No Returns (3 page)

“It’s completely inappropriate for you to throw that in my face. You’re acting like it’s my fault.”

“I’m sorry,” I said on a breath. “I’m going to the store now.”

Before I left, I moved my trashcan out to the street. Only on Palm Beach was the trash collected daily, seven days a week. I happened to glance down to my right and saw a car parked on the side of the road. I couldn’t tell if anyone was behind the wheel but it gave me a chill. The car was definitely out of place. It was an older model sedan, maybe a Lincoln. The front bumper was crushed in and dangling on the left side. In all likelihood, it was paparazzi. It happens. They get wind of some celebutante on the island and they hang out hoping for a clear shot.

I got in my car and drove cautiously past the car. It was dark but I thought I saw a figure duck down as my headlights hit the glass. Could be a private detective spying on a resident. Divorces in Palm Beach were private but ugly.

The grocery store was uneventful. And one of my least favorite tasks. I spent a lot on various fruits and picked up a couple more bottles of wine. Something told me my mother would be drinking until the blackmail was resolved.

As I returned home, the car was still parked on the street. I approached slowly, reaching for my cell phone. I came to a complete stop and started to enter the license plate number in my phone when the car suddenly revved to life and skidded away. I only had a partial plate but I saved it anyway. If he continued to loiter, I’d happily call the Palm Beach PD and they could deal with him.

I put the groceries away, cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. The guest bath door was closed as I went passed on my way to the bedroom. I changed out of my clothes and donned lightweight drawstring pants with little hearts on them and a plain white cami. I pulled my hair back and washed my face. I was tired and I had to be at work by nine-ish. If not Margaret Ford, receptionist and all-around pain in the ass, would rat me out to Vain Victor Dane, the managing partner. Just thinking about him made me want to groan.

I sat on my bed and powered up my laptop. I had to check the status of several auctions on eBay. The first one I checked was my bid on several links for a Rolex. Since I can’t afford the watch, I’m buying the pieces so I can assemble my own. I was still the high bidder with four hours left to go. For good measure I upped my bid by one hundred dollars. My next stop was a gently used Coach bag. It had a small tear on the inside lining but the exterior was pristine. That auction had only minutes left. After rubbing my hands together, I pulled up the screen to place a bid but I didn’t hit enter. Instead I was waiting for the auction clock to hit two seconds, then I’d sweep in and steal the bag from some unsuspecting buyer.

“Be prepared to be disappointed,” I told the screen. My hand hovered over the enter key as the clock hit four seconds, then three. Then I heard a shriek.

I practically tossed my laptop to the side and ran toward the guestroom. I opened the door to find my mother sitting on the bed with a computer next to her. “What is wrong?” I asked. “And when did you enter the computer age?”

“Look at this,” she said as she turned the state of the art MAC in my direction.

Moving closer, I read the email. “The price just went up to six hundred grand.”

Scared shitless is a great one.

“T
his is good,”
I explained.

My mother tightened the belt on her silk robe. Peeking out of the top I noticed she wore the matching negligee underneath. Even in a crisis she didn’t compromise her style.

“How is that possible? And why raise the price on me?”

“It’s good because I can have the IT guys at work backtrack the ISP on the email. They can target the exact location where it originated. Could lead us straight to the blackmailer.”

“What about the price increase? I haven’t done anything.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he’s pissed that you aren’t at your house. Did he ever call, maybe tell you to stay put?”

“No phone calls. Just the note. All that said was to keep vigil for the next note.”

“Being here isn’t exactly like lying in wait at your own place. But let’s not worry about that now.”

She gave me a hostile look. “Exactly what do you think I should be worried about?”

“Global warming. Or the sabre rattling out of North Korea. Or maybe voting irregularities in Latin America.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

“C’mon. That was a little bit funny.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Message received. What’s with the computer?” I tenderly brushed my fingers over the state-of-the-art beauty.

“Deacon insisted. He travels a lot for work and it’s just easier for us to keep in touch over computer mail.”

Absently I said, “Email.” I clicked the screen back to a shot of her inbox. A few spams but most of the emails were from [email protected]. “He must be smitten. He emails you like five times a day.”

We had a mother-daughter breakthrough when my mother patted the seat next to her on the bed. “He really is a wonderful man,” she gushed. “So touching.” She clicked open one of the emails. “See?”

It read:

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

I placed my hand on my mother’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Sorry to tell you this mom, but that’s Lord Byron’s
She Walks Alone
. Deacon, er, borrowed it.”

“He selected it,” she defended. “What man would go to all that trouble?”

“Any guy who can Google?”

“Is that the search thing I’m supposed to use when I want to find something on the computer?”

“One of them. Here,” I dragged the laptop over. “Let me show you. Um, you’re having lunch with Muffy Tarleton tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“Then let’s see if Muffy has any skeletons in her closet.”

“Is this legal?” my mother asked.

“I’m not hacking, I’m asking. Completely legal. Here we go. Photos and everything,” I said with some pride because my skills bore fruit. Knowing Muffy was a stunning woman in her early fifties, I of course, wanted to know if she’d had any work done. “Here’s her maiden name too. Let’s review her time at Lexington Prep,” I read. “We can check out her high school years.”

“Oh my God!” My mother and I said in unison. High school Muffy was a hot mess. Frizzy, dull, dishwasher brown hair. No cheekbones to speak of and then there was the glaring thing in the middle of her face. If I didn’t think it was anatomically incorrect, I’d have sworn she was growing another arm instead of one honking nose. And just for good measure, she had on orthodontic headgear.

“She’s had more work than Liam’s car.”

“Who else can we do?”

I hadn’t seen my mother this happy since the sale on pearls at David Yurman.

“Can I do myself?”

“Sure. That’s called an ego Google. Go for it.” She hunted and pecked her way through her name and then waited the mille-second for the search to bear fruit. “The first entry is when I married Jonathan.” She sounded disappointed.

“Probably because your name used to be Susan Presley before you had it changed to Cassidy. Check your birth name.”

“Oh heavens,” she said softly. “Pictures from the Met. Reviews, including that terrible one from the
Times
. Wait! A birth announcement?”

I crooked my head to alleviate the glare. “Miss Presley of the Metropolitan Opera gave birth yesterday to a five-pound, six-ounce little girl at Lenox Presbyterian hospital. Miss Presley has yet to disclose a name.” I sat upright. “So?”

“The circumstances of your birth were not ideal.”

“Sorry to have been an inconvenience.”

“I was only nineteen at the time.”

“A sexually active nineteen-year-old. Apparently that hasn’t changed.”

“Finley, must you constantly say things to hurt me?”

“Well, it all worked out in the end. You met Jonathan Tanner a year later.”

“Now he was a good man,” she said with conviction. “And he loved you, Finley. Just as if you were his own.”

“I know.”

I was feeling a tad uncomfortable. Usually my mom and I have surface attention conversations. “I better get some sleep,” I said as I stood. “Night.”

“Good night.”

I went to my room and picked up the receiver on my bedside phone, I pressed buttons quickly.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” I said.

Liam chuckled softly. “I know; I have caller ID too.”

“Right. Two weird things happened tonight.” I told him about the email my mother received. “I didn’t even know she had internet, let alone an email address, so whoever is doing this to her knows an awful lot about her.” Then I told him about the car.

“Did you get a make and model?”

“Old. Black or dark blue. Something big and American. A Lincoln, maybe. Front-end damage. And the first three letters of the license plate are F-P-L. Is that enough for you to track him down?”

“Maybe. You’ve got to work on your mother, Finley,” he said in all sincerity. “Say we catch the guy, then what? We take his word that he’ll never do it again? He needs to be turned over to the cops.”

“She’s mortified that the contents of that tape will become public. Is it bad?” As soon as I asked the question I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and start chanting la-la-la-la.

“It’s graphic,” he answered. “And for the record, watching your mother is not how I wanted to get to know her.”

“That has such a creep factor.”

“Get some sleep,” he advised. “I’ll go to the resort in the morning.”

“I’ll hit my mother’s place at lunch and get the envelope and see if the blackmailer has sent anything else.”

*

My mother was
still sleeping when I left for work. Maybe because I’d left earlier than normal. I think it was avoidance. I didn’t want awkward chitchat while I drank my pot of coffee. I did jot down a good morning note and left her the alarm code so she could come and go as she pleased.

It was a beautiful May morning, without a cloud in sight. The temperature hovered around seventy-five and the gentlest of breezes caused the palm fronds to rustle slightly. I was also wearing a new dress. New clothes always put me in a good mood. Okay, so new was a bit of a stretch. I’d picked up the Adrianna Papell fit and flare dress at a thrift store. The original owner had taken immaculate care of the dress, so I grabbed it up at a cool sixty-five percent off. I wore Tory Burch wedge espadrilles and a simple cuff bracelet on my wrist. Finally, I slipped on a Kuber watch and I was good to go.

Dane, Lieberman and Caprelli is a four-story building right off Clematis Street. Easy access to the courthouse and of importance to me, the restaurants at City Place. I parked next to Vain Dane’s banana yellow Hummer, grabbed my purse and my tote with my mother’s laptop inside and headed for the door.

It was only eight-forty but Maudlin Margaret was at her station behind the horse shoe-shaped desk in the center of the lobby. She glanced up at me over her reading glasses and as usual, seemed unhappy to see me. “Morning,” I said with a complete lack of sincerity. “Messages?”

“Here.” She slid them across the desk. “Mr. Caprelli wants to see you first thing.”

It would be third thing, I acknowledged as I stepped into the elevator. I went to the third floor. When the doors blinked open, I stepped out into a large space with lots and lots of computer equipment. Our IT department did more than just fix machine glitches. They also created spreadsheets, document blow-ups and many other kinds of litigation evidence and support. It was like our personal Kinkos. After scanning the room, I found Gus and walked over to his cubicle.

“Hi,” I said as I rested my tote on the edge of his desk.

He blushed. “Hello.”

“I need a favor,” I explained as I took my mother’s computer out of the bag. “I need you to back trace an ISP address on an email. Can you do it?”

“In my sleep.”

I gave him my mother’s password – diamonds – thanked him and went back to the elevator. I went down to the second floor and into my office, flipping light switches as I went to my desk.

As usual, I’d set-up the coffee pot the night before, so all I had to do was hit the on button. While it brewed, I placed my purse in a drawer, looked at my messages – nothing urgent – and wiggled the mouse to bring my computer out of hibernation.