The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  Tim pulled the shade over the front door, turned around and looked at the posters that papered the walls and reminded him there was more to political success than that. Matthew's face and pheromones was the other half of the equation. He had that inexplicable something that people were drawn to and that was why Matthew McCreary was the candidate and he, Tim Douglas, was not.

  Still, Matthew had his flaws. Every man did, and it was Tim's job to minimize them. Slowly he walked into his own small office, trying to figure out what he wanted to do before he called Matthew a second time that night. He sat down heavily in his chair, pulled the chain on the desk lamp and opened the top drawer of his desk. The envelope was still there. What was inside could have changed everything if Michelle hadn't died. Maybe with Grace's arrest, now was the time to talk about those papers. Maybe not. Tim Douglas pushed the drawer shut. He had already made one mistake by hiding them; he wasn't going to make another one by handing them over to anyone until he was sure it was the right thing to do.

  Picking up the phone, Tim held it to his ear as he dialed. The receiver felt as heavy as his heart. Suddenly the office seemed cold even though the temperature outside was still in the nineties. The call was answered on the third ring. Tim asked for Matthew. When he came to the phone, Tim said, "Grace is in jail, Matthew. Her attorney was here. She wants to see you."

  He waited for a directive, an expression of shock or dismay, but all he heard was silence and that scared him just a little.

  "Matthew? We need to get Grace out of jail now. We can't just leave her there. Who do you want me to call?"

  "I mean what I say. Don't call anyone. I'll handle it, Tim. Now go home."

  Matthew McCreary hung the phone up slowly. He could still hear Tim Douglas objecting to the decision with the kind of well-chosen words an ambassador would use to note a hostile act by the host country. It was a gift, that quickness of mind that allowed reason to be voiced while emotions were in turmoil. Poor Tim, talented and loyal though he may be, he was too decent to understand that divorcing oneself from an immediate problem meant you could avert a bigger one down the road. That was the mark of a good politician and a smart man, a man who understood that most things righted themselves if left alone. At least that's what Matthew had believed until Helen decided . . .

  "Matthew? Is everything all right, dear heart?"

  Helen Crane called to him from the doorway of the library. Matthew allowed a minute to compose himself. It would do no good to go off on her even though this was her fault. Still, a little show of displeasure would keep her on her toes.

  "Actually, Helen, everything is very screwed up," he answered amiably as he walked toward her and took the crystal tumbler she so thoughtfully held out. Their fingers touched. Her hands showed her age.

  His scotch and water had been refilled. The ice was fresh. Yet, behind all of Helen's graciousness and thoughtfulness was the exquisite timing of someone who refused to be left out, who demanded to put in her two cents because she had already put a few hundred thousand into candidate's coffers. Matthew appreciated her money but it was her style and acumen, her contacts and drive that he coveted. Helen Crane was the better half of George M. Crane, an industrialist who had made a few senators in his time. George had died three years earlier, leaving Helen, still lovely, looking forty, hovering at fifty, with a fortune, a legacy she relished and an agenda.

  "Am I going to have to guess or do you want to share, Matthew?" Helen asked.

  "They arrested Grace for Michelle's murder," he answered.

  "Good Lord. How can that be?"

  Helen took another step in tandem with Matthew McCreary and then glided ahead of him. She was impossibly slim and when she turned and took her seat on the deep, dark red sofa, Matthew was impressed all over again. She was a handsome, stylish, smart, wealthy woman. Her legs went on forever. Matthew knew she had screwed poor George M. into his grave one way or another, he just wasn't sure if it had to do with her libido or her conniving. She motioned to a chair across from her.

  "I don't know the specifics," Matthew said.

  "Do you think it's possible she could have done something like that?"

  "I thought you knew everything there was to know about Grace, so why don't you tell me?" Matthew suggested dryly.

  "Uncalled for, Matthew." Helen rebuked him, tired of his digs even though it could be argued that they were deserved.

  Grace wasn't what Helen had bargained for when she made contact with Matthew's long-lost sister. She had meant only for brother and sister to reunite long enough to make their estrangement seem of little consequence if the press were to pry. Instead the woman had insinuated herself into the very fiber of Matthew's life: befriending Michelle, talking Matthew into giving her a job that kept her in the thick of the campaign, buying a place close to Matthew's and always watching with those damned eyes of hers. Smoking and watching as if to cross her would be the worst mistake Helen could make. And, all the while, Matthew acted like Grace was an eight-hundred-pound gorilla: walking around her as she sat in the living room of his life. Still, Helen never alluded to these things and she never apologized. It was better to have Grace McCreary in trouble and close than not to have any control over her at all.

  "Sit down. I can't think when you're standing over me."

  Matthew stayed where he was. He sipped his drink. It was a tug-of-war. Helen pulled on her end of the rope.

  "I need to think, Matthew, and I can't when you're looking at me like that."

  "Like what?" He raised an eyebrow. He didn't smile.

  "Like you think I'm responsible. As if you think I had something to do with this," she sniped.

  "Of course you did, Helen. You're the one who went behind my back and found Grace even after I told you not to. You talked her into coming here. It hasn't exactly worked out the way you hoped, has it? For all I know, you had her arrested just to get her out of our hair."

  "There would be less public ways to get rid of her if I wanted to," Helen answered and then she rationalized to save face. "And, for the record, I don't want to. She's been very good for the campaign. An excellent worker; your best champion."

  "Oh, yes. Grace is that. My champion. How did I get so damn lucky?" Matthew punctuated his displeasure with a long, rude pull on his drink and an ugly chuckle. "You should have left well enough alone.

  "It had to be done." Helen sniffed. "We couldn't have her floating around out there once the real campaign got under way. Someone would have found her and found out everything I know about her."

  "So what? Grace isn't the candidate, I am."

  "People don't make that distinction. We're talking about the United States Senate, for goodness sake. You'd be under national scrutiny, especially if we set you up for a presidential run. It was smart to bring her into the fold. The only thing I'm sorry about is that she decided she wanted to stay and play."

  "What's done is done." Matthew set aside his glass. "She's here and she's in trouble and that, my dear Helen, is bad for us."

  "I'm not unaware. I'll get my attorney on it tonight," Helen assured him.

  "Don't bother. Grace has one."

  "She retained someone without consulting you? That's a surprise," Helen mused. "I didn't think she closed her eyes without asking you if it was all right."

  "Grace has a very fine brain, Helen, and a very long memory," Matthew said. "We'd all do well to remember that."

  "What do you know about this attorney?"

  "Remember Fritz Rayburn?" Matthew countered with a question of his own that lightened the moment. Helen laughed outright.

  "That old horror our last governor appointed to head the California Supreme Court? Of course, I remember him. Ugly way to die. Burned up in his own house as I recall." Helen seemed almost delighted by the memory. "So Grace's attorney is the one who pulled that little girl's fanny out of the fire, so to speak. Well, then, at least she's competent. Then she'll understand how critical it is that she hand
le this properly.

  "I doubt she'll care, Helen," Matthew noted. "Tim says she's going to be the one screaming from the rooftops about what a bastard I am if I don't make an appearance soon."

  "Charming." Helen picked up her cup of coffee. Instead of drinking, she fingered the Limoges as if it were a prized cat as she thought out loud. "Perhaps, if we were more than generous with her fee she might rethink that."

  "That's the last thing you would want to do. It's Josie Bates, Helen." Matthew raised an eyebrow, challenging his benefactress to think hard. Finally, her eyes widened as Josie's name rang a bell.

  "Oh, really? Your long lost love, Matthew? Volleyball player. Lives at the beach. Works with some woman in a neighborhood firm. She's gone positively granola since her days with you." Helen ticked off the pertinent information even as she smiled at Matthew.

  "Is there anything you don't know, Helen?" He wasn't amused to have Josie labeled like another of Helen's files but he let it go.

  "When it comes to my investments, I like to be on top of things," she answered back.

  "I thought I was a little more than that." Matthew's lament sounded so heartfelt Helen Crane almost laughed. He could be so seductive. Pity the poor woman who wasn't ready for him when he turned on the charm. Helen sighed.

  "You are, my dear. You are the great white hope for business and social sanity in this sprawling liberal state. That's why so many of us are dedicated to keeping you above the fray. Sadly, the fray is at your doorstep," Helen answered soberly. "You're sure Grace didn't have anything to do with Michelle's death, aren't you? Because if she did, the scandal could take us both down."

  "Grace is many things, Helen, but I doubt she's a murderer."

  "All right, then," Helen said. "This should be fixable."

  "I'm sure it is and I'll take care of it." Matthew held up a hand as Helen began to object. "Grace is my sister, Michelle was my wife, and you've done enough."

  "Then do whatever you have to do and do it quickly. An affair or a crass relative is one thing. Murder is quite another. You never know what might surface during a trial."

  Helen set aside her cup and rested her well-coiffed head on an upturned palm. She would let Matthew have first go at smoothing this over, but she wouldn't give him much time. If Grace proved to be the sister from hell as Matthew had said, the failure of this campaign would be laid squarely at Helen Crane's doorstep for insisting that she be found and monitored. Before she let a scandal like this ruin her, Helen would take over damage control. If worse came to worst, she knew how to deal with Grace. But first things first. She would protect her investment.

  "You do understand how important this is, don't you, dear?" Helen smiled at Matthew.

  "It goes without saying, Helen. A trial is the last thing any of us want."

  Matthew McCreary unrolled his shirtsleeves and buttoned the cuffs. He tightened his tie, then leaned down and put his hands on the back of the sofa, caging his hostess. For the longest time he looked at her, not unaware that her breathing had quickened, her eyes had sparked and her lips had parted. He would have flattered himself except that he knew Helen had that reaction to any attractive man who came within fifty feet. She was a passionate woman but her passions had a priority. Matthew was nothing personal to her, he was a means to an end and he knew it. Still, Matthew McCreary leaned closer still and kissed her cheek. Before he could right himself, Helen touched his.

  "There isn't anything I should know is there, Matthew? Anything about Grace or that attorney? Or you, for that matter?"

  "I thought you already knew everything there was to know about Grace and me, Helen. Isn't that why you gave me the A-l stamp of approval?"

  "I do my best, Matthew, but I'm not stupid. There are things everyone keeps so close that you can't find them by just digging around."

  "Then maybe they should stay buried, Helen." He stood up and looked down at her. "You know what they say—what you don't know can't hurt you."

  "But maybe the things I don't know could hurt you, Matthew," she cajoled.

  "I think you know everything you need to about Grace and me. In fact, you probably know a little too much."

  A moment later, Matthew was gone, leaving Helen Crane feeling uneasy. So she sat a while longer, looking at all her things and thinking about how hard it had been to come by them; scraping by before marrying well, having to put up with George M. for more years than she had bargained for. She would never lose them, but it would be a shame to lose the things she really wanted: success and power in her own right. She wasn't going to lose her chance for anyone—especially Grace McCreary. Then she thought about poor, beautiful, dead Michelle and suddenly Helen Crane saw a pattern she had missed. Matthew McCreary's women were unusual, not exactly on even keels. Now one more was being resurrected and Helen didn't know nearly enough about her.

  She got up and went into the study and found Matthew's file. Still standing, she refreshed her memory while she dialed the phone. When it was answered the man on the other end complained that it was after hours.

  "Perhaps I should take my business elsewhere." It was enough to shut him up. "I need some additional information."

  Helen waited while the man got a pencil and paper. When he was ready she gave him his instructions.

  "Josie Baylor-Bates. I'd like to know a little more about her. Something a little more personal."

  CHAPTER 14

  Ten thirty at night and the restaurants were busy catering to people willing to pop for dinner as long as the place was air-conditioned. Others were sitting on the beach with their feet in the water. Some had brought sleeping bags, hoping to catch some Z's along with a cool breeze. They got neither. The unseasonable temperature was relentless; the mercury was refusing to budge. Those without central air in the older houses and apartments would lie naked and spread-eagled on coverless beds cursing another nighttime that melted too slowly into day. The only bright spot was that the thunderheads had moved on after a spate of halfhearted downpours. Now the coast sizzled instead of steamed, and that was the way Josie preferred it.

  She ignored the trickles of sweat that coursed between her breasts, the sticky coat of perspiration on her skin. It was Max who suffered. The dog's tongue lolled out of his mouth, his panting pitiful as he walked slowly by Josie's side: tail down, head down, heart heavy, Josie let her mind wander to nothing in particular and everything all at once.

  A call was in to the DA and Josie had no illusions that it would be returned before Monday. Hannah and Faye were at the Bottle Inn celebrating. Archer had left a message telling her the weather was mild in Mexico, which, when translated, meant he missed her. She would return the call later. She would call Hannah at the Bottle Inn later, would bed Max down and get her head in order. It was a good plan that evaporated a second later when she saw Matthew McCreary leaning against the low wall that surrounded her house. He hadn't changed much. Tall and handsome, Matthew was the lithe athlete to Archer's strongman. He pushed off the wall. He smiled when he saw her.

  "Hello, Josie."

  She slowed when she caught sight of him but stopped dead when he spoke. The sound of her name was like an invitation, like arms opening, like home. That was so wrong, and Josie shook off that sense of affection.

  "Have you seen Grace?" she asked, going on the offense.

  Matthew shook his head, Josie started walking again, concentrating on the image of Grace being led away to keep her from falling under his spell.

  "When did you become such a bastard, Matthew?" she asked, uncomfortable under his gaze, determined not to show it.

  "I went downtown. They wouldn't let me see her. They said she was being processed."

  "At least you tried, right?" Josie drawled. "If I believe you even went, that is."

  Josie gave him a wide berth, keeping her distance as she flipped the latch on the low gate. Matthew followed as naturally as if years hadn't passed and other lovers hadn't intruded. In that second Josie caught
his scent and from the corner of her eye saw the curve of his lips. She had known they would see one another but this was too soon. Josie wasn't ready and Matthew didn't seem to care. Behind her she heard the click of the gate. Trailing her, Max turned his head, unsure if the man who loitered behind was friend or foe but willing to let Josie decide which he was. The dog skirted past her the minute the door was open and went for his water bowl. Josie held on to the doorknob and shifted her weight from one foot to another as she thought about her next move. She looked at Matthew, who lingered halfway up the walk, waiting for her to ask him in.

  "You've got five minutes to explain why you didn't come when Grace called." She opened the door a little wider. Matthew walked toward her, pausing as he drew alongside. He looked into her eyes as if he wished they could turn back time.

  "You look wonderful, Josie," he murmured.

  "Take off that stupid jacket before you broil," she answered.

  "Tim told me you wouldn't give him the time of day."

  Matthew settled on the couch, tossing his jacket over the arm, crossing his legs, sitting as if he had always been there. Josie took the big chair.

  "I get nervous when I'm ambushed in a dark parking lot. I don't like that you sent the second string, Matthew. Why weren't you there?"

  "I should have been. I'm sorry."