“Anyone could have—” Wes began.
Crenshaw cut him off with a withering look. “They knew she was the one using the card, because a number of security cameras confirmed as much. Lana traveled by train to Chicago—by herself. She stayed in a hotel at first, and then a youth hostel.”
“If they knew where she was at the outset,” I asked, “why didn’t anyone go after her?”
“Good question,” said Crenshaw. “Elaine didn’t talk about it much—at least, not with me. But I believe this was a source of great regret in her life. She did mention once that Suzanne was so distraught after Jim’s death, she had to be medicated and was unable to travel.”
“Elaine must have been distraught, too,” I said.
“No doubt. At any rate, not long after she left, Lana turned eighteen. As she was no longer a minor, and not a missing person, the police closed the case. After a while, the credit card charges stopped. Elaine liked to think Lana had found a job and was able to support herself.”
Wes stepped toward one of the tall multipaned windows overlooking an expansive green lawn and gazed outside. I wondered what he was thinking. As for me, I still found it hard to believe Lana cut all ties with her mother and grandmother. My own mother’s sister, my aunt Josephine, had run away when she was seventeen, but at least she sent postcards and letters to let her family know she was all right.
“Crenshaw, you said Lana is Elaine’s sole heir by the terms of Elaine’s will?”
“That’s correct.”
“I assume that means Elaine updated her will after her son died. So, her granddaughter ran away, stayed away for fifteen years and counting . . . yet Elaine still left her everything?”
Crenshaw nodded solemnly. I wondered how Elaine’s daughter-in-law, Suzanne, felt about being left out of the will.
Wes turned around and pointed at the file in Crenshaw’s hand. “Any leads in there?”
“Very few.” Crenshaw scowled with exasperation. “Somehow the report manages to be both comprehensive and sparse. I believe the investigator’s exact words were ‘We’ve hit a dead end.’ While that may be true, I must admit it is not at all satisfactory.” He stood and assumed a position behind his chair, resting his hands on the back as if it were a podium—which forced Wes and me to look up at him.
“As Elaine’s friend,” he continued, “more so than as her executor, I feel I owe it to her to do better. I feel compelled, as it were, to make an extra effort. Which brings me to the reason I called you here today, Keli. I propose hiring you as a consultant on this matter. Now, rest assured, I don’t want you to engage in any formal investigation work, such as would require a professional P.I. license. Rather, I was hoping you could, I don’t know, poke around a bit. Talk to people. Do whatever it is you do that results in your stumbling upon the solution to a random mystery now and then. What do you say?”
Stumbling upon the solution? Well, maybe. Yeah, that was sometimes true. I wasn’t sure how I could help in this case, but I didn’t see any harm in trying.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Excellent. To begin, I had wanted to introduce you to Lana’s mother, Suzanne. However, I remember now that she mentioned having tennis lessons today. I don’t believe she has returned yet.”
“I can come back another time,” I offered. “Maybe it would be better for me to make an appointment with her.”
“I suppose,” said Crenshaw, handing me the P.I. report. “But while you’re here, why don’t I give you a tour of the house? I’m in the process of making an inventory of all Elaine’s personal property—which is no small feat. Say, as my consultant, perhaps you can assist me in the effort?”
I almost said that sounded like a good job for an intern, but I bit back the retort. Instead I said, “Perhaps we should discuss my consulting fee first.”
“Certainly. I assume you’ll charge by the hour?”
“Um, yes. I—” I broke off midsentence, distracted by something outside the window. “Sorry. I think someone was just watching us.”
Crenshaw and Wes raced to the window. “There’s no one out there,” said Crenshaw.
“They could have ducked around the corner,” said Wes.
“What did you see?” asked Crenshaw. “Can you describe the person?”
“It was a man. He was wearing a hat, like one of those floppy fisherman’s hats, I think. He had a mustache and dark hair sticking out from under the hat. He dropped out of sight as soon as I noticed him.”
Wes lifted his camera. “Maybe we should start the tour in the gardens.”
“Fine,” said Crenshaw. “We can exit through the conservatory, which opens to the patio.”
“Can you direct me to a restroom first?” I asked. “I’ll catch up with you guys outside.”
Standing in the hallway outside the drawing room, Crenshaw pointed in the direction of the great room. “Take a left at the staircase. It will be the second or third door on your right. To find the conservatory, come back this way, pass the dining room, and keep going until you see double French doors. Of course, if you go the other way, you’ll end up in the same place. Both wings of the house branch off the great room and lead to the conservatory in the rear.”
His directions sounded simple enough, but when I emerged from the powder room I found myself completely turned around. As I followed the curving paneled hallway, I realized I’d made my way to the east wing of the mansion. After a moment, I reached a point where the door to the drawing room should have opened on the left. Instead, a parallel door opened on my right. One peek inside told me it was the library. This must be where Ray saw Elaine working on a new will.
I couldn’t contain my curiosity. I slipped inside the room and glanced about. Heavy drapes blocked most of the sun’s rays, creating a dim, grayish light. Tall bookshelves flanked a stone fireplace much like the one in the drawing room. The portrait above this one was of a smiling, distinguished-looking man, presumably Harold Turnbull.
As I looked around, I imagined Harold and his upper-crust friends relaxing in the club chairs, smoking cigars and sipping brandy. But the image soon faded. For the past twenty years, Elaine had been the head of this household. I could see signs of her personality throughout the room, from the crocheted blanket tossed over the back of the sofa and the rose garden jigsaw puzzle on top of a corner table, to the stack of theater magazines on the wide oak desk. I roamed over to the desk, which stood against the wall between a painting of the European countryside, on the right, and a carved door with a shiny brass knob on the left. Fancy closet, I thought. Next to the desk was an elegant wooden filing cabinet, of the sort that probably contained important legal documents. Such as a will?
The cabinet was probably locked. I knew this. I also knew I was going to try it anyway. The instant my fingers curled around the handle, the closet door burst open and a man bounded toward me. He was middle-aged and puffy, with fair, wispy hair and mottled cheeks. His eyes were wide and flashing, like those of a terrified horse.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
It was a reasonable question, and one I would have readily answered—if not for the fact that my heart had jumped to my throat. The sudden appearance of the strange man wasn’t the worst part—it was the large, steel-gray handgun he waved in my direction.
Chapter Four
In times of danger, I automatically turn first to the Goddess. Although I believe in divine polarity, and the importance of both masculine and feminine energies, Mother Earth is my go-to. I can always count on her for comfort, guidance, and protection. Maybe I’m biased, being a woman myself. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been surrounded by strong, influential female figures my whole life. Either way, I feel a close, personal connection to the Goddess in all three of her mythical aspects: vibrant maiden, nurturing mother, and wise crone. That’s why my first (and only) tattoo depicts the sign of the Triple Goddess: A row of three moons—waxing crescent, full, and waning crescent
. It’s inked on my right inner wrist as a constant reminder of Her presence within me.
When the wild-eyed man came at me with a gun, I instinctively grasped my wrist, as if activating the tattoo. At the same time, I mentally launched an energetic shield of protection. I also took a step back and prepared to duck.
Almost instantly, the man dropped his hand and looked sheepish. “Oh. Sorry about this. It’s not loaded. I forgot I was holding it.”
“You forgot?” I managed to say.
“I—I heard a sound and rushed out here without thinking. Who are you?”
“Keli Milanni. I’m an attorney working with Crenshaw Davenport. And you are?”
He set the gun on the desk and held out his hand. “I’m Perry Warren. I’m an art advisor for the Turnbull Foundation. I used to be a curator at the Edindale Art Museum.”
As I shook his hand, I tried to muster up a polite smile. Now that my heartbeat had slowed to a semi-normal rate, I was more annoyed than frightened. His moist handshake didn’t help. “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled, as I discreetly wiped my palm on my trousers.
“I really am sorry,” he said, with an embarrassed grimace. “I get jumpy back there around the gun collection. That’s an antique, you know.” He pointed to the gun, a revolver with a wooden handle. I supposed it did look old, though no less deadly. “It belonged to Jim Turnbull,” he continued. “He was my friend and business partner.”
“Oh. Right. I heard he collected antique firearms.” And accidentally killed himself with one. No wonder Perry was nervous.
“Elaine asked me to catalog and appraise all the Turnbull collections. I was about halfway through when she passed away. Crenshaw agreed I should stay on and finish the job.”
“I see. So, the gun collection belonged to Elaine?”
“It was bequeathed to her. At the time of Jim’s death, he was estranged from his wife, and his daughter was just a child.”
“Wait—Jim was estranged from Suzanne? The woman who lives here now?”
Perry nodded. “Elaine asked Suzanne to move back in after Jim died. She still thought of her daughter-in-law as family. But Jim had left all his assets to his mother.”
“Oh. That makes sense.” Actually, I didn’t know if it made sense or not. I just didn’t know what else to say. “Well, Crenshaw is waiting for me, so I should be going. It was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
I left the library with my head spinning. What an odd encounter. As I made my way to the back of the house, I pondered what Perry had told me. He must have been a friend of the Turnbull family for many years, I realized. Maybe he would have some insight into why Lana had run away and where she might be now. I’d have to find time to talk with him again—preferably someplace far away from the antique gun collection.
There was something else he said that came back to me now. It was something about “staying on” after Elaine passed away. Did that mean he was staying here in the house?
I asked Crenshaw as much when I found him and Wes on the tile patio in the courtyard behind the conservatory.
“That’s correct,” Crenshaw confirmed. “Perry Warren was Jim’s fraternity brother. From what Elaine told me, he was a frequent houseguest, both before Jim died and afterward. Most recently, he was helping Elaine manage her art collections.”
“Perry mentioned that Jim and Suzanne were separated at the time of Jim’s death. Isn’t it odd that Elaine invited Suzanne to move back in?”
“Not necessarily,” said Crenshaw. “Elaine probably felt that having Suzanne live under her roof was the right thing to do. I think she always hoped Suzanne would do more to find Lana and bring her home.”
Wes snapped a picture of me, then moved to my side and draped an arm around my shoulder. “How many people actually live here?” he asked.
“At the moment, only three—Suzanne, Ray, and Perry. Plus the staff.”
“The staff?”
“The people who take care of the house and grounds. You met Celia. There are a few others. I’ve informed everyone they may remain here under the existing arrangements for the time being. Of course, if the estate is sold, everyone will have to leave. I’m hoping Lana will show up to claim her inheritance. She’ll have a number of decisions to make.”
“Assuming a second will doesn’t name different beneficiaries,” I pointed out.
Crenshaw grunted. “To be honest, I would be perfectly content to dismiss Ray’s claims as wishful thinking. However, I must admit it is entirely possible Elaine made another will. Since the recurrence of her illness, she talked about making certain changes with her affairs. She mentioned downsizing and taking stock. And she did ask Perry to appraise Harold’s collections. Whether or not she had time to finalize a second will, I have no idea.”
“Speaking of time, I really ought to get going. I’ll take a rain check on the house tour.” I reached into my purse to find my cell phone. I needed to let Farrah know I was running late. “But wait,” I said, remembering. “What about that phone call from Dr. Lamb? Does he plan to go to the police with his suspicions?”
“I believe so. He wanted to warn me to be careful around here.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Wes.
Crenshaw repeated what the doctor had told him about Elaine’s missing pain medications and the possibility her death was the result of an overdose.
Wes furrowed his brow. “Hang on. Let me get this straight. You’ve got a missing heiress, a missing will, and now some missing pills? Instead of hiring Keli, you need to hire a bloodhound. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle around here!”
Crenshaw narrowed his eyes, and I snickered. “Don’t joke about it,” I said, in spite of my grin. “It’s not really funny.”
“It’s funny, all right,” Wes insisted. “Funny-strange.”
I was about to agree when a movement near a twisting, sculpted evergreen bush caught my eye. I could have sworn I saw a person in a hat. Was it the same man I saw outside the parlor window? I ran over to investigate, but there was no one behind the bush. If anyone had been there, he had disappeared again.
The Bermuda Triangle indeed.
* * *
I climbed into the passenger side of Wes’s car and placed the Lana Turnbull file across my lap. It was too large to fit into my purse. As Wes settled in behind the wheel, I shot off another text.
“Farrah’s waiting for me at the nail salon,” I said. “Can you drop me off? She’ll give me a ride home later.”
Instead of starting the car, Wes reached for the file. “Don’t you want to look at this first?”
I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “Wes Callahan, is there something you want to tell me? Why are you so interested in this case?”
He gave me a small smile, tinged with something like regret. In that instant, I knew what he was about to say.
“I knew Lana Turnbull. We were classmates in high school.”
Of course.
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I don’t know. It was so long ago, and I haven’t thought of her in years. I didn’t really know her that well . . .” He trailed off.
“What do you remember about her?”
“We were lab partners one year, and we did some group projects together.” He wrinkled his forehead as he remembered. “She was a great artist, always drawing or sketching. She used to skip class sometimes, especially senior year. One time I asked her why, and she said she was bored, or something like that. Tired of school and tired of this town. She was itching to get out, move to a big city.”
“So, maybe she was planning on running away even before her father died,” I guessed.
“Maybe. Eventually she stopped coming to school altogether. I figured she dropped out or else switched to a private school. Everyone knew her family was rich, though you couldn’t tell by the way she dressed. She never showed off her money.”
I eyed Wes carefully as he squinted through the windshield. It seemed clear he wa
s wrestling with some old memories, but I decided not to press him. I opened the file and skimmed the contents.
“It looks like the P.I. searched all the obvious datasets and came up with a string of negatives,” I said, flipping through the top sheets of paper. “Lana has no criminal history. She’s never applied for a marriage license. She owns no real estate nor any registered vehicles; she pays no property taxes, has no employment records and no voter information. She doesn’t even have any social media presence that they could find.”
“In other words, she dropped off the grid,” said Wes.
“Almost. It looks like they did find at least two possible leads.” I pulled out two sheets of paper that had been marked with red tabs. One was an article in an old Chicago neighborhood newspaper. It was a short piece covering an art and literature contest a few years ago, and there was a group photo of the prize winners. Highlighted in the caption was the name Lana Turnbull. “Check it out,” I said, handing Wes the paper.
Wes took one look at the picture and nodded definitively. “That’s her.”
I leaned over. “Which one?”
“There. Front row, second from the end.” He pointed to a somber-faced girl with round cheeks and short, spiky hair. “I knew that was her even before reading the caption.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I mean, the hair is different and she’s obviously a decade older than she was in high school. But that’s her.”
“Then this places her in Chicago five years ago and tells us she became an artist.” I returned my attention to the file and found a note the investigator had made. “The P.I. firm looked up the other nine winners. They reached eight of them by phone—all of whom claimed not to know Lana. Evidently, they had each entered the art contest independently and didn’t know one another.”
“What about the ninth one?” Wes asked.
“Let’s see. The ninth person is a woman named Penny Delacroix. It turns out she has a vast online presence, with YouTube videos and blogs, et cetera. She was easy to find on the Internet, but not easy to find in person. It says here she never returned the P.I.’s calls.”
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