Mystery Heiress

by Suzanne Carey

  Floating as he was on a sea of Scotch, with his critical faculties dulled, Jake regarded Brandon’s willingness to sell as the answer to his prayers. By his lights, he’d taken charge of the situation, in the process completing an end run around his brother.

  “I’m on my way,” he said. “See you when I get there.”

  Severing the connection, he phoned his favorite airline and reserved a first-class ticket for that evening with his credit card. It was too late to wake his chauffeur, whom he’d dismissed hours earlier, in any event. He decided to drive himself to the airport. Snatching up a sport coat and removing the checkbook for his reserve account from the library safe, he headed for his Porsche. You caught Nate with his pants down, he congratulated himself, roaring out of the garage and down the winding drive to the estate’s electronic gate. No matter whose dad he was, ol’ Ben Fortune would have been proud of you.

  The way he bobbed and weaved through traffic on his way to the airport, it was nothing short of a miracle that he wasn’t picked up for driving while intoxicated. Managing to pay for his ticket and find his gate, despite a few stumbles, he consumed more Scotch in first class, then snored for most of the journey, blissfully unaware that Brandon had phoned the authorities to report that he was in the process of jumping bail.

  By the time the pilot turned on the seat-belt sign preparatory to landing at Los Angeles International Airport, he’d slept off some of the alcohol and begun to worry about flouting the terms of his bail. If he was caught in the act, he’d find himself behind bars until after his trial. His stomach going sour and his nerves tied up in knots, he realized he’d done a very foolish thing. However, he’d come too far to retreat. I’ll buy the shares from the Malone brat as quickly as I can, he decided, and purchase another ticket home on the red-eye, under an assumed name.

  He was more than a little nervous as the plane taxied to the gate. Yet at first, as he filed off the Boeing 757 behind a family with several young children, he thought he’d gotten away with his transgression. It was only after he cleared the gate and strolled into the broad concourse that connected it with the rest of the airport that his heart sank as someone clamped a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “Jacob Fortune,” a low voice said in his ear, “you’re under arrest for violating the terms of your bail. You have the right to remain silent…”

  Vastly sobered as his fellow passengers and hundreds of other travelers who were passing through the busy airport gaped at him, Jake soon found himself on his way back to Minneapolis, handcuffed to a Los Angeles Police Department detective in compliance with an L.A. circuit judge’s order.

  Nine

  As expected, Jake’s bail was formally revoked the next morning by the judge who had granted it and would preside over his trial a few months hence. In addition to that crushing blow, he got a stern, embarrassing lecture, which was duly recorded for public consumption by a phalanx of TV and print reporters.

  “Apparently you need reminding…all citizens of this great country are equal under the law, whether they come up the hard way or enjoy a privileged position in society, like yourself,” the judge rebuked him. “When terms of bail are granted to anyone, rich or poor, socially prominent or otherwise, they’re meant to be obeyed, not mocked. Since you chose to do the latter, you’ll await trial in the county jail, no matter how long it takes. Don’t think for a moment that this court can be prevailed upon to relent by further requests for lenience.”

  Thoroughly chastened and humiliated, Jake was at his lowest ebb as he was led back to his cell. Both Sterling and his celebrated defense attorney were furious with him. Plus, he’d ticked off the judge, who would make innumerable rulings during the course of his trial and the pretrial motions. As for Brandon Malone, he was probably laughing himself senseless. The little twerp set a trap for me, and I walked right into it, Jake acknowledged in despair as the door to his cell clanged shut, isolating him from his family, the company he was convinced his brother was trying to wrest from his control and the rest of the noncriminal world.

  Yes, Brandon Malone had made a spectacular fool of him. A moment later, on sober and painful reflection, he realized he’d practically invited Monica’s son to snooker him. The richly deserved dressing-down he’d received from the judge, Aaron Silberman and especially Sterling, when the family lawyer learned of his transgression, rang in his ears like a litany of accusations.

  When she heard about the shambles Jake had made of things, Erica was almost unbelieving. Can this be the man I married, the father of my children? she wondered. Or has some impostor taken his place? The Jake I knew was far too savvy ever to torpedo himself this way. Yet even as these thoughts ran through her head, she remembered how, during their lunch at the little burger joint near the college, he’d degenerated from a semblance of his old self to the unhappy, self-involved man who’d pulled down their marriage as if it were a house of cards and set about destroying himself.

  It would be so easy to blame what had happened on his misuse of alcohol. His problems with the company. Or Monica Malone’s unprovoked attack on his parentage. Yet she realized those were essentially surface things—in the case of his drinking, just a symptom. In some deeply fundamental place within himself, she sensed, he felt an agonizing lack. Whatever its reason for being was, it had prompted him to become dissatisfied with the way his life had turned out, and the man that, now that he’d reached his fifties, he’d become.

  He wouldn’t want to see her, she guessed—not from the depths of his humiliation and probable anger at himself. Yet something in her wouldn’t rest until she’d renewed her contact with him. About to dress for an unannounced visit in her usual expensive tailored separates, she recalled a news clip she’d seen of Jake in his jailhouse uniform and realized how sharply that kind of attire would delineate the gulf that separated them.

  Her silvery-blond hair caught back in a ponytail and her face innocent of all but the most rudimentary makeup, she was sporting a gray cotton-knit sweatshirt, matching sweatpants and the sneakers she used to work in the yard when she arrived at the jail and joined the ragtag band of friends, relatives and lovers who were lining up to see the current crop of prisoners during visiting hours.

  As she waited for a bailiff to bring Jake to the one of the visitors’ windows, she thought her effort might come to naught. Yet, when she reached the head of the line, he shuffled out to meet her as requested, unshaven and wearing his most hangdog expression.

  “Erica…I wish you wouldn’t have come,” he protested, sorrowfully meeting her gaze. “This is no place for you.”

  “We’re still family, Jake,” she answered. “We have children together. The truth is…” About to say she still loved him, she held her tongue. He wouldn’t want to carry the added burden of her emotions. “I was wondering if there was anything I could do,” she finished lamely. “You know…any business stuff I could pick up and deliver to you. Or errands I could run on your behalf.”

  He shook his head. Despite Nate’s attempts to unseat him, the company would have to wait. “Just tell the kids to have faith in me, okay?” he asked. “That I’m innocent. And that I’ve given up alcohol for good. I swear to God I won’t embarrass them this way again.”

  It was the usual refrain, calculated to shut her out. As dearly as she loved their children, Erica felt a moment’s jealousy. Jake no longer gave a damn about her. To him, she was just a footnote.

  It was all she could do to manage a few more minutes’ banal conversation with him, and assure him that she’d do as he asked. Bidding him a pensive goodbye, she drove home and changed into one of her more typical outfits—a cranberry suede blazer and matching cashmere pullover, with a coordinating Donegal tweed skirt that ended several inches above her slender knees—to attend her humanities class. Deeply immersed in thoughts about Jake and what the future might hold for him, she was strolling toward the library afterward with some books she needed to return when one of the faculty members, a bearded history instructor who’
d flirted with her since the beginning of the semester, fell into step with her.

  “Doing anything special this evening?” he asked.

  Usually adept at handling approaches from men, which she’d routinely fended off throughout her marriage, even during early pregnancy, Erica blinked in surprise.

  True to form, she recovered quickly. “I thought I might start studying for my French exam,” she answered with a smile.

  The history instructor smiled, too. “There’s a wonderful new singer on tap at the Dakota Bar and Grill in St. Paul,” he said. “From the Cape Verde Islands. She sings in Portuguese. Any chance you’d like to go?”

  Her ego stroked by the man’s interest, which helped to assuage Jake’s seeming lack of that quality when she’d visited him, Erica pondered the invitation for several seconds. But she never seriously considered it. There’s such a thing as loyalty, she told herself, choosing to distance herself from her feelings by describing them in those terms. Jake’s at his lowest ebb. Despite the fact that our marriage is on the rocks, if I dated someone else, I couldn’t live with myself.

  “Sorry, I can’t…for personal reasons that have nothing to do with you,” she answered. “But thanks for asking.”

  He didn’t appear to be miffed. “No problem,” he answered with a grin. “Maybe some other time.”

  As he said goodbye and headed for the parking lot, his friendliness and obvious admiration warmed Erica’s heart. They gave her hope that, when Jake’s troubles were resolved and he’d come to terms with himself, he’d find her desirable again. With characteristic stubbornness, she refused to think about the fact that her hopes might come to nothing if he was convicted of Monica’s murder.

  Distraught over the latest crisis to erupt in Jake’s life, Lindsay stopped by the guest cottage on the Fortune estate on Saturday morning so that Chelsea and Annie could play together and she could have a cup of tea with Jess. Already fast friends, the two youngsters quickly settled down to play with the dollhouse Stephen had given Annie as a homecoming present. Though she smiled briefly at the beginning of what would likely prove a fast friendship, despite the three-year difference in their ages, Lindsay’s usually smooth forehead was creased with a distracted frown as she took a seat at the kitchen table.

  “I was so sorry to hear about what happened with your brother,” Jess said sympathetically with a shake of her head as she set the Earl Grey to steep in a blue-and-white china pot and popped a pair of crumpets into the toaster.

  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Lindsay agreed. “You’d think he was in enough hot water, without jumping bail by running off to California on the spur of the moment! I can hardly believe he’s the same big brother I used to look up to as a kind of surrogate parent when I was Chelsea’s age. It’s hard to imagine what he was thinking about.”

  In part because of his troubles, Jake was one of the few adult Fortunes who hadn’t been tested for compatibility with Annie’s bone marrow. Given his current situation, Jess imagined, it would be better not to point that out. Yet she ached to leave no stone unturned in finding help for her precious daughter.

  Half afraid to ask, out of fear that the news wouldn’t be good, she broached the subject after a few minutes’ conversation about the effect of Jake’s troubles on the Fortune family in general as she poured out the tea and placed the buttered crumpets on the table.

  “I hate to sound like a one-issue person, but I was wondering if you’d heard anything more about Kyle’s and Jane’s blood tests,” she murmured as Lindsay took a sip of the steaming beverage.

  If possible, the brown-haired pediatrician’s face took on a look of even greater distress. “Jess, I’m so sorry…. I should have told you the moment I walked in the door,” she said. “Neither Kyle nor Jane have more than two matching antigens. As you know, that’s not enough. Nate had one. Michael zero.”

  Jess’s heart sank. What would become of Annie?

  “I spoke to Kristina last night, and she’s going to be tested,” Lindsay added, reaching across the tabletop to clasp her hand. “However, the odds being what they are, I think it’s time we bite the bullet and have the children tested…”

  Jess had been hoping with all her might that Lindsay would consider taking that step. Yet, as a mother herself, she could guess how little her friend enjoyed the prospect of Chelsea or Carter undergoing a donor procedure.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Lin,” she said. “Naturally, I realize it’s a tough decision for you. I’m sure if our positions were reversed, and Chelsea were in Annie’s spot, I’d have qualms about Annie doing it.”

  Given Jess’s well-founded worries over her sick child, Lindsay could appreciate the generosity of her statement. “You’re right…I’m a little concerned about the pain that would be involved, though it’s usually minimal,” she agreed. “Not to mention the possibility that it might be frightening. Still, Frank and I want them to grow up as responsible members of their family and their community. Given the kind of people we hope they’ll turn out to be someday, I know they’d never forgive me for failing to let them help if they were to grow up and learn that they could have made a difference.”

  A warm silence enveloped the two women as they gazed at each other like sisters. “You know I’d never let Annie die if I could do something to prevent it,” Lindsay added. “Fortunately, Chelsea and Carter aren’t our only possibilities. In addition to Kristina, there’s also Jane’s son, Cody, who’s eight, and Kyle’s daughter Caitlyn, who’s ten. I suppose we could have Jake’s grandchildren tested, as well, despite what appears to be a strong possibility that they’re not your grandfather’s true descendants.”

  Jess nodded. Using information she’d picked up in bits and pieces from comments dropped by family members, she’d made a list of potential candidates herself. The only one Lindsay had failed to mention, aside from Jake himself, was Michael’s new baby, who was too young to donate, in any event.

  “Annie’s illness aside, having you for a cousin and confidante has filled a deep need for me,” she confided, her eyes glittering with unshed tears as the jumble of emotions she usually kept under wraps welled up in her throat. “Coming from a big family with lots of interaction, as you do, you can’t have any idea of how it’s been for us. We have so few relatives on my grandmother’s side, and when I learned the Simpsons weren’t even kin, I felt as if we were alone in the world. Being accepted and helped by you and the rest of the Fortunes has been so wonderful….”

  By now, Lindsay fully trusted that Jess didn’t have ulterior motives where she and her family were concerned. Still, there was something she’d been wondering about. “I know you told me your late husband’s family members were tested on Annie’s behalf and couldn’t supply the bone marrow she needs,” she said. “But what about moral support? Surely they didn’t just abandon you after his death.”

  The look in Jess’s eyes told her she’d hit a nerve.

  “Actually, Annie’s father and I were in the process of getting a divorce when he was killed in a car crash with his secretary,” Jess confessed. “He’d been having an affair with her, you see. It wasn’t his first. The unfortunate girl was just the latest in a string of paramours that stretched back almost to our wedding day. His relatives didn’t have a clue about his behavior, of course. When it came out in the inquest, they refused to give it any credence—blamed me, actually, for making it all up and besmirching his memory.”

  The much-loved wife of an adoring husband who’d never given her the slightest reason to doubt his fidelity, Lindsay was appalled. Nothing in her experience—not even her grief over the deaths of her parents—could compare with the anguish of being treated that way. “How awful, Jess!” she exclaimed, reaching across the table to clasp her friend’s hand. “First a string of tragedies like that. And then Annie’s illness. You’ve had so much to deal with!”

  The sympathy and support of a relative and friend who truly cared eased a little more of Jess’s pain. Her growing
bond with Stephen had begun to do the same thing. Yet at times the uncertainty it generated outweighed the happiness.

  As she sat there at the kitchen the table with Lindsay, she realized there were countless bridges to cross between that cool but sunny September morning and the hoped-for moment when Annie would be free of disease and ready to return to England or begin a new life in the United States. When the time came to decide on a future home, would she want to stay, or go? How would Annie feel? Were they putting down roots that would cause a painful wrench if they were pulled from the soil of a new extended family and a new country?

  More importantly, would the man Jess had begun to love and trust, after doubting she’d ever experience those emotions again, turn out to be a steady beacon in their lives? Or would he abandon them? Having experienced her share of sorrow and disillusionment, she sensed that those emotions had marred his past, as well—stemming from some trauma or other that went deeper than the heartache of divorce and might make it difficult for him to commit to her. Though she hated to speculate along those lines, she couldn’t help wondering if he felt safe in their relationship because it had a built-in cutoff date.

  Only time would answer her question. Meanwhile, they were effectively prevented from making love by Annie’s presence. The tension stemming from their abstinence was beginning to mount.

  Annie and Chelsea chose that moment to troop into the kitchen, dollhouse residents in hand, and demand a snack. Obliging them with mugs of milk, bananas and homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies, Jess settled them at the table, while Lindsay refilled their teacups.

  “Annie’s temperature seems normal this morning,” Lindsay noted, casually checking her young patient’s forehead with the back of her wrist in a gesture more prevalent among mothers than among pediatricians. “No coughs or sniffles, I trust?”