Cassidy could barely breathe. It was one thing to have her private fears, another to have them voiced. “You’re saying that you think Baldwin is Brig?”
“He wasn’t Brig. I was there,” Chase cut in.
T. John rubbed his chin. “I’m saying nothin’s for sure. Not yet. See, Marshall Baldwin doesn’t have any family, none that either we or the boys up in Alaska can find. He claims he’s from California and we’re checking birth certificates and such, from somewhere around L.A. All government records show that he was never married, no brothers and sisters, parents dead. Not even an uncle or a third cousin is crawling out of the woodwork and you’d think that someone would want to lay claim to his money. I told you he had himself a pile, didn’t I?”
“You mentioned it, yes,” Cassidy said, knowing that the detective was sharp enough to remember everything he’d said.
“Yep. Showed up in Alaska, near as anyone can tell, as early as 1977. Not a dime to his name. He got himself a job working on the trans-Alaska pipeline, maintenance. I think it was already built—finished the year before. Worked for three or four years before he bought out a guy who owned a sawmill and worked round the clock to get that mill on its feet—kind of like you,” he said to Chase. “The man had no social life, just sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. It worked, too; pretty soon he bought himself another mill and another. Invested in a fishery or two, a mining operation and even some kind of farm…” He screwed up his face, then snapped his fingers as if the thought finally struck him. “Potato farm, I think it was. Don’t that beat all?”
“Don’t it just?” Chase mocked.
“Anyway, most of the time Baldwin kept a low profile, but he was suspected of being an anonymous donor to quite a few charities up there—especially saving the wilderness, that kind of crap.”
Chase let out a sound of disgust. “I know you don’t remember him, but Brig…well, he was never what you’d call a philanthropist.”
“He was just a kid when he took off.”
“Well, he used to laugh at Cassidy’s father, claiming old man Buchanan was always trying to save the world by donating to good causes just to ease his guilty conscience.”
“No—” Cassidy said.
Chase ignored her. “Brig also had no ambition. And he was always in trouble with the law. I think you can find records that prove it.”
“Not our friend Baldwin,” T. John said, placing his hands on his knees as he straightened. “The man was lily white. Not so much as a speeding ticket according to the authorities in Alaska. Can you believe it? A man lives up there nearly twenty years, makes a shit-load of money and remains practically invisible.”
“But you think he’s Brig.”
“Could be.”
Cassidy felt a trickle of sweat slide down her spine.
“How about dental records?” T. John asked as he walked to the fireplace and leaned against the cool stones. “I can’t find any record of you or your brother going to the dentist.”
“We didn’t. No money and good, strong teeth.”
“Funny, Baldwin didn’t have a dentist up in Anchorage, either. Or Juneau or Ketchikan or anywhere else, near as we can figure. Can’t believe a guy can live over thirty years without a toothache. Ah, well, we’re still lookin’. Too bad his mouth was so busted up. Teeth broken. Kinda like yours.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“We took what we could, his hands were pretty burned. So far, no match.”
Cassidy could barely think straight. “Brig—he was arrested; here in Prosperity, there should be some record.”
“Well, now, that’s interesting, Mrs. Buchanan, because Brig never was printed. Not once. Oh, he was dragged in, talked to a lot, scolded and slapped on the hands, but never once did he have to put his fingertips in ink. Because of your daddy and some fancy lawyer always steppin’ in. Ain’t that convenient?”
“And Baldwin?” she asked.
“No military record. No criminal record. No prints. Like I said, damned convenient. No kin to claim his body or petition for his money, a will that leaves a provision for the employees to buy out the sawmill and fishery if they want, and the rest of his money is to be given to a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving the Alaskan wilderness, an organization that Baldwin helped found. He kept his name and face out of the papers, but spent money, lots of it, on causes he cared about.”
“That’s not my brother.”
Wilson shrugged. “Maybe he was a changed man. Trauma can do that.”
Chase made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.
T. John ignored it. “I thought maybe you might recognize him, so I brought along some snapshots, the few that we’ve got.” He dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a manila envelope. Cassidy’s heart began to knock, as, one by one, the glossy prints fell onto the desk. Were they Brig? She tried to keep her hands from trembling as she picked up one picture and studied it carefully. A bearded, dark-haired man stared back at her, his eyes deep set and brooding, his demeanor one of complete and utter distrust.
“I guess the man looks a little like Brig,” Chase admitted.
“Dead ringer, I’d say.”
“But Baldwin didn’t have a beard.”
“Ain’t that strange? Been wearing one up in Alaska for seventeen years, then shaves it off to meet with you.” T. John smiled and shook his head, then he pulled out another piece of paper, an artist’s sketch. “We had one of our boys draw the guy without a beard and we’re trying to reconstruct his face by computer, then compare it with photos of your brother. Trouble is all we’ve got is a couple of shots from a high school yearbook.”
“You’re serious?” Chase glared at the detective.
“Damned straight.” For the first time Cassidy got a glimpse into T. John’s soul. No cocky grin. No twinkle in his eye. No good-old-boy laughter. Just blind ambition glinted in his eye.
“Why is it so important that Marshall Baldwin be Brig?”
“Well, that’s interesting. Your brother, he takes off after one of the worst fires in the history of Prosperity, then shows up again seventeen years later at a fire just like the other one. Nearly the same incendiary device used. Helluva coincidence. Lots of ’em.” T. John flipped through the pictures and scowled.
“I’d know Brig.” Chase picked up a grainy snapshot of Marshall Baldwin and stared at the black and white image.
“You ever talked to Baldwin before?”
“Just on the phone.”
“How’d he get your name?”
“He was interested in the mill, called and asked for me.”
“Not Rex Buchanan, even though he’s the CEO or whatever fancy name you want to put on president these days.”
“Baldwin had heard at a convention that I run the company; Rex is semiretired and Derrick’s just a figurehead.”
“Even though he’s Rex’s son.” T. John tugged at his lower lip. “So you never once suspected this guy was Brig?”
“He wasn’t.”
“Sure.” T. John scooped up the pictures, straightened and cast a smile in Cassidy’s direction. His eyes silently called them both liars as he popped his gum and started for the door. “Here—you might want one of these. I got more at the office.” He handed Cassidy a picture of Marshall Baldwin, one where he was squinting against the sun as he stood on some rocky cliff. “I know you’re both tired. It’s been a helluva week. If you can tell me anything more about Marshall, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”
Chase struggled to his feet. “And when you hear anything about my mother, I’d like a call.”
Wilson clucked his tongue. “Now that’s odd, don’t you think? Seems as if she up and disappeared into thin air. Thought you might know where she was.”
Chase’s jaw clenched hard. “Find her, Wilson,” he ordered.
“Doin’ my best,” the detective said with a cold smile. “Doin’ my level best.”
Thirty-five
“What
do you know about Baldwin?” Cassidy demanded when Chase hobbled into the kitchen the next morning. He’d refused to talk to her last night, just left her in the den and headed for his bedroom, but she wasn’t going to be put off again. The Times was open, a picture of Marshall Baldwin on the front page next to Bill Laszlo’s column.
“You were there. You heard me.” Chase glanced at the newspaper and scowled. “So the vultures are already circling.”
“Bill’s just doing his job.”
“Right. It’s just a piss-poor way to make a living.”
“The same way I do.”
He ignored that and leaning on one crutch, he poured a cup of coffee and found a straw.
“I heard what you told the detective. Now I want to know the truth.”
“You think I’m lying? God, Cass, give it a rest.”
“Not just me. The detective thinks it, too. Knows it. He may talk like some country boy who just fell off the hay wagon, but he’s sharp, Chase. Sharp, dedicated and relentless. Rumor has it that he wants Floyd Dodds’s job as county sheriff. All he needs is the right kind of publicity—this kind.”
“Well, he’s not getting it from me.” Ignoring his coffee, he tried to pass but she lodged her body firmly in the door. Her chin thrust out, determination stiffening her back, she glared up at him. “Move, Cass,” he ordered.
Trembling inside, she tried to rein in her emotions. Be professional. Take yourself out of this. Keep your distance and study the situation objectively. Without emotion. As if you were on camera reporting a story. Impossible. With Chase, she was always riding the gut-wrenching back of emotion. “Look, Chase, if we’re going to start over, we’ll need to begin by telling the truth.”
“Like you’ve always done with me.”
“I’ve tried—”
“Like hell, Cassidy.” He tried to swing by her, but she wouldn’t budge. His chest was rising and falling, his skin flushed with rage. “Besides, I never said a word about starting over. I think I agreed to cohabit with you as long as you left me alone. I believe I agreed to ‘try again.’ No promises. No strings attached.”
“We can’t do that unless you’re honest.”
“That goes two ways, Cass. You haven’t exactly been straight with me.”
“What do you—”
“I know you’ve been conducting your own little investigation. Calling around, collecting seventeen-year-old information about the fire at the gristmill. About Angie’s death. About Brig’s sudden disappearance. That’s what this all boils down to, isn’t it? Brig.” He spat his brother’s name as if it tasted foul. His nostrils flared in rage. “Don’t try and act so innocent. I know why you’re trying to solve this damned mystery; so that you can have the scoop of the century.”
She felt as if he’d kicked her. “I never—”
“I’ve seen the file, Cassidy. Read your notes on the computer. I’m starting to wonder if you wanted us to ‘work things out’ so that you could spend your days trying to drag information out of me and end up the town hero by solving the crime.”
“You’re crazy. I’m not working on a story. Laszlo’s been assigned to the fire.” She hitched her chin toward the open newspaper.
“And you’d love to show him up, wouldn’t you? This should be your story. It’s about your family. I can see it in your eyes, Cassidy. You’re pissed that Laszlo, just because he’s a man, got this little plum.”
“For the love of God, Chase, you can’t really believe that I’m in this for the glory.” He didn’t respond, just looked down his broken nose at her. Sick inside, she whispered, “You think I wanted you to stay here so I could further my career.”
“Why else?”
“Because…” She stopped just short of saying the dangerous words that wanted to fall from the tip of her tongue. “Because…” I want to fall in love with you screamed through her brain though she wasn’t certain she could ever love him or that he would love her. They’d become so used to wounding each other, to expecting another emotional blow, that they couldn’t trust each other, not even a little.
“By the way, he called.”
“Who?”
“Laszlo. Early. While you were out swimming,” he said and she was surprised that he’d known her whereabouts at six in the morning. “Sounded desperate to talk to me. It was almost as if my wife had egged him into it. I didn’t pick up, just let him blabber into the recorder, but he’s anxious to get some facts for his next column.”
“I told him to stop trying to pump me for information. If he wanted answers from you, he’d have to call you himself.”
“Great.” He didn’t make a move for the door, just stared at her with such an intensity that she could barely breathe, hardly think. Close enough that his breath was warm against her face. “Anything else you want to discuss, or are we going to stand here all day?”
She asked him the question that had been nagging at her ever since the fire—something about his attitude. “What is it you’re afraid of, Chase?”
He hesitated.
“What is it?” The seconds ticked by and she refused to wither under his stare. His chest rose and fell as quickly as hers and she heard the soft rush of air as it escaped his lungs.
“You,” he whispered and she barely heard the single, damning word. “I’m afraid of you, Cassidy.”
“Me? Why?”
“I don’t want to get too close to you again,” he admitted. “It’s just not safe.”
She gazed at him silently, heart thudding.
The muscles tightened in his neck and he looked away. “Damn it, Cass.”
“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” she guessed, aching a little.
A flicker of regret crossed his face. “I won’t have a choice. Now, get out of the way, Cassidy. Don’t make me a prisoner.”
“Chase…”
He pushed past her. “Stop trying to make something out of nothing. I agreed to your charade. To live with you. Stay in the same house. Hell, I even decided I could pretend that we were happy. For your parents. For the police. For the whole damned town, if that’s what you want. But when we’re alone, I expect you to leave me the hell alone.”
Her reflex was instant. She raised her arm, wanting to hit, to scream, to kick her way past the shield he’d put up between them.
He laughed. A dark, sarcastic sound that rippled wickedly through the room as she slowly dropped her hand. “Can’t hit a cripple, Cass?”
“You self-pitying bastard!”
“Now, that’s more like it.”
“I don’t really know what happened to us,” she said, refusing to back down, “but I believe it can be fixed.”
“Marriage isn’t like an old broken-down Pontiac, Cassidy. Both parties have to want it to work.”
“Fight me all you want, Chase McKenzie, but I’m not giving up on us.”
“You did once,” he charged, and she cringed inside. He was right.
“And for that you’ll never forgive me.”
“There are so many things between us we couldn’t start forgiving them all.”
“We could try.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say about hell freezing over.” He plunged his crutches ahead of him and swept past her, moving quickly, but awkwardly, through the house.
Despair stole into her heart, but she refused to give up hope. Damn it, she could be as stubborn as he. And she’d find a chink in his emotional armor if it killed her, though she was afraid that it was guilt, not love, that drove her.
“Tell me about Marshall Baldwin.” Bill Laszlo caught up with Cassidy in the kitchen as she was pouring herself a cup of coffee. She glanced at an early copy of the Times, identical to the one she’d seen on the kitchen table at home. Chase had left the house immediately after their fight, refusing to let her drive him, taking an automatic pickup that he somehow managed to maneuver into town.
“Baldwin died in the fire.”
“I know that much. Hell, I wrote that story,”
he said, motioning to the short article headlined ALASKAN BUSINESSMAN IDENTIFIED. “But who was he, really?”
Cassidy stirred powdered cream substitute into her coffee. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. Hey, watch out, that stuff will kill you. It’s loaded with preservatives and crap like that. Notice the word ‘nondairy.’”
“Thanks for the tip,” she said, dropping her stir stick in the waste can.
“So come on. You must know something about Baldwin.”
“All I know is what I read in the papers, what you wrote. He’s an Alaskan industrialist. He owns some sawmills, a farm—potatoes, I think, a fishery and land. Gives a lot of money away to charitable causes.”
“That’s just his publicist talking.”
“Did he have one?”
Laszlo was undeterred. “What I want to know is the man below the surface. Who was he really? The way I hear it, he has no family; isn’t that a hoot? All that money and not an heir—not even a will?”
“Someone will claim his money.”
“I hope so; I’d like to know more about him.” He reached for a cup on an upper shelf. “What’s Chase say?”
Cassidy was cautious, but it didn’t hurt to tell Bill what she’d learned from Chase. “Just that Baldwin came down here to talk about having some lumber milled here.”
“You believe that? When we’re shipping lumber to Japan? Don’t they have mills in Alaska? Doesn’t he own his own?” Laszlo poured himself some hot water and dunked a bag of herbal tea into his cup.
He was asking the same questions she’d asked herself, but she wasn’t about to tell him about Chase selling out his interest in Buchanan Industries. Not yet.
“Come on, Cassidy. Don’t kid a kidder. I know that before the fire you were ready to walk. Chase is married to the Buchanan fortune, not to you. Now, all of a sudden, everything’s hunky-dory, your marriage is back on track, and you’re trying to protect him.”
Irritation edged her voice. “If you don’t believe me, call Chase.”
“I have,” Bill said. “He’s not particularly chatty.”
“Maybe it’s because his jaw is still wired together.”
“And maybe it’s because he’s got something to hide.”
Final Scream Page 38