Читать книгу Phantom Lover - Rebecca York, Rebecca York - Страница 10

Fog rolled in from the west, obscuring the rugged coastline north of San Francisco. There was no guardrail, the narrow stretch of road was slick, and Bree Brennan slowed her rental car, thinking that if she plunged into the ocean, it would be her own damn fault.

She’d been acting recklessly when she’d taken a leave of absence from the Light Street Detective Agency. She was still acting recklessly. The new Bree Brennan, she thought with a mental shake of her head. When she’d joined the agency two years ago, she’d been Bonnie. Now she was Bree—a different person. More daring. More in charge of her life. At least in her own eyes.

Only the farther she’d come along California Highway One, the more second thoughts she’d had. Her old persona whispered in her head that she should turn around and go home. But she simply couldn’t do it. She’d be letting down a lot of people, including the new Bree Brennan. And her friend Helen London.

When a shaft of lightning shattered the darkening sky, Bree responded with a quavery laugh. If she’d been the director of a horror movie, she couldn’t have done a better job of setting the scene: the naive young woman driving through the storm toward a spooky old mansion. Except this was no movie. It was real life.

Helen’s distraught phone call from Macedonia echoed in her mind.

“I’m so scared. I’m afraid Troy is dead. I haven’t talked to him in two weeks. And his e-mails are really strange—like somebody else is writing them for him.”

She was talking about her older brother, Troy London, both of them named by an eccentric father with a passion for Greek literature.

Bree had gotten to know Troy seven years earlier when she’d been visiting the Londons’ summer place—their ranch in Montana. She’d been attracted to him, and she’d thought the attraction was mutual. Then she’d been called away abruptly to take care of problems at home. Once she was back in her own environment, she’d told herself a relationship with Troy wouldn’t have worked anyway. He came from a world of wealth and privilege, so different from her own background.

Still, she’d never let go of the memories of a virile, vibrant young man with dark hair, warm hazel eyes and a ready smile.

Like his sister, he didn’t need to work, but both siblings had wanted meaningful jobs. Helen was a Foreign Service Officer. Troy had specialized in taking failing companies, turning them around and selling them at a profit. He’d had exactly the life he wanted, until a year ago when his wife had been killed in a car accident and he had shut himself away at Ravencrest, his estate on the northern California coast.

Bree slammed on her brakes as another fork of lightning split the sky directly in front of her, illuminating the entrance to the property. Great timing, she thought as she turned in at the access road. Ravencrest was one of the few large tracts of property left along the coast. Most of the big estates had been subdivided or turned into parks and other public access areas. But Ravencrest was a throwback to another era.

In a fast and furious exchange of e-mail, after their initial phone conversation, she and Helen had cooked up a plan to get Bree into the house—a plan that would keep her here while she found out what was going on. It had made sense back in Baltimore. Now…

Now she was dead tired and full of doubts. She’d gotten up at the crack of dawn, changed planes twice and driven a hundred and fifty miles along these winding, narrow roads. She was in no shape to sound brilliant. But there was no way to avoid the coming confrontation.

Pulling up in front of the iron gate, she rolled down her window, pressed the button on the intercom and looked up toward the television camera focused on her window.

Long, nerve-racking seconds passed before a woman’s voice asked, “Yes? Who is it?”

It sounded like an older woman. Probably the housekeeper, Edith Martindale, whom Helen had described to Bree. Good. Mrs. Martindale probably wasn’t going to be as tough a gatekeeper as one of the Sterlings, the distant relatives who had moved in with Troy two months ago.

“I’m Bree Brennan,” she answered, exaggerating her native North Carolina accent so that her name came out as a thick, honeyed drawl. “I’m Dinah London’s new teacher,” she added, very glad that she’d taught first grade for the Baltimore County schools before joining the Light Street Detective Agency.

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “I didn’t know Mrs. Sterling hired a teacher for Dinah.”

Mrs. Sterling was Nola Sterling. She and her husband, Abner, were supposed to be down on their luck, which was why Troy had allowed them to move into Ravencrest. According to Helen, they’d taken over the place.

Bree dragged a deep breath and held it for a second before answering with a complete non sequitur. “I’ve driven all the way up here from San Francisco, and I can’t go back tonight.”

“Well…”

Bree went on quickly. “I was hired by Helen London when she learned that her niece’s previous instructor, Miss Carpenter, had been dismissed.”

“Ms. London is out of the country. How could she hire you?”

“Didn’t she send you a message?”

Again there was that slight hesitation. “No. I don’t think so.”

Probably the housekeeper was wondering if Nola Sterling had neglected to inform her of the new arrangement. That would make sense, but in fact, Bree and Helen had decided that making her arrival a surprise was the best plan. And Helen had arranged not to be available.

Following their script she said, “She interviewed me by e-mail. And she sent me an authorization by fax.” As she spoke, she pulled out the paper and held it up to the camera.

After half a minute she lowered the fax and stared into the camera again, her blue eyes wide and naive. “Whom am I speaking to?” she asked politely.

“Mrs. Martindale,” the woman confirmed.

“Is Mr. London there?”

“He’s not available at the moment.”

Through the television camera, she felt herself being scrutinized and kept her own gaze steady. Her appearance was a plus, she knew.

Around the Light Street office, she always looked businesslike. But it didn’t take much effort to transform herself into the classic subject of a dumb blond joke. She’d combed her shoulder-length wheat-colored hair to frame her face in soft waves and carefully outlined her bow-shaped lips. And now she kept her blue eyes wide, as though she’d just walked off the farm.

“Come up to the house.” As the woman spoke, the gate creaked open.

With a sigh that was part relief and part trepidation, Bree drove through. As the barrier clanked shut behind her, she couldn’t help feeling like an inmate arriving at prison.

Hands clamped to the wheel, she steered the car up the winding drive, past pine trees dripping with green moss that fluttered in the wind blowing off the ocean.

Now that she was here, it was hard to catch her breath, and she knew she had good reason to be edgy. When Helen had first contacted her, Bree had proposed that one of the men from the Light Street Detective Agency or Randolph Security, which worked closely with them, should find out what was wrong at Ravencrest.

Her friend had argued against that plan. “The Sterlings are up to something bad. I just know it. If they think they’re being attacked or investigated, they could take Dinah hostage. Maybe they’ve already done it—to keep Troy in line. They could have him locked up somewhere. Or maybe they have him drugged. Or he might already be dead. And if they’ve killed him, what would stop them from killing his daughter?”

Helen had always had a flair for the dramatic.

“Those are pretty serious accusations,” Bree had said carefully. “You think your cousins are capable of something like that? What would their motive be?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never even met them. I don’t think Troy had, either, before they showed up.” She sighed. “Probably I sound hysterical. But I’m so frightened. Before Grace died, I never worried about Troy. But he turned so spacy.” She sighed. “If I could take care of this myself, I would.”

If the plea for help had come from anybody else, Bree wouldn’t be here now. But five years ago, when her mother had needed a kidney transplant, Helen had loaned her the money for the operation. They’d worked out a payment plan, but when Bree had sent the first check, Helen had refused to accept it. Mom had lived three more years after that. And Bree knew that Helen had given her those years. Which was why Bree had gone off to Northern California, without giving anybody at the Light Street Detective Agency a chance to point out all the flaws in her plan.

The impending storm had darkened the sky so that it might as well have been midnight. As she rounded a curve in the drive, lightning illuminated the outline of what looked like a stone fortress. It was almost as though some supernatural force was directing her attention to the house.

Helen had described it as a cross between a medieval castle and a Disney fantasy, built by a great-grandfather, Cecil London, who had made his money in some undisclosed business. Designed as a grand statement of his wealth, it had always given Helen the creeps. But Troy had been charmed by the place. When the estate had been passed to them, Troy had enthusiastically moved in with his wife, Grace, and together they’d started the monumental job of remodeling.

Then Grace had died and Troy had lost interest in life. Well, not everything in life, Helen had said. He’d still been devoted to his six-year-old daughter.

Mist swirled over the road, adding to the sense that Bree was driving into a scene from a horror movie. The old house rose out of the fog, a man-made chunk of rock dominating the darkening skyline.

The long lane was hemmed in by overgrown shrubbery. As she reached the circular drive, the rain finally broke, a burst like machine gun bullets hitting the car roof.

Pulling forward, she was relieved to discover that she could find shelter under a large covered porch. After releasing the trunk latch, she stepped out onto paving bricks, hearing the rain drumming on the roof and feeling a blast of cold air whipping at her hair.

Resolutely, she tried to keep her gaze within the lighted area under the porch, but the foliage swaying in the wind teased the edges of her vision and prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

“You’re spooked by this place, and you’re not even inside yet,” she muttered, just to hear the sound of her own voice.

Walking to the trunk, she leaned in to retrieve the suitcase. As she pulled it out, she felt a large, warm hand press down on her shoulder.

The touch was so totally unexpected that she screamed. When she whirled to confront the jerk who had snuck up in back of her, there was nobody in sight.

Blinking, she stared into empty space. She was sure she wasn’t mistaken. Somebody had cupped his hand possessively over her shoulder. A man, judging by the weight and size of the touch. Then, before she could turn around, he’d disappeared into the swaying shrubbery. And she was left with the faint scent of spicy aftershave dissipating on the wind.

The shiver that had started at the back of her neck worked its way down her spine as she tried to probe the darkness beyond the lighted entrance.

For several moments she stood beside the open trunk, taking shallow, even breaths, wondering if her imagination was running away with her and thinking she should pull out the jack handle to use as a weapon.

Finally she picked up her suitcase, slammed the trunk shut and marched toward the massive stone facade of the building. She had lifted her hand to knock on the wide wooden door when it suddenly opened, throwing her off balance.

The doorway was broad, and her hand missed the jamb as she made a frantic grab to steady herself. Despite her best efforts to stop her forward motion, she stumbled several paces across a marble floor into a rectangular reception area.

The ploy had been deliberate and nasty, to make her land on her face. But she kept her footing, set down her suitcase with a thunk and straightened. As she lifted her head she found herself facing a tall, thin woman wearing black slacks and a black blouse. She was standing with her arms folded tightly in front of her.

She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with short brown hair threaded with gray strands. Her face was long and angular, and her dark eyes focused on Bree as though she were studying an insect that had crawled under the door.

“Mrs. Martindale told me you were on your way up here, of all things! What took you so long getting from the gate to the house?”

“In this weather I was driving cautiously,” Bree responded. Then she asked, “Are you Mrs. Sterling?”

“Yes. Did you see anything strange?”

Bree waited a beat then asked, “What do you mean, exactly?”

Mrs. Sterling shrugged. “I simply want your impressions.”

“Well, the drive is kind of spooky in the dark, with the fog rolling in.”

The woman gave a curt nod, her lips pressed together, her eyes unnerving as they remained pinned on her unexpected guest.

Trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation, Bree deliberately changed the focus of her gaze, looking around at the antique furniture, then craned her neck upward so she could take in the crystal chandelier.

“Oh, it’s so good to get inside. This place is so lovely,” she gushed, drawling out the syllables like Scarlett O’Hara on her best behavior.

“Before you make yourself at home, let me see that fax from Helen London,” Mrs. Sterling snapped, still not bothering with polite pleasantries such as, “Hello. How are you?”

Pretending not to notice the rudeness, Bree bent, hiding her face as she opened her purse and produced the paper. She was badly off balance, but she was determined not to let it show.

Her unwilling hostess took the fax to an elaborately carved side table and thrust the paper under the light cast by a small Tiffany lamp.

After reading through the authorization she demanded, “And your ID. I’d like to make sure you’re who you say you are.”

Bree’s heart was still thumping in her chest, but she calmly pulled out her wallet and extracted her driver’s license, which got the same treatment as the fax.

With a scowl, Mrs. Sterling handed them both back. “So is your name Bonnie or Bree?”

“Bree is my legal name now. I haven’t gotten around to changing my license.”

“Why the switch?”

“Bonnie is so old-fashioned,” she drawled. “Bree is so much more charming.”

“If you want to sound like a piece of French cheese.”

Bree blinked, wondering how to respond. But Mrs. Sterling was still speaking.

“Yes, well, it’s inconvenient that I can’t pick up the phone and call Ms. London. As I understand it, she’s off on a special assignment and out of contact with the civilized world. Did she say why she has the authorization to hire a teacher?”

Bree put on her best innocent face. “I’m so sorry if I’ve stepped into an awkward situation. I just hate to be a bother.” She stopped and fluttered her hands. “She mentioned that Dinah has always been home-schooled. And since her mother died—” She stopped and gestured helplessly again. “Since her mother died, teachers have taken over the job. But Ms. London seemed concerned about her niece. I mean, she said that her brother had been, uh, wallowing in grief over his wife’s death, and he hadn’t been paying adequate attention to his daughter’s welfare. So if he wasn’t going to hire a new teacher, she was going to do it for him.” She stopped abruptly, looking like she was surprised to have delivered such a long speech.

“This is highly irregular.”

Bree’s only reply was a helpless look. She was relieved of the obligation to answer when Mrs. Sterling’s gaze suddenly shot to the hallway on the left. “Dinah, come out here!” the woman demanded. “How many times have I told you not to sneak around?”

Several seconds passed before a little girl stepped out from behind a display case and walked slowly into the entrance hall, stopping several paces from the adults.

Helen had told her Dinah was six. She looked younger, small and fragile with huge, pale eyes, pale skin and a riot of unruly chestnut curls falling around her shoulders.

It wasn’t difficult for Bree to imagine her in a long Edwardian dress, but the girl was wearing more prosaic blue jeans and a light yellow T-shirt. One arm was held stiffly at her side. The other cradled a fuzzy stuffed animal, its identity hidden by the girl’s close embrace.

Lifting her head, she looked toward Bree, her expression expectant. “You’re my new teacher,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Daddy told me you were coming. So I’ve been waiting for you.” The small, wistful voice made Bree’s heart squeeze.

Mrs. Sterling’s face contorted. “He couldn’t have said that! I didn’t even know she was coming.”

Dinah gave a small, dismissive shrug. “He’s smart. He knows things you don’t.”

The woman in black stared at the child, apparently struggling for a response. Then she imitated Dinah’s shrug. “Have it your way,” she snapped. “I think you’re lying. I think you heard us talking just now.”

Bree tried to work her way through the exchange, the spoken part and the subtext. Helen had told her that Dinah was a very clever, very imaginative child. Was she making up the conversation with her father? Or was Troy London being held captive somewhere and Nola Sterling was angry that Dinah had managed to talk to him?

Putting her own questions aside, Bree knelt so that she was at the little girl’s eye level. “My name is Bree Brennan,” she said, holding out her hand. “And I’m very glad I’m going to be your teacher.”

Her face grave, Dinah extended her free arm, and they shook.

“Who’s your friend?” Bree asked.

“Alice.”

“Can I see her?”

After a short hesitation Dinah freed the stuffed toy and held it out. Bree saw gray and white fur, pointed ears and button eyes. The fur was slightly matted and worn, as though the child had been clutching the animal over a long period of time.

Like a security blanket, Bree thought with a pang. She heard the child’s voice quaver slightly as she said, “Alice is a kitty.”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Sterling interrupted the exchange with strident words to Bree. “My husband and I eat quite late—too late for the little girl. I’m sure Dinah will be glad to show you to your quarters—and have your company at dinner in the schoolroom.”

Her quarters? Was she expected to sleep in the servants’ wing? Bree wondered as she stood again.

The woman turned to Dinah and issued an imperious order. “Take her upstairs.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Bree would have vetoed giving such duties to a child. But she was glad she and Dinah were going to be alone soon. That would give them a chance to get acquainted. And they could talk in the schoolroom tomorrow.

If the schoolroom wasn’t bugged. As that thought flitted into her mind she almost laughed. The idea of a bug in a six-year-old girl’s classroom was pretty farfetched. Yet the laugh died before it reached her lips.

She knew that when the guys from the Light Street Detective Agency went into a covert surveillance situation, they were always prepared for bugs. And she’d better remember that things could be similar here. Helen had sent her to Ravencrest because neither one of them knew what the Sterlings had done, and what they might do to protect their position.

Before she had time to consider the possibilities, she heard a door slam, then heavy footsteps pounding down the hall.

Troy?

The child’s face went white.

A look of mixed fear and exasperation plastered itself across Nola Sterling’s features.

All eyes, Bree’s included, focused on the hallway.

Seconds later, a man burst into the foyer, a man whose face was flushed and whose glaring gaze lit on Bree.