Forever Hidden (Forever Bluegrass #2) (5 page)

Sydney came to an old photograph and stopped. It was of a young woman in a long, dark dress with a wide collar. She had a smile on her face and a baby on her hip. Her hair was pinned up and a ribbon with the word
VOTE
on it was worn as a sash from her shoulder to her waist. Behind her was a
Vote Here
sign at a polling precinct.

Sydney looked closer at the picture. That must be her great-grandmother as a baby. Her mother must have taken her to vote. By the style of clothes and the sash, it could very well have been the first time a woman in her family had the right to vote.

“That’s Mrs. Wyatt as a baby, and her mother, Georgia. Georgia was head of the women’s suffrage movement in Atlanta. It was taken after she cast her first vote.”

Sydney could see the pride and triumph in the young woman’s smile. “How do you know that?”

Deacon handed her a cup of hot tea. “Over the years, Mrs. Wyatt sent me the history of every picture and piece of furniture in the place. Some I remember, but I kept all the letters because they told so much history.”

Sydney turned from the picture and took a seat on the chair facing the couch. “So, Deacon, what are you doing renting a place like this? It seems pretty big for just one person.” She paused and looked to where he was sitting on the couch. “Or are your wife and children upstairs wondering if their lives are in danger?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “No wife. No kids. I run my business from here. I needed a place to stay since I didn’t want to live with my father anymore. I saw an advertisement in the paper seeking a caretaker and renter for the property. My family has lived in Atlanta for generations so I knew of Twin Oaks. I responded to the ad. After an hour on the phone with Mrs. Wyatt, I moved in two days later. So, now are you going to tell me what you’re doing digging in the backyard in the middle of the night?”

Sydney took a sip of the tea and felt exhaustion set in. “I made a promise to Great-grandma that I wouldn’t say anything.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “How about in very general hypothetical terms?”

Sydney smiled. “Hypothetically, someone close to me made me promise to find something.”

“And what are you to do, hypothetically, once you find it?” Deacon casually asked.

“Bring it all together and then decide what needs to be done. Sadly, that’s as specific as my directions got.” Sydney was beginning to feel as crazy as this whole buried treasure story.

To his credit, Deacon didn’t laugh. “And this something you’re to find is in the backyard?”

“You guessed it!” Sydney teased.

“I knew there was a reason I’m a private investigator,” Deacon teased back.

Sydney’s eyebrow rose as she took him in along with the house he lived in. Catching cheaters must pay well. “You’re a PI?”

“I can sense you don’t have a high opinion of my job. Don’t worry, I’m not
that
kind of PI.”

Sydney just shook her head. “Sorry. You see, my dad’s a sheriff, and he’s had some problems with PIs before. It’s nothing personal. I’m sure you’re very good at your job.”

“I am very good. I happen to be in between cases right now and will be happy to help you. But, it’s almost one in the morning, so how about we call it a night and start fresh in the morning? I’ll even bring my own shovel.”

Sydney shook her head. “I’m going home tomorrow.”

“Then you should have brought a bigger shovel if you’re going to be digging up the whole back yard.”

Sydney fell back against the back of the chair. She had thought it would be so easy. “Okay. I’ll extend my reservation at the Ritz by a couple days.” She was tired, she was mourning, and she was quickly seeing her trip to the beach disappear.

“Reservation? You don’t need to do that. There are six bedrooms here. I can go tomorrow and pick up your bags. I have an appointment downtown anyway. I’ll give you something to sleep in tonight. You’re exhausted and shouldn’t be driving all the way downtown.”

Sydney wasn’t amused. She hated being told what to do. “Have you met my father? Because you sound an awful lot like him.”

“Well, then maybe I will like Marshall, even if he doesn’t like PIs.” Deacon grinned.

“How did you . . . ah, the letters,” Sydney said, answering her own question.

Deacon just winked in response and stood up. “Come on. I’ll take you to the blue room. It has a great view of the backyard.”

Sydney followed him up the sweeping staircase and down the long hallway. He pushed open a door and flipped the light switch. Sydney had traveled all over the world and stayed in the most luxurious places, but this room took her by surprise. Three floor-to-ceiling windows and a pair of French doors that led out to the wrap-around veranda took up the whole left sidewall. Another set of doors and windows were against the opposite wall of the large corner room. A king-sized canopy bed and a sitting area filled the rest of the space. It looked just like her great-grandmother's room.

“This was Mrs. Wyatt’s room. Would you like me to start a fire for you?” Deacon asked gently, as if reading her mind.

“No thanks, I can do it if I want one later.” She took a slow turn of the room, seeing pictures of her great-grandmother as a teenager and even one with Great-grandpa when they must have been dating. Warmth, comfort, and love washed over her as she took it all in.

Deacon returned with a soft knock and stood by the door with his hands full. “I brought you a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a shirt to sleep in. I’m not really a pajama type of guy, sorry,” he said as he handed her the things.

Sydney looked at the shirt and smiled. “The Georgia Vultures, my second-favorite team. Thank you.”

“I guess you have to like the Thoroughbreds, huh?” He smiled back at her.

“Of course. I know the owners of the Thoroughbreds and Trey Everett. Since Trey played for the Vultures, they’re my second-favorite team.”

“That’s right, Everett coaches the Thoroughbreds running backs.”

Sydney smiled as she thought of Trey. She’d known him her whole life. Plus he’d babysat some of the kids she grew up with. “And he’s from Keeneston.”

“Well, if you’re around more, I guess I’ll have to get a Thoroughbreds shirt. I’m down the hall on the right if you need anything. Oh, and what’s your room number at the hotel?”

Sydney told him, but then stopped. “I’ll get my stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it. Spend your time digging up the yard. I have a meeting at seven a block over from your hotel. I’ll pick up your things and be back before you even have breakfast. And Sydney, it’s great to finally meet you.”

Deacon closed the door, and Sydney stood staring at it for a full minute. This whole thing was too weird. He seemed to know her as if they were old friends while he was a complete stranger—a complete stranger who was going to be in her hotel room. No, she would get up and go into Atlanta tomorrow to get her things. And just to be careful, she flipped the old lock in the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sydney looked up as the door to her room slowly opened. The room was still dark, cast only with the warm glow of the fire she had started the night before. She held her breath, fearful of who was sneaking into her room. Should she scream?

But then the person stepped from the darkness into the orange glow of the firelight. “Deacon,” Sydney gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Whatever you wish me to do, Sydney.” His voice rumbled and Sydney felt it caress her body.

She gulped as she held the sheets to her chest. “How did you know I wanted you?”

Deacon’s lips formed a cocky smile as he walked toward her. He pulled the fleece from his body and tossed it on the floor. Oh god, he was male perfection, and Sydney wanted him right now.

“The only question is, what do you want, Sydney?” Deacon asked quietly as he stopped beside her bed and looked down at her. “You’re a woman who deserves to be worshiped from head to toe. What will make you scream in pleasure?”

Sydney let her eyes trail up the muscled ridges of his stomach, across his defined pecs and corded neck to lips made for worshiping. “You,” she whispered in response.

“Then come and get it,” Deacon dared. Sydney’s eyes shot to his. Slowly, she reached out a hand and fumbled with the button to his jeans.

“Don’t be shy, Syd. I know all about you. You’re not one to sit back and follow. You take what you want. So, take me,” Deacon’s voice challenged her.

He was right. She didn’t sit by and let others make the hard calls. She made them herself. She went after what she wanted and got it. Sydney pushed up to her knees and slowly, tauntingly, raised the jersey he’d loaned her over her head. The appreciation in his eyes gave her the courage to unzip his jeans and shove them to the floor.

Sydney felt flushed as she took in a nude Deacon. And when he cupped her face and kissed her hard, she melted into him. He pushed her back onto the bed and covered her with his body. Sydney had never felt so alive, so hot, and so feminine all at once. And when Deacon started to move, she screamed out in the pleasure he promised. The headboard banged over and over again, beating loudly to the point of distraction as she raked her nails down his back. Then suddenly the vision of her and Deacon disappeared as Sydney’s eyes opened on a gasp. Her shirt was around her waist and damp with sweat as she sat in the middle of the bed, tangled in the sheets. The sound that had been interrupting her dream wasn’t hot headboard-banging sex but was, in fact, someone knocking on the front door. Sydney shot from the bed and raced downstairs when the knocking faded and a woman’s sobbing scream replaced it.

*     *     *

Deacon had spent most of the night thanking his lucky stars for having
the
Sydney Davies just down the hall from him. The rest of the time he thought of all the things Mrs. Wyatt had told him about her. The fact that he was already half in love with the mysterious great-granddaughter he’d heard about the past five years was embarrassing in itself. But now he felt ridiculous. Sydney Davies was the closest thing to perfection there was. She had dated a prince, a pro quarterback, and a Hollywood actor. She sure as hell wouldn’t be dating a private investigator who wore old jeans and helped solve cold cases.

He had left the house that morning slowly. He didn’t want to leave her but when he’d knocked on her door, she had only groaned in response. So he had headed to his meeting in Atlanta alone. And as Deacon rode the old elevator up to his meeting, he found himself lost in the disbelief of the memory of finding Sydney—supermodel, entrepreneur—digging in his backyard.

“Deacon, good of you to come in.”

“No problem, detective. What can I do for the Atlanta PD today?”

The old detective shook his hand and led him through the locked doors into their bullpen. Desk after desk was lined up with dry erase boards covering the walls. Most of the detectives knew him, and after his pitch of swearing he wouldn’t do anything to hurt their cases, had grown to trust him.

“I just need you to sign your statement on the Salem case. The DA and I are meeting with his attorney this morning. The DA is pushing for a plea deal. They’re afraid of retaliation from Salem’s gang if there’s a long public trial. We’re hoping your statement, along with the sister’s statement, will show his attorney we have enough for the death penalty. If he pleads guilty to life without parole, the DA won’t bring any charges against him for the probable murder of his first wife.”

Deacon ground his teeth in frustration. “But we know he killed his first wife, too.”

“I know,” Detective Gentry said as he handed Deacon his statement to sign. “But we both know there’s a lack of physical evidence. It’s a loose, circumstantial case and he would walk. But he doesn’t know that yet. He knows you’re a bulldog when you get a case so we’ll let him worry about it. This way, he’s off the street and won’t have to fear the death penalty. The DA is hoping he’ll take it.”

Deacon signed his statement, and a secretary notarized it before handing it back to the detective. “He should. Two murders for the price of one. And with his history, there’re bound to be more skeletons in the closet.”

“At least this will get him off the streets.”

Deacon nodded. He’d just hoped the family of Salem’s first wife would have closure. “True. Good luck, detective.”

They shook hands and Gentry escorted him back to the elevators. The Ritz was right around the corner. Deacon would stop there next, pick up Sydney’s bag, and check her out. His mind was already organizing the facts she’d told him about what she was looking for. He knew it had to be five paces from the tree line and buried. It could have been buried five years ago or two hundred years ago. He filed that away as a piece of the puzzle he needed to investigate further.

He felt the familiar excitement from a new case as he walked into her hotel room. Syd had left the key on the counter the night before, intending to go with him this morning. After hearing how deeply asleep she was, he took it and hoped she wouldn’t care. He found her bag and tossed her pajamas into it. He walked around the room and into the bathroom, picking up things and putting them in her bag as his mind searched for clues from the letters Mrs. Wyatt had written him. He would have to reread them, but there had been a story from the night Sherman had started his march toward the sea that he thought might be helpful.

Certainly the idea of working closely to Sydney was also causing his heart to beat a little faster this morning. As he closed the hotel room door, he remembered Mrs. Wyatt’s last letter.

My poor great-granddaughter. She’s been working so hard I fear her heart has been filed away with last season’s designs.

Letter after letter, Mrs. Wyatt had told him of Sydney’s hopes, dreams, and achievements. He felt as if he were cheering her on when Mrs. Wyatt would write of meetings with “boutiques,” which he now knew were major deals for her clothing lines. He had even thought of driving to Keeneston before the Salem case took off to meet Mrs. Wyatt in person and, he hoped, the great-granddaughter and great-grandson he had read all about. Over the years, Mrs. Wyatt and her family had become closer to him than his own.

*     *     *

Without thinking, Sydney flung open the door to find a woman crumpled on the doormat. Her thin shoulders heaved with body-wracking sobs. Having heard the door open, the stricken woman looked up.

“Oh, thank God. Is Mr. McKnight here?” the woman asked as she reached out and clung to Sydney’s hand.

Sydney didn’t know what to do. The woman was desperate, but was she a crazy stalker or someone who needed help? And where was Deacon? Oh, his meeting. How had she not woken up for that?

“I’m sorry, he’s not here right now. Are you injured? Do you need an ambulance?” Sydney asked and looked the woman over for blood. She wore tan slacks, a blouse, and blazer and looked to be in her mid-forties. She didn’t look dangerous—she looked distraught.

“No, I need Mr. McKnight. It’s my baby . . . she’s gone!” The woman let go of Sydney’s hand and covered her face as a fresh round of sobs took hold of her.

The sound of tires on the drive made both Sydney and the woman look up. Please let it be Deacon. The truck pulled into the garage, and a moment later Deacon appeared, carrying her bag.

The woman saw him and scrambled to her feet. She raced across the yard and collapsed into his arms. Sydney hurried out to help. Deacon looked gently down at the blubbering woman and silently handed Sydney her bag so he could wrap his arm around the woman’s waist and use his other to support her arm as he silently led her inside.

“They took her.”
Sob.
“The police said she’s eighteen and has the right to leave under her own volition.”
Sob.
“But they’re not good people. I just know she’s in danger.”
Sob.
“But we had a fight about her sneaking out to go to a party, and the next morning I go to talk to her and she’s gone.”

Sydney tried to piece it all together as she held the door open for them. Deacon escorted the woman to a front sitting room and Sydney followed, not knowing what was going on.

“Syd, can you please get Ms. . . .” Deacon looked questioningly at the woman he was helping to the couch.

“Vander. Eloise Vander.”

“. . . Ms. Vander a glass of water?” Deacon asked calmly.

Sydney turned and walked to the kitchen. Deacon wasn’t surprised at finding a woman in hysterics on his porch. In fact, he was so calm that Sydney was starting to think this was no big deal. Except, it sounded like the woman’s daughter had run away.

A minute later she handed Ms. Vander a glass of water and gave the jersey a tug to hide the fact she just realized she didn’t have pants on. Looking around, she grabbed a throw, curled her legs under her, and took a seat across from Deacon who was sitting next to Ms. Vander on the couch.

“Now, Ms. Vander, I’m Deacon McKnight and this is my friend, Sydney. How do you think I can help you?”

Ms. Vander took a deep breath to steady herself. “I read about you in the newspaper, solving that missing-child case when the police had all but given up. I called the police first, but they said they couldn’t help me. So I thought of you.”

Deacon gave her a gentle smile. “What happened? Start from the beginning.”

“My daughter, Bailey, is a senior in high school. She turned eighteen three days ago, but she’s been talking to these older men on the Internet. I caught her talking to them two weeks ago and told her how dangerous that is and grounded her from using the computer for a week.  We had a horrible fight, so two days later when she stopped complaining, I knew something was up. While she was asleep, I looked at her phone. She had been texting a number I didn’t know. On top of that, she had been sending pictures of herself in her underwear and bikinis, along with her measurements, to this number.”

Ms. Vander took a small sip of water and set it down again. “You can imagine what the morning was like when I confronted her about it. I took away her phone and grounded her until a couple days before her birthday. She complained and said I didn’t understand. She said she was texting them for a job and they cared about her success, unlike me. She said they were some kind of modeling agency she met at the mall. I asked for the name of the modeling agency. It was Tristan something or other. I asked if they’d given her a card, and she said no. His name was Vic, and she just gave him her phone number. I tried to tell her that’s not how these things worked, but he promised her fame and fortune, and I was just the dumpy mother who didn’t understand. I can't say for sure, but I think he’s the one she was talking to on the Internet.”

Sydney felt her breath catch as she listened to the story. When Ms. Vander paused, Deacon raised his eyes and met Sydney’s. She had been around the industry her whole life. This was starting to sound like some of the nightmares other models told her about when they were traveling for shows.

“So,” Ms. Vander picked up, “I thought I had gotten through to her. We had a great birthday and then the next morning I got a call from the school telling me she never arrived that morning. I used the app on her phone to locate her and found her having lunch with a man in his mid-thirties—Vic. He was holding her hand and doing a hard sell for her to come with him to New York to audition for some agencies. Bailey lost it when she saw me. The man looked amused. He sat back and watched our argument almost gleefully. And when I demanded she come home with me, the man finally spoke and informed me that Bailey was eighteen and had the legal right to do whatever she wanted.”

“And she chose to stay with him,” Deacon finished.

Ms. Vander nodded. “I stormed out to the car and called the police. They said she wasn’t in danger and was an adult. There was no crime being committed. I knew Bailey didn’t have the money to go to New York. We’re not a rich family. I work two jobs just to get by. My ex-husband, her father, left us five years ago with nothing—just disappeared with his secretary. He said he was tired of being a husband and a father. So, I headed home and waited for Bailey. Finally she arrived and stormed up to her room. There was some yelling, some threatening from both of us, but finally she promised to open the door and talk to me in the morning. Well, morning came and I knocked on her door. Nothing. I ended up breaking down the door. Her window was open and her cheerleading duffle bag and backpack where gone, along with some of her clothes and toiletries.”