Читать книгу Heir to Secret Memories - Mallory Kane - Страница 11

Today

Edging a bit closer to the front door of Sally McGowan’s chic Garden District home, Paige smiled sadly at the irony. Seven years ago she’d been an orphaned, pregnant teenager, scared and alone, forced to accept the grudging, disapproving charity of her aunt.

Now she was a well-respected social worker. The road had been hard, the hours of studying and working and taking care of her daughter brutal, but she had done what her mother had never been able to do. She’d put her heartbreak behind her and concentrated all her love and energy on her career and on Kate, her beloved child.

Tonight she found herself in a roomful of over-dressed, snobbish people who were here to pay inflated prices for mediocre art to raise money for other sad young girls. And by the same token, make themselves feel generous and altruistic.

Paige took another step and smiled at a young man who was watching her curiously. Several people had looked at her that way this evening. She touched her cheek. Was there something wrong with her hair or makeup?

Someone bumped into her. It was a short, plump man dressed in white tie and tails with an honest to goodness monocle that popped off his eye and dangled by its silver chain.

“Excuse me,” she said automatically, biting her lip to keep from laughing. He looked just like a penguin. He harumphed and waddled away.

Was it just her or did everyone here tonight look like cartoon characters? Earlier she’d seen a sour-faced woman with a white streak in her coal-black hair and a white wrap with what looked suspiciously like Dalmatian spots on it.

Chuckling to herself, Paige wished her daughter, Katie, was here. Paige had never been good at being pompous and chic, and she and Katie could have a blast matching these folks with their cartoon counterparts.

She looked at her watch. Katie had been indignant when Sally had sprung the last-minute invitation on Paige. Tonight was supposed to be pizza night, plus tomorrow Katie started her second year of swimming lessons.

Paige had promised herself she’d be home by eleven, and it was already eleven-thirty.

Tossing her long blond braid over her shoulder, she threaded her way through the crowd to tell Sally she was leaving, and practically collided with the woman in the Dalmatian-spotted wrap.

Paige hastily apologized. But the woman not only looked like the cartoon villainess, she behaved like her, too. She waved away Paige’s apology as if she were shooing a fly and sucked on the cigarette dangling from her long, shiny holder.

The woman’s hostile gaze swept disdainfully over Paige’s black skirt and silver blouse before she turned her back.

Something about her seemed vaguely familiar—not many women had such a prominent streak in their hair. Maybe Paige had seen her at another charity event.

Just then Sally sailed into the room, her flowing red gown with sleeves that draped to the floor drawing every eye.

“Well?” Stopping in front of Paige, Sally gestured theatrically, sloshing champagne from a crystal flute. “Did you see it?”

“See what?” Paige asked.

“My latest discovery. Haven’t you wondered why people keep staring at you? Remember, I promised you an evening you wouldn’t soon forget.”

A tinge of unease tightened Paige’s belly as her friend ushered her toward the east wall of the room. Sally’s surprises were predictably obscure. “I saw the ice sculpture,” she ventured.

“Not the ice sculpture.” Sally waved her arm. “My newest artist.”

Everything Sally did was dramatic, from her famous charity soirees to the way she scoured the city dressed in her talent-hunting uniform of designer jeans and a shapeless, ancient men’s suit jacket that would do a homeless man proud, topped by an equally disreputable fedora.

Paige smiled indulgently. “Have you been prowling through dusty junk shops again?”

“Of course. It’s the best way in the world to discover new artists. I found this one in a musty little voodoo shop down near the docks. It’s the surprise I promised you.”

A framed drawing hung by itself in the center of an alcove. As Sally stepped aside, the crowd of people seemed to melt back into the paneling.

Paige stiffened as her vision telescoped in on the picture.

“Oh my God,” she choked, shock stealing her breath and tightening like a vise around her throat.

It was a small piece, sketched in charcoal. There wasn’t much to it, just a few perfectly executed lines. Only the eyes were fully drawn, but Paige recognized herself, much younger, looking over her naked shoulder with mischief in her glance.

“Voilà!” She heard Sally’s throaty laugh. She felt all eyes on her.

“Isn’t it stunning? And the resemblance is phenomenal.”

Sally’s voice echoed in her head like music from the next room, heard but not recognized. Her thoughts were on another time. She remembered the very day. It was the day Johnny had asked her to marry him, the day he’d given her his mother’s ring and promised her he would love her forever.

The last time she’d ever seen him.

Paige squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth. It couldn’t be Johnny. That was another life. Johnny was dead.

Consciously relaxing her arms, she forced herself to smile. “It’s not me,” she said tightly. “It’s just one of those amazing coincidences.”

She stepped close to Sally, whose smile was fading a bit. “Where did you get that? You should have warned me,” she whispered.

“I bought it for you. I just wanted to display it first. Do you know the artist?”

Paige shook her head and started to turn away, but Sally pointed and her long red fingernail drew Paige’s eye back toward the sketch.

As sudden as a punch in the stomach, Paige’s diaphragm seized as she focused on the signature. Three letters in a unique stylized script, followed by an anchor in the shape of a Y. It was a design Paige would never forget, one she’d have sworn was embossed on her heart.

A shirt with that monogram on it was stuffed in a box, along with other mementos of a past that seemed like a long-forgotten dream.

For an instant, she ached to touch the letters, trace them with her fingers like she’d done long ago when she’d still believed in dreams. Her hand lifted, her fingers reached and she had to struggle to stop them from caressing the glass over the signature.

It couldn’t be. The dead didn’t come back to life.

Paige clenched her fist and forced her hand back down to her side.

“Paige Reynolds! You’re not going to faint on me, are you? You’re white as a sheet!”

Paige shook her head. “Where did you say you found it?” she asked, trying to lighten her voice.

Sally beamed, her face reflecting triumph. “One of those little streets down by the docks. Isn’t the resemblance phenomenal? It’s almost as if you sat for the artist.”

Paige frowned. Sally’s words sliced into her already aching heart. “Well, that’s impossible,” she replied flatly.

Then, aware of the attention they were receiving from the crowd, she pasted a false smile on her face.

“Thank you so much,” she said through numb lips. “The drawing is beautiful. I must apologize, but I have to go. Katie’s with a new sitter. I don’t want to be late.”

“A new sitter? I can see why you’d be concerned. Well, you must bring her for a visit soon. Maybe I should have a showing of children’s art,” Sally said. “Katie’s six years old now, isn’t she? She’s such a little doll, with those beautiful dark-blue eyes of hers.”

Paige’s face felt stiff. “She was just six in May. I really have to go. I’ll talk to you later this week.”

“Call me tomorrow. We’ll have lunch and you can pick up your drawing,” Sally called as a handsome, elegant man touched her arm. She turned with a flourish, back in perfect hostess mode.

Paige’s hands trembled, her throat hurt and her eyes burned. If she didn’t know better, she might think she was about to cry, but Paige Reynolds never cried. Ever.

As she worked her way toward the door, fielding questions and comments about her resemblance to the drawing, she glanced back at it. The cartoon villainess stood nearby, eyes narrowed against the smoke curling up from her cigarette, watching her.

SERENA YARBROUGH LET cigarette smoke drift out through her nostrils. She’d overheard the little blonde’s conversation with Sally McGowan. She dug her nails into her palms, barely restraining herself from tearing after the woman Sally had called Paige Reynolds.

She turned back to the drawing, adopting a bored expression as she scrutinized the signature that consisted of the letters JAY plus the old Yarbrough shipping logo.

That anchor had been the trademark logo of Yarbrough Shipping until two years ago when Serena had acquired several small and diverse companies, which transformed Yarbrough Shipping into Yarbrough Industries. She’d had the logo redesigned and updated.

Lifting the champagne flute, she managed not to bite into the glass as she sipped delicately. Aware that someone might be watching her, she forced her anger into a cold knot of resolve.

The signature on the drawing was unmistakable, but it was the date that made her want to rip her clothes and scream in anger and frustration.

This year.

Johnny Yarbrough was alive! Her stepson, the true heir to the Yarbrough fortune, had somehow managed to survive her scheme to get rid of him.

Her brother, Leonard, had assured her Johnny was dead when his goons had dumped his body into the river. She’d been outraged at the time. Now she had to force herself to remain calm as fury swirled in her breast.

She couldn’t believe the fool hadn’t known that the body might never be found if it drifted out into the Gulf.

As she’d feared, the body had never turned up. Only the stolen car with Johnny’s bloodstained wallet in the trunk. At least the kidnappers had left no traceable evidence in the car.

After a court order had declared Johnny legally dead, based on the DNA evidence of his blood in the car, Serena’s son Brandon—Madison Yarbrough’s second son—was the sole heir, and Serena controlled the entire Yarbrough fortune.

But now, in the space of an evening her plans were ruined. The evidence that Johnny was still alive was displayed right before her eyes. Almost as if he were taunting her.

Then there was the woman who was obviously the model for the drawing. Sally was right; the resemblance was too close to be coincidence, no matter how much Paige Reynolds denied it. And Serena hadn’t missed the way the woman’s face drained of color when she saw it.

And if all that weren’t enough, she was flaunting Johnny’s mother’s ring. It was a cheap little ring, but unmistakable, with sapphires in the shape of the old anchor logo. Madison had given it to his first wife, then to his son after she died.

One by one, Serena considered all the facts, like pieces of a puzzle and they all fitted into place.

Johnny was alive. And, judging by the conversation she’d overheard between Paige Reynolds and Sally, he had a daughter.

Six years old in May, the little blonde had said. That would put the child’s conception at about the time of Johnny’s rebellious summer bumming around the French Quarter, right after Serena had married his father.

Serena drew on her cigarette. That would make Johnny’s child older than her son. Another heir to dilute the fortune that was rightfully hers. She still hated Madison for refusing to change his will, which named Johnny or his progeny as primary heir to the Yarbrough fortune. But she’d gotten rid of the barriers to Madison Yarbrough’s fortune once, and she could do it again.

She’d taken care of that little problem and now she was in control. She planned to stay in control.

She watched as the young woman worked her way through the crowd toward the door. She nodded in satisfaction.

It was annoying that her stepson had cheated death. But now that Serena knew…

Draining her champagne glass and dropping the half-smoked cigarette into it, Serena pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed a number.

“I have an urgent job for you,” she said quietly, stepping out onto the balcony for privacy. “Well, get out of bed and get down to the office. I have a test case for the new tracking technology.”

As soon as she finished her call, she went looking for Sally. She needed every scrap of information Sally possessed on the artist and on Paige Reynolds.

The promise little Sue Ann Lynch had made to herself the day she ran away from the shabby trailer park and changed her name still festered inside her.

She would never be poor again.

The money was hers. Right now three people stood in her way: Johnny, his child, and the child’s mother.

They all had to die.

DURING THE CAB RIDE HOME, Paige stared out the car window as the dark, colorful streets of New Orleans streaked by. A familiar ache started in the back of her throat, building until it felt like a pair of hands choking her.

It had been seven years since Johnny had walked out of her apartment and her life, over three years since he’d been declared dead, and still she missed him.

She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and played with the ends, her unseeing gaze on the streets outside.

When she’d seen the sketch, for an instant she’d been plunged back into the past, to the time when she still believed Johnny loved her and would come back for her. When she’d been sure she would never end up alone and pregnant like her mother.

The day she’d found out she was pregnant she’d vowed she would keep her daughter, no matter what she had to do.

She knew the pain of abandonment—the hollow, terrifying fear of having no one. Katie would never spend one day frightened and alone, not if Paige were alive to prevent it. She would give her life to keep her daughter safe.

Paige shook her head and tried to concentrate on the awful music from the cabbie’s radio, but her brain wouldn’t let go of the past. She recalled the day six years before when she’d happened to glance at the society page, the day she’d found out who Johnny really was.

He was the son of shipping magnate, Madison Yarbrough, heir to a fortune so vast she couldn’t even imagine it. His family was the Yarbroughs.

Staring at a photograph of Johnny and his father captioned “Son Follows In Father’s Footsteps,” Paige had finally seen her worst nightmare come true.

He had never cared about her or intended to marry her. Their whole relationship had been a lie. He’d just been a rich kid slumming. She’d imagined all sorts of horrible reasons he hadn’t come back for her, but she’d never even considered the simplest one.

He hadn’t wanted to.

Then three years later, she’d seen his photograph in the paper again. This time it was the sensational story of his kidnapping played out on TV. She’d waited with the rest of the city, suffered along with his father, until the police found the bloodstained car and concluded that John Andrew Yarbrough was dead.

Now her daughter was six years old, and Paige had struggled and sacrificed to create a good life for the two of them. A safe, steady life.

No odd coincidence of a drawing with a familiar signature could change that. There had to be another explanation.

Maybe someone had unearthed one of Johnny’s old sketches and either unconsciously or deliberately copied the style and the signature. That would explain the recent date.

As bizarre as that idea was, it was easier for Paige to believe than the alternative…that Johnny wasn’t dead at all. That he was alive and well, living his privileged life and selling sketches of their intimate moments as a lark.

She stirred as the cab stopped in front of her apartment.

As she paid the driver, a car door opened at the curb and a small figure dressed in very long jeans and a very short top got out. It was Katie’s baby-sitter.

The teenager’s painted eyes were wide under her short straight hair. “Ms. Reynolds, I was just—”

Concern about Katie sharpened Paige’s voice. “Dawn? What’s going on here?” She looked toward her apartment. The front door was ajar.

Dawn pouted. “I was just…saying good-night to my boyfriend.”

Paige grabbed the girl’s arm. “Where is Katie?”

Dawn looked at her with eyes wide. “She’s right inside. She’s asleep.”

Paige tightened her grip on the girl’s arm. “You never, ever leave a child alone. Don’t you know that? Not for an instant.” She was so angry and worried that her voice shook.

“Katie’s asleep, Ms. Reynolds,” Dawn said in a small voice. “She’s fine. I was only out here for a minute.”

Rooting in her purse Paige found some bills. “Here. Have your boyfriend take you home.”

As she ran toward the door, she called back to the girl. “I will be talking to your mother, Dawn.”

Telling herself she was overreacting, but unable to shake her unease, Paige pushed the door open.

The first thing she saw was the phone lying in the middle of the living room floor, its torn cord twisted and raw, like the innards of a dead snake. She stared at it for a second, her brain not processing what she was seeing.

Katie!

She ran through the tiny hallway to Katie’s room. “Katie?” she whispered.

No answer.

Paige pushed the door open. Dawn had assured her that Katie was sleeping, but something was wrong. The room felt odd—empty. She fumbled for the bedside lamp with a trembling hand.

“Katie, sweetie. I’m home.”

Light flooded the room. It looked just like it had earlier in the evening, except that the bedclothes were rumpled and her daughter was gone.

“It’s okay. It’s been a weird evening,” she whispered, trying to calm her growing panic. Katie often slept in Paige’s room.

“Katie!”

She ran into her bedroom, throwing on every light switch she passed, but Katie wasn’t there.

“Katie.” Her voice cracked. “Where are you?”

She put her hand over her mouth, trying to hold in a scream.

It’s okay. It’s probably nothing. But her heart knew her brain was lying.

The bedroom phone had been ripped from the wall, too. She stared at it. It lay on the floor, ominous proof of a truth so awful, Paige couldn’t let herself believe it.

Her breath stuck in her throat.

She backed out of her bedroom and rushed into the little kitchen. The back door was open.

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “Oh, no.”

“Katie!” Tears streaked down her face and tasted like blood in her mouth. Somehow her shaky legs carried her back to Katie’s bedroom.

She stared at the bed. It was so awfully empty, a small hollow in the pillow the only sign her daughter had been there.

She couldn’t keep trying to fool herself. She knew.

Her daughter was gone.

She touched the pillow, plumping it. She reached for the sheet, but her fingers couldn’t hold on to the material.

“Oh, Katie.” She put her hands over her mouth. “Katie! Where are you?” she screamed into her hands.

Her gaze searched the room as if she might find her daughter hiding behind a chair, or under the bed. As if the last few minutes were just a bad dream and Katie was playing a joke.

There was a noise from somewhere in the room. It took a few seconds for the sound to penetrate Paige’s anguish. She lifted her head. What was it?

The noise sounded again, a terrible, electronically cheerful chirp in the middle of Paige’s horror.

“A cell phone?” she muttered. Was that a cell phone? She didn’t have a cell phone. It was here, somewhere, in Katie’s room.

She rooted through the bedclothes, tossing pillows, pulling off the bedspread.

There it was, lying like a big black bug in her daughter’s bed. She grabbed it, jabbing at buttons that seemed stuck or broken. Finally one gave.

“Hello? Hello? Who is this?” she screamed, terror paralyzing her, darkening her vision.

She listened, but there was no sound.

“Please…who is this? Katie?” she cried.

Still nothing but silence.

“Talk to me!” she shouted, then shook the phone, desperation giving way to frustration. “Answer me! Where is my daughter?”

“Now, now, Paige, there’s no need to shout. Your daughter is just fine,” an obviously disguised voice said.

She almost dropped the phone. Relief burned through her like a firestorm. Her throat closed. “Who is this? Where is Katie?” she croaked.

“I told you, she’s fine.” The raspy whisper—Paige couldn’t tell if it were male or female—sounded impatient.

“Let me talk to her.”

“All in good time.”

“I have to talk to her!” She gripped the phone in both hands, hunched over it as if she could somehow get closer to Katie by doing so.

“All you have to do is listen.”

“But—”

“No! You will be allowed to talk to Katie when you obey. When you don’t obey…”

Paige’s heart turned to ice. Whoever was on the other end of the phone had kidnapped her daughter. They were threatening to hurt her. The flat, emotionless voice promised horrible, unthinkable things.

“O-okay,” she stammered. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt her. Please!”

“Now listen carefully. I will only say this once. Bring me Johnny Yarbrough.”

“What?” Paige’s hand tightened reflexively on the cell phone. Her head spun. She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Johnny? But he’s…he’s dead.”

“Do not insult me. You know where he is. Bring him to me and your daughter will be returned to you. Do anything other than exactly what I tell you and you will never see your child again.”

Paige’s mouth went dry and her heart squeezed with pain. “I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in years. I thought he was dead.” She took a sobbing breath. “I just want my baby back.”

“Then you know what you have to do.”

“You can’t do this! I’ll…I’ll go to the police.”

An ominous laugh crackled through the phone. “Don’t be stupid, Paige. If you go to the police, or tell anyone at all, I’ll know. And little girls are so very small and fragile.”

Paige could hardly force breath through her constricted throat. “No, wait. I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt her.”

How was she going to do this? She had no idea. She vowed to tear the city apart brick by brick if she had to, to save her child.

The voice went cold with impatience. “Whether she’s hurt is entirely up to you. I’ll talk with you again soon.”

“Please! Don’t hang up! I have to hear her voice. I have to know she’s all right.”

She heard a sigh on the other end of the line, then a curt command. Her heart beat faster. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

“Mom—”

The word was cut off short, but it was Katie. Paige wanted to scream into the phone, but Katie’s voice was small and scared, so she bent all her will to sounding calm.

“Katie? Hi, sweetie. I love you.”

“Mom, come get me—”

“Oh, Katie, I’m trying to. Be brave, honey.”

“Nice sentiment, Paige.”

Her throat ached with the need to cry. “Katie,” she mouthed soundlessly.

“But you don’t have time for sentiment. Your daughter’s time runs out when the cell phone battery runs out.”

“Wait! What do I do if I find him?”

“You don’t worry about that.”

“But how will I get in touch with…?” Paige realized she was speaking to a dead phone. She dropped it as if it were hot and stared at it, wringing her hands.

“Katie,” she whispered hoarsely, then forced herself to take a deep breath. “Okay. I can do this. Think.”

She paced back and forth clenching and unclenching her fists as she wrestled with the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She worked to gain control of her whirling thoughts.

The picture. The picture with Johnny’s signature on it. Paige felt a minuscule flutter of hope. She’d call Sally and find out about the picture.

Grabbing the cell phone, she punched buttons, but nothing happened. She looked at it. The little display screen was black. Not even the time or the signal showed. She shook it and punched buttons again.

What was wrong with the stupid phone? It was like the keys were stuck. She wanted to throw it, but instead she clutched it to her chest. It was her only link to her baby.

A vise of terror clamped around her heart. Katie was in danger and she didn’t know where she was, or how to get in touch with her.

Paige forced herself not to give in to terror and grief. She had to think. What could she do? She stared at the silent phone. She tried to remember everything the kidnapper had said, but her brain wouldn’t work right.

Oh God, she needed to hear Katie’s voice again. If she could just hear her, she could be sure she was all right.

Her tape recorder! She had a minirecorder that she used to dictate notes about her social work clients. She could record the calls. Maybe she could somehow use the information to find Katie.

She ran into her bedroom and grabbed the little tape recorder off her bedside table. Having it didn’t do much to calm her growing panic, though. It didn’t solve her biggest problem. She thought about the voice’s demand. She had to find Johnny Yarbrough.

How was she going to find a dead man?