The McKenna Legacy Trilogy

by Patricia Rosemoor

  "How?" Her expression grew immediately cautious.

  "You'll have to work with me. And not censor me. That could very well mean opening your family and its past to even more unfavorable public scrutiny."

  Chapter Two

  ROSALIND FORCED HERSELF to breathe normally. She obviously hadn't thought through the situation carefully enough before going to see Skelly McKenna. Browbeating and bribing him into reporting a more favorable angle on the story hadn't worked, so she'd somehow found herself challenging him to dig up the unvarnished truth. She only hoped that hadn't been a big mistake. How else could he proceed without involving her family further, perhaps to everyone's detriment.

  As for working with him...

  "I hardly think you need my input," she said, trying to circumvent a direct, negative response. It wouldn't do to provoke the reporter again, not when she almost had him where she wanted him.

  "Getting cold feet?"

  "That's not the issue."

  "Then what is? That you would rather not soil your pretty hands–”

  "I work hard, thank you very much."

  " –or your social position by associating with a tabloid personality?"

  "My reputation is above approach."

  "Then it must be something else that's stopping you." He arched his eyebrows. “I do tend to be a little intimidating at times."

  His slow grin forced a dimple in his right cheek, giving him a roguish air. Rosalind started and blinked, for a moment forgetting they were opponents. Skelly McKenna was a devastatingly handsome man. Black hair tousled onto a high forehead. Intense blue eyes. Wicked smile. And though she wore three inch heels, he was still a bit taller, seemed athletically built.

  Realizing where her thoughts were headed, she steered her wayward mind back on track. “I'm rarely intimidated, Mr. McKenna."

  More often, she was irritated with men like him. Cocky. Mocking. Seemingly unflappable.

  "Skelly. And I'll call you Roz." Before she could object to the wretched nickname, he rolled on. “Being so formal is a little ridiculous when two people are working closely together, don't you agree?"

  "I never agreed to–"

  "And if you want a more positive follow-up soon enough to counter whatever you deemed disagreeable about the original story, we need to get moving immediately."

  Even knowing he was keeping the upper hand, Rosalind stilled any further objection. She did want that follow-up. Enough to chance what Skelly might find.

  Irritated with herself now – how much more damage could be done to her family, after all? – she promptly buried any vague doubts that lingered at the back of her mind. However, she did admit her being part of the investigation would be a smart move. Alongside Skelly, she would learn everything he did, when he did. He couldn't gloss over anything he found that might point away from her grandmother.

  And on the slight, unthinkable possibility that he dug up information that could

  be construed as damaging, she'd be there to stop him from capitalizing on it.

  "All right, “Rosalind acceded. “You win. So we'll start first thing tomorrow?"

  She didn't supervise the day-to-day work being done on the spa, merely checked every nuance at intervals. Knowing how to delegate authority meant she could afford to take time off when necessary.

  "Actually I'm taping two shows tomorrow morning. I'm off Monday, since Tuesday is a holiday." If he spent it with her, the Fourth of July wouldn't be just another day as usual. “I had this evening in mind. We can start over dinner. Dress casual."

  Noting he was staring at her legs again, Rosalind decided she would wear a pants outfit. “Where and what time?"

  "I'll pick you up at six-thirty.” He poised a pen over a notebook. “I'll need your home address."

  "I'd rather meet you at the restaurant."

  While Skelly gave her another of his wicked smiles, he didn't taunt her as she expected he might. “Make it seven, then. Six Shillings on Lincoln Avenue. Do you know it?"

  "I know where it is. I'll be there."

  With that, Rosalind swept herself out of Skelly's office and kept going until she was out on the street where she hailed a taxi. It wasn't until she slipped behind the driver and gave him her New Town address that she allowed herself to think of the commitment she'd made.

  And to hope that this was one time she wouldn't regret sticking her nose where it didn't belong.

  HAVING AN HOUR TO KILL before having to be at the restaurant, Skelly turned on the television and kicked back in his favorite leather chair, beer in hand. Feet propped on the hassock, tuned to nationwide news anchored by one of his competitors for the promotion, he watched without anything registering. A few slugs of the lager quenched his thirst.

  If only he could assuage his other needs as easily.

  Damn Keelin for provoking him. Damn Rosalind Van Straaten for showing up before he'd had the time to forget his cousin's visit.

  Rosalind Van Straaten. The name as classy as the lady. Definitely as strong. Nearly as beautiful. Unfortunately, he doubted the beautiful, strong, classy lady had any kind thoughts for him.

  Still, it was weird how she'd shown up right after Keelin had gotten him to thinking about his future.

  Exchanging his bottle for an envelope that he'd laid on the coffee table, he turned and touched the thick cream-colored paper as though he could discern some magic inside. His name and address were written in a distinctly foreign hand. The stamp proclaimed the delivery to be from Éire. And though he was familiar with its contents, he pulled the letter from within and re-read his grandmother's heartfelt wish

  for him.

  To my darling Skelly,

  I leave you my love and more. Within thirty-three days after your thirty-third birthday – enough time to know what you are about – you will have in your grasp a legacy of which your dreams are made. Dreams are not always tangible things, but more often are born in the heart. Act selflessly in another's behalf, and my legacy shall be yours.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Moira McKenna

  P.S. Use any other inheritance from me wisely and only for good lest you harm yourself or those you love.

  Cynic that he was, Skelly had thought the letter so much nonsense when he'd first received it, had even suspected the grandmother whom he'd never met had been a bit out-to-lunch. After all, she had been ninety-plus when she'd written the missive.

  But something made him keep her last letter to him.

  And something made him read it, over and over again, until he knew the words by heart.

  His cousin Keelin certainly believed in the legacy, was its staunchest promoter after having met and fallen in love with Tyler Leighton. Both of his siblings and his other cousins – nine of them altogether – had each received an identical letter from their grandmother.

  Smoothing his fingers over her signature, he softly asked, “So, Moira, my dear, what do you have in store for me?" half-hoping she would answer.

  He had no visitation, heard no voices in his head. Moira was keeping mum for the moment.

  Skelly shook his head at his detour into fantasy and carefully slipped the letter back into its sheath. Then he checked his watch and realized he now had little more than fifteen minutes to get over to Six Shillings. His future awaited him. Professional future, he reminded himself as images of Roz flitted through his wayward mind.

  He'd already traded his professional wear for a pair of jeans and a chambray shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbows. He slipped his feet into worn running shoes and, with his fingers, combed back the hair spilling onto his forehead.

  Locking the door of his townhouse behind him, he could hardly wait to see Roz...and whatever it was the cosmetics heiress considered casual wear.

  NOT KNOWING WHAT TO EXPECT either from Skelly McKenna or the place they were to meet, Rosalind entered Six Shillings with a sense of trepidation. She was pleasantly surprised, at least by the restaurant. The wainscoted walls and hand-carved bar were r
emnants of the last century. Classical music played softly in the background, while video footage of art pieces rather than some rough-and-tumble sporting event played on the monitors suspended in each corner of the room.

  "Can I help you?" asked a young woman in cotton walking shorts and a camp shirt.

  "I'm looking for...oh, there he is." She spotted Skelly. “I can seat myself."

  Skelly was sprawled across a booth in an alcove lit by a brass wall-sconce. His attention for the moment was on his notebook. He was scribbling an entry. An enticing blue-black lock of hair caressed his high forehead. As if sensing her presence, he glanced up, his suddenly wide-eyed, subtly-amused expression making her check her royal blue silk tunic and pants and matching nubuck sandals to see if something were amiss. She shrugged. Everything appeared to be intact.

  And when she raised her gaze to Skelly's, it was to recognize male appreciation.

  Rosalind was appreciative herself. The reporter looked better in chambray than he did in starched linen – virile and somehow more appealing – but hoped he couldn't tell what she was thinking. She was seeking justice for a grandmother she'd never met, not a date.

  She slid into the booth across from him. “Am I late?"

  He checked his watch. “Mm, about fifteen seconds."

  "I'll do better next time."

  "Why, Roz, is that a promise...or do you actually have a sense of humor?"

  "Only when I'm not worked up about something.”

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  "Do." Wondering how she could discourage him from abbreviating her name, Rosalind noticed the approaching waitress, as well as the menus Skelly had discarded to the side of the table. “Did you have a look?"

  "I probably know the list by heart. I only live a few blocks from here."

  While she barely lived a mile away. In a city the size of Chicago, that practically made them neighbors.

  "So what do you recommend?"

  "A big, fat, juicy burger with fries."

  Which translated to greasy. “I think I'd better give the menu a look myself."

  In the end, Rosalind chose a grilled chicken breast sandwich with a salad and a glass of spring water with lime, while Skelly went for the burger – rare, yet – and a lager. With a promise to deliver their drinks shortly, the waitress departed to place their orders.

  And Skelly consulted the scribbling in his notebook. Rosalind tried to read upside down the notes he'd made to himself, but either his penmanship was atrocious, or he was operating in shorthand. She could barely make out a word here or there.

  Suddenly nervous now that they were getting down to it, she asked, “So how do we begin?"

  "By talking." Skelly sprawled back against the padded booth. “You telling me what you know about the murder that I don't."

  "I doubt anything."

  "Try me. You must have picked up some hearsay from your parents over the years. Claudia was in the Galena house when Frank Sullivan died."

  She shook her head. “Mother was a child."

  "She was thirteen years old. Hardly a child, Roz."

  Rosalind flushed and admitted,” She simply doesn't talk about that night."

  "What about Grandpa Noah?"

  "Grandfather wasn't there."

  Skelly gave her a look that sent a chill up her spine, but before he could pursue a direction she didn't want to take, the waitress arrived with their drinks.

  "Thanks," he said with a wink, making the waitress flush and grin.

  "Your food will be up in a few minutes, Skelly."

  When the waitress turned to another table, Rosalind noted, “She knows your name."

  "I told you I was a regular."

  And a popular one, at least with the young women, she decided, caught again by his wicked smile and dimpled cheek. Annoyed, not wanting to notice anything personal about the man, not wanting to humanize him, Rosalind reminded herself of her mission.

  He held out his glass toward her. “To the truth...no matter what it happens to be."

  The truth. Rosalind picked up her fancy water and tried to hide the uneasiness that flashed through her. “To success in clearing my grandmother's name," she murmured, adding to herself, And all her family members.

  Rosalind sipped at her drink to relieve her suddenly dry mouth. She watched Skelly over the rim of her glass and assured herself that she had not opened a Pandora's Box. She figured he would pursue the line of questioning about her grandfather's whereabouts the night of the murder. And was surprised when he didn't.

  "So what does Noah Lang have to say about Frank Sullivan's death and about your grandmother's incarceration?" he asked instead. “Off the record, that is."

  "Exactly what he told the press at the time. Grandfather insists his Lily didn't do it, that she wasn't capable of murdering anyone."

  "And you believe him?"

  "I believe he's a good judge of character. I assume you'll remember he demanded the authorities scrutinize the people around Frank Sullivan carefully. Any number of people might have had motives. But, of course they didn't. As far as they were concerned, they had an open-and-shut case. Maybe that's where we should start."

  "Did Noah ever mention any specific person he suspected?"

  "If he has an opinion, he's never shared it with me."

  Rosalind noticed Skelly was doodling in his notebook. Underlining what she discerned as names and drawing arrows and other symbols in the margins. As if he were talking to himself in code.

  But Skelly looked directly at her when he said, “Noah Lang was also in love with his soon-to-be ex-wife."

  So he wasn't letting it go. She said, “They had their problems. Every married couple does."

  "Every married couple doesn't separate several times before applying for divorce."

  "My grandmother was a warm, giving woman. Too warm and giving to others, I think. Grandfather wanted all of her attention for himself."

  "You mean he was jealous."

  "I wasn't there."

  "But you have opinions."

  Her grandfather could be controlling, as she personally knew, but Rosalind didn't want to get into this. “Any man would be possessive of a woman he loved."

  "And Lily was amazingly beautiful," Skelly said, gazing at her intently. “She rated scads of attention from other men. She and Noah Lang were married during the war. She used his name when she went to Hollywood, yet she kept her marriage secret. Thousands of men in the service must have been drooling over her photograph. That was no secret. How do you think it made your grandfather feel?"

  "How would you feel if you were in a similar situation?"

  "I've never been madly in love with a woman. What about you?"

  Her voice tight with her growing tension, she tried to make light of an uncomfortable subject. “I've never been in love with a woman, either."

  Skelly laughed. “Hm, you do have a sense of humor. Great avoidance technique. But you do know what I mean."

  Of course she did. And she had been in love before. Once. Rosalind still didn't understand her own actions, but she knew that she'd been the one to sabotage the relationship. She'd always been more comfortable keeping men at an emotional distance.

  "You're being a bit personal. “Part of the reason Skelly had agreed to follow-up on Lily's story, she was certain. She wasn't oblivious to his interest. But she had her own agenda, one which did not include sharing anything of herself with a tabloid television reporter. “My feelings have nothing to do with our investigation."

  "Your feelings have everything to do with it. “His expression turned serious. “If they didn't, you wouldn't have stormed into my office, ready to bite off my head."

  "Granted."

  Their food arrived. While they ate, Rosalind simply went over anything she'd ever heard that related to Frank Sullivan's death, but as she'd predicted, she was able to add nothing new to Skelly's information bank.

  And when the check came an hour later, Rosalind insisted on paying, quickly wh
ipping out her Gold Card. God forbid she let him pay, lest he think of their dinner as being more than a business meeting.

  "Trying to bribe me, again?" Skelly asked after the waitress disappeared.

  "Making certain we understand each other," Rosalind clarified.

  "I already got the picture, Roz."

  "That's Rosalind."

  Raising her eyebrows, she silently dared him to argue the point. He didn't. Finishing the last of his lager, he merely stared at her, his expression amused.

  Or was it smug?

  Rosalind was relieved when the waitress returned with her credit card slip and receipt.

  "About little Claudia," Skelly mused, as she placed the loose items in her purse. “Sometimes children are aware of more details than adults give them credit for...or want to know about."

  Rosalind's heart skipped a beat. “So what are you suggesting?"

  "That we pay your mother a visit."

  "When?"

  "Now."

  "It's late."

  "It's not even eight-thirty," Skelly argued. “We can be in Winnetka around nine. Unless you don't want me to talk to your mother."

  "No, of course not." She ignored the thrill that shot through her at the half-truth.

  "Good. I live a few blocks from here. Let's go. “When she hesitated, he added, “To get my car."

  Rosalind let Skelly take the lead. For the moment, she'd lost control and would have to be satisfied going along for the ride.

  WORKING ON AN UPCOMING FUND-RAISING EVENT for Be Kind to Kids, the charitable organization she'd helped found a dozen years before, Claudia Van Straaten was sorting through the papers strewn the length of her twenty-foot dining room table when the doorbell rang.

  Now who could that be?

  Not pleased at being interrupted, she removed her reading glasses and rose. The stained-glass panels hung before the mullioned windows of the cathedral-like sunken dining room blocked her view. A second buzz quickened her step up the three stairs to the foyer and the front door. A glance through the glass inset revealed her daughter with a stranger.