Last Man Standing

by Julie Miller

  So she’d heard.

  Chad’s smile was firmly back in place when he faced her again. But she’d glimpsed the chink in his plastic exterior. Was it jealousy over Taylor’s quick rise in the family hierarchy? Contempt over golden boy’s qualifications for the job? Mistrust because Jericho had let an ex-cop into the fold?

  Tori didn’t push. Curiosity aside, she wasn’t here to investigate crime family disharmony—unless she needed to use it as leverage to achieve her own agenda.

  “So when can I meet Mr. Taylor?” Though she’d have a hard time feigning respect for a man she knew to be a crooked cop, she had to play the protocol game, or risk her cover. “The sooner I get started, the sooner I can have the estimates for your uncle.”

  “Why are you so anxious to get to work, Victoria?” Chad bolted his drink and strolled back to the desk.

  “Because it’s the job Mr. Meade hired me to do?”

  He, apparently, didn’t appreciate flippancy. He sank into the chair behind the desk. Neither of them was smiling now. “I’m Mr. Meade,” he stated, emphasizing his claim to authority while sounding for all the world like a petulant child. “I’d think you’d want to be making a better impression on me. My uncle is in his late seventies. His mind and health are failing and he’s tired all the time. I’m the one who arranged to have you hired. We’re trying to avoid a legal nightmare with insurance claims and make sure his wishes are carried out after his death.”

  The library door opened with a quiet swish across the carpet. “Don’t write me off just yet, Chad.”

  A wizened old man with a shock of snow-white hair and clear blue eyes entered the room. The gnarled fingers of his left hand clutched an unlit cigar and rested on the arm of a plump man with slick, thinning hair. Though the men were similar in age, there was an unexpected frailty about the white-haired man.

  Despite the added lines and yellowish pallor, Tori recognized Jericho Meade even before Chad rose from his seat to acknowledge him.

  “Uncle.”

  “Mr. Meade.” Tori stood and extended her hand. “Victoria Westin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Releasing his grip on the sturdy anchor of his aide, he moved forward to shake hands politely. “So, you’re Frank’s granddaughter. I haven’t seen that old coot in years.” A single, sliding glance sent Chad scrambling from behind the desk. “Aren’t you late for your game with Lana? It’s not wise to keep your fiancée waiting.” Jericho’s smile turned back to include Tori. “Especially to flirt with another beautiful woman.”

  Ah, so schmaltz ran in the family. Tori forced herself to smile at the indirect compliment. “Thank you.”

  Reluctant to be dismissed, Chad paused beside the portly man she’d identified as Paul Meredith. “Just one thing before I go. I’m curious, Victoria. The university recommended you as an experienced consultant with whom they’ve worked several times. I’ve attended several university and museum fund-raisers. How come we’ve never met before?”

  The dare in his eyes and voice made her wonder whether he was trying to score smart points with his uncle or show her up as a fraud because she’d rebuffed his advances. She’d dealt with power-hungry men like Chad all her life, and had learned to walk a fine line between asserting herself and placating their egos. “I’m dedicated to my work.” That wasn’t a lie, but she wasn’t about to elaborate on her real profession. “My mother’s the fund-raiser in the family. My talents lie more behind the scenes. With graduate school, research and travel, I’ve really had little time for socializing.”

  “There. You see, Chad?” Jericho held on to the desk and guided himself to his chair. “She doesn’t waste her family’s money or her time partying—”

  “I work damn hard. If you’re insinuating—”

  “I believe your uncle dismissed you.” Paul Meredith turned and blocked Chad’s path back to the desk. “Lana will be upset if your tennis match gets rained out because you kept her waiting.”

  Chad cocked his head and glared at the bigger man. “You think he’s going to leave any of this to you, you old buzzard?”

  “Chad.” Frail though he might be in appearance, there was no mistaking the authority in Jericho’s voice. Or the warning. “Because I loved my brother dearly, I’ve raised you like a son. But my patience is wearing thin.” His tone said the discussion was over. “I expect to see you and Lana both at dinner. Enjoy your game.”

  Tori snuck a peek over the top of her glasses. A stiff, tawny lock of hair had actually fallen out of place across Chad’s forehead. He smoothed it and his temper back into place as he faced his uncle.

  “I don’t presume to take Daniel’s place in your heart, Uncle. But he’s gone. I could run this business if you’d give me a chance.”

  Jericho’s eyes glazed over at the mention of Daniel. He did nothing to acknowledge that Chad had even spoken. Finally, accepting his uncle’s dismissal, Chad dipped his chin in a curt nod to her.

  “Victoria. Until dinner.”

  Tori and Paul watched him leave. She made a mental note to steer clear of family politics unless she could find a way to take advantage of it. She could ill afford to side with the wrong person too early in the game. The whole idea of undercover work was not to draw too much attention to herself. And she didn’t want to alienate anyone in the household who might have the answers she needed.

  “Jer?” Paul Meredith’s gentle prodding brought Jericho back from whatever distant place he’d drifted off to.

  The patriarch blinked, then grinned. “Take off your glasses.”

  “Excuse me?” Tori turned to see the old man watching her intently from across the desk. Though curious at how quickly the confrontation with Chad had been forgotten, she complied, pulling off her reading glasses and folding them in her lap. She boldly returned his scrutiny, and he smiled.

  “Yes, I see the resemblance in the eyes. Sometimes it’s easier to remember what happened years ago than what happened yesterday.” Jericho’s voice wavered with a hint of his age and illness now. “But I know those eyes. That deep, true green must be a strong Westin family trait. Though I must say they look prettier on you than they ever did on Frank.”

  “I see some men are never too old to flirt.” She smiled on cue as he’d meant for her to, though it had been a long time since she’d considered having more in common with her grandfather than a name. And she wasn’t interested in exploring any family history. It was enough to know the two men had once done business with each other. Her smile never wavered. “You know what would really impress me?”

  “What?”

  “Show me some of your etchings?” The line might be trite, but it had the intended effect.

  The old man laughed. “You flatter me, girl.”

  Whatever was happening to his deteriorating mind and body wasn’t affecting him now. He leaned on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. Paul Meredith was right there to support him, but Jericho waved him aside. “If you’d let an old man hold on to you, dear, I’d love to show you some of my favorite pieces.”

  Tori’s pulse thrummed in anticipation as she tossed her bag over her shoulder and stood. Lax security. The distraction of a power struggle within the family. Approval from the boss.

  The Divine Horseman was as good as hers.

  Chapter Three

  Tori hadn’t really thought Jericho would take her straight to a vault filled with stolen goods. But she had hoped he’d do more than point out the Borglum bust she’d already seen on display in the entryway or the George Caleb Bingham painting over the mantel in the living room.

  There were no fewer than six archways off the foyer, and she’d been shown through only two. They were both public areas—places to entertain guests. She hadn’t seen anything remotely resembling a safe or secret room. Or an office. The Meades owned buildings in downtown Kansas City, but there had to be a nerve center for an estate this size. A place to run a business, hold meetings. Keep records.

  Stash stolen artifacts.

&nb
sp; Jericho did own an impressive collection of art. But, recalling the list supplied by the two Bills, she knew everything she’d seen thus far had been legitimately purchased.

  There was no golden horseman in sight.

  If she was going to find it, she’d have to gain access to the restricted rooms of the house and open a few of those locked doors. With or without Jericho’s or Cole Taylor’s permission.

  Forty-five minutes after the tour had started, Paul tapped his watch. “It’s time for your medication, Jer. At least an hour before dinner, remember?”

  “You’re as fussy as an old woman,” Jericho grumbled. “Call Aaron,” he ordered. With a reluctant sigh, he patted Tori’s hand and excused himself for a chance to rest.

  Tori stood alone in the foyer for several minutes. It was long enough for her to study the paintings on the wall, making mental appraisals of each one’s value and working her way closer to the restricted wing of the house. She was close enough to reach for the knob of one of the French doors recessed in an archway when Aaron Polakis suddenly materialized behind her.

  She traced the ivy vine carved into the walnut molding framing the doorway. “This house has beautiful woodwork, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t care about her opinion. “This way, Ms. Westin.”

  His accent was even more pronounced as he replaced each W with a V sound. For a moment, she thought he might have been spying on her, that he’d seen her looking into places she shouldn’t and was going to call her on it. But then she realized he was more worried about something else.

  He was slightly out of breath. And the instant her gaze fell to the open front of his jacket, he quickly buttoned it, then pulled down the cuffs of his shirt at the end of each sleeve. The adjustments were brisk and methodical, but done hastily enough to make Tori think he’d just changed his clothes and run in from somewhere.

  The man had been out of uniform and out of touch. But whether he’d been taking a legitimate break and had been caught unawares, or he’d been caught off guard, period, was hard to tell. Another flaw in Cole Taylor’s half-baked security system.

  “We go now.” Aaron led her directly to her room on the second floor. “There—” he pointed out the tall, antique armoire where her clothes had been hung “—and there.” He opened the door to the adjoining bath. “Dinner is at seven in the dining room. Down the stairs. To your left.”

  “Thank you.”

  His dark eyes swept over her with something like disdain before he closed the door. Maybe he was anxious to get back to whatever had detained him, or just afraid she’d report him for dereliction of his duty. She certainly hadn’t made a friend there. But she did appreciate the silent reminder to watch her back while she was here.

  After throwing open the drapes and sheers in a futile effort to bring some much-needed light into the room, Tori dropped her bag onto the chenille bedspread and picked up the monogrammed notecard lying on her pillow beside a piece of wrapped candy. She unfolded the card and read the dramatically scrawled message written inside.

  Miss Westin—

  Welcome to Meade Manor. Looking forward to our time together.

  Enjoy your stay.

  J.D.M.

  “Nice touch.” Her host was definitely old school, like her grandfather. But she had a feeling that his polite, gentlemanly manner, like Frank Westin’s, was just a facade that hid a ruthless, driven man who cared more about profit than people.

  Tossing the card onto the bed, she popped the candy into her mouth. She winced at the strong taste of bitter mint inside the chocolate and spit the nasty thing back into the wrapper, then tossed the whole thing into the trash.

  “I prefer a caramel on my pillow, thank you very much.” Speaking her real opinion out loud, even on a topic as mundane as candy preferences, reminded Tori that she was playing a role for the next several days. Professor Westin could talk freely. Agent Westin needed to be on guard every moment she was undercover. With her mind firmly in business mode, she conducted a thorough search of her room and the white-tiled bathroom. She found one listening device on the lamp atop the correspondence desk, but her sensor picked up no cameras. For a passing moment, she considered disabling the bug. But no sound from a room where someone intended to eavesdrop would raise suspicion.

  “Let’s see, what shall I wear?” The mundane comment covered her as she ran her fingers along the joint where the walnut armoire butted against the wall. The tall antique with its flowery cornices rested flush against the rose-patterned wallpaper, not even separated by the width of the baseboard. One of the lovely eccentricities of Victorian manor houses was the scarcity of built-in closets. Architects and designers of any era rarely attached furniture to the wall itself. So that meant…

  Tori opened the door and hauled out her suits and blouses on their hangers and dumped them onto the bed. She pulled a penlight from her bag and, reliving a favorite childhood book, climbed right up into the armoire itself, searching first with her eyes and then with her fingertips for any kind of latch. She’d almost given up in disappointment that she wouldn’t be transported into another world when she spotted a set of four odd marks imprinted in the dust on the back panel.

  “Curious,” she thought, holding her right hand up beside the marks. The size was greater than her own hand, but the pattern was the same. Other than an odd span between the third and fourth spot, they lined up in the perfect imprint of four fingers. “I’ve had company.”

  And she didn’t think it was the lost maid.

  Even a forensic specialist would have a hard time recovering usable prints once a layer of dust had settled over them. But four out of five was a significant number. It should be easy enough, through casual observation, to find out who in the house was missing the ring finger on his or her right hand.

  But it wasn’t the who so much as the how that interested Tori right now. Placing her own hand beneath the telltale prints, she pushed. And smiled at the answering click. A spring-loaded door. She backed out of the armoire as the panel sprang open, then stepped inside for a closer look.

  “Ooh.” She shivered as she stepped into a pocket of cold air. Every follicle on her arms and legs puckered into a sea of goose bumps. Who ran air-conditioning inside the walls of a house? But as she took another step in, the chill passed. Tori’s skin and heartbeat returned to normal. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  Her light revealed a handle on the opposite side of the door for pulling it shut, a two-and-a-half-foot-wide passageway framed by the exposed studs and cross-beams of unfinished walls, and dozens of footprints trampled in the dust on the floor. She peered deeper into the passage, following the well-used path with her eyes. But the prints and her small light were swallowed up by the distant darkness.

  “The guest room must be a popular destination.”

  But for whom? And why?

  Thunder rumbled in the sky like the distant hoofbeats of a galloping herd, shaking the foundations of the house itself. Tori squeezed her toes inside her shoes and refused to read anything more into the sky’s trembling and the house’s response than spooky coincidence. As well-maintained as the mansion might be, it was an old structure, susceptible to sound waves and atmospheric changes.

  Her affirming sigh stirred the dank air and she sneezed as a spiral of dust motes tickled her nose. Was this part of Cole Taylor’s archaic security measures? Sneaking through the house and spying on guests? Were these hidden passageways a conduit for clandestine sexual liaisons? Or, were these catacombs the perfect hiding place for stolen artifacts?

  Chad had hinted that secret rooms and passages cut through the entire mansion. The Divine Horseman could be stored anywhere inside this maze, transported in and out by visitors—known or otherwise—to this room. And though fanciful thoughts of knights and maidens and secret rendezvous tempted her to explore, Tori was practical enough to realize she should eliminate more obvious hiding places for the statuette before she went combing through the innards of the house.

&n
bsp; She wrinkled her nose against the next wave of sneezing and climbed out of the armoire, quietly closing the door behind her and re-hanging her clothes to cover it. As much as Jericho loved his pretty things, he’d be more likely to put The Divine Horseman on display in a private room where he could look at it whenever he wanted. Besides, she had a hard time picturing an arthritic old man sneaking through the narrow, dusty catacombs. She’d be smarter to start her search in one of the locked rooms downstairs.

  Smarter and cleaner.

  As another spate of sneezes burned her sinuses, Tori noticed a soft spring rain falling outside her window now, punctuated by rumblings that foretold a more violent storm in its wake.

  The gloomy weather was the least of her concerns. She stripped and stepped into the claw-foot tub with a pull-around curtain for a quick shower. She’d have a hard time explaining a stuffy nose and cobwebs in her hair if she showed up for dinner after poking around the secret passages.

  One thug, one bug and a secret entrance to her room…Just enough security to keep her on her toes, but not enough to worry her. Yet. Maybe it was time to challenge this unseen Cole Taylor, she thought as she dried off. If he was the loyal protector Chad had made him out to be, then these amateurish efforts to safeguard the Meade mansion were intended to put her and any unwelcome guests off their game. But she’d been tested before; she wouldn’t let him lure her into a false sense of confidence.

  “CLASSICAL MUSIC, HMM?” Cole was a rock-and-roll man himself, but the sudden blare of trumpets brought him from his desk to the bank of monitors that gave him visual access to key parts of the estate, and audio access to nearly everywhere else.

  She had cranked the music in her room—the art professor with the fiery red hair. Now she was zipping around the guest room, wrapped in a white towel that covered her from armpit to thigh. She crossed to the far side of the room to retrieve something from the dresser, giving the camera a wide-angle shot. Cole started unrolling the sleeves of his shirt and buttoning the cuffs, watching the screen and enjoying his work for a change.