“You can’t fight this,” she warned. “The town wants my money. They’re on my side.”
“In your dreams. If I could make things happen simply by believing them, I’d wish for world peace. Out, Pats.” He took a threatening step in her direction.
He was broader and taller, and she didn’t have a chance against him physically. Mentally, however, they were evenly matched. Smiling, Mara didn’t retreat but traced a long, polished fingernail down his shirt front. “I can make things happen, big boy. Want me to make them happen for you?”
He waited implacably.
“Loser,” she taunted in retaliation. “Don’t forget, I offered you a chance, for old times’ sake.” Holding a finger to her lips, she kissed it, then pressed the print against TJ’s cheek, leaving a slight smudge of red. “Toodle-oo, babe. I’ll see you in court.”
She sauntered out, swinging her hips. She didn’t think it was just hostility that had raised the temperature in there.
***
Giving up on getting any work done, TJ eyed the boxes stacked along the wall and surrendered to the inevitable. Lifting the top one to his work counter, he slit open the sealing tape, sat down, and pulled out the top notebook. A moment later, he reached for pen and paper.
Combing through the notebook of Balkan testimonies translated from the original, he noted a page number and a description and flipped to the next statement. His gut churned at the entry. He’d known this would be painful, but he had to know the truth. If he’d been covering up for a traitor instead of protecting his country and a friend, as he’d assumed, he needed to know.
The truth could cripple him instead of setting him free. The newspapers were saying Martin had released war criminals that TJ’s forensics team had indicted. Allegations of black-market racketeering, Mafia-like protection scams, and bribery had mushroomed from there.
TJ had been traveling, mostly in Africa, and unaware of any of this until he’d returned to the States. He had assumed his written testimony had been sufficient for courts to indict the criminals his evidence had uncovered. He’d worked with Martin in Eastern Europe for years. If his team was dirty, TJ should have known.
He’d known the criminals weren’t always arrested. He’d assumed there were military and political reasons for that. He’d trusted Martin, dammit.
If he had any sense at all, he’d burn these boxes as Leona had told him to do. Get rid of them, and get on with his life. The motive wouldn’t even be selfish. He was good at what he did. He’d documented enough evidence to put half a dozen war criminals that he knew of behind bars. He’d prevented wars between African tribes by identifying murderers. He fought for justice and truth. Being accused of something of which he knew nothing would be taking out one of the good guys.
The phone shrieked, and he let the machine answer it. The Defense Department had located him down here. TJ figured they couldn’t know about the boxes but were on a fishing expedition to see how much he knew or how much he’d tell. But Colonel Martin hadn’t tried to reach him yet. Until now, TJ had assumed that meant Martin wasn’t worried about the media outcry.
The colonel had been the military leader and family friend who’d respected TJ’s research and requested his services, a courageous man he’d followed into war zones. He had never doubted Martin when he’d told him these boxes should be destroyed to protect national security.
The phone quit ringing, and TJ flung the notebook back in the box, his stomach too queasy to continue. He couldn’t even pin down a single source for his discomfort. The reading material contained enough atrocities to make a strong man heave. But suspecting a trusted friend of protecting the criminals was beyond credibility. The likelihood that he could be accused of guilt by association—
TJ sealed the box and shoved it back in a closet. He needed to find a better hiding place. If Martin thought he’d destroyed them, what were the chances of anyone else knowing of their existence?
He prayed that the media wouldn’t remember his connection with Martin before he had time to read all the material and make a decision. There’d been press with them through a lot of the earlier years. He’d come to know several reporters well over bars in foreign lands. How long before they remembered him and tracked him down?
Removing his lab coat, TJ caught a whiff of gardenias. The image of the new Patsy-Mara had wormed its way into his thoughts so thoroughly that it popped up every time he let his defenses down. What the hell had she done to herself? And why?
He didn’t want to think about that on top of everything else. He slammed out of the office, carefully locking the deadbolt behind him. The town didn’t have much in the way of office buildings, so he’d rented an empty storefront, figuring security wasn’t a problem. That had been before he’d started reading the notebooks.
He just needed a little time to decide what to do with a smoking gun. Could he be objective in judging the material after he’d read it? Was it even his responsibility to deal with it?
He needed to hire an assistant. If he could get the grunt work off his back, he could be out of here faster. Patsy—Mara—would appreciate that.
Damn, but he couldn’t believe what she’d done to herself. He’d thought she would have gone on to Harvard in Brad’s place and be a doctor or a lawyer by now. But a movie producer?
Preferring to think of those high school and college days rather than his current predicament, TJ smiled at his memory of teenaged Patsy Amara Simonetti. He’d rather liked the way she’d looked back then. At least it had been honest and real. So, she’d been a little on the skinny side. She’d filled out just fine. He’d liked her brown hair. She’d worn it long, and he could wrap his fingers in it when he kissed her.
He hadn’t kissed her much. There hadn’t been enough time. He’d always admired her spunk and wit, but he hadn’t discovered she could be more than Brad’s kid sister until a Christmas party when she’d indulged in too much punch she hadn’t known was spiked.
At sixteen, with her hair up and high heels on, she’d pulled him out of the doldrums with her laughter. He’d walked her home, and she’d thrown herself in his arms, and he’d discovered kisses made in heaven. Then he’d gone back to Harvard, and they’d only seen each other those few weekends he could make it home.
Damn. He’d done his best to forget those insane few testosterone-driven weeks of his sophomore year in college. He’d survived hell since then. His brain ought to relent and let it go.
“Dr. McCloud!” A booming voice of authority hailed him from across the street.
TJ grimaced at the title, but the mayor took pleasure in titles. Southerners didn’t like surrendering any form of aristocracy. Checking the nearly empty street, he crossed in the middle. At this time of day, everyone was sitting down to dinner. “Mayor Bridgeton,” he acknowledged with a nod. “What can I do for you?”
“Let the pretty lady drive her trucks to the beach, of course.” At five-ten, the mayor stood more than half a foot shorter than TJ, and the older man hid his discomfort by striding as briskly toward town as his portly frame would allow. “The bones of dead pirates won’t mind a little disrespect.”
TJ had known this was coming, but his worry over Martin hadn’t left him the concentration to prepare a defense. Patsy hadn’t wasted any time. Mara. He had to remember to call her Mara. She definitely didn’t look like sweet, shy Patsy any longer.
If he was shooting down careers, he might as well take out a few hopes and illusions with him. “Even pirates deserve respect, sir,” he began peacefully enough, before dropping the bomb on the community’s claim to fame, “but those bones have been buried no more than sixty or seventy years, give or take a few years.”
“What!” The mayor stopped to glare at him. “I’ve never heard of any cemeteries on the island. That’s ridiculous. Might have been a few Gullahs out there farming, but they didn’t bury their dead there.”
“The bones are Caucasian.” TJ resumed walking. He was starved and the restaurants were down
by the harbor. “I’ve not located any skulls, but I believe I have the remains of at least two white males.”
The mayor uttered a profanity that reflected TJ’s thoughts on the matter.
The town most likely had a seventy-year-old murder case on its hands.
Chapter Four
“Just a little party, punch and hors d’oeuvres.” Stalking through the lobby of the B&B, Mara closed her contact book and flung a restaurant menu at Ian in the same motion. “You know the routine. We’ll invite a few state and local officials, knock their socks off with glamour, yadda yadda. McCloud doesn’t stand a chance.”
“If the feds have the upper hand with that dunes law...”
“It’s not a dune,” Mara said decisively. “The hurricane just made a sand dump. Those bones are probably scattered all up and down the beach or washed to sea. He has no case.”
“Then I should start bringing in the equipment?” Ian jotted his notes the old-fashioned way, into a notebook.
“Wait until after the party. I’d like to have some guarantees so we can sue later if the production schedule is delayed.”
She could do this. She’d watched Sid for years. Take the offense and stay there. Never lose sight of the bottom line. She’d needed those lessons, or she would have spent her entire life as a doormat.
Of course, she was still relying entirely too much on others, but she’d work herself to death if she didn’t. Ian could talk to city and state officials far better than she could. She’d done a damned poor job talking to the one person she’d had confidence in reasoning with. Maybe she should stick to planning and organization.
She left Ian in the sitting room talking into two phones at once. She needed to walk the beach and verify there was no other access. Maybe her maps were wrong. Maybe the hurricane had changed things. Maybe she was fighting a lost cause.
A chill shivered her spine. Please, Lord, let me do just this one thing right. She had too many responsibilities to drop the ball now. If she didn’t buy out Sid’s company, it would be a hollow shell in a few years, and a lot of decent people would be out of jobs.
It might be small, but the studio had a damned good director and a reputation for quality films that allowed it to survive in this megalopoly world, only Sid had fried his brain and lost interest years ago. People depended on her, ironic as that might be.
Her mother depended on her, but that was nothing new. Ever since Brad’s death and her divorce from Mara’s father, she’d been deteriorating. The doctors had claimed she’d been declining all along but Mara had been too young to notice until the later stages. Brad’s death still felt like the dividing line between childhood stability and a world gone insane.
After climbing into her waiting limo and giving directions, Mara gazed at the town passing by, for once not trying to do two things at once. She’d never lived in a small town, had no desire to do so, but she could admire the picturesque brick buildings and spreading oaks with their mossy beards for the past they represented—and the stories they might tell. It was peaceful here, a slower time and pace that gave a person time to think.
So why was the internationally renowned Dr. TJ McCloud playing in this backwater? She’d seen the newspapers—the man had won prestigious awards for his work, had shaken the hands of the president and half the governing powers of the world. Why would he bother with a grant for a hole in the middle of nowhere?
It wasn’t any of her concern. She’d written him off her hero list the day he’d walked out on Brad’s funeral.
The limo purred to a halt in front of the chain link fence bearing TJ’s warning sign. She saw no car parked nearby, so she assumed he was still at the office.
Mara took her driver’s helping hand, and found her footing on the uneven sand. She’d come better prepared this time. She’d replaced her expensive snakeskin mules with a pair of Nikes.
“Stay with the car, Jim. I’ll just cruise the beach, pace off a few sets. You’re within screaming distance if I need you.”
The remains of the original access road ran straight into the mountain of debris washed up by the hurricane. The fence didn’t enclose the entire dune, just the highest part. By digging her toes into the slippery slope, it could be scaled—on foot. They’d need a bulldozer to plow through the palmettos and wax myrtle at the base if they wanted to bring in trucks.
A bulldozer would require the owner’s permission. Maybe it would be easier to tackle the local crazy lady.
She shook sand out of her shoe and trudged onward.
She was a city person. She’d learned the names of the local flora and fauna to check the authenticity of the script, but she had no idea what to expect from this jungle of exotic shrubbery smacking her legs. She only hoped it didn’t contain snakes. Beaches didn’t have snakes, did they? She knew how to mace a mugger, but a snake—
A wild animal shrieked from the bushes ahead, and Mara almost jumped out of her Nikes. Panicked squawks followed shrill shrieks, and she froze in her tracks. Behind her, Jim called out, asking if she was all right.
“So far,” she shouted back. “What in hell is that?”
Like, he’d know. Jim was a creature of LA. They didn’t have zoos in L.A.. In the bad old days of her youth, she’d practically lived in New York’s Central Park Zoo for a few weeks, but she still didn’t recognize the noise. Mara heard her driver scrambling up the hill behind her—gun in hand, most likely. Jim liked guns.
Just as he arrived, the shriek screeched again, bushes rustled, and a stately procession of iridescent blue-green feathers emerged in her path.
“Peacocks!” She almost melted in relief, and gave her driver a deprecating grin. “I don’t think I’m in danger of being pecked to death by glorified turkeys.”
He shouldered his pistol, glared at the strutting birds, and slid back down the embankment.
“Make note to hire zookeeper instead of bodyguard,” she muttered to herself, cautiously approaching the guard birds.
The big one shrieked again and spread his tail feathers. Had to be a male, she figured—all noise and no action. Feeling on familiar ground, she boldly walked past him, and the bird flopped its tail out of her path.
The sand sloped downward on this side, and she slid her way past the remaining shrubbery, onto the wide expanse of beach her scouts had photographed last year. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. A natural harbor of gentle waves, deep enough for a galleon, hidden enough for protection from weather and the pirates’ enemies. The artificial jetty to the east could be disguised as a natural barrier easily enough. Most viewers wouldn’t realize that South Carolina had sand and not rocks. And even the ones who knew better would suspend disbelief when she was through disguising it.
Okay, so her talents were more in setting than production. That’s what she had Ian for. She was good at disguising things. Ian got things done.
The ocean breeze wreaked havoc with the elaborate curls Constantina had fashioned, but Mara figured she didn’t have to impress screaming peacocks or pelicans. Pulling her camera from her shoulder bag, she framed a few shots, catching the angle of the sun, noting the time of day in her PDA.
The buried treasure scene would take place at night. With the northern exposure, the camera crew shouldn’t have to filter too much to get the right effect. They’d had to search hard to find a good beach with that kind of exposure. She made another note to fly her director in a day early. A lot of the trees she had counted on for shade on the south side hadn’t survived the storm, and their graying carcasses formed an ugly backdrop to the beach.
Sid had taught her that flunkies worried over details, but she had control issues. This was her project, from beginning to end. She’d chosen the book and the screenwriter, had ordered the rewrites and conferred with the director on every page. If she had to support herself for the first time in her life, she had to quit relying on others.
Okay, so she was a Gemini and flip-flopped on every issue, but that was just seeing both sides of every question. If one more
person told her she couldn’t have her cake and eat it too, she’d shove the icing up their nose.
Rounding a jungle of fallen palms and bleached driftwood, kicking sand and shells as she went, she stopped short at sight of a trio racing across the beach, flying the strangest kite she’d ever witnessed.
She squinted and decided the kite might be Sir Lancelot with a Superman cape, but the sun was too bright and her interest was diverted by the people trespassing on the territory she’d thought of as her own. She’d have to hire more security for the filming. She’d thought there was only one access road, and that the site would be clear of curious bystanders.
The teenager spotted her first, yelling over the lapping waves and wind to catch the attention of the other two. Hell, she’d hoped to have a few hours to herself. Now she’d have to don the prima donna role again, in jeans and Nikes and with her hair tumbling down.
The trio stopped running to stare as she approached. What would they do if she turned and walked away?
She didn’t do the introvert thing anymore.
“Hi, I’m Mara Simon.” Ranking the competition, Mara held out her hand to the woman watching her warily. Average height, more stocky than slim, auburn curls that looked hacked by kitchen scissors, short cutoffs and midriff-baring tie-dye shirt that belonged on a teenager. The woman was a mess but didn’t seem to care. She returned Mara’s look with a frank, open stare.
“Cleo McCloud.” She shook Mara’s hand briefly before gesturing at the two boys hanging out behind her. “My son, Matty, and my good friend and neighbor, Gene Watkins. You must be the film producer Jared told us about.”
McCloud. Jared—Tim’s brother. The names clicked in place, and it took all Mara could do not to exclaim in incredulity. This eccentric creature had captured Jared McCloud? Tim’s brother had been a womanizer since birth. After earning riches and recognition as a comic- strip artist and screenwriter, he would have had women crawling all over him. He’d settled for a sun-burned—
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