Treasures aka See How She Dies

by Lisa Jackson

  Closing her eyes, she heard the hum of traffic, an occasional shout and, every so often, the distant cry of sirens. She wondered where Zachary was, and then, irritated that she’d allowed him into her mind, she rolled over and tried to force him from her thoughts. What did she care about him, anyway? She was too smart to get involved with him. Even if he might not be her half-brother, even if he hadn’t been somehow involved with her mother, even if his last name wasn’t Danvers, he wasn’t the kind of man she could trust, let alone fall for.

  Fall for? As in “fall in love?”

  No way-nohow. He was just forbidden fruit, that was all. Seductive because he was taboo. Erotic because he was so wrong for her, so very wrong.

  And yet, there he was-his image teasing her mind. She imagined his crooked, irreverent smile flashing against his rock-hard jaw, remembered how it felt to have his lips pressed hard and wanting against hers, could envision the play of light in his gray eyes, or remember the feel of his hands against her skin.

  For God’s sake, stop it!

  Forget him. He’s not someone to be attracted to! He’s the enemy! Just like the rest of his family! Think, Adria. Use your brain and be smart.

  Somewhere down the hallway she heard the ding of the elevator and the rattle of a service cart. The heater rumbled as she drifted off to sleep fitfully. She dreamed-erotic, pulse-pounding fantasies of sweat-slickened bodies, wildly beating hearts, lips that caressed the most intimate of spots and fingers that whispered over fevered flesh. In her mind’s eye, she saw him hovering above her, his naked skin gleaming gold in the light of a dying fire, his hair wet with sweat and his eyes dark with a deep secret.

  She wanted him so badly, and yet, there was something more, someone else in the room with them, a faceless presence, menacing and dark, lurking in the shadows.

  There was a rustle and quick footsteps.

  “Who’s there?” she cried, her gaze searching the murky corners, her heart pounding in fear. She looked back for Zachary, but he was gone and she was alone. “Zach!” But her voice only echoed back at her, bouncing off unseen walls.

  Again the rustling and her skin prickled in dread. “Zach! Where are you?” She got up and started running, her legs heavy, her body naked. She was in an alley, fog surrounding her, something chasing her, footsteps pounding along the wet pavement.

  “Zach!” she yelled, desperate, certain she could feel the breath of her attacker. “Help!” She ran. Faster, her bare feet slapping the uneven asphalt. Oh, God, where was he? If only she could duck around the next corner-

  Too late! Whoever was after her was closing in. She could hear his breathing, feel him closing in. A hand reached out and touched the back of her neck…

  Adria’s eyes flew open. It was dark. Her heart was jack-hammering, her body drenched in sweat. For a second she didn’t know where she was and then she remembered…the Orion…safe…the door firmly locked.

  Then why did she still feel unnerved, her breathing shallow, her teeth on edge? It was a dream. Just a dream. No big deal. She let out her breath slowly and climbed to her feet. She’d go into the bathroom and get a glass of water and…

  She saw it then. A slim envelope slipped under the door.

  Probably just the bill, she told herself, but knew better.

  Every nerve strung tight, she crossed the carpet and picked up the envelope. It was blank. Sealed. Carefully she slid a nail under the flap.

  Inside was a simple note: You have a package at the front desk.

  “What?” She opened the door but the hallway was empty. Something felt wrong about this. Very wrong. Don’t jump to conclusions. Crossing to a small table near the bed, she punched the number on the telephone for the front desk.

  “This is Adria Nash,” she said when a female voice answered. She gave her room number and asked, “Do I have a package?”

  “Let me check.” There was a click and a few minutes of nondescript music before the woman returned. “Yes, Ms. Nash, you do have a package. I’ll send it up.”

  “Wait a minute. Do you know who sent it to me?”

  “No-I’m sorry. It was in the business office. Probably came by courier. I’ll check the log and get back to you.”

  “Thanks.” Adria hung up and within two minutes a bellman was standing on the other side of the door and handing her a thick, padded manila envelope with her name written in block letters. She tipped the man and before she could open the bulky package, the phone rang.

  “Ms. Nash, this is Ellie at the front desk. I don’t know how to explain it, but there is no record of anything coming in for you. Maybe someone forgot, but usually the staff is on top of this kind of thing and keeps a precise record of when the delivery was made and by whom.”

  Adria stared down at the bulky envelope in her hand and she felt her insides curdle. Whatever was inside was soft. “The hotel apologizes and I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you.”

  “No…it’s all right,” Adria said, though she sensed, feeling the awkward package, that it was anything but okay. “If I have any more questions, I’ll come down.”

  “Thank you,” Ellie said as Adria hung up.

  Don’t open it. What if it’s a bomb?

  That was ridiculous. A bomb? No way. And yet…should she call the police?

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you’re letting your imagination run away with you.” Angry with herself, she found a nail file and ripped open the package. Nothing exploded. Nothing jumped out at her. But as she peeked inside, her heart froze.

  There, zipped inside a plastic bag, was a dead rat, one beady eye visible through the sheer covering. Adria dropped the package as if it were red-hot. “Oh God, oh, God, oh, God,” she whispered, a hand clamping over her mouth.

  Who would do such a thing?

  Bile burned in the back of her throat.

  Was it a warning?

  Or just a chance for some pervert to get his rocks off by trying to scare her?

  “Mission accomplished,” she said, calming a little. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed a tissue from the bedside table, and kneeling, gently pulled the plastic-enshrouded rodent from its manila coffin.

  There was a note inside, a message from the pervert who’d left this for her. With shaking fingers she withdrew the single piece of paper that read: BACK OFF BITCH!

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. Through the plastic, she noticed something sparkling, catching in the light, and she nearly threw up when she recognized the chain and locket wound around the dead rat’s neck and body.

  The fragile piece of jewelry her father had given her was sealed tight with the furry little body.

  “Bastard,” she said, gagging.

  To retrieve the necklace, she’d have to unwrap the dead animal and wash the chain and…

  Don’t touch it! Don’t touch a thing! You have to go to the police! You have to tell them what’s going on. They can fingerprint everything and check for clues. Otherwise, whoever is behind this will continue to terrorize you-or worse.

  Letting out her breath, she straightened, leaving the package where she’d dropped it on the floor. She opened a window and let in the fresh air.

  Think, Adria, think. Scraping her hair away from her face with tense fingers, she pulled herself together.

  Slowly she began to calm. She’d grown up on a farm. Dead animals and all kinds of rodents-rats, mice, shrews, squirrels, and the like-were something she and the barn cats had dealt with. The rat’s corpse didn’t frighten her, but the intent behind the package did, and the fact that someone had broken into her room at the Hotel Danvers, violated her personal space and taken items, then took the time to kill a rat and send it anonymously, was terrifying.

  She reached for the phone. She could call the police. Or hotel security. Or Zach.

  Which is probably what the sicko expected. Whoever he was, he was counting on her running scared and calling the authorities. Whether she wanted to or not, she had to wait…at least until she figured out what was going on.

>   For now, she’d bide her time, but be on her guard.

  Whoever was behind the depraved prank wasn’t going to get the better of her.

  But he could be dangerous. This might be just the start of something worse. The more you push the Danvers clan, the more the clan will push back.

  She considered the members of the family. Was it one of them? Or someone else, someone she hadn’t yet met? Someone connected to the Danvers family who didn’t want London to surface?

  Whoever it was behind the stupid little charade was going to get a surprise. Adria wasn’t backing down. Gingerly, using the tissue, she slipped the plastic bag into the envelope and opened the refrigerator of the minibar. Quickly she removed several bottles of beer and soda, then placed the envelope inside. She’d put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and figure out her next move.

  Wedged between the pool tables and the rest rooms, the phone booth was located in the back corner of the tavern. Sweeny waited as the phone rang in Portland. He needed to report to Danvers, but first things first.

  Foster’s voice boomed over the line. “You have reached the offices of Michael Foster. I’m away from the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number and the time you called, I’ll get back to you-”

  “Bullshit!” Sweeny growled. The beep shrilled in his ear. “Foster? You there? It’s me, Sweeny. Pick up the goddamned phone.” He waited, but no one answered. “Hell,” he ground out. “Look, I know you’re there, so pick up. I’ve got a job for you. One that pays well. If you’re interested…” He waited but still no answer. Drumming his fingers on the edge of a tattered copy of the yellow pages, he finally decided to give up. “I’ll call later.” As he slammed down the receiver, he tried to shake off his bad mood, but it lingered, like the cold-blowing wind that seemed to forever cut through this town.

  He settled into the bar, drank his beer, and listened to some country-western ballad where the guy was all choked up over some dead woman. Christ, what a miserable place. A few of the locals came in, smiled and chatted with the bartender, and climbed onto their usual stools. Just like Cheers on television. Sweeny could name them all-Norm, Cliff, Sam…Rather than gawk at the hicks, he turned his attention to a television positioned over the bar where a baseball game was in progress. He didn’t even check the score.

  His bones ached from the job he’d done the night before. After he’d driven to the farm where Adria Nash had been raised, he’d talked with the people who’d leased the place, but he hadn’t learned much. Either the couple was tight-lipped by nature or they’d seen through his story of being an insurance agent interested in selling fire insurance on the house and outbuildings. He’d never even gotten inside. The woman had kept the screen door closed and locked and had spoken tersely through the torn steel webbing. After striking out at the farm, he’d driven to the only bank of storage units in town, bribed the kid who was the night watchman and broken into Ms. Nash’s unit. Sweeny, sensing a bonanza, had spent hours in the cramped space, moving boxes, climbing over old, tasteless furniture, and digging through pile after pile of crates until he’d hit pay dirt and come up with the family Bible as well as copies of tax returns that proved how broke Adria Nash really was. No wonder she was after the Danvers money. The tax files and the Bible were now sitting securely back in the storage unit. He’d taken copies of the returns and the family-tree section of the Bible, including any pages with notations on them, then slipped the kid watching the storage place a fifty, and replaced Adria’s property in the packing crates. She’d never be the wiser.

  But he was still stuck in this frigid hellhole. He downed another beer and checked his watch. Hauling his briefcase, he strolled back to the phone booth. This time, Foster was there. The computer nut picked up on the second ring.

  “ ’Bout time,” Sweeny grumbled.

  “Oswald. Always a pleasure.” Foster didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Okay, so I got your message. What’s up?”

  “It’s a piece of cake. I want you to find some people for me. The first one has several names. She goes by Ginny Slade, Virginia Watson, or Virginia Watson Slade. She’s somewhere around fifty, give or take a few years, I think, and was married to Bobby or Robert Slade.”

  “That’s it?” Foster asked.

  “What more do you need?”

  “Watson and Slade aren’t uncommon names. How about a location to start with-you know, something like east of the Mississippi?”

  “Just a minute.” Impatiently Oswald opened his briefcase and pulled out his copies of the family tree from the Bible. “Okay, let’s see,” he said, running his finger down the page. “Looks like Virginia was born in Memphis, Tennessee. She and Bobby were married in the First Christian Church in June of 1967. Other than those specific dates, all I know is that she cruised through Montana at one time and gave up her daughter, probably named Adria or something like it, for adoption. An old couple-Victor Nash and his wife Sharon-adopted the kid sometime in late 1974, I think, though I can’t find any reference to a specific date and no official papers were filed.”

  “That all?”

  “Not quite,” Sweeny said, loving to spread news meant to shock. “Get a load of this-we suspect this Virginia Watson Slade might have been the governess for London Danvers.”

  There was a long, low whistle on the other end of the line. “Ginny Slade.”

  “Bingo.”

  “So why’re you involved? No, let me guess. The kid’s shown up and is demanding her part of the fortune.”

  “You got it.”

  “Could be interesting.”

  “See what you can come up with.”

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “I’ll call you. Need anything else?”

  “How about a social security number?”

  “Right.” Sweeny sorted through his notes on Ginny Slade. “Got it,” he said, and rattled off the series of numbers she’d used when she was London’s governess. He explained a little more about the case and hung up, satisfied that Foster would come up with something. He was a computer hacker from the 80s who’d found a way to put his skills to work. Sweeny didn’t really know how he operated, if he broke into the IRS’s files or had someone in the government working for him, but Foster was part of a national service where people who had been lost were found-even people who didn’t want to be located. He’d get the job done one way or the other.

  Satisfied, Sweeny snapped his briefcase shut. He felt better. Another drink and he’d call Jason Danvers.

  Adria glanced over her shoulder but she didn’t see a familiar face in the stream of people that passed by the front door of the Orion. She told herself that she was being paranoid, that no one was following her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. And the dead rat in her mini fridge served to remind her that someone did know where she lived and where she went. All day, while she scouted around town looking for a more permanent residence, she’d felt as if a pair of eyes had been boring into her back, watching her every move.

  She’d half expected to run into Zachary again, but he hadn’t shown up and it wasn’t his style to stay in the shadows. He might follow her, as he’d done before, but he’d end up confronting her again.

  So who? she wondered as she swept her gaze along the street again. She didn’t see anyone hunched over a newspaper, or lounging near a telephone booth, or quickly ducking into storefronts when she glanced behind her. The person who had sent her the package had put her on edge. She was jumping at shadows. Before leaving the hotel earlier, she’d checked with the bell captain, Security, and the business office. No one had remembered anyone leaving a package for her. Whoever was behind it had been very careful. And so would she be.

  Waving to the old man behind the magazine counter, Adria dashed into the hotel and asked for messages at the front desk. She was handed one note from the switchboard and a stiff white envelope with her name scrawled across t
he linen surface, not in block letters this time but flowing script. Rather than read the messages where anyone lounging in the lobby could see her, she took the elevator to her floor.

  In her room, she kicked off her shoes, cast a glance at the closed refrigerator, then she scanned the notes. The telephone call was from Nelson Danvers, who wanted to speak with her “urgently.” Good. Progress, she thought. But she could let Nelson wait a little longer.

  The invitation in the linen envelope wasn’t expected. She pulled out the handwritten card, and read the offer:

  Mr. Anthony Polidori requests the honor of your presence tonight at dinner, seven o’clock at Antonio’s. A driver will pick you up in front of the hotel.

  No telephone number. No address. Just a note left at the front desk of the Orion.

  Adria read the words over again. Why would Polidori want to see her? Obviously he’d heard that she was in town claiming to be London Danvers, but how? And how did he know where she was staying? She felt goose bumps crawl up her back and she walked to the window and stared out at the street, wondering again if even now she was being followed or if anyone was watching her room.

  She saw no one leaning against a lamppost while staring up at her window, no malicious figure darting into the shadows.

  “Relax,” she told herself as she tapped the edge of the card on her lips and walked to her closet, where she eyed her meager wardrobe. What would it hurt to meet Polidori? Should she take him up on his offer or would that be playing into his hands?

  She smiled to herself because she was starting to think like a Danvers. She had no reason to fear the Polidoris; in fact, talking with Witt Danvers’s sworn enemy could be enlightening. According to everyone in the family, he was the most likely suspect in the kidnapping of London. So why would he want to see her?

  She changed into a simple black skirt and top, clamped her hair back, and slipped her arms into a jacket.

  By the time she hurried out of the elevator in the main lobby, the limo had arrived and a driver helped her into the shadowed interior. She wasn’t alone. Two men sat across from each other. The short, older man in an elegant gray suit and dark glasses greeted her. “Ms. Nash,” he said, taking her hand as she slid onto the seat beside him. “Welcome. Welcome. I’m Anthony Polidori. My son, Mario.”