Читать книгу Shadows Of Truth - Sharon Mignerey - Страница 11

“I was about to give up on you,” Jane Clark said after Rachel rang her doorbell a few minutes after six that same evening. “I tried calling your old cell phone number, but it’s been disconnected.”

“Yes, it has,” Rachel said. The cell phone, no matter how convenient, was one of the luxuries she could no longer afford.

Jane’s house was on the outskirts of Aspen, an hour’s drive from the job she had finally secured on the thirteenth application she had filled out. She’d had just enough time to change out of her new maid’s uniform and into a simple skirt and sweater before embarking on the drive.

“No matter,” Jane said, smiling over her shoulder. “You’re here now.”

Rachel followed Jane through a huge foyer and down a ten-foot-wide hallway that led toward the library. Last year, Rachel had been here numerous times while antique walnut paneling from a chateau in Reims was being installed in the library.

Jane had a love for the finest in European antiques, from paintings and statuary to exquisite stained glass and architectural elements. Then Rachel hadn’t minded the long drive because having clients in Aspen meant Victorian Rose Antiques had made it to the big leagues.

Jane ushered Rachel into the library. The room looked even more stunning than she remembered. The wood gleamed and hidden lights expertly showcased Jane’s collection of Italian urns. This room represented nineteenth-century carpentry at its finest. Caught up in the details, Rachel didn’t notice the man standing near the French limestone mantel until he cleared his throat.

“This is my friend, Simon Graden,” Jane said, taking Rachel by the elbow and drawing her forward. “When he told me that he was looking for architectural pieces for his home, I told him you were the person he needed to talk to.”

The name was familiar, though Rachel couldn’t place from where.

“Your reputation precedes you,” he said, moving toward her and holding out his hand.

Something in his tone was off somehow, making her shiver.

After the perfunctory handshake, Rachel asked, “What are you looking for, Mr. Graden?”

“It’s true then. You still are in business?”

“I no longer have a store, if that’s what you’re asking.” If the man had been anywhere in Colorado over the summer, he would have read about the scandal-related demise of Victorian Rose Antiques in just about any newspaper.

“But you can get me merchandise?”

“Only the best to be had,” Jane assured him, while Rachel said, “The purchase of antiques requires patience if you’re looking for a particular piece.”

Jane chuckled and moved toward the door. “Something I know from firsthand experience.” She motioned toward Rachel. “You’ll join us for dinner, of course.”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve—”

“Got those darling children to get home to.”

“Yes.”

“Then I need to tell the cook we’ll only be two for dinner. Sure you won’t change your mind?” When Rachel shook her head, Jane said, “Simon, I’ve made the introduction, and I’m leaving you in very good hands. Rachel, help yourself to a beverage.” Another wave, this time toward the built-in bar.

Rachel watched the door close behind Jane, not at all sure what to make of Simon Graden. He acted as though he was fifty, but, despite his gray hair, he looked young enough to be in his early thirties. Wanting to give her hands something to do besides flutter nervously, she opened the small refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re looking for,” she said, twisting off the cap and taking a sip.

“A half-million dollars worth of merchandise,” he said evenly.

That again. Her first temptation was to say something flip, like, There’s a lot of that going around. Her second, more concrete thought was that she must not have heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graden. I don’t think I quite understand. Are you planning to go into the antiques business?”

“I have a business.” He smiled, almost gently, and she caught a glint of steel in his blue eyes. “And it’s missing a half-million dollars.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. Surely he wasn’t talking about the anonymous e-mail and the letter demanding money. She took another a sip of water, then shivered as the cold liquid trickled down her throat. His voice startled her when he broke the silence.

“Does that sum mean something to you?”

This was no dark alley where danger lurked, but she was at once as terrified as she might have been facing an armed mugger.

“Business transactions should be simple, don’t you think?” He shook his head, crossed the room back to the mantel where he had left a goblet, which he picked up, then smoothed a finger across one of the facets of cut glass. “An exchange of money for goods or services rendered.”

Rachel swiped a sweaty palm across her forehead, wishing her brain would engage sometime soon and that the panic in her chest would subside. This was bizarre beyond words. This meeting was supposed to lead to good things, to renew a career she had loved. It wasn’t supposed to be one more fear to pile on all the others.

“Reliable resources tell me that you have—or can get—what I want.”

“Antiques?”

He clucked his tongue. “Rachel, I’ve been told you’re a smart woman.” He looked steadily at her, those blue eyes cold and clear, “I’ve been told you already have the…” He paused. “…The item I want.”

Rachel felt completely disconnected, hating how much this all made perfect sense and how nothing about this situation was the least bit sensible. How would Jane know someone like this man—someone shaking her down like the third-grade bully who had regularly taken her lunch money.

Only much more dangerous.

“You don’t have to look so stunned, Rachel. You understand my requirements, don’t you?”

The simple answer was yes. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, somehow sure that doing so would mean admitting that she had a half-million dollars that she’d never even seen.

The man had said something about goods or services. “What services?”

“A refund,” he corrected. “That should have been returned months ago.”

“A refund?” Muzzy from the conflicting thoughts going through her head, she looked toward the door where Jane had disappeared.

He smiled. “I knew you’d understand.”

Rachel lifted a hand toward the door. “Jane thinks you want my expertise in antiques.”

“It’s best if it remains that way, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“But—”

“Now, then. When can I expect delivery?”

“I don’t have your—”

“Then I suggest you talk to whomever does.”

The library door clicked open on the heels of a quick knock, and Jane breezed into the room. “Cook says dinner is ready whenever we are. Is Rachel going to be able to help you?”

“I’m sure of it,” he said with a smile, handing Rachel a picture that had somehow magically appeared in his hand. “She was just telling me about her family.”

But she hadn’t been. Numb and feeling completely out of her depth, Rachel glanced down at the photograph. It was of her father, Sarah and Andy at the park a couple of blocks from her house. Andy had the Blue’s Clues Band-Aid on his knee from where he had skinned it.

The day before.

This picture had been taken yesterday.

“You have a lovely family,” he said. “I can see why you’re so proud of little…Sarah, did you say her name was? And Andy. He looks like a wild one.”

This man knows the names of my children. He has a picture of my children. She stared at the photograph, looking for all the world like one she might have taken. Only she hadn’t.

“He’s four now, isn’t he, Rachel?” Jane asked.

“Yes.” Rachel looked up, found Simon Graden standing close enough to touch, a benevolent-looking smile on his face. Then she looked into his eyes and found them to be as cold as the fear slithering through her belly.

“There’s nothing more compelling than family, is there? So nice your father can spend time with your children in the park. And he’s a retired minister, you say?”

Once more, Rachel nodded, her neck and lips stiff. This man was threatening her. And if he could get close enough to take pictures, he could get close enough to do worse.

He extended his hand again, this time with a business card between his fingers. “You’ll call me as soon as you can arrange delivery?”

Rachel automatically took the card, a slight nod to her head, the gesture rooted in the fear swamping her.

“Oh, this is great,” Jane said, crossing the room, a wide smile lighting her face, and giving Rachel a squeeze. “I’ve been so worried about you with that whole nasty business with Angela. And I just knew that you’d be able to get back in business again if you had a little help. It’s no wonder you’re looking a little dazed. Sometimes good news is almost harder to take in than bad news.”

Rachel glanced from Simon to Jane, both of them smiling as though things were wonderful and she wasn’t teetering at the edge of an emotional cliff. She swallowed the bile that burned the back of her throat.

“You should thank Jane,” Simon said. “Friends who will go out of their way for you are rare.”

“Yes,” Rachel agreed faintly, looking around for her purse. All she wanted to do was leave. Run. Gather up her children and her father and simply disappear.

“After you’ve had a chance to research that one item you were going to check on when you get home,” Simon said, “you can call me.”

Rachel looked from him to Jane, who smiled.

“Now that I know you’re back in business again, we’ll talk. I’m remodeling the patio and I was thinking a big bronze urn would be just thing. You know, like that Roman one you showed me last year.” As if realizing she was about to go off on a tangent, Jane laughed. “I’ll save that for next time. It’s so nice to see you again, Rachel.”

“You, too.” Good manners made Rachel respond as she went out the door. Somehow she kept from running down the wide marble hallway to the front entry. Outside, the setting sun was lodged between two peaks, streaming golden rays across the valley. She stared unseeingly at the beauty for a moment, her mind utterly blank, then ran down the wide flagstone steps toward her car.

He wanted her to call him. But she didn’t have his money, didn’t have any idea how to convince him that she didn’t.

In her car, she jammed her key into the ignition and noticed her hand shaking. As the engine revved, she looked at the crumpled picture of her family. Tears burning her eyes, she smoothed out the glossy paper, her fingers lingering over the images of her son and her daughter.

He knew how to find them. And he had threatened her, all the while making it sound as though she was agreeing to find some rare antique for him. What could she even say to anyone else? He’d made it look as though the photograph was hers. He hadn’t said, “I’ll hurt your children.”

He didn’t have to.

She put the car into gear and headed down the picturesque road that led back to the highway and her hour-long drive home. She glanced at the fuel gauge, praying she had enough gas to make it home, while sweat coated her palms.

She’d hoped for a reprieve. Instead, this was one more disaster, and this one scared her like nothing else. She had no idea what to do.

Call Micah McLeod.

That would happen right after manna fell from heaven.

Still, the thought haunted her throughout the ride and didn’t go away after she picked up Sarah and Andy from her next-door neighbor’s house or after she put them to bed. It stayed right with her as she went through her evening chores, making and discarding a dozen different plans. Eventually, she found herself staring blindly out the kitchen window, her reflection taunting her.

A sound outside in the darkness startled her, and she stepped to the side and peered into the night. One more thing she was afraid of, one more fear to conquer since that rock had been thrown through her front door.

A rap on the back door a few feet away made her jump.

“Rachel, it’s Micah.”

She recognized his voice, and slowly moved to the door, unwilling to send him away, unwilling to invite him in.

“Rachel?”

She suspected that he saw her, or at least her shadow, but still she hesitated. How could she open the door to this man who had told her one lie after another, all in the name of doing his job?

“Rachel, please. Let’s just talk.”

She switched on the outside light, and there he stood on the back porch, looking tall and dependable, like a man she could lean on if she had a problem.

In her dreams.

“I’m sorry you got fired this morning.”

“Nothing travels faster than bad news.” The fact she had almost forgotten about that surprised her. Of course, that was no longer the worst thing that had happened today.

He stared at her through the screen door, holding his Stetson in front of him like a shield. With a sigh, she unlatched the door. “Come in.”

He slipped past her, and though she wanted to be angry at him for his past actions, at the moment, all that was insignificant. Annoyed with the feelings feathering through her chest—like relief…hope—she watched him, wishing this man had truly been the friend he had once seemed to be. But she knew better than anyone how futile wishes were.

She went to the refrigerator and retrieved a pitcher of iced tea. “Tell me why you really came back.”

He looked at her sharply, then away, as though deciding what he should say.

“You always do that.” With more force than necessary, she clunked several ice cubes into one glass, then another. “Thinking. Weighing. It’s like you’re trying to remember which lie you told and how to tell another without getting caught.”

“I suppose that’s how it must seem to you,” he said, setting his hat on the table.

“Lies by omission,” she said, “are still lies. No evasions this time, Micah. Why did you come back? And don’t tell me it was to apologize. The time for that was months ago.” Despite her best intentions to be unemotional, her voice caught when she added, “I might have forgiven you then.”

“I am sorry.” He took a step toward her, then abruptly stopped when she held up her palm. “And you do deserve the truth, all of it.” He raked an impatient hand through his hair. “It’s just that the truth is never quite as black and white as it should be.”

“You mean like Angela going to prison and her drug-dealing boyfriend getting off scot-free.”

Micah nodded. “And like you getting caught in someone else’s mess. I’m sorry for that, Rachel. All of it.” This time, he tucked his fingers into the top of his jeans pockets and faced her square on, his chin lifted, as though he was facing a firing squad. “Most of all, I’m sorry for lying to you.”

She held a glass filled with tea. “And that’s why you came back.”

His gaze at once skittered away from hers.

That simple thing ignited her temper all over again, and she slammed her glass onto the counter. “Get out.” She marched across the kitchen and picked up his hat, the felt absurdly soft against her fingertips. “Take your hat and go. I can’t believe I’m stupid enough to be glad you came here tonight. What in the world was I thinking? I’m not going to put up with you pondering every single thing you say because whatever comes out of your mouth will be a lie. And if its not a lie, it certainly won’t be the truth.”

For an instant, she caught his gaze, then looked away.

The months of frustration continued to pour out of her. “It’s been the worst day ever. Somebody threatened me and my kids tonight, and then there you are at my door and I think, great. The hero in the white hat has finally shown up.” She thrust his taupe-colored hat into his hands. “Well, wrong again.”

Hating her burst of temper, she held open the back door and motioned for him to leave. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, though, planted as solidly as the old pine tree in the middle of the yard.

“What do you mean, someone threatened you tonight?” he asked, the question cutting to the heart of the fear swamping her.

“It doesn’t concern you.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Does this have anything to do with the money?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Angela called me after you came to visit her,” Micah said. “She was worried about you.” He paused, and when Rachel’s jaw tightened, he said, “Because she thinks she knows who might be behind the threat.”

“She told me she didn’t know.” Rachel dropped her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “She lied again.”

“To protect you.”

“And how does not telling me protect me?” she asked, her temper again at the surface. “More importantly, how does it protect my kids?” She plunged a hand into the pocket of her long swirling skirt, and withdrew a crumpled photograph that she held out to him. “My family is everything to me.”

“I know that.” Micah looked from her to the images on the picture. Her father. Andy. Sarah. All of them unaware they had been photographed. “You didn’t take this picture?”

She shook her head.

“Who gave this to you?” His intuition told him that this was a huge breakthrough, and as a DEA agent he felt the thrill of the chase. But as the man who loved Rachel, he wanted her to deny it all the same, hating the idea of Rachel in danger, hating that she might have come face-to-face with the ultimate villain.

“First tell me what you know.”

He took a step toward her. “This isn’t a game, Rachel.”

Her mouth tightened, and for a moment he didn’t think she would tell him

She held his eyes in a challenge. “Simon Graden.”

He wished she hadn’t just confirmed his suspicion—and his worst fear.