Bradlee hadn’t seen her uncle in years, but she remembered him as being secretive, almost paranoid at times. He’d always frightened her a little, and the prospect of seeing him again was daunting, even at her age. But she could think of no other way to get a copy of the guest list.
Opening the door of her bedroom, she stepped out into the hallway. Illiana was just coming out of David’s room with a basket of cleaning supplies.
“Is he in?”
“No, Miss Fitzgerald. He left a little while ago.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
The maid shook her head. “He said to tell you he’d see you later.”
Bradlee thanked Illiana and then went back to her room. Where had he gone? And why hadn’t he told her? He’d said they were in this together.
Since she didn’t know where he’d gone, Bradlee had no idea what time he would be back. In the meantime, would it hurt to pay her uncle a little visit?
She thought about Harper on the way over to his office. In addition to being secretive and paranoid, she also remembered him as being cold and arrogant—not at all an easy man to talk to. The only reason he’d given her a job that summer was because her father had asked him to. Bradford had needed something to occupy his sulky teenage daughter while he made plans for his third—or had it been his fourth?—wedding.
As Bradlee pulled into the parking garage and parked, she tried to plan her course of action. Should she just come right out and ask her uncle for a copy of the guest list? He would probably deny such a list existed after thirty-two years, but Bradlee knew better. She remembered his secretary, a woman named Lucille Carver, grumbling more than once that summer that Bradlee’s uncle never, ever threw out anything. And Bradlee had had the unenviable task of carting boxes of papers down to the basement and filing for hours at a time.
As she entered the building, she was astonished to see her uncle’s secretary coming out. Lucille hadn’t changed a bit, right down to the snug navy suit, low-heeled pumps, and tortoiseshell-frame glasses. Bradlee started to speak, but just then, Lucille saw someone on the street, waved, and hurried out.
Bradlee crossed the lobby to the receptionist’s desk. “Hi,” she said. “My name’s Bradlee Fitzgerald. I’m here to see my uncle.”
The receptionist glanced at her curiously. “He’s not in, Miss Fitzgerald. He won’t be back until two.”
“That’s okay,” Bradlee improvised. “I just saw Lucille leaving. She doesn’t mind if I wait in her office.”
The receptionist shrugged. “Go on back, then.”
Bradlee walked down a long corridor lined with offices, most of them closed and silent. Her uncle was obviously not involved in an active campaign at the moment, or all the offices in the building would be beehives of activity. As it was, the place appeared deserted and not a little forlorn.
Harper’s office suite was located at the end of the hallway. Bradlee entered the outer office and stood gazing around. The door to the inner office was closed and more than likely locked. She remembered her uncle being a stickler for security. Lucille’s desk was cleared away and the computer turned off. It looked as if she’d left for the day.
Bradlee casually wandered over to the desk. The summer she’d worked here she’d been assigned to help Lucille, primarily because Harper hadn’t wanted to be bothered with Bradlee himself. Lucille had given her a number of duties to perform, but her primary job had been filing. For the first few weeks, Lucille had accompanied her to the basement, unlocked the door, then lumbered back upstairs to be at Harper’s beck and call.
Even then, Lucille had not been a small woman and had soon tired of trooping up and down the stairs. She’d finally shown Bradlee where she kept the key to the file room, swearing her to secrecy. If Harper ever found out she’d entrusted that key to anyone—even his niece— Lucille warned, it could mean her job.
Sitting down at the secretary’s desk, Bradlee ran her fingers along the ledge underneath. The key was still there, taped to the underside of the desk as if no one had ever thought of such a hiding place. Bradlee wondered what her uncle would say if he knew the key to his precious files had been hidden all these years in the place most commonly used by secretaries the world over.
Tearing away the tape, Bradlee withdrew the key and slipped it into her pocket. Then she crossed the room and hurried down the hall, quickly unlocking the door to the basement stairs. Slipping inside, she stood in pitch-darkness, sliding her hand along the wall until she found the light switch.
Even with the light on, the huge, cavernous room was creepy. Rows and rows of filing cabinets gave testament to her uncle’s illustrious career managing successful political campaigns. It made Bradlee shudder to think of what secrets might be hidden in the depths of those files.
Five filing cabinets were devoted to the Kingsley campaign. Everything inside was color coded and meticulously cross-referenced by dates and subject matter. It only took her a few minutes to locate the folder dedicated to the fund-raiser.
Her fingers shaking, Bradlee withdrew the file and laid it on top of one of the cabinets. For a long moment, she simply stared at the folder, hesitating to open it. The label contained the date of June 24th, the night Adam had been kidnapped.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the folder and riffled through the contents. There was a copy of the invitation that had been sent out, along with press releases, a list of previous donors, including donation amounts—the more generous ones starred for future reference—and a myriad of other paperwork that had gone into the planning and preparation of the fund-raiser. Toward the back of the file, Bradlee found the list she’d been searching for.
There was a copy machine in the basement, and she hurried over, duplicating the list and then returning the original to the folder. She closed all the drawers and glanced around, making sure no one would know she’d been there.
Back in Lucille’s office, she knelt to retape the key to the desk. Just as she was about to straighten, she heard voices out in the hallway coming toward Harper’s office.
She recognized both voices instantly. Her uncle and her father were coming back from lunch, and by the sounds of it, they’d each had a few drinks.
Bradlee didn’t have time to get up, so she slid under the desk and pulled the chair toward her.
Her father was speaking as they entered the office. “You know she’s always had an obsession with that boy. Since he’s come back, it’s started up again. I don’t think it’s a good idea for the two of them to get so chummy. If she comes around asking you questions about the kidnapping, just don’t say anything that’ll encourage her.”
She could hear Harper unlocking his office door. In a voice lower and colder than his brother’s, he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s for her own good,” Bradlee’s father said, almost defensively.
“You got that right.”
She heard her uncle’s office door close, then all was silent. After waiting a few seconds, Bradlee scurried out from under the desk and, as quietly as possible, slipped from the office.
* * *
COTTON WEATHERS WAS a bitter, cantankerous old man with dirty gray hair unbefitting his first name and faded, bloodshot eyes that seemed to stare right through David as the housekeeper ushered him into the study.
The desk the old man sat behind concealed his legs, but not the wheelchair. He dismissed the housekeeper with a crisp, backhanded wave.
“Who the hell did you say you are?” he thundered.
“My name is David Powers. I’m doing some research on the Kingsley kidnapping. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The faded eyes narrowed, looking a lot more shrewd than David had originally thought. “What paper you with?”
David hadn’t actually said he was a reporter, but he’d intentionally given the housekeeper that impression. “I’m from up north,” he evaded.
“Don’t have much use for Yankees,” Cotton warned. “Ne
ver did. Ask your questions, then get the hell out.”
“I’ll make this as fast as I can,” David said. “Mind if I sit?”
The old man grunted, which David took as permission. He sat down in a worn leather chair and faced Cotton Weathers. “You were Edward Kingsley’s chief political foe back then, right?”
He grunted again, his expression one of disgust. “If it wasn’t for his mother, that sumbitch couldn’t have got himself elected dogcatcher.”
“He was trailing in the polls until the kidnapping, wasn’t he?” David prompted.
Cotton’s eyes flared with a hatred unabated by thirty-two years. “Any decent man would have pulled out of the race, concentrated on finding his kid—but not Kingsley. Oh, no. He used his own son’s murder as a ticket to the governor’s mansion. I always did despise the man, but I couldn’t stomach him after that.”
“Why did you hate him so much?”
“His name was Kingsley, wasn’t it?”
“What did you have against the Kingsleys back then?”
“That’s my business,” Cotton snapped. “My quarrel with them had no bearing on the kidnapping. That is what you came to talk about, isn’t it? That’s all anyone’s been talking about since Raymond Colter confessed. Thank God the Kingsleys don’t have someone running for office now. He’d be a shoo-in.”
“I’ve been told you were the one who leaked the story of Edward’s affair with Pamela Harrington to the press. You came to the fund-raiser that night to gloat. Any truth in that?”
Cotton shrugged. “There might be. The public had a right to know what kind of man he was. Unlike nowadays, character mattered back then. Least it did until his kid turned up missing.”
“What did you think would happen when you heard about the kidnapping? Did you think Edward would pull out of the race?”
“Like I said, any decent man would have.”
“Maybe you were counting on that.” David watched Cotton’s expression carefully, saw the darkening of his eyes and the hardening of his mouth. But to David’s surprise, the old man laughed. It was an ugly sound, bearing little resemblance to humor.
“You’re no more a reporter than I am. Who the hell are you?”
“You’re right,” David said. “I’m not a reporter, but I am investigating the kidnapping.”
“You a cop?” His eyes flashed with something that might have been fear, but Cotton Weathers didn’t appear to be a man easily frightened.
David shrugged without answering, letting the old man draw whatever conclusions he wanted. “In a few days, you’ll be receiving an invitation to a party at the Kingsley estate in honor of her grandson, Adam Kingsley. I would highly recommend that you attend.”
Cotton glared at him. “Why should I?”
“Everyone who was present at Edward Kingsley’s fund-raiser than night is expected to attend—those who’re still alive, that is. If you don’t come, it might look as if you have something to hide.”
David stood to leave, but before he got to the door, he heard a sound that made him whirl around. Cotton Weathers had pushed the wheelchair back from his desk and was standing. He looked as steady as any twenty-year-old, and the gun aimed at David’s heart didn’t shake one bit.
“I don’t know why you came here,” he said, “but I do know this. Iris Kingsley is not the only one in this town with some clout. I could put a bullet in your heart right this minute and not spend a single night in jail. You believe that?”
“Obviously, you do,” David said. “So I’m listening.”
“You go back and tell Iris Kingsley I don’t know what she’s trying to pull, but I don’t take orders from her. I never did and I never will. Unlike most everyone else in this town, I’m not afraid of that old battle-ax. And that royally pisses her off.”
David, keeping an eye on the gun, said, “Anything else?”
Cotton Weathers stared at him for a long moment, relishing every second of his performance. Then slowly he lowered the weapon. “Yeah,” he said. “There is one other thing. Welcome home…Adam.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The night of David’s party was mild and moonlit, but a front, still miles away, threatened rain for later that evening.
Dressed in a white Calvin Klein gown she’d bought especially for the occasion, Bradlee stepped onto the balcony off her room, lifting her face to the night sky. She tried to concentrate on the moonlight instead of the dark clouds gathering in the distance, but the coming storm seemed ominous to her. She thought about the premonition Jenny Arpello had experienced the day of the kidnapping, and a shiver of fear rippled through Bradlee.
Something bad was about to happen. She didn’t know whether the feeling was a presage of things to come, or only her imagination, but suddenly Bradlee knew she and David would have to be on their guard. Tonight Raymond Colter’s accomplice might very well return to the scene of the crime, and if they weren’t careful, they could get caught in his trap once again.
* * *
DAVID, STRUGGLING WITH a cufflink, muttered an oath when someone knocked on his door. “Come in,” he called, and Iris swept in, looking as regal as a queen on coronation day. She wore a midnight-blue gown with a satin train and a diamond-and-sapphire necklace that could easily have been a museum piece.
Her white hair gleamed in the light, and her blue eyes, almost the exact shade of her dress, gave him a careful scrutiny. She nodded briskly. “You look very handsome.”
“Thank you.” David managed the cufflink, then slipped on his tuxedo jacket.
“This will be quite a night,” she said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes glittered with an emotion David couldn’t define.
“Yes, I guess it will be,” he said.
Iris hesitated. “I did what you asked. I contacted everyone who was here that night—everyone who is still alive, that is. Some of them don’t have a clue as to why they’ve been invited.”
“Everyone will know soon enough,” David said.
“And what will you do when they know?” Iris said. “When all of this becomes public? Will you then feel as if you’re Adam?”
David wasn’t sure what he would feel. He hadn’t thought beyond the announcement itself and observing the various reactions to it. Would he feel like Adam Kingsley when everyone knew about him? If so, what would happen to David Powers?
He glanced around the opulent room, far bigger and more luxurious than his apartment in New York, and the woman who stood before him—his grandmother—wearing a gown and jewels the likes of which he hadn’t seen even on Rachel, whose tastes had always seemed appallingly extravagant to him.
He didn’t know how to be a Kingsley, and it suddenly seemed imperative to him that he not lose sight of who he was, of where he’d come from, of the way he’d been raised. A man’s soul could easily get lost in their kind of wealth and power.
As if reading his mind, Iris said, “I have something for you.”
David was immediately on his guard. “What is it?”
She pulled something from her beaded evening bag. “Hold out your hand.”
He felt like a kid on Halloween, curious but more than a little wary. When his hand opened, Iris dropped a shiny gold medallion into his palm. David held it between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it to the light. One side bore an emblem stamped in the metal, but the other side was blank. A tiny hole had been punctured through the top to accommodate a chain.
“Do you know what that is?” Iris asked.
“It looks like some kind of coin but I don’t recognize the stamp. I’ve never seen one like it.”
“There’s only one other like it in the world. They belonged to you and Andrew. Put together they make a whole. You were wearing yours the night you were kidnapped, and Andrew was wearing his the night he died.”
David caressed the smooth metal as a memory flashed in his mind: The chain had been ripped from his neck by his kidnapper. “This is my proof, kid, in case they don’t believe I have you.”
; He glanced up at Iris. “How did you get it back?”
“Raymond Colter had it in his possession all these years. When he confessed and was sent to prison, the coin was returned to me. And now I’m giving it back to you. I hope one day soon you’ll want to wear it again.”
Gold chains weren’t exactly his style, but there was something about the medallion—a connection to his past—that David had been looking for all his life. He closed his fingers around the cool metal. “Thank you,” he said.
Iris nodded, then turned and left the room.
* * *
THE BALLROOM LOOKED dazzling, with its glittering chandeliers, colossal arrangements of late-summer flowers, and ornate, gilded mirrors that reflected the stunning ball gowns worn by the female guests.
An orchestra had set up on the gallery overlooking the ballroom and was playing a melody hauntingly familiar to Bradlee. Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she stood just inside the doorway, gazing around.
The receiving line had already dispersed, and Iris had taken her position in a high-backed chair at the far end of the ballroom, away from the orchestra. She watched the proceedings with an expression Bradlee couldn’t fathom. Was she wondering what effect her announcement later in the evening would have on the gathering?
Edward and Pamela were at Iris’s side, but Pamela looked as if she would rather be almost anywhere else. She was dressed in a magnificent silver gown that, even though it had been designed for a much younger woman, still looked stunning on her.
But tonight her face gave away her age. Even the most skilled plastic surgeon would have a hard time erasing the deep worry lines etched across her brow, and Bradlee couldn’t help wondering what secrets Pamela harbored concerning the night Adam was kidnapped.
As usual, Jeremy Willows stood apart from the family group, one hand nursing a drink while the other was shoved deep into the pocket of his tuxedo trousers. It was obvious to Bradlee that neither Jeremy nor his mother were enjoying the festivities, and her earlier feeling of dread came back to her. Not everyone present tonight would be happy that Adam Kingsley had returned. Now someone else stood between Jeremy and Iris’s fortune.
Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir Page 52