Authors: L.E. Harner
TripleThreat1
Triple Threat, Book One
By L.E. Harner
Triple Threat is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or
locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by
Laura Harner
Cover photograph by
DWS Photography
Cover Art by Laura E.
Harner
Edited by Jae Ashley
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-937252-36-6
Published by Hot
Corner Press
Warning: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any many without written permission, except for brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this
copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including
infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable
by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. eBooks are not
transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement
on the copyright of this book.
Contact the publisher for further information:
[email protected]
A very special
thank you to my friends and co-conspirators Havan Fellows, Lee Brazil, and Tom
Webb. Thank you for not laughing too long and too loud.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and
trademarked owners of the following trademarks mentioned in this work of
fiction:
Worcestershire
: H. J. Heinz Company
Coke
: Coca-Cola Company
Chapter One
“Margaret Blackwell,” I murmured as I led the impeccably
clad young woman into the bright morning light of the glass ceilinged solarium.
A small gasp escaped her lips as the tall, powerfully built man stood from the
table where we’d been sharing a leisurely breakfast minutes before. He unfolded
himself into his full height, and she sighed. I understood her sentiment
completely.
Unlike my own average mug, Archer was classically handsome
in a way that would interest professional photographers. He always had been.
Chiseled cheekbones, straight nose, dimpled chin hinting at a Celt background. The
faint lines that now bracketed his mouth and fanned away from his eyes only
served to make his face more interesting. From a distance, the monochromatic
gray suit and shirt might have hinted at professionally boring, but up close, Archer’s
tie was a vibrant swirl of blues and greens that matched the changeable color
of his eyes. An enigmatic smile curved his sculpted lips, a visible reminder
that this man was much more than he might seem.
“Miss Blackwell, may I present Archer Wilde.”
They met in the middle of the solarium, and Archer politely
shook the limply proffered hand.
“Please, have a seat. Can Zachary bring you anything?
Coffee? Hot tea?”
“No, thank you.” Margaret sat at the edge of the chair, her back
ramrod straight and ankles demurely crossed.
My, my.
Someone attended
cotillion as a teen.
“Zachary? Won’t you sit and join us?” Archer’s eyes sparkled
with mischief and I couldn’t resist smiling back.
“No, thank you Archer, I think I’ll stand this morning.” We
shared a look, then he turned his attention to his guest.
“How may I help you, Miss Blackwell?”
“I want you to find my husband, Mr. Wilde.”
“I see. I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding. I…
we
…”—he
inclined his head to include me—“don’t take on missing persons cases. Those are
best handled by the proper authorities.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Nona Wilkerson says you are exactly
what I need.”
“Ahh…the delightful Miss Wilkerson. You intrigue me. Is your
husband in some sort of trouble?”
“My husband is dead, Mr. Wilde.”
Huh. That was a new one.
“I’m sorry for your loss, however, I still don’t see…” Archer
trailed off and waited. The bastard was damn good at waiting.
“This is rather embarrassing.” She stopped, her gaze flicked
to me, then back to Archer again. Apparently, she had a conversational dance
card that didn’t include me. When Archer refused to follow her lead and take
the next step, she sighed for a second time and finally began her story.
“My husband is…was…Franklin Hartfield. I returned to my
maiden name shortly after Franklin’s death.”
“Ahh…yes.” Archer’s tone was soft, encouraging, and I knew she’d
just become our next case…even if she hadn’t realized it yet.
“I believe you knew him? I mean, I know you— He once— Not
that we were—”
“Yes, we were acquainted.”
Acquainted.
That was one
way to put it.
“I don’t know if you remember the story, but Franklin was
killed in a boating accident last year off the coast of a small island in the
Grenadines.”
“And if I recall correctly, you collected a sizeable insurance
payment upon his demise?”
“Fifteen million, yes. Look, I’m not comfortable continuing
until I have some sort of assurance this won’t go any further. And perhaps we
could discuss my particulars in private?” Once again her gaze cut briefly in my
direction.
Ouch.
Not.
“Mrs. Hartfield,” Archer intoned, using her married name
like a slap. “Please remember that you came to
us.
I have given you the
courtesy of an interview, however, my available time and patience are nearly at
an end.” Archer paused and took a sip of his coffee and studied our visitor
over the rim of his cup.
Margaret practically vibrated with the need to speak, but
her genteel southern manners held and she waited. He set his cup on the table
then folded his hands in his lap before he continued.
“Let me be clear. If you have lost something of tangible
value and you are unable to follow the traditional channels to recover your
losses, you may find I can be of help. If your story interests me.”
Margaret shifted to sit even straighter, as if sensing Archer’s
disappointment and seeking to correct her error. Her schoolgirl fantasy flashed
over her face, and she moistened her lips, tossed her hair, and somehow managed
to reveal a pale slice of lace-covered breast. I bit back my laugh and waited.
Ignoring the less than subtle offer, Archer continued. “I am
selective. I cover all expenses, and if I am successful, I keep half of what I
recover. Do you have something of value that requires reclaiming? Because I can
assure you I am not remotely interested in having Franklin.”
No, we’d both been there and done that.
"Oh…I…” She twisted her hands, then blurted out the
crux of her problem. “Franklin isn’t actually dead and the bastard stole my
share of the insurance money.”
The smile teased Archer’s mouth once more. “All right, you
have my interest. Tell me more.”
Margaret’s fingertips kept up a nearly constant motion
against her palms, and she moistened her lips once more. “Franklin was…is a
homos—gay. His father didn’t approve. When the senior Mr. Hartfield passed a
few years ago, he left the family money in trust until Franklin married and
stayed married for two years. To a woman, I mean.”
“Which is where you came in. I take it you were aware of the
circumstances before the marriage?”
“Yes. Franklin was very generous. We— He—”
“He was gay. We don’t need to know about that part of your
marriage, right now. Were you married long enough to meet the terms of the trust?”
“Yes. Actually, the arrangement worked out surprisingly
well.”
“Tell me about the life insurance. Why did Franklin plan the
fraud if the terms of the trust were met?”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” Margaret leaned forward, suddenly far
more interested in gossip than the role of Southern gentlewoman and looking
much more attractive as the twenty-something she really was.
“The trust was so much smoke and mirrors. The only item of
any real value the family attorney revealed when he finally disclosed the full
terms of the will was a term policy—to be paid on Franklin’s own life—not his
daddy’s. Which was stupid if you ask me, because it wasn’t like that would do Franklin
any good at all, now would it?” She giggled prettily, and I saw the corner of
Archer’s mouth twitch against the smile I knew was hovering.
“Franklin was livid, of course. It was obvious his daddy
knew Franklin would marry in order to get the money. We couldn’t even sell the mansion
since the property reverts to the state of Georgia once Franklin’s family is no
longer able to occupy the estate. So you can see, all we had was the trust
money. Which would come to me as his widow when he died. Believe me, neither of
us was interested in waiting until he was old and gray.”
“All right, so you hatched a plot to make it appear he died
and Franklin prepared to assume a new identity?” I asked. Plots were Archer’s
forte, but I was closer to the criminal underbelly of Atlanta.
“Yes. Although, he kept the details to himself. He took
several trips around that time. At least two were to the Caribbean. I wasn’t to
know when or how it would happen, so my shock would be genuine.”
I took a moment to admire the ease with which she was able
to summon the crocodile tears that sparkled in her pale blue eyes before I
asked my next question.
“How is it the insurance company paid out the claim? Didn’t
they suspect fraud?”
Wide eyes blinked rapidly as she brushed at a fat tear
hanging from her lashes and I knew she’d played the part of the sweet young
widow with considerable skill.
“Oh, my. That was another surprise. It turns out that the
insurance was actually just another part of the trust. The senior Mr. Hartfield
arranged to have the money paid to Franklin’s legitimate heirs, if he actually
married.” She paused, and for the first time I saw a crack in her perfect
grieving widow act, as her lips pressed tightly together and her face paled.
Was there genuine grief? Then I saw the tick of her jaw and her right hand balled
into a fist. The lady was pissed.
“The amount of trust money would have doubled if I’d been
with child.” Margaret seemed to recognize the bitterness of her words, because
she cleared her throat and blinked at more tears. “Of course, I don’t really understand
these things.”
“And was there an investigation?” I wasn’t about to get
distracted by the damsel in distress act.
“Yes. Mr. Clive Ferrell of First Fidelity Life and Trust was
most suspicious and I believe he took it personally when he couldn’t prove
anything. Bless his heart. He even visited the site of the explosion.”
“Did he now?” Archer asked. His tone was mild, encouraging
confidences.
“Yes, but there wasn’t anything to see. Franklin was an
excellent planner and although the island where the accident happened is small,
the witness to the accident was quite unimpeachable. The local—’’ She frowned
prettily while she searched for the word. “Constable, I think…any way, the
local version of a police chief left the boat only moments before the explosion.
He was still on the dock, and received minor injuries. It’s all in the reports.
I have Mr. Ferrell’s contact information, if that would help.”
“It would.” Archer stroked a long finger over his mouth and
looked toward the window. From his pensive expression I knew he was three steps
ahead of the interview and thinking about a plan. Abruptly he stood. “Do you
understand the terms of our agreement?”
