We all stared at the sideboard where the candelabra still resided. Hidden behind the heavy English oak, it didn’t make a sound.
“I’m not giving up this house,” I said firmly into the silence. “This is our family home, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it.”
The candelabra didn’t have to speak. I could hear the fury rushing through the third floor like a tornado. I hoped Mallard was listening, too. If he knew Magda at all, he knew it would take nothing short of murder to pry me out of here.
“Speaking of Magda...”
Which we weren’t, but her presence hovered after my brash promise. I glared at Nick.
He shrugged. “She called my cell phone. Three times.”
“Really?” I let ice drip from my voice.
He held up his hands to protest his innocence. “I didn’t return the calls. You want to find out what she wants, you call her.”
Nick might not be stupid, but he could be pretty dense. He knew Magda and I weren’t on speaking terms. I’d e-mailed her notification of EG’s safe arrival but had provided nothing more. This wasn’t the first time we’d taken opposite sides over EG. The first time had been before she was born.
I scraped the chair aside and left them gobbling pizza. I had better things to do.
~
Verifying that Ana was still working in the library, EG slipped up the stairs to the laptop in her sister’s bedroom.
She simply couldn’t swallow the idea that her father was a murderer or that her mother might love a man capable of murder. Her parents were adults and did strange things, but violence wasn’t smart, and they were. Smart men didn’t risk everything to kill.
She scanned the latest newspaper articles and made a note of the time of the aide’s death: between the hours of noon and three on Monday, three weeks ago.
She ran a search on her father’s name, singling out any other names associated with him and running searches on them as well. If they had websites or e-mail addresses, she sent them messages using the screen name EG9. Few people knew of her existence. No one would recognize the screen name even if they did know of her.
She needed something general, something to raise curiosity without automatically raising suspicion. Something a guilty person was more likely to respond to than a friend.
She sent forty-six messages in all. Every one of them asked, Where were you early Monday afternoon when a woman’s life was taken and a man’s reputation jeopardized? Do you have an alibi? And if you do, would you like to help save a friend?
She was good at puzzles.
Chapter Nine
Visit Mindy’s parents, talk to a hunky Irishman, win a fortune.
“I did not give you permission to use my personal exercise room.”
I did not fall out of my chair at the disturbingly masculine voice intruding on my contemplation, despite the spike in my hormones at the possibility of a man in my bedroom. I had been expecting a rebuke ever since I retired to the laptop upstairs before midnight. This wasn’t the scolding uppermost in my mind however.
Graham hadn’t asked about Nassar, and I hadn’t told him. I suspected that meant he knew everything that had happened at the GSA this morning. And made no comment? Was the good, bad, or just ugly?
I distracted my fears by wondering if he knew I was in my room because he really did have hidden devices—like cameras—that I needed to know about.
I leaned back in the Aeron chair and put my bare feet on the desk, prepared to take the gym argument to its limits. “Did I break anything?” I’m not about to apologize for invading his privacy under the circumstances.
“Do you think you could?” he asked dryly.
With a little imagination, this could be a cozily intimate conversation, the only intimacy I could handle since it involved no physical presence. “On a bad day, I can take the speed bag off the wall.”
“No hostility there, right?”
I grinned at how quickly he caught on. “Among other things. How do you get your jollies?”
I practically heard him growl. “Leave the cat alone. Use the gym.” He signed off.
Inexplicably hurt at this abrupt end to the evening conversation I’d come to anticipate, I waited to see if he’d return. What had I said wrong? I wanted to talk about Hagan. Even if I hadn’t found the right man, I wanted to hear a little praise for my carrying out the assignment, or an argument against our staying, or a criticism of our plans for Brashton—anything but silence.
What on earth had come over me? I lived for silence. I thrived on isolation. I ought to have been delighted he’d offered the gym. I should have been powering full speed ahead into Pao’s history, revved for the chase, not sitting there sulking because an intercom rejected me.
And that didn’t even begin to cover my need to discuss the hostile relationship between our host and EG’s father and how Graham came to usurp the name Oracle.
I was more interested in investigating Graham than a shadowy Cambodian or a philandering senator, but there were only so many hours in the day, and I had to prioritize. The sooner I found Pao and proved my worth, the faster I could get to Tex.
Calculating that Tex’s attorneys would be doing the grunt work right now so I could steal data from them later, I turned my attention to Pao. If he was in this country, then he had to get money somewhere, if only to live on. If I believed the websites, he was raising funds to send to his radical organization. He had to be funneling them through a bank account or another organization unless he was carrying cash by the suitcase and sending it home by messenger.
I had only one starting place for finding him—the Edu-Pub warehouse address in the same zip code of the post office box where Pao’s website directed donations. Graham had given me those financial statements from Edu-Pub for a reason. I’d already decided that if Pao was laundering his illegal funds through a textbook distributor, then I needed to locate their bank accounts. Finding those accounts was part of the overall desperate plan that I’d schemed these last nights. I’d spent hours designing and setting up a website, and I had a server lined up.
Calling up my server provider, I sent out the webpage I’d created for a fictitious school that would need textbooks very soon. I’d already created an identity for the owner of the school.
All I needed to do now was set up a shipping address, access Edu-Pub’s website, and start ordering.
~
Saturday morning, Nicholas left for the casinos in search of our much-needed riches, and I dressed for a new encounter with Pao’s shadowy empire of foreign economics, with a side trip of my own if I had the time. EG had promised to spend her day with my computer, and I showed her how to follow Brashton’s erratic path as he partied his way toward St. Kitts. I knew she was capable of taking care of herself and that Graham and Mallard were near by, spying on everything we did. I figured she was safe enough. I was none too certain about their safety if EG got bored, but I didn’t have time for anticipating problems. I had enough on my plate.
I hit the Metro in search of a shipping address. A cheap one. I didn’t want my textbook order delivered to our safe haven. UPS won’t ship to a post office box. Fortunately for me, D.C. is a hub of storefronts willing to do whatever was necessary for a buck. I’d located a couple of likely places last night. It was just a matter of checking them out to see which ones would accept my deliveries and store them without too many questions.
I accomplished that much faster than I expected. Walking out of the small package delivery store, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the really tough duty I’d set for myself. I wanted to talk to Mindy Carstairs’ family.
I just didn’t like coincidences. My old Oracle client was interested in textbooks. Mindy worked on a textbook committee, and my client may have known her. Graham wanted me to investigate a textbook warehouse. Mindy’s ex had absconded with the money Graham had paid him for our house. It was all stacking up somehow, if only I could figure out why. Time was running out. I had to brace myse
lf for personal confrontation instead of piecing puzzles.
I’d looked up the address of her parents on the computer, checked MapQuest and D.C. ’s Metro website and concluded a taxi was the only way I’d get there after climbing off the last Metro stop. They lived across the river in Alexandria with the rich whitebread community, not far from Blackwell Johnson, our estate lawyer, who I’d also looked up just to see if I’d pinned him correctly.
I put on my preppy blazer after the taxi left me at the garden gate of a substantial brick house sitting on three acres of lawn. In this area, land was so expensive that each blade of grass represented a dollar bill. Why was Mindy Carstairs working a low-level government job and living in a tiny apartment in a crummy part of D.C. when all she had to do was go home to this?
Praying the answer wasn’t Tex, I marched up the slate walk to the double teak doors of the fake colonial farmhouse and rang the bell. I could hear the first notes of “America the Beautiful” sing out. When a maid answered, I trotted out my rehearsed speech.
“I’m Ana Maximillian.” I had decided my grandfather’s name would get me further in this rarified atmosphere than Brody’s. “I would like to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Carstairs.”
The door swung open and the maid beckoned me in without question.
I tried to act insouciant as I crossed the wide pine floors and was offered a seat in a cushioned wicker chair in a sunny room at the rear of the house. In my journey over here, I had prepared an entire litany of reasons why I should be allowed to talk to Mindy’s parents, and hadn’t needed one of them. I wished I’d prepared more questions while I was at it.
A plump, harried woman with gray hair frizzy from the humidity, wearing a gardening smock over khaki shorts, hurried in through the back door with a trowel still in her hand. “Maximillian?” she queried before I could even stand up. “You’re not Max’s daughter.”
Whomp, right upside the head. I was actually meeting someone who knew my grandfather. I tried not to swallow too hard as I extended my hand. “I’m his granddaughter.”
She looked momentarily nonplused as she transferred the trowel to her left hand so she could shake mine. “I had no idea…” The thought trailed off as she gestured at the maid. “Betsy, bring us some iced tea, would you?” She collapsed in a wicker chair as I sat back down. “You must be Magda’s oldest. How is she doing?” she asked politely.
I didn’t mention I hadn’t talked to Magda in five years. “Still world traveling, as usual.” Should I ask how she knew my mother? That might raise more questions than I could answer.
“Well, I’m delighted to hear she’s well. Max worried about her. How can I help you?”
I was so thrown off balance that I didn’t know where to start. I had come here to find out about Mindy and Tex and Reggie, not my family. I was afraid the White Queen would start talking backward any minute.
My grandfather worried about Magda? Did he know what she’d been doing all these years? Had they communicated and never told us?
I had to jar my thoughts back to what I was doing here. Reginald Brashton Junior had been my grandfather’s trusted lawyer, and Junior’s son, Reggie, had married Mindy, so they all traveled in the same circles—as had Magda, before her escape. I knew this kind of closed society. I just wasn’t used to paying attention to it.
“First, let me say how sorry I am for your loss.” I knew the polite words, even if they were meaningless. I didn’t know this woman or her daughter. I was a snoop. From the looks of the dark circles under Mrs. Carstairs eyes, she’d been suffering from sleepless nights. I ought to back right out of there. But I couldn’t. She knew the connections I didn’t. “I hate to intrude upon you in this manner, but my grandfather died so unexpectedly that I’m still trying to cope.”
She nodded in understanding and seemed to relax as the maid brought us tall cold glasses of iced tea, accompanied by linen napkins to absorb the drips. “I hadn’t given a thought to Max’s family, dear. I’m so sorry. We haven’t seen Magda in decades. You must be at a complete loss now that Reggie has pulled a disappearing act.”
I tried not to shriek with joy at finally confirming some of my suppositions. Now, if only I could be certain Mindy had been the A. Carstairs who sent the memo to Oracle on textbooks— I needed more, but I had no idea where to begin. “The estate is in some confusion,” I admitted slowly. “Did you know my grandfather well?”
She waved her hand. “He’s been a recluse for years, but Max had a hand in every pie. Magda and I went to school together, so he’s kept in touch. After Mindy divorced Reggie, he was kind enough to find her the job with Senator Hammond At the time, it was a blessing. It pulled her out of her depression. I still refuse to believe the senator had anything to do with her death. There was absolutely nothing going on between them. I told the police that. The idea of thinking my daughter would blackmail a good man like that—” She shook her head.
I was amazed at the fountain of information—all because of the name I’d given. For EG’s sake, I wanted to believe this nice lady. I still needed to steer the conversation to textbooks without sounding insane. “It’s good to know my grandfather wasn’t completely alone then. Mr. Johnson didn’t seem to know him well.”
She sipped her tea and settled in for a good gossip. “I don’t know Black Johnson well. He lives for his work. His wife left him long ago, and his son refused to join the the firm. Reggie hated Black, but now that we know what Reggie is, that stands in Black’s favor, doesn’t it?”
I could see that Mrs. Carstairs preferred speaking of the past to avoid the present, but I had to deal with the here and now. I squirmed on the comfortable flowered cushion and broached the only reason I had to be here. “I understand Mindy and Tex were working on some kind of textbook committee. I have a client who is interested in—”
She didn’t even let me finish. She sat forward and gestured with her tea glass, sending water droplets flying. “Mindy was positively obsessed with textbooks! I told the police that. Who is your client? Perhaps he could talk to the police, explain what Mindy was doing. She had a history major, you know. She was simply outraged by the inferior quality of the information our children are exposed to these days.”
She sat back and looked depressed again. “Although I can’t imagine anyone killed her for complaining about books.”
“No, ma’am, I shouldn’t think so.” I instinctively imitated her soft southern accent. I’d be drawling if I stayed much longer. “Did she ever mention a company called Edu-Pub?”
Mrs. Carstairs frowned and stared at her tea glass. “It sounds familiar, but I’ll admit I really didn’t listen to Mindy’s diatribes. I was just thrilled to see her excited about something for a change. Reggie spent everything they owned and left her with mountains of debt. She wouldn’t accept any help from us, and I know she was living in near poverty, but she was just like her old self again.” Coming out of her reverie, she looked puzzled again. “How can I help you? If you’re looking for Reggie, we don’t have any idea where he is. I admit, I wish he was dead instead of Mindy. It just doesn’t seem fair.”
She was about to get weepy, and I stood up in a hurry. I didn’t want to torture her anymore, and I wasn’t a detective. I didn’t know the questions to ask. “No, ma’am, it doesn’t seem fair, but once I find him, I assure you, Mr. Brashton will wish he were dead. My grandfather didn’t work all his life to let scum like that leave his affairs in such a tangle.”
She rose with me, setting her glass aside. “If I can help you find Reggie, you just let me know, y’heah? I’d like to wring his neck for what he did to my daughter. I’m sorry to hear that he mistreated your grandfather. Max was a lifesaver. Mindy used to show him those textbooks she went on about, and he took more interest in them than we did, I’m afraid. He was even helping her investigate their publishers. I owe Max for being there for my little girl.”
I would be sobbing right along with her if she kept this up. My grandfather was a good man, just as I remember
ed. That he was interested in textbooks along with half of D.C. just spun my head into new orbits. It was hard to imagine that many powerful people concerned about public education. I needed time to work that out. “I thank you for your time, Mrs. Carstairs. It’s good to know someone thinks of my grandfather with goodwill.” I edged toward the door with my brain whirring in so many directions that I might have ended up walking back to D.C. if I hadn’t stumbled across the next question. “Would you happen to know Amadeus Graham? He bought my grandfather’s house from Reggie.”
Mrs. Carstairs looked dumfounded. “Amadeus? I’m quite certain I heard he died, dear. What has Reggie done now?”
With my guts twisting in tighter knots, I asked her to call a taxi.
~
I arrived at the house nervous, exhausted, and not in the humor to fight Mallard for the kitchen. He’d locked us out again after last night’s pizza binge.
So I ambled down to the local pub to see what they had in the way of lunch. I needed time to sort my thoughts, and after the morning’s extroverted excursion, my introverted nature needed to be alone to gather energy. I ordered their Irish stew and hoped for the best.
The pub was relatively empty in early afternoon. Some tourists carried on a murmured conversation at one of the window tables. A few locals talked quietly in the back booth. The place could grow on me—all that dark wood and quiet reminded me of a library.
My meal had just arrived when the curly-haired Pierce Brosnan walked in, and I forgot my need to be alone. I don’t know how tall the actor is—I don’t keep up with any news much less Hollywood news—but this guy had me beat by a good eight inches.
All right, so I may have had another eight inches in mind when he swaggered toward me. He had a stocky Irish build—square shoulders, square chin, and the biceps of a working man. Six-pack abs, I was willing to wager, admiring the way his black cotton shirt tightened as he slid onto the bench across from me.
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