She held out a large, solid-looking padlock. “Do as I say, my girl. You can ride over there on your bicycle.”
Marie took the padlock, her mind whirling. Why was Louisa giving this job to her?
“Go,” Louisa said with a shooing motion. “Just go. Zip on over, then zip back. It’s easier than sending one of the men.”
“Of course, Miss.” Marie held the heavy padlock in her hand. She nodded and left the room. She went to the bungalow and got her bike, the lock a weight in her pocket.
She rode to the outbuilding and tested the door. It opened easily. She peered inside.
Everything seemed orderly, except for a rumpled horse blanket on the floor, flecked with straw. She didn’t touch it. She didn’t touch anything. But she cast a longing glance at the stacks of boxes.
She closed the door, put the padlock in place and snapped it shut firmly. She tested it, and it was sound. Nobody would be able to get inside the building again without the key.
And that included her.
Wasn’t it better this way? Let Louisa keep her secrets. And Marie would keep hers.
PART THREE
Australia, The Hunter Valley
April
Chapter Twelve
The week passed peacefully for a change.
A new woman, Bronwyn Davis, came to replace Bindy. She was a tall, lovely widow with auburn hair and a ten-year-old son named Wesley. Bindy’s and Millie’s rooms were being refurbished the day Bronwyn arrived, so she and Wesley were given a temporary set of rooms in the house.
Wesley was a sweet and unaffected child, obviously still getting over his father’s recent death. He became a favorite of the staff, and surprisingly of Louisa’s. The old woman was growing mellower. Perhaps her hospitalization and close brush with the law had given her a new and kinder perspective on life.
And perhaps her growing rapport with Patrick and Megan was also responsible for her better temper. Megan was now living half-time in Sydney and half-time with Dylan Hastings, but Patrick had stayed on, working from Louisa’s house.
The French chef, Francois, arrived, a large jolly man who reminded Marie a bit of the late Pavarotti, the legendary opera tenor. He was a most charming man, but oddly, he didn’t charm Louisa. She frequently found fault with his cooking, which annoyed him immensely.
Obviously Louisa hadn’t mellowed completely.
Andrew, still on the campaign trail, called almost every night. Talking to him was the high point of Marie’s day. The sexual attraction seemed to grow between them, so strong she felt endangered by it, yet she had never felt so fully alive.
But Andrew was no longer simply a sexy and handsome man, he was becoming a friend. They were getting to know each other more deeply than they might have in an ordinary relationshiop—and she realized that besides the desire they felt for each other, there was also a growing fondness, a true affection.
They knew each other’s earliest memories, their proudest moments and their most painful. They knew small things, like the names of each other’s favorite pets and their most liked—and disliked—subjects in elementary school. He talked about having two brothers and a sister. She talked about being an only child.
He told of his first love, Kellie Maguire, who’d said that there was a door in the moon. If you could find it and open it, you’d see the future. “She was young and beautiful and smart and independent, and she died in a stupid accident that never should have happened.” Marie could hear the emotion in his voice. Then, abruptly, he changed the subject.
He confessed that Jacko Bullock had been quiet lately, and that disturbed him. Something must be up.
Marie said, “Maybe he’s worried about a federal investigation. Patrick says they think Sandy was part of a bigger operation. Organized crime, like you said. And maybe he’ll talk if he can get something out of it.”
“Could be.” Andrew didn’t sound convinced. “But given Jacko’s reputation, the longer he lies low, the nastier the surprise he’ll spring. And he can strike as fast as a snake.”
“You’re stronger than he is,” she told him. “I know you are.”
“Thanks, beautiful,” he would say in that low, lazy Southern voice she loved. He was the only man who’d ever called her beautiful and made it sound like a compliment, not a come-on.
She felt safe enough to tell him her worries about Reynard. “He seems on tenterhooks. He’s uneasy at The Secret Heiress. He won’t sit at the same table twice in a row. And he’s drinking much more than he used to. He’ll take me out and drink his schooner or two. But then he drops me off and goes to the Crook Scale. Some nights, he disappears altogether. And doesn’t say where he’s been.”
“Maybe he’s found a lady fair,” Andrew suggested, a smile in his voice.
“He’ll always be able to find a lady fair,” she said. “When he brings the eggs, even Louisa makes sure she’s in the kitchen when he arrives. He’s one of the few people who can actually make her laugh. But when I’m alone with him, he’s not in his usual high spirits.”
“I’m sorry. But if he’s drinking, maybe when I get back I can get him talking and find out what the problem is.”
“I feel guilty,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to take on my family problems.”
“You listen to me bitch and moan about the campaign. You help keep me from imploding. When I ask your opinion, you’re honest. When you give advice, it’s good. I mean it.”
She smiled with pleasure. Then his tone changed. “I miss you,” he told her. “I think about you all the time.”
“And I miss you,” she said, and it was a daring statement for her to make. “And think about you.”
“One of these days, I’m going to talk to you face-to-face again. I hope.”
“I hope so, too,” she said.
“And more than face-to-face. I want to hold you again.”
Her body tingled, remembering his touch. “Maybe it’ll be easier when the election’s over.”
“It should be,” he said. “But, of course, Louisa may want to shoot me if I win.”
She gave a mock moan. “Please don’t talk about her shooting anybody! I swear Wesley, the little boy here, is softening her. He’s a darling little boy. His mother, Bronwyn, the one who replaced Bindy? It turns out that she’s the widow of a man named Ari Theodoros. He was imprisoned for—”
“I know what he was imprisoned for,” Andrew said, his tone suddenly hardening. “Doping horses. He was up to his neck in racing scams. And Louisa’s letting his widow work at her place? Has she gone soft in the head?”
“No,” Marie replied. “But maybe soft in the heart. She’s quite taken by the little boy. And she seems to have a strange sympathy for Bronwyn. I get the feeling that Bronwyn and Patrick used to know each other. It’s odd, but I have to wonder if—”
“My God,” Andrew exclaimed. “Do you have your TV on? Something’s happening.”
“What?” she asked in confusion. “What’s going on?”
“Let me listen a sec.” There was a long pause and she could hear the sound of the television, a vague mumble in the background.
Then Andrew spoke again. “Marie? This isn’t good. Sandy Sanford was shot to death tonight. They’re not saying how it happened, only that it’s under investigation.”
Sam’s killer shot? But he was in custody. It made no sense to Marie. It didn’t seem possible.
“Dead?” she echoed in disbelief. “But how…”
“They may not want to say more. Damn! Dead! He was the one possible link to a syndicate connection, and he’s gone. How in hell did this happen?”
“Oh, Andrew,” she said, truly upset. “Do you still have that detective you hired?”
“I’ve got him working on the syndicate or gang connection, but so far the feds aren’t sharing their info. That’s the big problem. I’ll light a fire under him. This can’t be a coincidence.”
“Andrew,” she said, “please be careful. First Sam’s dead, now Sandy. This is scary.”
“Sweet dreams,” she repeated mechanically. But how could any dreams be sweet tonight with another death connected to Hunter Valley?
The next morning, Louisa sat in the kitchen, grumbling. Marie guessed that she was impatiently waiting for Reynard so she could ask him what the hell he thought was going on with the death of Sandy Sanford.
Marie busied herself making the staff breakfast, bangers and mash. The normally genial Francois bent frowning over a skillet, scrambling egg whites and vegetarian sausages for Louisa. “I did not study the great cuisine of France,” he muttered, “to make pabulum. This will have all the flavor of paste.”
“Oh, be quiet,” snapped Louisa. “I’m the one who has to eat it. Ask my two culinary consciences here.” She glanced at Marie and Bronwyn.
Bronwyn had studied nutrition in college and was one hundred per cent committed to Louisa eating healthy foods. But this morning, Bronwyn looked wan and uneasy.
Helena was in the staff dining room, laying the table. Louisa perked up when Reynard’s truck drove up and he came to the door with his basket of eggs.
“Hello, Reynard,” Louisa said crisply. “Come in. Sit with me. Mrs. Lipton, get him some of those sweets he likes and a cuppa. Reynard, you heard the news about Sandy Sanford?”
He looked his usual alert and irreverent self. “I have—and I’ll gladly join you,” Reynard said. “Yes, Sandy’s croaking’s the talk of Lochlain.”
Reynard settled into a chair. Louisa said, “I read on the Internet they were transferring him to the jail in St. Heliers, and he was shot getting out of the police car. How could such a thing happen? At a jail? Surrounded by the bloody police?”
He shrugged. “Word of his transfer must have leaked.”
“Leaked?” Her nostrils pinched in distaste. “How could it be leaked?”
“There’s corruption everywhere, Miss. Even the police force isn’t perfect. Policemen have been known to be bribed and bought. And somebody, or some group, probably didn’t want Sandy talking.”
“Group? As in organized crime?” Louisa demanded. Mrs. Lipton looked suddenly alarmed as she gave Reynard his brandy snaps and tea.
“Probably,” he said.
“And the killer got away?” she said in disbelief. “With the police right there? How?”
“The shot came from an abandoned building,” Reynard said. “A cop was hit, too. Whoever did the shooting set the building afire. He raised enough confusion to escape.”
Marie felt sickened. Louisa bent closer to Reynard and peered in his eyes. “But the police will find him?”
He gave her a crooked grin. “I’d say they’re motivated. Wouldn’t you be? But if I was the shooter, I’d be out of the country by now. Long gone.”
“You seem to know a lot about criminal acts,” Louisa said, her eyes still on his.
He gave her his lazy, heavy-lidded look. “I read the papers. Sanford’s not the first man to be killed in custody. Nor will he be the last.”
“I don’t feel very good,” Bronwyn said suddenly. “I need some air.” She opened the back door and fled outside.
Reynard and Marie exchanged glances. Bronwyn’s husband had also died in police custody. Had too many painful memories overwhelmed her?
“Humph,” was Louisa’s only comment. “Why was Sanford moved?”
“He was charged with murder. He was desperate. They probably thought he’d try to escape. Orders to move him had to come from higher up.”
“And how do you know?” Louisa wheedled.
“Good deal of jaw-jaw about it in the bunkhouse last night,” he said. “That’s what folks were saying, is all.”
He turned to Marie. “Marie, love, this has shaken everyone up. Want to have a glass of wine at The Secret Heiress tonight?”
Marie nodded silently.
“Good. I have to get back now, sorry to say.” He got to his feet and smiled at Mrs. Lipton. “Mrs. Lipton, when you get to heaven, St. Peter will ask, ‘Did you bring the brandy snaps?’ And if you have, you’ll make him a very happy saint.”
“And what,” Louisa asked, looking up at him archly, “shall St. Peter ask me when I arrive?”
“He won’t ask anything. He’ll say, ‘At last someone to get the celestial stables in shape.’ There have to be horses in heaven, or you wouldn’t go, would you, Miss?”
“Indeed, I would not,” said Louisa, smiling in spite of herself. With a wave, Rennie strode out the door.
Louisa, too, rose from the table. “Have the new girl bring me my breakfast, as usual,” she told Mrs. Lipton. On the way out, she peered into Francois’s pan. “Don’t overcook my eggs again,” she said rather testily.
When she left, Francois said a very bad word in French. Marie understood it perfectly and knew he was both hurt and angry. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let her get to you. She likes to goad people. Especially at first. She’s a bit temperamental sometimes.”
“I am a chef, and I am temperamental,” he growled. “We will see who is best at it.”
Marie shook her head in resignation and went out to see how Bronwyn was. She stood by a jacaranda tree staring out at the stables.
“Are you all right?” Marie asked.
“No,” Bronwyn said. “Marie, you know what happened to my husband, to Ari…”
“Yes. I know.”
“He was a criminal. I never knew until he was arrested. He was in prison for doping horses. Two men, first Ari, now Sandy, connected to horse racing crimes—both killed while they were in custody.” Bronwyn’s voice was shaky. “That’s too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? And it’s frightening. And after what’s happened in Hunter Valley—and to Louisa? These deaths and all this violence connected with racing? I wonder if Wesley and I are safe here.”
“You told me before you never knew Ari was into doping. Nobody has reason to harm you or Wesley. Ari’s the one they wanted to silence, and now he’s gone. You shouldn’t worry.”
Bronwyn tried to smile but wasn’t completely successful. “Thanks,” she murmured.
Marie smiled back, but she thought of what Andrew had said at the Hermit’s Cave, that there could very well be a plot to get the main Thoroughbred properties in this part of the valley. Back then, the idea seemed overly dramatic. Now it seemed too real.
Would there be more deaths? And who would be on the hit list?
Marie honestly didn’t think Bronwyn and Wesley would be in danger. But some malign force, some unknown persons had nearly killed Louisa. Would they move against her again?
And Andrew? They would want to get rid of Andrew. He was against everything they represented, the fraud, the greed, the conspiracies.
Wouldn’t they want to stop him however they could?
Hans Gerhart was the senior partner of the Gerhart and Phelps Agency. His office seemed better suited to a stock broker or an insurance executive than a detective. It was modern, with sleek furniture and only a single picture, a black-and-white photograph, on the walls.
Andrew found this photograph, a portrait, infinitely distracting. It was of a young woman from another era, and she was heartbreakingly beautiful. She had a delicate, almost perfect face, and dark blond bobbed hair. She reminded him, almost viscerally, of Marie.
He tried not to stare, to concentrate on Gerhart instead. The detective was a trim man in his late fifties with a bony face. His blue eyes were pale and mild.
He was casually dressed in black slacks and a pale gray polo shirt that matched his hair. He looked as if he could be a professional golfer, but he was one of the highest priced investigators in Sydney.
He sat at a plain walnut desk, the surface clear except for one folder. Tapping the folder, he said, “The Whittleson murder case was bot
ched.”
Andrew straightened in his chair, dark brows drawing into a frown. “Botched? I know that. Everybody knows it.”
“There was too much going on here with the APEC violence. We had over forty deaths here. Hunter Valley had one. So your Sandy Sanford fell through the cracks. The state police had other priorities.”
Andrew heaved himself out of his chair and began to pace the gray carpet. “And when will they pry him out of the cracks? All they ever got were a few basic facts. He’d followed the racing trade. He’d been questioned about betting fraud—but released.”
Andrew leaned with both hands on Gerhart’s desk and looked the man in the eye. “That’s it? The guy lured Sam to Lochlain, shot him, set a fire and framed Louisa Fairchild. Why? What was his motive? For doing any of it, for God’s sake?”
“Calm down,” Gerhart said, his voice as unemotional as a robot’s. “The state police and feds are still sorting out the bombings and other violence. And the usual crime rate didn’t drop. There’s a huge backlog. The police system’s jammed.”
Andrew opened his mouth to damn the whole Australian legal process, but Gerhart raised a hand to silence him. “Phelps and I aren’t in the police system. You pay us to find out something? We find it out—with or without their cooperation. It just takes longer without.”
He pulled open a desk drawer. “Sanford’s killing? We’re on it. And we already have info on Sam Whittleson.”
He drew out another folder and set it on his desk. “Whittleson was up to his neck in gambling debts. He’d borrowed money from some real sharks. Guys you don’t stiff. But Sam couldn’t pay. That may be why he was killed.”
Andrew straightened up, tensing with curiosity. “Are these guys organized? Like in a syndicate?”
“The Grangers? Affirmative by rumor. Hard proof? These people always work in the shadows—proof’s difficult to find. But we’ll find it. We’re not under the same constraints as the police. But we do have to get solid evidence. Understand?”
Andrew nodded. Gerhart and his people could work in ways that the law couldn’t. He said, “It has to be organized crime. It has to be. Too much has happened in the Valley.”
The Secret Heiress Page 17