by Nancy Bush
“Do they have this list? The one you have?”
“No one has the list but me, and of course, Joe Ford Investments.”
“Joe Ford’s the one who gave it to you. Lie all you want. The blame starts with him.”
She’d shaken her head and assured him, “No one’s going to give away confidential information, certainly not me.”
Simpson had thought that over for another long minute, then asked, “What about the wife? She survived the accident. What if she puts it out there?”
“There are laws made to protect investors. No sensitive information will be revealed.”
“So says the reporter.” He’d pulled out a piece of paper at that time and had slid it across the table to her. “That’s Walter Hapstell’s home address. Backwater kinda place he’s at now, hiding out with all of our money. You go talk to him,” he’d advised. “If you can help me get my money back, I’ll get you a finder’s fee.”
Phoenix had laughed. There was just something so old-time gangster about the man. “I appreciate it, but no. I’m just trying to get to the story.”
“He’s home now,” Simpson had insisted as if he hadn’t heard her. “You could go see him today and you might get some answers, more than you know.”
She’d regarded him with some amusement. “What do you want me to ask him?”
“What do you think? I want him to give me my money back!”
Phoenix had had no intention of calling on Walter Hapstell Senior. P. J. Simpson, like a number of the investors she’d spoken to, had made some risky investments and now wanted to point blame.
But . . . Walter Hapstell Senior was very difficult to get hold of and though she questioned whether odd and gruff Mr. Simpson really knew what he was talking about, she decided to give it a try. Then again, he hadn’t missed much. She’d left, wondering if he’d pick up the tab and noting he hadn’t so much as touched the now cold cup of coffee.
Now as she was driving, the town of Seaside far behind her, she stared through the windshield and turned everything he’d said over in her mind. The road wasn’t well traveled as it followed the meandering course of a stream. She met only an occasional car or truck as the evergreen forest thickened the hillside. After double-checking Google Maps to make certain she was on the right route, she put a call into Glencoe Electric, the company Denny Mulhaney had worked for before he’d disappeared. A few weeks earlier she’d talked to several people who worked there, but no one had been able to give her any definitive answers as to what had happened to him. It seemed, at the time, as if everyone had been scratching their heads about what had happened to their bookkeeper. Phoenix had made a mental note to herself to call back some of the employees she hadn’t been able to reach after they returned from vacation, which should be about now. She was worried about Mulhaney because he’d fallen off the grid. She’d even thought about filing a missing person’s report with the Laurelton Police Department, where Denny had lived after leaving Seaside, but it had seemed premature. The man could have just walked away from his job. It wasn’t that unusual and, from what she could tell, Denny wasn’t the most stable of characters.
Bluetooth kicked in and she heard the line ringing. A few seconds later an older, female voice said, “Glencoe Electric.”
“Hi, this is Phoenix Delacourt with the North Coast Spirit. I came by a few weeks ago and—”
“You wanted to know about Dennis Mulhaney,” she cut Phoenix off briskly. “Yes, I have a note to call you. Pearl Enos is back from vacation and wants to talk to you.”
“Okay . . . good.” This, at least, sounded promising. “Is Pearl there now?”
“I’ll connect you.”
The line buzzed a couple of times, and then another female voice answered, “Warehouse. This is Pearl.”
Phoenix was glancing down at her phone, seeing how far she was from the turnoff to Hapstell’s property. About a quarter mile. “Hi, this is Phoenix Delacourt from the North Coast Spirit. I was at Glencoe Electric a couple of weeks ago asking about Dennis Mulhaney.”
“Oh, Denny.” Her voice was suddenly fraught with worry. “He’s just disappeared. Hasn’t been to work. Hasn’t been home. Hasn’t been to Tiny Tim’s.”
“Tiny Tim’s?”
Google Maps let her know she was nearing a turn. Squinting, she spied a break in the tall fir trees and slowed, easing her Mini onto what had once been a gravel lane and now was little more than ruts cutting through wooded acres. Dry weeds scraped the undercarriage of her little car and her tires bounced over potholes and rocks even as she slowed. Little sunlight pierced through the canopy of boughs overhead and the area seemed as if no one had been there in months, maybe years. It sure didn’t look like a place for Walter Hapstell. She’d met the man once and had seen him a number of times, and this . . . backwater spot didn’t fit with his slick, reptilian appearance. But he was a developer. Maybe there was a decent house at the end of the drive.
“Me and Denny had a few drinks there a couple of times,” Pearl was saying longingly. “He was a friend. Sad, y’know? Things hadn’t worked out too good for him. There was like all this money stolen from him. Do you think they found him . . . those criminals who took his money? I’ve been so worried. Maybe they were more than swindlers and con artists? Oh, Lord. Maybe they were much worse!”
That was a bit of a leap, Phoenix thought. From thieves to, what? Kidnappers or worse? But she let the woman ramble on as she tried to keep her shimmying car on the ever-dimishing lane.
“. . . been so worried,” she was saying. “It was really hard to enjoy the annual camping trip with Sheryl and Ray, even though Ray brought the big tent this year and we stayed in a campground with toilets, which was really great. . . .”
Phoenix had eased up on the accelerator, slowing to a crawl to keep her little car from bouncing. Had she turned at the wrong place? No. Not according to Google Maps. Had P. J. Simpson sent her on a wild goose chase? Whatever the case, this didn’t bode well.
“. . . last year, when we were out in the boonies and there was nothing. No water, no toilets, just awful. That’s really too much nature for me. . . .”
“Pearl, when did you last see Denny?” Phoenix asked, trying to get the woman back on point. The Mini was coming to a clearing, where the old-growth timbers had parted, high on a hillside with an edge that she couldn’t see over. A dip down to a small valley? There was no house in sight. At least not here. Weird. This whole place was so remote . . . a little unsettling.
“Ummm . . . it was in June. Around Flag Day, I remember. Is that the fourteenth? I think it was around the fourteenth. We had these little flags to wave, and I was—”
A sudden roar echoed through the hills, reverberating through her Mini. A truck engine revved up high. She jerked in surprise and, pulse quickening, looked in her rearview. Her heart nearly stopped. A massive black monster vehicle with a huge silver grill, churning tires, was charging right at her!
“—thinking how great it was, y’know and then . . . What’s that noise?”
Phoenix hit the gas. The roar filled her ears, deafening her. No! Damn it! No!
Her little car leapt forward. She slewed to the left, running along the edge of the drop-off. Her phone flew across the seat and down the passenger side of the car, disappearing from view.
What the hell is going on!
She shot another glance in the mirror. The truck was right on her tail!
“Mrs. Phoenix?” Pearl asked in a tinny voice.
She was on the lip of what she now saw was a ravine. The silvery waters of a creek bed flashed by, snaking through the canyon a long way down. He set me up, she thought, in disbelief. That prick Simpson, in the weirdo disguise, set me up! God, Phoenix, why didn’t you listen to your instincts?
But there was no time for second-guessing. At that moment the black truck caught her left back fender, spinning her around. Frantic, Phoenix fought for control, her hands tight on the steering wheel, but the Mini’s right rear tire slipped
over the edge. She was losing traction, the Mini straining on three wheels. The truck roared past her and turned a tight circle. Aimed for a head-on shot.
“Call the Seaside Police!” Phoenix screamed, hoping Pearl would hear. “Pearl! Call the damned police! Ask for Sam Ford! SAM FORD!” Phoenix shrieked. She yanked the wheel, desperately hit the gas, trying to get out of the truck’s path. But it charged like an angry beast, smashing into her right headlight, sending her little car shimmying backward, tumbling into the narrow valley and creek far below.
“Sam Ford?” she heard dimly. “Mrs. Phoenix . . . ? You there . . . ?”
And that’s all she knew.
* * *
Sam parked and raced toward his brother’s house to pound on the door. He had no key as he’d given the one he’d received from Tutti to Jules, the key that Tutti had given him. He thunked his fist against the panels until Sadie let him into the house. “They’re on the back deck,” she said, eyeing him in a way that made him realize his own fears must be etched on his face. He tried to relax. Couldn’t. “Julia’s about wiped out, but she’s trying to be nice.”
“It’s just the women?” Sam asked again.
“Yes. Joanie’s getting ready to leave because her younger daughter, Alexa, got thrown out of Georgie’s bedroom by the older girls, Georgie and Xena. Lots of crying and yelling.” Sadie rolled her eyes. “Joanie doesn’t want to go, but she’s going to have to, and since she lives across the canal, the whole group thinks they might have to take the boat, although someone suggested Jules lend Joanie her canoe to just get rid of her. Nice, huh?” She took a breath and went on, “Bette and Zoey can just walk home, as they live on this side. Some alcohol’s been consumed, but not as much as you’d think, though Jackie seems to be consuming her fair share. Tutti just keeps looking over at her own property, as if she’d rather be there. Her boys are home and playing video games, apparently at an ear-bleeding level, because we can hear the music from here.”
“How’s Jules?”
Sadie inclined her head toward the deck. “Okay, I guess. She’s pretending to drink a margarita, and doing a piss poor job of it, I might add. Think she just wants them all to evaporate. Mostly, the neighbor women are hugging and sorrowful one minute, mean and spiteful to each other the next. It’s kinda weird they’re all together. Maybe it’s just because they live so close, but I don’t think these people like each other much.”
Sam was at the back slider before Sadie finished her report and, from his vantage point, could see through the glass to all the women standing on the deck or sitting on folding chairs. Jackie Illingsworth was swaying on her heels again. Bette Ezra was looking at her house and holding up a finger to her dogs, who were sitting on the edge of their deck, staring at her, awaiting a command. Zoey had a margarita in one hand and was doing some kind of dance to the video game music. Tutti was yelling that it was one of those kill everybody games her boys loved to play, and Martina stood aloofly from the group. Her gaze was zeroed in on Jules, who was sitting in a chair, holding a drink in her left hand, facing the canal.
Sam slid open the door and Martina shifted her gaze to him. Immediately she put on a smile and came his way. “You got here just as we have to leave. Some teen, or preteen, girl thing.” She inclined her head to Alexa, presumably, from Sadie’s report, who was standing by her mother, her face red from crying. Joanie was trying to get her to buck up, but the girl wasn’t having it. The older two girls, Georgie and Xena, apparently, were at the far end of the dock, being exclusive.
Jules glanced around to see Sam, and the look of relief and joy that came over her face melted his heart. He hadn’t realized how scared he was for her until he could see for himself that she was alive and well. Sadie stepped through the door to stand beside him, and he said with meaning, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And you owe me.”
“Yeah?” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Jules, who had stood up and was walking their way.
“I was going to ask for a date, but I can see that ain’t gonna work,” Sadie said on an exaggerated sigh. “Goddamn you good-looking single men who are in love with someone else.”
“I’m not . . .” He trailed off because, well, Sadie might be right, and she wasn’t listening anymore anyway.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Jules greeted him, and he noticed how the sunlight played in her hair. Though he hadn’t asked, she said, “It’s been fine, really. The party. Nice. And everyone’s been great. . . .” She smiled. “I’m really glad you’re back.”
He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her. There was something about her that just reached inside him and made him want to hug her, hold her, protect her. He fought the urge to place his palm on the side of her face and trace the curve of her scraped jaw and noticed the other women were approaching.
“Ahem,” Zoey said, dancing her way over to them. “You guys should get a room. Wait. There’s one just down the hall.”
“Zoey.” Tutti rolled her eyes.
Joanie said, “Okay, we’re going. I guess we can’t have any more fun, because the girls can’t get along.”
“Oh, Mom,” Xena groaned, glancing at Georgie for support.
“Can I go with them?” Georgie asked.
“No,” Jules and Sam said at the same time. Then they looked at each other.
“Sorry,” Sam said, lifting his hands. “Not my place.”
“You sounded just like Dad,” Georgie grumbled, but suddenly seemed as if she was about to cry again.
The party broke up after that, with everyone leaving. Sam, Jules, and Georgie watched the women and two girls get into the boat, which Bette drove expertly down the canal and back, dropping everyone at their respective homes, leaving the motorboat at Jackie’s dock. Jackie was already stumbling toward the house as Bette slipped into a kayak and paddled back across to her house. Sam, Jules, and Georgie went back inside the house where Sadie had started to help clean up.
Jules shooed her away. “We’ve got this. Thanks for everything.”
“Will I be back tomorrow?” Sadie asked, looking at Sam. “You’re spending the night, right?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. He wasn’t going to leave Jules and Georgie alone.
“Where’re you going to sleep?” Georgie asked. Then, before Sam could struggle for an answer, she said, “You can have my room. I’ll sleep with Julia, if that’s okay . . . ?” She looked at Jules.
“Fine,” Jules said automatically, then added, “Sure. Good.”
Jules seemed distracted and Sam worried that maybe she didn’t want him, but he wasn’t going to be talked out of it. She’d been pretty scared the night before at the hospital, so maybe she wasn’t unhappy that he was planning to stay, but rather was caught up in some inner thoughts, perhaps memories slowly surfacing.
Sadie left a few moments later, and Georgie said to Jules, “Can we all watch one of those old movies you like? The rom-coms?”
Jules’s gaze flicked toward Sam. He recalled nights on his father’s couch, the only light in the room from the television screen as he and Jules made love. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Jules said. “Let’s finish cleaning up the kitchen and we’ll think about it.” Georgie groaned, and Sam was surprised when Jules added, “You don’t have to help this time, Georgie.” Her gaze touched his for the briefest of seconds. “I think Sam and I can handle it. This time.”
Georgie looked suspiciously at Jules, then at Sam. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Appearing about to argue, Georgie seemed to think better of it, and before Jules could change her mind, she shrugged and headed back to her room. When they heard the door close, Jules said, “I put the laptop back beneath the mattress, but I don’t want it there if Georgie sleeps with me tonight.”
“Ahh, yes . . .”
“I wish I could remember the password.”
“Maybe it’s written down somewhere.”
/> “Unlikely. Joe was too careful. He memorized everything and I . . .” She stopped herself and finished in a surprised voice, “I’m terrible at remembering.”
“You remembered that about Joe,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, I did.” She gazed up at him, smiling just a bit.
God, she was beautiful. And your brother’s widow, remember that. Even though you dated her first, a lifetime ago, Jules was still married to Joe.
Sam’s cell phone rang, pulling him out of his reverie. He dragged his gaze from her and looked down at the screen. “It’s Griff. I gotta take this.”
“I’ll get the laptop.”
Jules, breaking the spell that seemed to come over her, a problem where Sam was concerned, hurried to the bedroom and reached under the mattress for the laptop. She’d just closed her hand around the sleek computer and was pulling it out when she heard Sam’s voice shot with tension.
“What hospital?” he demanded. “Shit. I’m on my way. I don’t give a damn, Griff! When she wakes up, I need to talk to her.”
Jules ran back down the hall, cradling the laptop in her left arm. “Where are you going?” she asked fearfully.
“Seaside Hospital. Phoenix Delacourt was in an accident. A bad one. Someone ran her off a cliff into a creek. You’re coming with me. Call Joanie—do you know her number? We’ll leave Georgie with her. . . .”
Chapter Seventeen
Sam drove fast and sure, his face set. Jules sat huddled in the passenger seat of his truck. She’d grabbed a jacket before they’d driven around the canal to drop Georgie off at Joanie’s, a wasted extra twenty minutes, but there was no choice unless they wanted to paddle her across in a canoe or swim.
As soon as Georgie was with the Bledsoes, Sam finally explained, “Griff called. A woman phoned the station asking for me. She said she’d been instructed to ask for me, that a Mrs. Phoenix had called, and she thought there was an accident. She was so insistent that they gave the call to Griff and he figured out she meant Phoenix Delacourt. He tracked Phoenix’s phone, through her GPS, the phone being still on. They found her car in a creek bed at the bottom of a deep ditch on property about to be a housing development, just south of Astoria. She was rescued and taken to Seaside Hospital. Preliminary findings say it appears as if her car was pushed over the edge by another vehicle.”