Safe and Sound

by Fern Michaels

  The space was sterile-clean and neat as a pin, with bright overhead fluorescent lighting. Custom-built shelves her husband had built himself covered one wall and were full of cans of paint and other items used for repairs in a household, all neatly lined up. A second wall was made up entirely of a huge pegboard and held every tool for inside and outside known to man. Isabelle smiled. Abner loved gadgets, loved working on things in the house when he wasn’t doing what he did best, hacking.

  She made sure the door was locked behind her before she made her way to the elevator that would take her to the second-floor living quarters. Originally, the elevator was just a platform that was hoisted up and down with pulleys. Abner had installed this one all by himself. It hummed soothingly as she rose to the top, where, when the door slid open, she emerged from the elevator to stand in a small foyer. She set the elevator to full stop, which meant no one could get to the second floor if they broke into the building. Any intruder would need to know how to override the stop function, and only she and Abner knew how that worked.

  Abner wasn’t home. That had been obvious the minute she stepped into the lower level because the Mercedes was gone. Strange, because today was Friday, and Fridays were pizza nights. Three months ago, Abner had insisted on installing a real pizza oven because he loved pizza. There had been a lot of mishaps and horrible-tasting pizza, which she had bravely consumed, until he finally perfected his recipe. These days, she looked forward to Fridays and the special pizza.

  Isabelle kicked off her shoes, tossed her keys into a little bowl on the foyer table, and slid her briefcase under the table.

  In the kitchen, Isabelle looked at the clock. Ten minutes past six. Abner was late, but then, so was she. Usually, he called if he was going to be late. It hit her then. She’d turned off her cell phone in the middle of the afternoon when she walked into a meeting with four prospective clients, and she had forgotten to turn it back on. She fished her phone out of her pocket. Sure enough, six texts from her husband, one from Kathryn Lucas, and two from Maggie Spritzer.

  Isabelle made her way to the bedroom, where she shed her business suit, hung it up, and pulled on an old pair of sweatpants and a fleece-lined sweatshirt. She poked around till she found what she called the fuzzy rabbit slippers that Abner had given her as a gag gift. She absolutely loved them.

  On her way to the kitchen, she stopped to adjust the thermostat to raise the temperature since it had started to get noticeably colder. Isabelle carried the wine bottle and wineglass into the living area and poured herself a glass of wine. She knew before she even looked at the texts that there would be no Friday-night pizza. She settled down into the most comfortable sofa on earth. She propped her slippered feet onto the coffee table and looked at her messages. Abner first. He was on his way to Vermont. No pizza tonight, babe. Be gone at least a week. I’ll call you tonight. Or not. If not, first thing in the morning. Don’t forget to water the Christmas cactus. And the last one: I love you.

  Isabelle finished off her glass of wine and poured another. Might as well drink my dinner, she thought. Darn, I was really looking forward to pizza and a fun night with Abner. Oh well.

  Kathryn’s text was curt. Will be in town for three days on Monday. Call me.

  Maggie’s texts were just as short and curt. How about lunch tomorrow and we do a little shopping? Need to pick up some catnip for Hero. Call me.

  Isabelle leaned back into the downy pillows and closed her eyes. She needed to think. Her eyes flew open. Thinking, serious thinking, required a clear head. Two glasses of wine did not generate a clear head and serious thinking. So I might as well go for a third, then maybe take a nap for a few hours. She knew her own routine, which was what she was well into now. When Abner was gone, she didn’t sleep well, so she worked at night and caught up on her sleep during the day. Schedule permitting.

  Two glasses of wine at any given time were Isabelle’s limit, but here she was about to polish off a fourth, which would empty the bottle. In her whole life, she’d never consumed a whole bottle of wine on her own. She wondered if she was drunk. It didn’t feel like she was drunk. She supposed the true test would come if she tried to stand up. Well, screw that, she thought. She plumped up the pillows, snuggled down for a nap, and didn’t wake up till fifteen minutes past midnight.

  She knew instantly that yes, indeedy, she had been drunk. She also knew instantly what had transpired during the day and the time it took to drink a full bottle of wine. She wasn’t groggy, but she did have a headache. She made a promise to herself to never, as in ever again, drink a full bottle of wine all by herself.

  In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of tomato juice that she liberally dosed with Tabasco sauce and a dash of hot pepper flakes. She downed the concoction in two long gulps, shivering and gagging as she did so. “Serves you right, you lush,” she chastised herself aloud. Then she popped two Advil and returned to the foyer for her briefcase, which held her laptop. She carried it back to the comfortable sofa. She cleared the coffee table, refusing to look at the wine bottle and glass. In the end, she could not avoid their lingering presence, so she trotted out to the kitchen with them and made coffee.

  Back in the living room, she turned on the gas fireplace. She looked around. Good to go. Or she would be as soon as she got some coffee into her belly.

  Where to start? With Eleanor Lymen, obviously. Eleanor was key, as was Ben. Somewhere down in the garage, she had a full file folder on Eleanor, but it was a business folder. In the two years she’d worked on the Circle project, their business relationship had turned personal, and they had become good friends. She was also friends with Eleanor’s two best friends, Rita and Irene.

  It wasn’t the kind of friendship that led to a sharing of secrets. Although more than once, Isabelle remembered thinking that Eleanor was harboring some dark secrets, secrets, Isabelle was sure, that Eleanor shared only with Irene and Rita. And that was okay with her. Actually, she preferred not to know Eleanor’s secrets.

  Eleanor had had a daughter named Diana. More than a ton of friction there. Isabelle had only met Diana twice, and both times she left with the feeling that there was some deep, dark secret between mother and daughter. Diana, Ben’s mother, was a brainiac like her son. That’s why Eleanor had commissioned Isabelle to design the Institute. She’d had hopes, high hopes, that Diana would succeed her in running the Institute and somehow magically turn into the person Eleanor wanted her to be.

  It never happened.

  Isabelle sipped at her coffee, which was rapidly cooling. She didn’t care. Coffee was coffee, hot, warm, or even cold.

  She rolled her shoulders. There was more. She needed to remember what else she knew. About four years after the Circle was completed, on one of her few trips to the DC area with the sisters, Isabelle had visited with Eleanor again, and at that time there had been a man in the picture. Diana’s friend. Diana’s special friend. Someone Eleanor wasn’t too fond of. At least that had been her impression at the time.

  The young woman had been a dreamy sort. She didn’t interact with others well. Isabelle recalled Eleanor’s saying that her daughter’s intelligence needed to be channeled, and that’s why she wanted to build the Institute, because even if it was too late to help Diana, maybe it could help other children like her. But Diana was having no part of that. And that was the sum total of what she knew about Diana Ryan, née Diana Lymen, Ben’s deceased mother.

  She had finished the project on time to great fanfare. She’d won awards, basked in her success. Eventually, her friendship with Eleanor Lymen waned because life marched on, and Isabelle had become one of the sisters.

  At some point, she’d heard or read that Diana moved into one of the houses directly across from her mother. Again, she’d moved on and was no longer interested in the young woman. And that was the sum total of what she knew about Eleanor and Diana Lymen.

  Isabelle’s brow furrowed in thought. Obviously, at some point, Diana had married Connor Ryan, Ben’s stepfather. That
had to mean Diana gave birth to Ben . . . when? Was it sometime after Isabelle had learned about the mystery man? Was the man Eleanor wasn’t too fond of Ben’s biological father? And who was he? Where had he gone? Had Diana ever married him, or had Ben been born out of wedlock?

  And then the unthinkable happened. Diana Lymen Ryan was standing in line at the Sovereign Bank of Virginia, waiting her turn to deposit her trust-fund check, when a robbery took place. According to the newspaper reports she’d read, masked gunmen appeared out of nowhere, guns drawn and firing blindly to gain everyone’s attention. Diana was hit by a ricochet and died before she could be transported to the hospital.

  Isabelle rubbed at her temples, which were suddenly throbbing. She recalled how she’d been out of the country with the sisters and hadn’t heard about the tragedy until months later, when they were back in Washington on a mission. She had immediately gone to see Eleanor Lymen and was stunned to see the tormented shell of the woman she’d once known so well. She recalled being told that her grandson was at his father’s that day, visiting him, but that he was living with Eleanor. She did not recall ever being told his name, which was why she had not made the connection between Ben and Eleanor until earlier today—actually yesterday.

  Isabelle remembered how they’d talked over tea, with Rita and Irene fussing over Eleanor. It was Irene who explained that Connor Ryan had packed up and moved out of the house on the Circle into an apartment. Unable or unwilling to care for Ben on his own, he had let his stepson stay with a very willing Eleanor.

  After the boy, Ben, had lived with Eleanor for two years, Eleanor decided that it was time to make sure that Connor Ryan never gained custody of Ben and she sued for permanent custody. She had filed a lawsuit, according to Ben. Isabelle made a mental note to speak with Maggie tomorrow . . . today, actually, and ask her to do some digging to see where things currently stood. Little Ben might know some things about what had happened, but it was doubtful he would know all the nitty-gritty details.

  Isabelle leaned back into the cushions and let her mind run wild. The Eleanor Lymen she knew, the woman who, despite the state of her emotions after the death of Diana, had taken in Diana’s son to live with her, would never leave her grandson and take it on the lam to protect her own interests. The Eleanor she knew would fight for young Ben until hell froze over; and then she’d continue to fight on the ice. Ben was all she had left of her daughter. No, Eleanor would never leave Ben unless . . . unless . . . what? Maybe she had an agenda no one knew about. Like maybe finding the mystery man in the hope he would return and claim Ben from Connor Ryan. And the money, of course. No way would Eleanor turn her daughter’s trust fund over to Connor Ryan. That had to be when she disappeared, but not before she made sure the trust fund was safe from Connor.

  Who was Eleanor’s lawyer? She should know, but she didn’t. At least not right this minute. But down in the garage in one of the many footlockers that held rolls and rolls of blueprints, she was certain she could find the name of the firm.

  Where are you, Eleanor?

  Isabelle’s gut told her Eleanor’s lawyers would know. Eleanor would never leave for more than six months and not let her attorneys know where she was. Business had to be taken care of. She would not allow decisions only she could make to be made by others. Lawyers were a closemouthed lot, and Isabelle was sure they wouldn’t tell her anything. Confidentiality and privacy were the name of the game. Trickery would definitely be called for. That was something she couldn’t do on her own. Time to call in the sisters, and that’s exactly what she would do after she talked to Maggie later on today. With Kathryn coming back to town, that meant all the sisters would be available to kick this case, and it was a case, into high gear.

  Isabelle looked down at her watch. It was three-thirty in the morning.

  She bolted upright. Did Diana Lymen have a will? If she did, was it drawn up before or after she married Connor Ryan? She scribbled a note on a yellow pad next to her computer, along with the other reminder notes she’d penned earlier.

  Isabelle felt her eyes start to droop and knew it was time to go to bed. She fluffed up the pillows, reached for a colorful throw to cover herself, and curled up. Her last conscious thought before drifting into a deep sleep was that of a skinny little boy with a head full of curls and an endearing gap-toothed smile, pedaling away from her.

  * * *

  Isabelle woke to the sound of her phone chirping in her ear. She reached for the phone, clicked, and heard Maggie’s shrill voice saying she was about to call someone to check on her. “Why haven’t you answered my calls or texts, Izz?”

  Isabelle brushed her hair out of her eyes, cleared her throat, and said, “It’s complicated, Maggie. What time is it anyway?”

  “Almost noon.”

  “Noon!” Isabelle screeched. “It can’t be noon!”

  “Well, it is,” Maggie snapped. “Are we meeting up or not?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. You wanna pick me up? I just need to take a quick shower. Half hour should do it. I’ll explain when I see you, okay?”

  “Am I gonna like your explanation?” Maggie asked in a more mollified tone of voice.

  “Yep. It’s right up your alley.” Isabelle didn’t give Maggie time to respond but ended the call. On the way to the bathroom, Isabelle started to strip down as she clicked on her phone again to see she had eleven text messages from her husband. “Shoot!” She scrolled down to the last one, which would tell her all she needed to know. Where the hell are you, Isabelle? Ooooh. I’ve been texting you for hours. Are you okay ? If I don’t hear from you in the next hour, I’m calling the police to check on you. Whoa.

  Isabelle, naked now, turned on the shower after she sent off a text to her anxious husband. I’m fine. I’ll explain later. I drank a whole bottle of wine last night . . . or was it this morning? I slept a little too soundly. Love you.

  “Boy, when you screw up, you really screw up, Isabelle,” she mumbled to herself as she washed her hair, then soaped up her body. She was in and out in less than ten minutes. She used up another ten minutes trying to decide what to wear. By craning her neck, she could see out the window that it was a gray, overcast, typical fall day. Which meant it would be chilly. She finally opted for gray flannel slacks and a cherry-red sweater. She then used up another three minutes with the blow-dryer to damp dry her hair. She smeared some cream that guaranteed to make her look ten years younger on her face. Not surprisingly, the guarantee turned out to be a lie, but right now, she didn’t care.

  Her sneakers and socks in hand, Isabelle raced into the kitchen to make a quick pot of coffee. No way could she start her day, even if it was half over already, without a good cup of coffee.

  She was pouring her first cup of coffee for the day when Maggie buzzed. Isabelle ran to the foyer to send the elevator to the first floor just as she pressed the remote that would open the door for Maggie. It wasn’t quite Fort Knox, but the comparison wasn’t very far off.

  Isabelle had a cup of coffee waiting for Maggie, who looked surly and out of sorts. “Who rained on your parade this morning?”

  “You! I thought something happened to you. I was worried. You need to answer when someone calls or texts.”

  Isabelle’s head bobbed up and down. “You’re right! I’m sorry. I had a fiendish day yesterday. See that empty bottle! I drank it all last night. All by myself. I guess I slept too soundly. Abner reamed me out, too. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

  “Well then, okay. So what got your knickers in a knot for you to drink a whole bottle of wine?”

  Isabelle told her. Maggie’s eyes popped, growing wider and wider as Isabelle recounted yesterday’s events. “Look, Maggie, here’s a picture of him. I took it when he wasn’t looking. This kid is eight years old and is a freshman in college. Do you believe that?”

  Maggie said she did believe that. “So, are you saying this is going to be the start of a mission? If so, this is a good time, because Kathryn is due back in town. Are we goin
g out to lunch, or are we staying here? I can pick up the catnip on the way home, so that’s not a problem. If you don’t have any food, we can order in. Just so you know, the temperature outside is in the low fifties and the wind is pretty damn sharp. It also looks like rain.”

  Isabelle grinned. “Okay, you convinced me. We’re staying in. What would you like me to order, Chinese, Italian, or deli?” Isabelle asked, pointing to the magnets on the Sub-Zero refrigerator that pinned down brochures with the numbers for more than twenty take-out restaurants in the area that she and Abner used at least once or twice a week.

  “I could go with a big, as in big, meatball sub with a side order of spaghetti. We should get a salad, too, don’t you think? And maybe like six cannolis.”

  “Absolutely.” Isabelle laughed as she called Anthony’s Pizza two blocks away.

  Maggie refilled her coffee cup and looked at Isabelle, who nodded that she would also like a refill.

  “Tell me where your thoughts are taking you with the boy and the grandmother. I’m getting excited, thinking we can help the kid. A genius at eight years old. Unbelievable!”

  “Yes, and his mother was also. That’s why Eleanor built the Institute.”

  Maggie leaned back on her chair, and said, “Okay, start from the very beginning. That means when you were commissioned to design the Circle. Do not leave anything out, no matter if you think it’s important or not. I’m almost positive Ted did an article on Eleanor Lymen when the project was finished. I think I did one, too, perhaps earlier, but it’s vague in my mind. Nothing memorable for sure, or I would remember it. We didn’t know you then, Izzy. Go!”