s someone at the trailer.”

  They arrived there together.

  Ashley saw the gray hair, the tall figure.

  “Oh, my God. It must be MacGregor Stevens.”

  “Is he dead?” David croaked.

  She knelt beside him. He was lying on his back, and the half of his face visible in the dusk light was ghastly pale. Then he groaned, half conscious. Ashley went rigid to keep herself from shaking.

  “We’ve got to get him inside,” she said to David.

  Her brother nodded grimly, kneeling beside her in the cool grass. There was a huge swelling on the side and back of Stevens’s neck. “Looks like he’s been hit pretty good,” David said, slipping his hand under the older man’s armpits.

  Stevens winced as David began to ease him gently off the ground. “Ribs."

  Ashley put her arm around Stevens’s waist and took as much of his weight from her brother as she could. The lawyer’s head lolled to one side, and he lapsed into unconsciousness. She eased to his side, letting his long arm drape over her, her arm still supporting his waist. He was very tall and she felt herself sinking under the weight. David took the other side.