Danger in a Red Dress (12 page)

He’d learned why Hannah was a natural with arthritis patients. He’d learned how she’d learned the craft of extortion, and why she thought it was such an easy way to make money. He’d even learned why she figured she was justified. If she was telling the truth—and from the research he’d done, she was—that deal with her mother’s death had been a bitch for a sixteen-year-old to handle.

But he’d also learned she sincerely missed her mother. Hannah had liked her mother. She had admired her mother. Her mother, who gave birth to her without benefit of matrimony. Her mother, who accepted a trip given to her by her doctor. But still . . . didn’t her affection for her mother mean that she had more than a shriveled soul, bereft of emotion?

Yeah. It did.

He’d learned something else, too.

He’d learned that he liked the way she moved. Even viewed from a distance through binocular lenses, she showed an athlete’s prowess and endurance.

But also . . . she admitted Mrs. Manly would die soon.

Okay. She looked like the woman of his dreams.

Yet he couldn’t trust her. And he didn’t dare love her.

But he couldn’t wait to talk to her again.

THIRTEEN

Hannah had come to detest Balfour House.

The autumn wind tossed dried leaves against the windows of the study and moaned around the eaves. A steady cold rain dripped off the roof, and far below, the ocean roared with the passing of the first storm of the season. The clouds dimmed any light from the afternoon sun, and Hannah shivered as the cold crept through the gray stone walls and into the study, where she and Mrs. Manly studied the checklist one more time.

And someone was watching her.

A knock sounded on the door to the study.

“Come in,” Mrs. Manly called.

Susan Stevens stuck her head inside. “Mrs. Manly, I’ve done my check of the house, and I have my report.”

“Good.” Mrs. Manly glanced at Hannah, pleased and expectant. Surely now they would hear the truth—that Carrick was having their every move electronically scrutinized, hoping to hear the truth about his father’s fortune. “Come in.”

Susan Stevens didn’t look anything like Hannah’s idea of a security expert. She was probably thirty-five, tall and willowy, with brown eyes and wavy brown hair she pulled into a careless twist at the back of her neck. She applied makeup so flawlessly Hannah wasn’t surprised to discover she had been a former beauty contestant, and although she wore jeans and T-shirts and, when working outside in the nippy air, sweatshirts, she made each piece of clothing look as if she’d bought it from a top designer.

Mrs. Manly turned her wheelchair to face Susan. “Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

“That would be fabulous.” Susan’s nose was attractively rosy. “It gets cold early up here.”

“Hannah, ring for a fresh pot,” Mrs. Manly ordered. As Hannah spoke to the hovering servant, Mrs. Manly told Susan, “It’s the end of October. Of course it’s cold.”

“I’m from Houston. It won’t get cold in Texas until Thanksgiving. Maybe.” Susan smiled fondly. “Sometimes it doesn’t freeze all winter.”

“I myself like the four seasons,” Mrs. Manly intoned.

“Winter is overrated,” Susan said pleasantly.

Hannah laughed. “I’ve thought that myself.” Especially in February when the snow turned to ice on the streets and the wind ripped at her flesh.

A discreet knock sounded at the door, and Hannah retrieved the freshly brewed coffee. As Hannah poured, Susan opened the folder she held and handed Mrs. Manly a piece of paper.

Mrs. Manly accepted it. “What brought you up here to work for Sansoucy Security?”

“I go where I’m needed.” Susan accepted the cup from Hannah and added sugar and so much cream the brew turned a swirling tan.

“But Maine seems like quite a change for you.” Mrs. Manly watched Susan so closely, Hannah wondered what she saw.

“The advantage of being single again is that I can see the country as I wish,” Susan said firmly. “But I promise you, I will be here for your party.”

“As a guard?” Hannah was surprised. “I thought you were the technical expert.”

“I am. I work every angle I can. In this business, it’s best to be indispensible. Now.” Susan leaned forward. “Here’s my report, with three different plans to increase security here at Balfour House.”

Susan spoke enthusiastically about placing cameras and microphones outside, at all the entrances, and in the corridors and public rooms, but Mrs. Manly wasn’t listening. Hannah could tell she wasn’t listening. Hannah had the feeling the same variety of expressions crossed her face as crossed Mrs. Manly’s: first expectant, then puzzled, and finally, when Susan persistently said nothing about finding cameras and microphones hidden in the corridors and the rooms, disappointed.

When Susan finished, she leaned back and sipped her coffee. “Of course, I know our clients are always interested in options, but in this case, where the home is historical and filled with valuable antiques, I would recommend the full security package. Frankly, I’m amazed that you haven’t had any break-ins.”

“I just . . . I thought we did have some security cameras. During your evaluation, did you not find any?” Mrs. Manly asked.

“No.” Susan sounded politely uncertain. “You have an outmoded alarm system, but it hasn’t functioned for years.”

“I see.” Mrs. Manly placed the bids on her desk. “I’ll take your suggestions under advisement. Thank you so much, Susan, and I’ll see you in three days, if not sooner.”

Susan turned a blank face to her.

“On Halloween,” Mrs. Manly reminded her.

“Yes. The party.” Susan put down her cup and stood. “I’ll be the one dressed as a security guard—in a dark suit.” She laughed.

“Make sure you wear a mask,” Mrs. Manly warned. “The guests won’t be allowed in without costumes, and I expect the security guards to respect my wishes as far as they are able.”

Susan looked dismayed.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Manly said. “I’ll have extra masks.”

As Susan left, Mrs. Manly turned to Hannah. “Some people hate to join in the spirit of Halloween.”

“Some people do.”

Mrs. Manly watched the door Susan had closed behind her. “What do you think, Hannah? Is she incompetent? Did she not notice the cameras and microphones?”

“She certainly gives the air of knowing what she’s doing.” Hannah picked up the paper with the bids on it, and scanned the list. “This seems complete. I don’t know what else she could add.”

“Does she have any reason to conceal the fact we’re being watched?”

“I don’t know what it would be. Carrick could have bribed her, but he would have had to bribe Sansoucy Security, too, and that seems so . . . far-fetched.”

“Farsighted,” Mrs. Manly corrected. “Furthermore, I know Carrick. He would never hire a small local firm. He always wants the best, and obviously the best could never be
here
.”

“And the truth of the matter is . . .
we
think she’s telling the truth.” When Mrs. Manly looked inquiringly at her, Hannah said, “We’re talking freely as we haven’t since we first spoke up on the cliff above the sea.”

Mrs. Manly sighed. “You’re right. But . . .”

“But why was the hair standing up on the back of my neck right now? Why do I constantly feel as if someone was watching me? If it’s not some flunky of Carrick’s spying on us . . . then who is it? The ghost of some Balfour ancestor?” Hannah thought she was making a joke.

But she shivered. No wonder Halloween took place at the onset of winter. It didn’t make sense, but something about the failing sun made a person hark back to the ancestors’ memories of ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties. No matter what Susan said, Hannah was convinced some dark
thing
—some memory locked away in the attic—held sway in this house.

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Manly chuckled. “You really are susceptible to atmosphere, aren’t you?”

Outside in the foyer, the door opened and shut, then opened and shut again. They heard a murmur of voices; then Nelson stepped in and announced, “Mr. Manly has arrived.”

“Mr. Manly?” Color washed out of Mrs. Manly’s face. She placed her hand over her heart, and Hannah realized she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended.

Then Carrick stepped over the threshold.

Mrs. Manly collapsed back into her chair. “Oh. It’s just you, Carrick.” Turning on Nelson like a ferocious guard dog, she said, “Mr. Nathan Manly is gone, disappeared God knows where. My son is Carrick. Just Carrick. Remember that. Call him that.”

Nelson lost a little color, too. “Yes, Mrs. Manly.”

“Take a chill pill, Mom.” Carrick strolled into the room with such an air of authority, he might have been a commander going into battle. “It’s not like Father is coming back here. He’s drinking champagne on a beach somewhere, surrounded by babes.”

How had Hannah ever thought this callous jerk was attractive?

Her feelings must have shown on her face, because he said, “What? In a week, Mother has to appear in federal court to testify that she had nothing to do with stealing the fortune. She might as well get used to having the whole scandal dragged out into the public eye again.”

But no one got the best of Mrs. Manly. As he leaned down to kiss her, she pinched his chin and turned his face toward the light.

His left eye, left cheek, and nose were swollen and yellow, purple, and green with a fading bruise.

“Who did you anger?” Mrs. Manly asked.

“I was in a fight.” He was favoring his left side.

And Hannah noted he didn’t seem as well put together as he had—he hadn’t shaved in two days, and his pants looked as if he’d slept in them. Going to the window, she looked out at the auto court. A Camry sat there, its small trunk gaping as one of the footmen removed two suitcases and an overnight bag.

So this time, Carrick hadn’t driven a borrowed Porsche.

Mrs. Manly turned his knuckles to the light, but they were pristine. “Too bad you didn’t land any blows.”

An angry flush climbed in his face, and he folded his hands away from her. He took two steps away, and looked around the study, strewn with well-organized piles of papers, contracts for the caterer, the decorator, the extra staff, the food supplier. “Wow, Mother. You’re out of your room. I had no idea Miss Grey would be such a little miracle worker.”

“She has been the best present you ever brought me.” Mrs. Manly pretended to think. “Wait. I believe she’s the only present you ever brought me. And of course, I have to pay her salary.”

He gave Hannah a shrug and such a friendly smile she wanted to edge closer to Mrs. Manly and safety.

“You’re early for the party. It’s not for three days.” Mrs. Manly sat perfectly still, watching her son as he paced around the room, examining the contracts.

“I thought I could help,” he said.

“We’ve got everything under control,” Mrs. Manly answered. “Don’t we, Hannah dear?”

“We do.” Hannah wished Mrs. Manly didn’t use her to poke at her son. “But I’m sure as the time gets closer, emergencies will occur, and we’ll be grateful for Carrick’s help.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Mrs. Manly said. “He’s not fond of work. But he is fond of luxury. As a matter of fact, I would venture to guess that’s why he’s here today. He ran out of money. Didn’t you, Carrick, my boy?”

He whirled toward his mother. “It’s nothing I can’t recover. It’s not like I’m going to ask you for capital. Not when you’re spending”—he picked up the decorating contract—“twenty-five thousand dollars on transforming this old rock pile into Sleeping Beauty’s castle.”

“It’s my money,” Mrs. Manly said.

“You don’t have any money, at least not enough to throw this party
and
support Balfour House over the next year.” He attacked like a man about to lose everything he valued. “
What
are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’m going to be living in prison next year,” Mrs. Manly said flatly, “and the fate of Balfour House will not be in my hands.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” He paced forward and knelt at her feet. “If you would just tell me where Father’s fortune is—”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Manly said.

“Why don’t I believe you?” His voice rose.

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Manly watched him without pity.

“I don’t believe you. You
do
know something.” He stood, abandoning his pleading, and towered over his mother, his hands clenching over and over.

Hannah couldn’t stand that. Enough was enough. She pushed him with a firm hand.

He swung on her, his fists half rising, the bruises on his face bright against the pale fury of his complexion.

He was a bully, and he scared her. She wanted to back off, run away. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t leave Mrs. Manly to him. So she lifted her chin and stepped between them.

For a long moment, Carrick stared at her, his face ugly, and she thought . . . she wondered if he would hit her. And if he did, if he would stop.

Then his face cleared, and he acted wounded. Wounded and impressively incredulous. “For God’s sake, Hannah, I have her best interests at heart. She’s my mother.”

Hannah took Mrs. Manly’s wrist. As she expected, her patient’s pulse was racing. “Carrick, excuse us. I need to take her to her room.”

“I would never hurt her,” he protested again.

As Hannah pushed her from the room, Mrs. Manly said over her shoulder, “Not until you have that information out of me.”

FOURTEEN

Gabriel stared at the monitor.

Not until you have that information out of me.
What the hell did that mean?

Carrick stepped into the foyer and yelled after the two departing women, “What the hell does that mean, Mother?”

Mrs. Manly laughed. Cackled, really.

Carrick muttered a curse, went back into the study, and slammed the door.