Noelle said, “Please don’t worry about that. I’m calling because I’m afraid for her.”
Afraid. “Why?”
“She’s with Markham.”
Of course that would be a surprise to someone who didn’t know the score. “As long as she kisses the ground he walks on, she’s perfectly fine.”
“No one connected to homicide is perfectly fine.”
It took a moment to sink in. “Homicide.”
“Morgan told us about the double murder.”
“What are you talking about?” She shoved her fingers into her hair. “And what do you mean Morgan told you?”
“His investigator—”
“Morgan hired an investigator?” She was starting to sound incredulous.
“He doesn’t take harassment lightly. Anyway, the investigator said the authorities suspect Markham in two deaths, but they couldn’t make a case. That isn’t the same as innocence.”
No, it wasn’t. And she’d had no idea. If she had, would she have dared take him on? She calmed her breath. “What does Hannah want?”
“To find you. So Markham can forgive you.”
She dropped her head to her hand.
“Erin, can you believe that?” Noelle didn’t ask it scornfully.
“Yes. She’s so taken in she’d lie down in front of a train if he told her God asked it.”
“He’s that good?”
“When he turns it on he can play transfigured Moses on the mount. To my sister he’s a desolate, wronged prophet. I think he was trying for slick with Rick, but didn’t get much audience participation.”
Noelle laughed. “No, Rick can be stone. Used to infuriate me. Actually it still does.”
In spite of her rushing heart, Erin laughed with her. None of it was funny, though. Homicide . . . What was Hannah thinking?
“Erin.” Noelle cleared her throat. “She said you took the money.”
Her throat constricted.
“Erin?”
“That’s wrong.” The hand in her lap opened and closed like a sea anemone.
“Hannah’s convinced you have it. She’s on a holy crusade.”
“I’m sorry for her. I really am. I’m sorry for all of them.” She swallowed the hard dry lump. “But at some point . . . people have to see. You know?”
“See?” Noelle’s voice was gentle, but concerned. “Erin . . . does Morgan know everything?”
She closed her eyes. That wasn’t only Noelle, it was God asking. “It’s complicated.”
After a pause, Noelle said, “If there’s anybody you can trust, it’s the man you married.”
“Okay.” She thanked her for calling, then held the disconnected phone against her chest. She did trust Morgan. But if it came to it, she needed an exit plan.
Morgan strode in just before dinner, shedding his workday as Livie ran into his arms. From his crouch, he raised an eyebrow at Erin. “Up on your feet?”
“I better be. Pretty busy around here.”
“Sorry.” He spread his hands. “I didn’t expect it to go so long.”
“We did fine. I’m just realizing I need a checklist or something before you leave, so I know what to do about things like diapers.”
“We’ll set down a plan after dinner. Was everything okay?” By that he meant Livie, but didn’t want to say it aloud.
“We all did great.” The words were right, but something in her tone was off.
“Why don’t we let Consuela feed Livie, and you and I have a drink outside.” The evening—as was the case three hundred days out of the year in Santa Barbara—was clear and temperate. With only minute seasonal shifts, there reigned a sort of timelessness as though residents might live forever and not realize. He knew too well that wasn’t true.
He handed his daughter to Consuela, who had fallen deeply in love already. Then to Erin, “What would you like? Wine. Juice. Tea.”
“I will have a glass of wine, if you’re . . .”
“White or red?”
“White.”
He’d stocked a wine room before his change of life, and much of it remained. He opened a bottle of Chardonnay from the cooler and poured her a glass.
“I never had wine before I left my hometown.”
“Against the rules?”
“Frowned upon for most of us. Others, I guess, had divine dispensation.”
“And some of us divine interference.” He got himself a Sobe from the refrigerator. They went out and sat poolside in outdoor furniture designed for comfort. “What’s on your mind, Erin? Besides a plan for Livie.”
She drew up one knee and anchored that foot behind the other knee. The soft thin pants draped her shapely shin. She took a sip, then said, “My sister’s at Rick’s. She’s trying to help Markham find me.”
“Won’t happen. Not from Rick and Noelle anyway.” And then it sank in. “Wait, she’s working with Markham against you?”
She shrugged, a little too casually. “We’re not close.”
She took another sip for courage or comfort. Though he knew it couldn’t provide either, it indicated that something was bothering her. Big time.
She spoke softly. “Noelle said you hired an investigator.”
“He’s someone I use for vetting companies. I asked him to look into that phone number when Markham texted the threat.”
“He told you Markham’s killed people?” She raised her eyes, the starbursts merely tips around the widened pupils in the deepening dusk. “But you didn’t tell me.”
“He called as we were leaving Rick’s. With everything that followed, I forgot to tell you.” As lame as it sounded, that was true. He’d left Markham in the dust in more ways than one. The man’s reentry at this point rankled. He took a swallow of his Sobe. “It isn’t certain. Only suspected on the homicides. He has an alibi.”
“I’ll bet.” She frowned. “Who did he kill?”
“Maybe no one.” When he saw she didn’t buy it, he said, “Two older cousins.”
She pressed her fingers to her temple. “And now he has my sister.”
“Has her how?”
“Enthralled.” Her voice hitched. “Morgan . . .”
He needed to stop her before she asked something he wouldn’t do. “That can’t be helped. Not by you, and, honey, right now not by me. I have to complete this consultation. Time is critical.”
“So . . . ” She released her knee, wincing a little when her foot touched down. “This raison of yours is finite?”
“I’m loath to reveal.”
She bit her lip. “Maybe . . . after the consultation?”
“I’m not doing anything that might point in this direction. As far as I know, Markham has no idea I exist. Anything I do for your sister could change that. If he knows about me, he’ll learn about us.”
She closed her eyes. “You’re right.” And now her fear showed. It wasn’t only about her sister.
“I’ll ask the police to keep an eye out here while I’m gone.”
“They’ll do that?”
“I know a few.” And the city was beholden. “Consuela has some guys who can hang around and tend the yard. It needs it.” He’d pay a small force to keep watch.
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’ll be okay.” If he didn’t make himself believe that, he’d slip back into the paralysis of fear, waiting for disaster to strike once more.
Markham hadn’t intended for Hannah to infiltrate the enemy camp, but he could pretend he had. “Hannah,” he whispered when she stepped out of the cabin where she’d stayed the night.
She turned hurt eyes to where he barely showed himself.
He motioned her over. She wanted to resist, but every compliant cell in her body obeyed. He saw instantly the little mouse needed building up and said, “Hannah, you were perfect.”
“What do you mean?”
“You did exactly what we needed.”
“I did?” Her voice trembled.
“You’re here, in the enemy’s camp.�
��
“I had to come.” Her brow furrowed. “You deserted me.”
“Never.” He gave his next pronouncement forceful sincerity. “Hannah, God is raising you up. The Lord has made you my handmaid.”
The hands clasped beneath her chin shook. “Do you mean it?”
“I’ve never meant anything more.” A benevolent warmth overcame him at the thought of her humble service. How pure her devotion. How sweet her belief. He shook himself. “Did they tell you where Quinn is?”
“They won’t.” She shivered in the frigid mountain air. “They believe I’m helping you.”
“You have to convince them you’re not. If they believe you’ve turned against me, they’ll help you find Quinn.”
“No. I can’t.”
“You can, Hannah. Tell them you have nowhere else to go.” He squeezed her hands. “You need your sister.”
She grew still and serious. “And when this is done . . . ?”
He tipped his face to heaven. “In the Lord’s time. In the Lord’s will.”
The rush of pious fervor took him by surprise. Was he believing his own act? What if . . . it wasn’t an act?
The rear hoof made a sharp clip on the stable floor as Noelle drew a currycomb down Destiny’s russet flank, soothing the stallion as she worked. She’d fought so hard for the privilege of training this horse, finally proving herself to Rick, who took nothing about his stock lightly. One stall over, he picked the hooves of Destiny’s dam, Aldebaran.
Noelle smiled. In her early days at the ranch, she had resented riding the mare until she realized Rick’s choice was not about hypercontrol of a headstrong guest, but the gift of an animal he cherished. Her mind went to that drizzly day she and the horse took a fall that had broken her bones but, thank God, not Aldebaran’s. That near disaster had taught her to listen and trust Rick’s lead. Since then he’d learned to listen and trust hers as well—a faith in each other that was nothing like Hannah’s blind devotion to a charlatan.
She had prayed last night for the woman’s eyes to be opened and knew the Lord would handle it better than she or even Rick could. Destiny tossed his head when the stable door opened and Hannah stepped uncertainly inside. Was this the chance?
“Good morning,” Rick spoke over the mare’s back.
“I have to tell you something,” Hannah blurted.
Noelle stepped out of Destiny’s stall when the shrill tone put the animal on edge. While unafraid, she respected the power he might unleash in a confined space.
Rick rested his hand on Aldebaran’s haunch. “We’re listening.”
Hannah seemed to freeze.
“What is it, Hannah?” Noelle softened Rick’s approach.
Hannah looked at her as if she’d only just appeared. Rick had a powerful presence, but he wasn’t the only person around.
“Um,” Hannah said, “it’s Markham.”
“He’s here?” She shot a glance at the door, thanking God Liam was at playgroup.
Wide-eyed, the woman flushed. “I mean . . . about Markham.
“What about him?” Rick’s question released a torrent.
“Quinn tried to tell me, but I didn’t believe it. She’s always been jealous.” Hannah gulped. “But she’s right. He was telling me . . . lies. Now he deserted me, and I need Quinn.”
Could there be a worse liar anywhere in the world? Noelle ached for her. “Hannah, I’m sorry he’s left you in this predicament.”
Without shifting course, she said, “Please tell me where she is.”
“Hannah.” Rick leaned on Aldebaran’s stall. “Why don’t you show us the respect we’ve given you and stop lying.”
In response, her face heated. She shouted, “Tell me where she is!”
At the outburst, Destiny banged a hoof on the stall as he balked sideways. Noelle reached over, gentling him.
“I’m sorry,” Rick said. “We can’t.”
They’d given Hannah hospitality overnight, when her distress and confusion were real. But the hostility coming off her now was tangible.
She cried, “She doesn’t deserve your friendship. She’s a liar and a thief. She stole Markham’s life. Why can’t you see that?”
Rick’s voice came soft but firm. “You should contact him to come get you.”
Her face reddened further, and her mouth worked as if struggling with what to say. “You should have helped him. Now he’ll shake your dust from his feet.”
Rick took out his truck keys. “I’ll drive you to the general store. He can meet you there.”
Noelle sighed. Erin said as long as Markham needed her, Hannah would be safe, but she couldn’t help wishing they had been able to convince her.
Exerting extreme control, Markham had taken the weepy Hannah back to Quinn’s house without losing it. He was not a violent man, despised violent men like the ones who’d raised him, whose greatest intelligence lay in realizing he was less effective with bruises and even so had not been able to restrain their fists and belts.
Thoughts of striking Hannah were like shrapnel in his brain—foreign and destructive. How could he blame her, when his own efforts had failed? It shook him to the core to think he might have lost the ability to sway people. Selling the illusion was his gift. Without it, what was he?
Behind the wheel of his Toyota, he escaped Hannah and sought a way to relieve his fears. How risky would it be to show himself in town? He’d committed no violation they could prove, even if Quinn accused him. He’d only wanted to talk. Was reconciliation a crime?
Confidence swelled his chest. Innocent men didn’t skulk. Men with nothing to hide went where they wanted, when they wanted. He donned the mantle of innocence, feeling the assurance like a drug. He had a clue to follow. And every right to follow it.
The Maserati.
Of the two men who had towed it in, he guessed it must be Rick’s. He could not by any stretch believe it the other goon’s. And if he’d lent it to Quinn, the relationship might be more than the man wanted to admit. That explained how cagey he’d been at the ranch. It also explained his concern about her house. His wife must be blind.
Smirking, Markham entered the Roaring Boar Tavern. He sat among those lined up at the bar, a hearty lunch bunch who didn’t mind a beer or two before noon. After a time of camaraderie, he said, “Shame about that Maserati. You all see the dent?”
As he’d expected, that comment caused a noisy lament. And he’d been wrong. It wasn’t Rick, but his brother, Morgan Spencer, who held title. Quite the town hero, Morgan. Quite the legend. And, if they could be believed, quite the gold mine—though, as with any mine, the key was finding it.
Although everyone knew Morgan like a brother, not one had an address. “Oh, he stays at Rick’s. Yeah, he’s right up at the ranch. Stays up there with his little girl. Too bad about his wife. Awful thing.”
Markham tried again with the pockmarked bartender. “Just so I’m clear, Morgan lives at his brother’s ranch?”
“When he’s here, yeah. Been there”—the man shrugged—“around two years.”
Hannah had seen no one but Rick and his wife. And their kid.
“When he isn’t at the ranch, where does he live?”
Again the shrug. “Somewhere on the coast, I think.”
“East or west?”
“Don’t know. Maybe both.”
“Thought you guys were buds.”
The man smiled. “Yeah, Morgan’s great. Really gets the place going. Hasn’t been in much the last two years, but before the baby, he was a big-time regular. We’d see him every night he was in town.”
“And he never said where he spends the rest of his time.”
“All over the world, man. Consulting. Wrote some books too. I have signed copies, but I don’t read them. All that financial stuff goes over my head.”
“You wouldn’t have them here, would you?”
“Yeah!” The guy turned to the mirrored shelf showcasing bottles. Just beneath the giant boar’s head were two hardco
ver books. “I put them there since Morgan says the boar reminds him of the nun who taught third grade. Wicked sense of humor.”
Markham smiled, sick of this Morgan already. Taking the first book in hand, he recognized the man who’d come to Quinn’s with Rick—the suave, compelling expression twisting the knife. “So this is what it takes to get a Maserati.”
“Sweet ride. My life flashed before my eyes when he took me out. Worth every minute.”
He opened to the author bio, rife with creds and accolades—and no address, even in general terms. No “Spencer makes his home . . .” anyplace. He handed the books back. If Spencer was so important, he’d be on the Internet. More importantly, if he’d lent Quinn his Maserati, she might mean something to him. There could be greater potential here than even he’d imagined.
With Livie playing in the kitchen cabinets while Consuela washed windows, Erin slipped back upstairs to Jill’s workroom, drawn by a desire to know the woman Morgan had loved from his early manhood to this day—fifteen years of it spent apart. What kind of person inspired that in someone like Morgan?
When he’d left that morning, he assured her they’d be guarded. But what would guard her from her need to know his dead wife? “I know how deep you run, how hard you love.” Celia’s words were like a taunt, and Morgan’s still a spear. “I won’t do that again.”
Was she trying to invade that hallowed bond? Or did what she felt for Morgan lend itself to those who mattered to him? Could Jill fascinate her because she’d fascinated him? And in knowing his wife, might she better know him?
The questions swirled in her head without answers. Maybe it was the curiosity that had stung her time and again, but she wanted to know. With Markham she’d been driven to find the truth and expose the fraud. This was nothing like that. It wasn’t a desire to diminish Jill, but to understand.
She went in, noting an organization and order not unlike her own. The books in one bookshelf dealt with early development and educational theory, mental and emotional disabilities, creative learning and classroom management. That, coupled with the storage bins of supplies, indicated Jill had been a teacher. Specific manuals suggested she worked with severely challenged children. Of course.
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