‘—Probate should take four to six weeks to obtain and everything should be finalised within six months. I’ve already spoken to your bank and arranged to transfer your husband’s savings account into your name. You’ll need to make an appointment to see the manager and sign some papers, but it’s all very straightforward. With regard to the beach house in Florida, I’m afraid your attorney in America will have to handle the transfer into your name.’
Grace’s head jerked up. ‘Excuse me? A house in Florida? An attorney in America? I don’t understand. We don’t own any property overseas.’
The solicitor examined the papers in front of him. ‘Actually, you do.’ He took off his reading glasses and smiled at her benevolently. ‘I can assure you there’s no mistake. Your husband purchased the beach house on Gasparilla Island some months ago. I have a copy of the purchase contract here in the file. As I mentioned, Mr. Parous, your American attorney, will be able to handle the transfer into your name. Now, is there anything else you’d like to ask me?’
‘Mr. Parous?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ He handed Grace a business card. ‘I’ve already spoken to him and faxed him a copy of the will. He sounds like a very competent chap. I’m sure he’ll deal with the legalities in a prompt and professional manner.’
Grace glanced at it. Zachary Parous, Esquire, Attorney at Law. Beneath the neatly typed name were a telephone number and an address in Miami. She sat dumbfounded. Why hadn’t Daniel told her that he’d purchased a house in Florida?
Her mind refused to accept what she’d been told. She was about to ask how Daniel could afford a second home when the solicitor pushed a pile of papers across the desk.
‘If you’d just sign these, Mrs. Elliott, I can get started. Mrs. Elliott?’
‘I’m sorry? My signature? Yes, of course.’ She signed every sheet without reading it. Daniel always told her what she was signing. Daniel—
It was dark when Grace left the solicitor’s office. Numbness had finally set in. She moved without thinking, without emotion— as if she were one of the stick figures at a theme park—flagging down a taxi and giving the driver her address.
Flicking on the hall light in her home, the home she and Daniel had shared and loved, the pain returned in a torrent. She dropped her purse on the table, and went straight to the study. Daniel’s study, the one room in the house she never entered, not even to dust.
Grace rested her hand on the doorknob, and half expected to hear his deep-timbered voice scolding her for disturbing him. She’d ignored his warning only once, the ensuing argument had left her reeling. Ever since then she’d respected his wishes, all of them.
But Daniel was no longer here to wish for anything.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The air smelled stale. She told herself that the lingering aroma of pipe tobacco was permanently embedded in the furniture, but her feelings told her otherwise—that he was here, alive somehow, yet invisible to her. She fumbled with the catch on the window and threw it open, impervious to the frigid air that flooded the room.
An old leather chair, which had once belonged to Daniel’s father, stood next to the soot-stained limestone fireplace where ashes of a half-burned log lay in the grate. A large oak desk, its surface covered with a faint film of dust, filled the bay window. The date on the desk calendar showed the seventeenth of November, the day Daniel had left for the conference. She tore off the pages without bothering to read the proverb printed underneath, and threw them into the wastepaper basket.
Daniel’s face, and that of her own, smiled back at her from a silver-framed photograph on the corner of the desk. She picked it up and wiped the dust from the surface with her fingertips.
‘What other secrets have you kept from me?’
Daniel’s brown, unfathomable eyes seemed to stare everywhere but at her. With a heavy heart she replaced the photograph on the desk. She collapsed into the chair and rested her aching head in her hands. Their marriage hadn’t been perfect; they’d had their fair share of ups and downs like every other couple, but she’d never thought of Daniel as being secretive. Yet the last few hours had proved that he was just that.
She leaned back and rubbed her temples. Nothing the solicitor had told her made any sense. They weren’t rich. Their joint bank account, which last time she looked, held less than two thousand pounds. When they purchased Applegate Cottage four years ago, they had paid the minimum ten per cent deposit and borrowed the rest from the bank. So where had the money come from to purchase a house in America? And more importantly, why hadn’t Daniel told her about it?
The desk held seven drawers—three in each pedestal and one in the centre. Her fingers hovered over the small brass handle on the centre drawer. Feeling like an intruder, she pulled it open. It was empty. One by one she opened the remaining drawers. Apart from an assortment of envelopes, a few credit card receipts, a letter opener shaped like a dagger, and some spare batteries for the hand-held dictating machine Daniel occasionally used, she found nothing connected to the beach house.
Daniel’s briefcase, which the police had found in his car, and the personal items from his office, sat in a box next to the door. She slipped out of the chair, picked it up, and placed it on the desk. Item by item she removed the contents: a desk diary, a box of post-it-notes, a calculator, and a framed photograph of her and Catherine. The desk diary she placed to one side, replaced everything else, and then put the box on the floor.
She’d given Daniel the Raffaello briefcase for his thirtieth birthday. It had cost two weeks housekeeping money, but it had been worth it to see the smile on his face when he opened the box. She ran her fingers over the now scuffed and torn calfskin.
Grace flipped the locks to open the case, but nothing happened. She dug the fingertips of her right hand into the frame and tugged at the handle. The catch on one side gave, and she realized that the frame had somehow become warped. With great care she eased the blade of the letter opener into the lock on the opposite side and twisted sharply. There was a loud click and the lock popped open. She removed Daniel’s MacBook and a number of manila folders. One by one, she went through the internal compartments, but found nothing else of interest.
Part of the silk lining had come away from the frame. When Grace ran her fingers along the edge she felt something underneath. She pulled back the fabric and found an envelope taped to the bottom of the case. She tore it free and turned it over in her hand.
Why go to so much trouble to hide something as innocuous as an envelope? She slipped her fingernail under the flap and opened it. A passport and a tiny piece of paper fluttered on to the blotter. A series of numbers, written in Daniel’s unmistakeable scrawl, covered the surface. Perplexed, she counted the digits. Twenty-four. Daniel was fascinated by numbers and frequently designed puzzles as a way of relaxing. Were these something he was working on, or the combination to the safe at the office?
The latter seemed the most likely explanation, yet Daniel had an eidetic memory. There was never a need for him to write anything down.
Grace opened the passport at the photograph on the back page. Daniel’s face stared up at her. Only the name in the passport wasn’t his, but that of Lionel Lattide.
A flicker of apprehension coursed through her. She tried to catch her breath, but couldn’t get air. The more she struggled to control her breathing, the more terrified she became. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. She willed herself to relax, just as the doctor had told her to, but it was impossible.
She staggered into the kitchen. Her medication lay on the shelf next to the fridge. Standing on tiptoe, she reached for the bottle, but her hands shook so much it slipped from her grasp, the contents spilling out along the shelf and on to the floor.
She could get through this, she told herself. It was only a panic attack—she wasn’t about to die. It wasn’t real. Crying with frustration, her fingers trailed along the floor until she finally pinched a wayward pill between her thumb and forefinger. She
popped it in her mouth, and washed it down with a glass of water from the tap.
Leaning against the sink for support, she forced herself to breathe deeply, in, out, in, out. The pill started to do its work, and the room began to steady itself. As her heartbeat slowed, she tried to ignore the questioning voice in her mind, but couldn’t. She pressed her hands over her eyes in an attempt to blot out her fears.
What have you done, Daniel, to need a second passport?
She took another sip of water. The passport lay on the drainer next to her hand. With trembling fingers, she opened it and turned to the visa section.
It was stamped.
She froze. Her mind and body benumbed.
She peered at the faint impression and could just make out the words ‘Department of Homeland Security’. America! She turned to another page, and found that too, had been stamped. During the last six months alone, Daniel or whoever he was, had travelled to the United States on five occasions.
Why?
She wrenched the calendar off the wall, and compared it to the passport. Every entry visa coincided with a date when Daniel had been away on business.
Waves of panic and nausea overwhelmed her, and she sank to her knees and sobbed. The man to whom she had trusted her heart had lied to her. Not once, not twice, but least four times.
Pain yielded to anger.
Who was her husband?
It seemed that the only way to find out was to fly to Miami and meet with the attorney, Zachary Parous.
It sounded so easy when she said it quickly. But the thought of such a journey aroused old fears and anxieties. She wasn’t a traveller and certainly not alone. What if she had a panic attack mid-Atlantic? Who would help her? And then there was the small problem of getting from Miami to some place called Gasparilla Island and locating the mysterious beach house. How hard would it be to find? Would she be safe? She’d heard such things about Florida, stories of gangs, drug lords, and even worse.
She snatched up the phone before she could change her mind and booked a seat on the nine-thirty flight to Miami the following morning.
Then there was only one call left to make.
CHAPTER TWO
Emilia was wailing. Again. Jack West waited a moment for the baby’s shrieking to stop. It didn’t. Emilia hit a new high note. He hadn’t bargained for this.
He rammed the paintbrush into the jar of white spirit. Exasperated at yet another interruption, he washed his hands, and then stormed into the family room. He lifted the red-faced, screaming baby from the Moses basket and placed her on his shoulder, gently rubbing her back. How Rosa, Emilia’s mother, could sleep through the piercing cries, he had no idea. But then most new mothers didn’t stay out partying with their friends till dawn.
Emilia’s cries settled into snuffling sounds. He gently bounced the squirming infant down the hallway. Over the course of the last two weeks, Emilia had changed from a placid, six-week old angel into an ‘enfant terrible,’ crying at every opportunity and for no apparent reason. During that time, they had tried everything to placate her, including pushing her in the stroller and playing soft music. But had nothing worked. Finally, Rosa had given in to his pleas and taken the child to the hospital be checked by the paediatrician, who said the most likely cause of the incessant crying was colic. Jack wasn’t convinced. He thought it had something to do with Rosa’s lack of interest in the child.
Emilia burped and threw up all over his shoulder.
‘Damn it,’ Jack muttered. It was his own fault; he knew better. Next time he’d remember to throw a towel over his upper arm before he picked her up.
‘Shush, little girl,’ he murmured, and carried her into the bathroom. He kissed the tufts of black curly hair. ‘Need to change that nasty diaper. You’re not only a noisy little thing, you reek, sweetheart.’
At six feet two and one hundred and eighty-five pounds, his large hands weren’t designed for fastening diapers and easing tiny limbs into pink romper suits.
In the family room, his cell phone rang. He ignored it, but when it rang for a fourth time, then a fifth, he realized he’d forgotten to switch it over to the answering service. He fastened the last popper, scooped up the baby and snatched up the receiver, wedging it between his neck and shoulder as he rocked Emilia.
‘West.’
‘Hello, Jack West? This is—’
‘Grace Elliott,’ he interrupted.
‘How did you know?’
‘I have a good memory.’ Her voice was rich, and smooth like honey, every word a caress. He put the hollow feeling in his gut down to surprise, not the images of a chance meeting six months previously that filled his mind. ‘Why are you calling, Grace?’
‘Daniel’s dead,’ she blurted out. ‘He died in a car accident two weeks ago.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss. It must be a difficult time for you.’
‘The last few weeks haven’t been easy.’
‘So why are you calling and why should your husband’s death interest me?’
‘It doesn’t have anything to do with you, not directly. But do you remember the last thing you said to me?’
‘Remind me.’
‘You said that if I ever needed any help, I should contact you.’
He chuckled mirthlessly. ‘You never fail to amaze me. Look, Grace, things have changed. I’m no longer attached to the embassy in London.’
‘I know that. And that’s exactly why I need your help. It’s difficult to explain over the telephone. My flight gets into Miami International at two twenty-five tomorrow. Could you meet me? I’ll explain everything then, I promise.’
‘I don’t know, Grace. I have commitments,’ he said looking at the sleeping baby cradled in the crook of his arm.
‘Please, Jack. I’ve no one else to turn to. I don’t fully understand, but something odd has happened. And you’re the only person I know in America who can help.’
The strain was evident in her voice. For a moment he didn’t answer. Instead he closed his eyes and remembered the day he’d first seen her—a beautiful woman with glossy, sable hair, sad blue eyes, and a shy smile. She’d slid past his defences then, just as she was doing now.
‘Jack? Jack, are you still there?’
‘Look, are you sure there’s no one else who can help?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘All right, Grace, I’ll meet you. But I can’t promise you anything, you do understand that?’
‘I understand, and thank you, Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He laid Emilia in the Moses Basket. Her eyes fluttered open, and then closed as she stirred briefly. He brushed a finger over the cap of dark fluffy hair. Satisfied that she was indeed asleep, he tiptoed out of the room. As he passed the kitchen, he grabbed a clean T-shirt from the stack of laundry waiting to be ironed and changed his shirt.
While he slapped buttercup-yellow paint on the wall of what was once his study, and now was the nursery, he thought about Grace. Early June last summer, they’d been two people in a crowd of thousands attending the Wimbledon Tennis Championship. His two-month secondment with the Embassy in London over, he’d taken what was left of his accrued leave and purchased a seat for the duration of the tournament. As it happened, Grace had been allocated the seat next to his. When rain showers halted play, he’d offered her shelter under his umbrella, and they started chatting. Equally knowledgeable about the game, it turned out that they both played for their local clubs. Their relaxed banter soon developed into an easy I-like-you kind of rapport.
Whenever there was a break between matches or play was abandoned due to inclement weather, they found a quiet spot to share a bowl of strawberries and a bottle of wine. By the end of the first week, they were constant companions.
Then on the final day of the tournament, he’d suggested they have dinner together. At first Grace had said no, but changed her mind on condition they split the bill. Somewhere between the entrée and dessert, their relationship changed. The conversation became m
ore personal. He’d told her about Rosa, his Cuban girlfriend, from whom he’d parted some months earlier on less than friendly terms, and about his life in Florida. In turn she’d told him about her sister, and the village in Gloucestershire where she lived.
When it came time to say goodnight he saw her safely back to her hotel.
‘Thank you for dinner.’
‘My pleasure. Are you going to ask me in for a nightcap?’
Her smile faltered. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’ She took a deep breath and looked up at him. ‘I—oh, I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just come out with it. Jack, I’m sorry. I’m married.’
His smile didn’t falter it collapsed. ‘You’re married?’
She nodded.
Ring of Lies Page 2