Forget Me Not: A Novel (Crossroads Crisis Center) (5 page)

But would it offer enough? Would she be safe there?

She had no idea. And why was she worried about notification rules and regulations? Her mind raced, and a question popped in that had her shaking like a wind-battered leaf. “Clyde? What day is it today?”

“Saturday.”

She licked at her dry lips. “Is it before dawn on Saturday or after dark?”

He stopped and stared at her. “It’s after dark.”

In the Jag, it’d been Friday night. She vividly remembered that.

“What’s wrong, girl? You look white as a sheet.”

“You’re sure it’s Saturday?”

“Sure as sunshine. Saturday, October tenth.”

She swallowed hard. “Clyde, I’ve lost a whole day.”

“Sir, we have a problem.”

Seated at the head of an exquisitely set table, Gregory Chessman
buried his irritation at the interruption of the dinner party he was hosting for thirty of his most influential friends. Those seated closest to him overheard his assistant Paul Johnson’s stage whisper, including Mayor John Green’s wife, Darla.

“Anything I can do to help?” She eyed Gregory inquisitively.

Airhead
. Not eager to be the subject of speculation for the next few days, he patted her hand. “No, my dear, don’t trouble your pretty head with this. Just a little man talk.”

A piercing look flashed in her eyes. She brushed her napkin onto the floor between her and her husband and clasped his arm, digging in her nails hard enough that John flinched.

“Is something wrong, darling?”

“No.” Her clasp on his forearm changed to a stroke. “What could be wrong? Everything is lovely.”

Paul rushed to pick up the napkin and return it to her.

Darla pressed the fine linen back to her lap, cupping her hand over its creases.

So, Gregory surmised, she resented his comment about her worrying her pretty head. Odd. She perpetuated her image and routinely fished for compliments. Women did that with monotonous regularity. Perhaps she was just in a mood.

Gregory cast her an indulgent smile, dabbed at his mouth, and forced his tone light. “No rest for the wicked, eh?”

His guests laughed, and because they did, he was genuinely amused. He slid back his chair, then stood. “If you’ll excuse me … ”

“Gregory Chessman, wicked?” Darla let out a dainty laugh, free from any hint of moodiness. “Now doesn’t that take a vivid imagination?”

Her remark elicited another round of laughter, one more heartfelt. It
would indeed take a vivid imagination for anyone at the table to consider him wicked, with one exception: his secret partner. But for reasons of greed, self-preservation, and a fervent distaste for prison, there was no danger of his exposing Gregory—he couldn’t, not without exposing himself and his own duplicity.

Gregory gave his partner no reason to regret their strategic business alliance. He had worked for a decade to build his man-above-reproach image, and he succeeded. Even if presented with irrefutable opposing evidence, none of the other locals would believe him capable of wickedness. That had already been tested and proven. He resisted the urge to puff up with pride. To them, he was ethical and moral—a model citizen—and he would do whatever he had to do to keep it that way.

He had revealed few personal specifics to anyone and fully disclosed them to no one. Self-made, he’d come a long way from the slums to what others viewed as his charmed life of privilege.

Nothing and no one was going to steal even a pinch of it.

“Perhaps I can help.” The respected attorney from Atlanta started to stand.

“No, my friend,” Gregory told him. No trouble was worth risking the man revealing anything he learned. He had worldwide connections. “Keep your seat.” He waved a hand. “Everyone, eat. This is a minor irritant and will be resolved in a moment.”

The attorney settled in his seat and returned to his conversation with Benjamin Brandt, the owner of Crossroads Crisis Center.

“Ben,” Darla said. “It’s good to see you socializing again. We’ve missed you.”

“Thank you.” He shifted to look at his host. “It’s been three years since I’ve been to one of your enjoyable parties, Gregory.”

“Glad you’re back,” he said.

Darla set down her water glass. “As I recall, you were alone at the last one.”

Pain flashed through Brandt’s eyes. “Yes, my son was ill, so my wife stayed home.”

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her gaze. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“It’s all right,” Ben said. “Seagrove is a small village. Few have secrets.” He leaned forward and laced his fingers. “I’m sure where I’ve been is common knowledge.”

“It is,” Hank Green, the mayor’s younger brother, said. “You’ve been down in the islands, visiting friends.”

“Ah.” The corner of Ben’s mouth lifted. “Nora’s been busy, I see.”

“No, not your housekeeper,” Hank said. “Peggy Crane told me.”

“She was my next guess.”

“Ben?” the lawyer asked. “Are you at all interested in local landmarks.?”

Gregory’s relief was short-lived. Hank leaned over to Darla and whispered just loud enough for Gregory to hear. “You know he’s been in isolation with counselors for two months. This is the first social he’s attended since his family died. Back off and leave him be.”

She fired Hank a frosty glare, then quickly masked it. “I wasn’t starting trouble; I was just being friendly.”

“Well, don’t.” Hank’s gaze sparkled. “It’s bad enough every tongue in the village is wagging about him. You don’t have to flaunt it in his face.”

Darla started to object, but John clasped her hand. “Hank’s right, honey. I know you meant well, but Ben has really struggled with his loss. He’s finally coming around. We wouldn’t want to do anything to cause him to regress, would we?”

Her eyes glittered, but her voice sounded soft. “Not for the world, darling.”

Gregory nearly puked. But no real damage had been done. Ben hadn’t overheard their exchange, thanks to a deep discussion about preserving local landmarks—the stated reason for the lawyer being in the village. Still, the urge to rip out Darla’s idiotic tongue had Gregory rushing to leave his opulent dining room.

Darla sat stiff and silent until Gregory disappeared beyond the dining room door and John engaged Hank on the subtleties of being diplomatic. Tuning them out and lowering her lashes, she scanned the table to be sure she had again become invisible and ignored by all.

Convinced she had, she lifted the lumped corner of her napkin and unveiled a small square of white paper. She read it and then tucked it into her beaded bag, its words echoing in her mind: O
FFER
R
EFUSED
.

Gregory strode down the hallway without glancing at Paul Johnson. Mentioning a problem in the presence of guests? What was he thinking?

That faux pas would be dealt with shortly.

Gregory keyed in the code to unlock the door, then entered his private den. It was soundproof and swept for listening devices after anyone other than himself or Paul entered it, just to be safe. One didn’t accomplish all Gregory had accomplished the way he had accomplished it without careful planning
and
diligent execution of essential precautions.

His footfall soft on the plush carpet, Paul entered behind him. Gregory shut the double doors, then turned. Slight and stooped, Paul wasn’t a man’s man. He’d never in his life cast a fishing rod, thrown a football, or played any sport, and his idiosyncrasies made the odd habits of notorious eccentrics pale by comparison. That caused many to underestimate Paul and make the erroneous assumption that Gregory had hired him
faute de mieux
.

But there was no absence of someone better, and Gregory hadn’t underestimated anyone. Paul was a decade younger—just shy of twenty-five—but from their first meeting his skills, abilities, and assets had been evident and useful. The man was brilliant, resourceful, meticulous, deviously clever, ridiculously loyal, and he could make anything happen and never leave a trace. More important, he would, could, and had made unpleasant situations disappear for Gregory,
and
he kept his mouth shut. So Paul’s social skills were lacking. That was a minor annoyance and required only that Gregory exercise areas of restraint.

Gregory was a master at restraint—and well equipped at controlling all in his domain, including Paul Johnson.

He raised a warning hand. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Paul shifted his weight from foot to foot, swiped at his left temple. “I know I’m not supposed to interrupt when strangers—”

“Guests. They’re my guests, not strangers. I invited them to my home for dinner. Normal people do that.”

“Oh.” Paul didn’t seem to grasp the concept or to take offense at not being considered normal. “Guests.”

“Yes.” Now the man was twitching. The entire left side of his face went into a series of spasms that almost knocked his black-framed glasses off his nose. Before he went into a full spasmodic meltdown, Gregory diverted Paul’s attention with a question. “What is the problem?”

No answer.

Gregory swallowed hard, seeking patience. Upset, Paul would literally blank out. Under certain circumstances that trait could be an asset, but now wasn’t the time. “You came into the dining room and said we have a problem. What kind of problem is it?”

Comprehension dawned and Paul’s expression darkened, knitting his thick brows and bunching the skin between them into creases. “A big one, sir. You said if anything came up on this matter to inform you right away. Something has come up, so I’m informing you.”

No doubt Gregory had issued that directive, but he had issued similar instructions on various potential hazards. Without details, he couldn’t pinpoint this specific one. For the sake of efficiency and his growling stomach, he asked, “What exactly is the problem?”

“An anonymous phone call came in. No way to trace it—throwaway cell.” Paul walked over to the desk phone. “You need to hear it.”

The only anonymous calls he received were from Alik Demyan and related to NINA. True, some of those were enough to turn his hair gray, but anything else doing it was doubtful. Gregory reached for the speaker button.

“No!” Paul shifted his weight on his feet. “Pick it up, sir.”

“The room is soundproof, Paul.”

“Yes sir. But we always minimize risks. Especially when the house is full of strangers.” He caught himself. Squinted. Winced. “I meant,
guests
. The house is full of
guests.”

Gregory lifted the receiver but paused to listen to Paul mutter, “The minute her aunt died, I knew there would be trouble. She just had to record that deed on the beach house.”

That deed had been instrumental in locating her. Gregory put two and two together. “So the subject rejected our purchase offer.”

“Yes sir.” Paul rubbed his neck. “If you’ll recall, I projected less than five percent odds of success.”

“Her advisor?”

“Ineffectual.” Paul adjusted the frame of his glasses at the bridge of his scrunched nose. “He hasn’t had much influence with her since she took over her own affairs.”

Couldn’t dispute that. Even he had been unable to locate her. Gregory stilled, considered his options.