River Road (8 page)

“Jealousy. Quinn and Brinker were both in line to inherit their fathers’ financial fund empire, but it was clear to everyone—including Quinn, I’m sure—that Brinker would end up as the guy in charge. If that happened, sooner or later Quinn would have been eased out of the company altogether.”

“Think so?”

“Absolutely,” Mason said. “Brinker wouldn’t have wanted a partner. He would have found a way to get rid of Quinn.”

“Well, that didn’t happen, did it? Who was the other suspect?”

“Nolan Kelly.”

Lucy frowned. “That’s hard to imagine.”

“Not if you were aware that Nolan was the local go-to guy for pot and booze back in the day. He catered to the teen crowd.”

“Okay, I didn’t know that. Why would he have killed Brinker?”

“Where there are drugs, there are guns, and sometimes people wind up dead.” Mason drank some of his water and put the bottle down. “There were always rumors of drugs swirling around Brinker.”

“Do you think Nolan was Brinker’s connection?”

“For the pot, probably. Not so sure about the hallucinogens. It’s hard to picture Nolan as a high-end dealer who had the kind of contacts it takes to get the expensive, exotic stuff that Brinker apparently made available at the parties. Kelly always struck me as a small-time operator. I can’t see him risking a murder charge. And if he was Brinker’s connection, why would he want to get rid of his best client?”

“Good question.”

“Deke says Nolan has really cleaned up his act, by the way. He’s sure that the only thing Kelly is selling these days is real estate.”

“That’s good to know.” Lucy made a face. “Still, I may want to consider giving the listing to another agent.” She looked at the crime scene tape across the hall. “We can now say for certain that all of the prevailing theories about Brinker’s disappearance were wrong. By morning everyone in town will know that Aunt Sara murdered him. I wonder how it all went down.”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you one thing: Sara did some very careful planning, and she did it fast.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The body bag.”

Lucy swallowed hard. “Yes, I see what you mean. Where does a person go to purchase a body bag, anyhow, if she isn’t in the medical or law enforcement field?”

“Where else? Online. Probably paid extra for overnight shipping.”

Lucy winced. She set her water aside and dropped her head into her hands. “One thing is for sure. I can’t sleep here tonight. Or tomorrow night, either, for that matter. It was bad enough last night without knowing there was a body in the fireplace. But now that I know this place has been a crypt for the past thirteen years, there’s no way I can stay here. I’m going to check into a motel.”

Mason checked his watch. “It’s midnight.”

“So? Motels are open twenty-four hours a day, aren’t they? Wasn’t there an old inn on the square in town?”

“The Harvest Gold Inn. It’s showing its age, but it’s clean and the location is convenient.”

Lucy pushed herself up out of the chair. “I’ll go upstairs and pack.”

She crossed the kitchen and went out into the hall. There she paused and looked at Mason, her eyes shadowed. “You know, it’s pretty amazing when you think about it, isn’t it?”

“That your aunt got away with murder for thirteen years? Yes, it is.”

“But now she’s dead and the truth is going to come out.”

“So what? There’s nothing the law can do to her now.”

“No.”

Lucy did not move. She just stood there, watching him with her knowing eyes.

He got a cold feeling in his gut. “What are you thinking?”

But he was pretty sure he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“You’re in law enforcement,” she said quietly. “I thought cops didn’t like coincidences.”

“No, but they happen. And so do car accidents. I don’t like where you’re going with this.”

“Sounds to me like you’re already there. Here’s the thing, Mason. We forensic genealogists have a few things in common with other kinds of investigators—we are a suspicious lot. Probably something to do with all those fake heirs who come out of the woodwork when a wealthy person dies. Makes us ask questions. And guess what? We also know a little something about investigation techniques.”

“No,” Mason said. He tried to make it sound nonnegotiable. “You are not going to start investigating Sara’s and Mary’s death. It was ruled an accident.”

Lucy gave him a brilliant smile.

“In that case, where’s the harm in asking a few questions?” she said.

“Damn it to hell, Lucy—”

“The way I see it, there are two possibilities. The first is that there is someone who cared enough about Brinker to avenge his death. That person decided that Sara killed Brinker and took revenge.”

“No.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Think about it, Lucy. Brinker’s body was stuck in the fireplace for thirteen years. No one knew it was there until tonight. There is every reason to believe that Sara took her secret to the grave. Therefore, there’s no logical reason to conclude that after all this time someone suddenly decided that your aunt was the one who killed Brinker and that said individual took revenge by murdering Sara.”

“I agree with you,” Lucy said.

He took a breath. “Okay. Good.”

“Which leaves only one other motive—those Colfax shares.”

“Damn.” He didn’t say anything else, because there was no denying that money was always a logical motive.

“Everyone assumed those shares would go to Quinn upon Mary’s death,” Lucy said. “Mary certainly led everyone to believe that. She was Warner’s sister, but she always had a special fondness for her nephew, Quinn. However, she changed her will without telling anyone, leaving the shares to Sara instead. Sara, in turn, left them to me.”

“That theory would make Mary the target of a staged accident.”

“Yes,” Lucy said. She swallowed hard. “Sara was collateral damage.”

“Lucy—”

“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

She rushed up the stairs.

“Damn it to hell,” Mason said again. But this time he said it to himself. Because he could see the writing on the wall.

Lucy was going to ask questions, and there was no way he could stop her. The only thing he could do was watch her back.

T
he following morning Lucy was sitting at a table in Becky’s Garden, the cheerful café next door to the Harvest Gold Inn, sipping a cup of freshly brewed organic green tea and munching a slice of toast that was also guaranteed to be organic and baked locally, when she heard her named called out.

“
Lucy.
Lucy Sheridan. I thought that was you I saw coming out of the hardware store yesterday.”

There was no mistaking a former cheerleader’s voice—bright, vivacious and downright perky. Lucy looked toward the door and watched Jillian Colfax sweep toward her through the crowded café. Jillian hadn’t changed much in thirteen years. Her blond hair was shorter now. She wore it in a stylish shoulder-length bob instead of a ponytail. Some of the natural radiance of youth had been replaced by an expensive spa glow, and she looked as if she had put on some weight. But she was still a remarkably lovely woman. She would look good at ninety. She had the bones.

She also wore clothes very well. Today Jillian was a model of what Lucy had concluded was the local look—an expensive, laid-back style that was meant to convey the mystique of wine country. The clothes were designed to indicate that the wearer was at home toiling in the vineyards.

The reality, of course, was that the real work in the vineyards was done by the same hardworking people who picked all the other crops on the West Coast—migrant laborers. Lucy suspected that very few of them wore designer jeans, silk shirts and Prada sandals into the fields. She was willing to bet that they left the diamond and emerald rings behind as well.

Jillian arrived at the table and sat down without waiting for an invitation.

“It’s wonderful to see you again,” she said. “Can you believe it’s been thirteen years?”

“No problem at all,” Lucy said. She put down the pen she had been using to make notes on a pad of yellow paper.

Jillian looked briefly baffled by the response, but she barely broke stride.

“Time goes by so quickly,” she said. “You look fabulous, by the way. You’ve really changed. I wasn’t even sure at first that it was you when I first saw you yesterday. Love the haircut. It really suits you.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” Lucy said in her most exquisitely polite tones. She picked up the pot and poured more tea into her cup.

Jillian regrouped and tried another approach.

“I’m so sorry about the circumstances that brought you back to Summer River,” she continued. “We were all shocked to hear about the car crash. Your aunt was a fixture of the community. Everyone liked her. I know you were close to her—at least you were when you were in your teens.”

“I loved her,” Lucy said. She set the pot down. “I was very fond of Mary, too.”

“I know. We will miss them both.”

“Will you?”

“Of course.” Jillian’s full lips tightened ever so slightly, and her eyes lost a few degrees of warmth and several carats of sparkle. “As I said, we were all shocked. But everyone knows that stretch of the old road to the coast is very dangerous. I don’t know why they took that route.”

“They always took Manzanita Road when they drove to the coast. They were very familiar with it. They liked to stop and eat a picnic lunch at the site of the old commune where they met. It was something of a weekly ritual for them.”

“Yes, well, I must admit the biggest stunner came this morning when Quinn and I heard that you and Mason Fletcher found Tristan Brinker’s body in the fireplace of Sara’s house. Absolutely unbelievable.”

“It was something of a surprise.”

“All these years everyone has wondered what happened to him.”

The attractive, middle-aged woman who had welcomed Jillian to the café a short time earlier cruised purposely through the crowd. She had introduced herself as Becky Springer, and it was clear that she was the proprietor. Becky was a robust, full-figured woman endowed with the unflappable personality and the kind of bubbly energy it took to run a small business. She came to a stop at the table where Lucy and Jillian were seated.

“Coffee, Jillian?” she said with a polite smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

Jillian glanced up impatiently. “Hi, Becky. Yes, coffee, please.”

“I’ll be right back,” Becky said.

Somehow she made it sound like a warning. Lucy hid a smile. Reading between the lines, she was quite sure that Becky was not a big fan of Jillian Colfax’s.

As soon as Becky was out of earshot, Jillian leaned in a little closer and lowered her voice.

“Do you have any idea why your aunt would have murdered Brinker?”

There was a thread of anxiety in her voice, and if you looked closely, you could see the evidence of strain around her eyes, Lucy thought.

“We don’t know for certain that she did,” Lucy said calmly. “For that matter, we don’t know yet that it’s Brinker’s body we found.”

“But they’re saying Brinker’s driver’s license was with the body, and also a newspaper with a headline about the Scorecard Rapist, who was terrorizing college campuses that summer.”

“I did see the driver’s license and the newspaper, but I’m sure the authorities will want to do a bit more investigating before they close the case.”

“It must be him,” Jillian said. “It has to be him. It explains why he suddenly vanished. I don’t think there will be an extensive investigation. Brinker’s only close relative was his father. Jeffrey Brinker died a few months after his son. There’s no one left who will push to reopen the case. After all, it looks very open-and-shut.”

“Does it?”

Tension tightened the corners of Jillian’s mouth and eyes. “Don’t tell me you want the police to start asking a lot of questions. It will make everything so much more complicated.”

It was half command, half plea.

“Define
complicated
,” Lucy said.

“You know what I’m talking about. You don’t want to dredge up the past.”

“What is there to dredge up?”

“Brinker hurt some people—maybe more people than we knew, if he really was the Scorecard Rapist. His victims won’t thank you for bringing the ghost out of the closet, trust me.”

“I didn’t know that much about Tristan Brinker. The closest I ever got to him was the night of his last party out at the old Harper Ranch. You may remember the occasion. You invited me to go with you.”

Jillian flushed slightly, and her eyes hardened, but she gave no other indication that the mention of the party brought back uncomfortable memories or twinges of guilt. Probably because they didn’t, Lucy thought. In Jillian’s mind the events of that long-ago evening no doubt came under the heading of teenage fun and games.

“What I remember about Brinker’s last party was that you left early with Mason Fletcher,” Jillian said.

“Yes.” Lucy made a note on the yellow pad.

Jillian watched uneasily. “What are you doing?”

“Just jotting down a few reminders to myself. I’ve got a lot to do while I’m here in town.”

“How long will you be in Summer River?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Lucy said. “I had intended to spend a couple of weeks getting the house ready to sell, but you’re right, a murder investigation could complicate things. Why do you ask?”

“I know this isn’t a good time to talk about business, but you need to know that Colfax Inc. is in the middle of a very important business negotiation. A lot of money is on the line.”

“I heard something about a possible merger.”

“Yes. Raintree Assets has approached Colfax with a very lucrative offer. Quinn and I recently found out that due to a quirk in Mary Colfax’s will, you inherited her shares in Colfax Inc.”

“It wasn’t a quirk at all,” Lucy said. “Mary was a very shrewd businesswoman. In exchange for the rather large sum of money that she invested in Colfax Inc. back at the beginning, she insisted that she have full control of her shares. She chose to leave them to Sara, who, in turn, left them to me.”

“All of the shares are supposed to remain in the family. Warner insisted on it.”

“He made an exception when he and Brinker founded the company. He needed Mary’s cash, so he met her terms. It’s all quite legal, I assure you. And rock solid. Mary and Sara handled their legal affairs with a trust. You know what lawyers say—wills are broken all the time, but trusts are almost impossible to take apart. I can vouch for that fact. In my work, we see plenty of examples of the strength of a well-designed trust.”

Jillian placed her perfectly manicured fingertips on the table and lowered her voice.

“According to Quinn, that wasn’t the way it was supposed to work,” she said.

Lucy laughed. “I can’t begin to tell you how many times I hear that in my profession.”

Jillian sat back, anger and confusion flashing across her face. “What, exactly, do you do for a living?”

“I’m a forensic genealogist.”

“What on earth is that?

“I spend my days tracking down lost heirs and connecting them with their inheritances.”

“I didn’t know there was such a profession.”

“I get that a lot.”

Jillian’s eyes glittered with suspicion. “Did you know that you were in line to inherit those Colfax shares?”

“It came as a complete surprise. I knew I was Sara’s heir, of course, but I never had a clue that she was one of Mary’s heirs.”

“Neither did anyone else in the known universe, damn it,” Jillian shot back.

Becky Springer chose that moment to arrive at the table with a graceful porcelain coffeepot decorated with yellow flowers. She poured the coffee into Jillian’s cup.

Two dark shadows fell across the bright café.

Becky glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh, look,” she said, affecting mild surprise. “Two latecomers for breakfast. I’d better make another pot of coffee.”

Jillian was sitting with her back to the door. She did not turn her head to see who had entered the room. It was obvious she couldn’t have cared less. She was completely focused on Lucy and the shares of Colfax Inc.

But Lucy watched, fascinated, as Mason and Deke prowled through the maze of delicate tables and chairs. She was not the only one paying attention. With the exception of Jillian, everyone else in the room glanced either surreptitiously or in outright curiosity at the men. In the pretty, sunlit space they stood out like a couple of Old West gunslingers traversing a flowered meadow.

Mason looked like he had gotten some sleep. The midnight shadow of a beard that she had noticed late last night was gone. He was dressed in jeans, a denim shirt and low boots.

Sara and Mary had often remarked that Mason resembled his uncle. Thirteen years ago, Lucy had not agreed. This morning the family link between the two was starkly clear. Deke’s once dark hair had gone steel gray. But the shared genetic heritage was there in the wolf-gold eyes, the fiercely etched features and the tough, lean lines of the two men.

“Something tells me Deke and Mason will want to join you two ladies,” Becky said. She winked at Lucy. “I’ll get two more cups.”

Jillian did turn around then. She shot a quick, uneasy look at Mason and Deke and then switched her attention back to Lucy.

“We can’t talk here. We need privacy.”

“I don’t have any problem chatting here,” Lucy said. Deliberately, she gave Mason and Deke a bright, welcoming smile. Deke nodded in acknowledgment. Mason looked amused.

Becky moved away from the table and greeted Mason and Deke.

“You two have a seat,” she said. “I’ll be right back with more coffee.”

“Thanks, honey,” Deke said.

He leaned over and gave Becky a quick, affectionate kiss as she went past him on the way to the coffee bar. It was the kind of easy good-morning kiss that two people who have been lovers for a long time exchanged.

Well,
Lucy thought.
So that’s how things stand in that quarter.

Mason must have noticed her reaction, because he flashed her a quick grin and winked.

And then both men were at the table. Neither of them was especially big, but between the two of them they managed to block out most of the sunlight pouring through the windows behind them.

“Well, well, well, little Lucy Sheridan,” Deke said. He gave Lucy a once-over and smiled approvingly. “Didn’t you turn out just fine? Figured you would.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Fletcher,” she said.

“Real sorry to hear about Sara and Mary.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said quietly.

“Good morning, Lucy,” Mason said. “Jillian. Mind if we join you?”

Jillian opened her mouth in what Lucy was pretty sure was going to be a no.

“Please do,” Lucy said.

Neither man hesitated. They each grabbed a chair from a nearby table, snapped it into position and sat down.

Jillian looked seriously irritated, but she was trapped and she knew it. The table was Lucy’s, after all.

Deke inclined his head at Jillian in a crisp, military-style acknowledgment of her presence that gave away nothing of what he was thinking.

“Jillian,” he said. “Surprised to see you here this morning.”

“I heard Lucy was in town,” Jillian said. Each word was chipped from ice. “She and I have some private business.”

“Is that so?” Deke looked at Lucy, brows raised.