My Sister, Myself Read online

  “You gave him Katie’s cell phone number?”

  “Of course not. He said he knew it.”

  Ryan chewed on his lip. “I wonder how he got her number. Her phone’s in with my stuff, I’ll get it for you in a moment. Okay, what did you tell the creep?”

  “I told him I had hidden the money with someone else and I wouldn’t tell him who even if he killed me. He didn’t seem surprised by this, so I assume the money is cash. If there is money. He might have been, oh, I don’t know, bluffing, right? He might have been mistaken….”

  “Of course it’s cash,” Ryan said, obviously thinking to himself. “We need to figure out what that extra key on Katie’s ring opens.”

  “I thought of that, too. Like you said, with that 119 stamped on it, it must open a storage locker. Maybe she stored the money in with all her things. Ryan, I was thinking…are you sure those two names Irene Woodall gave me are useless? I mean, obviously Katie thought they were worth looking into, so perhaps she found out something about them that the police missed. Who are those men?”

  He seemed to come back from someplace faraway, though he responded as though he’d registered every word she said. “Clint Doyle was Nelson Lingford’s bodyguard at one time. He was fired a few days before the fire, and at first Donovan thought he might be carrying a grudge, but that didn’t pan out. He wasn’t employed at the time of the fire, but he and Kinsey went out drinking that night so they provided alibis for each other. Jim Kinsey was the widow’s driver. Lingford let him go after the fire.”

  “She seems to be a virtual prisoner at his house,” Tess said.

  “At any rate, Donovan looked into Kinsey, too. But you have to remember the fire happened before Kinsey lost his job so what’s the motive?

  “Isn’t money always a motive?” Tess asked.

  He flashed her a grin. “Good point. Well, okay, remember Doyle gave him an alibi.”

  “Still, I think Katie must have suspected something. Maybe one of them framed our father—”

  He touched her arm. “Whoa, Tess. What do you mean, ‘framed’ your father? The man took fifty thousand dollars. If that’s not guilt—”

  “Some two-bit thug said he took fifty thousand dollars,” she corrected. “We have no idea if it’s the truth.”

  “If you truly believe he’s innocent, why didn’t you tell me what the thug wanted right from the start? Why are you wondering if the extra key opens a locker where Katie stashed the money? If your father was framed, there is no money. Part of you must know your dad was guilty.”

  “I knew you’d take it like this,” she said.

  “Like what? Like reality?”

  Gritting her teeth, she said, “Has it occurred to you that my father may have been working undercover?”

  “Undercover? Without the knowledge of anyone at the department? Do you have any idea of the protocol—”

  “Okay, maybe he took the money because someone was blackmailing him or threatening Katie. There could be lots of reasons. Katie knew him. She believed in him.”

  He stared at her a long moment before saying, “There’s a bottom line here. Someone has ransacked your sister’s apartment not once but twice looking for something. That someone took a chance by waiting for you and threatening you point-blank. I think it’s safe to assume there is actual money lying around somewhere, that Katie knew about it, that someone with very little to lose wants it and is willing to harm you or Madeline Lingford to get it.”

  “Or you.”

  “And that probably means he hasn’t made me as a cop, so there’s the good news. Anyway, we need to find the money and use it to catch him.”

  “Can’t we just pretend to have it?”

  “If I thought this whole thing began or ended with your thug, yeah, sure, I guess we could try that. But it goes farther than him. We can use the money as a bargaining chip. If he wants it bad enough and I scare him badly enough, he might lead us to the real brains behind all this. I just want you to be prepared for the information that this will prove your father is guilty once and for all.”

  “I know,” she said, trying her best not to let him see how much she dreaded that possibility.

  “Okay. Good. And there’s another bottom line, as well. Whoever ran over Katie didn’t do it to get at your father’s money. They did it to shut her up. As far as they know, they failed because here you are walking around pretending to be her. This has the feel of two different agendas. Keep that in mind.”

  “I still have to go to Madeline’s house this morning to help her with the art photos,” she said, preparing herself for another argument. She didn’t care what he said, she was going to keep that appointment.

  “What about Nelson?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to look at a bunch of pictures. What about the guy down the hall and Madeline Lingford? The creep who attacked me threatened them, too.”

  “Why the guy down the hall? I understand Madeline Lingford, but him?”

  “I can only think our thug witnessed me helping the old guy’s dog. He might have decided the man is important to me. Truth is, he’s right. I won’t be responsible for anyone else being hurt—”

  “They’ll all be safe until after four o’clock. While you’re shuffling through photos, I’ll go question the bodyguard and the driver. And if I have time I’ll see what Desota is up to, though I can’t quite figure out why Desota would attack you unless he was in cahoots with your father to burn down the Lingford house.”

  “Or in cahoots with Nelson to frame my dad.”

  He suppressed a weary smile. She was nothing if not optimistic!

  “I’m just glad you’re going to look into Doyle’s and Kinsey’s alibis again.”

  “I never looked into them in the first place,” he reminded her. “Donovan did. He’s a thorough detective, but sometimes things shake loose after a certain amount of time has passed. It would be interesting, for instance, to see if either Doyle or Kinsey are living a little higher on the hog than they were two months ago. Maybe one of them had a sudden influx of fifty thousand bucks.” He leaned forward and kissed her nose. “But I’ll come pick you up by noon and we’ll go looking for the locker. And be careful. If Nelson comes home and tries to get you off alone—”

  “I’ll be careful,” she said.

  He sprang to his feet effortlessly, and she watched him walk across the floor, pull on his underwear—she’d been right, he did wear briefs—then retrieve Katie’s phone.

  Sexy guy.

  She knew she shouldn’t allow herself so much as a follow-up kiss to the previous night’s folly, but she wasn’t the love-’em-and-leave-’em type. He didn’t seem the type, either. That’s what bothered her. What they had started needed to end here. She had no intention of ever becoming dependent on a man.

  Even a man like Ryan. Her mother’s example had been quite convincing on that account.

  But that didn’t stop her body from responding to his. The images from the night before were vivid….

  “Are you okay?” he said, halting in front of her.

  Looking up, she licked her lips. “Fine? And you?”

  He sank back down to the floor, peeling the blanket away, the heat in his hands reflecting the intensity of his eyes. “I’ll let you know,” he whispered as his lips traveled across her shoulder blade and down the slope of her breast to her belly. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Tess closed her eyes. Later. She’d think later. For now she would trust her feelings one last time.

  Chapter Eight

  Though Tess had taken only one art-appreciation class during her undergraduate days at college, she knew fine art when she saw it. The Lingford collection seemed to have focused on Impressionists like Matisse, Renoir and Cezanne, though a few paintings and their artists were more obscure.

  “I’m stunned by the scope of this collection,” Tess said as Madeline Lingford arranged eight-by-ten photographs of the destroyed paintings using the artists’ names to referen
ce them. There must have been more than two dozen paintings with several different shots taken of each. It was amazing how light and distance affected the presentation of the art. Each print was protected by a clear plastic cover. They were spread out across a long table set up in the music room.

  Nelson himself had not made an appearance, though this didn’t surprise Tess as Ryan had pinpointed Nelson’s whereabouts before dropping her at the Lingford house. Tess thought Ryan’s caution a little over the top; in this big house full of servants and with these two older women, she was no doubt safer than she’d been in days. Her main gripe was being cut off from Ryan and the “action.”

  Madeline brought her back to reality with a small sigh. “Weren’t all my paintings pretty?” she said. “I think I liked the little dog running in the poppies the best. It reminded me of my Muffy.”

  “It was done by a local artist,” Irene said gently. “Why not commission him to paint Muffy for real?”

  “I could do that?”

  “I’ll contact him for you and arrange it,” Irene said. She laughed and added, “Leave it to you to prefer a painting of a dog to a genuine Monet.”

  Madeline smiled. “I just know what I like.”

  Irene had been at the house when Tess arrived, either unwilling to leave Tess alone or to hand over her part of Madeline’s project. It made Tess’s presence rather unnecessary. Should she leave and pop up unannounced at Nelson’s downtown office? She ached to see that trophy, to try to figure out why Katie had photographed it. Or should she stay where she was?

  “Do you still travel to acquire art?” Tess asked Irene as she accepted her present situation.

  “Not for me, she doesn’t,” Madeline said quickly. “I stopped buying art after Theo passed away.”

  “I have other clients,” Irene said. “And I do love to travel on my client’s dime!”

  “Not me. I like my own house. But of course I don’t have my own house anymore, and Nelson seems to think it’s a waste for me to buy another.”

  “You should do what pleases you,” Irene said.

  “Yes, but, well, you see Nelson is the only family I have left. I’d never hurt his feelings. He installed that elevator and bought me a piano and he truly adores Muffy.”

  Tess jumped in with another question. “How is Muffy doing? Did she have salmon poisoning?”

  “Your guess was right on the money,” Madeline gushed. “Muffy’s doctor says she’ll make a full recovery. I’m expecting a call from him at any moment to tell me when I can bring her home.”

  Tess took a deep breath, trying not to look too satisfied with herself but missing her real life with a dull ache. That thought brought the inevitable follow-up thought. Real life meant saying goodbye to Ryan. He belonged to New Harbor, and her feelings for him were too intense to last, even if she wanted romance in her life.

  And she didn’t.

  She blotted out thoughts of Ryan. Another, darker thought crossed her mind. If Nelson resented Muffy saving his stepmother and he had now poisoned the dog—salmon poisoning was always fatal if not treated—then did he have another plan in mind for getting rid of Madeline? She bit her lip as she thought. Weren’t there a half-dozen paintings that had survived the fire? These were very valuable paintings. The insurance money from even one or two of them would be astronomical. Or wait. They hadn’t been donated yet. If Madeline predeceased the donation, would Nelson inherit the paintings? Was getting rid of Muffy a first step?

  “Where did you keep the art collection?” she asked.

  “On the walls, of course,” Madeline said, handing over a stack of photos of a stunning Degas. “My late husband insisted most of it be vaulted, but I got it all out after he died and had it hung on every wall in the house. Nelson said it was dangerous because of thieves. The cost of insurance meant the collection was underinsured, but I never had a break-in. It was a big old dark house, and the paintings brightened things up a lot.”

  “Wallpaper is meant to brighten things,” Irene said softly. “Great art is meant to provoke.”

  “Hoity-toity words, Irene dear. You know I’m not a snob.” She took off a pair of glasses almost as big as the ones Tess wore as part of her disguise and added, “I loved looking at those paintings. Every single day I visited every single one, and now there are only half a dozen left and most of those are damaged.” She clasped Irene’s hand and added, “I’ve been in constant contact with the people who reclaim fire-damaged art. They assure me that when all is said and done, at least four of them will survive, isn’t that right, Irene?”

  “I’ve talked to them, as well. It’s a small number…”

  “At least Theo’s favorite, that wonderful Renoir, was saved. But, oh, this Monet. Gone forever. What a horrible pity.” She handed a photo to Tess who admired the artist’s use of light before Irene took it from her and placed it with the other Monets.

  “How is it you have all these wonderful photos?” Tess asked.

  Madeline beamed. “Irene and Georges took all the photographs. Aren’t they splendid? I wanted a complete record before the collection was moved to the museum to be assessed. Georges is a fabulous photographer. You’re so lucky to have him as an assistant, Irene.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Irene said.

  “But I haven’t seen him since soon after the fire.”

  “He’s been so busy on special projects I’ve had to hire additional help. He’s such a hard worker.”

  “And that’s why you should be at your store and not here,” Madeline said firmly. She looked up from a stack of photos. “A few photographs seem to be missing.”

  “I must have left a box upstairs,” Irene said.

  Tess tried a new question. “I gather Nelson wasn’t too fond of the idea of donating the art to the museum.”

  Madeline smiled. “That, my dear, is an understatement! He tried to talk me out of it. He couldn’t get past the millions it would be worth at auction.”

  “Speaking of Nelson, when do you expect him home?” Irene asked.

  “Oh, not until late this afternoon. Meetings, you know. Nelson is almost as clever as his father was.”

  Tess’s gaze met Irene’s knowing eyes and slid away. She asked a question she knew the answer to. “Was Nelson with you the night of the fire?”

  “No. He was supposed to be, but at the last moment he went to a concert. I was supposed to be at a charity function that night, but I didn’t feel well so I went to bed. Muffy woke me when smoke filled the house, and I rang for the police. I barely got out alive. Would you believe a policeman was responsible for the fire? Isn’t that reprehensible? Why would a man of the law do something like that?” She looked about ready to cry.

  “I don’t know,” Tess whispered. Was it possible Madeline had never considered the possibility her stepson did it for the money? She was spared further comment when the maid appeared in the doorway. “The mail has come, Mrs. Lingford. I left it on Mr. Lingford’s desk. And the veterinarian’s office called. Muffy can come home. Shall I send the driver to fetch her?”

  Madeline wheeled around in her chair, her dexterity amazing to Tess who hadn’t seen her move herself since meeting her the day before. Those withered shoulders obviously held muscle. The good news about Muffy seemed to chase away the doldrums Tess’s questions had created.

  “Of course, of course, only I’m going, too!” she said. “Tell the driver to bring around the van with the hydraulic lift for my wheelchair.” She looked back at Tess and added, “Nelson fired my driver. His driver isn’t as good as my old one but he gets me around, and I just have to be there for Muffy. You understand, don’t you, dear?”

  “Absolutely,” Tess said. “Why did Nelson fire your driver?”

  “He had his own driver and decided it would be better after I moved out here if we combined our staffs and cut down on the overhead. I brought Ester and my chef.”

  “It’s almost ten-thirty,” Irene said. “Caroline and I can keep working for an hour at least. We
’ll probably still be here when you get back.”

  Madeline waved a hand as the woman who had answered the door the day before wheeled her out of the room. Tess handed Irene a stack of protected photos and said, “How is Tabitha, or do you see her every day?”

  “Every single day,” Irene said, “unless I’m traveling and then I call. I go over for breakfast most mornings unless she’s too ill to eat, and then I sit by her bed and read her stories, just like I did when she was tiny.”

  Tess, who had fond memories of her own mother reading stories to her, smiled.

  “I don’t know how long Tabitha and I will have together,” Irene said, her voice soft. “I’m just so grateful her father provided for her after his death so she can be comfortable and well looked after. Sometimes she’s so sick it startles me and I don’t think she can hold on, but so far she rallies.”

  “She looked healthy yesterday,” Tess said.

  “She loved visiting with you, by the way. Can’t stop chattering about the kitty necklace. Now, let’s talk about something a little less upsetting than Tabitha’s future. How about those names I got for you yesterday? You asked for employees dismissed right around the time of the fire. Those were the only two.” She spread a new assortment of photos on the table and began scribbling notes to herself.

  “Why did Nelson have a bodyguard?”

  Irene looked up from her notes. “I gather he had some unwanted attention from an old girlfriend, so for a time he employed a bodyguard.” She made additional notes and handed Tess the photos to file, her gaze lingering on Tess’s face. “You seem to be much better today, though your bruises look worse than ever,” she said. “Some of those scrapes actually look new.”

  “Bruises often look worse as they heal,” Tess said vaguely. “Excuse me for being blunt, Irene, but you don’t like Nelson much, do you?”

  Irene glanced toward the doorway again, then back at Tess. Lowering her voice, she said, “I know you think he’s wonderful. I understand he could have that effect. But I don’t like the way he thinks he’s better than everyone else. His father wasn’t like that and he was twice the man Nelson is or ever will be. Besides, I’ve seen Nelson associating with some very iffy business partners, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”