See How She Dies (30 page)

His bones ached from the job he'd done the night before. After he'd driven to the farm where Adria Nash had been raised, he'd talked with the people who'd leased the place, but he hadn't learned much. Either the couple was tight-lipped by nature or they'd seen through his story of being an insurance agent interested in selling fire insurance on the house and outbuildings. He'd never even gotten inside. The woman had kept the screen door closed and locked and had spoken tersely through the torn steel webbing. After striking out at the farm, he'd driven to the only bank of storage units in town, bribed the kid who was the night watchman and broken into Ms. Nash's unit. Sweeny, sensing a bonanza, had spent hours in the cramped space, moving boxes, climbing over old, tasteless furniture, and digging through pile after pile of crates until he'd hit pay dirt and come up with the family Bible as well as copies of tax returns that proved how broke Adria Nash really was. No wonder she was after the Danvers money. The tax files and the Bible were now sitting securely back in the storage unit. He'd taken copies of the returns and the family-tree section of the Bible, including any pages with notations on them, then slipped the kid watching the storage place a fifty, and replaced Adria's property in the packing crates. She'd never be the wiser.

But he was still stuck in this frigid hellhole. He downed another beer and checked his watch. Hauling his briefcase, he strolled back to the phone booth. This time, Foster was there. The computer nut picked up on the second ring.

“ 'Bout time,” Sweeny grumbled.

“Oswald. Always a pleasure.” Foster didn't bother hiding the sarcasm in his voice.

“Yeah, right.”

“Okay, so I got your message. What's up?”

“It's a piece of cake. I want you to find some people for me. The first one has several names. She goes by Ginny Slade, Virginia Watson, or Virginia Watson Slade. She's somewhere around fifty, give or take a few years, I think, and was married to Bobby or Robert Slade.”

“That's it?” Foster asked.

“What more do you need?”

“Watson and Slade aren't uncommon names. How about a location to start with—you know, something like east of the Mississippi?”

“Just a minute.” Impatiently Oswald opened his briefcase and pulled out his copies of the family tree from the Bible. “Okay, let's see,” he said, running his finger down the page. “Looks like Virginia was born in Memphis, Tennessee. She and Bobby were married in the First Christian Church in June of 1967. Other than those specific dates, all I know is that she cruised through Montana at one time and gave up her daughter, probably named Adria or something like it, for adoption. An old couple—Victor Nash and his wife Sharon—adopted the kid sometime in late 1974, I think, though I can't find any reference to a specific date and no official papers were filed.”

“That all?”

“Not quite,” Sweeny said, loving to spread news meant to shock. “Get a load of this—we suspect this Virginia Watson Slade might have been the governess for London Danvers.”

There was a long, low whistle on the other end of the line. “Ginny Slade.”

“Bingo.”

“So why're
you
involved? No, let me guess. The kid's shown up and is demanding her part of the fortune.”

“You got it.”

“Could be interesting.”

“See what you can come up with.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“I'll call you. Need anything else?”

“How about a social security number?”

“Right.” Sweeny sorted through his notes on Ginny Slade. “Got it,” he said, and rattled off the series of numbers she'd used when she was London's governess. He explained a little more about the case and hung up, satisfied that Foster would come up with something. He was a computer hacker from the 80s who'd found a way to put his skills to work. Sweeny didn't really know how he operated, if he broke into the IRS's files or had someone in the government working for him, but Foster was part of a national service where people who had been lost were found—even people who didn't want to be located. He'd get the job done one way or the other.

Satisfied, Sweeny snapped his briefcase shut. He felt better. Another drink and he'd call Jason Danvers.

 

Adria glanced over her shoulder but she didn't see a familiar face in the stream of people that passed by the front door of the Orion. She told herself that she was being paranoid, that no one was following her, but she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her. And the dead rat in her mini fridge served to remind her that
someone
did know where she lived and where she went. All day, while she scouted around town looking for a more permanent residence, she'd felt as if a pair of eyes had been boring into her back, watching her every move.

She'd half expected to run into Zachary again, but he hadn't shown up and it wasn't his style to stay in the shadows. He might follow her, as he'd done before, but he'd end up confronting her again.

So who? she wondered as she swept her gaze along the street again. She didn't see anyone hunched over a newspaper, or lounging near a telephone booth, or quickly ducking into storefronts when she glanced behind her. The person who had sent her the package had put her on edge. She was jumping at shadows. Before leaving the hotel earlier, she'd checked with the bell captain, Security, and the business office. No one had remembered anyone leaving a package for her. Whoever was behind it had been very careful. And so would she be.

Waving to the old man behind the magazine counter, Adria dashed into the hotel and asked for messages at the front desk. She was handed one note from the switchboard and a stiff white envelope with her name scrawled across the linen surface, not in block letters this time but flowing script. Rather than read the messages where anyone lounging in the lobby could see her, she took the elevator to her floor.

In her room, she kicked off her shoes, cast a glance at the closed refrigerator, then she scanned the notes. The telephone call was from Nelson Danvers, who wanted to speak with her “urgently.” Good. Progress, she thought. But she could let Nelson wait a little longer.

The invitation in the linen envelope wasn't expected. She pulled out the handwritten card, and read the offer:

No telephone number. No address. Just a note left at the front desk of the Orion.

Adria read the words over again. Why would Polidori want to see her? Obviously he'd heard that she was in town claiming to be London Danvers, but how? And how did he know where she was staying? She felt goose bumps crawl up her back and she walked to the window and stared out at the street, wondering again if even now she was being followed or if anyone was watching her room.

She saw no one leaning against a lamppost while staring up at her window, no malicious figure darting into the shadows.

“Relax,” she told herself as she tapped the edge of the card on her lips and walked to her closet, where she eyed her meager wardrobe. What would it hurt to meet Polidori? Should she take him up on his offer or would that be playing into his hands?

She smiled to herself because she was starting to think like a Danvers. She had no reason to fear the Polidoris; in fact, talking with Witt Danvers's sworn enemy could be enlightening. According to everyone in the family, he was the most likely suspect in the kidnapping of London. So why would he want to see her?

She changed into a simple black skirt and top, clamped her hair back, and slipped her arms into a jacket.

By the time she hurried out of the elevator in the main lobby, the limo had arrived and a driver helped her into the shadowed interior. She wasn't alone. Two men sat across from each other. The short, older man in an elegant gray suit and dark glasses greeted her. “Ms. Nash,” he said, taking her hand as she slid onto the seat beside him. “Welcome. Welcome. I'm Anthony Polidori. My son, Mario.”

“My pleasure,” Mario said smoothly. He was tanned and good-looking, with even features, curling black hair cut longer than fashionable, and eyes the color of obsidian.

“I was surprised to hear from you,” she said, deciding not to play games.

Anthony smiled and tapped his son on the knee with his cane. “She was surprised.” He patted her arm as the limousine pulled away from the curb. “You've not heard of the feud between the Danvers family and my own?” His voice was skeptical.

“A little,” she hedged, not wanting to give anything away.

“I bet.” For a few seconds he seemed lost in thought and only the soft sound of classical music filled the plush interior of the car. “Mario, where are your manners? Ask Ms. Nash if she cares for a drink.”

“Later, maybe,” she said, but Mario ignored her and poured a glass of wine from a bottle chilling in an ice bucket.

“Please, be our guest,” Mario insisted. Probably in his late thirties or early forties, Mario wore his good looks like an expensive suit. He seemed to pose as he sat across from her. As he handed her the stemmed glass of chilled wine, his fingers brushed hers for just a fraction of an instant but his gaze touched hers briefly before he removed his hand.

Staring out the tinted windows, Anthony clucked his tongue. “It's sad, this feud,” he admitted, “but it can't be helped. It goes back for generations, you see. Starting with Julius Danvers and my father.”

That much Adria understood. Maria, who had worked for the Danvers family for years, had told her of Stefano Polidori and how he became the rival of the Danvers family.

The original patriarch of the Danvers family, Julius Danvers, made his money and the beginning of the family fortune in the late 1800s. An immigrant logger who had the foresight to acquire all the timber-rich land he could beg, borrow, buy, or, in some cases, steal, he not only founded a company to harvest the raw timber that was abundant in the state, but also built a chain of sawmills that eventually stretched from northern California to the Canadian border north of Seattle.

It had been rumored, but never proven, that Julius was a mean son of a bitch who was willing to kill any man who tried to thwart him in his quest for unrivaled power in the timber-rich Pacific Northwest. His guilt in several “logging accidents,” which took the lives of some of the men not particularly loyal to him, was always assumed, but never proved.

Already a wealthy man by the turn of the century, Julius diversified into shipping and hotels, spreading the family fortune into new industries. He opened the elegant Hotel Danvers in downtown Portland in time for the Lewis and Clark Exposition of 1905. The hotel, rumored to be the most lavish in Portland, became home to the elite who traveled to the city on the Willamette River.

Though Julius never finished the ninth grade, he was also instrumental in establishing Reed College, the first college in Portland, where his children attended school and earned diplomas as well as social standing.

Julius was famous for his hard, cruel streak, and it was generally thought that he'd won favors from politicians, judges, and policemen, thereby having more than his share of important men hidden deep within his gold-filled pockets. Julius was careful to align with the powers-that-be in the city and state in order to assure that nothing would ever stand in the way of his ambitions or threaten his family.

His biggest competitor was Stefano Polidori, an Italian immigrant, one of the few in Portland, who had started his career by working on a truck farm in southeast Portland. Stefano had sold vegetables from a cart and later a truck, saving every penny and eventually buying several farms as he could afford them. As the city and his business grew, he opened a highly successful open-air vegetable market and later a restaurant. Eventually he had accumulated enough money to build a hotel that rivaled the Hotel Danvers in turn-of-the-century charm.

The Polidori family, too, became rich, and as Stefano added to his fortune and diversified his investments, he stepped on Julius's toes by outbidding him on prime real estate along the river or by convincing conventioneers that his hotel was better able to serve their needs than the Hotel Danvers.

Stefano and Julius became bitter rivals.

Julius couldn't believe Stefano could do anything more than sell tomatoes and lettuce from a cart. But Stefano was as shrewd and tough as his fiercest competitor. Like Julius, Stefano used his wealth to purchase rungs on the gold-plated social ladder of Portland.

The rivalry and hatred between the two men and their families deepened as the years passed.

“I've heard about Julius as well as your father,” Adria ventured as the limo turned into the parking lot of the riverfront restaurant.

“Stubborn men, both of them.” Anthony sighed loudly. “We all blamed Julius for my father's death, you know.”

She'd read of the fire, of course. It had been a major news story in 1935. The cause of the blaze had been a grease fire that had started in the kitchen, but some journalists wondered if Stefano's death had truly been an accident, or if Julius Danvers had somehow masterminded the blaze that had burned the hotel and surrounding buildings to the ground.