Why was life so damned difficult, she asked herself despairingly. Why was life easier on some people and harder on others? Why did she have to struggle and struggle for the smallest reward?
Dropping her head back, she cast a pleading glance at the stuccoed ceiling, but no answer was written there. All she saw was a spot where the toilet on the floor above had overflowed. The ceiling should be painted, she thought, then realized that the toilet had to be fixed first. But Will could not do even that until their finances improved. After all, no one knew that the toilet was broken, he had said, or that the jacuzzi, the alarm system, and the ice maker were broken. If one of the stately white columns at the front of the house were to fall, Megan suspected he would hawk his mother’s heirloom china to fix it. Appearances were important. It was critical, he said, critical that people not suspect the Vandermeer fortune was gone.
Megan gritted her teeth and wondered whether there was a term for the Midas touch in reverse. Everything she touched fizzled.
“WCIC Providence,” came the soft, deep voice from the wall. “You’re in cool country, 95.3 FM.”
She relaxed her jaw, closed her eyes, and listened.
“This is Jared Snow in the heart of the night, bringing you the best of Nashville at six minutes after two in the A.M. You’ve been listening to Foster and Lloyd, the Judds, and T.G. Sheppard. Stick with me at 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence, kickin’ back now to an old favorite by John Denver.…”
She sighed, willing herself right into the speaker, through the wires and transmitters, and into Jared Snow’s soul for a minute. He was so calm, so together. If only she could be that way. But her stomach was twisting, and her hands would have been shaking if they hadn’t been clutching her legs so tightly.
And Will, bless him, was sound asleep in the bedroom.
She knew how he did it. He took pills. And maybe rest was what he needed more than anything. His world was crumbling around him. The pressure was extraordinary. The Vandermeers had been a viable force in Rhode Island circles practically since Roger Williams had established the state. Will had been born wealthy, he was used to being wealthy, and he couldn’t conceive of life any other way.
Megan could. Her father had been a truck driver. He had died when she was two, after his truck went off a bridge in an ice storm. Her mother had gone to work, but there was not much money in unskilled labor, even less once the bills had been paid. By the time Megan turned fourteen, she was working to help out where she could, but theirs had been a losing battle. Any raise in pay that either of them received was promptly eaten up by a hike in the rent or in the cost of gas or clothing or food. Money slipped through their hands like water rather than accumulating and then working for them, as Megan’s mother would have had it do. Money bred money, she told Megan, and she only had to point across the bay to Newport to illustrate her point. “Those people don’t work,” she had said. “They invest their money, reinvest the profits, and live off the interest. That’s the way I want to live. That’s the way I want you to live.”
To that end, she had applied Megan to the prestigious Amsterdam Academy in Bristol. Judged bright and ambitious by the admissions department, Megan was accepted on full scholarship. Her mother had figured that three years among the East Coast elite would open doors for Megan. She had long since realized that her own salvation would come through Megan’s.
While at the academy, Megan befriended the cream of Newport society and long after graduation, her friendship with the Smith girls endured. It was at a grand party on the Smiths’ front lawn that Megan had been introduced to William Vandermeer III. Though he wasn’t Newport, he came close. When Megan married him, both mother and daughter moved into the elegant Vandermeer mansion on the East Side of Providence.
We almost made it, mama, Megan thought, and began a rapid rocking back and forth.
“Takin’ it slow and easy in the wee hours at 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence, where the country sounds are always cool. That was John Denver, and this is Lee Greenwood. Jared Snow here, in the heart of the night, I’m listenin’ with ya.…”
Her rocking became less frenetic as she took a breath, let it out in a shaky sigh, then looked at the wall speaker as though it were the matching face to the voice she’d heard.
She wasn’t in love with Jared Snow. She loved Will. But just then Jared was the one who gave her what she needed. He was an escape from the tension that constantly gnawed at her, a breath of stability in a shaky world.
With her eyes closed, she continued rocking. The music from the radio washed over her as the water from the jacuzzi should have done, and beyond the music was the memory of Jared Snow’s voice. She let it take her from one song to the next, clearing her mind of everything but the dream it embodied. Comfort. Security. He seemed to offer so much, but as the minutes passed, the feeling faded as the rest of her dreams had already done, and she was bereft. Suddenly the porcelain beneath her felt cold. Pressing her lips to her robe, she caught a cry of fear before it could escape.
Her life was not supposed to be this way, she wailed silently. She was supposed to marry her prince and live happily ever after. But the castle walls were crumbling, and, alone, the prince was helpless. She had to do something.
“We’re movin’ along at two twenty-one with the smoothest of down-home sounds, cool country, 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence.” He spoke gently, the words flowing with barely an effort, so soft, so laid-back. “The temperature is twenty-five degrees and falling outside my door, so wrap up tight and stay warm while you’re thinkin’ country cool. This is Jared Snow in the heart of the night, kickin’ around with you right up until six in the morning.…”
Megan squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t have until six o’clock. Slowly, she released her knees from the cinch of her arms and folded her legs down against the bone-dry tub. Her eyes opened and fell to her lap, to the small, black gun that Will had given her when she had first become a Vandermeer. For her own protection, he had told her.
He’d been right, but not in the way he had envisioned.
CHAPTER 2
“Good timing,” Savannah’s secretary called as Savannah rounded the corner and came into sight. Holding the telephone receiver high enough to be seen above the plants rimming her station, she wiggled it and mouthed, “The boss.”
With a nod, Savannah increased her already rapid step. She was nearly flying, yet the only thing at all unsettled about her person was the long, loosely fitting blazer that flared out as she whisked past. Her hair was neatly anchored in a twist at the nape of her neck, her straight skirt shifted smoothly around her legs. The leather briefcase that hung from double straps looked professional enough, but it was her face that made the boldest statement. Her features were totally composed.
Janie Woo marveled at that, given the fact that Savannah had been in court since nine in the morning, arguing a series of motions that would have had many of the other lawyers in the office craning their necks against their ties. Savannah knew what she was doing, and her ability was evident as she surefootedly entered her office.
“Paul?” She snatched the button earring from her free ear and shifted the phone there in time to catch his response.
“Just get back?”
Her briefcase slid to the floor. Working around the phone cord, she shrugged out of her blazer. “Uh-huh.”
“How’d it go?”
She stepped out of her heels. “We won on the motion to suppress, the bill of particulars, and the early trial date, but we lost on the grand jury transcripts.”
“Three out of four. Not bad.” Paul paused for the space of a breath, then went on in a suspiciously casual voice. “Can I see you up here for a minute?”
Savannah grew alert. She knew Paul DeBarr well, knew the meaning of each of the tones he used. She could accurately predict, simply from his voice, whether he’d been upset by an article in the Journal, whether he’d won a case or lost another to a lawyer on appeal, or whether his wife was sick again. The tone he used now, th
ough, was odd.
“Trouble?” she asked.
His only response, still too casual, particularly in light of his words, was, “How soon can you be here?”
She hesitated for only a minute. Even if Paul hadn’t been her boss, she would have been unable to resist. He sounded mysterious. Clearly he was not alone in the room, and she wanted to know what was happening. She’d been in the attorney general’s office long enough to be conditioned to respond to unforeseen developments. The adrenaline was already flowing.
Stepping back into her shoes, she said, “I’m on my way.” While one hand replaced the telephone receiver, the other reclipped her earring. Grabbing her blazer, she swept out of the office. As she passed Janie, she said softly, “You know where I’ll be,” then headed down the hall to the bank of elevators.
Three floors up, Paul DeBarr was perched on the edge of his desk looking far calmer than he felt. He, too, was conditioned to respond to extraordinary happenings. He shared the adrenaline flow and the sense of anticipation that made the heart beat faster. Moreover, he knew what this case was about, and if ever there were one with a potential for a political bonus, this was it.
Seated before him and to his left, elbows braced on the rib-high mahogany credenza, ankles crossed, was his first assistant, Anthony Alt. Before him and to his right, sitting tensely in a side chair, was William Vandermeer III.
Paul was looking at Will, who was staring blindly at the plush cranberry carpet. Anthony, whose eyes were aimed at the window, was drumming his fingers on the edge of the credenza and looking bored. An uneasy silence filled the room.
Paul’s gaze shifted to the oddly shaped paper that lay on his desk. He studied it for a minute, then checked his watch. Very slowly, he straightened his legs, stood, and crossed to the door. He opened it just as Savannah traversed the reception area and he closed it the instant she was in his office.
Her eyes met his, repeating the question she had asked on the phone. Then she noticed Anthony and Will. She had anticipated Anthony’s presence; he was Paul’s strategist and was always around at critical times. Will’s presence, though, took her by surprise. She knew that he had contributed to Paul’s reelection campaign and that he had even hosted a fund-raiser, though that had been three years before, when things had been going better for Megan and him. She knew that he and Paul were political friends, but she hadn’t thought they were personally close.
Savannah knew Will mostly through other people. Fifteen years her senior, he partied more in her father’s circles than her own. Though his marriage to Megan had created another link between them, she’d never gotten any closer to him. She had always found him aloof.
Now Will seemed heavily preoccupied. He was an attractive man—tall, slender and, though graying, of generally fair coloring. Today he looked positively ashen. Puzzled, she went to his side and touched his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Will?”
Paul answered, lifting the piece of paper from his desk and handing it to her. “Take a look.”
Savannah stared down at what looked to be a cutout from a brown paper grocery bag. An assortment of letters, cut from newspapers and magazines, had been neatly aligned and carefully glued across the creased surface: NICE WIFE. KICK IN A COOL THREE MILLION TO GET HER BACK. DO NOT CONTACT POLICE OR SHE DIES. WILL BE IN TOUCH.
Savannah’s first thought was that the message was a joke. One look at Will’s ravaged face suggested differently. Her gaze flew to Paul, but his expression was grim. Incredulous, she read the note again. By the time she’d finished, her own composure had slipped. “Kidnapped?” she whispered. Her heart tripped on the word.
“Looks like it,” Paul answered quietly.
Weak-kneed, Savannah lowered herself to a second side chair. Perched on the edge of its leather seat, she quietly asked Will, “When?”
“This morning.” He waved a jerky hand. “Sometime last night.” He was a shadow of his former, assured self.
“How?”
“I don’t know,” he exclaimed in bewilderment.
“He was sleeping,” Anthony offered, making only a token effort to hide his disdain, then his skepticism, when he added in an undertone, “If you can believe that.” His fingers drummed on.
Paul held up a cautionary hand to his assistant.
Savannah was less subtle. While she respected Anthony’s political and administrative abilities, she had no faith whatsoever in his skill as a trial lawyer. He had no feel for cross-examination, and, in this case, he had a built-in prejudice toward the witness. Of all the questions there were to ask, Savannah suspected Anthony most wanted to know how William Vandermeer could possibly remember to neatly fold and insert a moss green handkerchief in the breast pocket of his natty navy blazer when his wife had just been kidnapped.
Though she didn’t know him well, Savannah understood Will. She had been reared with dozens of Wills. She knew where he came from, understood what it was to habitually do something simply because it had been so ingrained that not doing it required true effort. But she had no intention of lecturing Anthony Alt on the subject just then. There were more immediate things to consider.
“At this point,” she told Anthony, “I’d like to hear Will’s story without editorial comment. According to the note, there’s been a kidnapping. The victim has been a friend of mine for years.” With a dismissing glance, she returned her attention to Will, who was looking more miserable by the minute.
“I sleep soundly,” he said. “Megan doesn’t. She has insomnia. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So she’s often up in the middle of the night. She soaks in the jacuzzi, listens to the radio, reads.”
“How do you know that,” Anthony asked, “if you’re sleeping?”
“Ease off,” Paul warned levelly. Anthony was his right-hand man, invaluable as a political tactician as long as he stayed on the sidelines. When he stepped onto the field, he lost his perspective. As it was, Paul had had some doubts about including Anthony in this meeting, since Anthony and Savannah were like oil and water. In the end, it had been the gravity of the situation and its political potential that had led him to override his doubts.
Knees pressed together, Savannah propped her forearms on her thighs. The ransom letter dropped to the floor where she could see it. Freed of that burdensome weight, she locked her fingers tightly together and said quietly, “Go on, Will.”
Will looked at Anthony and said in a burst of indignation, “I know what my wife does at night because I ask. Or Megan offers. We’re very close.” He shifted his gaze to Savannah. As his anger faded, he looked pained. “I’d guess that she was in the library when whoever it was broke in.”
“How could you tell?”
“That’s where the mess was.”
“What mess?”
“Broken glass. Someone had bashed his way through the French doors.”
Savannah swallowed hard. She knew just which doors he meant. She and Megan has passed many a Sunday evening in the library. It was a comfortable room, lined with bookshelves that were filled to overflowing with generations of Vandermeers’ books. The French doors led to a patio that, in summer, was surrounded by waves of colorful flowers. In winter, the doors kept out the chill. They were heavy, solid.
“I thought they were wired,” she said.
Will shifted one of his legs. “The alarm wasn’t set.”
“Why not?” Anthony asked.
Shooting him a tight look, Will said simply, “Because it wasn’t.”
Savannah straightened the fingers of one hand. “Forget the alarm. Let’s go back and take things step by step.” She was having trouble grasping what had happened, and couldn’t begin to think of where Megan was and in what condition. The friend in her was stunned; the lawyer plodded on. “When did you first know that something was wrong?”
“When I woke up and Megan wasn’t there. I went downstairs looking for her. That was when I saw the library.”
“What time was t
his?”
He shifted the same leg again. “Eight, eight-thirty.”
Anthony coughed. “You were just waking up on a Tuesday morning at eight-thirty?”
“Anthony,” Paul growled, “for God’s sake.”
“There are some people,” Savannah felt called upon to instruct him, “who don’t work the same hours we do. Look, Anthony, I know you have little patience for those who have more money than you do, but I think some open-mindedness is called for here. It doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or poor, it hurts when you’re mugged.”
“Kidnapped,” Anthony corrected. He’d made a fist and was lightly rapping his knuckles on the wood.
She refused to respond. Instead, she turned again to Will. “You said that you think Meg was in the library when the break-in occurred. Even if she had fallen asleep on the sofa, she would have woken up when the door shattered. Was there anything besides the broken glass? Any sign of a struggle? Meggie was a fighter. She wouldn’t have calmly and quietly gone along.”
“Not Megan,” Will acknowledged, more appalled than proud. “Part of a row of books had been knocked from one of the shelves, like she might have tried to grab at something to hold on to. The cushions on the sofa were disturbed. The umbrella stand by the hall door was overturned. One of the walking sticks I kept there was broken.”
Savannah’s stomach was feeling hollow and it had nothing to do with hunger. Will was painting a picture in her mind of the scene of the crime, but she didn’t know how vividly to color it. After a brief hesitation, she asked as quickly as she could, “Was there any blood?”
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