All That Lies Broken (Ashmore's Folly Book 2) (54 page)

Except the one who was puking was CC. Saw her losing it all over the roses in the side yard. Maybe D poisoned her. Maybe she’s pg! J will hate that. Can’t be Daddy’s little princess anymore.

All the way home, Mom went on and on about Mr. A and D and CC, and how if he has any sense he’ll leap at the chance, he needs the money, and what happens when D finds out about CC. I say, what about when J finds out about CC? Bet Princess J won’t like sharing her dad.

Will put up pix! Ciao!

~•~

Amy Stewart, investment banker, nursing mother, and Queen Bee, posted a note to her brother on her family’s message board:

Horrible storm here last night. Knocked out power to over 30K. We were lucky, though, ours came back on early a.m.

Fireworks galore at the party! As usual, Ashmore Park. Wanted to stay home this year, weather hot and humid, but Jim has been Richard A’s internist for years, so we made the obligatory appearance. His almost-ex showed up and made a scene. He looked royally p’oed. Per Mel, he’s getting remarried, but if the new gf was there, she kept quiet. Just love these family dramas. Better than any soap.

Real story was Lucy’s sister came. This is the long-lost sister who ran away as a teenager, hadn’t been heard from in years, appeared out of the blue three weeks ago. Her name is Laura St. Bride, and yes, it’s that St. Bride. Father-in-law owned St. Bride Investments. Husband died on 9/11, CEO of St. Bride Data, tragic story. Mel told us all about it. Left her $300M. Quiet little thing, didn’t say much. Just sat there. You’d never guess she had $$$. Got the feeling Mel made her uncomfortable.

But here’s the shocker: She’s the singer, Cat Courtney! Who knew! Lucy was hovering around her, very protective, but then stupid Diana showed up, spilled the beans, dragged her up to sing for everyone. I thought Lucy and Richard were going to kill Diana on the spot – certainly solve his problems. Lots of tension. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

Very different when Cat got up there to sing. At the QB table, you’d never guess she was anybody. Faded into the background, not “on.” Once she started to sing, though, she made you listen. Dynamic, very powerful. We’re definitely going to the concert.

Took a pic. Look and weep – I got to meet a real star! Ha! And you thought nothing ever happens in W’burg.

Hope you and Molly had fun at Lake Sam. Wish I’d been there with you guys. Maybe next year. Much love. Amy.

~•~

Brian Schneider went to work, laid out his research to his managing editor, hoping to get approval for a quick trip to Virginia, and got torpedoed.

“You realize,” said his editor, “the flaw in all this. You’ve connected Cat Courtney to Laura Abbott. No problem there.” He picked up the picture from Lucy Maitland’s
Missing – Need Information
web page. “This says it all. This girl is Cat Courtney. But you haven’t definitively tied Laura St. Bride to either Laura Abbott or Cat Courtney.”

Damn it all. He’d realized that himself, driving in to work. If he hadn’t been hung over from too little sleep, too much wild sex, and too many hours researching corporate records, he would have seen the hole in his chain of evidence earlier.

“Here’s what we know.” Brian ticked off his bullet points. “One, my source referred to Laura St. Bride as Cat. Her middle name is Rose, not Catherine. Two, she and Cat Courtney have the same piano – I saw it myself – and my source said the piano is being transported near the Chesapeake. Cat Courtney is giving a concert in Hampton, Virginia, in two weeks. Three, per my source, Laura St. Bride is an artist whose copyrights are now being managed by Mark St. Bride, but I can’t find any copyrights that she holds under that name. Four,” the
coup de grace
, “according to my source, Laura St. Bride has a sister named Francie. Laura Abbott has a sister named Francesca. And,” he laid down the CD he had picked up on his way to work, “Cat Courtney’s first hit was ‘Francie.’”

He waited. The editor went through the notes he had hurriedly assembled when he’d reached his desk. This ought to be rock-solid. Sure, coincidence existed in life, but not this much coincidence. Cat Courtney was Laura St. Bride
née
Laura Abbott – and this was the biggest story he’d ever uncovered. If he got turned down—

“Hmmm,” said the editor dubiously.

Brian squelched a feeling of desperation and pulled out the will. “Laura St. Bride has the same birthday, down to the day and year, as Laura Abbott.”

The man was too cautious. No wonder only day traders and stock market junkies watched them. “I admit it’s suspicious, but it’s not enough. I don’t want to go out on a limb, run the story, and then St. Bride Data trots out Laura St. Bride, and she’s two feet tall, 300 pounds, and her teeth are missing.”

Shit! He was going to lose the story from an excess of caution. He made his voice as forceful as he could get away with. “It’s her.”

“We need a picture of Laura St. Bride,” said his editor. “Or a statement from your source.
Something
that says beyond a doubt that Laura St. Bride used to be Laura Abbott. The birthday won’t do it. Thousands of people were born that day. The sister’s name—” He shook his head. “Not enough. Go back to your source.”

Out of the question. He didn’t want to approach Emma as a journalist again. No better way to gum up a fledgling relationship than to milk your new girlfriend for information to advance your career. “I don’t believe I can get anything else out of the source.”

The editor shrugged. “Then work it. At some point, your two Lauras converged. Where did the St. Brides get married?”

Brian looked at his notes. “California. January 1989.” He rummaged for his timeline. “St. Bride was at Stanford, getting his doctorate. I can order a search for the marriage license. Or the birth certificate.”

But the marriage license proved to be a sticking point. In California, Brian discovered, a couple could get a confidential marriage license, keeping it out of the public records. It appeared that the St. Brides had done just that, probably to keep her family from finding her. The birth certificate might be traceable, but it would take a search, county by county, to find Meg St. Bride.

If she had even been born in California.

By mid-morning, he faced reality. If he wanted this story – and the longer he worked it, the more he wanted it, and the more he felt he didn’t have it all yet – he was going to have to bite the bullet and ask Emma, point-blank, what she had failed to tell him about her sister-in-law.

He stared at the telephone, trying to come up with an approach. Surely Emma had known what she was saying; he had clearly identified himself as a member of the news media before she had ever spoken of little Miss Cat, or talked about her sister-in-law’s copyrights, or mentioned the husband-stealing sister. Surely she hadn’t thought he’d ignore the clues she’d dropped—

Maybe she hadn’t thought she was dropping clues at all. Maybe she had been talking to a man she liked, not a reporter. Either way, he was screwed.

He reached for the phone.

But when she answered, she was sobbing so hard that he barely recognized her voice.

“Emma?” He waited. “Emma. It’s Brian. Is everything all right?”

Silence, broken only by sobs. Then a broken “No.”

He waited some more. And waited. “Emma? What’s wrong?”

A sob, and then, “Brian.” She hiccupped. “Sorry.”

“Are you all right? Are you sick?”

“No.” She hiccupped again. “No. Not that.”

He paused and waited for her. But when she said nothing, he asked again, “Are you all right?”

And then she burst into tears. “Sorry. I just—”

When she couldn’t go on, Brian Schneider made a decision. Either she was in his life, or she was his source and a pleasant one-night stand – more than pleasant, make that memorable – but, no matter what, she was in great distress. And his mother hadn’t raised him to ignore a lady in distress. “I’m coming over, Emma. Is that all right?”

She sobbed, “Yes. Oh, Brian.”

“I’m going to leave right now. I’ll be there in,” he glanced at his watch, “about half an hour, depending on traffic. Will you be okay until I get there?”

“Yes.” Her voice broke. “Oh, Brian, they found my brother.”

~•~

In his office in the business district of Williamsburg, Tom Maitland prepared a temporary restraining order against his sister-in-law, grateful that, of the four Abbott girls, he had managed to end up with the only normal one.

~•~

In Plano, Texas, Emma St. Bride called her brother with the news of the discovery of Cameron St. Bride’s remains. She was crying so hard that she barely registered his instructions not to tell Laura. He intended to break the news to her himself. In fact, Mark said, she shouldn’t talk to Laura at all until he’d had a chance to see what was going on.

Thus, it would be hours before she learned that her niece had run away in the middle of the night. She sat down in her brother’s study to read the medical report that the estate attorney’s secretary had faxed with the official notification – unbeknownst to her, by accident – but then her new boyfriend rang the doorbell, and she fell into his arms and spent the morning crying against his shoulder.

Brian Schneider made her forget all about little Miss Cat and DNA reports.

~•~

Diana Ashmore spent a long, leisurely hour in the tub soaking away her troubles, waiting for the painkillers to kick in. Debating if it was worth it to leave the warm enveloping waters to pour herself a drink. Wondering what Lucy was doing on her mysterious errand to that airport where Richard had spent way too much of his time. Brooding over whether three million was enough to dent his pride. Glumly certain that three million wasn’t nearly enough to punish her younger sister.

Her voice mail had yielded one bright ray in the day. Julie had found the memory chip.

~•~

Waiting on the tarmac in Tokyo, Mark St. Bride read the document faxed to him by the estate lawyers and felt the black miasma of depression descend again. It had been a long, grim week, negotiating the sale of St. Bride Data to an Asian conglomerate, and he was mentally and physically worn out. He might have done better with the Saudis, but he couldn’t bring himself to deal with anyone from the Middle East, and the Japanese terms were extremely favorable. He and Emma, and particularly his sister-in-law and niece, would be set for several lifetimes; he had fulfilled his fiduciary duty as trustee and increased everyone’s net worth.

Even better, he would be out from under the constant pressure of trying to live up to his brother’s vision and business acumen. He could turn his sights now to managing the private holdings, particularly Cat Courtney, Inc. High on his list for
that
venture was getting rid of the architect, who had so much baggage that surely, once her eyes were opened – once she saw the confidential report he had commissioned – his brother’s widow would come to her senses and sever the connection. But she had to answer her damn phone first.

He looked wearily at the flight plan and initialed an approval. A few minutes later, he summoned the pilot to ask for a change.

If the mountain would not come to Mohammed, then Mohammed would have to go….

~•~

At Lake Sammamish in Washington State, a probate attorney and his children got up early to go sailing, leaving his wife to sleep in. Before he went, he fired up his laptop – Molly had told him he could not spend the weekend working, this was a family vacation, but he’d squirreled it away in the trunk anyway – and checked the family message board. He was chuckling over his sister’s description of the party she had attended, and was about to write back a short, pithy note about how at least she only had one baby to look after instead of three screaming monsters who would spend most of the day trying to push each other overboard, when he took a good look at the picture she had posted.

He forgot all about his three cherubic little sailors.

~•~

On Cape Cod, a college student, hung over from a night of nonstop partying, pried open her eyes to find that her boyfriend was already up, smoking and hunching over in front of his laptop. Jeez Louise, he was obsessive, constantly checking his email and reading the latest political blogs. He wrote a political column for one of the alternative weeklies, and God forbid some politician say something, somewhere, about something, and Jake not hear about it immediately so he could opine to the world.

Angie stumbled towards the kitchen of the cottage they had rented for the weekend, practically falling over Allie and Allie’s boyfriend, both passed out on the foldout sofa. She rolled her eyes; her sister was so drunk, she didn’t even realize her boob was hanging out. Last thing she needed was for Jake to wander by and see that. He’d be going on and on about how you should never desecrate your body, because apparently a tattoo and a belly button ring desecrated the body but chain smoking, drinking a couple of six-packs, and having mind-blowing sex till dawn did not. Not, of course, that he wouldn’t first take a
long
look at that rose tattoo.

She poured some coffee and lurched back to the bedroom. Jake was still glued to that stupid computer. She wandered over behind him and dropped a kiss on the top of his head.