The Seductive Impostor (28 page)

Willow arrived home two hours early, just in time to help cover the birdhouse with a coat of exterior polyurethane finish. And to speed up the process, since Mikaela insisted they set the house out this evening in case any birds might be shopping for a new home tonight, they turned a fan on to help it dry.

The three of them emerged from the cellar to find Kee and Duncan and Luke sitting at the table in front of a huge stuffed turkey, a large bowl of mashed potatoes, and an even larger tossed salad.

“Where'd all this come from?” Rachel asked, leading Mikaela to the sink to wash their hands.

“Franny said she was tired of having only half of us show up for supper,” Kee told her, filling a plate for Mikaela. “She's feeding Matt and Jason and Peter and Ahab and his crew, and sent this down for us.”

“Oh, God. It's been years since I've had Franny's cooking,” Willow said, drying her wet hands on her pants, sitting down at the table, and reaching for the salad.

Duncan beat her to the spoon, and without skipping a beat, Willow changed direction and reached for the mashed potatoes.

“I'll get a platter to set that turkey on,” Rachel said, determined to be more civilized, wiping her hands on a towel as she headed for the pantry.

She entered the small room just off the kitchen and stopped and looked around for the platter. It had been years since they'd had a feast requiring large serving dishes.

It was as she was scanning the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of pots and pans and cooking appliances that Rachel realized she was standing in a room that was exactly eight-by-eight feet square.

And she was standing directly under the secret room!

She snapped her gaze to the ceiling, letting her eyes run from corner to corner, along the molding and back to the center light fixture.

When had that light been changed from a brass fixture to a square fluorescent light? She was sure it had been a two-bulb brass receptacle when the house had been built. But then, who paid attention to lights in pantries?

An architect intent on hiding a secret entrance, that's who.

Rachel nearly shouted with joy. She'd found it! She had finally found the way into the secret room!

She pulled the step stool into the center of the room and climbed up, grabbed the square fixture, and wiggled it.

It wiggled back.

“Never mind the platter, Rachel,” Duncan hollered. “We can eat right out of the roaster.”

Rachel snapped her gaze to the pantry door. Damn. “I'm coming,” she hollered back, jumping down from the stool. She pushed the stool into its nook, wiped the excitement off her face, and walked back to the table.

Dinner took forever.

And washing and drying the dishes took even longer.

And the three men, their bellies full, were in no hurry to leave. Dammit. She had to get them out of the house.

“Your birdhouse should be dry by now,” Rachel offered, smiling at Mikaela. “Maybe your daddy and Duncan and Luke can help you put it up outside.”

Mikaela immediately jumped down from her stool at the island, where she'd been talking to her giraffe, and headed toward the cellar. “Come on, Daddy. We got to get it up before the birds come out.”

Kee gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Remind me to thank you later,” he whispered.

“Come on, Daddy! The paint is dry,” Mikaela hollered from the cellar.

Duncan came up from the cellar with a tall stake in one hand and a hammer and nails in the other. “Where do you want us to put it?” he asked.

“Anywhere,” Rachel said, gently extricating herself from Kee's embrace. “Let Mikaela decide where she thinks a bird would like to live.”

“I can promise it won't be in that house,” Duncan whispered with a shake of his head, moving out of the way so Kee could go downstairs and get his daughter and the birdhouse. “Were ya both drunk when ya built it?”

Willow came into the kitchen dressed in several layers of clothes. “I'm going paddling,” she said, taking down two life vests from the pegs behind the door. “Rachel, why don't you come with me?”

Luke, who'd been rubbing his overstuffed belly, sighed. “Give me five minutes to change, ladies.”

“Why do you have to change?” Willow asked.

“Because we can't go kayaking without a babysitter,” Rachel explained before Luke could, making a face. “Boss's orders.”

Kee, who was just stepping out of the cellar and had heard Rachel's answer, lifted a brow at Willow's glare. “You either play by the rules or don't go,” he said softly.

“I could take ya into town for an ice cream instead,” Duncan offered.

Willow snorted and pulled down another life vest for Luke. “In your dreams,” she muttered. “Come on, Rachel, go change.”

Rachel eyed the pantry door, then took off her apron and headed upstairs to change.

Dammit. She was so anxious to get into that secret room, it was all she could do not to scream in frustration. She pulled a sweater over her blouse, then slipped into a fleece jacket and zipped it up. She changed into thick fleece socks and water sneakers, and dug her paddling gloves out of the bureau before heading back downstairs.

Well, at least she'd found the entrance, and surely she and Willow would get some time alone this weekend. If not, then they'd have to take turns distracting the men while they checked out the room one at a time. Either way, they were going to find out what was in it that weekend.

T
he tide advanced toward shore
in undulating swells and a gentle south wind that pushed waves over the bow of Rachel's kayak as she paddled after Willow. Luke, still new to the sport of sea kayaking, trailed behind them a good two hundred yards, paddling fiercely, too proud to ask them to slow down.

Willow had always been a mad dasher for the first leg of their paddling jaunts, and Rachel powered her strokes to catch up with her sister. “Wait up,” she finally said as she closed the distance between them. “I have something to tell you.”

Willow laughed and stopped paddling, resting her paddle across the cockpit of her boat and wiping the sea spray from her face with the back of her gloved hand. “You're getting old, big sister,” she teased as she gently rode the swells like a baby being rocked in a cradle.

Rachel looked back over her shoulder at Luke and saw that he was working hard to catch up. “I found the way into the room,” she quickly told Willow. “It's the light fixture in the pantry. It pulls down and probably releases a ladder.”

Willow sobered. “What's in the room?”

“I don't know,” Rachel told her, keeping an eye on Luke. “Daddy lined it with plate steel, and I spent all day looking for a way in. I just found it this evening, when I went after the turkey platter in the pantry.”

Willow also glanced toward Luke, then started paddling again, this time at a slower pace that would eventually let him catch up. “When are we going to get a look inside?” she asked. “There's somebody around all the time.”

“We may have to take turns. You'll have to create a distraction while I look, and I'll keep everyone busy while you look,” Rachel suggested.

“What about tonight, when everyone's asleep?”

Rachel shook her head. “The room is right beside Kee and Mikaela's. And Mickey would definitely hear us and start nosing around.”

With a nod of understanding, Willow stopped again, letting her left paddle trail in the water to turn her kayak crosswise to Luke's approaching boat. “Not bad,” she told him with an encouraging smile. “Especially considering that old kayak weighs more than you do.”

It was Thadd's old kayak. It was almost twenty-one feet long and made of thin cedar strips curving in classic lines that gave the boat its artistic grace—and a whole lot more weight than their modern fiberglass kayaks.

Labored breaths bellowing from his lungs, Luke glared at Willow, who turned again and started paddling toward the island that lay four miles offshore and three miles to the east of Sub Rosa. “If we hurry, we'll make it in time to watch the sunset,” she said, powering her strokes again.

Rachel hung back and paddled her seventeen-foot kayak just off Luke's port side.

“Is your sister always this driven?” he asked. “Or is she really a sadist?”

Rachel laughed. “Officially, she's the terror of the Mid-Coast Kayak Club. She's won the Crane Island Kayak Race six years running.”

Luke was about to respond when something to the right of Willow, who was now a good two hundred yards ahead of them, caught his attention.

Rachel turned to where he was looking and gasped. A lobster boat, running at full throttle, was heading directly for Willow.

Rachel and Luke shouted at the same time, digging their paddles into the water as they watched Willow stop and wave her own paddle in the air at the approaching boat. The boat turned at just the last minute, pushing a giant wave broadside into Willow's kayak, sending her rolling backward into the water.

The boat turned sharply again, still at full throttle, and circled back toward Luke and Rachel.

“Shit!” Luke growled, dropping his paddle and reaching under his life vest, his hand emerging holding a gun. “Get the hell out of here!” he shouted to Rachel, raising his gun in both hands to aim at the boat now bearing down on them.

Rachel's scream was drowned out by the sudden barrage of gunfire coming from both Luke's gun and the boat. The boat turned again, straight into Rachel's path. The thrust of its bow wave slammed her defenseless kayak just before its stern clipped her with such force that the kayak's nose shattered on impact. Rachel was tossed into the water, her body twisting and bobbing like flotsam in the churning wake.

She surfaced to the sound of rapid gunfire coming from the boat as it continued its circle and headed back toward Willow. The powerful diesel engine suddenly throttled back, and Rachel swam to the top of a swell and looked toward Luke, only to see him floating—unmoving—beside his overturned kayak.

She started swimming toward him, but stopped at the sound of Willow's screams. The lobster boat had stopped, and the two men on board were trying to pull her out of the water. Willow was fighting them, bracing her feet on the side of the boat and trying to shove herself away.

One of the men reached down and grabbed Willow by the hair, violently tugging her up as the other man grabbed hold of the shoulder strap of her life vest.

Rachel spun and started for Luke again. She reached him just as she heard the diesel engine rev back to life.

“Luke,” she whispered, turning him toward her. “Luke!”

She let go of his life vest and put both hands on his face. Her hands were covered with blood.

“Luke!” she shouted, glancing behind her.

The lobster boat was slowly approaching, one man driving and the other man standing on deck, leaning over the rail and pointing a rifle at them. Willow was nowhere in sight. Rachel kicked at the water, putting Luke's bullet-riddled kayak between them and the boat.

The lobster boat turned sideways twenty yards away, and the engine was cut, the nightmare suddenly turning silent as the two men stared at Rachel. The man raised his rifle and aimed it at her.

“Take off his vest,” he said.

“No!” Rachel screamed, moving Luke behind the feeble protection of his kayak.

The second man suddenly bent at the waist and straightened with Willow, holding her semiconscious body by her hair with one hand, his other arm wrapped threateningly around her neck.

“Take off his vest,” the gunman repeated.

Rachel looked at Luke. His face was ashen, his lips starting to turn blue as the cold gulf water drained heat from his weakening body. She didn't know where he'd been shot or how many times.

She only knew that he was dying, and that if she took off his life vest, he would simply slip under the surface and drown.

“Hey,” the gunman grunted, drawing Rachel's attention.

The moment she looked at him, he took the back of his hand and slapped Willow across the face so violently that her head snapped back against her captor and she cried out in pain. The gunman then lifted his rifle and stuck it against Willow's chest.

“Take off his vest,” he repeated, “or your sister joins your friend.”

Her hands shaking violently, more from the horror of what she was doing than from the cold, Rachel slowly unbuckled Luke's vest and slid it off his shoulders.

“Bring it with you,” the gunman ordered, his rifle still pressed into Willow's vest. “And hold up your hands as you swim over here so I know you haven't got his gun.”

She couldn't let him go. She just couldn't open her hands and allow Luke to sink helplessly below the surface. They crested a swell, and Rachel looked toward shore. It was more than two miles away. She could see Sub Rosa sitting high on the cliff four miles to the west, and could just make out the masts of the
Six-to-One Odds
tied up to the dock. And her house, to the left, looked small and so far, far away.

She gasped as the rifle boomed and flinched when a bullet slammed into the kayak beside her, splintering wood against her. Rachel spun back to face the boat in time to see the gunman lowering the rifle back in Willow's direction.

Both men also scanned the area shoreward and seaward.

Satisfied they were alone on the water, the gunman nodded to the man holding Willow, who pulled back her head by her hair until she cried out in pain.

“Let him go, and swim over here,” the gunman demanded, putting the barrel of his rifle to Willow's cheek this time. “Now, Miss Foster. My patience is gone.”

Rachel turned back to Luke, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she kissed him gently on the lips, forced herself to open her fingers, and helplessly watched as he drifted away and slowly sank below the surface.

The engine of the lobster boat started, the rhythmic idle bubbling water around the exhaust. The driver put it in gear and backed it slowly toward her, closing the distance they'd drifted apart.

And through blurry, tear-soaked eyes, Rachel read the name painted in large black letters across the stern.

Finders Keepers.
Out of Trunk Harbor.

Finders. Find her. Mary Alder's and Frank Foster's dying words, a warning to look for an enemy living in their midst.

The gunman hauled Rachel aboard with callous indifference, throwing her trembling, freezing body roughly onto the deck against Willow. He wrenched her hands behind her back and tied them and her feet with quick efficiency.

The gunman waved to the driver, telling him to get going, and then tied up Willow, who was listless and moaning and trembling from the cold. He picked up a burlap bag and tossed it over Willow's head, then hunched down beside Rachel with another bag. But instead of covering her, he stared at her for several seconds, then grabbed her braid and lifted her head to look at him.

“It's been a few years, Miss Foster,” he said, his dark snake eyes narrowed and his beard curved with amusement. “You remember me?”

“No.”

His hand on her braid tightened. “I think you do. Such a dedicated little architect you were then, following your father around like an adoring puppy.” His feral smile broadened. “How protective Frank was of you.” He nodded toward Willow. “Of all his women, especially his dear Marian.”

He pulled Rachel's head up by the hair to look her more closely in the eye. “But in the end, Frank couldn't protect her or even himself.” He shook his head and
tsk-tsked.
“And Thadd. He was worse than your father when it came to keeping me away from you girls.”

He leaned in real close. “Your father begged for his life like a baby, you know,” he softly said. “Will you do the same?” He shook his head again. “No? How about for your sister's life? Frank got down on his knees and begged me to spare Marian.”

Rachel twisted to free herself from his hold and tried to bite his arm. His hand clutching her braid tightened painfully, and he pulled her face back to his, his eyes filled with amusement.

“Ah, you are shocked. You believed your father murdered your mother and Thadd, and then shot himself.” He nodded. “A crime of passion is so easy to stage. It only takes one woman and two men in a bedroom, and the police fill in the rest.”

He straightened, grabbed her by the strap of her life vest, and dragged her across the deck into the wheelhouse. He sat her up against the side.

“Forgive me,” he said, hunching down to face her again. “For forgetting my manners. I am Raoul Vegas, Miss Foster,” he said, nodding his head in greeting. “And we have met, although I am sure neither Frank nor Thadd ever mentioned me by name. What? You have nothing to say?”

He shifted to his knees, lifting her chin with bruising fingers. “Ah, you are mourning your friend.” He cocked his head at her. “I was not close enough to see. Was it Keenan Oakes I dispatched to hell?”

“You killed my parents.”

“Yes, I guess I did. I only intended to kill Thadd, you know, because the fool suddenly got a conscience in his old age. But your father arrived quite conveniently, and allowed me to make a clean sweep of my dealings here in Maine.” He shrugged. “Marian was just a bonus, to make the scene complete.”

“And you killed Mary Alder. Was she going to burn this boat next?” Rachel glanced toward the bow, then back at him. “It has a compartment for smuggling stolen art, doesn't it? That's what you did for Thadd, and what you've been doing since he died. You've been stealing from Keenan Oakes,” Rachel said. “You've been using the tunnels.”

“Yes, I've used the tunnels for three years now. But it's not Oakes I'm stealing from, but the new heir of Sub Rosa.”

“Keenan Oakes is the heir.”

Raoul Vegas threw back his head in laughter. “I read that article in the newspaper,” he said, looking back at her, still chuckling. “And I laughed myself silly. If Keenan Oakes is Sub Rosa's heir, I am king of England.”

Rachel just stared in confusion, her mind trying to take in the horror of what was happening—of what she was hearing. This man had murdered her parents, and Thaddeus, and Mary. And Luke. And now he was telling her that Kee wasn't who he said he was.

He shook his head. “Keenan Oakes is only after what I am, Miss Foster. He's here on the pretense of being the heir, but it's really the Cup of Virtue he's after.”