The Winner (36 page)

“About a month.”

“That makes it even more unlikely he was going to blackmail us. Why wait? Why come right out and warn me that he knows everything? How does he know I won’t just disappear in the middle of the night? If I do that, he’s not going to be filling up his bank account with my funds.”

Charlie sighed deeply. “So what do we do now?”

“Wait,” was finally the answer from LuAnn’s lips. “But make arrangements for us to leave the country on a moment’s notice. By private jet. And since he knows about Catherine Savage, we’re going to need another set of identification papers. Can you get them?”

“I’ll have to look up some old contacts, but I can do it. It’ll take a few days.”

LuAnn stood up.

“What about Riggs?” Charlie asked. “The man’s not going to let it go now.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that. He doesn’t trust us and I don’t blame him.”

“Well, I doubt if he’ll do anything that’ll end up hurting you.”

She looked sharply at him. “How do you know that?”

“Look, LuAnn, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see Riggs has a thing for you.” A hint of resentment tinged his response. His tone softened, however, with his next words. “Seems like a nice guy. Under different circumstances, who knows. You shouldn’t spend your life alone, LuAnn.”

A flush swept over her face. “I’m not alone. I’ve got Lisa and I’ve got you. I don’t need anybody else. I can’t handle anybody else.” She looked away. How could she invite anyone into her life? It was impossible. Half truths competing with complete falsehoods. She was no longer a real person. She was a thirty-year-old shell, period. Everything else had been bartered away. Jackson had taken the rest of it. He and his offer. If she hadn’t made that call way back when. If she hadn’t panicked? She wouldn’t have spent ten years turning herself into the woman she always wanted to be. She wouldn’t be living in a million-dollar mansion. But as ironic as it sounded, she would probably have far more of a life than she had now. Whether it was to be spent in another wrecked mobile trailer or slinging fried foods at the truck stop, LuAnn Tyler, the pauper, would probably have been happier than Catherine Savage, the princess, ever dreamt of being. But if she hadn’t accepted the offer, Jackson would have had her killed. There was no way out. She turned back to Charlie and spread her arms wide.

“That’s the trade-off, Charlie. For this. For all this. You, me, and Lisa.”

“The Three Musketeers.” Charlie attempted a smile.

“Let’s pray for a happy ending.” LuAnn opened the door and disappeared down the hallway in search of her daughter.

T
hank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Mr. Pemberton.”

“John, please call me John, Mr. Conklin.” Pemberton shook the other man’s hand and they sat down at the small conference table in Pemberton’s real estate office.

“I go by Harry,” the other man said.

“Now you mentioned over the phone that you were interested in a house, but you really didn’t say what area or price range.”

Without seeming to do so, Pemberton looked Harry Conklin over. Probably in his sixties, expensive clothing, air of assurance, undoubtedly liked the good things in life. Pemberton swiftly calculated his potential commission.

“I got your name on good reference. I understand that you specialize in the upper-end market around here,” Conklin said.

“That’s correct. Born and raised here. Know everybody and every property worth knowing about. So would that be the price range you’re interested in? The upper end?”

Conklin assumed a comfortable look. “Let me tell you a little about myself. I make my living on Wall Street and it’s a damn good living if I do say so myself. But it’s also a young man’s game and I’m not a young man anymore. I’ve made my fortune and it’s substantial. I’ve got a penthouse in Manhattan, a place in Rio, a home on Fisher Island in Florida, and a country estate outside London. But I’m looking to get out of New York and radically simplify my life. And this place is about as beautiful as they come.”

“Absolutely right,” Pemberton chimed in.

“Now, I do a lot of entertaining, so it would have to be a substantial place. But I want privacy as well. Something old, and elegant, but restored. I like old things, but not old plumbing, you understand me?”

“Perfectly.”

“Now, I’m assuming that there are probably a number of properties around here that fit that bill.”

“There are. Most assuredly,” Pemberton said excitedly.

“But see, I’ve got one in mind. One I heard about from my father, in fact. He was in the stock market too. Back in the twenties. Made a bundle and was fortunate to get out before the crash. He used to come here and stay with a good friend of his who was in the market too. My father, God rest his soul, loved it there, and I thought it would be appropriate for his son to buy it and live in it.”

“What a truly inspiring idea. Certainly makes my job easier. Do you know the name of the place?” Pemberton’s smile was broadening.

“Wicken’s Hunt.”

Pemberton’s smile quickly faded.

“Oh.” He licked his lips, made a clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth. “Wicken’s Hunt,” he repeated, looking depressed.

“What’s the matter? Did it burn down or something?”

“No, no. It’s a beautiful place, wonderfully restored.” Pemberton sighed deeply. “Unfortunately it’s no longer on the market.”

“You sure?” Conklin sounded skeptical.

“I’m certain. I was the selling agent.”

“Damn, how long ago?”

“About two years, although the people have only been in it for several months. There was a lot of renovation work to do.”

Conklin looked at him slyly, eyebrows cocked. “Think they might want to sell?”

Pemberton’s mind raced through the possibilities. Flipping a property like that within the relatively short span of two years? What a wonderful impact on his wallet.

“Anything’s possible. I’ve actually gotten to know them—well, one of them anyway—fairly well. Just had breakfast with him, in fact.”

“So it’s a couple then, old like me, I guess. Wicken’s Hunt isn’t exactly a starter home from what my father told me.”

“Actually, they’re not a couple. And he’s older, but the property doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to her.”

Conklin leaned forward. “To her?”

Pemberton looked around for a moment, got up and fully shut the door to his conference room, and then sat back down.

“You understand that I’m telling you this in confidence.”

“Absolutely. I didn’t survive all those years on Wall Street without understanding confidences.”

“While the land records show a corporation as the title holder, the real owner of Wicken’s Hunt is a young woman. Catherine Savage. Obviously incredibly wealthy. Quite frankly, I’m not certain what the source of that wealth is, nor is it my business to ask. She lived abroad for years. Has a little girl about ten. Charlie Thomas—the older man—he and I have had some nice little discussions. They’ve been very generous with several local charities. She doesn’t come out in public very much, but that’s understandable.”

“Sure is. If I moved here, you might not see me for weeks on end.”

“Exactly. They seem to be real good people, though. They seem very happy here. Very happy.”

Conklin sat back and it was his turn to sigh. “Well, I guess they won’t be looking to move any time soon. Damn shame too.” He eyed Pemberton intently. “Real damn shame, since I make it my practice to pay a finder’s fee on top of any real estate commission you might collect from the seller.”

Pemberton perked up noticeably. “Is that right?”

“Now, there aren’t any ethical considerations that would prevent you from accepting such an inducement, are there?”

“None that I can think of,” Pemberton said quickly. “So, how much would that inducement come to?”

“Twenty percent of the purchase price.” Harry Conklin drummed his fingers on the tabletop and watched Pemberton’s face turn different colors.

If Pemberton hadn’t been sitting down, he would’ve toppled to the floor. “That’s very generous,” he finally managed to say.

“If I want something done, I find the best way to accomplish my goal is to provide decent incentives to those in a position to help me achieve that goal. But from the looks of things here, I don’t think it’s likely. Maybe I’ll try North Carolina, I hear good things about it.” Conklin started to get up.

“Wait a minute. Please wait just a minute.”

Conklin hesitated and then slowly resumed his seat.

“Actually, your timing may be perfect.”

“Why’s that?”

Pemberton leaned even closer to him. “There have been recent developments, very recent developments, that might give us an opening to approach them about selling.”

“If they just moved in, seem happy here, what kind of developments are we talking about? The place isn’t haunted, is it?”

“No, nothing like that. As I said, I had a breakfast meeting with Charlie. He was concerned about a person who had come to visit them. Asking for money.”

“So? That happens to me all the time. You think that’ll make them pack up and leave?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have thought so at first either, but the more I thought about it, the more unusual it sounded. I mean, you’re right, the rich get approached all the time, so why should this man upset them so? But he obviously did.”

“How do you know that?”

Pemberton smiled. “In many ways, in fact, in more ways than people around here care to admit, Charlottesville is a small town. Now I know for a fact that very recently Matt Riggs was up surveying Ms. Savage’s property line when he became engaged in a reckless chase with another car that almost got him killed.”

Conklin shook his head in confusion. “Who’s Matt Riggs?”

“A local contractor hired by Ms. Savage to install a security fence around her property.”

“So he was chasing another car? How does that tie in with Catherine Savage?”

“A friend of mine was heading to work that morning. He lives up in that same area and works in town. He was about to turn on to the main road heading into town when a charcoal gray BMW flew by. He said it must’ve been doing eighty. If he had pulled out a second sooner that BMW would’ve torn his car in half. He was so shaken, he couldn’t budge for a full minute. Good thing too, because while he’s sitting there trying to keep his breakfast down, Matt Riggs’s pickup comes barreling by and another car is locked on his bumper. They were obviously going at it.”

“Do you know who was in the BMW?”

“Now, I’ve never met her but I know people who have seen her. Catherine Savage is a tall, blond woman. Real good-looking. My friend only got a glimpse of the driver, but he said she was blond and pretty. And I saw a charcoal gray BMW parked up at Wicken’s Hunt when I went up to do a preclosing walk-through with Charlie.”

“So you think somebody was chasing her?”

“And I think Matt Riggs must’ve run smack into it. I know that his truck’s in the shop with a busted bumper. I also know that Sally Beecham—she’s the maid up at Wicken’s—saw Riggs walking off in a huff from the house later that same morning.”

Conklin stroked his chin. “Very interesting. Guess there’s no way to find out who was chasing her?”

“Yes there is. I mean I did. At least his location. You see, it gets even more interesting. As I said, Charlie invited me to breakfast. That’s when he told me about this man who had come by the house wanting money. Charlie wanted my help in finding out if the man was staying in the area. Of course, I agreed to do what I could. At that point I didn’t know about the car chase. I found that out later.”

“You said you were able to find the man? But how could you? Lots of places to hide around here, I would think.” Conklin asked this in a nonchalant manner.

Pemberton smiled triumphantly. “Not much escapes my notice, Harry. Like I said, I was born and raised here. Charlie gave me a description of the man and the car. I used my contacts and in less than twenty-four hours I had located him.”

“Probably holed up pretty far away, I’ll bet.”

Pemberton shook his head. “Not at all. He was right under their noses. A small cottage. It’s barely ten minutes from Wicken’s Hunt by car. But very isolated.”

“Help me out here. I don’t have my bearings here yet. Is it near Monticello?”

“Well, in the general vicinity, but the area I’m talking about is north of that, north of Interstate Sixty-four, in fact. The cottage isn’t too far from the Airslie Estate, off Highway Twenty-two, the Keswick Hunt area it’s called. The man had leased the cottage about a month ago.”

“Good gosh, did you get a name?”

“Tom Jones.” Pemberton smiled knowingly. “Obviously false.”

“Well, I guess they appreciated your help. So what happened?”

“I don’t know. My business keeps me hopping. I really haven’t talked to them about it any more.”

“Well, this Riggs fellow, I bet he’s sure sorry he got involved.”

“Well, he can take care of himself.”

“Maybe so, but getting banged around in a car in a high-speed chase? Most general contractors don’t do that.”

“Well, Riggs wasn’t always a G.C.”

“Really?” Conklin said, his features inscrutable. “You really do have the Peyton Place here. So what’s his story?”

Pemberton shrugged his shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine. He never talks about his past. He just appeared one day about five years ago, started learning the building trade and he’s been here ever since. Pretty mysterious. Charlie thought he was a policeman. Frankly, I think he was with the government in some secret capacity and they put him out to pasture. Call it my gut.”

“That’s real interesting. Old guy then.”

“No. Mid- to late thirties. Tall, strong, and very capable. Excellent reputation.”

“Good for him.”

“Now about our arrangement. If this man really is dogging them, I can talk to Charlie, see what he has to say. Maybe they will agree to move. It’s certainly worth asking.”

“I tell you what, you let me think about it for a few days.”

“I can get the process started anyway.”

Conklin put up one hand. “No, I don’t want you doing that. When I’m ready to move, we’ll move fast, don’t you worry about that.”