Claim the Crown

by Carla Neggers

  He looked at her in surprise. “You trust me enough to leave me here alone?”

  “Are you a Winslow Homer fan?”

  “I can take or leave him.”

  She grinned. “Well, I hope you leave him. Anyway, reporters are probably staked out all over the neighborhood and will have good sharp photographs of anyone leaving or entering my building. If you walk off with the silver, Carruthers, I’ll have you arrested.” She wriggled her fingers under his nose in farewell. “Enjoy.”

  13

  Jeremy felt like a sleaze, but when Ashley dashed off to Touchstone, he took his mug of coffee and wandered around her duplex. He wanted to get a sense of the woman...and maybe find some indication of whether her uncle had contacted her.

  The first floor consisted of a living room, study and small foyer in the front, and a kitchen, dining room and half bathroom in the back. The rooms were all small, coolly elegant. Upstairs there were two bedrooms, two full bathrooms and a messy den. A narrow, steep staircase in the den led to a rooftop deck with a spectacular view of the Charles River and Cambridge to the west and to the southwest the skyline of Back Bay.

  He began with the living room. In minutes, he discovered the house was as filled with as many intriguing contradictions as the woman who lived there. Ashley Wakefield was unpredictable, sharp, sexy and beautiful, but also, as far as he could see, peculiar.

  She had an original Homer seascape, pricey Kosta Boda glassware, Persian rugs, antiques mixed in with expensive contemporary pieces, a stunning collection of aquatic photography. But she also had a ragged bathrobe hanging in her closet, an array of dirty sneakers, a cupboard in her kitchen crammed with old mayonnaise and peanut butter jars, a pickle jar filled with buttons and a freezer stuffed with plastic bags of home-frozen vegetables.

  She saved plastic bags from the supermarket and washed used pieces of aluminum foil.

  In her study, he found stubby pencils, notes scrawled on used envelopes, outdated stationery torn up for scrap paper, a vase of dead flowers and no computer. There were pictures of eels, dolphins, whales and penguins on her bulletin board.

  A waste-not, want-not heiress. Jeremy didn’t know many of those.

  He thought of Susie and their failed marriage. She was definitely not waste-not, want-not, although very rich, beautiful and intelligent. But Susie was intense, tenacious. He had been drawn to that aura of toughness about her, only to discover, too late, that it was just an outer shell, a persona she liked to present to the world. Inside, Susie was vulnerable and insecure. Her current husband liked that: it made him feel needed, secure, masculine. Jeremy had felt only guilt: he could never have loved Susie as much as she had pretended, even to herself, that she loved him.

  No, not love, he thought. Obsession. It was a different beast altogether.

  Finding nothing of interest in the apartment except Ashley Wakefield herself, Jeremy called a cab. Outside on her front stoop, he smiled big for any cameras, and when the cab arrived, he said loudly, “Touchstone Communications.”

  Just in case Ashley threw him out on his ass, he’d have witnesses—and a bit of revenge. He could see the gossip columns in the morning: “Mystery man visits mystery heiress.”

  * * *

  Ashley studied the aquatic photographs arranged on a plain white wall of her office. They reminded her of peace and tranquility and, at the same time, the unpredictability of the sea, and of life.

  She turned to Caroline Kent, who sat cross-legged on the bone-colored couch near the outer door. Dressed in wool gabardine, Caroline looked every inch the top-notch professional she was. She had already given Ashley the notes on Sarah Balaton.

  Ortilt szerzetes, Ashley thought, was a Hungarian phrase. Andrew Balaton, Sarah’s father, was a Hungarian refugee. Was there a connection?

  “Caroline,” she said, “what do you know about Hungary?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. It’s in eastern Europe and it’s Communist. What else is there to know?”

  “Good question. Think you could pull together a little history report for me?”

  Caroline uncrossed her legs, her only indication of surprise. “I’d be glad to, Ash. You want to talk?”

  “I can’t.” She sighed heavily, hating the confusion that raged inside her; if only she could be more certain she was doing the right thing. “If I had more facts...”

  “I’ll hit the library and see what I can find out. Will that help?”

  Ashley nodded, grateful for Caroline’s friendship. “Thanks.”

  The door to the outer office opened, and both Caroline and Ashley looked up as Patti Morgan poked her head through. The young secretary looked distressed. “Ashley, you’ve got company. He won’t—”

  Jeremy Carruthers squeezed between her and the doorjamb, thrusting the door wider open, and waltzed into the office. Patti sighed and finished, “He won’t take no for an answer and he won’t give me his name.”

  From her position on the couch, Caroline scrutinized Jeremy, and Ashley could see her putting pieces together in her own peculiar way. She climbed to her feet and stood alongside her business partner. “Ash, what kind of hot water have you got your butt in this time?”

  Ashley muttered back, “It’s boiling oil, Caroline, and I’m up to my neck.” Then she glared at Jeremy. “What do you want?”

  He ambled over to her desk and looked around, as if he didn’t expect the air of cheerfulness and efficiency. Ashley supposed, after the episode with the eggs, Touchstone Communications would come as a surprise. “You don’t seem to have much time for anything in your life but work and fish,” he said. “Don’t you do anything for fun?”

  She looked at him in annoyance. “I do everything for fun.”

  He grinned. “A point to remember.”

  Caroline nudged Ashley with her elbow. “Shall I call security?”

  “No, it’s all right. I can handle Mr. Carruthers. How soon can you get me that report?”

  Caroline promised to get on it right away. She eyed Jeremy curiously and, as she left, widened her alert brown eyes at Ashley. Caroline was definitely no dummy, Ashley thought.

  She snatched her handbag off the desk as Jeremy came and stood beside her. “You’re getting to be a pest, Carruthers.”

  “Going somewhere?” he asked mildly.

  “Just to the institute.” She could get rid of him there more easily, she thought, and scoot over to the bank. “I suppose you want to come, too?”

  “Sure, what the hell.”

  She squared her shoulders. “Mac Stevens ask you to follow me around?”

  He gave her a mock look of surprise. “You don’t trust me.”

  “Right now, I don’t trust anyone.” Including Barky? In a way, she supposed. She tucked her handbag under her arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

  They headed down Atlantic Avenue toward the wharf occupied by the New England Oceanographic Institute. The rain had stopped and the sun had come out; it was fairly warm. The plaza was crowded with people.

  “I come here often and eat my lunch,” Ashley said, hoping to keep the conversation casual and Jeremy’s suspicions at bay. “It’s a great place to watch people.”

  “And be watched,” he added.

  “I’m better at watching. Frankly, I’m not the type to hang out at bars and all the ‘in’ places just to be seen.”

  He studied her for a moment, his expression enigmatic, unreadable. “I suppose dates wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  “Not especially.”

  That was the truth, she thought. She did have lots of dates—but not many lasting relationships. Somehow, she’d just never met a man she’d consider bringing home to the farm and Barky, a man who’d understand them and the Liechtenstein trust and what they meant to her—and didn’t mean. She’d never met a man who’d go out collecting maple sap with her in the dead of March and who’d brave the briars and the red ants to pick wild blueberries and who understood why, despite her millions, she continued to save old jars and
eat Barky’s pole beans. She’d never met a man who didn’t want her to be just Ashley Wakefield the mystery heiress. Or just Ashley Wakefield the dolphin rescuer. Or just Ashley Wakefield the businesswoman.

  She was all those Ashley Wakefields. And none of them.

  A reporter jumped out from behind a fountain and snapped their picture together. “Where you been hiding, Ashley?”

  He sounded as if he’d known her for years. She responded with a tight smile.

  “Who’s the guy? Latest love interest?”

  Ashley tugged on Jeremy’s sleeve, but he didn’t budge. “Name’s Carruthers,” he said. “Two r’s. Jeremy Carruthers.”

  “Got it. From Boston?”

  “San Diego.”

  Ashley groaned. “Carruthers!”

  He glanced at her. “And you advise people on how to deal with the media?”

  “I like operating behind the scenes, not being a scene. If I wanted my picture in the paper every day, I assure you, I could arrange it.”

  He laughed and slung his arm over her shoulder and smiled for the camera. Ashley knew she looked mortified. “Must you be so obnoxious?” she complained.

  “It comes naturally—to both of us, I fear.”

  “For that, you can pay to get into the institute.”

  “Fine with me.” Then he saw the entrance fee. “Five bucks to look at fish?”

  “You can always pay more. The institute would be delighted to accept your tax-deductible contribution.”

  He paid precisely five dollars.

  There was a lecture in ten minutes on sharks of the North Atlantic, but before she could suggest, in jest, that they attend, Jeremy shook his head. “Forget it.” Instead she introduced him to the moray eel.

  “Snopes,” she said to the huge green slimy creature behind glass, “I’d like you to meet Carruthers. Carruthers, Snopes.”

  “Snopes?”

  “What would you name an eel?”

  Jeremy looked at the eel in distaste. “I’d shake his hand, but I gather he doesn’t have one. My God, does he even have a head? Ugly bastard, isn’t he?”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t say that in front of him. Morays are the largest eel known in existence, you know.”

  “One would hope. Is it a snake?”

  “Actually, no, it’s a fish. They can be quite deadly.”

  She felt a stab of guilt. Jeremy Carruthers was pleasant to be around and maybe wasn’t spying on her for Mac—and probably he didn’t deserve what she was going to do to him. But what choice did she have? Barky needed her.

  “Ashley?”

  She shot away from the eel exhibit and, refusing to look at him, began to yell for security. “Security! Security—quickly!”

  With remarkable speed, two beefy security guards swooped down on Jeremy and grabbed him unmercifully by the elbows.

  “What the hell is this?” Jeremy demanded, outraged. “Ashley, dammit—”

  She addressed the guards, who knew her and, she suspected, had been briefed by their chief about the You coverage. “He won’t leave me alone. Must be crazy or something. I can’t seem to shake him on my own. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” one said.

  “Ashley!” Jeremy roared. “It’s the jewels, isn’t it? You’re getting them for your uncle. Don’t do it!”

  The other guard asked, “What would you like us to do with him, Miss Wakefield?”

  She shrugged. “Feed him to the sharks.”

  14

  Her feet were frozen, numb. Each step hurt more than the last. She kept moving because if she didn’t the others would stop, and then they would have to die, too. She thought of Vienna and warmth, and of what lay behind them, in shattered Budapest. It was dangerous to cross the border tonight, because of the cold, the dark, the Russians. The mad monk had said that was good: then they wouldn’t be expected.

  “What will the Russians do if they catch us?” Judith Land whispered. It was too dark; Lillian couldn’t see her. But she knew how Judith would look—incomparably beautiful, terrified.

  “Call our fathers, probably. They wouldn’t dare shoot us.”

  “But András?”

  “They’d have to shoot him.”

  “Mac?”

  Lillian made no reply. The water was past her knees. The effort to talk was too great as the freezing water soaked through her. Her cashmere coat would be ruined. Her mother would want to know what happened to it. “I gave it to a poor Hungarian refugee, Mother....”

  Suddenly, behind them, there was a flash of light.

  Judith screamed. Lillian grabbed her, clamping her hand over her best friend’s mouth, then her own. They both shook violently.

  “Come!” a voice whispered to them from the pitch-dark in front of them. “Quickly. The border is very near.”

  “But Mac—”

  “He’s lost.”

  “Oh, God, no!”

  A firm arm gripped her, pulled her away from the light at her back, toward the darkness and the shadows. She clung to Judith, stumbling with her, staying together. They had to. There was nothing else now, only each other.

  In the cold, clear, dark night, a shot rang out.

  In Manhattan, in the spacious master suite of Lillian Parker’s Park Avenue apartment, the telephone rang. She sat on the edge of her king-size bed and picked up the receiver. She was shaking, hoarse from tightening her throat, fighting the urge to cry.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Lil.”

  “Crockett.”

  “How are you, Lil?”

  She tucked a leg under her. “Busy. The past few days have been really hectic.”

  “You haven’t returned my calls.”

  J. Land Crockett had been cluttering up her answering machines with messages to call him. He never left his name. He knew she’d recognize his voice. But she hadn’t called him back. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re afraid, Lil.”

  “No—”

  “It’s all right. You’d be a fool if you weren’t. Have you talked to Ashley Wakefield yet?”

  “No—I’ve tried. But she hasn’t returned any of my calls, either. I guess she’s busy, too. Crockett, maybe it’s just as well.”

  He chuckled softly. “Have I ever changed my mind, Lil? I want to see this woman. I have to. I thought I’d laid the past to rest, but now I know I haven’t. Maybe I never will.”

  Good Lord, she thought, had he actually believed he’d let go of the past? He lived in the past! He was a bitter old man, more dead than alive, and he let no one share his pain. He believed he was the only one in the world who had a right to suffer. But Lillian couldn’t criticize him. A long time ago, she had learned to deny her own pain, even to herself. No one could share her suffering because she let no one know it even existed.

  “Don’t give me excuses, Lil,” Crockett went on gruffly. “Be afraid, but don’t let your fear stop you from doing what you have to do.”

  “Crockett, for God’s sake. Why don’t you call Ashley yourself?”

  “You know I can’t do that. But I have to see her, Lil. You know that, too.”

  She rested back against the pillows. “I do know, Crockett,” she said in a near whisper. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do what I can.”

  * * *

  Ashley made the bank just before closing. Again asking her to dinner, the bank officer, George Chambers, led her to her safe-deposit box, which, with his key and hers, he opened. She removed the black velvet-bound cases, thanked him for the invitation, which unfortunately she couldn’t accept, and headed back to the lobby. He was really an attractive man: tawny haired, well dressed, intelligent and probably a great deal of fun. But he also knew all about Liechtenstein trusts and he obviously was fond of money.

  Picky, picky. Well, she couldn’t help it. He wasn’t her type. Who is? Her traitorous mind conjured up an image of Jeremy Carruthers, his pale eyes crinkled as he squinted at the bright sun.

  In the lobby,
a muscular blond man in a too-tight T-shirt fell in behind her.

  She remembered: “built like a bull, blond, a pro.”

  Thinking quickly, she snapped her fingers as though she’d just remembered she’d forgotten something. “Damn.” She spun around. Smiling slightly as she passed the thug—am I getting paranoid?—she walked briskly back to George’s office. “I think there’s a guy out there after my jewels,” she said breathlessly.

  “What?” George dropped his pen. “Are you sure?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I have good reason to be suspicious.”

  He jumped to his feet. “Let’s get security.”

  “George, I have no proof. Nothing. It might not even be the right guy. I wouldn’t want the bank to get into trouble for pestering an innocent man.”

  “Then we’ll delay him while you make your exit,” he said smoothly.

  But when they got back out to the lobby, the big blond man was gone. If he were a professional at assault and intimidation, Ashley thought, he’d know when someone had made him. She started to apologize to George, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He was nothing if not cautious. He insisted on calling a cab and having a guard escort her and the tiara and choker out to it. He said he was free anytime for dinner with her; she promised she’d think about it and thanked him.

  She didn’t dare stop at her apartment. If the blond meat wasn’t there, Jeremy Carruthers just might be. And she didn’t want to run into either of them. She had the cab drop her at Barky’s truck and asked the driver to wait until she’d gotten in, started it up and pulled out into the street. She tipped him heavily. He waited.

  When she was out on Storrow Drive, she cranked the old truck up—it rattled ominously—and made Amherst in less than two hours.

  * * *

  Jeremy cursed Ashley all the way back to Chestnut Street. The security guards had nothing to hold him on—he’d spouted off like a lawyer—and had dumped him outside in the plaza. He’d promptly hailed a cab.

  The front door was locked, and she didn’t answer his buzz on the intercom. He sat down on the front stoop and cursed her some more.