MAKE HER PAY Page 18
“Like, he shipped her off and exiled her? Without offering psychiatric help or counseling?”
Gabby held out her hands in a “who knows?” gesture. “They’re off-the-charts rich and he’s got a big-time reputation. Maybe she preferred this to an institution.”
“She doesn’t strike me as that whacko.”
“She’s whacko enough to have tried to kill herself a couple of times since she got here.”
“Whoa.” What was this place, Suicide Island? “How?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I heard Ana was really good with her. That’s why it’s such a shame …”
Brianna nodded, a wisp of sadness curling through her. It was a shame. Life, whether you ended it yourself, or a broken regulator in a cave dive did it for you, could be short. “Gabby, do you know if there’s any Internet access here? I really need to e-mail somebody at home.”
“It’s tricky, but Sousa’s has a computer and they can get satellite Internet. That’s the one and only restaurant in town, and I’m living in one of two rooms above it. It’s spotty, but it’s your only chance without taking a ferry to a bigger island. Terceira has all that.”
Brianna stood and looked out the window, her gaze drawn to the three-bladed windmill. “Maybe I’ll go into the village later. I just want to see what Mrs. Bettencourt has planned for me.”
“Oh, honey, I wouldn’t go into town today. It’s Ana’s funeral and the place is completely shut down.”
“Oh, okay.” Brianna shook her head, imagining someone throwing herself into the water. “How bad could life be on this little island, that you’d want to end it?”
“That’s just it.” Gabby snapped the pillowcases tight and smoothed them as she followed Brianna’s gaze. “Nothing was wrong with her life. She had a nice young man, was going to get married, came from a wonderful family, seemed completely happy.”
Brianna turned, cold despite the warm sunshine. “Really? Did she leave a note?”
“No. But why else would someone climb up to that thing? She sure didn’t go up to work the machinery.”
“Does Mrs. Bettencourt know what happened to her? Maybe it was an accident.”
“She said the girl spent the day crying. And her mother did pass, but well over a year ago.”
“Oh. Grief can make people do very strange things,” Brianna said. She’d ached so badly when Dad died— but she’d never considered suicide. Of course, she had Lizzie.
Guilt twisted in her again. “Are you sure I can’t get into the restaurant today? I really want to send my sister a message.”
“Tell you what, I’ll send your message for you. What’s her e-mail?”
“That would be wonderful.” Brianna grabbed her handbag and a small notebook, tearing off a page to write down Lizzie’s e-mail. “Just tell her I’m fine and that I’m … working on Aramis. She’ll understand.”
“Aramis?”
She wrote the name on the paper. “Yeah. Just let her know I’m safe and that I’ll be in touch with her as soon as I can. And tell her I love her.”
Gabby took the paper and nodded. “Happy to help you.”
When she left, Brianna finished her coffee and stared at the windmill. Death that didn’t make sense was so hard to accept.
She closed her eyes and said a little prayer for the girl, then got dressed to go meet with eccentric, if nutso, Solange Bettencourt.
It would take a while for Con Xenakis to find her here. Safe in that knowledge, and in the fact that she could get the scepter to her safe-deposit box in just a few hours, Lizzie walked through the minuscule rooms that Dad had called his workplace. Less than a thousand square feet, the five-room beach house had survived numerous hurricanes. At his office door, she almost laughed. Hurricanes outside and in.
Brianna had tried, but they’d need a bulldozer to clean out the man-made mountain in Dad’s office.
Inhaling the whisper of Old Spice that lingered in the air, she stepped into the office, imagined him turning in the old desk chair and beckoning to her: Lizzie Lou, look at you.
She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Yeah, look at me, Dad. Duped by a hot guy. You’d be so proud.”
She dropped into his chair and clicked on the computer, praying Brianna had replied to the e-mail she’d sent from Con’s phone. While she waited for the system to come to life, she fluttered through the papers. All of the pertinent stuff was gone; just old notes and Christmas cards from diving friends remained.
She clicked on the Internet browser bar, getting a list of the last sites visited. She recognized most of them, but not the top site—something about genealogy. Out of curiosity she clicked on it, and scrolled down the home page to a flashing link.
Welcome back, MDare, you have private e-mail waiting in the forum. Please read.
She hesitated for a minute, her finger over the mouse. Should she go there? Did this person not know that her father had died?
Possibly not. A treasure forum would know. But genealogy? She clicked on the link.
MDare—I have the information you are seeking for Carlos Bettencourt, circa 1860. Please respond by private e-mail mrdbgenserv@gmail.com.
She was tempted to just let it go, but that wasn’t right.
She hit reply and typed, Thank you for contacting MDare. I’m his daughter and am sorry to inform you that he has passed away. Can you forward the information to me at the following e-mail address? She added her own e-mail and tapped Send, then opened up the program for her own mail—which did not include a message from her sister.
She wrote another note, pleading with Brianna to write. Just as she hit Send, the ding of incoming mail sounded.
From mrdbgenserv@gmail.com. Wow, that was fast.
I’ve already given the information to your sister when I met her in Lisbon. I believe she’s going straight to the source in Corvo now. Maria Rossos Della Buonofuentes.
Corvo? Where was that? Lizzie grabbed the mouse to hit Google, but froze at the sound of a car engine slowing outside the house.
Damn.
Could he have found her already? He didn’t know where this house was, and even his almighty connections wouldn’t be able to find a house that was in her mother’s maiden name, which he didn’t know.
Still, she wrapped her arms around her waist as she headed to the living room. The bungalow was at the end of a dead-end street in a little-known section of Vero Beach. There were only two other houses on the street, and traffic was extremely rare.
She peeked through the window, seeing only the overgrown shrubbery smashed against it. They had to hire someone to hack it away before the jungle overtook the house.
A car door slammed on the street.
But he drove a bike. She let out a little breath, still braced for his deep voice calling her name. Lizzie! I know you’re—
“Lizzie, honey, are you there?”
“Sam!” The voice of a friend was so welcome, she threw the door all the way open and practically hugged him. “How did you know I was here?”
“I know you pretty well, Lizzie,” he said with a smile. “You shouldn’t come over and roll around in memories, honey.”
She invited him in, shrugging. “I didn’t want to go up to my apartment in Cocoa just yet.” Con would look there for her next, no doubt.
“So you came to your refuge.”
Smiling, she conceded with a nod. “How’s Charlotte doing?”
“She’s upset about Alita, and all the questioning. Sorry that the dive is over. Worried about you. She sent me here to fetch you and bring you to our house.” Sam surveyed her face and uncombed hair. “You look like you could use some TLC.”
“I’m just exhausted. It’s been a helluva night and morning.”
Sam glanced around. “Where’s Brianna?”
She settled on one of the two rickety bar stools and rested her elbow on the yellow countertop. “Europe.”
He drew back. “Really? Where?”
“Lisbon, I think.”
Lizzie shook her head. “And probably for good reason. I’m too protective, I know that.”
“Did she go with friends?”
“I really have no idea. I have a feeling she’s following some genealogical lead that my father was tracking for …” She hesitated, torn. “A project he was working on. She’s gone somewhere called Corvo.”
Sam practically fell off the stool. “The island in the Azores? Brianna went there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I had an e-mail from a genealogist my father was in touch with, and she said she’d given my sister what he needed when she saw her the other day in Lisbon, then she said something about Bree taking it to Corvo.”
Sam looked as dismayed as she felt. “Never been there myself, but from what I know it’s tiny, the farthest of the Azores, about a thousand miles from Portugal. That ought to please the adventuress in Brianna’s soul.”
A thousand miles from Portugal? “That’s the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.” Her heart swelled with worry. “I really need to find her.”
“Why don’t you get some help from Con? He seemed like a resourceful guy, and …” Sam gave her a sly smile. “Char told me you two were pretty close.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Lizzie said, popping off the stool at the soft ding of an e-mail from the office.
“Oh? Why was he a mistake?”
Because he was a lying, thieving, underhanded, undercover cheating bastard who works for Judd Paxton.
“I just… misjudged him,” she said, purposefully vague as she headed to the office, praying the e-mail was from Bree.
Sam followed. “He seemed pretty upstanding to me.” “He seemed like a lot of things he wasn’t.”
She bent over the keyboard and clicked, clenching a fist in hope, but it was an advertisement from Office Depot. Disappointment punched her, and she dropped into the chair with a sigh.
“Honey, why don’t you come and stay with us for a while? This place is too depressing for you. All those shrubs smashed against the windows make it dark and dreary in here, along with the memories that are dragging you down. Char and I have plenty of room.”
It was only a matter of time until Con figured out her mother’s maiden name, and his research team at the Bullet Catchers tracked her down.
And once he found her, he’d find the scepter.
If she left the house empty, he’d tear it apart until he got what he wanted.
Then all the answers came to her.
“Sam, I need to trust you with the biggest secret you can imagine. The one thing that mattered most to my father in the whole world.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “El Falcone?”
“You know about that?”
“Lizzie, I was very close friends with your father. Of course he talked about his search.”
“Did you realize that we were diving on El Falcone?”
He gave her leg a squeeze. “Why do you think we invited you? We wanted you to be there when the recoveries were made. I knew how much it mattered to Malcolm, and how much he’d want a family member there.”
“You knew and didn’t tell me?”
“Charlotte thought it best not to tell you until we knew for sure. Now it’s all kind of moot, isn’t it?”
It was so not moot. “How did you know?”
“Malcolm showed me his map and told me his conjecture. When I heard where this dive was, and that it was supersecret and taking place off-season, I figured that once again, Judd Paxton was one step ahead of everyone else in the treasure world.”
“You should have told me. It would have been a lot easier if I knew you’d known.”
“Well, I listened to my wife on that one. When that Our Lady of Sorrows medallion came up, I was pretty sure, but then all hell broke loose with Alita’s …” His voice trailed off. “What would have been easier?”
“Bringing up the scepter.”
He frowned in confusion.
“And the diamond that was in it,” she added softly.
Sam’s eyes popped open. “Excuse me?”
“Come with me.” Lizzie tugged him up and back to the kitchen, popping open the freezer and shoving ice trays and frozen pizzas out of the way.
“Char will die if you put it in the freezer,” he said.
“Just temporarily. I’m taking it to my safe-deposit box later.” But would Con track it down, and somehow figure out how to get it from the bank? The man—and his company—seemed to be capable of anything.
She reached for the butcher paper she’d wrapped it in, pulled it out, and handed the package to a stunned, visibly pale Sam. “I found it the second day and sneaked it off the boat.”
“How?”
She grinned. “Blondes find the gold, Sam.”
He laughed, still bewildered. “Can I see it?”
She had a better idea. “Can you keep it? is the question. I think it’s dangerous, and obviously valuable. And I’ll warn you, Con Xenakis is looking for it. That’s why I’m hiding here—he doesn’t know about this house. But like you said, he’s resourceful. By the time he figures it out, I want to be gone.”
“Gone where?”
The rightness of her decision settled around her like a warm blanket, making her smile. “To find my sister.”
“Can you leave in the middle of this investigation?” he asked. “The FBI agent instructed us to stay.”
“They already have Alita’s killer.”
He almost dropped the scepter. “Lizzie, if you drop one more bomb on me, I’ll have a heart attack. How do you know this?”
“Long story, but Flynn and Alita were having a fling. He was stealing treasure and she was helping him. We think he killed her.”
“We?”
She felt a soft flush. “Con and me.”
“So are you working with this guy, or do you hate him?”
“I hate him,” she said definitively. “And the FBI agent told me I could leave town for an emergency. I call finding my sister an emergency if I can be reached. If you have this, I can go knowing it’s in safe hands.”
“Of course, but what if Con comes looking for it? He might suspect you gave it to me.”
“Hide it. And don’t tell anyone, not even Charlotte. That way she won’t be lying when she denies everything.”
Sam pulled the scepter closer. “You have my word it’ll be safe.”
“Good. Because when Paxton files the claim for the shipwreck, I don’t want this to get lumped in with everything else. My hope is that someone will recover the mate, and then I’ll go public and shame him into putting them into a museum, instead of selling to a collector. And when I do, the real story of my ancestor will be told.”
Sam beamed. “Your father would be so proud, Lizzie.”
Lizzie hugged him, the butcher paper crunching between them. “Thank you, Sam.”
“So, now what? You’re off to Europe?”
“I’ll let you know. Hopefully I’ll hear from Brianna first, before I go.”
“Hopefully,” he agreed.
After Sam left with the treasure, Lizzie went back to the office, feeling better than she had in hours. She checked her e-mail, and then started clicking around the airlines for flights. There was nothing under a couple thousand, and even if she paid that, she couldn’t get on a flight for two days.
The day and her decisions hit her hard and, yawning with exhaustion, she climbed onto the bed in the tiny back room. Curling on top of the spread, she tucked her knees into her chest and closed her eyes, asleep before her next thought formed.
The pressure on her foot almost pulled her out of sleep, but it wasn’t enough. Her head was heavy, her limbs aching with fatigue. She instinctively shook her foot, a million miles from consciousness, but the pressure just got heavier.
She fought to wake, but sleep won, keeping her eyes glued and her body still.
And that cold weight on her leg …
In her dream, she imagin
ed it was Con. He’d slipped into her room, looking for more …
Reality punched. Awareness squeezed. And Lizzie jerked up, yanking her leg free and flipping over … and stared, a strange moan of horror coming out of her mouth.
Two and a half feet of slithering black, red, and yellow stripes. As soon as she jerked, the snake did, too, circling into itself and lifting its head to her with a long, threatening hiss.
Fighting for calm, and losing, she inched her legs away, staring at the distinct bands of color.
Red touch yellow, deadly fellow. Red touch black, okay Jack. The rhyme taught to every Florida child screamed in her head. Shaking, she inched back to the headboard as slowly as possible, staring at the snake. Each red band was lined with yellow.
Her throat closed out a scream, her chest bursting with an unreleased breath.
The snake slithered closer.
Damn! All that brush around the house was like an open invitation to snakes.
Could she vault off the bed fast enough?
The snake hissed again.
She pulled her legs up and stood, just as the snake lunged.
She flattened herself to the wall and screamed, knowing it was probably the last sound she’d ever make.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
THE MOTORCYCLE ENGINE would alert Lizzie that he’d found her, so Con parked it at the corner and walked to the cul de sac that ended at the beach. The other homes were visible from the street, but her house was buried in a jungle of green.
As he reached the edge of the property, he froze at the sound of a muffled scream. He instantly launched forward. Ripping at the overgrown shrubbery that blocked his way, he ignored the jagged thorns that cut his face and arms. At the back he racked the slide of his Glock, automatically ducking at the windows so he wasn’t seen by her attacker.
Silence. No talking, no struggle. Whoever had her was quiet.
Or had killed her already.
Crouched low, weapon drawn, he peered in a window and saw an empty office. It had to be the next room; the window was ten feet away. He swiftly worked his way over and maneuvered into position to see, but blinds blocked his view.