Читать книгу Little Girl Lost - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 14

Five hours later, Portia had a working car and a four-Tylenol headache. According to the mechanic who’d towed and fixed the Bug, her vehicle was in good shape. Now she just needed her head to follow suit. A few hours of quiet would go a long way to making that happen and she was relieved to see that the Manor’s seven-bay garage was nearly empty.

Even Rissa’s car was missing. Which meant either that her writing wasn’t going well, or she couldn’t bear another moment in the house. It was for the best. Portia had never been able to hide her feelings from her twin, and she had no desire to have to explain her conversation with Mick, or discuss his suspicions about their father. For now, she’d be content to keep the information to herself.

Briny air enveloped her as she hurried toward the house, the thick, salty scent of the ocean sweeping in from the cliffs. Watery sunlight filtered through the clouds, speckling the ground with gold, the trees with vibrant color. Portia’s fingers itched for a paintbrush, the urge to capture the shift of light and shadow easing the pounding pain in her head. For the first time in months, Portia felt the urge to grab her easel and brushes and paint.

She hurried inside, started up the stairs, heard a soft wail from somewhere above and knew that painting was not in her near future.

“Aunt Winnie? Miranda?”

Heels tapped against the hardwood floor. A door slammed.

“Thank goodness you’re home!” Sonya, the Blanchard housekeeper, appeared at the top of the stairs, the panicked expression on her face sending Portia racing toward her.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“You’re grandfather. He…” Her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t bear to continue.

“Is he all right?” Portia raced up the stairs, her heart pounding, her mind filled with a million possibilities, all thoughts of headaches and painting gone. An Alzheimer’s patient, Howard Blanchard’s health had been declining for years, but in the past few months there had been an even more drastic change.

Sonya shook her head, her dark eyes flashing. “He attacked Alannah. Put his hands around her throat and nearly strangled her.”

“Strangled her? He can barely get up out of bed.” Portia started up the stairs that led to her grandfather’s third-floor suite.

“That’s what we all thought, but I’m telling you, somehow he had enough strength to grab Alannah by the throat.”

“Is she all right?”

“It’s hard to tell with that one. She’s in your father’s office, now, threatening to call the police.”

The police? That was the last thing they needed. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Someone better. You’re grandfather is sick. Not a criminal.” Her defense of Howard was a surprise. The tension between the housekeeper and her employer was something Portia and Rissa had often discussed. Neither knew the cause, they only knew it had always been there. Sonya’s urge to protect Howard could only mean the housekeeper thought he was nearing the end.

Portia’s heart beat faster at the thought and she put a hand on Sonya’s arm, hoping the gesture would calm them both. “I’m sure Alannah understands that.”

At least, she hoped she did. Her father’s latest girlfriend was hard to read. That she was self-absorbed went without saying. Whether or not she was spiteful remained to be seen.

Portia hurried down the hall to her father’s office. Sobs and jumbled words drifted through the door, and she knocked, then pushed it open. Alannah sat at Ronald’s desk, clutching the phone to her ear and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

She met Portia’s eyes, gestured for her to enter the room and continued speaking. “I’m telling you, he’s dangerous. He had his hands around my throat. He could have killed me.”

Portia was tempted to grab the phone and tell whoever was on the other end of the line that Howard was too feeble to be dangerous, but Alannah was upset enough without her interference.

Instead, she took a seat in the chair across the desk from the other woman and waited.

“Of course I understand his condition, Ronald. You’ve told me about it often enough.” Alannah sniffed, grabbed another tissue from a box on Ronald’s desk. “I know. I know. Yes, I’ll be there. Give me another half hour.”

She hung up the phone, shot Portia an irritated look. “I suppose you’re here to explain the intricacies of your grandfather’s illness just like everyone else.”

“I’m here to make sure you’re okay.” Making sure she didn’t call the police was secondary to that, though Portia hoped she could manage it.

Alannah brushed strands of red hair away from her forehead, tucking them back into her chignon. “Okay? I just paid big bucks to have my hair styled. Now it’s ruined.”

“Loose chignons are in.”

“If I’d wanted it loose, I would have asked the stylist for loose.” Alannah’s aquamarine eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but Portia suspected they were more from anger than fear.

“I know what happened must have been awful, but Grandfather—”

“Is sick and doesn’t know any better. Miranda, Winnie and your father all said the same. I think I’m smart enough to get it.”

“I know you are. I didn’t mean to imply differently.”

Alannah sighed and nodded. “Of course you didn’t. I’m just upset. Whether your family wants to admit it or not, Howard has become dangerous.” As she spoke, she stood, a diamond brooch winking in the light as she moved. Portia recognized the intricate pattern and Victorian setting. Howard had shown her the piece when she was a child. He’d told the story repeatedly about how his wife Ethel had fallen in love with it, how he’d purchased it from an antique dealer for their tenth anniversary.

“Is that my grandmother’s brooch?” Before she could think better of it, the question escaped.

Alannah shot her a dark look, her hand hovering over the beautiful piece. “Yes. And before you accuse me of stealing it, Ronald told me I could wear it to the hospital fundraiser this afternoon.”

“I wasn’t going to accuse you of anything. I just wondered where you’d gotten it.”

“From your grandfather’s room. Your father was supposed to bring it by my place last night and forgot. I’d planned my entire outfit around the piece. I certainly couldn’t go without it.”

“No, of course you couldn’t.” Portia hoped Alannah didn’t notice the sarcasm in her voice.

Alannah nodded. “I knew you’d understand. You’re an artist, after all. Your father wasn’t quite as understanding. He told me if I really felt the need to wear it, I’d have to come get it myself.”

“That’s why you were in Grandfather’s room?”

“Yes. Ronald assured me it wouldn’t be a problem, but your grandfather saw me pin the brooch on and,” she paused, touching the skin on her neck. “Well, you know what happened next.”

“Father should have explained that the brooch was his mother’s. Grandfather gave it to her for their anniversary one year.”

“Maybe he should have told me, but the fact that the piece is special to Howard doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

“It doesn’t, but Grandfather didn’t mean any harm. I hope you know that.”

“Your grandfather tried to strangle me. If that’s not trying to harm, I don’t know what is. I’m sure the police would agree.” She stood, straightened her slim-fitting skirt and started toward the door.

Police. The word, idle threat or not, was enough to bring Portia to her feet. “You’re not planning to call them, are you?”

“Someone needs to make sure this doesn’t happen again. If that person has to be me, so be it.”

“Alannah—”

“I know you mean well, Portia, but I’m too upset to discuss this any longer. Besides, your father is waiting for me and I can’t miss the luncheon.” Alannah strode out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Great. Just great. One more thing to worry about.” Portia sank down into the chair, her headache returning with a vengeance. Lately, it seemed every day brought a new set of troubles. Grandfather’s attack on Alannah was bad enough, but if Alannah went to the police, news about what had happened would spread through town like wildfire.

Portia leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe she should call her father, tell him how determined Alannah was to contact the police, but what good would it do? Ronald had probably already tried to talk his girlfriend out of her plan. Maybe the best thing to do was nothing at all. Maybe, as Mick had told her, she should relax and stop worrying.

As if she could.

She sighed, her eyes scanning the room. It was her father’s domain. One she’d rarely visited as a child and had seen even less of as an adult. It never seemed to change. The same leather chairs. The same polished wood desk. The same heavy drapes. All seemed exactly as they’d been the last time Portia had ventured into the office, the dark masculinity of it unappealing to her, but apparently exactly what her father preferred. And maybe that was the point. Ronald had never encouraged any of the Blanchard women to feel comfortable in his office.

She glanced around the room again, seeing it in a new light—not a quiet retreat forged by a man whose home was overrun with young girls, but a hiding place for information he might not have wanted his daughters to find. Was it possible her father kept information about Mother there? If he’d lied about her death, if he’d known all along she was alive, would he have dared keep information about her in his home office? It didn’t seem possible, but Portia had to know for sure. She pulled open the desk drawer, rifled through pencils, pens, paper clips and scraps of paper. The next drawer yielded just as little—current electric bill, water bill, credit card statement, phone bill. She paused, her hand on the last item, and then slowly pulled it from the pile. Most of the numbers listed were familiar, with the exception of three out-of-state area codes. She grabbed a piece of paper from her father’s printer and jotted the numbers down, knowing she was violating his trust, but unable to turn away from the course she’d set. She was just returning the phone bill when the door to the study flew open. Portia jumped, closing the drawer and trying to look less guilty than she felt.

“What are you doing in here?” The housekeeper stood in the doorway, nearly quivering with indignation. “You know your father doesn’t like his things touched.”

“I was just getting a piece of paper and a pencil.” That was part of the truth anyway.

“It looks like you’ve got it, so you’d better come out of there.”

“I’m coming.” She slid the paper into her pocket and stepped past Sonya. “I think I’ll go up and check on Grandfather.”

“Howard’s just fallen asleep. It’s probably better to let him rest.”

Portia stiffened at the commanding tone, but decided not to argue. Sonya had been part of the Blanchard household for more years than Portia had been alive. While she could sometimes be overbearing, she always meant well. “I’ll go up later, then.”

Sonya nodded, her dark eyes shrewd. “Were you able to talk some sense into Alannah?”

“I tried.”

“Hmph. I knew she wouldn’t see reason. A woman like that is only interested in what she can get out of any situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s probably hoping your father will give her the brooch. Or take her on another one of those fancy trips they’re always going on.”

“Sometimes you’re a real cynic, Sonya.”

“And sometimes you’re naive, but I try not to hold it against you. Now, go. I’ve got plenty to do without having you under my feet.”

The words were the same ones Portia had been hearing since she was a child, and she smiled as she moved away. The papers rustled in her pocket, stealing the grin from her face.

Sonya thought her naive, and maybe at one time she had been. But not anymore. Snooping in her father’s office proved she was just as cynical as the housekeeper. Maybe the last few months had affected her more than she’d thought. Or maybe, like her father and Tad, she simply wasn’t the person she’d thought herself to be.

The thought wasn’t a comfortable one, but she couldn’t let it go as she downed three Tylenol, grabbed her easel and paints and headed out to the cliffs.