That part wasn’t so easy.
I had no idea what kind of information there might be at Mom’s house, but I hoped there would be papers or records of some kind. After all, they were in business together, and they were, well, doing some other things together.
That was another problem. I might find things I didn’t want to know about. In fact, the thought was so creepy I almost chickened out. But if I didn’t find out who killed Blake, I was in danger of being the top candidate.
Besides, even if Gregory wasn’t the culprit, he was asking a lot of questions. He had to know something, and I had to start my search somewhere.
I still had a key to my mother’s house, and there were boxes of my things in the attic. But I didn’t want to risk running into her—or Gregory. I would have to call her first, and make sure neither one of them was there.
I dialed Mom’s cell phone and held my breath.
“Georgiana! Hello, dear.” I could hear traffic noise in the background, and the throaty purr of the Escalade at cruising speed. “What can I do for you?”
It galled me that she acted as though the only time I called her was when I needed something. What stung more, though, was that she was right. We didn’t have the kind of relationship where we called each other just to chat, or palled around together.
We never went to the latest chick flick together, or lunched just for the fun of it, and we never, ever went shopping together. She was strictly Pearl District and I was outlet mall. The two did not mix well.
“Hi, Mom. Where are you?”
She sighed, audible through the hands-free connection. “Back to the Commons, I’m afraid. We had to have the landscapers come back, even though it’s Saturday and they charge a ridiculous amount of money for weekends. There’s still an issue, and I have to stand over them as if they’re a bunch of five-year-olds to get the job done right.”
She muttered something very unladylike at a passing motorist, then turned her attention back to me. “So, what can I do for you, dear?”
“This is going to sound crazy, but do you still have that box of kitchen stuff you gave me when I first moved back to Pine Ridge? I know I left it at your house while I was getting settled, and I don’t think I ever picked it up.”
“Hello? Who is this? You’re using my daughter’s cell phone, but it can’t be my daughter. She said she had no use for ‘all that kitchen junk’ when I offered it to her.”
I forced myself to laugh at her jibe. “No, Mother, it really is me. It’s hard to believe, I know, but you can blame Wade. He made dinner at my house last night, and he made it clear my kitchen was not properly equipped.”
“Is that all it takes?” I could picture her lifting one eyebrow and pursing her perfectly lipsticked mouth. “Remind me to enlist Wade’s assistance the next time I try to help you.”
“It’s not like that, Mom.” I was not going to have this argument. I just wanted her to say I could go get the box from the house, so I would have an excuse to look around.
“We’ll have to talk about this later, dear. I’m here and I need to go straighten out the landscapers before the situation gets any worse.”
“Mom, wait. If the box is at the house—if you still have it—I can just swing by and pick it up.” I played my trump card. “I’m trying to do better in the kitchen, and I thought maybe the stuff you had would help.”
Her tone softened. “You do need to eat better, dear. The box is in the attic. Go ahead and help yourself.”
She hung up, but not before I heard her rattle off a lightning-fast string of Spanish orders. I felt sorry for the landscapers, but I told myself it was better them than me.
Phase One of Operation Gregory was complete.
I promised the dogs I’d be back soon, and headed out. It was early afternoon, prime time for real estate agents. I suspected that had something to do with Mom’s annoyance at having to babysit the landscape crew at the Commons. It meant someone else would be in the office fielding calls and making the all-important first customer contact.
Someone like Gregory Whitlock.
At least that was what I hoped, because it would mean Gregory wasn’t at my mother’s house.
The driveway was empty and the garage door was closed when I got there. I parked in front, rang the doorbell and listened to the chimes echo through the empty house before I used my key and let myself in the front door.
The house was silent. I walked through into the kitchen and checked the garage door. Locked. I opened it and glanced at the empty garage, reassuring myself that I was alone. I relocked the door. If anyone came home while I was searching it might give me a few extra seconds to cover my tracks.
I tried not to think too much about what I was planning to do. This was my mother, and here I was sneaking into her house—yeah, I had a key, but since I was there under false pretenses I didn’t think it really counted—and getting ready to go through her personal belongings.
There was a stalker quality to my actions that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
I knew Mom had a home office, which is where I expected to find what I wanted, but it was in the back of the house, where I would have the most warning if someone came home.
I started with the kitchen. I’d seen a lot of that room over the last few months. Mom was determined that Gregory and I become friends, and she had made a regular practice of inviting me for dinner with them. She also made a practice of including Wade, fostering her not-so-secret agenda of encouraging our relationship.
I didn’t need to check most of the cupboards and drawers, since I ended up helping in the kitchen each time we had dinner. My mother expected the women to do the cooking while the men relaxed. It was one of the reasons she despaired of my kitchen. For once, that had worked to my advantage.
Mom still had a tiny household office in an alcove of the kitchen. One beat-up two-drawer filing cabinet—a hand-me-down from my dad’s first office—a simple counter, and a wicker chair painted a blazing white.
Standing in front of the file cabinet, I was directly in the line of sight of anyone who opened the garage door. If someone came in, I would only have a few seconds to put everything away.
I started with the bottom drawer. Several years of routine household expenses, utility bills, receipts for repairs and upkeep. Each year was in a separate section with its own individually labeled folders. The second drawer was more of the same, and everything was several years old. It was as though she had abandoned the office when she had been forced to abandon her ideal job of being the perfect wife.
No help.
The sideboard in the dining room held only china, silver, and linens, not that I expected anything else. Ditto the bookshelves and entertainment center in the living room.
I went down the hall toward the back of the house. I didn’t bother with the guest bathroom in the hallway, but I did stop long enough to pull down the folding staircase that led to the attic. I wanted to be able to retreat up those stairs as quickly as possible if I needed to.
I glanced in the old guest bedroom. We’d never had very many actual guests, but that’s what we always called it. The house didn’t have a den or family room, so the guest room had been my de facto playroom when I was small, and my TV retreat as a teenager.
Now my mother had transformed it into a tiny home gym, complete with a top-of-the-line elliptical machine, a rack of hand weights, mirrors, and a flat-screen TV. She had removed the closet doors and filled the space with polished chrome racks piled with fluffy white towels, and a gleaming stainless-steel clothes hamper.
There wasn’t anywhere to hide anything in that room.
I moved on.
My old bedroom was across the hall, the door slightly ajar. I pushed the door and stepped into Mom’s new office. There was a massive rolltop desk I recognized as having been my father’s. The satin-finished cherrywood glowed warmly, the way it had in Dad’s office when I was a kid. A sleek notebook computer rested alone on the desktop. Of course Mo
m would have everything neatly filed away.
Many of our older clients at Samurai had been fearful of new technology. Despite the obvious advantages, they had to be coaxed into the world of high tech.
My mother was the exact opposite. From what I had seen, she had enthusiastically embraced the twenty-first century, and turned each new piece of technology to her advantage. Her laptop, PDA, cell phone, and GPS were all part of the technological arsenal that kept her in the top rank at Whitlock Estates.
It also meant there might be useful information on her laptop. I should be able to hack into her files without much trouble, but there might be an easier way. Maybe I should just offer to give her the benefit of that expensive education she was always talking about.
This might be my only chance at the office, however.
I glanced at my watch. I’d already been in the house fifteen minutes, and I hadn’t found anything. If any of the neighbors noticed, Mom might wonder what had taken me so long.
I opened doors and pulled out drawers in a hasty search. There were boxes of discs, each neatly labeled in a code that wasn’t immediately apparent.
My frustration grew. Mom had all her files backed up on disc, but there was no way I could go through them in the time I had.
The credenza was another matter. I found a file with loan papers for the house, showing a second mortgage taken out three years ago, right after she got her real estate license. Along with the loan documents was a list of payments made from the escrow, including a payment to Whitlock Estates referenced to “Clackamas Commons.”
Had she loaned Gregory money? Was she repaying a loan from his company? Did he hold an interest in her house somehow, or she an interest in his?
I looked at the closed door at the end of the hallway—my mother’s bedroom. I shook my head. I wasn’t that desperate.
Yet.
I heard a car in the driveway, and the groan of the garage door opening.
I shoved the file folder back in place, slammed the drawer shut, and raced into the hall and up the staircase to the attic.
I dug frantically through the piles of sealed cartons, each labeled in my mother’s precise handwriting with the contents and the date.
It struck me that mom’s organizational skills and rigid control were wasted as a housewife. She could have planned the D-day invasion and pulled it off without a hitch.
I spotted the box I needed. It said “Georgiana—Kitchen Equipment” with a date just a week after I had moved into the rental in Pine Ridge. Apparently the box had gone in the attic, labeled and dated, just days after I’d told her I wasn’t ready for it yet.
My shirt sleeve caught a cobweb as I hefted the box into my arms. I left it there as evidence of my search in the attic.
Cradling the box in my arms, I took a few steps down the staircase and waited. The door from the garage to the kitchen opened, and I called out, “Mom, is that you?”
“No, Georgiana, it’s me,” a male voice called back.
Gregory. I nearly lost my grip on the box. The contents rattled as the box shifted, a tinny clattering sound.
Gregory appeared in the hallway. His expression was bland, but there was a hint of self-satisfaction in his eyes, as though “catching” me in the house was an accomplishment.
“Here,” he said, “let me take that for you.”
I handed over the box, feeling exposed without it in my arms. How had Gregory managed to show up at the house, just at the time I was there? On a day he should be working? Was he spying on me somehow?
chapter 22
Gregory carried the box into the kitchen and set it down on the empty counter. My mother’s kitchen was always so spotless, you could eat off the floor—though I never understood why anyone would want to.
I made a show of opening the box and rummaging through the contents, while Gregory watched. “Mom said there were some things in here I needed,” I chattered, trying to disguise the nervousness that made my knees feel shaky.
If I was right, Gregory had something to do with the death of Blake Weston. I was alone with a man I suspected of involvement with a murder. No wonder I felt nervous.
I pulled out a soup ladle. “This is what I was looking for,” I said. I held it for a moment, wondering if I could use it as a weapon to defend myself.
Not really. I dropped it back in the box with the other kitchen gear, and folded the top down. I could always throw the entire box at him and run. Sue said that running was a good solution, and this instant I couldn’t think of a better one.
Unfortunately, Gregory was between me and the doorway.
He moved forward a step. “Really too bad about your friend,” he said. “I hear the sheriff’s calling it a murder, not an accident.”
He took another step. “Did you ever find out what he was here for?”
I stood my ground. Mostly because there wasn’t anywhere to go. I breathed deep and balanced myself on the balls of my feet, ready to move.
“A job, as far as I know, Gregory. Like I told you and Mom the other day, he was designing a security system for the McComb project. We only exchanged a few words.”
“A pretty heated few words, from what I was told. I hear you called him some names and he made some nasty remarks.”
He shrugged and took another step. “That sounds like a lot more than just someone you used to work with.
“It sounds like you two had a much more personal relationship.”
He was almost close enough to reach out and touch me. The box was on the counter next to me. I could run and leave it there, though I wasn’t sure how I’d explain that to my mother.
That was the least of my worries.
“It was a small company. We worked under extreme pressure and for long hours. Everything felt personal after a while.” Not a great excuse, but I had other things on my mind.
Like my mother’s murderous boyfriend.
Gregory shrugged elaborately this time, lifting his hands and raising his shoulders. “I suppose.” He smiled, an expression that sent another chill through me. “I know we get that same feeling at Whitlock Estates. Although”—his tone shifted to embarrassed amusement—“some of the relationships actually become personal.”
His glance toward the doorway leading to the dining room and the bedrooms beyond underscored exactly how personal one of those relationships had become. The parallel with my relationship with Blake wasn’t lost on me.
Did Gregory know anything about me and Blake? Or was he fishing for information?
Was he worried that Blake might have given me information that would implicate him as his killer?
“Ancient history,” I said with a lightness I didn’t feel. “I don’t know exactly what you heard, but we had a few words and that was it. I went back to work, and he went away. Last I saw of him.”
I didn’t count the image I couldn’t get out of my head: flashlights illuminating a pair of hand-stitched Italian loafers in the mud at the bottom of the moat.
Gregory reached toward me. I put my arms up in a defensive pose, ready to repel his attack.
He gave me a quizzical look as he hefted the box of kitchen gear into his arms. “Let me carry this out to your car for you.”
I pretended I was reaching for the box, then dropped my arms and said “Thanks,” hoping I had covered my initial reaction. Gregory shrugged and turned away.
I followed him through the dining room and into the living room. I glanced at the hall where the attic staircase still extended down from the ceiling.
“I’ll take care of the ladder,” he said.
I didn’t argue. All I wanted was to get out of the house and away from Gregory as fast as I could.
The evening stretched in front of me. I could call Sue, but I hesitated. What if she had plans with the sheriff? It was Saturday night, date night.
The kitchen was full of food, the refrigerator was stocked, and I had a box full of new-to-me kitchen tools. I wasn’t being a recluse; I was reacquainting m
yself with my kitchen.
I unpacked and scrubbed the tools, and put them away. Underneath the spatulas and ladles and spoons I found baking pans—two round cake pans, a ceramic pie plate with a cover, a pair of loaf pans. I wondered if I even remembered how to bake bread—a skill my mother had insisted was necessary for any good homemaker to master.
Not that I was going to try it tonight. But who knew what the new, more domestic Georgie might do?
Daisy and Buddha were confused by my sudden burst of domesticity. They followed me around the house, whining at the vacuum and whimpering when the bathroom cleaner stung their noses. They approved of the kitchen duties, though. It meant the three of us hung out in the room with food, and they might occasionally get a scrap or two.
Cooking didn’t distract me enough. I wanted to know why Blake Weston, a man who never even ventured into the suburbs, had traveled to a place he would have considered the edge of civilization. Even a job as big as the McComb project wouldn’t have been enough to tempt him.
There had to be more to it. I knew where to look, I just didn’t want to.
I got my laptop, set it on the kitchen table, and booted up. Within minutes I was on the Samurai Security website, looking at their latest achievements.
I had resisted the temptation to even look at their site since I left San Francisco. There was something slightly ghoulish about looking at the site of a company I used to own.
I had put it all behind me, and refused to turn back. But Blake’s death was forcing me to revisit the past.
There were no links from the website to the Samurai computers. It would have been beyond embarrassing for anyone to gain access to the internal system. The site’s servers were run from an independent web-hosting company. No way to reach the Samurai company records directly.
The phone rang and I heard Stan Fischer’s booming voice. “Georgie Girl, it’s Stan. Just got through with the McCombs. Took a little longer than I expected. I’m headed back to my hotel.” He cleared his throat and waited for me to pick up.
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