Shattered Blue: A Romantic Thriller

by Jane Taylor Starwood

  Inside the door he set Steffie down and threw his arms around Jenna, hugged her tight. She hugged him back.

  “That bad, huh?” she said softly against his chest.

  “Brutal. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “I picked up a good Napa cab just for the occasion.”

  “You’re my superhero, Sis. You always were.”

  He kept his arm around her shoulders as they walked into the dining room.

  Once Steffie had been tucked into bed, Jenna poured two more glasses of cabernet sauvignon and took them into the living room, where Matt sat on the couch, staring into space. She handed him his glass and sat across from him in an overstuffed chair done in rose-patterned chintz.

  “Okay, tell,” Jenna said.

  Matt took a mouthful of wine, let it linger a moment, then swallowed. “Ah, this is excellent. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now quit stalling and give me all the gory details. I’m sure Vanessa was in fine form.”

  “She outdid herself today.”

  “Since money was at stake, were you surprised?”

  “No. Just—pissed. Massively pissed. Shit, Jenna, she can still get her claws into me.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Matt. Give it time.”

  “I already gave her way too much of my life.”

  “Yeah, and you can’t get it back, so get over it.”

  Matt laughed ruefully, shook his head. “Go ahead, smack me in the face with a wet rag. I need it.”

  She smiled and tipped her wine glass at him. “Anytime.”

  He took another swallow of wine and sat back. “She had the nerve to whine about losing a bundle to Ripley Investments. And she accused the daughter—what was her name? Do you remember?”

  “Shannon.”

  “Yeah, Shannon. Vanessa accused her of grabbing the cash and disappearing into thin air, like that guy D.B. Cooper back in the seventies.”

  “Who? Oh, right, the parachuting extortionist. Don’t tell me Vanessa thinks Shannon jumped out of a plane with a bag of money.”

  Matt laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought that.” he said. “She’s chewing on some crazy conspiracy theory that Ripley sent his daughter the missing millions and she’s still got it, and herself, socked away somewhere.”

  “That’s not just Vanessa’s theory,” Jenna said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “From what I’ve read. But she’s not Ripley’s daughter; she’s his stepdaughter. Her last name’s Malone. I’ve always felt bad for her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she got caught up in all that ugliness, hauled before the grand jury with the rest of them, and she didn’t have anything to do with it. She never even worked for the company, and she was away at college when most of it happened.”

  “I didn’t follow the story very closely,” Matt said. “If I’d known Vanessa had invested with Ripley, I’d have paid more attention. Thank God she couldn’t get at all of my money, or I’d be broke.”

  “Vanessa was far from the only one to fall for that scam,” Jenna replied. “Apparently it looked good on paper. Shopping centers in China, apartment buildings in Japan, software companies in India. It seemed like the real deal to a lot of investors.”

  “Yeah, and too good to be true. What makes you think the daughter—stepdaughter—wasn’t involved? And did she really disappear? Vanessa wasn’t just blowing smoke?”

  “The only news I’ve seen about it lately was when Raymond Ripley died in prison a month or two ago. The article mentioned an ‘unsubstantiated rumor’ that when Shannon disappeared she took the missing money. Apparently she still hasn’t surfaced. The last time anybody admits seeing her was right before the sentencing hearing.”

  Jenna sighed and took another sip of her wine. “Her mother was dying of cancer during the trial,” she said. “She passed away between the verdict and sentencing. That’s when Shannon disappeared. And then the son, Shannon’s stepbrother Jordan, committed suicide before he could be sentenced.”

  “Yeah, I remember hearing that. His boat sank or something?”

  “Not exactly. He was seen at the family’s Southampton beach house, and then they found some of his clothes and a suicide note nearby. They never found the body, at least not that I know of. There was something about blood and sharks.”

  “Christ. Suicide by shark? Off Long Island?”

  “Maybe he cut himself and then swam way out. Or maybe his body drifted out after he was dead and a shark ate him. But even stranger than that,” Jenna went on, “it was the same place his identical twin, Tyler, had drowned years before. They found his body, though, and it was declared an accident. If I remember right, alcohol was involved.”

  “What a family,” Matt said. “Somehow I can’t bring myself to feel too sorry for them. They destroyed a lot of lives.”

  “I know, but that was Jordan and his father. And there was something about Shannon that always got to me. She seemed so sad. After the scandal hit, she couldn’t walk down the street without people calling her nasty names, demanding to know where the money was. The media hounded her, made her into some kind of rich-bitch super villain. She was only twenty-four, Matt.”

  Jenna paused, sipped her wine. “Did you know Shannon’s real father died when she was six? The same age Steffie was when—”

  Matt saw Jenna’s eyes grow bright with unshed tears; his throat felt suddenly thick.

  “Jenna—”

  “Enough of that,” she said. She dashed away the tears before they had a chance to fall. “Anyway, Shannon Malone always intrigued me. She was a textile artist, did you know that? She wove these gorgeous tapestries.”

  Matt’s scalp prickled. “What did you say?”

  “She wove tapestries. You know, wall-hangings. She was doing really well in New York. They were selling for several thousand dollars apiece.”

  The prickling spread down Matt’s neck to his shoulders and arms. Somebody walking over his grave.

  Jenna stared at him over her wine glass. “What’s wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  He shook his head, reached for his wine. “Nothing. Can’t be. Too big a coincidence.”

  Jenna leaned forward. “Come on, Matt, give.”

  He got up too fast, bumping the coffee table and almost knocking his wine glass over. Laughing, Jenna caught it, righted it.

  “Where are you going, oh clumsy one?”

  “Be right back.”

  In his room, Matt grabbed his laptop, then hurried back into the living room, all the while telling himself it was impossible. Impossible. Wasn’t it?

  He set the laptop on the coffee table, beckoned Jenna to join him on the couch, and powered up.

  TEN

  Five minutes later they were looking at a front-page New York Times shot of Raymond and Jordan Ripley on the steps of a courthouse, flanked by an entourage of lawyers, facing an army of reporters. Behind them and off to the side stood a young woman with long dark hair, her haunted eyes staring out of a pale face.

  Matt studied the image, then hit the keys to enlarge it until the young woman’s face filled the screen. He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Damn.”

  Jenna sat up straight. “What is it? Tell me this minute, or you’re in deep trouble.”

  Matt kept staring at the image on the screen. The hair was different, but there was no mistaking that face, those eyes.

  “Okay, buddy boy, you asked for it.” Jenna looped an arm around his neck, pulled his head down and started rubbing her knuckles across his scalp. “Noogie time!”

  Matt laughed and pulled her hands away. “All right, all right, stop the torture!”

  When she had settled down, he gestured at the screen. “Jenna, meet my New Mexico neighbor, Shane MacKinnon.”

  Then he laughed again at the classic look of shock on Jenna’s face: eyebrows north, jaw south, mouth wide enough to drive his truck inside.

  “Get out of town!”
his sister finally said. “Peacock Girl is Shannon Malone? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jenna stared from the screen to Matt and back again. “Holy shit,” she said. “Holy crazy shit. And don’t you dare tell Steffie I said the ‘S’ word.”

  Matt barely heard her. “Something’s going on with her, Jenna,” he said. “The last time I saw her, I made some stupid remark about her name.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “What happened?”

  “She kind of froze,” he said, “and then her eyes changed. Like a deer in the headlights, you know?”

  “Scared? No wonder.”

  “Yeah, only she looked mad, too. Really angry. She has these intense, deep blue eyes, like the ocean when a storm’s coming.”

  Jenna gave him an appraising look. “What’s going on, Matt? Are you interested in her?”

  “What?” he said. “You mean interested as in interested? No, of course not.”

  The corner’s of Jenna’s mouth crooked up in an indulgent smile. “Uh-huh.”

  Matt laughed. “Well, you could say I’m interested in the sense that I thought she was an interesting person even before all this. Here’s this very attractive young woman, and she’s virtually a hermit on this crazy ranch way out in the mountains of New Mexico.”

  “Where you’re building a house out of straw.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  It was her turn to look incredulous, and then she laughed. “So nothing. Go on.”

  “She runs hills like demons are chasing her, boxes the air like she’s training for the ring. She keeps peacocks and cats and God knows what else. And she does these gorgeous weavings. Not to mention she’s gorgeous herself. So she was already interesting. Now she’s downright, I don’t know—”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I see. And what happened after you made that remark about her name?”

  “She made semi-polite noises,” Matt said, “and then ran back inside, locked the door and pulled the curtains.”

  Jenna stared at him. “She hid from you.”

  “Well, yeah,” he admitted. “I guess you could put it that way.”

  “Hmm.” Jenna quirked her eyebrows at him. “What are you going to do when you go back, brother of mine?”

  “About what?” he asked.

  Jenna gave him a look.

  “Oh, about her?” he said, feigning innocence.

  “Yes, about her. Apparently, in her book, right now you’re on a par with Jack the Ripper.”

  Matt thought about that. He couldn’t let Shane go on thinking he was her enemy, out to get her in some way. But what if she wouldn’t even talk to him?

  Jenna sat back, frowning. “You could call her and explain.”

  “Explain what? ‘Oh, hey, Shane—I mean Shannon—I didn’t know who you were, but now I do, so would you please forgive me for spooking you, scaring you, riling you, or whatever the hell I did?’ I don’t think that would go over too well. Besides, she wouldn’t give me her phone number, and it’s unlisted.”

  “Why don’t you email her?” Jenna said.

  “No computer.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not kidding.”

  “You could send her a text message.”

  “She doesn’t have a cell, either, Jenna. And anyway, there’s no signal there, remember?”

  “That’s because you moved to the dark side of the moon. But she doesn’t have a cell at all, even for when she’s in range? That’s pretty weird, I have to admit.”

  “She has my cell number because I asked her to keep an eye on my place. But she’s not going to call me now, that I can guarantee.”

  “You asked her to watch your place? Was that before or after you rammed your voluminous foot into your cavernous mouth?”

  “Ha ha. Before the foot-ramming incident.”

  “And she agreed?”

  “More or less. I kind of assumed her into it.”

  “Assumed her into it?”

  “I assumed and she didn’t say no,” he said.

  “Assuming with a woman can land you in big trouble,” Jenna said.

  “Come on, Jenna, we just met—officially that is—a couple days ago. It’s a little early for that kind of assuming. Which, by the way, I would never do.”

  “I know you wouldn’t. But you like her, admit it.”

  Matt ran his fingers through his hair, puffed air out through his nose. “Yeah, I do. It’s crazy, but she’s already under my skin.”

  “As if I couldn’t tell.”

  Matt laughed ruefully. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Not in a gazillion years.”

  They lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Matt picked up his wine glass, sat back, took a swallow.

  Jenna put her hand on his shoulder. “So, what are you going to do? I mean, for real.”

  “Damned if I know. She must think I’m after something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Her story? Maybe she thinks I’m spying on her, and building a house is just a cover. Maybe the conspiracy theory is right, and she does have the missing millions stashed away in that crazy house.”

  “Does she strike you as that devious?”

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, she doesn’t. She strikes me as about as honest as they come. On the other hand, she’s not who she says she is. That’s pretty devious.”

  “Yes, but unless you know more about what’s behind it, I wouldn’t be too quick to judge her,” Jenna said. She stood up. “I’m going to get my laptop. I bookmarked a bunch of articles when the case was in the news. Let’s start there and then see what else we can find out about your new neighbor.”

  While he waited for Jenna to return, Matt thought about the woman he knew as Shane MacKinnon. He knew very little about her, really. In fact, she was even more of a mystery to him now than she’d been an hour ago.

  But he would’ve sworn—would still swear—that whatever else she might be, she wasn’t a thief. She had honest eyes, eyes that revealed every emotion she felt. In the brief time he’d known her, he’d seen anger there, and a flicker of attraction she couldn’t hide, and something that might have been fear.

  But not deceit. He’d seen enough of that in his ex-wife’s eyes to recognize it across the Grand Canyon on a foggy day. And, except for the fact that they were both beautiful, Shane MacKinnon had nothing in common with his ex-wife. Nothing at all.

  Thank God for that. Because he wanted to get to know his mysterious neighbor a whole lot better. He wanted to find out what had her so unsettled, angry, scared—whatever it was—and help her face it down.

  Just then he was bushwhacked by a mental image of himself on the cover of one of those lurid paperbacks, chest muscles rippling, bulging arms holding a swooning Shane while her bare shoulders gleamed in the moonlight and her high, firm breasts strained against the thin cloth of a low-cut gown.

  Matt laughed out loud and shook his head to clear the ridiculous image. He wasn’t anybody’s romantic hero, and Shane was no paperback damsel in distress. But if she was in trouble, he was determined to help her—whether she wanted his help or not.

  When Jenna returned with her laptop and the rest of the wine, they opened the bookmarked articles and began to read.

  Matt was in the middle of an article about the trial when Jenna bent over his laptop on the coffee table. “What’s up?” he asked her.

  “I just remembered, there was something about this in the news not too long ago.”

  She entered search terms, then scrolled through the results.

  “Here it is,” Jenna said.

  The link opened to the New York Times website.

  “Oh, yeah, I remember now,” Jenna said. “Somebody broke into Ripley’s brother’s apartment recently. According to the brother, whoever it was took
loose cash, a Rolex, jewelry—all stuff that was in plain sight. But they also took a package containing his brother’s effects from prison, mostly letters he’d received from family. Apparently the feds were furious because they didn’t get a look at the letters before they were stolen.”

  She sat back. “Why would anybody want those papers enough to risk breaking and entering?”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “People collect all sorts of bizarre stuff. Somebody probably paid a lot for them.” He thought a moment, took a swallow of his wine. “Does the article say if any of the letters were from Shannon?”

  Jenna scanned the screen. “No, nothing that specific.”

  Matt sipped his wine, thinking about Shane MacKinnon, alias Shannon Malone. He wondered what she was doing right now.

  ELEVEN

  “Looks, talent, money and a heart. Need I say more? Oh, did I say looks?”

  “Details, Beth, details.” Shane carried the phone into the living room and curled up on the couch. Furball jumped up, circled, and then nestled in beside her. Shane scratched her pearly-gray head, eliciting a contented purr.

  “There’s a lot of stuff,” Beth said. “I could print it out and mail it to you.”

  “Tell me right now, before I strangle you through the phone.”

  “All right, don’t bust a bra strap. Where to start—”

  “At the beginning.”

  “Okay. I found an article in GQ that has some interesting bits about his family. His father was an artist and a partner in one of those digital animation companies when they were just starting to get big. His mother was a script doctor, apparently in great demand. They seem to have done very well for themselves.”

  “Script doctor? Ouch, wait a second.”

  “Ouch?”

  “Cat.” Shane removed Furball’s kneading claws from her thigh before she could puncture an artery.

  “Oh. Anyway, script doctors fix other people’s screenplays. No screen credit, but they’re paid very well. The family lived in a modest bungalow in West Hollywood, where Matt, and apparently his dad, too, grew up. No pretensions there, but he came into a lot of money somewhere along the line. Maybe an insurance settlement when his parents were killed.”