Secret Sisters (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The woman behind the front desk at the B&B looked up when Madeline came through the door, followed by Daphne, Jack, and Abe.

She gave Madeline a tight, frozen smile.

“Ms. Chase, may I speak with you please?” she asked in a thin voice.

Madeline went to the desk. “What is it?”

“I have a message for you.” She held out an envelope.

Madeline took the envelope and glanced at the elegant writing on the front. The note was addressed to her. The sender's name was embossed on the flap.
Louisa Webster.

An icy frisson danced across the back of Madeline's neck. She tucked the envelope into her tote.

The clerk cleared her throat. “Ms. Chase, I'm afraid there's a small problem with your reservations.”

Madeline gave her a cool smile. “Is that so?”

“This morning you asked to extend your reservations here at the Cove View for you and your friends. At the time I thought that would be possible. However, there's been a mistake with the bookings. I'm afraid I won't be able to let you have the extension, after all.”

Madeline raised her brows. “You're kicking us out?”

“We're booked solid for the weekend. Big art show going on here in town.”

There was something desperate and pleading about the clerk's very bright smile.

“What do you suggest?” Madeline said.

The clerk blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You're asking us to check out after telling us that we could have the rooms,” Madeline said patiently. “So what do you suggest the four of us do?”

The clerk swallowed hard. “I could make some calls.”

“Great idea,” Madeline said. “You do that. My friends and I will wait right here in the lobby.”

She turned her back on the front desk and crossed the room to where Jack, Abe, and Daphne stood.

“What's going on?” Abe asked in low tones.

Jack's mouth thinned. He studied the clerk, who was speaking quickly into her phone. “My fault. This is about what happened at the Crab Shack, isn't it?”

“I think so,” Madeline said. “I told you, everyone on the island gets freaked whenever Xavier Webster is in town. He's got a certain reputation for revenge.”

“And he likes to use fire, as I recall,” Daphne added. “That bastard. The hotel management is afraid Xavier might do something very nasty to the B-and-B if we are in residence.”

“Yep,” Madeline said.

The clerk looked up anxiously. “Ms. Chase?”

Madeline went back to the front desk. “Yes?”

“The inns and B-and-Bs are all filled up, but some of the summer houses are vacant. I checked with a friend at a local property management office. He suggested Harbor House. It's a very large, older home
outside of town. Four bedrooms, three baths. Great views. There's a catch, though. Minimum stay is one month.”

“Tell your friend I'll take it,” Madeline said. “Tell him to get the rental contract ready. I'll stop by the property management office to sign it an hour from now.”

“Great.” The clerk was visibly weak with relief. “I appreciate your being so understanding.”

“No problem.” She turned around to look at the others. “Why don't we get some lunch? I'm hungry.”

•   •   •

A short time later they settled into a booth at the Crab Shack. Heather Lambrick greeted them and then disappeared into the kitchen. Madeline picked up her menu.

“I've been kicked out of bars,” Abe said. “But this is the first time I've ever been tossed out of a hotel.”

“Harbor House will work for us,” Madeline said.

“I remember it,” Daphne said. “It was built as a summer home by some rich guy from Seattle back in the early twentieth century. It's a beautiful old place, or at least it used to be.”

“With luck, we won't be hanging around Cooper Island much longer,” Madeline said. She looked up at the waitress. “I'll have the Crab Louie.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Daphne said.

Abe looked at the waitress. “She'll have the fish-and-chips. Same for me.”

Daphne frowned. “I'm really not hungry.”

Jack tossed his menu aside. “Fish-and-chips for me, too.”

The waitress took off before Daphne could correct the order.

Madeline peered at Jack. “Are you feeling okay?”

He raised his brows. “Fine. Why?”

“You usually spend a lot more time studying a menu.”

“Got this one memorized.”

“You're thinking about something else,” she accused.

“I'm thinking about the call I'm going to make to my librarian as soon as we finish lunch.”

Daphne's brows rose. “You have a personal librarian?”

Abe chuckled. “He's talking about Becky Alvarez. Technically she's our receptionist, but she's got a degree in library science and she insists we call her a librarian.”

“Titles are always important,” Madeline said. She turned back to Jack. “So why are you calling your in-house librarian?”

“I'm going to have her overnight some outdoor motion sensors to install around our new location,” Jack said. “You know, in case a firebug decides to visit us.”

Madeline caught her breath. “Okay.”

“Good plan,” Daphne said, sounding as if she, too, had just taken a sharp breath. “This is getting weird, isn't it?”

“And weirder,” Madeline said.

She took the envelope out of her tote. Jack, Abe, and Daphne watched her. No one said a word.

She tore open the envelope and removed the crisp notecard inside. It was embossed with Louisa Webster's initials.

Madeline read the message aloud, keeping her voice low.

Dear Ms. Chase:

I am told that you are in town to deal with aspects of your grandmother's estate. A very sad reason to return to Cooper Island after all this time. Nevertheless, welcome home.

I would like to take this opportunity to invite you to join us for a private reception in honor of my husband's birthday
on Monday, the fifteenth. This will be an informal event held in our home immediately before the community event. We will be sharing some very special news with our guests.

I understand that you are here with a companion. He is welcome, also.

“Louisa Webster is inviting you to a reception in honor of Egan's birthday?” Daphne's brows rose. “Well, that strikes me as creepy.”

“Oh, yeah,” Madeline said. “Definitely creepy. It's the
welcome home
line that gets me, though.”

Abe folded his arms on the table. “I take it that when you and your grandmother lived here, your family was not close with the Websters?”

“I'm pretty sure my grandmother was never invited to any of their receptions,” Madeline said. “But then, the Websters weren't close with anyone in town. Their family compound here on the island was just a weekend and summer place as far as they were concerned.”

“And now, suddenly, you're being invited to a private birthday reception,” Daphne observed. “This is too weird.”

“Not necessarily,” Jack said. “Madeline recently inherited a nice little chain of high-end hotels. She's just the kind of executive who gets invited to receptions in the homes of people who are trying to attract donors to fund a political campaign.”

“Oh, right,” Daphne said. “Sometimes I forget about the hotels. Of course the Websters view Madeline as a potential campaign donor. That makes sense.”

Madeline sat back. “You know, in a strange way, that is oddly reassuring.”

“How's that?” Abe asked.

“Let's just say it's not the first time I've had people suck up to me because of my inheritance. I understand folks like that.”

Abe nodded wisely. “Sure.”

Madeline looked at Jack. “What do you say? Shall I accept? It might be an opportunity to get a closer read on the Websters.”

“What it is,” Jack said, “is a convenient, legal way to get inside the Webster compound and have a good look around.”

Alarm crackled through Madeline. “Are you crazy? I forbid it. Do you hear me? I absolutely forbid you to take that kind of chance. Don't even think about it.”

She broke off because the waitress had arrived with the plates of food. When the woman retreated, Abe gave Jack a speculative look.

“This is where your IT guy gets to say, what could possibly go wrong?” Abe said.

Having evidently forgotten that she wasn't hungry, Daphne forked up a bit of crispy fish.

“Do you two do illegal stuff a lot?” she asked. She sounded curious but not particularly concerned.

“No,” Abe said.

“Only for very special clients,” Jack said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The rental agreement was ready for Madeline when Jack escorted her into the property manager's office. No one brought up the subject of arson. The real estate agent seemed delighted to get the check for a month's rent. Jack concluded that the agent was new on the island and therefore didn't know the locals' secrets.

When they returned to the Cove View, Abe was waiting with a report on the license plate that had been discovered in the maintenance building. They gathered in Madeline's little suite. They had an hour before the checkout deadline.

“The car was registered to a woman named Sandra Purvis,” Abe announced.

Jack saw Madeline's anticipation fade. Daphne looked dejected, too.

“That doesn't fit,” Madeline said. “The license plate must be from a different car.”

“Dead end,” Daphne said. “So much for finding our first lead.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Abe chided. “Hang on, I'm not finished. Sandra Purvis was a resident of San Diego, California, at the time the license tabs were issued.”

“Where is she now?” Jack asked.

“She's dead. Heroin overdose about five months ago. Evidently she was a career addict.”

“Another recently deceased individual who happens to be linked to our case,” Jack noted.

“Where is this going?” Madeline asked.

“Turns out our Sandra Purvis had a brother named Norman Purvis,” Abe said. “Norman disappeared eighteen years ago. Went straight off the grid. Never seen again as far as I can tell.”

Jack watched Madeline and Daphne exchange looks.

“It gets even more interesting,” Abe said. “At one time Norman Purvis had a California-issued private investigator's license. But it was pulled because he got arrested for soliciting sex with underage girls. Recognize this guy?”

He turned the computer around with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

They all looked at the screen. The old arrest photo showed a heavily built man with a receding hairline and hard eyes.

“Oh, my God,” Daphne whispered. “It's him. That's Porter.”

Madeline stared at the photo, mute.

Jack tried to throttle back the rage that clawed at his insides.
The bastard is dead,
he reminded himself.

Daphne put out a hand and touched Madeline's arm. The physical connection broke Madeline's trance.

“It's him,” Madeline said.

Her voice sounded unnaturally even, utterly flat.

Jack knew that both women had been braced for the name and the link to the dismembered vehicle, but having it confirmed aloud made it, if not actually more real—it was already very real—somehow more visceral. More immediate. It was as if a ghost had walked into their midst, he thought. He understood because he'd had a few visitations from a dead man in his own dreams.

“So Lomax really did chop the car,” he said. “Talk about being thorough.”

“I told you, everyone was scared,” Madeline reminded him.

He looked at Abe. “Anything else?”

“I checked out Purvis's address in San Diego,” Abe said. “Eighteen years ago it was an apartment building. But it was torn down a decade ago to make way for a high-rise condo tower.”

“Guess that means there's no going back to see if any of Porter's old neighbors remember him,” Madeline said.

“Purvis,” Abe corrected absently.

“He's always going to be Porter to me,” Madeline said.

Nobody argued.

Jack looked at Abe. “All right, we've got a starting point. San Diego. Did you finish those background checks on the various members of the Webster family?”

“Yes.” Abe clicked through a few more screens on the computer. “The headquarters of Egan Webster's hedge fund is in Bellevue, Washington. But it turns out that before he moved to Washington to establish his financial empire, he was a broker at a small firm in La Jolla, California.”

“Which is a very nice neighborhood in San Diego,” Madeline observed. “And Porter-Purvis was from San Diego.”

Daphne frowned. “Where does that take us?”

“Still trying to connect dots,” Abe said. “After Webster founded his own hedge fund it took off like a rocket. Almost every single investment was a blockbuster success. And the company's annual reports still look terrific. But when I examined some of the underlying investments, I found some serious anomalies.”

“Anomalies are always interesting,” Jack said.

“Some of the investments break the golden rule of investing—they look a little too good to be true.” Abe checked another screen. “And they are, at least according to my analysis. But those anomalies don't
seem to have made any impact on Webster's profits. As far as the investors know, Webster still has the magic touch.”

Madeline sat back and shoved her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans. “Fraud?”

“It wouldn't be the first time a miraculously successful hedge fund operation turned out to be not so miraculous,” Daphne said.

“No,” Abe said. “But in this case it's interesting that Webster was so brilliantly successful for so long before he started losing his Midas touch.”

Jack thought about that. “Nobody stays on top forever. The fund was established—what?—twenty years ago?”

“Right,” Abe said. “A couple of years before Porter-Purvis showed up here on Cooper Island.”

“Webster would have been about forty when he set up his fund,” Madeline observed. “Not exactly a young hotshot. You said he was working at a brokerage firm before that. What kind of track record did he have there?”

Abe studied his notes again. “A good one, at least in the last year of his employment. Before that he was just average as far as I can tell. Had a nice list of clients, though.”

“That I can believe,” Madeline said. “He hit the genetic jackpot when it comes to looks and charisma. He was born for politics or sales. Probably didn't have the money for politics back at the start, so he chose sales.”

Jack sat forward and folded his arms on the table. “Webster was running with the herd for his first couple of decades in the financial world. Then, some twenty years ago, he moves to Washington, sets up his own fund, and suddenly becomes Mr. Wizard. And shortly thereafter, a low-rent private investigator who had lost his license due to a penchant for sex with little girls shows up under a false ID here on Cooper Island.”

They all looked at him.

“I think we need to find out what happened to change Webster's luck twenty years ago,” Jack said.

“I'll keep digging,” Abe said. “But I think I've done all I can do online. It's time I started talking to some people who knew Webster during his time in La Jolla, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “Find some of his old colleagues. Maybe an old girlfriend. Someone who knew him well.”

Daphne straightened abruptly and drummed her fingers in a quick staccato. “I'll go with you, Abe.”

They all looked at her.

Abe found his tongue first. “What?”

“There's nothing I can do here on the island,” Daphne explained. “But I might be able to help you interview people. Interior designers learn to deal with all kinds of clients. I'm pretty good at getting a read on people by analyzing their personal style.”

“I think,” Madeline said, speaking very deliberately, “that is a very good idea.”

Daphne looked satisfied. Jack thought Abe looked secretly pleased.

So who was he to argue?

“Okay,” he said. “Go pack. We don't have time to waste on the ferries. Go down to the marina and charter a floatplane to take you to Seattle.”