by Linda Ladd
Even though he knew better and fought the tingling sensation, it still seemed as if his wife had unexpectedly walked back into his life, alive again and so close to him that a few steps would allow him to reach out and touch her. His hand almost twitched with the need to touch the softness of her cheek. The whole encounter was surreal and startling and awful, and he hated it. And he hated Mariah for renewing the pain of the loss that he kept buried so deep inside his heart.
Mariah waited a moment and then took a tentative step in his direction. She stopped, probably because of the look on his face. She remained where she stood. “Hey, look now, Will, I’m really sorry, I mean it. I am. I can see how I shocked you. I didn’t mean to, I swear to God, I didn’t. I just didn’t think how you would react to seeing me again, I guess.” She glanced away from him for a moment, looking past him at the ancient rose garden, as if trying to formulate what she should say next.
“I would’ve called first, seriously. I swear I would’ve, but I don’t have your number anymore. I couldn’t find it anywhere. Nobody seems to know how to get hold of you. Nobody knows where you live, either. It’s a good thing I remembered how to get down here. It took some trial and error, but I found you.”
Nobody from his past had his number, true. He used burner phones, and changed his number often, and rarely gave it out. She’d thrown Novak off his game a bit, something that didn’t much happen anymore. He was trained to be ready for anything; any attack, any threat, and he was always prepared. But this intrusion was a whole different ballgame. All he wanted now was for Mariah Murray to get back into her rented Taurus and get the hell out of his sight. Anger was controlling him now. He didn’t try to conquer it. His voice came out harsh.
“Why the hell are you here, Mariah?”
Mariah’s focus moved down to the weapon he still held beside his thigh.
“What’s going on, Will? You expecting trouble? You going to shoot me down right here and now? That’s what you’ve always wanted to do, right? I guess now is your chance. Here I am, all alone and unarmed. Go ahead. Do it.” She laughed a little after her challenge, but she sounded self-conscious and phony and wary of his dark mood and what it meant.
Maybe he should. Maybe she deserved it. He sure as hell wanted to lift the gun and pull the trigger.
Mariah’s lush Australian accent was alive and well, just like his wife’s had been. His own had faded long ago, become Americanized with a bit of Louisiana Cajun mixed in. Novak just stared at her without speaking. He steeled himself against the utter disgust he felt and pushed the .45 back into his waistband. He put his fists on his hips. “Okay, you’re here. What the hell do you want?”
“Looks to me like you were expecting somebody else,” she said. “Somebody you don’t like so much.”
Novak said nothing.
“Still as chatty as ever, I see.”
Their families had been neighbors down in Sydney and lived in the same exclusive neighborhood when they were kids, in Balmoral, a town located on the Balmoral Slopes, with all its beautiful views and sandy beaches. Mariah and Sarah had always teased him about his reticence and quiet demeanor. Novak didn’t want to think about those long-ago days. He just stared at the woman. He wanted her gone.
“Well, may I come in, or not? It took me a long time to drive down here from New Orleans. I almost never found this place. You’re quite the bushie now, aren’t you? Back of beyond, for God’s sake. And just as antisocial as you’ve always been.”
“What the hell do you want, Mariah?”
“Don’t be so pissy, Will. You’ve got to let bygones be bygones. I can’t believe you’re still holding on to that stupid grudge. I came a long way to see you. All the way from Sydney.”
Novak kept examining her face as she groused about him, her voice slowly but surely metamorphosing into that same old beseeching, coy, stupid baby talk that she had always used to charm men. One designed to disarm her male prey du jour. She wanted something from him. She had always wanted something, either from Sarah or from him or from anyone else she could control and manipulate and make miserable. Maybe she had changed in the years gone by since he’d last seen her. Maybe she’d grown up and found her heart somewhere deep down inside that black soul of hers. Novak doubted it. Mariah Murray had always been full of blind ambition and jealousy and vanity and conceit. She had thought of no one but herself since the day she was born. She’d proved that both to him and to her sister, over and over and over again.
“I take it by that utterly disgusted look on your face that you still hate my guts. That’s it, isn’t it, Will? You haven’t forgiven me, not even after all these years?”
“One last time, Mariah. What in the hell do you want with me?”
Mariah sighed, making sure that it sounded heavy and resigned and put upon, and then she stared past him again, out at the rose garden, the one on the west side of the mansion, where a ring of ancient mimosa trees sheltered the ornate white iron benches and tinted the ground pink with fallen fuzzy blossoms that he never raked away. “So you do still hate me. After all this time? My God, Will. Really? You are undoubtedly the most unforgiving man I’ve ever met.”
“That’s right. I do hate you. So what? Tell me what you want and then get out.”
“I need to talk to you. It’s important. I promise.” Mariah frowned when he just kept staring at her. He didn’t trust her, not for one tiny little second. “Well, may I come in? It’s hot as the devil out here. And I’m so thirsty I can barely stand it. God, how can you stand this horrible humidity? At this time of year? Sweat’s just dripping off me. You live in a bloody swamp, for God’s sake. And I’m surely going to die if I don’t get something to drink. Got some bottled water, maybe? Better yet, a spot of cold grog? Hell, Will, I’ll pay you for it.”
Annoyed, and growing more so with every single word that came out of her mouth, Novak walked past her, opened the tall front door with its ancient fanlight made by Tiffany himself, and stepped back out of her way. Mariah swept past him into the spacious grand foyer, wafting the lingering scent of her expensive perfume. Red Door. She had always worn that. He hated that, too. It brought back memories he didn’t want to think about.
Inside the old mansion, the rooms smelled as musty and closed up as they always did. The house was still furnished, almost in exactly the same way as it had been two centuries ago. All the original furnishings were still in the family, still in the same spots in the same rooms, still in good shape, all passed down for generations of St. Pierres until it had all stopped with him. Once upon a time, Novak had tried to modernize the mansion some, right after he’d first brought Sarah to America when they’d been young and newly married and happy. Those were the days when he’d commuted up to Tulane for his master’s degree in Criminal Law, but they hadn’t stayed long enough on the bayou to make any difference. And he’d pretty much kept it shuttered and locked up tight until he got out of the military and had come back home.
Mariah Murray strolled over to the wide pink marble staircase and placed her hand on a carved newel post. She glanced down the wide hall that stretched all the way back to the rear gallery. She looked up at one of the giant crystal chandeliers, its prisms dull from years of dust and neglect, and then at the twin gilded mirrors that stood floor to ceiling and reflected a double image of her, and then at the Empire blue velvet chairs, all priceless antiques that Novak could not care less about.
“Still living in your own private museum, eh, Will? Well, I must say, not much has changed in all these years. Looks pretty much the same as it did last time I was here.”
“I don’t have time for a trip down memory lane, Mariah. Got that? Just say whatever you came here to say and then clear out.”
“I need your help.”
Novak placed his attention back on her. Mariah was waxing serious now, or was pretending to. Probably that. Her big green eyes were expressive, imploring him to listen to her tale of woe and then bow to her wishes. “Will, please, please. Just hear me
out? I know I made some terrible mistakes the last time I came down here. I was awful. I know that. And I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry about it, Will. But I’m different now. I swear I am. I’m not that kind of woman anymore. I’m ashamed of the things I’ve done. Of the things I did to you and Sarah. I’ve changed, though, I really have.”
Yeah, right, Novak thought. Not a chance in hell she’d ever change. Even Sarah had come to believe that Mariah was irredeemable. He said nothing. Waited.
Mariah shook her head, and then she grimaced and muttered a low oath under her breath, which was more her speed. “Well, I miss her, too, you know. We were sisters, after all. Just a year apart. And the kids, too, those poor innocent little babies. I miss Kelly and Katie, too.”
Novak’s whole body went rigid, his muscles tensing up when she mentioned his children. He did not want to talk about them. He never talked about them, not about Sarah, not about any of them, not with anybody. Not ever.
Mariah had wandered away from him, looking at things along the grand foyer, admiring the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century paintings adorning the walls and the dusty French first editions in the mirrored antique bookcases designed in the amazingly ornate, hand-carved rococo style. “We missed you at their memorial service in Sydney,” she mentioned, trying to act casual. “Your dad was there. Did you know that?”
Novak had been in no shape to go anywhere in the aftermath of 9/11. He never talked about that day, and he wasn’t going to talk about it now. He fought down rising heart-wrenching emotions and spoke calmly. “Tell me what you want. And then I want you to get out of my house and never come back.”
She sighed some more, frustrated with him. “Same old prickly Will, huh? Good grief. But hey, how about getting me that drink? Like I said, I drove a long way down here, just to see you. And you’re treating me like a stranger.”
Novak left her where she stood and walked down to the far end of the grand foyer and entered the kitchen through a mahogany swinging door. Unfortunately, she followed along, right behind him.
Chapter Three
The kitchen was the only room in the mansion that Novak had completely remodeled, other than several bathrooms. He walked across the big room and opened an oversized side-by-side Samsung stainless fridge, got out two Dixie beers, twisted off the caps, and handed one to Mariah. She took it and sat down on a high stool at the wide black granite bar and crossed her long, bare legs. Novak remained standing on the other side, away from her, where he didn’t have to smell her perfume. He waited, not looking at her.
“You’re not making this easy.”
“Making what easy?”
“You are a bitter, bitter man, Will Novak. You know that?” She smiled a little, looked almost as if she were thinking about flirting with him, wheedling him into doing whatever it was that she wanted. That was her usual MO. That’ll be the day, Will thought. Not a chance in hell that would ever work on him.
Novak took a swig of the beer but he was growing more and more agitated. She had practically wrecked his marriage with Sarah, on purpose and for her own selfish reasons. He had not forgiven her for that and he never would. He had never been the forgiving type, especially after what she had done. He had written her off as a sworn enemy a long time ago.
“Why don’t we just forgive and forget all our past mistakes? How about that? It’s been years and years. Good God, how long has it been? I can’t even think how long. Sarah would’ve wanted us to be friends, to keep in touch, you know, all that kind of thing. We’re still family, Will.”
“We are not family. Why are you here? How many times do I have to ask you? Just get to it. Tell me. I don’t have time for this. I don’t want you in this house. And quit talking about Sarah. I don’t want to talk about her.”
“I need your help.”
Novak had had it. “You already said that. I’m fast losing patience, Mariah. Spit it out. I’m not playing your silly games this time. I stopped believing anything you said a long time ago.”
“Please, Will. This really is important. I swear it is. Just sit down and hear me out. Just for a few minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Another minute or two. Then I’m gone.”
“Okay, go ahead. Talk. Make it quick. I’m busy.”
“Are you a private eye now? That’s what I heard.”
“Why do you wanna know?”
“Because I want to hire you. I can pay you. Whatever you say. I make a lot of money now. Lots of it.”
“Doing what?” Novak hated to think. There were only a few things she’d be good at and not one of them was anything he could mention in polite company.
“I’m an investigative reporter now. In Melbourne. The Melbourne Herald Sun. You remember that newspaper, don’t you?”
Will said nothing.
“I do very well. I can pay you. Anything you want. I mean it. Just name your price. I’ll be glad to pay it. In advance, if you want. Today. Right now.”
“I don’t need money.”
Mariah started nodding her head, smiling again. “You inherited millions from your mother, didn’t you, all those years ago when you were just a baby? What’d you do with all that money, anyway?” Mariah hesitated when he just stared at her, and then she sighed again. “I think an innocent woman has been kidnapped, but I can’t prove it.”
Novak stopped the beer bottle halfway to his mouth. Then he went ahead and took a drink. “Yeah?”
“You remember that little girl who lived on our street when we were kids? Not so close to your parents’ house, I guess, but right next to us? The Beckenridge family? Her name was Emma. Little bitty thing, and really smart and quiet. Wavy blond hair, real long, so long that it reached down past her waist? Remember her?”
Novak didn’t recall that name or any girl with long blond hair that reached down anywhere. He shrugged. The only thing he wanted right now was to see Mariah walking out the front door and driving away from him for good.
“She’s younger than you are. What was it? Maybe two years younger. Maybe three or four, even. I don’t remember all that. Just a real pretty little kid. Very talented at drawing and painting, startlingly keen at it, in fact, even way back then. I remember she won some art awards in primary school. We used to draw pictures with colored chalk out on her sidewalk. I remember that the most about her, her artistic ability. By the time we were in secondary school, she was really good.”
“So? What’s this got to do with me?”
“She just disappeared. They lived out on this rather exclusive beach, one up north of Sydney. Happened about two years ago. She and her husband and her little son. The whole family. The little boy’s name was Ryan. Just five years old. The authorities finally ruled that they must have gotten caught in a riptide while swimming. The rips are supposed to be treacherous out around there, and they think that Emma and her husband might have tried to save the little boy from drowning but were swept out too far and couldn’t make it back to shore. They were last seen on the beach that day, by their housekeeper before she left for the day. Nobody knows what happened, not for sure.”
She stopped and waited for him to say something. He didn’t, so she continued.
“The whole thing was a huge story in the Australian news media for months and months. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it. They searched everywhere for them, and hundreds of volunteers came out on foot and horseback to search along the coast near where they lived. Everything humanly possible was done to find them. I joined in, too.”
“So what are you saying? You don’t think the family drowned?”
“No. Take a look at this.”
Mariah bent down and picked up the large black leather shoulder bag she had carried inside, about the size of an airplane carry-on. She opened the top zipper, dug around inside, and pulled out a small plastic bag. She tossed it across the counter to him. “A couple of weeks ago I got this in the mail, addressed to me at the newspaper. I’m pretty sure that Emma sent it.”
Novak picked up the plastic ba
g, pulled open the top, and examined the contents. “A matchbook? What makes you think she sent this?”
“Take it out. Look inside the back cover.”
Shaking the maroon matchbook out onto the counter, Novak picked it up and read the logo on the front cover, printed inside a stylized yellow neon triangle. “The Triangle Club. Sikeston, Georgia. Where’s that?”
“I didn’t have the foggiest, either, not until I Googled it. It’s somewhere southeast of a city named Chattanooga, Tennessee. Up in the hills or foothills or mountains or whatever they have up there. But that town named Sikeston is in Georgia, northeast of Atlanta, I think, as in the Gone with the Wind Atlanta, right? Do you know where Sikeston is?”
“Sounds like it’s out in the middle of nowhere. Why do you think she’s the one who sent it?”
“Open it and see what’s written behind the matches.”
The matchbook was full. He pulled two rows of red-tipped matches forward and found five words inked behind them, written in a tiny but beautiful cursive, done with a backhand slant. It said: Cinder, please help me. Goldie.
Novak looked up at Mariah. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s what we called each other when we were little. We had a backyard treehouse. Those were the passwords we made up. That’s how I know those matches came from her. She always did have the most beautiful handwriting, the artist in her, I guess. Slanted back like that. She wrote me letters all the time when I first went to Tokyo in that same exact handwriting.”