The license plate on the back of the car was from the State of California. Regan memorized it and hurried inside the lodge. She went to her room and wrote the number down in her notebook. Satisfied that she had at least accomplished something, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Whitney's number. Once again it was answered by the voice mail.
“Whitney, this is Regan Reilly. If you get this message, please call my cell phone.” Regan gave the number. “Thanks so much. I hope your seminar is going well.” As Regan hung up the phone, she couldn't help but feel that her last words hung heavily in the air, just as when you tell someone who's really sick how great they look. You want so much for it to be true. Quickly she dialed the number of the seminar that she had in her notebook. Another voice mail picked up. “Hello, this is Norman and Dew. We're not here right now . . .”
I guess Dew's parents were hippies, too, Regan thought. “Hi, my name is Regan Reilly,” she said at the sound of the tone and left a message for Whitney Weldon to please call her.
Finally, she called Jack. Thank God he answered. “Hi there. What's going on?” Regan asked.
“What a day. We've had some great breaks with this group of art thieves. I think we're going to nail them, although there's one who's been really elusive. He's wanted in several states and always manages to slip through the cracks. How was your day?”
“Well, Lucretia arrived with a gang of motorcyclists.”
Jack laughed. “Are you kidding?”
“I'm not. They're coming back to actually cook what is now being called the rehearsal dinner. You should see these guys! It's kind of cute. They want to protect Lucretia.”
“It sounds as if she could use it.”
“They're a bunch of characters. Let me tell you this—I would definitely want them on my side. Most of them are very big. And I've never seen so many tattoos in my life.”
“Tattoos?” Jack said. “That's funny. The gang we're looking into has a fondness for tattoos as well.”
“They do?”
“One of my detectives found a picture in the apartment we searched. It shows four of the crew with skull and crossbones tattoos under their navel.”
Regan gripped the phone tighter in her hand. “You're kidding me.”
“No. Regan, what's wrong?”
Regan lowered her voice. “There's a guy staying at the bed-and-breakfast here who has a skull and crossbones tattoo under his navel. I already have my suspicions that he's up to no good.”
“Regan, these guys are dangerous,” Jack cautioned, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice. “Now tell me whatever you know about him.”
57
Once all the attendees at Norman's seminar were out the door, he hurried back to his office and unlocked the file cabinet. The bottom drawer was where he and Dew kept their important documents: passports, birth certificates, Norman's divorce decree (his most prized possession), insurance policies, the title to the house, his checkbook, and various other papers he hadn't looked at in ages. He threw everything into a gym bag and then ran into the bedroom and grabbed the only copy of the screenplay he'd recently completed. It was the script he'd written with Whitney Weldon in mind. Her call yesterday had prompted him to reread the script—he definitely thought it was his best work.
Norman raced down the hall and hurried to the back of the house. He turned on the alarm, stepped outside, and locked the door. “I hope that's worth doing,” he mused. “A burned-down house has no need for protection from burglars.”
Ricky was waiting in his own car, ready to follow Norman to the radio station. Norman backed down the driveway, pulled past Ricky's VW bug, and waved.
They drove down the winding mountain roads, headed for the little town of Calimook, five miles away. Smoke was billowing eerily from the treetops in the distance.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the small local radio station where Dew worked as a disc jockey. She enjoyed bantering with the guests on her show and keeping her listeners up-to-date with all the latest news and activities in Calimook and beyond. She also played an occasional song. Her favorite group was the Beach Boys. Norman had grown up with the Wilson Brothers, and he passed his fondness for the group on to her.
Dew had developed a loyal and growing following, and the owners of the mom-and-pop operation let her do as she pleased. This afternoon she was giving constant updates about the wildfires. The fires were popping up all over; some were small enough to be extinguished quickly, but others were burning out of control. Dew reported the first evacuation in the area and promised to relay any further evacuation plans as soon as the station had any new information.
A commercial break was just starting when Dew looked through the window of her broadcast booth and saw Norman and their friend Ricky in the reception area. She took off her headphones, pushed back her chair, and hurried outside to greet them. Pretty, with long, curly light brown hair, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and deep blue eyes, Dew was the quintessential California beach girl. Her wardrobe consisted of jeans and countless funky tops. Getting dressed up was not one of her priorities.
“Hi, honey,” she greeted Norman, giving him a quick kiss. She could tell he was worried. “Ricky, it's good to see you,” she continued as she gave her childhood friend a quick hug.
“I had just stopped up at the house when you called,” Ricky explained.
“Dew,” the engineer called. “This is a short break. You're going back on in a minute.”
Dew grabbed Norman's arm. “Why don't you two come on the air with me?”
“Why?”
“For Dialogue with Dew. We can talk about having to evacuate.”
“Hurry, Dew!” the engineer called again.
Norman and Ricky followed Dew back into the broadcast room and sat across from her in two leather chairs that had microphones in front of them. Dew winked as the commercial wound down and they were back on the air.
“You are back with Dew,” she chimed into the microphone. “And right now I have a couple of guests for a Dialogue with Dew session. As many of you know, my boyfriend is Norman Broda. We live in a house up on the mountain in the area they evacuated. Norman is here with me right now, and so is a friend of ours, Ricky Ortiz, who has been working as a production assistant on a movie near Santa Barbara. Who's in the movie, Ricky?” Dew asked quickly.
“An actress named Whitney Weldon is the star. She's not a household name yet but has done a lot of good work.”
“Oh, yes, Whitney Weldon. I've seen her in a few movies. Hey, everybody out there. Norman runs these terrific acting workshops up at our house. Whitney Weldon had signed up for the seminar that took place today. Was she there?” Dew asked Norman with a smile.
Norman hesitated for a moment. “No, she didn't make it.”
“Oh, she didn't,” Dew said, trying to sound upbeat. “She probably heard about the wildfires . . .”
“We had to cancel the rest of today's session when you called me about the evacuation,” Norman told Dew. “So it was better for Whitney. She's welcome to attend the next workshop.”
“She's so funny in this movie,” Ricky interjected. “Really funny.”
“What's the name of the movie?” Dew asked Ricky.
“Jinxed.”
58
Regan walked over to the window in her room and shut the sliding glass door. She didn't want there to be any chance she'd be overheard.
“He said his name is Don Lesser. I called him Don before, and he didn't answer immediately. It seemed as if he wasn't used to that name.”
“So many of this group have aliases,” Jack said as he wrote the name on a pad.
“He's wearing a wig. I know it. His body hair is blond, and he has this black wig. He may also be wearing contact lenses, I'm not sure. And there's something else . . .”
“What?” Jack asked.
“I think he knows Edward Fields. I just have that feeling. Lesser offered to help Fields with his bags, which I thought wa
s weird. Then they were sitting together at the wine-tasting table until I came in and broke it up. They skedaddled out of there so fast, I thought they were airborne.”
“Regan, there has to be a computer at the winery.”
“Yes. I saw one in the office.”
“See if you can get the e-mail address. I'm going to get a copy of the picture of the guys with the tattoos and scan it to you.
Take a look and see if any of the four could be this guy Don”—Jack took a deep breath—“which should be interesting.”
“Okay, Jack, but we'll have to hurry. Don said he was leaving.”
“The last thing I want to do is lose any one of this group.”
“Let me go to the office, and I'll call you right back,” Regan said.
Regan went out the door just as Don was coming down the hall.
“Hello, Don,” she said.
“Hello, Regan,” he answered.
Regan quickened her step. The way he said her name gave Regan the creeps.
Out by the reception desk, all was quiet. Regan knew her parents were resting, as was Lucretia, who had gone to her room to relax before cocktails. Regan found Lilac in the office.
“Regan, it's so wonderful having your parents here,” Lilac began.
“Lilac,” Regan said quickly. She knew she couldn't tell her specifically what it was about—not yet, anyway. “My friend Jack, whom you met the other day, is in New York and needs to send a picture to me. It has to do with a case he's working on. Could I possibly have him send the picture to me on your computer?”
“Oh, sure, Regan.” Lilac wrote down her e-mail address and clicked on the computer to her e-mail box. “Call Jack and tell him to send it now. You'll know when it arrives. I'll get out of your way.” Lilac got up and started to walk out of the room. “I've got so much to do to get ready for tonight anyway! It's going to be such fun. I'll be in the kitchen. If you don't mind, let me know if anyone rings the bell at the front desk.”
“Absolutely,” Regan promised. She was already dialing Jack's number.
“Jack, I'm in the office at the computer. Here's the e-mail address . . .”
“Great. Hold on.” He handed the address to an assistant. “Scan the picture,” he told him brusquely. “Hurry.”
Regan felt as though her body was in a high state of alert. Her heart was pounding. So much for this morning's relaxation class. She and Jack hadn't even talked about how they'd handle it if she thought Don Lesser was one of the suspects in the picture.
“Regan,” Jack said as he returned to the phone. “I have another call I've got to take. Let me call you right back on your cell phone.”
“Okay.” Regan sat staring at the computer. A moment later a new e-mail appeared. It was from Jack. She clicked on the message and watched as bit by bit the picture began to take shape on the screen. Adrenaline shot through her body as the photo became clearer. The guy on the left. He had blond hair, but his features, build, and smile were those of Don Lesser. Not that she'd seen him smile much. Regan stared closely at the photo. The taut stomach with the blond hair was definitely the same midriff she'd seen this morning.
There was no doubt it was Don Lesser!
“Oh my God,” she said aloud.
“Helloooo,” a voice called. “Anyone around?” Don Lesser came around the corner and into the room. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the image on the computer screen. The photo was in living color and big enough for anyone to see from several feet away.
Regan quickly pressed the delete button and turned to him. She could tell he knew that she knew. The fury on his face was unmistakable. “What are you doing?” he spat at her. He shut the door and locked it, then lunged at her, his arms outstretched and his fingers clenched, aiming for her throat. Regan screamed wildly, searching for a way to defend herself. She spotted a ceramic paperweight on the desk, picked it up, and flung it at his head. It grazed his forehead. For a moment he staggered back, but then he shook his head and lunged at her again. She kept screaming as she lifted up her right leg and managed to gave him a solid kick just below his tattoo. But he was like an ox. Her cell phone started ringing as Don's fingers wrapped around her throat.
His iron grip tightened, choking her. With all her strength Regan reached up her arms, pulled off his wig, and poked him in the eyes with her index fingers. Momentarily stunned, he let go of her. She gave him a second good swift kick and shrieked, “Help me! Help!” This time the sound was bloodcurdling.
Running feet in the hallway were followed by pounding on the door. “Regan! Regan!” It was Luke shouting.
Lesser spun around and released his grip on Regan. Realizing he was trapped, he rushed to the window, pushed it open, climbed out, and began to run through the vineyards.
The cell phone was ringing insistently. Luke was shouting and pounding on the door. Regan grabbed the phone and answered it as she walked somewhat unsteadily to let her father in the room. “I ID'ed the picture,” she said to Jack. “He's definitely your guy.”
59
Rex ran as fast as he could through the vineyards. What am I going to do? he thought wildly. Where can I go? He cursed himself for ever getting that stupid tattoo. It was all Jimmy's idea. They'd pulled off a big job, gone out drinking to celebrate, and the next thing he knew they were all tattooed. I should have killed Regan Reilly, he thought. I should have finished the job. That's what Jimmy would have done.
Who was sending her that picture?
Forget it, he told himself. Just get out of here. Keep running.
I know how I can get out of here. I'll drive Whitney's car out of the barn. It's my only chance. He raced down through the rows of trees. When he got to the end and turned right, the barn was in sight. He stopped dead in his tracks. An old car was parked directly in front of the door. There'd be no way he could get the Jeep out. Whose car was it? Why was it parked out here?
Rex looked around quickly. There was no one in sight. He ran over to the car, a tan four-door clunker. To his relief the keys were in the ignition. He jumped in and turned the key. The engine whined and coughed and died. Rex pumped the gas furiously and tried again. Finally, on his third exasperated attempt, the engine turned over. He put the car in reverse just as a portly guy came running from around the side of the barn with a shovel in his hand. “Hey!” he yelled.
Rex cursed as he floored the accelerator. The car screeched backward. He jammed on the brake and shifted into drive. He did a tight U-turn and took off down the dirt road, spraying dust into his pursuer's face. In the rearview mirror Rex could see his latest victim giving up the chase and shaking his fist.
“Go back to your digging!” Rex growled. He sped along the dirt road that at least was not as bumpy as the other access road to Altered States. Rex glanced at the dashboard. It looked as if it was from the sixties. Very basic. There weren't too many bells and whistles to figure out. And what was really easy to see was the big red needle pointing angrily at the big red E. Empty. Go to the gas station, stupid, it seemed to say. As he was approaching the main road, Rex slammed the steering wheel with his fist. Angrily, he made a wide right turn just as a van in the opposite lane was slowing up, as though the driver were looking for a turnoff.
Unable to avoid the inevitable, Rex hit the van's front left bumper, then scraped its side, which said GOS NEWS. KEEP WATCHING. The impact was too much for the vintage vehicle Rex had stolen. The car spun around and ended up facing in the wrong direction. The engine died. Frantically, Rex tried to start the car again, but it was no use. He was out of gas. He fumbled for the door handle and then jumped out of the car and started to run back down the dirt road just as a police car, its sirens blazing, came racing down the highway. The police car followed Rex down the dirt road and came to a quick halt a few feet behind him. Two cops jumped out.
“Stop! Put your hands up,” a voice shouted. “Now!”
Rex kept running but turned to take a quick glance behind him. Big mistake. Lilac's black cat was out
for a stroll and ended up directly in his path. When Rex turned back, he saw the cat underfoot and tried to step to the side, but his feet stumbled and he tripped, ending up facedown in the dirt road.
It took about two seconds for the cops to cuff him.
Lynne B. Harrison was squealing with delight. She and her personal cameraman were recording every last second of the drama. Within minutes the story would be replayed across the nation's television screens. It was worth every dent and scrape on the van.
60
Walter was furious. He was also stunned and more than a little worried. Bella was going to kill him! He had left the keys in the car, and it had been stolen. He had screwed up royally. But who could have imagined that their old junk heap of a car would be stolen in the middle of nowhere like this? Who was that guy anyway? An escaped convict?
After his prized heap disappeared from view, Walter stood grimacing and muttering to himself. What do I do now? I've got to report it to the police. But they're going to want to know what I was doing here. Then they'll look around and find the big holes we've dug behind the barn. I'd better cover them up until this blows over, he reasoned. Bella is definitely going to kill me. She's spent every lunch hour this week searching for her grandfather's treasure, and now she'll have to start over. It's all so unfair.
I'd better hurry up, he thought. I'll put the dirt back where it belongs, then I'll head over to the candle shop and we can call the police.
With the shovel still in his hand, Walter walked around to the back of the barn. When he rounded the bend and was faced with the sight of a dozen holes and just as many piles of dirt, he wanted to cry.
“This is so stupid!” he growled, hurling the shovel in frustration. It soared through the air and landed in the hole farthest away from where he stood, its sharp edge scraping the wall of the crevice on its downward path. Bits of earth crumbled and broke loose. It was the first hole Bella had dug on Monday.
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