A Secret in Salem (22 page)

T
HE
C
HURCHILL
S
UITE HAD BECOME COMMAND CENTRAL FOR
John, Marlena, and the family since he had stunned her with his romantic recovery. It was costing him well over $10,000 a night, but this reunion was worth it. Besides, what was money for?

John sat at the sleek contemporary dining-room table drawing a schematic of the Route de la Grande Corniche while Marlena had breakfast on the terrace with Shawn, Belle, and Claire.

John’s mind was clicking again, and he was in his element.

The bell to the suite rang. It was Jackson and Chance, the former looking a bit worse for wear.

“Hey, guys,” John said. “Coffee?”

“Do I look like I need it?” Jackson asked.

“Maybe hair of the dog?” John asked.

Jackson grimaced, and Chance answered for him, “Strongest coffee you’ve got, and make his a double.”

John poured each of them coffee from a silver-and-crystal French press and shoved the porcelain creamer and sugar to them.

“Appreciate your coming here,” he said. “Those walls in your place have ears.”

“Named Richie,” Chance said.

“Do you think he was involved?” Jackson said, not wanting to believe it. True, their father was a crook, but they didn’t think he was a killer.

“No,” Chance insisted too strongly before John could answer.

Jackson and John gave him a quizzical look.

“The other day I asked him about Mum’s hangover tablets, and he said there were none left,” Chance admitted.

“We can get the bottle dusted for fingerprints, if I’m right,” John said.

“You are,” Chance said, chagrined. “I picked this up from Willy on the way over. There are traces of cyanide.”

“Bingo,” John said.

The word was punctuated by the ringing doorbell.

“My prints are definitely on it,” Chance said. He pulled the white plastic bottle out of his pocket and set it on the table.

John thought for a long moment. “We need to know who had access to this that day,” he said as he picked up the bottle with a napkin. “I need to talk to your sister.”

From the other room, they could hear giggling and laughter.

“I’ll call her,” Jackson offered.

He moved toward the terrace for mobile reception and ran smack into Abby.

“Oh!” She jumped.

“Hi,” was all he could manage. He was a mixture of embarrassment and attraction. “’Scuse me,” was all he added as he went outside.

Abby’s hand went to her lips as she watched him go.

Belle appeared in the doorway, apologetic. “Dad, I didn’t realize you were having a meeting. Abby and Chelsea came over to say good-bye.”

“It is what it is,” John said graciously. “Do you know Chance Gaines? Chance, my daughter, Belle.”

“So nice to meet you,” Chance said and offered his hand.

“And her sister-in-law Chelsea Brady,” John added as Chelsea appeared.

Chance recognized her name. “Are you the one who tried to help our mum?”

Chelsea nodded. “Shawn and I were at the accident site.”

“He saved Charley’s life, not only then, but with the blood match.” Chance was truly grateful.

Chelsea nodded again.

“Did I hear that it was your camera that took the photos of the crash site that ran in the
Spectator
?,” he continued.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Your brother and I already had this out,” Abby chimed in to Chelsea’s defense.

“Photos?” John said behind them. “Chelsea, were there others that none of us saw? Maybe the surrounding area? Anyone in the vicinity?”

“Quite a few.”

“I need to see them,” John said simply. “All of them. Did you delete them?”

“Nope. They’re right here in my camera,” Chelsea offered as she pulled the camera out of her bag.

Abby’s MacBook Air was now on the dining table, and John was scrolling through the myriad photos of a dead Olivia Gaines and the crumpled bright yellow Aston Martin that lay in a heap in the street behind Chelsea and Shawn.

Shawn had joined them, while Belle took an excited Claire for fresh pink polish in the hotel spa. With all the talk of death and destruction this was no place for Claire.

John studied the trajectory of the car and made notes as the doorbell rang once again. This time they heard Marlena answer it.

It was Charley.

“How are you feeling today?” Marlena could be heard as she asked gently, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“I can be stoic when I have to be, Dr. Evans,” she said. “Don’t know where that came from, but I can.”

When Charley appeared in the dining area, the first person she spotted was Shawn. She lit up like a Christmas tree for the first time since the accident.

“Great to see you,” she said warmly.

“You too,” Shawn answered as he gave her a light peck on the cheek.

“Take a seat,” John said warmly.

Charley’s smile was beautiful, and she had a glow about her like Marlena. He could see why they responded so well to each other.

“You’ve been through this a number of times, I know, but I needed to know who else was in the house the day of the accident,” John said.

“I’m not sure of everyone. I wasn’t in for part of the day. But when I was it was just—Dad—” Her voice cracked as she said it. “Kelsey, of course, and the landscaper was there, I know.”

“Do you know his name?” John asked.

“Sam,” Charley answered. “Mum hired him away from Trump when she was in Southampton.”

John added his name to the list. “He’s not who you saw on the bicycle?”

Charley blanched. She might be stoic, but she had to shake off the memory. “No, Sam’s African American.”

Abby raised her hand. “Man on a bicycle? I think he’s in one of the photos.” She moved to the computer and leaned over to scroll through them.

Jackson couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“There.”

“Blow it up as large as you can,” John directed.

With a few keystrokes, Abby enlarged the photo as much as she could. It was heavily pixilated, but you could make out the shape of his head and that he had short-cropped but curly dark hair and a golden skin tone.

John tapped his pencil on the table.

“Why would that mean anything?” Chance asked.

“Are there any other photos?” John asked.

“Not of Chelsea’s, but of course I’ve got a slew of photos I took with my phone,” Abby said as she avoided Jackson’s gaze.

“All synced?” John asked.

Abby got where he was going. “Faces in iPhoto.”

For those uninitiated at the table, John explained that it was a software program that used face recognition to identify and organize a user’s photos by the people in them.

“Hang on,” Abby said as she named the face “Bicycle Man”
and clicked on Faces. After a few seconds, eight photos showed up, including three different people.

“Not perfect,” John said. “But a start.”

“Wait,” Abby said. “Him.” She pointed at a shot from Olivia’s funeral. In the background behind Richie’s car was the Kasagians’ stretch Phantom.

John turned the computer screen to ward Charley.

She gasped as she flashed back to that fateful moment on the road. Her mother dizzy, the wind through their hair, the bicyclist appearing out of nowhere, and her vain attempt to stop the car from slamming into the guardrail.

“That’s him,” she said firmly. “The man on the bicycle is Gemma Kasagian’s driver.”

It was no secret that Gemma resented Olivia’s beauty and talent. But what was her driver doing in the hills when he should have been at that party? And how did he tie into any of this in the first place?

“John, look there,” Charley said, noticing two pictures below. “Is that him at Dalita’s party?”

John turned the computer around again, and Abby studied it with him.

“Absolutely,” John said.

“How could he be in both places at once?” Chelsea asked. She too was curiouser and curiouser.

“Check the time code on the photos,” Abby suggested, but John had already started.

“Eight thirty and eight fifty-two,” John reported. “Enough time to get from the crash to the yacht?”

“On a bike? Easily,” Chance offered.

“And he was late to the party,” Abby declared. “He’s the guy Dalita’s father was reading the riot act to as I was leaving.”

It all began to fall into place.

“What we’d have to do is link him to the house,” John presented coolly.

“The security cameras in the house are motion-activated,” Jackson said.

“I guess we know what we need to see,” John said, rising from the table. “Where is the security company? They should have tapes archived.”

John Black was back in spades

“We need all the data from last Friday backward for a week,” John told Manny, the burly Russian owner of Monte Carlo Sécurité, the premier home-security company in the principality.

“Who’s gonna pay?” Manny asked Chance and Jackson, fully aware that the Gaineses’ assets were frozen solid.

“I am,” John said, handing over his black American Express card.

Manny bit the card playfully and growled happily.

“Let’s start with Friday, as early in the morning as possible,” John said. “And the camera covering the foyer and the front bar.”

After a few moments, Manny pulled up the Gaines Villa tapes, and they all watched. Nothing. Nada.

Manny scanned through several hours’ worth of footage. Once again, zip.

“The lives of the rich can be so boring,” Manny complained.

A third round of tapes and there was no movement.

“Wait,” John said firmly. “Go back.”

“Why?” Jackson questioned.

“I hear someone arguing.”

The tape was played again, and John asked the boys what was to the left of the foyer.

“The maids’ quarters,” Chance said.

“Any camera covering that?” John asked.

“Nope. That’s an invasion of privacy, man,” Manny said. “How twisted are you?”

“It shows the hallway, though,” Jackson reminded Manny. Why he needed to remind someone they’d paid handsomely over the years, he wasn’t sure, but this was no time to be picky.

Manny inserted the tapes from camera four, and they could hear the arguing more loudly. It was in Portuguese, however, and none of them understood the argument.

“We need an interpreter,” Chance said, frustrated as hell.

“Or we check the supplement bottle for those fingerprints I mentioned. Maybe they’ll match his.” John said, pointing at the screen.

Coming from Kelsey’s room was a male figure, the only parts visible, his side and arm. But in his hand was a white bottle that looked a lot like the one that held Olivia’s favorite red capsules.