Abandoned

by Allison Brennan

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I can’t believe I missed this.”

  Max looked up at Ryan. She was tired and crabby from reading and rereading the postcards, rearranging the information and dates every way that she could think. Ryan, on the other hand, seemed to gain energy from the tedious chore.

  She was so tired she couldn’t even come up with a witty comeback.

  “Missed what?” she asked.

  “Colter’s primary residence is in Dallas, where the Degas was stolen. It was stolen from this gallery.” He tapped the postcard, which listed the museum. It wasn’t even an attractive postcard, one Max had kept shuffling aside because it was so cheap.

  “The Degas was stolen from the museum in Dallas?” she asked.

  “Yes, at least that was one of the places it was shown. We don’t know exactly where it was stolen because it was on a circuit of eight museums across the country. The Dallas museum was the third stop.”

  “And no one noticed?”

  “The fourth stop—Phoenix—had limited space. They only exhibited half the collection. So until it reached San Francisco, they didn’t know the Degas box was empty. We’ve been looking too broad, it was right under our nose.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “Because these postcards aren’t going to get me a warrant. They might help in a trial, but they’re not going to get me what I need first, which is full access to all of Phillip Colter’s properties so I can inspect the art.”

  Max sat up. “Can you tell if something is a forgery?”

  “Generally, yes. I have a knack for it. An eye for brushstrokes and subtleties in color and layers that most people don’t recognize because they only look at the big picture.”

  Max was impressed—a rarity.

  Ryan winked. “It’s why they keep me employed.”

  “I didn’t think it was for your haircut.”

  “It’s regulation,” he said.

  She laughed. “Is it?”

  “Almost.”

  Max got up and stretched. “I’m starving,” Max said. “But I’m trying to play nice with Gabriel Truman for another reason, so maybe we should go someplace else for dinner.”

  “I’ll cook.”

  “You cook?”

  “You surprised?”

  “No.” She smiled. “Since you’re here all weekend, you can cook tomorrow. How about if you join me for dinner over by Oyster Bay?”

  “I didn’t know there was a restaurant over there.”

  “It’s called the Hendersons’ kitchen, and they invited me. I’ll call and say I have a guest. And then on our way I’ll show you something else of interest and get your take on it.” She picked up the last postcard her mother had sent. “I think I found exactly where this was painted, and I want to check it out.”

  “By all means, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Max and Ryan had to park on a gravel road and walk over sand dunes and through tall grass a quarter-mile to the spot Max located. As soon as they arrived, she knew she had been right.

  She showed him the postcard. It was a painting of the inlet on the eastern coast, with a pristine beach, clear skies, and sparkling water. To the side was a dilapidated fence and a small building, a historical marker proclaiming it was the one-room cabin that a governor two hundred some years ago had been born in. How it had withstood time and weather, Max didn’t know, maybe it had been rebuilt. But the scene was breathtaking in its simplicity, beauty, and loneliness.

  “This was the last card your mother sent,” Ryan said. The wind whipped around both of them. It was growing colder, but the skies were still clear.

  “If we assume, and I think we should, that she sent the postcards of the stolen art to me for a reason—even if it was her own personal game—then she sent this to me for a reason as well. Her car was found only a few miles north of here.”

  “How are you doing? Really?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You think your mother is dead, Max. And you’re investigating this as if she’s just another cold case.”

  How did she respond to that?

  “I have to,” she said simply. “I personalized my mother’s actions for far too long—if I don’t distance myself, I won’t see things clearly.”

  She looked around. “Why this place?” she said, mostly to herself. “On Monday I’ll go back to the county offices and find out who owns this land.”

  “Smart.”

  She slowly turned in a circle, then stopped. Stared. Was it this easy?

  Ryan put his hand on her shoulder and she jumped.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “This is it.” She pointed to the property to the north. She could only see the roofline of the Boreal-owned mansion, but she would recognize it from any angle.

  “That house?”

  “Boreal, Inc., owns that peninsula.”

  “Don’t know that I’d call it a peninsula, but okay.”

  “It’s a hundred acres jutting out into Oyster Bay. It’s one of three properties that’s accessible from the road where Martha’s car was found.”

  “Not a coincidence?”

  “No. Boreal owns fifty percent of Havenly. When I was going through Truman and Cooper’s public financial statements, I found the name. Boreal, Inc., invested a small amount when Cooper bought the place seventeen years ago. Gabriel came on board a year later, and then ten years ago Boreal invested heavily in the renovation and expansion of the resort.”

  “Ten years ago, when Jimmy Truman was here,” Ryan said thoughtfully.

  “They’ve owned the property for much longer—long before Martha disappeared,” Max said. “I’ve asked my PI to look into any principals of the company, but I’m not his only client right now and all I’ve found is the law firm who manages the business. They invest in tech companies and are worth a substantial sum.”

  “But what does it mean? If it’s not a coincidence that your mother sent you this specific postcard, does it have something to do with Boreal? Or that house? Or something else?”

  “I don’t know,” Max admitted. “Yet.”

  But she wasn’t leaving Cape Haven until she figured it out.

  They walked back to the car in silence. When Max slid into the passenger seat, she pulled out her phone and started typing a message.

  “I’m going to ask a friend of mine to consult.”

  “What kind of consult?”

  “A shrink. Forensic psychiatrist. He’s private, but often consults for the FBI and hired as an expert witness. I met him on the Blair Caldwell trial.”

  Dillon,

  Back in February you offered your expertise when I seriously started to investigate my mother’s disappearance. I’m in Cape Haven, and I’m not leaving until I find answers. I could use your brain on this, if you have time to conference tomorrow with me and an FBI agent who’s investigating Martha’s old boyfriend. If you can, I’ll forward you what I’ve learned.

  Best, Maxine

  Ryan said, “And we need a shrink why?”

  “Because I don’t understand Martha. The postcards, the art theft, coming here, and then just disappearing off the face of the earth. But mostly, I think she was sending me bread crumbs. What other explanation is there for the postcards with specific stolen pieces of art? Of this”—she waved her hand in the direction of the beach—“exact scene? One reason I’m so good at my job is because I consult with experts when I need to. Dillon Kincaid is one of the smartest people I know and he’s familiar with what I’m doing. His brother-in-law is my private investigator.”

  “You sound like I was going to argue with you.”

  “Most people do.”

  “I was just curious. Sounds like a good plan to me.” He leaned over and for a split second she thought he was going to kiss her. She wasn’t sure what she would think about that. Then he smiled and said, “Don’t get so defensive. Sometimes a question is really just a question.”

  He sta
rted the car and headed toward the Hendersons’.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Max and Ryan arrived at the Henderson house at five thirty. There were several older teenagers and young adults playing football in the driveway, and Gary Henderson and three young men were bringing a huge pig around to the back of the house on a piece of plywood.

  Max brought Ryan into the house and introduced him to Beth, who was in the kitchen. Organized chaos was the only phrase that came to mind.

  “I’m so glad you could make it, Ryan,” Beth said with a grin.

  “Let me help you with that.” Ryan took a large earthenware bowl filled with foil-wrapped potatoes from her.

  “You’re a doll, just put it over there—the rest of the potatoes have another fifteen minutes or so.”

  Ryan put it down on a long, low table that already seemed overwhelmed with food.

  “You’re feeding an army,” Ryan said.

  “My brood feels like that sometimes, though only half of them are here. And friends, of course.”

  Beth put Max to work chopping vegetables for the salad, and grabbed a young teen as he passed through. “Jeremy, take Agent Maguire to the basement and help him bring up the ice chest. It’s heavy, I don’t know what Wyatt was thinking filling up the water and soda in the basement.”

  “Yes, Grams,” Jeremy said.

  “I didn’t know you had grandchildren,” Max said.

  “My goodness, yes. Seven. Jeremy is twelve, the oldest of the young ones, and the only one I get to see with any regularity—my daughter Bridget moved to Boston with her husband and has two daughters, Garth married last year and just had a baby boy, but they live in campus housing. His wife is also in grad school. And then my oldest, Maddie—she’s twins with Jeremy’s mother—has three kids, and they moved all the way to Arizona. The desert!” She said it as if her daughter had moved to the moon. “Fortunately, Garth and Grace will be moving home when they graduate this summer, and I can dote on that precious baby.”

  Max wondered what it would be like to be part of a large family. The Hendersons seemed to be a throwback to a simpler time, though their farm was run with the efficiency of the twenty-first century. She had never seriously considered having children—and eight was out of the question—but the clear joy that Beth had was directly related to her kids and grandkids. She loved running this house, which was a full-time job.

  There was grunting coming from the basement stairs as Jeremy and Ryan half-carried, half-dragged up a huge ice chest.

  A timer went off and Beth moved around to one of two ovens and pulled out two casseroles. Max had no idea what was in them, but they looked cheesy and yummy. Probably thousands of calories, but she didn’t care—when was the last time she’d had a meal like this? She cooked for herself on occasion when she was home, but it certainly wasn’t this impressive.

  Ryan was joking with Jeremy as they wheeled the ice chest outside. As Ryan backed out the door he winked at Max. He had a big grin on his face, and she imagined that his upbringing had been closer to the Hendersons’ than Max’s.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Ryan with me.”

  Beth waved off her comment before Max even finished talking. “As if you couldn’t tell, I love company. And an FBI agent—that’s interesting.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s helping me investigate my mother’s disappearance.”

  “So you’ve made progress.”

  “Some. I still have questions.” A lot of questions. It was as if each answer she’d found led to even more questions. Her mother was an art thief. Why? Where was the art? Why had she sent Max postcards of the stolen pieces? Her mother had another daughter. Who was Eve’s father? Why didn’t Martha tell someone in the family about Eve? And then, of course, the big one: If Martha was in the danger she obviously was in—and she had to know because she left Eve with Emily Truman—why hadn’t she contacted her family who had money and connections all over the country?

  No matter what Martha had done to the family, and while Eleanor would never forgive her, she would have done anything to help. Because to Eleanor Revere, family was the single most important thing.

  Maybe Eleanor had something in common with Beth Henderson after all.

  Molly ran in with another girl. “Pig is ready! Dad says bring the food out so Grandpop can say a blessing.”

  “Well, get started carrying the bowls and whatnot. Max,” Beth said, “grab that salad bowl, will you?” Beth stuffed three bottles of dressing into her apron pocket and picked up the casserole with an oven mitt, while Molly and her friend carried out potatoes and rolls. It took them only two trips because the second time through, three other people came to help.

  Max stepped outside and stood in the back. Thirty people were gathered around the the large back deck. The pig smelled delicious—she had never had a roast pig like this before.

  Garrett Henderson said a quick blessing, thanking God for the food raised and grown by the good people of Northampton County, and cooked by his daughter-in-law Beth and son Gary. “The greatest blessing I have received in life is my family, and I hope to never take you all for granted. And to Wyatt, my youngest grandson, who is nineteen today, happy birthday. Now, let’s eat.”

  Ryan came up to Max and whispered in her ear, “I’m glad we came. Don’t look so uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not.” Did she really look that awkward? “I like it out here.”

  “You stand like you’re on the outside looking in, Max. They love you here.”

  “I like them. A lot.”

  Ryan tensed next to her, and she looked over to where he was staring. Gabriel Truman was standing off to the side, talking to two other men, and apparently both he and Ryan had seen each other at the same time.

  “He’d better not cause a scene,” Ryan said.

  “He won’t,” Max said, though she wasn’t a hundred percent confident.

  She looked around and saw Eve standing in the food line with Jason from her sailing club. Eve was looking right at her, frozen, until Jason nudged her and she almost tripped.

  “She knows,” Max said to Ryan.

  “Who?”

  “Eve Truman. That she’s my sister.”

  “Sister?”

  “I would have told you—it just didn’t come up.” Maybe she hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all, not until she had all the answers. But now that Ryan knew, she didn’t intend to keep it from him.

  “Gabriel Truman and your mother?”

  “I don’t honestly know. I think Jimmy’s her father, but she doesn’t know—she believes it’s Gabriel. I’m certainly not going to tell her different—Gabriel has to do that. But either she found out that I’m her sister—maybe through my name alone—or he told her. I just wasn’t certain he would do it.”

  “You have a lot of explaining to do,” Ryan said.

  “I will later. Let’s get some food, then I want to talk to Eve.”

  She had almost lost her appetite in anticipation.

  * * *

  An hour later, Max found Eve sitting on the front porch swing while most everyone else was still around back. Max asked, “May I sit here?”

  Eve nodded. She looked confused, like she didn’t know what to say.

  “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Max said. She was nervous, and she rarely felt so out of sorts, so this sixteen-year-old had to be anxious as well.

  “I’m not,” Eve said quickly.

  “Is Eve short for Genevieve?” Max asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Our great-grandmother was Genevieve Sterling. She lived a long life, died when I was twenty-one. Really amazing woman. My middle name is Genevieve. It’s a mouthful, but I’m proud of it.”

  She was rambling.

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Max said.

  “I … I don’t know. My dad—he said it was okay that we talk, but I know he’s not really okay with it. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes. M
y arrival threw him for a loop. I didn’t know what to expect when I came here, but I didn’t expect to find a sister. I’m very happy I did.”

  “Dad said you think your mother—our mother—disappeared in Oyster Bay.”

  “I do. I’m generally a blunt person, but this experience—learning that I have a sister—makes me question some of my natural inclinations.”

  Eve squinched up her nose in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “I want to be honest—I’m not someone who talks around things. But I guess I’m walking on eggshells here, and that puts me out of my element.” That was an understatement.

  Eve glanced at her, then looked away, biting her lip. “I just want to know what’s going on. Who my mother was, why she left—I guess she’s never coming back?” Doubt and hope all in one baleful tone.

  “No, she’s not. I believe she’s dead. I’m sorry you have to hear that, but better you know it now than to harbor false hope.”

  “It’s sort of easier, I guess—knowing she died, that she didn’t just leave me because she didn’t want me.”

  Max’s heart twisted. She knew exactly what Eve meant, and it hit her—harder than she expected. Martha had left Max because she didn’t want her. And while Max was now thirty-two, and far more self-aware than most people, she would never forget her ten-year-old self, anticipating her mother’s return, only to be disappointed every day. Then, every postcard that arrived gave her new hope, only to be destroyed when her mother never called or returned.

  It was difficult to reconcile her feelings then with her feelings now. She was better off being raised by her grandparents. She knew that, both in her mind and her heart, but the child she’d been was still inside—deeply buried—remembering being abandoned not just at her grandparents, but unwanted long before. The times Martha left her with strangers who didn’t want her just so she could go on a “vacation.” The times Martha left her alone “just for a little while” that turned into days. When Max begged her mother to take her to Disney World, only to be left at the park for the entire day alone because her mother didn’t want to go. Watching families and friends enjoy the amusement part together, creating memories.