Lost and Found

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “And that’s another thing,” Sylvia muttered. “Why was Vesta seeing that phony, Arden? She hated charlatans and frauds. She must have been losing it there at the end. Some sort of subtle dementia, probably.”

  “Had to be pretty subtle. She seemed her usual self to me.”

  In his private opinion, the old tyrant had remained true to form right to the end. It was just like Vesta to throw the family into an uproar one last time before departing for the next world. Little wonder that there had been few tears shed at the funeral, he thought.

  “I’ve talked to Stanford and Randall,” Sylvia said. “Told them both what was going on. Explained that we now have to get Cady’s approval for the merger to take place.”

  “There’s no reason why she shouldn’t be in favor of it.”

  “Don’t count on it. A merger would mean some big changes for us. Overnight the company would start operating on a much larger scale. The board of directors would be expanded. There would be several new partners added. Cady doesn’t like big business. She prefers to run her own show single-handedly.”

  “So do you,” he said before he stopped to think.

  Sylvia’s gaze sharpened and then, to his chagrin, something that might have been uncertainty flickered in the depths of her blue eyes. He put out his hand and touched her fingers.

  “That’s what makes you a natural for the CEO’s chair in the new Chatelaine-Post,” he said quickly.

  “Being able to run a business is fine as far as it goes. But Cady’s the one with the eye. Remember how she picked out that genuine Riesener cabinet from the pile of reproductions in the Guthrie consignment? And those French clock cases she found at an estate sale? Those English panels that turned up at auction?”

  “Having a good eye for art and antiques does not make her a terrific choice for running a business. You know that, and I think Vesta did too. It takes sound management skills and a corporate vision to make the gallery turn a profit. Hell, you can buy all the expert eyes you need on your staff. Cady couldn’t possibly replace you in the CEO’s office.”

  “Well, that is no longer a sure thing, is it?” Sylvia said quietly. “Cady inherited enough shares not only to block the merger but to determine who becomes the next CEO.”

  “Maybe she’ll decide that she doesn’t want to return to an active role in Chatelaine’s,” Gardner said.

  “If that was the case, she would have turned her shares over to me or someone else in the family. No, she’s coming back for a reason. I think Mack Easton may be it.”

  “You believe that he’s the one who convinced her to hang onto those shares she inherited from Vesta?”

  “Yes,” Sylvia said. “Think about it. His presence in her life is the only thing that has altered since she decided she did not want to be a part of Chatelaine’s. There’s no other explanation for her decision to come back. Easton is angling for a piece of the action, trust me.”

  “Are you seriously suggesting that some man has a hold on Cady that is strong enough to allow him to manipulate her? This is your cousin we’re talking about.”

  Sylvia hesitated. “It does sound a little far-fetched, doesn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “You think I’m overreacting?”

  “Let’s just say that I think you’re heavily into a worst-case scenario here. Then again, that’s what CEOs are paid to assess.”

  “What do you believe is going on?” she shot back in obvious exasperation. “Your instincts are very good when it comes to judging people. Where do you think Easton fits into this picture?”

  “Maybe it’s all very simple.” Gardner put down his menu and picked up his coffee cup. “Maybe the guy’s in love with her.”

  Sylvia looked briefly startled by that possibility. Then she frowned and shook her head. “I don’t buy it. The timing of this announcement about an impending engagement is just too coincidental.”

  “If you’re right,” Gardner said slowly, “you’ve got a big problem.”

  She gripped the menu. “Not as big a problem as Cady will have if she marries an opportunist thinking that he’s the man she’s been waiting for all of her life.”

  The phone rang just as Leandra was finishing chapter five of Breaking the Bad-Boy Habit: The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Finding and Appreciating Nice Guys. She put the book down on top of the large pile of similarly titled self-help books that cluttered her coffee table and scooped up the phone.

  “Hello, Parker,” she said without preamble. “I was hoping you would get home early. I was thinking about drinks and dinner at one of the marina restaurants. How does that sound?”

  There was a short, terse silence on the other end of the line.

  “It’s me,” Dillon said.

  Oh, damn. At the sound of her ex-husband’s voice, she tightened her grip on the phone. “What do you want, Dillon?”

  “I was just calling to see if you might be interested in spending the weekend here in the city.”

  “With you?”

  “That was the plan.”

  “The answer is no. Dillon, listen to me. I want you to stop calling, do you understand? This is the third time since the funeral.”

  “Damn it, you won’t even give me a chance.”

  “I gave you a lot of chances while we were married and you blew off all of them, remember?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “The last incident was eighteen months ago, as I recall.”

  “Things have changed. I’ve changed. I tried to tell you that when I saw you at your great-aunt’s funeral.”

  Her gaze fell on the cover of the book she had been reading. She recalled the advice in chapter five…. Falling for bad boys is a bad habit. As with all bad habits, it takes willpower and practice to break the pattern. Remember: the key word in the phrase bad boy is boy. When he calls and tries to whine his way back into your life say to yourself, “I am a mature woman. I don’t date immature boys.”…

  “Why did you bother to come to the funeral, anyway?” she asked aloud. “You never cared for Aunt Vesta.”

  “Give me a break, you can’t hold that against me,” he muttered. “A lot of people didn’t care for your aunt. Hell, most folks didn’t even like her very much. But I noticed that a whole lot of them showed up at the funeral.”

  She could not deny that. The church had been filled to overflowing. Vesta had wielded power and influence in her corner of the art world. She had also been a pillar of the community here in Phantom Point. Still, it had been a shock to see Dillon in the large crowd pretending to mourn the passing of Vesta Briggs.

  “Dillon—”

  “You want to know why I came to the funeral?” His voice took on that earnest, husky tone that had always sent shivers down her spine. “I wanted to see you, that’s why. I wanted to talk to you. Explain things.”

  “I don’t know where you’re going with this, Dillon.”

  “I want to try again.”

  “Try what?”

  “Our marriage.”

  I am a mature woman. I don’t date immature boys.

  “I’m sorry, Dillon,” she said. “But I don’t think this is good for either of us. We both need to get on with our lives.”

  “I have gotten on with my life. Leandra, listen, a major gallery has taken an interest in my work. I’m going to have my first big show in a few months. I’m on my way.”

  “I’ve heard that before, Dillon. Please, I really can’t talk to you. I’m dating a very nice man these days.”

  “That guy I saw you with at the funeral?” Dillon’s voice rose on a scathing note. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

  “That’s not true. Parker’s only forty-two.”

  “Probably needs medication to get it up in bed.”

  “Stop it. Stop it right now, do you hear me? Parker is a wonderful, thoughtful man. He takes me to nice places. We went to Hawaii a couple of months ago.”

  “I still say he’s too old for you.”
r />   “So what? You’re too young for me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dillon demanded. “You and I are the same age.”

  “Chronologically speaking, yes,” she said primly. “But not in terms of emotional development. I am a mature woman. I don’t date immature boys.”

  “Where in hell did you learn to talk like that? You reading those dumb self-help books again?”

  She did not respond. Instead, very gently she replaced the receiver. When the phone rang again she did not answer. She sat for a while thinking about past mistakes and how hard it was to break bad habits.

  Thirteen

  Cady stood in the center of the two-story vault, the small gold key in her hand, and turned slowly on her heel. She surveyed the tiers of exquisite boxes, chests and small cabinets that lined every shelf of every wall.

  There were hundreds of them, large and small, each one a work of art and an example of brilliant craftsmanship. They spanned the centuries and the millennia. One shelf held a selection of elaborately decorated medieval boxes, some designed as reliquaries, others made to hold the simple necessities of daily life such as needles and thread. Another case displayed gleaming sixteenth-century boxes made of chiseled steel damascened with gold. They had been produced by the same master craftsmen who had forged swords and armor. Jewelry boxes etched and nielloed in impossibly convoluted motifs and studded with semiprecious stones were arranged on the shelves above the balcony level.

  Renaissance-era boxes that had been gilded and enameled until they glowed with a light of their own stood behind glass panels on the rear wall. Breathtaking little boxes fashioned out of rock crystal and jaspar and onyx in the seventeenth century filled another section of shelving. Ancient boxes crafted of carved alabaster and jade occupied a case near the steel door that secured the vault room.

  Mack halted in the opening and glanced around the windowless vault. “So this is where you disappeared while I was unpacking.”

  “Yes.”

  He studied the heavy steel door. “I assume there is a way out if this thing were to accidentally swing shut.”

  “The lock is computer coded on the outside but there’s a manual latch inside.”

  “That’s good to know.” He studied a small ebony and gold box in the case that was nearest to him. “Quite a collection.”

  “Aunt Vesta collected boxes for five decades. She used to say that there was something about them that reflected the most fundamental aspects of human nature.”

  Mack took his attention off the ebony box and looked at her. “That would be?”

  “Our need to keep secrets.” She glanced at an early seventeenth-century enameled box. The lid and sides of the delicately gilded chest were decorated with scenes of an obviously illicit love affair. “The wish to bury our mistakes. The urge to hide the unpleasant parts of ourselves and our pasts. Our desire for privacy.”

  “Could be.” He did not move from the doorway. “Or maybe these fancy boxes just symbolized those things for your aunt.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did Vesta Briggs have a lot of secrets?”

  She stroked the lid of the gilded chest. “She was eighty-six years old when she died. I have a hunch that by that age most people have acquired a lot of secrets. I think they’re entitled to keep them.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  She opened her fingers. Gold glinted in the palm of her hand. “The lawyer gave me a sealed envelope after the funeral. Inside was a note and this key.”

  He nodded as if he already knew about both. Then she recalled that Vesta’s letter and the key had been on the coffee table in her condo the day he had arrived, unannounced, at her door. So the man was observant. So what? Wasn’t that why she had hired him?

  “What was in the note?” he asked.

  Without a word she removed it from the pocket of her trousers and handed it to him.

  Mack took the single sheet of paper from her hand. He searched her face briefly and then read the note aloud. She knew the words by heart.

  Dear Cady,

  I have come to the conclusion that after I am gone I want someone else to know the whole truth about the past. I feel that you are the only one in the family who could possibly understand. We have so much in common, you and I. Isn’t DNA amazing?

  I am not sure why it has suddenly become so vitally important to me to tell you what happened all those years ago. Perhaps it is because I feel I owe you an apology. Perhaps, in the end, it is simply that I can’t bear to take this particular secret alone to my grave. I need to know that someone else understands at last.

  Love, Vesta

  Mack refolded the letter and handed it back to her. “Do you recognize the key?”

  “Oh, yes.” She glanced down at the gleaming object in her palm. “It used to be attached to the Nun’s Chatelaine.”

  He took a step forward, clearly intrigued. “The original? As in the one on all the cards and business letterheads used by Chatelaine’s?”

  “Yes. I think I mentioned that one of the things she left to me in her will was an important piece of jewelry. It was the Nun’s Chatelaine.”

  “Where’s the rest of it? You’ve only got a single key.”

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that when I find the box that this key opens, I’ll find the chatelaine.”

  “How old is the piece, anyway?”

  “The gold medallion dates from the thirteenth century. The chains and the keys were replaced in the seventeen hundreds.”

  Mack whistled softly. “An impressive key ring.”

  “It was designed to secure keys right from the beginning but the term chatelaine didn’t come into use until much later. By the sixteenth century, the word referred to the lady of the castle. By the early nineteenth century, it had come to mean both the lady and the keys that were the symbol of her office.”

  “Collectors use it pretty loosely today, don’t they?”

  She nodded absently. “Today the word refers to a wide variety of waist-hung devices designed to hold keys or implements or watches and ornaments.”

  “You think your aunt deliberately hid the Nun’s Chatelaine in one of these little chests?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Sonofagun.” He shook his head. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she wanted to conceal it, of course.” Cady smiled wryly. “We’re talking about Aunt Vesta here. She was always a very private, very secretive woman. She became extremely obsessive toward the end of her life. Just ask anyone.”

  “Strange way to leave an inheritance behind.”

  “In her note she says something about wanting me to know the whole truth.” She surveyed the hundreds of boxes. “I wonder what she meant by that?”

  “No telling until you open the right box, I guess.” He contemplated the tiers of glittering objects. “It’s going to take a while to work your way through this vault.”

  “I certainly don’t have the time to do it now. We’ve got other, more pressing problems. These boxes are safe enough for the moment here in this vault and so is the Nun’s Chatelaine.”

  “This collection must be worth a fortune,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Mmm, yes. Generally speaking, Vesta was not the sentimental type when it came to art and antiques. She was businesslike to the point of ruthlessness. If the price was right, she was willing to deal. But as far as I know, she never sold a single item from this vault. She never exhibited any of the boxes publicly. Never loaned any of them out to museums for display. I was one of the few people who was ever allowed inside this room.”

  “And now they’re all yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “What will you do with them?”

  “It occurred to me,” she said slowly, “that it would be nice to give them to a good museum, one that will display them properly and give Aunt Vesta credit as the original collector.”

  “The Vesta Briggs Collection,” he said. “Sounds like a hell of a
memorial.”

  “I kind of like it. I think Vesta would have liked it, too.” She dropped the key back into the envelope together with Vesta’s note and stuffed both into her pocket. “Well, as I said, the boxes will have to wait.”

  “If you’re finished in here, I’ve got some questions for you.”

  “Sure.” She shook off the melancholy sensation that had settled around her when she had walked into the vault a few minutes ago. Time to get down to business, she thought. She had hired Mack to conduct a discreet investigation. The sooner he got started, the better. “Why don’t we go into my aunt’s study? We can talk there.”

  “All right.” He moved out of the doorway, making room for her to get past him. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be okay?”

  He winced. “No need to snap. Idle curiosity, that’s all.” He paused a beat. “Just trying to do a job here, boss.”

  She shot him a quelling look as she closed the heavy steel door. “Is your room all right?”

  “Dandy. Great view. I can see the bay, Angel Island, and the city. I expected the basement, you know. Hired muscle doesn’t usually get such spiffy accommodations.”

  “You are not hired muscle,” she muttered.

  “No?”

  “Not on this job. I did some checking around after we signed that contract. You can imagine my surprise when I found out that hired muscle comes a lot cheaper than you do.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” She touched the red button to lock the vault. “For what I’m paying you, I expect brains as well as brawn.”

  “If it’s strategic thinking you want here—”

  “It is.”

  “Then I should point out that you’d better hope none of your friends or relatives sneaks upstairs to the second floor and notices that we’re using separate bedrooms. It would ruin the image of semi-engaged passion.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s not much risk of damaging my image in that department.”

  “No?”

  She made a face. “Since my divorce it has generally been assumed that I’m as frigid as everyone thinks Aunt Vesta was.”