Worth Dying For (3 page)

L
ESLIE
A
NNE
kept wiping the tears away so she could see the road ahead. When she’d left home before daylight yesterday morning, she’d had no idea where she was going. All she knew was that she had to get away. She’d slipped into her mother’s room and stolen three hundred dollars from her purse and her ATM card, which she’d used to get two thousand dollars before she’d left Fairport. She’d been twenty miles outside of town before it struck her that once her mother and grandfather realized she was missing, they would call the police. Her black Jaguar, which Granddaddy had given her on her sixteenth birthday, was easily recognizable and it would be a cinch to ID the car tag. She’d backtracked, called her friend Hannah, whose parents were in Europe for the summer, and asked to swap cars with her for a few days.

“Just keep my Jag parked in your garage and don’t tell anyone that you’ve seen me,” Leslie Anne had said.

“What’s wrong? Why are you running off like this?”

“I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone.” She’d grabbed Hannah’s hands and pleaded with the girl who’d been one of her best buddies since they were toddlers. “Trust me. I’ve got to get away and think.”

“Think about what? If you’d tell me, maybe I could help.”

“No one can help.” How could she explain that her whole world had just fallen apart, that everything she believed in, believed to be true, was a lie? Her entire life was just one big fat lie.

“What about your mom? You two share everything. She’s the best. Nothing like—”

“No, I can’t talk to Mom. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” Hannah had always envied Leslie Anne’s great relationship with her mom, so she could hardly tell her that she now hated her mother, hated her for lying to her all these years.

That had been yesterday, which seemed weeks ago instead of only twenty-four hours. She’d driven as far away as she could before nightfall, which didn’t come until after seven. Thank goodness for daylight savings time. It had been a new and unnerving experience for her to stay at a motel. When she’d paid in cash, the clerk hadn’t ask her any questions. He’d simply given her a key and told her that checkout was at eleven. Alone in a strange place, she hadn’t slept for more than a few hours, waking over and over again when nightmares threatened her. Her mind kept replaying that horrible moment the day before when she’d opened the package addressed to her and read the letter that explained the enclosed newspaper clippings.

Leslie Anne’s stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, and it was now nearly two o’clock. She hadn’t realized there would be so few places along Interstate 59 where she could find a decent restaurant. According to the last road sign she’d seen, she would be passing through Meridian in about fifteen minutes and there were all kinds of fast-food places where she could grab a burger and fries.

As hard as she tried not to think about the letter she’d received and the newspaper clippings about a serial killer who’d been executed in Texas ten years ago, she could think of little else. When she’d first read the letter, she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She’d even gone straight to her
mother, carrying the package with her, intending to give her mom a chance to deny everything. But the moment her mother smiled at her, she’d frozen, becoming mute and motionless.

“What is it, honey?” her mother had asked. “You look upset.”

She’d shook her head and managed to utter a succinct lie. “I’ve just got a headache, so I’d like Eustacia to bring a supper tray to my room.”

Maybe I should have told Mom about the contents of the package. Maybe I shouldn’t have run off the way I did.

Her doubts and indecision had been the very reason she’d left Fairport. She couldn’t confront her mother and grandfather with such damning accusations—not until she’d had time to sort through the information and come to terms with her own feelings. Even if every word was true, how likely was it that her mother would admit the truth? If it was the truth.

She would have lied to you. You know she would have. It’s not as if she hasn’t lied to you before
.

When she’d been a preschooler and asked why she didn’t have a father like everyone else, her mother had told her that her father was dead. That had been enough to satisfy a four-year-old. And later on at ten, when she’d become more inquisitive, her grandfather had explained that her parents had been unmarried teenage sweethearts and her father had been tragically killed in an automobile accident before Leslie Anne was born. Her father’s name, he’d told her, was John Allen. It wasn’t until she was fourteen and got hold of a copy of her birth certificate that she’d learned the truth. In the slot for father’s name, the word “unknown” screamed the truth loud and clear. At the
time she’d wondered several different things. Had there actually been a boy named John Allen? Or had he been a figment of her grandfather’s imagination? Had her mother been with several young men and didn’t know which one had fathered her child? Was her real father out there somewhere, and didn’t even know he had a daughter? Although her mother and grandfather had stuck to their story of a boy named John Allen being her father, Leslie Anne had known they were lying. But not until she received the package from hell the day before yesterday had she understood why they had lied.

When the truth is too horrible to utter, too torturously painful to remember, only lies can protect you and those you love from the ugliness of reality.

T
HE
W
ESTBROOK ESTATE
consisted of five hundred acres and an antebellum mansion that had been in G.W.’s wife’s family for five generations. John Leslie settled in Mississippi before it became a state. Prior to the Civil War, his son built the home in which members of that family had resided ever since. Located in the country, six miles outside the Mississippi River town of Fairport, the old Leslie Plantation lay claim to its own legends and folklore, some stories dating back to the early eighteen hundreds. Not as well-known as her nearby sister-city of Natchez, but equally rich in history, Fairport’s economy now depended on two things—the tourist trade, which spilled over from Natchez, and the ten-year-old industrial park, comprised almost entirely of small businesses either owned by or invested in by G. W. Westbrook.

As Dante drove their rental car out of the sleepy little town, which hadn’t seen many changes since the sixties, Lucie Evans hummed along to the upbeat tune playing on the radio. She appeared to be totally absorbed in the files containing info on the Westbrook family. Usually Lucie tended to be vivacious and talkative, but she’d remained fairly quiet since they’d left the Natchez-Adams County airport where the Dundee jet had landed. Although there
was no commercial service into the airport, the facility boasted a runway large enough to land a Boeing 737.

They’d just dropped off Dom and Vic at the sheriff’s department in Fairport, where they would obtain any updates on Leslie Anne Westbrook’s disappearance and coordinate their efforts with the various branches of city, county and state law enforcement. Dante had every intention of joining them as soon as he met with G.W. and stationed Lucie at the mansion to control the old man and soothe his daughter. From what Dante had read in the updated files Daisy Holbrook had hand-delivered to the agents shortly before takeoff from Atlanta, G.W. would pose a problem for Lucie. Headstrong, tenacious and accustomed to using his power and money to get whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it, G.W. seldom listened to advice. It looked as if Lucie would have her hands full keeping him in check. His guess was that Lucie’s only hope of controlling G.W. would be Tessa Westbrook. Ms. Westbrook, with a reputation for being as coolheaded as her father was hotheaded, should be able to exert enough influence over the old man to rein him in a little.

“What’s so interesting in those files?” Dante asked, wondering if he’d missed something when he’d gone through the information while in flight. Admittedly, his interest in thoroughly studying those files had come as much, if not more, from his curiosity about the Westbrook girl’s resemblance to Amy than to the case at hand.

“I’m not sure,” Lucie admitted. “It’s just reading these—” she waved the pages she held in her hand “—is like reading the script for a nighttime soap opera. I suppose the lives of all super-rich people have a tendency to seem melodramatic.”

“What’s melodramatic about the Westbrooks?”

“Are you kidding? G.W. came from fairly humble beginnings, married into money and more than tripled the family fortune. When she was eighteen, his beloved only child, Tessa, nearly died in a horrific car crash that killed her boyfriend, who was supposedly Leslie Anne’s father. Then four years later his beautiful socialite wife died after battling cancer for years. G.W. supports his younger sister, his wife’s sister, his niece, his current girlfriend and her son and—”

“Enough.” Dante cut his eyes toward Lucie and grinned.

“Okay, but you see what I mean, don’t you? We’re walking into a scene straight out of that old TV show
Dallas
.”

“This is a simple case of a runaway teen.” Dante wanted to convince himself of that fact, wanted to prove to himself beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ms. Leslie Anne Westbrook had no connection whatsoever to Amy Smith.

“Don’t kid yourself. Nothing is ever simple with the ultrarich. I’ll bet you a week’s salary that there’s some deliciously scandalous reason the Westbrook kid ran off.” Lucie tucked the file pages back into the folder on her lap. “From all reports, this girl is squeaky-clean. A real straight arrow. A well-adjusted, happy teenager who adores her family.”

“So maybe the report is wrong. Or it could be a matter of not having all the facts.”

“My point exactly. We don’t have all the facts. And what do you want to bet that we aren’t going to get them from G.W. or Tessa.”

Dante slowed the car when he saw the massive black wrought-iron gates up ahead on the right. Impressive. Damn impressive.

“Would you look at that!” Lucie let out a long, low whistle. “Southfork, here we come.”

“My bet is the Leslie mansion will look a lot more like the plantation houses in
Gone with the Wind
than J. R. Ewing’s humble abode.”

“Hmm. Wonder if Tessa Westbrook has anything in common with Scarlett O’Hara.”

Dante chuckled as he pulled the car up to the massive gates, then responded to the electronic guard, using the verbal code he’d been given by Sawyer McNamara. The iron gates opened to reveal a long, narrow paved driveway. Half a mile later, the Leslie home came into view. He’d been right—the huge house boasted a series of massive white columns that wrapped around the front and sides of the well-maintained mansion. He’d no sooner pulled to a stop in front of the house than the double front doors opened and a tall, lanky man with a shock of steel-gray hair appeared on the veranda. The guy wore a plain black suit, white shirt and black bow tie. Although there was an air of confidence in the way the sixty-something man approached them, Dante instinctively knew this wasn’t G. W. Westbrook. Dante’s guess was this distinguished gentleman was a loyal assistant or servant.

The man rushed forward when Lucie opened the car door. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said in a deep voice, dripping with a South Mississippi molasses, slow and sweet accent. “I assume you’re Ms. Evans—” he glanced across the car’s hood at Dante “—and you’re Mr. Moran.” He held out his hand to assist Lucie.

“That’s right,” Dante said. “And you’re—”

“Hal Carpenter, sir. The family’s chauffeur-cum-butler.”

“Double duty, huh?” Lucie said.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Westbrook doesn’t relegate his household staff to only one position.”

“Saves on salaries that way, I suppose,” Dante said.

Hal’s back stiffened. “Would you come with me, please? Mr. G.W. and Miss Tessa are waiting in the library and are quite anxious to meet y’all.”

With her eyes widened in a guess-he-put-you-in-your-place expression, Lucie grinned at Dante. They quickly fell into step behind Mr. Carpenter. Just as they entered the three-story foyer, Lucie managed not to gasp at the opulence. Instead she took the opportunity—since her mouth was already open—to ask the family chauffeur-cum-butler a question.

“Mr. Carpenter, do you have any idea why Leslie Anne ran away?”

He paused for a split second, then replied, “I’m afraid not, ma’am. We’re all at a loss as to why Miss Leslie Anne would just up and leave the way she did.”

“You don’t think there’s any chance she was kidnapped?” Dante asked.

“No, sir.” Mr. Carpenter paused at the closed pocket doors outside what Dante assumed was the library. “When you meet Mr. G.W., please take into consideration the circumstances. He and Miss Tessa are terribly concerned—”

Lucie patted Mr. Carpenter on the back. “We understand.”

Yeah, they understood, Dante thought. Mr. Carpenter had just warned them to go easy on the old man, to not ask upsetting questions and if Mr. G.W. acted like a crazed lunatic, they should forgive him because he was so concerned about his granddaughter.

The butler nodded, then knocked on the door softly. Without waiting for a response, he slid open the pocket doors and announced, “Ms. Evans and Mr. Moran from the Dundee agency.”

A tall, robust man, with a receding hairline partially disguised by having his snow-white hair cut extremely short, stood in front of the six-foot-high fireplace flanked by bookcases. His keen brown eyes surveyed Dante and Lucie, studying them quickly but intensely.

“Come in, come in.” G.W.’s words were a command, not an invitation.

Lucie entered first, a tentative smile on her face and her hand halfway extended, apparently prepared to withdraw if she met any hostility. Dante stepped over the threshold, but paused there and searched the room for any other occupants. His gaze settled on the woman rising from a leather wing chair to the left of the fireplace. For a moment his heart stopped. The woman whose gaze met his possessed Amy’s brilliant blue eyes. The blue of a summer sky. But the moment passed and he took a really good look at Tessa Westbrook. She was approximately the same height as Amy, but her blond hair was darker and she was a good fifteen pounds thinner. He tried not to stare at her face, but he couldn’t help studying each feature. There was a vague similarity in the features, but this woman was not Amy Smith.

Not my Amy.

“Well, man, don’t just stand there staring at my daughter, come on in and let’s get down to business.” G.W. skewered Dante with his surly glare.

“Thank y’all so much for getting here so quickly.” Tessa broke eye contact with Dante, then walked toward Lucie. The two exchanged a cordial handshake. “We’re absolutely frantic about Leslie Anne.”

“I can imagine,” Lucie said. “Rest assured the Dundee agency will do everything possible to find your daughter and bring her home safely.”

Tessa glanced at Dante. “Please excuse my father’s rudeness, but he tends to be rather blunt, especially when he’s upset.”

Polite but not friendly, Dante thought. Tessa Westbrook possessed the type of cool, elegant beauty that made a man wonder if there were wanton fires hidden beneath the poised, chic veneer. Despite a few basic physical similarities between the two women, Tessa was as different from Amy as night is from day. Tessa appeared to be exactly what anyone would expect from the daughter of a multimillionaire. Dressed in expensive, tailored suede slacks, matching ankle boots and an oversize turtleneck cashmere sweater, the woman all but screamed
m-o-n-e-y
.

“No need to apologize for me, missy. I expect Mr. Moran has dealt with a lot worse than me in his time. Isn’t that right, Moran?”

“Yes, sir, in my capacity as a federal agent, I’ve dealt with all kinds, even a few high-powered moguls with god complexes.”

Absolute silence prevailed. Then G.W. let out a loud belly laugh and walked straight toward Dante. “Well said, young man, well said.” G.W. extended his hand, which Dante accepted and the two exchanged a man-to-man shake.

“Won’t y’all sit down.” Tessa invited them with a mannerly sweep of her arm, her wide gold bracelet sliding just below her wrist. “Would either of you care for coffee or tea or—”

“If you don’t mind, Ms. Westbrook, I’d like to get down to business,” Dante said. “As soon as we finish this interview, I’ll be joining our other two Dundee agents in the search for your daughter. Ms. Evans will remain here with the family to handle things on this end.”

“Then let’s get on with it,” G.W. said. “What do you need from us?”

“Any information that might help us locate Leslie Anne,” Lucie replied.

“We’ve done everything Mr. McNamara instructed us to do,” Tessa said. “Starting with compiling a list of all her close friends.”

G.W. picked up a sheet of paper from the mahogany desk and handed it to Dante. “We’ve spoken to everyone on the list and no one knows—”

“Sometimes kids won’t tell parents things they’ll feel compelled to tell a private investigator,” Dante explained.

Lucie glanced from Tessa to G.W. “If we knew why Leslie Anne ran away, it might help us—”

“We have no idea,” G.W. said. Quickly. Much too quickly.

Dante figured if the old man didn’t know why his granddaughter ran away, he had his suspicions. “What about you, Ms. Westbrook?” Dante turned to Tessa. “What would prompt your daughter to run away?”

“I told you that we have no idea.” G.W. put his arm around his daughter’s slender shoulders.

“Is that right?” Dante stared directly at Tessa.

Tessa nervously rubbed her neck, unintentionally bringing attention not only to the large diamond studs in her earlobes, but the tendril of golden blond hair that curled waywardly against the high plush collar of her red sweater. “Leslie Anne has no reason to leave home,” Tessa replied. “She has an almost-perfect life.”

Dante kept his gaze connected to Tessa’s. Something inside him wanted to undo the loose bun of thick hair secured at the back of her head. Would her hair be as long and silky as Amy’s had been? Even now, after seventeen
years, he could still remember the feel of Amy’s hair stroking his chest when she took the dominant position as they made love.

She’s not Amy, he reminded himself. Amy is dead.

“If that’s the case and her life is almost perfect, then why are y’all so sure she hasn’t been abducted?” Dante asked.

Tessa replied, “Because she—”

“Why is this information important?” G.W. demanded. “What difference does it make why she ran off?”

Tessa reached out and squeezed her father’s hand. “Please, Daddy, if telling these people about Leslie Anne’s note—”

“What note?” Lucie asked.

Tessa looked to her father, as if asking permission. He nodded. She squeezed his hand again, then glanced from Lucie to Dante. “Leslie Anne left a note for me.” Tessa reached inside the pocket of her suede slacks and pulled out a piece of hot pink paper.

As if they were the only two people in the room, Tessa walked directly to Dante and handed him the paper. When he took the note from her, their hands brushed. They stared at each other and a crazy kind of sensation tightened Dante’s gut.

Forcing himself to break the electrically charged link between them, Dante unfolded the small piece of paper and read the message Leslie Anne had written to her mother.

Mom, you’ve lied to me again, haven’t you? I know the truth now. At least I think it’s the truth. Why couldn’t you have been honest with me? Right now I hate you and I hate Granddaddy. And I’m confused. I’ve got to figure out what the truth is, what I can and can’t believe about myself. Don’t try to find me because I won’t come home until I’m good and ready. If ever!