“Here’s what we know.” Brian ticked off his bullet points. “One, my source referred to Laura St. Bride as Cat. Her middle name is Rose, not Catherine. Two, she and Cat Courtney have the same piano – I saw it myself – and my source said the piano is being transported near the Chesapeake. Cat Courtney is giving a concert in Hampton, Virginia, in two weeks. Three, per my source, Laura St. Bride is an artist whose copyrights are now being managed by Mark St. Bride, but I can’t find any copyrights that she holds under that name. Four,” the coup de grace, “according to my source, Laura St. Bride has a sister named Francie. Laura Abbott has a sister named Francesca. And,” he laid down the CD he had picked up on his way to work, “Cat Courtney’s first hit was ‘Francie.’”
He waited. The editor went through the notes he had hurriedly assembled when he’d reached his desk. This ought to be rock-solid. Sure, coincidence existed in life, but not this much coincidence. Cat Courtney was Laura St. Bride née Laura Abbott – and this was the biggest story he’d ever uncovered. If he got turned down—
“Hmmm,” said the editor dubiously.
Brian squelched a feeling of desperation and pulled out the will. “Laura St. Bride has the same birthday, down to the day and year, as Laura Abbott.”
The man was too cautious. No wonder only day traders and stock market junkies watched them. “I admit it’s suspicious, but it’s not enough. I don’t want to go out on a limb, run the story, and then St. Bride Data trots out Laura St. Bride, and she’s two feet tall, 300 pounds, and her teeth are missing.”
Shit! He was going to lose the story from an excess of caution. He made his voice as forceful as he could get away with. “It’s her.”
“We need a picture of Laura St. Bride,” said his editor. “Or a statement from your source. Something that says beyond a doubt that Laura St. Bride used to be Laura Abbott. The birthday won’t do it. Thousands of people were born that day. The sister’s name—” He shook his head. “Not enough. Go back to your source.”
Out of the question. He didn’t want to approach Emma as a journalist again. No better way to gum up a fledgling relationship than to milk your new girlfriend for information to advance your career. “I don’t believe I can get anything else out of the source.”
The editor shrugged. “Then work it. At some point, your two Lauras converged. Where did the St. Brides get married?”
Brian looked at his notes. “California. January 1989.” He rummaged for his timeline. “St. Bride was at Stanford, getting his doctorate. I can order a search for the marriage license. Or the birth certificate.”
But the marriage license proved to be a sticking point. In California, Brian discovered, a couple could get a confidential marriage license, keeping it out of the public records. It appeared that the St. Brides had done just that, probably to keep her family from finding her. The birth certificate might be traceable, but it would take a search, county by county, to find Meg St. Bride.
If she had even been born in California.
By mid-morning, he faced reality. If he wanted this story – and the longer he worked it, the more he wanted it, and the more he felt he didn’t have it all yet – he was going to have to bite the bullet and ask Emma, point-blank, what she had failed to tell him about her sister-in-law.
He stared at the telephone, trying to come up with an approach. Surely Emma had known what she was saying; he had clearly identified himself as a member of the news media before she had ever spoken of little Miss Cat, or talked about her sister-in-law’s copyrights, or mentioned the husband-stealing sister. Surely she hadn’t thought he’d ignore the clues she’d dropped—
Maybe she hadn’t thought she was dropping clues at all. Maybe she had been talking to a man she liked, not a reporter. Either way, he was screwed.
He reached for the phone.
But when she answered, she was sobbing so hard that he barely recognized her voice.
“Emma?” He waited. “Emma. It’s Brian. Is everything all right?”
Silence, broken only by sobs. Then a broken “No.”
He waited some more. And waited. “Emma? What’s wrong?”
A sob, and then, “Brian.” She hiccupped. “Sorry.”
“Are you all right? Are you sick?”
“No.” She hiccupped again. “No. Not that.”
He paused and waited for her. But when she said nothing, he asked again, “Are you all right?”
And then she burst into tears. “Sorry. I just—”
When she couldn’t go on, Brian Schneider made a decision. Either she was in his life, or she was his source and a pleasant one-night stand – more than pleasant, make that memorable – but, no matter what, she was in great distress. And his mother hadn’t raised him to ignore a lady in distress. “I’m coming over, Emma. Is that all right?”
She sobbed, “Yes. Oh, Brian.”
“I’m going to leave right now. I’ll be there in,” he glanced at his watch, “about half an hour, depending on traffic. Will you be okay until I get there?”
“Yes.” Her voice broke. “Oh, Brian, they found my brother.”
~•~
In his office in the business district of Williamsburg, Tom Maitland prepared a temporary restraining order against his sister-in-law, grateful that, of the four Abbott girls, he had managed to end up with the only normal one.
~•~
In Plano, Texas, Emma St. Bride called her brother with the news of the discovery of Cameron St. Bride’s remains. She was crying so hard that she barely registered his instructions not to tell Laura. He intended to break the news to her himself. In fact, Mark said, she shouldn’t talk to Laura at all until he’d had a chance to see what was going on.
Thus, it would be hours before she learned that her niece had run away in the middle of the night. She sat down in her brother’s study to read the medical report that the estate attorney’s secretary had faxed with the official notification – unbeknownst to her, by accident – but then her new boyfriend rang the doorbell, and she fell into his arms and spent the morning crying against his shoulder.
Brian Schneider made her forget all about little Miss Cat and DNA reports.
~•~
Diana Ashmore spent a long, leisurely hour in the tub soaking away her troubles, waiting for the painkillers to kick in. Debating if it was worth it to leave the warm enveloping waters to pour herself a drink. Wondering what Lucy was doing on her mysterious errand to that airport where Richard had spent way too much of his time. Brooding over whether three million was enough to dent his pride. Glumly certain that three million wasn’t nearly enough to punish her younger sister.
Her voice mail had yielded one bright ray in the day. Julie had found the memory chip.
~•~
Waiting on the tarmac in Tokyo, Mark St. Bride read the document faxed to him by the estate lawyers and felt the black miasma of depression descend again. It had been a long, grim week, negotiating the sale of St. Bride Data to an Asian conglomerate, and he was mentally and physically worn out. He might have done better with the Saudis, but he couldn’t bring himself to deal with anyone from the Middle East, and the Japanese terms were extremely favorable. He and Emma, and particularly his sister-in-law and niece, would be set for several lifetimes; he had fulfilled his fiduciary duty as trustee and increased everyone’s net worth.
Even better, he would be out from under the constant pressure of trying to live up to his brother’s vision and business acumen. He could turn his sights now to managing the private holdings, particularly Cat Courtney, Inc. High on his list for that venture was getting rid of the architect, who had so much baggage that surely, once her eyes were opened – once she saw the confidential report he had commissioned – his brother’s widow would come to her senses and sever the connection. But she had to answer her damn phone first.
He looked wearily at the flight plan and initialed an approval. A few minutes later, he summoned the pilot to ask for a change.
If the mountain would
not come to Mohammed, then Mohammed would have to go….
~•~
At Lake Sammamish in Washington State, a probate attorney and his children got up early to go sailing, leaving his wife to sleep in. Before he went, he fired up his laptop – Molly had told him he could not spend the weekend working, this was a family vacation, but he’d squirreled it away in the trunk anyway – and checked the family message board. He was chuckling over his sister’s description of the party she had attended, and was about to write back a short, pithy note about how at least she only had one baby to look after instead of three screaming monsters who would spend most of the day trying to push each other overboard, when he took a good look at the picture she had posted.
He forgot all about his three cherubic little sailors.
~•~
On Cape Cod, a college student, hung over from a night of nonstop partying, pried open her eyes to find that her boyfriend was already up, smoking and hunching over in front of his laptop. Jeez Louise, he was obsessive, constantly checking his email and reading the latest political blogs. He wrote a political column for one of the alternative weeklies, and God forbid some politician say something, somewhere, about something, and Jake not hear about it immediately so he could opine to the world.
Angie stumbled towards the kitchen of the cottage they had rented for the weekend, practically falling over Allie and Allie’s boyfriend, both passed out on the foldout sofa. She rolled her eyes; her sister was so drunk, she didn’t even realize her boob was hanging out. Last thing she needed was for Jake to wander by and see that. He’d be going on and on about how you should never desecrate your body, because apparently a tattoo and a belly button ring desecrated the body but chain smoking, drinking a couple of six-packs, and having mind-blowing sex till dawn did not. Not, of course, that he wouldn’t first take a long look at that rose tattoo.
She poured some coffee and lurched back to the bedroom. Jake was still glued to that stupid computer. She wandered over behind him and dropped a kiss on the top of his head.
“Morning, baby.”
He’d been ready to click on another one of his stupid blogs, looking for some tidbit to publish in the Mass Observer, serious political news among the personals and 900-number sex ads. Jeez, there were dozens still to go through on the blog site; the list of recently-updated blogs went on and on. Knowing him, he’d probably go through each one, and she’d just have to wait, and they couldn’t go anywhere till he was done—
“Hey, wait a minute.”
He was too busy snuggling back against her breasts to look. “What?”
“That guy.” Angie pulled away and leaned towards the screen.
Jake straightened up and looked. “Oh, wrong blog,” and he reached for the mouse to click out.
“No.” She put her hand over his on the mouse. “No. No, I’ve seen that guy. What is this?” She scanned the text, some kid whining because she’d had to babysit her brothers at a party. “He was at Monticello last weekend. Real tall guy, knew everything about the place, had this bitch with him – hey, that’s her.”
She re-read the text. A singer? That bitch was a singer? But Jake was busy, opening up a second browser window and surfing to another web site. She turned away towards the bed, with the same dull feeling of shame she’d had when the woman had asked her to pipe down the week before. She was normally a nice person. If she and her sister hadn’t spent the night bar-hopping, maybe she wouldn’t have been so belligerent—
“This her?”
She turned back and squinted at the screen. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s her.” She added spitefully, “Doesn’t look that good in real life.”
“Sweet Mother of God,” said Jake, who was not at all religious. “You saw Cat Courtney?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“Sweet Mary – don’t you know who she is?”
“No.” He was looking at her expectantly. “Hey, I don’t. What’s the big deal?”
“Euro singer. Mystery woman, that’s the big deal.” He switched back to the whiner’s blog. “Damn it! This kid didn’t put any names in, just initials. You saw this guy? You get his name?”
Angie collapsed back against the pillows. “Don’t remember.”
“Try,” Jake suggested.
She tried to think back to that humiliating moment when Cat Courtney – hard to believe that woman was a celebrity, Angie swore she’d seen those jeans at the Gap – had turned around and made it clear that they were behaving like juveniles. Bitch. “I dunno. Something about she wasn’t the Sally expert, she was the, oh, God, what did she say, the Robert expert. No. The Randall expert. No.” Her head hurt too much, she’d drunk too much, to be thinking this hard. “Started with an R. What are R names – Roger, Raymond, Rupert… oh, I don’t know! Talk to Allie. She was there.”
He got up immediately and walked into the other room. Too late, Angie remembered the rose tattoo. Jake was probably getting an eyeful. She moaned and turned her face into the pillow.
Then she remembered something. She yelled into the other room, “She said she was his mistress.”
~•~
In Seattle, a banker went to work, leaving her husband and children lazing around the house. Nothing worse, she figured, than having a federal holiday on a Thursday. The bank fell under the federal banking statutes that decreed that a federally chartered banking institution could not be closed for more than three days in a row, so the trust department employees had drawn lots to see who scored the four-day weekend and who had to work. And guess who had gotten the short straw?
She spent the morning going over paperwork and staring out the window over Puget Sound, watching the cruise ships and sailboats alike sharing the bay on a lovely summer day. The bank was quiet; most of their clients had gone away for the weekend, not having to function under archaic banking laws that didn’t take into account that no one, no one, worked the Friday after a major holiday. After a leisurely lunch, she wandered the waterfront and enjoyed the sunshine and cool breeze over the sound.
A lovely day. What could go wrong on a day like this?
Act Three: A Demon in My View
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
(”Alone”, Edgar Allan Poe)
Chapter 15: Blood Will Tell
SHE’D BEEN ROBBED.
~•~
In the middle of the night, after they had left Edwards Lake, someone had come in through the gates, taken the Jaguar, slid across the road to the other side, and smashed into a tree. The trooper said that, with the road flooded, the car had probably hydroplaned into the tree.
The road had dried in the rising sun, but puddles of water still stood on the soaked roadside.
A miracle no one had been killed, observed another trooper, but with the luck that often preserves fools, drunks, and car thieves, the driver’s side had sustained only scratches. The air bag had deployed, allowing the driver to walk away. “Probably a little bruised up this morning,” the trooper added cheerily. “Bet he’s
got a helluva hangover.”
The passenger side was completely destroyed, the roof caved in and the doors smashed.
Laura shivered. The warm air of the morning, rapidly turning humid, and Richard’s presence beside her couldn’t still the involuntary chill brushing her skin. “But I don’t understand. It’s not possible.” Even to her own ears, she sounded defensive. Everyone seemed skeptical of her claim that she hadn’t driven her car since the evening before. “I had my keys – I don’t see how – I know I locked it—”
“Are you sure? Check your purse.” Richard turned back to the trooper. “We left shortly after eleven. She had the Jaguar parked in front of her house.”
“I had my keys. I know I did.” Laura searched fruitlessly through her shoulder bag. “I must have. I locked the front door when we left.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught the bare shake of his head. “No,” he said quietly, so that only she could hear. “I did. I used my key.”
No one asked why he had a key. Not that anyone was even paying attention; one trooper was taking down the information from her driver’s license, while two others were examining what remained of the Jaguar. The girls stood just out of hearing range, Julie tentatively hovering near Meg, whose noisy lamenting made it difficult to concentrate on the trooper’s questions.
Her keys had to be here. She couldn’t have lost them. She had a vague memory of unlocking the car to look for an umbrella. But then what? Had she dropped them? Had she put them in her pocket – oh, not the shallow pocket on her skirt – had they fallen when the wind had knocked her off her feet?
Oh, no. Oh, please, no—
In the storm, she would never have heard them fall. And in the tense exchange with Richard, her keys had been the last thing on her mind.
Meg was sobbing. “Mom’s car – Dad gave it to her – who did this – I hate this place—”
Laura said wearily, “Meg, please. I can’t think.”
Richard turned his head and said, “Julie, take Meg back to my car and stay there.”
But nothing was going to stop her daughter. “But, Mom, it was your special present – I helped Dad pick it out – he’d be so upset—”
All That Lies Broken (Ashmore's Folly Book 2) Page 38