The Seductive Impostor (27 page)

“What about men with beards?” Kee asked Luke. “Or the name Raoul Vegas? Did it ring any bells?”

Luke shook his head. “If he has half a brain he's using an alias. And hell, there must be over a dozen men fitting the description Jason gave us who live around here.”

Luke smiled, scratching his chest. “I told them I didn't know his name, but that I was looking for a guy who helped me change a flat tire the other night and wanted to pay him back with a rack of beer. That got me at least ten names right off the bat, two of which somebody said lived in Fisherman's Reach.”

He pulled a wrinkled napkin out of his pocket. “I wrote the names down as people thought of them. It actually turned into a contest to see who could think of guys matching my description. I'll get Jason and Matthew, and we'll start nosing around.”

Luke turned and walked to the screen door but stopped and looked back. “There was one more thing,” he said, darting a glance at Rachel before looking back at Kee. “They found a Fabergé egg in Mary Alder's bedroom that was stolen eight years ago from a home in Austria.”

“Any of Sub Rosa's legitimate art found?” Kee asked.

Luke shook his head. “Not that I heard. Only the egg.”

Luke turned and left a lot more quietly than he had arrived.

Kee took Rachel's hand, tugged her off the stool, and headed out onto the porch.

“Where are we going?” she asked, following meekly.

“Duncan's idea of an ice cream suddenly sounds good. We'll sit in the park to eat it and watch people's reaction to Puffy.”

I
t was already Friday,
and Rachel still hadn't been able to find a way into her dad's secret room, mostly because she hadn't been left alone long enough to hunt for it. And Willow was coming home tonight and would be expecting answers.

But this morning Mikaela was polishing brass on the
Six-to-One Odds,
Peter and Luke were outside scraping the trim on the house, Kee and the others were only God knew where, and this was her chance to get into that room.

And since she couldn't find the secret door, she'd decided simply to cut through the damn wall.

Rachel slipped on her safety glasses, knelt on the floor in her parents' walk-in closet, and set the small battery-powered skill saw to the plasterboard just above the bottom molding, not daring to cut any higher because she might cut into some zillion-dollar piece of art. She started the saw, wincing at the high-pitched sound of the motor echoing off the walls, and could only hope the men outside couldn't hear it.

She quickly cut a six-inch square in the plaster, then took the claw of her hammer and pried it away to expose the four-inch space between the two walls.

She clicked on her flashlight, leaned down, and shined it in the hole, only to gasp. The beam of her light wasn't hitting the plasterboard of the opposite wall as it should be, but bouncing off solid steel!

Rachel sat back on her heels and stared at the hole. Dammit. Had her father lined the room with plate steel? She picked up the skill saw and stood back up, moved to the left three feet, and cut another six-inch hole at shoulder height. She took the hammer and pried out that piece of plasterboard, and then tapped on the wall through the hole, only to hear the
ping
of metal hitting metal.

“Dammit, Dad. You built a vault!”

Rachel spun on her heel and walked out of the closet, through the bedroom, and into the guest bedroom Kee and Mikaela had been using. She went into that closet and pushed aside the winter clothes hanging there, and without even bothering with the saw this time, drove the hammer straight through the plasterboard with one violent thrust. It bounced off the interior steel wall with a resounding
ping,
vibrating so painfully that she dropped the hammer and shook her hand with a curse.

Rachel could only gape at the wall, mentally trying to picture the room on the other side of the plate steel. By her estimate, it was about eight feet by eight feet square and sat between Willow's bedroom, this spare bedroom, and her parents' closet.

She spun on her heel and headed to Willow's bedroom, stopping in her parents' room only long enough to pick up the drill she'd brought up from her workshop along with the other tools. She went into Willow's room, climbed up on the bed, took down the picture, and started drilling.

Sure enough, the drill sped through the plaster, then the four-inch air space, and started screeching the moment it hit solid steel.

“What's going on in here?” Luke hollered up the staircase. “Are you okay, Rachel? I heard a loud bang, like you fell or something,” he said, walking down the hall, his voice moving in and out of rooms.

Rachel quickly replaced the picture and stuffed her drill and safety glasses under Willow's pillow, jumping down from the bed just as Luke stuck his head in the door.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” she assured him, leaning over to smooth the blankets. “I was just changing Willow's bed before she gets home tonight.

“What's that white stuff all over you?”

Rachel looked down, saw that she was covered in plaster dust, and started brushing it off. “I…uh…I dropped the laundry detergent earlier, when I put Willow's sheets in the wash.”

“What's that fine dust floating in the air?” Luke asked, waving his hand.

“I was sawing boards so Mikaela and I can build birdhouses this afternoon. I must have left the cellar door open.” She smiled at him. “It creates a terrible dust that lingers forever,” she said, waving her own hand.

Luke eyed her suspiciously. “This isn't one of your ‘I'm looking for my cat' stories, is it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her, stepping fully into the room, and looking around.

Rachel strode past him with a smile and headed downstairs, Luke following hot on her heels. And when they walked into the kitchen, and Rachel filled a glass of water from the sink and turned to lean on the counter to drink it, Luke was still eyeing her suspiciously.

“What kind of trouble can I possibly get into in my own house?” she asked. “Or are you just suspicious by nature?”

Luke smiled sheepishly. “I guess it's just my nature,” he admitted, going to a cupboard and taking down two glasses. “It comes with the job.”

“What is your job, exactly?” Rachel asked, turning on the faucet for him and then moving out of his way. “I'm still not sure what it is you guys do.”

His smile turned crooked, and he shrugged. “I guess you'd call us men of opportunity.” He waved his hand negligently. “We do anything from sea salvage to kidnapping negotiations. We're hired by both governments and individuals, and sometimes by corporations who want us to track down embezzlers living off their money on small islands somewhere.”

Rachel softly whistled. “Wow. How long have you all been together?”

Luke shrugged again. “We've evolved over the last eight years, with a few men coming and going. We started out with just Kee, Duncan, me, and Peter. Matt and Jason came in about six years ago. Kee bought the
Six-to-One Odds
when Mikaela was born, to give her some sort of stability.” His smile broadened. “We inherited Ahab with the boat.”

“Then how come you didn't name it the
Seven-to-One Odds?”

“Ahab said he didn't want any part of raising a kid.” Luke snorted. “That lasted about six months. The crusty old salt is worse than the rest of us.”

“So you just roam the world doing odd jobs,” Rachel said in conclusion. “How do you find these jobs?”

“We don't. They find us now. We've built a reputation for getting things done with the least amount of…notoriety.”

“Notoriety?”

Luke took a long drink of water and nodded. “Governments have to play by the rules, but we don't. We can just go in and get someone out, quietly, and collect our fee upon delivery.”

“So you're bounty hunters.”

Luke refilled his glass and turned to her. “Naw, not really. Bounty hunters catch first and ask questions later. We're hired for specific jobs. Even the sea salvage. We're hired by individuals mostly, wanting us to raise their sunken boat or at least dive for their personal belongings if it can't be raised.”

Rachel shivered and rubbed her arm against a sudden chill. “It sounds very dangerous,” she whispered, pointing her glass at his chest. “You got shot.”

“That was a long time ago,” he told her, picking up the second glass and filling both with water before turning back to her. “We're a lot smarter now.” He smiled. “Having Mikaela to come home to also made us more choosy about the jobs we take.”

He walked toward the door with both glasses in his hand. “Try not to get into trouble on my shift, will you?” he said as he disappeared off the porch.

Rachel just stared at the screen door. No wonder Kee was reluctant to call the police. These men thrived on intrigue, and weren't used to local authorities interfering.

Wow. She'd fallen in love with an adventurer.

How…interesting.

Rachel set down her glass and headed back upstairs, wondering if Kee would let her go on some of his adventures. She pulled the drill and her safety glasses from under Willow's pillow and carried them back to her parents' bedroom. Yeah, it would be exciting to have the world for a playground, to sleep on the schooner, and to be one of the gang.

“I'm home!” Mikaela shouted from downstairs, the screen door slamming behind her.

Rachel heard little-girl feet and wolf paws running through the living room and up the stairs. She quickly covered her tools with blankets and boxes and stepped out of the closet and into the doorway of her parents' bedroom.

“Did you miss me?” Mikaela yelled, screeching to a halt in the hall, Mickey barely stopping before he ran into the back of her. “Are we going to build birdhouses today?”

“We sure are,” Rachel promised, opening a door next to the linen closet in the hall. “But first we have to go up in the attic and look for things to decorate the birdhouses with.”

Mickey immediately ran over to the door and disappeared into the attic. Mikaela adjusted her giraffe under her arm and walked over to her. “What sorts of things?” she asked softly, peering up the dark attic stairs.

Rachel reached in and flipped on the light. “Anything that you think would look good on a birdhouse,” she told her, moving up the stairs and then reaching back for Mikaela's hand. “Who brought you home?”

“Ahab,” Mikaela said, taking her hand, her lovely blue eyes—the mirror image of her daddy's—rounded in curiosity. “But he said he was walking to town to see someone about a dropped anchor.”

“Who braided your hair this morning?” Rachel asked, trying not to laugh as she led Mikaela into the attic.

“Punky,” Mikaela said, fingering her crooked braid. “He gets confused sometimes and messes up.”

“How about we find our decorations, then I'll fix your hair? I'll lend you one of my clips until you can get your own.”

“Okay,” Mikaela said, walking over to Mickey, who had his nose pressed up against the attic window, watching Peter scrape the trim on the nearby eave.

Rachel opened the window, and Mikaela leaned out. “Hi, Punky,” she said, waving at him. “You got paint chips on your hair. Rachel and I are going to build a birdhouse.”

“In the attic?” Peter asked in surprise.

“No, in the cellar,” Mikaela told him. “We're just looking for stuff to decorate it with. If we want the birds to come live in it, the house has to be pretty.”

Peter nodded sagely. “That makes sense.” He looked at Rachel. “I found the kayak you said was in the garage at Sub Rosa and brought it down this morning, so Willow can have her kayak back if you both want to take a paddle.”

“Thanks,” Rachel said. “But do you really think it's necessary for one of you to always come with us? Willow and I have been paddling this coast since we were kids.”

“It's necessary,” was all he said, turning his attention back to the trim.

“How about this?” Mikaela asked.

Rachel turned from the window to find the little girl almost buried in a box of Christmas decorations.

Mikaela straightened and held up a red tinsel garland. “Birds will like it, won't they?”

“Too shiny,” Rachel told her, shaking her head. “It might scare them off. Let's try over here,” she suggested, leading Mikaela to a large trunk. “Here are some old postcards and gardening books to look through. We'll paste the pictures on the house for decoration. You sit here,” Rachel told her, setting her down on another box, “and look through this whole pile.”

Rachel waited until the girl became absorbed in her work, then walked to the area over the secret room downstairs. “I'm going to look for stuff over here,” she said, pushing a few boxes and an old chair out of the way.

She studied the roof rafters and the floor, and visually measured the distance from the chimney to where the secret room was. She continued to move items until she had an eight-by-eight-foot spot cleared off, then got down on her knees and studied the floor more closely.

A perimeter of boards had been disturbed.

But two minutes later, after prying up several of the boards, Rachel only found more plate steel covering the room's ceiling. “Damn,” she whispered under her breath, sitting back on her heels.

“Daddy makes anyone who cusses in front of me swim around the boat,” Mikaela said, coming over with her arms full of torn-out pages and postcards. She visibly shivered.

“What happens if your daddy catches you cussing?”

“I only gotta jump in, and they pull me out by a rope tied around my waist.” She shot Rachel a smug smile. “I only cuss when we're in warm water. Did you find some pictures, Rachel?” Mikaela asked, looking around. “None of the boxes are open.”

“I was looking for a special box. But I think you have enough there. Let's head downstairs.”

Rachel walked over and closed and locked the attic window, seeing that Peter had already moved his ladder to the other side of the eave. She picked up Mikaela's pictures and giraffe, then led the little girl back down the stairs.

Dammit. If the floor of the room was plate steel, as the walls and ceiling seemed to be, she was going to need a bomb to get inside.

 

The birds would have to be either very desperate or drunk to move into the birdhouse Rachel and Mikaela made. The lumber was covered with postcards and colorful pictures in a hodgepodge of psychedelic patterns that made Ahab's new shirt look tame. The house tilted to the left quite a bit, and several nails had been driven only halfway in, the top half of them pounded flat by the powerful determination of a five-year-old refusing help.