Lost and Found (18 page)

“I see.”

“I’m making a lot of progress. I found a great book called
Breaking the Bad-Boy Habit: The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Finding and Appreciating Nice Guys
. It’s really helped me get a handle on my problem.” Her voice trailed off. “But it’s hard to break a bad habit and Dillon’s not making it any easier, that’s for sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“He started calling me right after the funeral. I heard from him again yesterday. Says he wants us to get back together.”

“Does he know about Parker?”

“Sure. I told him.”

“What did he say?”

Leandra hesitated. “He got mad. Said Parker was too old for me.”

Cady picked up a pen and toyed with it. “Is Dillon pressuring you?”

“He sure is.”

“Do you think he’s likely to become a real problem?”

“Dillon was a problem from the word go. I don’t know what I ever saw in him.”

“I mean, as in a stalker,” Cady said slowly.

Leandra stared at her, mouth open.

The front door of the gallery opened. Sylvia, garbed in an expensively tailored business suit, came through the doorway.

“Dillon?” Leandra said. “A stalker? I don’t…I mean, I never—”

“Stalker?” Sylvia glanced from Cady to Leandra and back again. “What’s going on here?”

Cady looked at her. “Leandra tells me that Dillon has started calling her since Aunt Vesta’s funeral. He’s pressuring her to get back together.”

“I didn’t know that.” Sylvia frowned at Leandra with grave concern. “Is he making himself difficult?”

“I’ve told him to leave me alone, but he—” Leandra broke off abruptly and burst into tears. “Oh, damn.” She leaped to her feet and fled down the short hall that led to the small restroom. The door closed sharply behind her.

There was a short silence. Cady and Sylvia both studied the closed door of the restroom.

“What do you think?” Sylvia asked finally.

“I think,” Cady said slowly, “that Dillon may be a problem.”

“I think you’re right,” Sylvia agreed. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Remember how angry he got when it became clear that Leandra was going to go through with the divorce?”

“I think he had been operating on the assumption that no matter what he did, Leandra would never dump him. But he failed to take Aunt Vesta’s influence into account.”

“That he did.” Sylvia turned back to her. “I’m on my way into the city but you said you would be spending the day here. Thought I’d drop by before I left. I wanted to mention a couple of things. You might want to make some notes.”

Warily, Cady reached for a pen and a notepad. “Okay, shoot.”

“First, Gardner and I would like to invite you and your Mr. Easton to dinner at the club tomorrow night. It will give us a chance to meet him.”

Interrogation time for her Mr. Easton. She hoped Mack could deal with it.

“Thank you,” she said very politely. “We’ll be there.”

“Chatelaine’s is hosting a reception to preview the Breston collection the following evening. Eight o’clock in the city. I’d like you and your Mr. Easton to attend, if possible. It will be the first big event the gallery has put on since Vesta died. It would be good public relations for you to be there. A show of respect, if you see what I mean.”

Sylvia’s crisp tone triggered a sense of deep regret in Cady. This thread of tension between herself and her cousin was new, and it was Vesta’s fault.

“All right. I think we can manage that.”

“Finally, since you’re in town, you wouldn’t want to miss the twins’ birthday party the following day,” Sylvia concluded.

“Not for the world,” Cady said, glad to be able to generate some genuine enthusiasm.

Sylvia’s expression softened. She smiled for the first time. “Good. I think that’s it for now. I’d better be off. If I miss the ferry, I’ll have to drive into the city.”

For a few seconds Cady hovered on the brink of telling Sylvia about her fear that Vesta had been murdered. But intuition warned her to keep silent. She knew her cousin well enough to be fairly sure that Sylvia would react to the information the same way Mack had last night: with disbelief, incredulity and more than a little concern about Cady’s new obsession.

The big difference was that Mack was being paid to tolerate her wild whims and conspiracy theories, Cady reflected. Sylvia was not. Sylvia was, in fact, very likely to conclude that it was her responsibility to start phoning other members of the family to warn them that Cady was having
problems
.

Cady shuddered at the thought of her relatives being informed that she was showing more signs of Vesta-like eccentricities.

“’Bye, Syl. See you at dinner tomorrow night.”

T
wo hours later in Vesta’s private study, Mack closed the last desk drawer and sat back to think. He had rifled through every folder, the address file and a stack of recent correspondence. The search had not brought enlightenment. Probably because there was none to be had.

He was wasting his time. Cady’s theory of a murder plot motivated by financial considerations connected with the merger between Chatelaine’s and Austrey-Post was a fantasy. He knew it, even if she did not. He wondered absently if there were any ethical questions involved in taking her money as a paid consultant when it was pretty clear that there was nothing on which to consult.

Screw the ethics. He wasn’t here because he needed the job. He had signed that damn contract because it was the easiest way to stay close to Cady.

He swiveled the chair around and contemplated the view of the terrace garden and pool through the French doors. He wondered what his next step would be if he were to start acting like a real investigator. What would he do if he decided to grant his client the benefit of a doubt and take her concerns seriously?

It wasn’t as if she was a complete nut case, he reminded himself, trying once again to take a positive angle. He knew that better than most. Over the course of the past couple of months, he had developed a great deal of respect for her intuition and her instincts in one area, at least. When it came to tracing rumors and leads on lost and stolen art, she was one of the best freelancers he had ever used.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss her conclusions about her aunt’s death.

Deliberately he switched gears, shifting away from gloomy analysis of the strange workings of Cady’s mind to the puzzle that had presented itself. He wasn’t a licensed private investigator, but he did know something about information gathering. He had specialized in it during his stint in the military and later he had built a business based on the skills involved. And it wasn’t like he had anything better to do today until Cady came home this evening.

The trick was to look first for the pattern and then search for the places where it had been broken.

Cady, who claimed to have understood Vesta Briggs better than anyone else, had been adamant about one observation. Her aunt’s appointments with a psychic had been very much out of character. The consultations with Jonathan Arden, therefore, fell under the heading of a break in the pattern.

He swiveled the chair back around so that he faced the big desk again and reached for the card file. Flipping through it quickly, he found Arden’s name and address in San Francisco.

The possibility that Arden was a legitimate psychic, assuming that was not an oxymoron, had to be considered. Maybe Vesta Briggs had developed a genuine interest in metaphysics. She certainly would not have been the first to do so. A glance through any phone book in any city in the country proved that there was no shortage of folks who claimed psychic abilities and no lack of people who longed to believe in them.

One thing was certain, he thought, getting to his feet. He needed more raw data and he wasn’t going to find it here in Vesta’s study.

T
WO
hours later he put down the newspaper, rested both hands on the steering wheel and pondered the less exciting aspects of real-life stakeout work. From where he was parked, half a block down the street from Jonathan Arden’s address, he had an excellent view of the garage and the six apartment doors. Thus far, nothing of note had occurred. He glanced at his watch and thought about calling it a day. He still had to drive back across the Golden Gate Bridge and pick up something for dinner before he met Cady at the little gallery on Via Appia.

A consultant’s work was never done.

He had his hand on the key in the ignition when he saw the door of the apartment on the far end of the second
floor open. A slender man in his late thirties emerged and walked down the outside corridor. His hair was expensively styled. So were the trousers and designer knit sportshirt that he wore. He carried a tennis racket in one hand. As Mack watched, he opened a door and disappeared into a stairwell.

Mack got out of his car and crossed the street. When the grilled gate of the garage door opened a short time later, he was ready.

Arden piloted a green Jaguar out onto the pavement. He drove away quickly, not waiting until the security gate had clanged shut behind him.

Careless, Mack thought. Very careless.

H
e drove back across the Golden Gate an hour later and managed to take a wrong turn when he entered Phantom Point. He found himself in a peaceful hillside neighborhood with views of the bay that included Belvedere and Tiburon as well as Angel Island and the city. He continued along the winding street for a time, searching for a convenient place to turn around.

The villa with the gracefully arched doors and windows was in a quiet cul-de-sac. It was clearly new construction. There was a For Sale sign out front.

He brought the car to a halt and sat looking at the house for a while.

M
ack had been right. Going through Vesta’s office files had been a complete waste of time. The only good thing she could say about the day, Cady decided, was that she’d had a chance to catch up on family news and gossip with Leandra.

“Going to come back tomorrow?” Leandra asked as she switched off the gallery lights.

“No, I’ve seen enough financial reports to last me awhile.”

“Learn anything useful?”

“Nope.” Cady hitched the strap of her bag over one shoulder. “Just that Chatelaine’s is in great shape.”

“Even I could have told you that. Sylvia knows what she’s doing.”

“Yes. She’s got a real head for business.”

Leandra hesitated near the door. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“About what?”

“About getting a handle on Chatelaine’s current financial status. You spent the whole day behind that desk going through files. I didn’t think you were interested in the business.”

“I feel that I have a responsibility to vote my shares in the way that will be in the best interests of the firm,” Cady mumbled.

Leandra shrugged. “Sylvia says the merger is in the best interests of everyone concerned.”

“I’m sure she’s right. But I think Vesta would have wanted me to make up my own mind.”

“I guess so. She obviously wanted you to get more involved in Chatelaine’s, or she wouldn’t have left you those shares.”

Cady lounged on a corner of the desk. “Leandra?”

“Mmm?”

“You worked with Aunt Vesta more closely than anyone else except Sylvia during the past year and a half. You saw her every day. You must have known about this thing with the psychic.”

“Jonathan Arden? Sure. I knew that she went to see him a couple of times. I thought it sounded sort of interesting. But Sylvia said to keep quiet about it. She said it would be embarrassing if the news got out.”

“What’s your take on it? Do you think Aunt Vesta was really losing it there at the end?”

“That’s what Syl says, but I’m not so sure. Looked to me like she still had all of her marbles.”

A large, dark shadow appeared silhouetted against the glass door of the gallery. Mack twisted the doorknob and walked into the showroom.

“Well, well, well,” Leandra said with a cheeky grin. “Aren’t you the punctual type.”

“I try.” Mack met Cady’s eyes. “Ready to call it quits for the day?”

“Yes.” She straightened away from the desk and started forward. “I’m starving and I could use a medicinal glass of wine.”

“What a coincidence. I’m in the mood for the same therapy.”

T
hey walked back to the villa, following one of the pleasant residential streets that wound up the hillside above the marina. The lights were on in most of the homes they passed. On the far side of the bay, fog had enveloped the city, but the night promised to remain clear here in Phantom Point.

“How did your day go?” Mack asked as he opened the front door of Vesta’s house.

“A complete waste of time, just as you predicted.” Cady walked into the hall and dropped her purse on the nineteenth-century neoclassical bench. “I don’t know what I expected to find, but whatever it was, it wasn’t there.”

Mack closed the front door and locked it. “No clues, huh?”

“None. Just heaps of letters to clients and business associates. The usual stuff. Advance notes regarding important collections that would be on display in the main gallery in San Francisco. Consulting advice on various acquisitions. That kind of thing.”

“What about computer files?”

“My aunt was never keen on computers.” Cady headed for the kitchen. “They made her uncomfortable because of the privacy issues.”

“She used them in her business, didn’t she?”

“Of course. It would be difficult to run a modern firm of any size without computers. But she didn’t trust them. Believe me, if Aunt Vesta had had a secret to hide, the last place she would have chosen to conceal it would be a computer.”

Mack followed her into the kitchen. “That fits with what you’ve told me about her. By the way, I picked up some sourdough bread and cracked crab for dinner.”

“Sounds great. That reminds me, we’ve been invited to an ambush tomorrow night at the yacht club.”

“Ambush?”

“My cousin Sylvia and her husband, Gardner. They want to meet you. I’m pretty sure they intend to grill you to see if they’re right in suspecting that you want to marry me because of my shares in Chatelaine’s.”