Claim the Crown

by Carla Neggers

  A small exclusive town and resort area, Coronado is only minutes from the center of San Diego by way of the two-mile modern arch of the San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge. The only other access from the mainland to Coronado is the narrow strip of land that originally supplied railroad transportation to the famous Victorian Hotel del Coronado, still in operation. The strip forms the seaward division between San Diego and the Pacific.

  San Luis Rey is on the southern end of Coronado, on the bay side. The cab deposited Ashley in front of a yellow stucco house. She asked the driver to wait.

  She rang the doorbell and, while she waited, glanced at her watch: it was seven-fifteen. What would she do if the man who’d startled her into dropping eight eggs had only claimed to be Jeremy Carruthers of San Diego?

  Apologize and retreat. That’s what you’re here to find out, remember?

  The door opened.

  She instantly recognized the sun-streaked hair and pale green eyes. She had the right Jeremy Carruthers. He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe that came to his knees, and his feet were bare. She noted the dark hairs on his legs and chest.

  “You’re not the paperboy,” he said.

  She gave him a cool look. “Another of my faults. May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  He stepped aside as she walked past him, her shoulders squared. The long flight and erratic night of sleep had left her looking rumpled and feeling tired and irritable. She wore an ice-blue silk suit, very polished, with her hair up and her face lightly highlighted with cosmetics. In the cab, she’d taken a few seconds to refresh her lipstick, but could do nothing about the red lines in her eyes.

  She wondered if Jeremy Carruthers would consider her intimidating. She hoped so.

  His house was airy and uncluttered, and he led her through a living room and well-equipped kitchen out onto a deck. She could smell roses and the ocean. He offered orange juice, which she gratefully accepted, and they sat on cheerful yellow canvas deck chairs. Jeremy seemed unconcerned with his lack of proper clothing. Probably entertains women like this all the time, she reflected with distaste.

  “So,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

  She gave him a clear, unfettered look. “You’re a liar, Jeremy Carruthers.”

  “You came all the way to San Diego to tell me that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Not your style.”

  “In public relations,” she said crisply, “I often tell my clients to focus on the positive—since they’re decent and reputable people, I have no qualms with this. But sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and call a liar a liar. You lied, Mr. Carruthers.”

  He folded his hands in his lap. “Jeremy.”

  Jackass. With difficulty, she maintained her composure. “You knew Mac Stevens had no intention of returning to San Diego, didn’t you?”

  Jeremy leaned forward, and he looked genuinely surprised. “You’ve seen Mac?”

  “Yes.” She glared at him. “He was at the farm last night. He stole my car.”

  “Hell.” He flopped back in his chair and huffed loudly.

  “I didn’t call the police,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “I think you know why.”

  “Here we go playing guessing games again,” he said sharply. Then he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and looked at her with an intensity and gravity that made her catch her breath. “Ashley, I’m not your enemy—and neither is Mac. Please believe that. I’ve known Mac and trusted him all my life. He has nothing against you.”

  “But he has plenty against my uncle, hasn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

  She sniffed. “Liar.”

  “You’re becoming repetitious,” he said mildly. “Would you like to talk about last night?”

  “I’m very tired.” Indeed, she thought, that was no lie on her part. It was warm on the deck; she wished she hadn’t gulped down her juice so quickly. She wanted another glass. Keep your mind on business, she admonished herself. “If you don’t mind,” she went on, “I’d prefer to ask the questions. It’s my uncle your MacGregor Stevens seems hell-bent on harassing. There’s no mistaken identity. Your Mac knows damn well who he’s after. Either he lied to you or you lied to me.”

  Jeremy sighed impatiently. “For God’s sake, Mac and my father have been law partners for nearly thirty years—”

  “Ahh. When did they start the firm?”

  “What the hell difference does that make? Oh, I see. You’re looking for a connection between Mac and your uncle. Fine. The firm was founded in 1958.”

  A year after Ashley and David had been born. “What did Mac do before then?”

  “He lived on the East Coast.”

  “Was he ever in Tennessee?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the truth, Ashley.”

  She smiled nastily. “Of course. How could I ever doubt you?”

  “Ashley.” Despite his scanty attire, Jeremy adopted a lawyer’s demeanor. “Listen to me. MacGregor Stevens is a well-known and highly respected attorney in this town. Yes, I lied to your brother. When I saw Mac, he asked me to butt out. Because I trust him, I did.”

  Suddenly furious, Ashley jumped to her feet. “And now he’s nearly gotten himself killed and stolen a car and probably would like to murder my uncle and God knows what the hell else he’s up to!”

  “Wait.” Jeremy rose slowly. “What do you mean Mac nearly got himself killed?”

  Ashley groaned to herself. She hadn’t intended to tell Carruthers about Mac’s injury. Her vision was fuzzy, and she wanted to go for a jog, walk on the beach, think and be alone. “I found him last night,” she said wearily. “Outside among the pumpkins. He’d been hit on the head—from behind. He didn’t see his assailant, but he insists it was my uncle. He wouldn’t let us call an ambulance. My brother and I did what we could to help him. We gave him ice, we offered him a place to rest, we watched over him. He repaid us by sneaking off with my car.”

  Jeremy Carruthers ran a hand through his wild hair and sighed heavily. “What about your uncle?”

  “No sign of him.”

  “Damn.”

  Ashley slipped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “Strange behavior, if you ask me, for a pillar of the San Diego community. Thanks for the orange juice, Mr. Carruthers. If you feel like talking, contact my office in Boston. Meanwhile, I have a cab waiting.”

  “It can wait. I want to know every damned word Mac said.”

  Ignoring him, she found her own way through the house. The mist was slowly burning off, and the house was filling with a soft light. The mood of the decor was cheerful and energetic, but gentle somehow.

  Jeremy Carruthers tramped after her, bellowing.

  “Let me get dressed,” he suggested as she reached for the front door. “I’ll go with you. Maybe we can figure this thing out together. Look, we don’t have to be enemies. You trust your uncle, I trust Mac. Maybe together we can keep them from killing each other. Goddammit, you’re not even listening!”

  She spun around. “As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Carruthers, you’ve already told me your full quota of lies. I don’t give liars a second chance. Good day.”

  She left him standing in his entryway, cursing her soundly. Knowing he was watching, she opened the cab door with a haughty toss of the head and climbed in. She told the driver, “Point Loma, please.”

  And then she turned and smiled regally toward the yellow stucco house. But Jeremy Carruthers had already slammed the door.

  * * *

  The sanctimonious bitch, Jeremy thought, livid, as he pulled on a pair of jeans. What kind of superman did Mac think he was to stop her? He grabbed a pullover, slipped on a pair of topsiders, and dashed outside. Dammit, he had to try. He owed Mac that much. Keep her in San Diego. Fat chance.

  To get back to the city, Ashley would have to cross the bay bridge. She was in a cab. He was in a Porsche. It was his only hope of c
atching up with her.

  He shot up San Luis Rey to Glorietta and hit the bridge, swinging immediately into the left lane. He had two-plus miles of bridge to make up for lost time.

  As the bridge curved downward toward San Diego, his Porsche slid in two cars behind her cab. Chuckling with satisfaction, Jeremy took a few seconds as he followed her onto 1-5 to put on his shirt.

  11

  “Mrs. Stevens?” Ashley smiled politely at the attractive woman standing in the doorway of the Stevens house. She wore elastic-waist khaki pants and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and Ashley could smell the soil on her. A gardener. Feeling calmer, Ashley went on, introducing herself, then adding, “I’d like to talk with you about your husband, if I may.”

  Elaine Stevens nervously pushed back her hair and ended up smudging her cheek with dirt. She seemed surprised to see the dirt on her hands, as if she’d forgotten what she’d been doing before Ashley had rung her doorbell. She brushed them off slowly and finally looked at Ashley. “About Mac?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Stevens. May I come in?”

  A dark green Porsche careened into the driveway, and Jeremy jumped out and bounded across the lush front lawn. “Wakefield, what the hell are you doing?”

  Elaine Stevens looked stunned. “You know Jeremy?”

  “We’ve only just met,” Ashley said quickly. “If we could—”

  Puffing angrily, Jeremy landed on the doorstep. His hair was flying. “I’m sorry, Elaine. You don’t have to talk to her. She has no right to disturb you.”

  “I don’t understand.” Elaine glanced uncertainly at Jeremy. “If there’s something about Mac I should know—”

  Jeremy opened his mouth to speak, but Ashley cut in smoothly, “There is, Mrs. Stevens. Your husband was at my family’s farm in Massachusetts last night.”

  “Hell,” Jeremy said.

  Elaine opened the door wide. “Why don’t you both come in?”

  With a deadly look, Jeremy stepped past Ashley and went inside. She caught up with him, and he muttered furiously at her, “You just had to bring Elaine into this, didn’t you?”

  “She’s a big girl, Jeremy.”

  “Mac doesn’t want to involve her. In fact, he doesn’t want to involve you, which is why I was stupid enough to lie to you in the first place.”

  She tossed her head airily. “I don’t give a damn what Mac Stevens wants.”

  Elaine Stevens led them to a cozy oak kitchen at the back of the house. A double window looked out onto a deck and to the bay beyond, down the terraced hill. Ashley could see rooftops of other houses. There were lemon and avocado trees in the yard, and a vibrant flower garden at the border. Elaine invited them to sit at the round oak table. There was a vase of freshly cut pink roses in the middle on a handwoven mat.

  “Stop it!” Elaine said sharply as she grabbed a sponge and began wiping the spotless counter top. Her tone softened. “Both of you—please.”

  Jeremy adopted a conciliatory look, but turned with it to his colleague’s wife. “I was going to call you this morning, Elaine. I’ve seen Mac. He’s okay.”

  Ashley was surprised by the quiet and depth of his tone, and she wondered if perhaps she’d misjudged him. Then he glared at her, and any sympathy she might have been developing for his position vanished. She said briskly, “Mrs. Stevens, as far as I know your husband is all right. Perhaps I should explain.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Jeremy said under his breath.

  “No, Jeremy,” Elaine argued. “I want to hear.”

  Ashley turned her attention to Elaine Stevens. “By any chance, have you seen this week’s You?”

  “Oh.” Elaine stopped, the sponge suspended in midair. “You’re the girl on the cover. Yes, that’s right. Ashley Wakefield. You’ll have to excuse me—I’m not usually so scattered.”

  Jeremy went and stood beside her. “It’s all right, Elaine.”

  She shut her eyes. “Oh, Jeremy.”

  “Mrs. Stevens,” Ashley interrupted, her tone businesslike. “I think you’ll feel much better if you just hear me out. Sometimes what we imagine can be worse than the reality. In the You article was a snapshot of my uncle, Bartholomew Wakefield. Apparently your husband recognized him.”

  “What?” She was appalled. “But that’s ridiculous!”

  “One would think,” Ashley remarked dryly.

  “But we don’t know anyone by that name! I’m sure of it. Miss Wakefield, there must be a terrible mistake—”

  “I hope so,” Ashley said gravely. “Mrs. Stevens, last night my brother, David, and I found your husband back on the farm. He had been slightly injured—”

  “Oh, no.” She slumped against the counter. “Oh, God, what’s he doing?”

  “He wasn’t seriously hurt, Mrs. Stevens, I assure you.”

  Nodding that she understood, she gripped the sides of the counter. “Go on. Please.”

  “He left a little while later—we’d given him some ice, let him rest up.” Tact not being her long suit, Ashley thought she was doing well. “He didn’t want a doctor.”

  “Where was he hurt?”

  “On the back of the neck.” That sounded much less ominous than the head. “Mrs. Stevens, my uncle wasn’t home at the time. At the moment, I don’t know where either of them is—or what their business with each other might be. I was wondering if perhaps you could help me figure out just how a San Diego attorney and a Massachusetts farmer might know each other.”

  Jeremy touched Elaine’s rigid arm. “Mac said he’d call, Elaine. Maybe we should wait to hear from him.”

  Her voice choked. “He’s crazy, isn’t he?”

  “No, Elaine.” His tone was gentle, his anger apparent only in his eyes, which fastened stonily on Ashley.

  She sighed. “Mrs. Stevens, your husband struck me as being remarkably sane.” I’ll bet most jewel thieves are—ex or otherwise, she thought. “You’ve never heard him mention a Bartholomew Wakefield?”

  “No.”

  “Before he came to Massachusetts, my uncle lived in Tennessee, in the Nashville area. When my parents died, he took us up to the farm and raised us. That was in 1957. Was your husband in Tennessee then or before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “All right. My uncle is half English and half Polish. He and my parents left England in 1947. Could your husband have known him in England?”

  “No. Mac didn’t go to England until after we’d met—the early sixties. We were already married.”

  Jeremy put his arm over Elaine’s shoulder. Ashley sat at the edge of her chair, feeling unreasonably alone. She noted Jeremy’s untucked shirt, his sockless ankles, his close-fitting jeans. Maybe he was a decent man after all. It was MacGregor Stevens who had the mysterious past, the unexplained connections. Maybe Jeremy hadn’t lied about their relationship; they were colleagues, friends.

  “Mrs. Stevens,” Ashley went on, focusing on what she’d come here for. “What did your husband do before he and Jeremy’s father founded their law firm?”

  “Ashley, for God’s sake,” Jeremy spat.

  Elaine patted his arm. “It’s all right, Jeremy. Really. If this will help make any sense of what’s going on...” She attempted an encouraging smile. “Mac and I met in late 1957—here in San Diego, in fact. Before that he did legal work with the State Department.”

  “In Washington?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of legal work, Mrs. Stevens?”

  “The usual dull, detailed diplomatic stuff, he always said.”

  “He speaks other languages?”

  Jeremy looked surprised. “Why do you ask?”

  Ashley hesitated. “He was slightly disoriented when we found him.” That, she thought, wasn’t being tactful, it was lying. And lying glibly. She was suddenly disgusted with herself. What was this affair doing to her? “He...he said something in another language. I asked him later what it meant, and he said ‘mad monk’ or ‘crazy friar.’ I wondered if that means anything
to you.”

  Tucking one arm around her own waist and rubbing her mouth, Elaine began to pace across the gleaming tile floor. She looked increasingly shaken. “Orült szerzetes.”

  “That’s it!”

  Jeremy moved away from the counter. “What the hell are you two talking about?”

  “Mac’s been mumbling those words in his sleep for years,” Elaine said. “They’re Hungarian. I think they’re the only Hungarian he knows.”

  From what Ashley had heard while Mac Stevens had dreamed under the tattered afghans, she didn’t think so. But she said nothing.

  “He told me what they meant,” Elaine said. “A literal translation, at least. He’s never told me what they mean—to him personally, why he breaks out in a sweat sometimes and says those words over and over, until I wake him up and...and tell him it’s all right, he’s not crazy. Oh, God!”

  Jeremy grabbed her and spun her around to him. “It’s all right, Elaine. Mac was hurt. Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with a mad monk or whatever the hell he was mumbling about.” He dug his fingers into her shoulders in an obvious attempt to force her to regain her composure. “It was an old nightmare, Elaine. That’s all.”

  She sank her head onto Jeremy’s chest. “Please don’t let my husband be crazy. Oh, God, let him come home to me! Doesn’t he know what he’s doing? Doesn’t he care about me? About the kids?”

  Jeremy put his arms around her and let her cry, and Ashley felt terrible for having badgered the woman. But now she had to think. She had let the cab go—not very bright. Now she was stuck up in the hills of Point Loma with a near-hysterical woman and a man who probably would like to stuff tacos with her. Both would want further words with her. More specifics, more explanations. But she felt they’d already told her all they were going to—perhaps even all they knew about Mac Stevens and Bartholomew Wakefield.

  She had one chance. While the other two were preoccupied, neither looking in her direction, Ashley rose and tiptoed silently out of the kitchen. In the living room she picked up her pace, moving noiselessly over the thick slate-blue carpet.