Beguiled (32 page)

Rylee’s new clients had one thing in common. They were all members of Logan’s baseball team. Some of them were married with kids. Others were single and asked if she cooked.

Only three actually had dogs. The rest offered an assortment of cats, hamsters, and even a cockatoo. Their apartment complexes, houses, and duplexes were scattered all over James Island. A long way from South of Broad.

She found the last house on the list, pulling into the driveway of a tiny white clapboard behind three other cars. The yard was more dirt than grass, bereft of ornamentation.

The door opened after a couple of knocks, revealing a gangly redhead in his midtwenties, swimming in a pair of oversized athletic shorts and a hockey jersey with the sleeves ripped off.

“I’m Mike,” he said. “Are you the pet nanny?”

“Rylee Monroe.” She offered her hand.

“Hey, guys!” he called over his shoulder. “She’s here.”

Two more men thundered up to the door, both around her age. The one with Mike’s red hair must have been his brother. The other one had a shaggy fringe of dark hair hiding his eyes. They formed a semicircle around her, saying nothing.

She cleared her throat. “I understand you need a dogwalker?”

A panicked look crossed Mike’s face. “A dogwalker? I thought you were a pet nanny or something. You only do dogs?”

She smiled. “No, no. I do most any kind of pets.”

He sighed in relief. “Oh, whew. You scared me for a minute.”

He widened the door. “Well, come on in.”

They broke ranks, allowing her to pass through to an open living room, dining room, kitchen area. Dorm room chic, complete with mismatched furniture, pizza boxes, and an impossibly large flat-screen tv sprouting game controllers from all sides.

“This is my brother Randy,” Mike said, “and that’s Harold.”

She nodded at each. “I assume you’re all Mets?”

“Me and Randy are. Harold’s an Oriole.”

The Oriole shrugged apologetically.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you all.”

Randy led her to the corner, where a huge terrarium gleamed in the light of the sliding doors. Leaping between a token plant and a hollow branch was a fist-sized lime green tree frog.

“This is Shamrock.” Randy picked up the frog, then pinched its left foot between his fingers and made a waving motion. “Shamrock, say hello to Rylee. She’s going to be your new nanny.”

Rylee waved back. “Hey, Shamrock.”

They all looked at her expectantly, even the frog.

She held out her hands. Randy transferred the frog into her palm. Its smooth rubbery skin was cool to the touch.

“So how long have you had him?” she asked.

Harold glanced at his watch. “A couple of hours now.”

She looked from one to the other. “Logan gave me your address last night.”

Mike scratched his chin. “Well, we’ve been wanting a pet but were afraid to get one since none of us had the time to . . . um, walk it.”

Harold rolled his eyes.

They might as well have attached a bicycle pump to her heart. She felt it swelling in her chest. “So you went and bought this frog because Logan told you about me. Is that right?”

Mike shrugged. “The lady at the store said tree frogs are really good for beginners.”

Randy perked up. “Yeah. And I’ve already taught him to come. Watch this.” He cupped his palms. “Come, Shamrock!”

The frog gave a slow blink but made no move to jump to him.

He grinned sheepishly. “I guess he needs a little bit more practice.”

Harold rolled his eyes again. That seemed to be his role among the threesome.

She placed Shamrock back in the terrarium and gave the guys a few options for how she could take care of the tree frog, all the way up to raising crickets for his dinner.

Randy eyed her skeptically. “So what you’re saying is, a beautiful girl like you—pardon me for saying so—will mate and raise thousands of crickets for us?”

“Yes.”

The men exchanged a look. “Cool. You got any dogwalker friends you could introduce us to?”

When she finally left James Island, she figured she’d visited most every player on Logan’s team.

And none of them needed a pet sitter. They were simply helping out their friend.

Logan.

And Logan was helping her.

Humility, wonder, and gratitude stacked up in her chest. Not only for Logan’s gesture, but for that of his friends. Real friends. Who were willing to go the extra mile for him, no questions asked.

She didn’t even realize she was crying until she could no longer see the road. Pulling onto the shoulder, she put Daisy in park.

For so long, the only real friend she’d had was Liz. What was it about her that caused her to have shallow friendships—or no friends at all? She’d lived in Charleston all her life, yet she had only Liz. Why?

Was it, perhaps, because she was afraid that when the chips were down, they wouldn’t come through for her? That they would abandon her? The way her parents had? The way her clients had?

An eighteen-wheeler roared by, vibrating her windows.

She had to let go. Let go of her fear. She had to knock down the wall she’d spent a lifetime cowering behind.

The thought petrified her. But she kept thinking of those three guys buying a pet, just to help Logan—and subsequently her. The realization that someone would do that for him, for her, filled her with a desperate longing.

I want that, Lord. I want friends like that, too. And I want to
be
a friend like that to someone else
.

She thought of all the opportunities she’d had to make friends, yet she’d shied away.

Well, no more. She was tired of keeping the world at arm’s length. Tired of superficial relationships. Tired of being alone.

And if knocking down that wall meant exposing herself to hurt, so be it. Because for the first time she realized hiding behind it was actually more hurtful than knocking it down and risking her heart for what Logan and his friends had.

Okay, God. You’re gonna have to help me. Because those are some serious walls and it’s gonna take some kinda power to knock them down
.

Pulling tissues from her messenger bag, she wiped her face, blew her nose, and put Daisy in drive.

Logan parked on East Battery, across from the house. He’d worn a light linen jacket for the express purpose of concealing his digital recorder in the breast pocket. Now he turned the device on and slipped it inside.

On the street, he paused to take in the scene. The house now home to the man responsible for the demise of the Monroe family, victims of an exploitation that seemed to know no boundaries.

Karl’s silver convertible sat in the drive, the trunk open, a set of matching leather suitcases piled nearby. As he approached the steps to the piazza, Karl emerged with a box. An urn, a plant, and some framed art kept its lid from closing.

He stopped when he saw Logan.

“Are you moving out?”

“What’s it look like?” He descended, shouldering his way by, then dropped the box in the backseat.

“I just came from your office,” Logan said, watching from a distance. “They told me I could find your dad here.”

Karl slung the luggage into the trunk, fitting as many cases as he could, jostling them left and right. Finally, he slammed the lid and hoisted the remaining things into the backseat.

“Are you leaving by choice?” Logan asked. “Or is someone scaring you off?”

Pausing at the open driver’s door, Karl turned. “Do I look scared to you?”

“It’s just . . . that dog collar the other day. The message inside. It said the same thing as the note left at Rylee’s place when that psycho trashed it. I think maybe you know who’s responsible. Maybe he’s the one blackmailing you. If you want to help Rylee, why don’t you tell me what you know?”

Karl slapped the dust off his hands and fixed Logan with a good-riddance glare. “If I want to help Rylee, I don’t need your assistance to do it.”

He dropped into the driver’s seat and yanked the door shut. Logan watched him speed down the short drive and cut the wheel onto East Battery, zooming off like a man on a mission.

Shaking his head, Logan ascended the stairs to the door and knocked.

Grant Sebastian opened up immediately, staring a few moments, glassy-eyed, before recognition dawned. “Oh. I take it he’s gone.”

“Karl? He just left.”

“I see.” He took a step backward. “Well, in that case come in.”

The first time they’d met, at the police station, he’d been wearing a pinstriped suit. Now, Sebastian’s high-waisted slacks and sky blue polo made him look like he’d just come from the golf course.

“So he’s gone?” he asked again, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

Logan caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. “I saw him drive off.”

A smile bloomed on the old lawyer’s face, a slow but unmistakable grin, reminding Logan of a man who’d matched the winning lottery numbers to his ticket and was just starting to believe his luck.

“Come in. Come in.” His voice exultant, he ushered Logan past a stairway and across parquet floors. Whatever his expectations of the old Monroe house had been, Logan was surprised how ordinary it was.

Nice, certainly, but no more opulent than the Davidsons’ house or the Petries’. The scale was larger, perhaps, and in contrast to the more lived-in homes of Rylee’s clients, this one had a showcase quality, everything arranged with museum-like precision.

Grant waved Logan into his study, a compact, book-lined room with white woodwork and a set of windows looking out onto the bay. One of them was slightly open, admitting a warm breeze, birdsong, and sounds of the street outside.

He went straight to the Scotch bottles on the sideboard, sloshing a generous helping of amber liquid into a pair of glasses. He settled into a wingback chair, offering Logan the facing seat, the one with the view, and handed one of the glasses across.

“To victory,” Grant said, raising his tumbler.

Logan clinked glasses but did not drink. He was a little uncertain what they were celebrating. But the lawyer’s unexpected mood could work to his advantage. He decided to leave the photocopy of the affidavit in his back pocket for now.

“You don’t have any children,” Grant said, “so you can’t understand.”

Logan set his drink on a side table. “Karl’s leaving the nest?”

“Being pushed is more like it.” Another gulp of Scotch, followed by a laugh. “I never thought I’d see the day. You have no idea how many ultimatums I’ve given him, how many lines I’ve drawn in the sand . . . .” He narrowed his eyes. “We’re speaking off the record here, you understand.”

He nodded.

Grant took another gulp, then settled into his chair. “My wife is out with some friends. She’ll be relieved when she gets back. He was supposed to be gone before our return, but it didn’t work out that way. Now it’s settled, though, and that’s all that matters.”

“Your wife doesn’t care for Karl?” Logan asked.

He tilted his glass, watching the amber liquid as it captured the light. “She says I raised a monster.” He finished the drink. “And I’ll admit, you don’t get to where I am without breaking a few eggs. But I’ve always tried to offset those necessary evils with a good deed or two.”

Anger surged through Logan. Wrenching the affidavit out of his back pocket, he slammed it on the side table. “I’d hardly call this an evil that can be balanced out by a ‘good deed or two.’ ”

Grant picked up the document, fumbling to open his eyeglasses and hook them on his ears. Clearly, the Scotch he’d just consumed was one of many from throughout the day. Perhaps he’d needed some liquid fortification before throwing his son out of the house.

As he flipped the pages, Grant’s face collapsed. “Where did you get this?”

“According to Jon Monroe, you defrauded countless widows and orphans during the seventies and eighties. When he confronted you, you refused to make restitution for it. Days after that affidavit was drawn up, Monroe ‘disappeared.’ Days after he disappeared, his wife took a few too many sleeping pills. What
really
happened to them, Sebastian?”

Grant’s face went pale.

Logan squared his shoulders. “You killed them. Both of them. Didn’t you?”

His eyes flared. “Get out of my house.”

“Monroe threatened to expose you, so you killed him and his wife. Isn’t that right?”

Reaching for Logan’s untouched glass, Grant took a deep swallow. “You’ve been watching too many movies, Woods.”

“There are plenty more copies where that came from.”

Grant’s scoff was interrupted by a hiccup. “What? You think to threaten me with
this
? A
legal
document?” His laugh sounded hard and bitter. “Don’t kid yourself. This is nothing compared to what I just got rid of.”

Logan’s breath hitched. “Are you talking about Karl? Did
Karl
kill the Monroes?”

Wobbling to his feet, Grant steadied himself on the wing of the chair. “Karl has problems. Always has. But as far as I know, the Monroes weren’t among his victims.”

The old man’s words slurred, but Logan made them out. The hair on the back of his neck stood. “So Karl has killed in the past, just not the Monroes. Is that what you’re saying?”

Sebastian’s watery eyes sagged like a bloodhound’s, showing red at the bottom. “Jon, he backed me into a corner. I had no choice. But I took care of his girl. Treated her like my own.” Grant swayed, and for a moment Logan thought he’d fall. But gripping the chair tightly, he managed to regain his balance.

Logan slowly came to his feet. “Rylee, you mean? You call fleecing her of her estate, her home, and her inheritance
taking care
of her?”

Grant smacked his lips together, then swooped up the glass of alcohol and finished it off. “I protected her from Karl, didn’t I? If she’d stayed here, in this house, in this neighborhood, no telling what would have happened. I took that girl clear out to the other side of Charleston. All the way to Folly Beach. I took care of her all right.”

The phone on the nearby desk started to ring. Grant lurched for the receiver, knocking it off the base. The person on the other end shouted into the phone. Grant brought it to his ear.