And speaking of Trick—or more accurately, thinking of Trick—where was he? It was almost eleven. How long did it take to drive to Reno and back?
She scowled at the parquet flooring—also clean now but in serious need of a waxing. Once polished, it would…Was that piece of parquetry in the corner lo s thalsose? It seemed to be tilted up on one end, a fraction of an inch out of alignment.
She stilled. Was that a motor she heard? Was Trick back?
She opened the heavy shutters and peered out into the darkness. No car. No Trick. And apparently no distracting her brain with mundane concerns like uneven floors. She sighed. Where was he?
With Britt, she told herself firmly, Britt who was thoroughly hooked on Marcello. Of course, it wasn’t Marcello Britt had asked to accompany her to Reno.
Nevada frowned into the darkness. At the time, she hadn’t thought a thing of it, but what if Britt had finally tired of Marcello’s hard-to-get act? What if she’d decided to get her flirt on with Trick? Worse, what if Trick had taken Nevada’s earlier withdrawal to heart? What if Trick and Britt were…?
Damn it, think of something else.
She studied the board in the corner. It wasn’t her imagination. The wood really was tilted out of line. Maybe if she applied a little pressure, she could shove it back into place.
She crossed the room, telling herself that Trick and Britt were both consenting adults and what they did with and/or to each other was none of her business, but that didn’t stop the images that flashed through her brain—Trick and Britt kissing, touching…
Damn it.
And them.
And her for a silly fool who’d fallen for a man she barely knew. And what was even more foolish, a man who didn’t know her at all.
“I’m just the hired help,” she said aloud, which, come to think of it, wasn’t exactly grounds for a pity party, particularly when compared with her previous stint as Subject 111.
Nevada peered down at the misaligned parquetry at her feet. She tried tapping it into place with her heel, but it didn’t budge. Odd, she thought, as she knelt down to have a closer look. She pressed with her finger. Again it didn’t move. It wasn’t loose as she’d assumed.
She stood up, staring absently down at the offending board as she ran through various possibilities in her head. She could (a) try to fix it herself, (b) ask Marcello or Trick to hammer it back in line, or (c) just shove a piece of furniture over into the corner to camouflage the imperfection.
And yet…Something teased at her memory. She brought her gaze into focus and stared hard at the tilted board. It, along with three other pieces of parquetry formed a crisscross design, a design repeated all over the room. Like crosses or…X’s.
X marks the spot. That’s what Blanche had written in her diary, and here Nevada was, in Blanche’s old room where Blanche’s old floor was littered with X’s. One in particular stood out, though. The flawed one.
“X marks the spot,” she said aloud, then dropped to her knees once again.
Daniel glanced up from the proposed education reform bill sn rterhe was reading as Consuela, looking wary and a little perturbed, edged into his office. “There are two”—she hesitated, as if searching for the right word—“gentlemen outside who insist on speaking to you. A Señor Collier and a Señor Branson. I told them you were busy, Señor Snowden, but—”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Show them in.”
Billy Branson shot a triumphant smirk at the housekeeper as she reluctantly ushered them into Daniel’s office. “Bitch,” he muttered as she closed the door.
“Mind your manners,” Daniel snapped. “You’re not riding with a renegade biker gang anymore.”
Billy’s smirk turned sullen.
“I assume you’re here to tell me you found the girl.”
Billy looked sideways at Sarge. Sarge stared at the floor. Neither said a thing.
“I’m waiting.”
Sarge straightened, making eye contact. “No sign of her in San Francisco.”
“Did you try the outlying areas? Oakland? Alameda? San Leandro?”
“Checked ’em all and came up empty,” Billy said.
“You asked at all the cheap motels? The vagrant camps?”
“We looked everywhere, boss,” Sarge said. “She’s not there. She’s not in San Francisco.”
Daniel’s acid reflux kicked into high gear. “What do you mean she’s not in San Francisco? Earlier, you said you were sure she was headed that way.”
“Oh, we found the girl, all right,” Sarge said and Daniel’s heartbeat picked up. “The girl who worked those couple days at the fast-food place here in Sacramento. Only she wasn’t your sister.”
“Half sister,” Daniel corrected him.
“She wasn’t your half sister,” Sarge repeated.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” Billy said. “This chick was only about seventeen.”
“Whitney might look younger than she is.”
“But I’m betting she don’t have half the pinky on her left hand missing,” Billy said, “and a big old tramp stamp in the small of her back.”
“What’s a tramp stamp?” Daniel asked.
“Tattoo,” Sarge translated. “In this case a butterfly.”
“So the whole trip was a wild goose chase,” Daniel said.
“Pretty much.” Sarge nodded. “I’m thinking the trip here to Sacramento was a waste of time, too. I don’t think your half sister ever came within fifty miles of the city.”
“But you told me she’d hitched a ride here to Sacramento.”
< s hep h/div>
“Because that’s what we were told,” Sarge said, “and, at the time, we had no reason to question the source. Only what if the two guys in the Jeep were lying through their teeth?”
“Why would they do that?” Billy demanded. “They thought we were cops.”
“Maybe they wanted the girl for their own purposes.” Sarge licked his lips. “Pretty little thing like that…I can think of half a dozen reasons to keep her hidden.”
“They didn’t seem—” Billy started, but Sarge cut him off.
“Freaks don’t always look like freaks.” He spread his hands. “Case in point.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Daniel said. “They’re the only lead we have. You know where they live, so what’s the problem? Go have another talk with them.”
Sarge stood a little straighter. “And by talk you mean?”
“Beat the truth out of them if you have to, but find my half sister.”
EIGHT
From his vantage point in one of the rustic Adirondack chairs scattered across the broad front porch of the Lakeshore Lodge, Marcello watched from beneath lowered lids—the wine had made him sleepy—as Britt zoomed past in a brand-new Ford Expedition, then slowed sharply for the turn into Trick’s drive. She would take him home first, of course, before returning to the lodge.
He wondered how her run-in with the police had turned out, whether she would end up paying a fine or just get a slap on the wrist. Stupid woman. She had bloodied that poor tourist’s lip and for no good reason. The redhead had done nothing to deserve a punch in the mouth. Quite a pleasant woman really, not to mention easy on the eyes.
Though maybe that was the root of the problem. The redhead—Tara? Tina? Tanya?—was beautiful, and therefore, Britt had perceived her as a threat. Britt had reacted out of jealousy.
Marcello smiled a particularly self-satisfied smile. And yes, he probably should be ashamed of himself for gloating, but it was quite flattering to know Britt felt that way about him. Of course, it was also depressing and more than a little worrisome.
His smile faded. He frowned into the darkness. Britt Petersen was strong, beautiful, and intelligent, everything a man could ask for in a woman. Everything he could ask for in a woman, something he had noticed the first time they had met, something that had become increasingly clear as time went on. He cared for Britt Peterse
n. A lot. Given half a chance, he could love her. But that would be wrong. He had no right to fall in love. He was, after all, a married man.
Five years ago he had pledged himself to another strong, beautiful, intelligent woman. It was not Antonia’s fault that everything had changed.
Nor hi vmans.
But marriage vows made before God and blessed by a priest were forever. No exceptions. Britt was not for him, and the sooner he made that clear to her, the sooner she could get on with her life.
The Expedition pulled out of Trick’s drive, but instead of turning into the lodge parking area, it sped off toward Midas Lake. For some reason, Britt was not coming home.
And maybe that was a good thing. He needed more time to unmuddle his wine-soaked brain, to find the words that would crush any hopes that the two of them might have a future together. Sometimes it was necessary to be cruel in order to be kind.
Marcello settled back in the chair to wait.
Trick let himself in the back door, wondering what the hell Nevada was thinking, leaving the door unlocked like that. Anyone could have walked in—a burglar, a vagrant, one of her pursuers. “Nevada?” he called, switching on the overhead light in the kitchen. “Are you still up?” A good bet since the third floor was lit up like the candles on an octogenarian’s birthday cake.
“Coming.” Her voice echoed hollowly down the back stairs.
He leaned his cane against the wall next to the door. The doctor had said as long as he wore his brace, he could start weaning himself off the cane. He’d only taken it along today in case he and Britt had ended up doing a lot of walking, which they had.
He flexed his knee carefully. A little stiff, but no pain.
He limped across to the counter, settling onto a barstool just as Nevada came clattering down the back stairs. “Did you have a good time in Reno?” she asked, then grinned in response to his sour expression. “No, I guess not.”
“Why do women have such a hard time making up their minds?”
“Women meaning Britt?”
“I don’t know how many car dealerships we visited. I lost count after the first half dozen or so.”
“So your afternoon sucked, huh?” For some reason, she sounded pretty pleased about that.
“The afternoon was tedious,” he corrected her. “It was my evening that sucked. We got back almost two hours ago.”
“Two hours ago?” She frowned.
“As we were on the final leg, driving through downtown Midas Lake, Britt spotted the Jeep parked in front of the Gold Rush Saloon.”
“Marcello moped around all afternoon,” she said, “before deciding to go cry into his beer.”
“Wine,” Trick said. “He was drinking wine and, when we walked in, getting hit on by a redhead who seemed pretty anxious to have him give her new boob job a test drive. Britt tossed the wine in Marcello’s face, then decked the redhead.”
“What!”
“One punch and Red went down. Of course, the bartender called the cops, and they hauled Britt off to jai {itt" wl, tried to charge her with drunk and disorderly, though she hadn’t been drinking, so the drunk part didn’t stick. Still took almost two hours to get her released.”
“What about Marcello?”
Trick shrugged. “Still drinking, I guess. How was your night?”
“Fantastic. I was working up on the third floor—”
“Working and fantastic don’t seem to go together.”
“And I found buried treasure,” she finished.
“Wait a minute. Buried treasure on the third floor? Doesn’t buried imply digging, as in shoveling dirt? I know the mansion’s filthy, but…”
“Come see for yourself,” she said, leading the way up the back stairs at a near run.
Trick followed more slowly, favoring his injured knee.
“This way!” Nevada called when he finally reached the third-floor landing.
He made his way to the room at the far end of the hall. “This is Blanche’s room, the room where you found the nugget,” he said, glancing around. No holes in the walls or floor, which was somewhat reassuring.
“The nugget and Blanche’s diary,” she said, “which included one cryptic entry: X marks the spot.”
“Which,” he said, “any good pirate can tell you means that’s where the treasure’s hidden. Only this isn’t exactly a desert island.”
“No,” she agreed, “but look at the floor. X’s everywhere you look.”
“The design in the parquetry, you mean?”
She nodded. “See this board? It’s tilted a little off horizontal. Watch.” She pressed on the slightly depressed end, and it tilted up to disclose a space underneath.
“Empty,” he said, feeling obscurely disappointed.
“Empty now,” she told him. “But look what I found inside!” She extended her hand, palm up, to show him an ornate gold band.
“Pretty,” he said, “but I doubt it’s worth much. I wouldn’t exactly call it a treasure.”
“Depends on your point of view, I guess. This is Blanche’s secret cache, and it looks a lot like a wedding ring to me.”
Trick examined her find more closely. “Or an engagement ring.”
“If Blanche was married, or even just engaged, she was probably planning to leave the brothel.”
“Okay,” Trick agreed. “That makes sense, but it’s hardly a motive for murder.”
“Marcello?”
Stiff, cold, and wretchedly uncomfortable, Marcello dragged himself from { hi
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you stupid man. The Jeep was still parked in front of the Gold Rush, but you weren’t there. No one was. They’d closed down for the night.”
“I walked home,” he said, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy. “I had had too much to drink. Driving would not have been safe.”
“Less than a mile on deserted streets?”
“Not even that far. The risk is too great. Ask Antonia.” He frowned.
Britt just looked confused. “Who’s Antonia?” Her eyes narrowed. “The redhead?”
He heaved a sigh. “No, that was Tina.” He frowned. “Or maybe Tara?”
“Then who’s Antonia?” Britt demanded.
“My wife.”
“Your what?”
“My wife,” he repeated, trying not to see the pain in her face.
“You’re married? But…I don’t understand.”
“Antonia is in Zurich.”
“She lives there?”
“If you can call it living,” he said. “She does not speak. Cannot speak. Brain damage.”
“I don’t understand,” she said again.
“Neither do I.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “She was very like you—young, beautiful, athletic, an avid skier. We were on our honeymoon in the Alps when she was run down by a drunk driver. He did not even stop.” Marcello met her gaze. “So no, I do not drive when I have been drinking. I owe Antonia that much.”
“There’s something written inside this ring,” Trick said. “Here, look.” He passed it back to Nevada.
“Doesn’t look like words to me,” she said. “My guess is, it’s the jeweler’s mark.”
“Very likely,” he agreed. “I think I’ll have someone look at it. Might be smart to make an enlargement of Blanche’s photograph and get a professional’s input on the amulet, too.” He glanced up then and caught the look of pure panic that flashed across Nevada’s face. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She looked away quickly, but he caught her chin and tilted her face up to his.
“What’s the problem? I thought you wanted to find out who you really are.”
“I do, but…”
“But what?” he asked softly.
“What if I don’t like the answer? What if I am as bad as {an>>
“Nonsense,” he said firmly.
“But what if?”
“Nonsense,” he repeated. “You’ve been here for over a week now. Do you honestly think
you could live in such close proximity to Marcello and me for that long and not reveal your true character? I might not know your real name, Nevada, but I know you, and you don’t have an evil bone in your body. If you killed your father—and I don’t for a second think that you did—but if you killed him, you must have had a good reason.”
“Does insanity count as a good reason?” Her voice quavered as if she were on the verge of tears.
“You’re not insane.” He pulled her into his arms and held her close until gradually her rigid muscles relaxed. “You’re not insane,” he said again.
“You don’t know that for certain,” she said, her words muffled against his chest.
He moved slightly away from her, tilting her face up so he could make eye contact. “Yes, I do. Marcello did a Google search on your Dr. Poison Apple and his institute.”
“He did?” Her eyes mirrored surprise and something else he couldn’t quite pin down. Fear? Betrayal?
“We can’t protect you if we don’t know who all the bad guys are.”
“The doctor’s a bad guy?”
“Technically speaking, no,” Trick admitted, “though his methods seem a little extreme.”
“A little?” she echoed faintly. “I don’t know what he did to me, but considering that I can’t even remember my name, I think I’d label his methods as off-the-chart extreme.”
“But not illegal,” Trick said.
Nevada didn’t say a word, just stared up at him, her face expressionless. Trick wasn’t sure what she was thinking. All he knew for certain was that she’d stiffened up on him again, her muscles tense and rigid.
Concerned and trying not to show it, he continued. “The Appleton Institute outside Boston is a private facility, supposedly catering to the needs of the mentally disturbed.”
“Supposedly?”
He forced a smile. “You caught that, did you?”
She didn’t smile back.
“Marcello discovered that although Appleton has a degree in psychiatry, his primary interest has always been the field of psi phenomena. He’s passionately interested in paranormal events and the study and observation of psychics.”
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