by Cassie Miles
“Mom? The investigating detectives are from Homicide.”
Elizabeth stamped her foot. “This is not a criminal investigation until I say it is.”
Was she covering something up? Protecting someone? “We have to face reality.”
“Run along and get dressed, darling.” Her smile was cold as the unmelted snow in the high Rockies. “All that’s important right now is for you to make a good appearance.”
With one final glance at Liam, Kate allowed herself to be led into the bedroom and dressed like a sacrificial lamb being prepared for the slaughter.
Chapter Eleven
While the head of the RMS public relations department directed the final choreography for her press conference, Kate waited inside the front foyer of her mother’s house. The rest of her family—her mother, stepbrother, stepfather and ex-husband—had already trooped outside, and she was alone with Liam.
Nervously, she shifted back and forth on her high-heeled Gucci sandals. The outfit her mother had selected for her was a classic skirt and blouse of cream silk. Three-quarter sleeves covered the scar from the bullet wound on her upper arm.
She glanced over at Liam, who leaned against the wall beside the banister with his arms folded across his chest. He was solid as granite, utterly stable and self-controlled.
In contrast, a platoon of butterflies marched cadence in her stomach. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Come on, Kate. Everybody likes being a star, having their fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Notoriety,” she corrected. If she’d just won an Olympic gold medal or a WPGA tournament, she’d gladly welcome the attention. “The press is here to see for themselves if I’m cuckoo.”
“You’re not crazy,” he said in a decisive voice that brooked no argument.
This was a man she could trust with her life; he would never lie to her. “How do I look?”
“Nice,” he said.
She’d hoped for a bit more enthusiasm on his part. “Am I not gorgeous? Not sexy?”
“Your eyes,” he said, “are beautiful.”
When he stepped away from the banister and came toward her, she backed away. “No touching. You’ll ruin my makeup.”
He stopped in his tracks and hitched his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your lipstick. That would be a real tragedy.”
An uncomfortable distance spread between them, and she didn’t like the feeling. “My bag is packed, Liam. As soon as I’m done with this, I want to leave. We’ll go back to the mountains. To my little cave.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” she said. “I don’t want to stay here.”
“But you’ve got the big summer gala to plan. More clothes to buy. An image to protect.”
“Stop it,” she snapped. “I’m not my mother.”
With his hands still stuck in his pockets, he leaned closer to her. “Why didn’t you ask her about the necklace?”
“I couldn’t. Not with all those people around.”
As soon as she’d spoken, Kate knew she’d been mouthing a lame excuse. She didn’t want to believe her mother was involved—even tangentially—in her disappearance. More than that, she feared that her mother might lie to her.
Through the front door, the PR director signaled to Kate. She inhaled a deep breath and stepped through the front door to a makeshift podium. There she faced a couple dozen print, radio and television journalists. A cluster of microphones gathered at the edge of the lectern. Television lights glared. Cameras flashed.
Though she had spoken at press conferences and innumerable charity presentations, this was a different contingent of the media. Not the Society editor. Not the human-interest reporters who listened politely while she spoke about RMS contributions and the various projects they funded. These were crime reporters. Hardened and smart, this was the corps who’d provided the news on the Columbine massacre and the JonBenet Ramsey case. Politeness and tact weren’t in their vocabulary.
She looked down at the one-page statement the public relations department had prepared for her. The words swam into focus and she read: “About a month ago, I got lost in the mountains, set up a campsite and survived using equipment that can be purchased at any RMS outlet.”
She frowned at the blatant promotion from the public relations department. This was all wrong. She had these people here and needed to talk about something important.
Looking down at the statement, she continued. “I was found by a volunteer charter pilot working for CCC, Colorado Crime Consultants.”
Another plug? She doubted that Adam Briggs wanted or needed publicity.
She concluded with a note her mother had written neatly in the margin. “I would like to take this opportunity to remind everyone of the annual RMS summer gala and silent auction, which will take place on Saturday night. Tickets may be purchased through RMS stores. Proceeds go to benefit several charities, notably, homeless shelters. Thank you for your interest.”
Before she could turn away from the lectern and join her mother and family, who stood behind her, a trim, blond reporter called out, “Kate! Is Liam MacKenzie the pilot who found you?”
Though Liam had specifically asked that she not use his name, the press already had this information and there was no point in denial. Kate replied, “Yes.”
That simple, one-word response opened a floodgate of other questions. Had she been injured? Did she have amnesia? Where was Wayne Silverman? Why were homicide investigators involved? What about the attack at her house last night? Was she being pursued by terrorists?
Slammed by this verbal assault, she looked over her shoulder, searching for Liam’s reassuring presence. Instead, she saw her mother’s frozen smile. Peter Rowe held Elizabeth’s arm. His smile was rakish and charming. Not so with her stepbrother, Tom, who glared furiously, as if he’d like to declare open season on journalists.
It was Jonathan who stepped forward, supposedly to help her. His attitude was utterly condescending, as if he didn’t think she could handle this crowd.
She’d show him! She returned to the microphone. These people wanted more than a brief statement; they had stories to file and news time to fill.
Kate held up her hand for quiet. She made eye contact, silencing their questions. Near the back of the crowd, she spotted Mickey Wheaton. He gave her a sign to call him, and she nodded. As far as she knew, Mickey had kept up his end of their bargain by not printing anything. She owed him.
When relative silence ensued, Kate said, “My family has always been concerned about environmental issues. My father, Eric Carradine, built RMS on his genuine love of the mountains and sports in general. I’d like to say a few words about how I survived for twenty-eight days in the wilderness.”
For ten minutes, she talked about fire safety, foraging for plants, fishing and the natural bounty of the Colorado Rockies. She mentioned the basket she’d woven from twigs, and how she’d collected pebbles to keep track of the passage of time.
Though these journalists hadn’t expected a lecture on the wilderness experience, they listened and took notes. It was a good story. In the back of her mind, she could see Mickey framing the headline—Kate Carradine: Survivor.
This was the aspect she wanted to focus on. Not her loss of memory. Not the grotesque reality of someone trying to kill her.
She concluded, “I hope to use my wilderness experience in establishing a mountain camp for disadvantaged kids, teaching them how to use the environment to survive.”
As she turned to depart, a reporter called out, “If RMS is so big on environment, why the development at Cougar Creek?”
She glanced at Jonathan. It was almost too easy to take a potshot at his pet project, but she couldn’t resist. “RMS’s plans for that area will be reconsidered. In my opinion, the move toward development was undertaken with haste rather than due consideration.”
With a quick pivot, she left the podium and returned to the house. Jonathan was right beside h
er. “What the hell have you done? I’m trying to raise investor capital for Cougar Creek.”
“Think again.”
“Things ran a hell of a lot better around here while you were gone.”
That sounded like a threat. “Do you want me out of the way, Jonathan?”
“Don’t push me, Kate.”
They were interrupted by Elizabeth with her air kisses. “Thank you, darling, for mentioning the gala. This should give a boost to ticket sales.”
If Elizabeth had heard a single word Kate had said about her struggle for survival, she gave no indication.
Peter sidled up beside Kate, gave her a one-armed hug and said, “Well done.”
Her heart sank. If Peter approved, Kate knew she hadn’t said the right things, the truthful facts that might include the murder of Wayne Silverman. “I didn’t say enough.”
“We can leave the rest to the public relations department and concentrate on getting you healthy.”
“I’m not seeing a psychiatrist,” she said.
“We only want what’s best for you.” He sounded smarmy, as usual. “We need to find out what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”
“Why? Why do you care what I might remember?”
“Amnesia and paranoid delusions?” He gave a genial and totally fake laugh. “Well, that can’t be a good state of mind.”
“Absolutely not,” her mother echoed. “I believe it’s time for tea, darling. Cook has prepared a snack.”
Through the arch that led into the living room, Kate saw Detective Clauson talking to her stepbrother, who still looked angry. Though they weren’t genetically related, Tom had his own version of the legendary Carradine temper.
The head of public relations and his assistant came toward her. The cook shoved a bottle of water at her.
Too many people! Too much pressure! Her head swam. Kate felt like a downed zebra in the midst of lions, all tearing away a piece of her.
Then she spotted Liam. He stood apart from the others. The calm reassurance in his hazel eyes was exactly what she needed. Liam was her safe haven in this maelstrom.
She caught hold of her mother’s arm and whispered in her ear. “I need to get away from here. I’ll only be gone a few days. Please don’t worry.”
“But where are you going?”
“Somewhere quiet.” Though she wanted to be honest with her mother, Kate knew it wasn’t wise to give out details. She couldn’t talk about her plan to return to her former campsite.
“Maybe Aspen,” her mother said. “It’s lovely and cool this time of year.”
“Lovely,” Kate echoed as she escaped toward Liam.
Pausing only to grab the gym bag she’d packed and left on the staircase, and to change from her Gucci heels into sneakers, she led him through the house, through the kitchen and out the back door. Her intention was to run to where his car was parked. Then to the mountains. To her campsite.
In the gazebo at the edge of the property, Liam balked. “Wait.”
Her feet itched with the urge to run away from here and find safety. “We have to hurry. I want to get away before the reporters figure out there’s a back way into the property.”
Instead of jogging along beside her, he took her hand and led her up the three steps to the center of the white, filigreed gazebo. Ironically, this very spot was where she’d stood before a pastor and recited her wedding vows. Another desperate mistake!
“You did okay with the press,” he said.
She shook her head. “I didn’t say enough. I should have mentioned Wayne Silverman. Should have talked about the assassin.”
“It’s not necessary to give the media all the details.”
But telling the truth was important for her own emotional stability. She’d lived most of her life behind a facade. Now things had to be different. She needed to be more than an RMS shill, trying to sell more high-end sleeping bags.
She wanted to be a better person. For that to happen, they needed to figure out what had happened to Wayne Silverman. “We have to go. Now.”
“We can’t,” he said.
“But we need to return to my campsite.” Her voice held a note of desperation. “Right away.”
“Clauson doesn’t want you to leave town.” As he watched, her face fell. The sparkle left her eyes. “I’m sorry, Kate. You’re his only witness.”
And his only suspect, Liam added to himself. While she’d been putting the finishing touches on her makeover, Detective Clauson had read him the riot act. When they’d fled her house and arrived at the motel, Liam should have reported in more frequently. No way should he have encouraged Kate to sneak out a window to escape a reporter. As a former assistant D.A., Liam should have known better.
“What about the things I hid?” she whispered. “We can’t leave it unguarded.”
“Nobody’s going to find it. You were up there for a month, and nobody found you.”
“It’s evidence,” she said.
“You’re right,” he said. “And we should tell Clauson about it.”
“No.” She looked up at him with alarm. “You didn’t—”
“I wanted to,” he said. It went against his grain to withhold information from an investigating detective. “But I promised you I wouldn’t talk, and I’ve kept my word.”
She set her gym bag down on the bench that circled the gazebo. When she turned to face him, her gaze was cool and sophisticated.
Liam hardly recognized this neat, attractive woman in silk. The makeover and the packaging put him off. In her designer outfit, she looked like everybody else—the attorneys he had worked with at the D.A.’s office, the wealthy folks who hired him for charter flights. Kate Carradine, in her chic hairdo and her untouchable makeup, wasn’t the kind of woman he’d give a second glance. She was part of a world he had tried to leave behind when he’d moved to Grand Lake.
“I simply won’t stay here at my mother’s house,” she said. “It’s not safe.”
“We’ll go back to your place.”
Her expression was disdainful. Kate was more like her mother than she cared to admit. “Are you referring to the house where we almost got killed?”
“I have a plan.” He’d been on the phone and had made some arrangements. “Adam recruited a couple of body guards—retired military men who volunteer for CCC. They’ll stand watch tonight.”
Her eyes narrowed and her chin lifted. She didn’t like being told what to do. He braced himself for another tantrum.
Instead, she only shrugged. “It seems I don’t have a choice.”
“Hey!” The shout came from the direction of the house. Tom stalked toward them. “What are you doing out here?”
“Getting grounded,” Kate said. “In more ways than one.”
“What’s that mean?”
She shook her head. “I had to get away. There was too much going on inside the house.”
“Tell me about it.” He bounded up the stairs and joined them inside the gazebo. “This place is crazed.”
Liam wasn’t sure what to think of Kate’s stepbrother. Though Tom was in his late twenties, he seemed younger, often behaving with the overblown petulance of a teenager. “Everybody’s telling you what to do and what to say,” Liam observed.
“No joke. My dad ordered me to stay away from the press and not to mention Wayne.”
“Do you know him?”
“Sure.” When Tom looked down to study the toes of his running shoes, his bangs fell forward and completely obscured his eyes. “Wayne was a good guy.”
“Was?” The use of past tense might be significant.
Tom looked up. Hostility distorted his features. “You don’t really think Wayne’s still alive, do you? After a whole month?”
“What do you think?”
“Nobody gives a damn about what I think.” His angry gaze slid toward Kate. Clearly, he resented the attention that came her way. “Anyway, I was supposed to come out here and get you. You’re wanted back in the
house.”
She reached toward him, taking his hand in hers. Lightly, she stroked his cheek. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
“Yeah, sure,” he muttered.
“She’s telling the truth,” Liam said. “She cares about what happened to Wayne.”
“But she still can’t remember,” he said bitterly.
Liam said, “I didn’t realize you were so close to Wayne.”
“We hung out,” Tom said.
“We met someone else you might know. A reporter named Mickey Wheaton.”
“Yeah, I know Mickey. Kind of a dork.”
Someone else called to them from the house. Just as things were getting interesting with Tom, they were being drawn back into the Carradine family fold.
Quickly, Liam asked, “Did you ever hang out together? You and Wayne and Mickey?”
Tom pushed his long hair off his forehead and gave him a sneer. “I can’t remember. Just like Katie.”
Liar! It was obvious to Liam that Tom knew a hell of a lot more than he was saying. His secrets would put Kate in more danger.
Chapter Twelve
En route to her house, Kate and Liam drove in the Land Rover. In front of them was a patrol car with lights flashing but no siren. Then came Detective Clauson’s unmarked car. Bringing up the rear was another police vehicle.
“It’s a regular parade,” Kate muttered. She’d resigned herself to the fact that she had to cooperate with the police and their insistence that she stay in town. But she was still unwilling to share all of her memories with Detective Clauson.
“So much for privacy,” Liam said.
“Should we tell Clauson about the friendship between Wayne Silverman and my stepbrother?”
“And Mickey Wheaton,” he reminded. “I’m sure the police have already questioned Tom.”
She supposed he was right. And she knew for a fact that more than the Denver police department was involved. There were state crime investigators, mountain-rescue personnel and, of course, the sheriff near Grand Lake, who was looking into the vandalism at Liam’s cabin. “I’d like to know the details of all these investigations. Do you think Clauson would tell us?”