'And Zack? Where is he?'
Liz shrugged. 'Beats me,' she said loftily, and disappeared back into her room.
Dorothy-Anne spun around. 'Mrs. Mills.'
'Yes, ma'am?'
'Do you have any idea where Zack might be?'
'Let me think.' Mrs. Mills tapped her lips with a finger and looked thoughtful. 'The last I saw him, he was with Nanny Florrie. Yes. She was taking him to the park.'
'At what time was this?' Dorothy-Anne's voice was pitched high. 'Please, Mrs. Mills, try to remember! It's very important!'
'It was about . . . I remember now.' Mrs. Mills nodded briskly. 'Nine-thirty this morning.'
'And they're not back yet? It's one o'clock, and they haven't had lunch?'
'Oh, dear,' Mrs. Mills fretted. 'I don't keep tabs on Nanny --'
Dorothy-Anne pressed the back of a feverish, damp hand against her mouth. She stared at Venetia, who stared back at her.
'Girl? You're not thinking what I think you're thinking. Are you?'
'I have to,' Dorothy-Anne said hoarsely. 'Don't you see? After the murder outside the theater on Saturday . . . and now Cecilia . . . what better way is there to get to me but through one of the children?'
'Murder!' Mrs. Mills exclaimed. 'What murder? Goodness gracious, what is going on?'
But neither Dorothy-Anne nor Venetia replied. They were already rushing back outside, racing down the front steps to the sidewalk, and then over toward Fifth Avenue and the green park beyond.
Central Park was the usual summer circus. RollerBladers in acid-hued Spandex flashed by at rocket speed. Bicyclists were out in full force, and ragamuffin skateboarders sported post-trendy grunge. Joggers in tights, sweatsuits, or combinations of the two ran laps, Walkmans on their hips and earphones on their heads.
Venetia, hands on her hips, did a panoramic eyesweep and shook her head. 'Why,' she moaned despairingly, 'oh, why is it that when you're looking for someone specific, this place just seems to get bigger and bigger?'
'That's because it is big,' Dorothy-Anne responded. 'In this town, you're so used to everything being vertical that you lose your sense of perspective when it comes to open spaces.'
'I suppose you're right,' Venetia sighed. 'Well? How do you want to work this? My idea is we split up.'
Dorothy-Anne agreed. 'I'll check north of here, where the British contingent of nannies usually congregate, and you check south. We'll meet back here in this spot in twenty . . . '
Dorothy-Anne paused in mid-sentence and pointed.
'Look! Way over there. Behind that copse of trees.'
Venetia followed her hand. 'You mean the police cars and that crowd of gawkers? Oh, baby! Surely you don't think—'
'Frankly, I don't know what to think anymore. But I have a bad feeling about this.'
Venetia didn't waste any time. 'Then let's go check that out first,' she decided, and led the way.
Dorothy-Anne had to practically jog to keep up with Venetia's leggy stride. She wished she'd thought to change shoes, especially when they left the path and cut diagonally across the green. The moderate heels she and Venetia were wearing weren't made for the great outdoors; they sank into the grass, impeding their progress.
When they reached the crime scene, there were eight police blue-and- whites, each parked at a different angle; police band radios squawked from every car. The coroner's wagon was just arriving, and two uniforms cleared a path for it, holding aside a portion of the yellow crime scene tape that had been strung around trees, cordoning off the area.
With a blithe disregard for posted regulations, Venetia held up a section of the yellow tape.
'Quick!' she hissed. 'Girl, what are you waiting for?'
Dorothy-Anne hesitated, then swiftly ducked underneath. Venetia followed.
'Hey! Hey, hey hey!' A gruff-voiced uniform cop came running. 'Youse ladies! Can't ya read? Out. Now!'
The cop, cap pushed way back on his head, glared up at her. He was a good three inches shorter than Venetia, which put him at a distinct psychological disadvantage.
'Lady, you hard o' hearing?'
Venetia widened her stance, the better to stand her ground.
'Look, all I'm asking was if the victim was a plump Caucasian female. Large-bosomed, fleshy mouth, thinning fluff of red hair. Freckles . . . late forties . . . green eyes?'
The cop looked at her narrowly. 'How do you know?' he asked suspiciously. 'You the one called in this squeal?'
'I don't know,' Venetia said calmly. 'But the woman we're looking for fits that description. If it's her, she may be wearing a longish, dark, stitch-pleated skirt, probably blue or black or dark gray. A white, high- neck voile blouse with pearl buttons and a mock placket—'
'A mock what?'
A tall detective with a bald head and a little fringe of black hair had overheard them. He had a badge clipped to the lapel of his sport jacket and a bushy black mustache to compensate for the hair loss on his pate.
'I'll take over,' he told the uniform. And to Dorothy-Anne and Venetia: 'I'm Detective Passell.'
He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. First he looked thoughtfully at Venetia. Then he looked long and hard at Dorothy-Anne.
'One of you ladies know the victim?'
'That's what we're trying to find out,' Venetia said.
'Mind identifying her? I've got to warn you, though. It's not a pretty sight.'
Don't let it be Nanny Florrie, Dorothy-Anne prayed. Please don't let it be anybody we know. Haven't we been through enough for one day?
'I have one question,' Dorothy-Anne said unsteadily. She took a deep, shuddering breath. 'Was there .. . was there . . . anybody . . . with her?' She wanted to say, Was there a little boy, but was unable to voice her fears aloud.
'No, ma'am. The victim is alone.'
'I'll do the identifying,' Venetia decided. She took Dorothy-Anne's hand and squeezed it. 'You stay right here.'
Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'No. I have to see for myself. I won't rest until I do.'
They followed Detective Passell, who said, 'They're okay. They're with me.' He led them to an immense shrub. A horseshoe of policemen stood around, staring down at a corpse.
'Excuse me, gentlemen,' Passell said. 'These ladies are here to identify the deceased.'
The cops parted silently. Dorothy-Anne and Venetia drew close and looked down.
They were staring at Nanny Florrie. She looked heavier in death than in life. Her white blouse was dirty, her eyes were huge, and her head was at an odd angle. And then Dorothy-Anne realized why. She had very nearly been decapitated. The ground beneath her was soaked with blood, and a red necktie was loosely knotted around her throat.
'Ma'am?' Detective Passell said quietly.
Dorothy-Anne nodded and looked away and Venetia took her in her arms. 'It's Nanny Florrie,' Dorothy-Anne gasped. 'Her full name is . . . ' She swallowed and corrected herself. 'Her full name was . . . Flora Dobbin Fergusson. She worked for me. She was my children's nanny.'
He took out a small spiral-bound notebook and a Bic pen and jotted down the information.
'To the best of your knowledge, when was the last time anyone saw her alive?'
'When she . . . when she took my youngest son out this morning.'
Dorothy-Anne fumbled in her purse, pulled out her wallet, and withdrew a recent wallet-size photograph of Zack. She thrust it at the detective. 'Did you see him? Did anyone see my son?'
'Are you saying you son is missing?'
Dorothy-Anne nodded weakly.
Venetia said, 'Detective, Mrs. Cantwell has suffered several bad shocks today. Could you come by the house? I think she'd better have a stiff drink and lie down.'
Detective Passell nodded. 'I'll have one of my men drive you both home. You'll be available?'
'Yes,' Venetia said. She rattled off the address of the town house, which he wrote down in his notebook. 'That was Mrs. Fergusson's address also.'
Detective Passell clicked his fingers and a
uniformed cop snapped to. 'Drive these ladies home.'
Dorothy-Anne nodded her thanks and followed the cop, Venetia holding onto her. The cop held open the rear door and they got in the backseat. Venetia gave him directions.
'It'll be okay,' Venetia said softly. 'We'll find Zack.'
Dorothy-Anne slumped in the seat.
When they got out at the town house, Venetia thanked the cop and helped Dorothy-Anne up the front steps. The door was opened by Mrs. Mills.
'Mrs. Cantwell?'
Dorothy-Anne looked up slowly, her face weary.
Mrs. Mills said, 'While I was checking around your office, a fax came in. It's still in the machine. I would have brought it down, but when I saw what it was, I thought I'd better not touch it.'
Dorothy-Anne's voice was hoarse. 'What is it?'
'Best you come upstairs and see for yourself, ma'am.'
Dorothy-Anne and Venetia exchanged glances. 'Is it about Zack?' Dorothy-Anne asked eagerly.
'I believe so. I'm not certain . . . '
Dorothy-Anne raced up the stairs and rushed into her office. The fax machine was on a table beside her desk, and she snatched up the paper. She let out a little cry.
The fax was a drawing executed by a child, and she recognized the artist at once. Zack! She knew, because she was his mother, and she'd seen and praised hundreds, probably thousands, of drawings he'd brought her over the years.
She held the fax with trembling fingers, staring at it. It was a drawing of . . . fish? No, sharks and a stingray! And a little boy watching them!
'Oh, shit,' Venetia exclaimed succinctly. 'Do you recognize that place?'
'Of course I do. It's Eden Isle. He must have seen one of the planning videos or architectural photos or models.'
'Oh, honey. Take a good look at the top line.' Venetia ran a splendid wildberry-lacquered fingernail under it. 'This one, that says where the fax originated.'
Dorothy-Anne stared at the tiny print and her blood ran cold. She recognized the number at once. It was the fax number of Freddie's old office. The one in the Quonset hut on Eden Isle.
She felt the room blur and tilt and start to spin at a crazy angle. For a moment, she braced her arms on the desktop and shut her eyes. It was all she could do to fight the bile rising in her throat, and wait for the worst of the nausea to pass.
Someone had Zack . . . and that someone knew how to contact her.
As they stood there, the fax machine clicked on and hummed, breaking the silence. They all stared at is as another incoming message was received.
Dorothy-Anne snatched the paper out of the machine. It, too, originated from Eden Isle, and the hand-printed message was succinct.
IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOUR SON AGAIN
DO NOT INVOLVE THE POLICE
Downstairs, the front doorbell chimed. All three of them gave a start. Mrs. Mills started across the room to the second-floor intercom. 'No!' Dorothy-Anne said urgently. 'Don't answer that!' 'Honey, it's probably the police,' Venetia said. 'I know! That's what I'm afraid of!' 'But you have to talk to them.'
'No.' Dorothy-Anne shook her head vehemently. 'Don't you see? Zack is on Eden Isle! And the island's been evacuated!'
'And the hurricane . . .' Venetia smacked her forehead with the fleshy palm of her hand. 'Oh, sweet baby Jesus. What are you going to do?'
'I'm going downstairs. I'll hide in the coat closet . . . . Mrs. Mills!' 'Ma'am?'
'When you let the police in, bring them up here, into the study. Have them wait while you ostensibly look for me.'
Mrs. Mills fidgeted nervously. 'I'm afraid I'm not very good at lying. Especially to the police.'
'You won't be lying,' Dorothy-Anne said. 'You'll be procrastinating.'
'And you?' Venetia asked. 'What will you be up to?' 'As soon as the cops are upstairs, I'll slip out and hail a cab.' The door chimes sounded again, longer and more insistent. 'I've got to hurry,' Dorothy-Anne said. 'Don't tell anyone where I'll be. If Hunt calls, you can tell him where I'm headed.' 'You're not thinking of flying to Eden Isle!'
'What do you expect me to do!' Dorothy-Anne snapped. 'Let some killer do to Zack what he did to Nanny Florrie?'
68
In the taxi to the airport, Dorothy-Anne used her cellular phone to order Hale One to be prepared for immediate takeoff. She'd been specific about the crew: she wanted only the pilot and copilot.
When Captain Larsen asked her what flight plan to file, she'd simply said, 'Miami.' She would tell him their real destination once they were under way. Otherwise, air traffic control would never give them clearance to take off. Her biggest concern was that Captain Larsen might refuse to fly to Eden Isle. As the pilot of Hale One, he had the option to countermand any of her orders if it put the aircraft, its passengers, or its crew at risk.
When she boarded the 757-200, Captain Larsen gave her a weather update: 'We'll have clear sailing the whole way.'
She nodded, not about to burst his bubble . . . yet. 'Could you please inform me when we reach cruising altitude?'
'Sure thing, ma'am.'
'The sooner we take off, the better.'
Dorothy-Anne made her way aft along the narrow portside corridor. She settled herself into the luxurious beige, brown, fawn, russet, and black cocoon that comprised the salon, buckled herself into a suede sofa, and for once didn't bother to activate the coromandel screens that would slide across the portholes at the touch of a button. Her fear for Zack far outweighed any anxiety she harbored for takeoffs.
Zack. She thought about him every single moment now. Zack, her youngest and sweetest. The most innocent and angelic of all three children.
And someone has snatched him, she thought. Someone has taken him to Eden Isle, directly in the path of the hurricane, just to lure me there.
Why? What possible reason could anybody have?
She never noticed the takeoff; the jet hurtling down the runway and climbing steeply up into the sky. She wasn't aware of anything until the intrajet intercom buzzer sounded.
She flipped a switch built into the cocktail table. 'Yes?'
'It's Captain Larsen, ma'am. You asked to be notified when we reached cruising altitude.'
'Thank you, captain. Could you have the copilot take over? I need to see you for a moment.'
'Of course.'
Less than a minute later, Captain Larsen knocked on the door of the salon and entered.
'We'll be landing in Miami in two hours and thirty-three minutes,' he said.
'Captain Larsen, may I ask you a personal question?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'You're married, I know.'
'Yes.'
'Do you have any children?'
He smiled. 'Four of them, two girls and two boys.'
Dorothy-Anne looked at her hands. They were tightly curled in her lap. Four children, she thought. And I want to put their father at such risk. For a moment she was tempted to have him turn the plane around and go back.
Then she raised her head and looked at him directly. 'I have three children, captain.'
He smiled. 'I know. It's been a pleasure to have them aboard.'
'What I'm about to tell you is confidential, captain.'
'I understand, ma'am.'
'My youngest,' she began, speaking with difficulty. She inhaled deeply. 'My youngest, Zack, as been kidnapped.'
'What!
'Also, I'm sure you remember my children's governess, Nanny Florrie?'
'How could I forget?' He smiled faintly.
'Nanny Florrie was murdered sometime today. I identified the body.'
'Ho-ly shit! Er, sorry about my language. It's just that—'
'I understand.'
Dorothy-Anne unclasped her seat belt, got up, and began pacing the full-width cabin. 'I have reason to believe that the person who kidnapped Zack and killed Nanny Florrie is after me.'
She stopped at one of the portholes and leaned down. Far below,
New Jersey slid beneath the aircraft. When she straightened, she cro
ssed the cabin and stood in front of Captain Larsen.
'What I am going to ask of you, captain, is probably a federal crime. I'll make it well worth your while. There's a million-dollar bonus in it for you, and a half a million for the copilot.'
'What do you want to do? Have us fly you to Cuba?'
'Not quite. However, I want you to know several things. First, you have the option of refusing. Second, if you refuse, I won't think any less of you. And third, your employment will in no way be jeopardized, if you decide not to indulge me. Are we clear on that?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Dorothy-Anne held his gaze. 'It's your choice, captain.'
'Where do you want to go, Mrs. Cantwell?'
'Where Zack is being held. I just want to be dropped off there. You can continue on back.'
'And where is this place?'
'Eden Isle,' she answered quietly.
Hunt's Falcon 50 had been airborne for an hour and a half. He had tried calling Dorothy-Anne's office, and was told she'd left for the day. He'd tried her car phone, and nobody picked up. Now, somewhere over Rock Springs, Wyoming, he called the town house.
'Cantwell residence,' a rich contralto answered.
'Venetia?' he said, surprised to hear her pick up.
'It is myself. Hunt, is that you?
'None other. Is the lady of the house in?'
Venetia hesitated. She was in Dorothy-Anne's study, and Detective Passell and another guy, his partner, a detective by the name of Finch, were both within earshot. Moreover, they were stewing mad—believing, correctly, that Dorothy-Anne had pulled a fast one on them.
'Look, Hunt,' Venetia said carefully, 'I really don't want us to date anymore.'
'Huh?'
'You heard me. You want a lady to have a fling with? I suggest you go to that club . . . what's it called? Eden Isle?'
'You can't talk,' Hunt guessed.
'Now you're turning into a regular Einstein.'
His voice was incredulous. 'Are you telling me that Dorothy-Anne is on her way to Eden Isle? Right now?'
'That is exactly what I am saying.'
'But it's . . . it's directly in the path of Hurricane Cyd!'
Second Love Page 63