Shattered (8 page)

“How'd it go?” she demanded anxiously.

Carol noticed the empty receptionist's desk with dismay. “God, Laura, I'd forgotten Tammy had that dentist's appointment this morning. I hope you didn't miss any appointments waiting for me.”

Laura waved an impatient, dismissive hand. “Don't worry about it. What did the police say?”

Carol slipped off her linen blazer and hung it on the rack by the door. She was scheduled to show second-and-third-tier property today and she had dressed appropriately: designer jeans, sturdy walking shoes, white silk blouse with a lace ascot, and navy blazer. The one thing Laura had always envied about Carol was her effortless sense of style. The second thing, perhaps, was her ability to look charmingly feminine even in jeans and a blazer, even with windblown hair and puffy eyes. Laura could have put on the same outfit and looked perfectly ordinary. But then Laura wouldn't have thought about the lace ascot.

Grimacing, Carol replied, “Me? I got a pat on the hand and a 'there, there.' For my big strong ex-husband, however, they practically issued an all-points bulletin for anyone who knows the lyrics to 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.' “

Laura stared at her. “You've got to be kidding. Did you take the answering-machine recording?”

Carol poured a cup of coffee with only slightly unsteady hands. “God, I didn't sleep a wink last night, thinking, worrying. Yes, I took the answering machine, and no, they didn't take me seriously. That is—let me see if I can get this right—they think it's unlikely that it is Kelly's voice on the machine. If it is, however, it's out of their jurisdiction because she was never officially considered a victim of a crime. As far as they're concerned, the telephone calls are family business—like Thanksgiving greetings or Mother's Day cards.”

“Wait a minute.” Laura's voice was incredulous. “Do you mean to say they actually stood there and told you that the message on that machine wasn't important?”

Carol sighed tiredly, pushing a hand through her curls as she sipped her coffee. “Not exactly. What they said was that it was probably a hoax—part of some scheme somebody out there has to intimidate Guy.”

Laura frowned a little. “I didn't entirely get that part when you were explaining it to me over the phone this morning. They think this person who called Guy yesterday with the Mary-Had-a-Little-Lamb line is involved with Kelly somehow?”

Carol leaned against the receptionist's desk, sipping her coffee. “No. They don't think Kelly—the real Kelly—is a part of this at all. They think somebody is trying to get to Guy through me, and he's responsible for both sets of calls.”

Laura's frown deepened. “That doesn't make a lot of sense, does it?”

“It's supposed to make sense?”

“What did Guy say?”

Carol dropped her gaze to her coffee cup. It was impossible to read her expression, but Laura could guess her feelings. Carol's emotions were the same whenever she had an encounter with Guy: anger, confusion, impatience, betrayal, hope, anxiety, and suspicion. Laura wondered how anyone who stirred up such strong emotions could ever be considered an “ex” anything, but she never said so. There were some subjects into which it was better not to delve too deeply with Carol.

“Guy thinks Kelly is dead,” Carol responded briefly, and with the tone of a woman who has met the unforgivable.

“But—when he heard the voice...” Laura felt faltering and unsure, afraid that whatever she said would be the wrong thing. Kelly had been the closest thing to a daughter she would ever have and losing her had torn apart Laura's world with as much force as it had either Carol's or Guy's. With Carol, Laura hoped desperately that Kelly was alive and well somewhere, living out the life she had chosen when she left home. But with Guy, she saw too much on the news, knew too much about what life was like on the streets to hold out much hope.

Carol said, “He says it's not her voice. As though he should know! He probably wouldn't have recognized her voice three years ago, much less now.”

Laura said quietly, “That's not fair, Carol. You know Guy adored Kelly.”

Carol hesitated, then released a short soft breath of frustration. “I know. It's just—damn it, I don't understand that man! He's so sure this is some kind of trick and it's all tied in to someone he's involved with in some way—and he's got the police believing it too! They're so busy inventing conspiracy theories and tracking down strangers that they can't see the simple truth. Is this a prime example of tangled male logic and twisted male ego or what?”

“I wish I had heard that message,” Laura said.

“God, it would turn your blood cold. The way she said 'I got to go outside today' as though it's not something she can do every day. And she said...” Carol's hands gripped the coffee mug as her voice tightened with intensity and barely repressed excitement. “Laura, she said she could see my house! That means she's close. With a clue like that the police should be able to find her in a matter of hours, if they'd only look!”

“Well, not necessarily,” Laura answered with a note of apology in her tone. “You can see your house from almost any place on the island, you know, and from some places across the bridge with a telescope.”

Carol frowned thoughtfully. “Telescope. I hadn't thought of that. But still, it does mean she's close—whether she's on the island or across the bridge, at least she's not in California or New York, for heaven's sake. Why won't they look for her?”

“What I don't understand,” Laura said, “is that if she's close enough to see your house, on the island or even over the bridge, why she doesn't just come home? Why call when she could walk to your door?”

The only possible answer to that was evident in the strained, tight lines of Carol's face, and it was horrible to see. Carol answered simply, “She said she can't.”

“So what do you think happened?” insisted Laura. “I mean, why no contact for all these years and now, all of a sudden...”

She let the rest of the sentence trail off as Carol shook her head impatiently. “Who knows? It doesn't matter. She's been away, but she was on her way back and now she's in trouble. She sounds—” Carol swallowed, and Laura could tell the next words were hard for her. “She sounds strange, Laura. Something is really wrong. I've got to find her. She needs my help.”

Laura hesitated. She still wasn't convinced it was Kelly who had made the phone calls, and she had no idea how this business with Guy's mysterious caller fit in. In the back of her mind remained the uncomfortable suspicion that it was all just a little bit too cryptic, too patly intriguing, to be genuine. And if even Guy didn't believe it.... Guy was Kelly's father. He was an investigative reporter. Surely he should know when he was being scammed, shouldn't he? And shouldn't Carol then take his—and the sheriff's—word for it?

The answer to that was simple and unqualified. Carol was a mother, and when it came to her child, she would rely on no one but herself. And Laura was Carol's best friend. She couldn't let her go through this alone.

She looked Carol in the eyes and she said, “What can I do to help?”

Carol smiled gratefully. “You've already done it. Just knowing that someone is on my side is more help than you can guess.”

“I can do more than that,” Laura said with sudden resolution. She went into Carol's office and returned in a moment with a framed, five-by-seven copy of the same photograph of Kelly that Carol kept beside her bed. “If she's in the county, someone has got to have seen her,” she announced. “The one thing we know for sure is that she's got access to a phone, and where there are telephones, there are people. We'll have copies made of her picture and take them to every place of business on the island, and beyond if we have to. Someone has seen her,” she finished with resolve. “All we have to do is find that person.” Laura knew what an extreme possibility that was, and she suspected Carol did, too. But the hope she saw in her friend's eyes was worth any chance.

“She's close,” Carol said, trying hard to keep the enthusiasm out of her voice. “She has to be, if she can see the house. Maybe—do you think one of the other realtors on the island could have rented her a place, or rented to someone she's staying with?”

“It's possible,” agreed Laura, though they both knew it wasn't very likely. “We'll take her picture around to every office, and the hotels, too. At least we'll be doing something.”

Carol looked hesitant, hope warring with the all too familiar defeat in her eyes. “It's an old photograph.”

“I know. But teenage girls don't change that much between fourteen and sixteen. And a lot of people will remember Kelly when they see her picture.”

Then Carol smiled. “I know this is really a long shot. And I can't tell you how much it means to me that you thought of it.”

Laura felt a flush start at the base of her neck, and knowing she was blushing embarrassed her more. She said quickly, “Meantime, you won't believe who called for you this morning. Ken Carlton!”

Carol looked blank.

“You know, the architect?”

It took a moment, but Carol made the connection. One couldn't be seriously involved in real estate development in Florida without having at least heard of Carlton. He had become famous for his cluster community designs, which adapted themselves particularly well to the flat, featureless land of south Florida, and now was receiving acclaim for his spectacular waterfront innovations. Where Ken Carlton went, it was well known, money surely followed.

Carol was intrigued despite herself. “What did he want with me?”

Laura shrugged. “That's what I wanted to know, particularly when there was someone much more attractive, available and, er, open to suggestion if you know what I mean—right here in the office when he called, all of which I took care to point out, of course. But he insisted on you. Did you know he's not even married?”

“Always a plus,” murmured Carol.

“Maybe. But if he turned me down, he's probably gay. On the other hand, he hasn't even seen me yet. Anyway, apparently he saw your name on the sign in front of Sea Dunes, and says he's interested in renting it for the season. Can you believe that? I mean, with his money, wouldn't you think he'd just whip out a checkbook and buy a house?”

“Well, I'll see what I can do about persuading him of the wisdom of that. What time is he coming by?”

“I told him eleven-thirty. That way, I thought if you hit it off, you'd be more or less obligated to have lunch.”

“You're too kind.”

“Oh, I'm not being generous,” Laura assured her. “I expect you to invite me.” She grinned and waved the photo at her. “Meantime, I'll drop these off at the one-hour photo place and get some copies. We'll divide them up and we should be able to hit ten or twelve places each before close of business today. Tammy should be in at eleven, so if Mr. Moneybags gets here early, go ahead and leave.”

“Don't worry, I'll give him the full treatment. But before he gets here, I can start calling realtors and see if any of them have rented to a family with teenage children in the last week or two—or to a group of teenagers. Whatever we do, we'll have to do it fast because spring break starts next week and—”

“Three thousand students,” Laura remembered from the article. Her face reflected her dismay. “More than half of them girls.”

Carol nodded soberly. “After this weekend, it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

~

Chapter Eight

K
en Carlton was a nice-looking man, younger than Carol had expected, with auburn hair and gray eyes, and a friendly, direct gaze. He drove a Maserati and wore a Cartier watch—exactly the kind of client Beachside Realty liked to cultivate. He explained that he was investigating a possible development project in the area and wanted a convenient temporary location from which to conduct business. The careful way in which he avoided giving details about the project suggested a deal of major significance, and at any other time Carol's curiosity would have been excited to a fever pitch. Today she was barely able to arouse courteous interest.

Repeatedly, she tried to get the phone calls out of her mind and concentrate on the work, which was always her salvation from dark tormenting thoughts. But she found herself merely going through the motions as she gave the routine island tour, went into her sales pitch, showed the property, and waited for a decision. And when he spoke, she literally did not hear what he said; she merely stared back blankly.

“I said it's more than I expected,” Ken Carlton repeated with a smile.

Carol snatched herself back with irritation and consternation from the dark corridor of her thoughts, putting on a pleasant face for her client. For a moment she couldn't be sure whether “more than I expected” referred to the price or the view, but the contented expression on his face as he looked out over the ocean suggested it was a good thing. Carol relaxed.

They were on the upper deck of the property listed in their brochure as “Sea Dunes”—a spacious Mediterranean three bedroom with an infinity pool and Italian marble in the foyer—and the view was, in fact, spectacular. The water was that clear sun-sparked blue peculiar to the Gulf of Mexico and the sky a shade lighter. The March wind had just the hint of a bite to it, but the sun was warm enough to burn unprotected skin. Laura was fond of saying that the St. T. weather was the best salesperson in the world, and a day like this proved it.