Secret Sisters (7 page)

Jack read the list of ingredients. “Huh.”

“What?”

“The secret ingredient in Patricia Webster's corn bread is sour cream.”

Madeline raised her brows. “You have a problem with that?”

“Yes, I have a problem with that. There are rules when it comes to corn bread.”

“No sour cream?”

“Not in my corn bread.”

“Oh, wow.” Madeline smiled. “You cook.”

“Got a problem with that?”

“Nope. I like to eat.”

He was not sure how to take the teasing lilt in her voice. He wondered if she was flirting, just a little, but he was afraid to ask.

He left the kitchen and went down the hall to the bathroom.

He did not spend much time on the small, spare space. It, too, was crammed with stuff, including enough plastic-wrapped rolls of toilet paper to get a survivor through the tough times following Armageddon.

The last stop was the bedroom. He studied the bed for a moment.

“Only one pillow,” he said.

Madeline hovered in the doorway. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you were right when you said there probably wasn't a girlfriend, at least not one who was in the habit of spending the night on a regular basis.”

He made his way around the bed and opened the closet door. The clothes inside were exactly what he'd expected to find—several
identical plaid flannel shirts and half a dozen pairs of identical, well-worn twill pants.

And work boots.

Two pairs of scuffed, battered work boots. Same brand. Same style. Same vintage.

Jack took out one boot and examined the tread on the sole. He measured the length of the boot with his pen. When he looked up he saw that Madeline was watching him with a resigned expression.

“It was Tom, wasn't it?”

“I think it's a good bet that Lomax was the last person to go into room two-oh-nine before we arrived.”

“The question is, why would he do that, and why now?” Madeline paused. “And who swept the floor in that room?”

“That last part is easy,” Jack said. “Whoever has the briefcase swept the floor—to erase his footprints.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Daphne clamped her phone to one ear and watched the passengers stream off the plane from Phoenix. She had no idea what to expect in a security escort, but she assumed Abe Rayner would bear a strong resemblance to a nightclub bouncer or a football player.

Her attention fell briefly on the short, compact man with the nerdy, black-framed glasses, a backpack, and a computer case. Automatically she tried to assess his personality on the basis of his style. It was an old game she had played since she was young. He was dressed in cargo pants festooned with pockets that bulged with tech gear, a short-sleeved sport shirt, and sneakers. His dark hair was secured in a ponytail with a leather thong at his nape. The finishing touches were a well-worn suede jacket and a leather bolo tie trimmed with a discreet chunk of turquoise.

Something about the way he moved suggested that he did not spend all of his time sitting in front of a glowing screen. Computer-Geek-Meets-Man-of-the-West, she concluded. If she hadn't been so tense she would have smiled at the fashion mashup.

She went back to studying the other men coming off the plane. The
one thing she knew for certain about Abe Rayner was that he was male and that he would show her some ID when he arrived. Not much to go on, considering the circumstances. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe she had allowed herself to be panicked for no good reason. Maybe she was losing her mind.

A masculine voice infused with an Arizona drawl spoke behind her.

“Daphne Knight?”

She jumped a good inch or two. Her system kicked into fight-or-flight mode. Heart racing, she looked around, searching for a face that fit the voice.

She saw Computer-Geek-Meets-Man-of-the-West. He gave her an apologetic smile and pushed his glasses a little higher on his nose.

“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you,” he said. “Abe Rayner. I had the benefit of a photo of you that Jack sent to me. I've got some ID to show you.”

“Mr. Rayner.” She collected herself and got to her feet.

Now that she was upright she realized that Abe Rayner was an inch or two shorter than she was and definitely not built like a nightclub bouncer or a football player. He was lean and wiry and there was a lot of energy about him, as if he couldn't wait for the next computer problem to solve. So much for the mental image she had conjured. Maybe Abe Rayner carried a very big gun. He worked for a high-end security firm, so presumably he was reasonably good at his job.

If he was aware that she was trying to assess his capabilities, he showed no indication. He simply held out his identification without comment. She looked at the Arizona license and then she examined the business card.

A
BRAHAM
R
A
PHAEL
R
AYNER

INFORMATION ANALYST, RAYNER RISK MANAGEMENT

She looked up from the card and met his dark eyes. She got the feeling he was slightly amused by her reaction.

“What exactly is an information analyst, Mr. Rayner?” she asked.

“I analyze information. Call me Abe.”

“All right,” she said. She handed him his ID. “Please call me Daphne.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Daphne. Sorry about the circumstances. Your friend Madeline said to tell you hello. She also said she's really looking forward to seeing you again. We've got another hour and a half until our flight to Seattle. What do you say we grab a cup of coffee and a bite to eat? Don't know about you, but I'm hungry.”

“Coffee will be enough for me,” she said. “I'm not hungry.”

The words came automatically. She had not been very hungry for a long time.

Abe's eyes narrowed a little. He did not appear to believe her lack of interest in food, but he didn't argue.

“Let's go find someplace where we can sit down and talk,” he said. “You've probably got a lot of questions. I don't have all the answers, but I do have something that I think will interest you.”

“What's that?”

“Our cover story.”

“We've got a cover story?”

“Sure.” He grasped the handle of her roll-aboard and started walking down the concourse. “We at Rayner Risk Management believe in being proactive when it comes to security. How do you feel about operating undercover as a hotel consultant?”

Unable to think of anything else to do, she hurriedly fell into step beside him.

“Undercover?” she repeated, still trying to orient herself to her rapidly changing world.

“Jack wants a reason to explain why all four of us have suddenly
descended on Cooper Island. So for now, at least, we're all going in as your friend Madeline's hotel consultants.”

“What exactly are we consulting on?”

“The idea is that she called us in to help her decide what to do with the old Aurora Point Hotel property—rehab it or sell it.”

“That's easy.” Daphne tightened her grip on the strap of her purse. “My advice is sell it.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Why do you think? It's an abandoned hotel. It's haunted.”

He nodded. “Good reason for selling.”

He guided her into one of the airport restaurants and sat her down at a small table. He sank into the chair across from her and opened the computer case. She watched him remove a small computer, vaguely aware of a growing sense of curiosity. It had been a year since she had felt even the smallest stirring of the once-familiar sensation.

“Tell me about this undercover job,” she said.

“I will do that.” He picked up the menu. “Right after we order some food.”

A waiter appeared. Without consulting Daphne, Abe ordered two cups of coffee and two grilled cheese sandwiches.

“I told you, I'm not hungry,” Daphne said.

“Don't worry, if you don't eat your sandwich, I will. Now, about our cover story.”

She glanced around. There was no one seated close enough to overhear her, but she lowered her voice anyway and leaned across the table.

“Are you carrying a gun?” she whispered.

“Of course not.” He did not look up from the computer screen. “I just arrived on a commercial airplane with no checked baggage, remember?”

“Okay, but how about when you're not flying?”

“This is the modern age. The boss says that private investigators no longer carry firearms. We depend on computers and intelligent analysis of data.”

“The boss being your brother?”

“Right.”

“That's all well and good, but I got the impression we might be dealing with someone who is very dangerous.”

“You're safe with me, Daphne.” He flashed her a brilliant grin. “I am a professional.”

“But I shouldn't try this at home, right?”

“Exactly.”

She concluded that Abe Rayner was going to be irritating. However, there was something reassuring about him.

When the sandwiches arrived she picked up one and bit into it without thinking. The cheese was warm and gooey and the bread was fried to a crispy golden brown.

She finished the first half and picked up the second half.

Abe watched her with a calculating expression.

She swallowed.

“What?” she said.

“How is the sandwich?” he asked a little too innocently.

She examined the partially demolished sandwich in her hand, vaguely astonished. It was just an airport restaurant sandwich but it was the tastiest thing she had eaten in a very long time—a year, in fact.

“Good,” she said. “It's good.”

“Maybe you were hungry after all.”

“Maybe I was. Probably the adrenaline. It's been a very long day.”

“I know. Jack told me about the burglary at your place,” Abe said. “When was the last time you ate a real meal?”

“I had some yogurt this morning. Why the keen interest in my food intake?”

“You look a little thin, that's all.”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Hasn't anyone told you that you're not supposed to make personal remarks about your clients?”

“No. Is there a rule?”

“There's definitely a rule. I think we'd better change the subject. Tell me what is happening on Cooper Island.”

“We're not sure yet, but according to your friend Madeline, it's linked to an incident that occurred eighteen years ago.”

“Mom always said that night would come back to haunt us.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Your brother makes me nervous,” Patricia said.

Travis watched her slip an earring into one earlobe. The small, deft movement was infused with graceful femininity. Everything about his beautiful wife was graceful and feminine, he thought. The media would love her once the campaign was launched.

“Xavier makes me nervous, too,” Travis said. He met Patricia's eyes in the mirror. “Hell, he makes everyone in the family nervous.”

Patricia smiled in sympathy. “I know.”

She reached for the second earring.

Ethereally blond and elegantly slender, she wore designer clothes with the refined aplomb of a supermodel. She had a long, delicate jaw, a fine, aristocratic nose, and wide blue eyes that were slightly tipped upward at the outer corners. Her most important attribute, however, was that she had the inner drive and ambition it would take to survive the campaigns that lay ahead of them.

A year ago when they had been introduced by a mutual friend at a Seattle charity event, he had known immediately that Patricia would make the perfect candidate's wife. She had proven to be a shrewd partner.

He also appreciated the fact that she was not complaining about the weeklong stay on Cooper Island. It wasn't as if it was the most exciting place on the face of the earth, he thought. But everyone on the staff had agreed that it was critical that the media got the right image of the candidate. This week was all about demonstrating that he was bonded with a solid family and grounded in small-town values. Patricia had been gallantly pretending to enjoy the scenery and the locals ever since they had arrived two days ago.

That was the easy part, of course. It was dealing with his family—especially his brother—that required real acting talent.

“We can't go on indefinitely with Xavier in his current position.” Patricia slipped the other earring into her ear. “I know he's been on his best behavior for months, but we both know that sooner or later he'll have another break. If that happens at the wrong time—if he does too much damage—he'll destroy everything we're working so hard to build.”

Travis moved to stand behind her. He put his hands on her elegantly curved waist.

“Believe me, I know,” he said. “But until we figure out how to deal with him, it's best to keep an eye on him. There's no better way to do that than to involve him in the campaign.”

Patricia raised her brows. “The interesting thing is that he's actually quite good at producing useful media hits.”

“My brother has always had a gift for charming people. And let's face it, the media are an easy target for someone with his talent. The twenty-four-seven news beast must be fed on a daily basis. The best zookeepers are people like Xavier—people who can frame even the smallest event in a way that makes the candidate look brilliant, farsighted, and dedicated.”

Patricia laughed. “You
are
brilliant, farsighted, and dedicated.”

“Thanks.” He bent his head to kiss the curve of her throat. “I do like hearing that from my wife.”

Patricia grew serious. “My concern is that when—not
if
—Xavier turns on you, he'll be so clever about it we won't know what's happening until it's too late. All he has to do is create a few twisted stories for the media. He can make them up out of thin air, but it won't matter. Once the rumors start, they'll be hard if not impossible to stop.”

“Believe me, I'm well aware of just how dangerous Xavier can be. But I know him, Patricia. You could say I've studied him since the day he was born. I had to figure him out fast in order to protect myself. I know his triggers and flash points. I recognize the warning signs. Trust me, it's better to have him in sight where I can keep an eye on him. It would be far more dangerous to have him out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows.”

“He's jealous of you.”

“Always has been. He was supposed to be the golden boy, the true heir to the throne. He was the son Dad hoped to put into the Senate and, ultimately, the White House. Not me.”

“Do your parents understand how dangerous he is?”

“On some level, yes, I think they do. But both of them are reluctant to admit that there's no fixing Xavier. Deep down they still think of him as their golden boy. They've spent a fortune on counseling and medications and rehab over the years. Eventually they packed him off to a private psychiatric hospital. They told everyone it was a very exclusive boarding school, but that wasn't true.”

“What happened?”

“A year later the Institute pronounced him cured and sent him home.” Travis shrugged. “It wasn't long before Mom and Dad sent him back. He spent most of his teenage years there, and he's been back a few times since then.”

“It must have been devastating for your parents,” Patricia said.

“The problem is that Xavier is a hell of an actor. Each time he comes back from the Institute he looks normal. Balanced. Back in control.
But he can't maintain the charade indefinitely, and I think Mom and Dad understand that. They've seen the cycle often enough to know that sooner or later he'll always explode again.”

“It's probably pure good luck that he hasn't killed someone when he flies into one of his rages.”

Travis took his hands off her waist. “You want the truth? I'm not so sure that he hasn't killed someone.”

She whirled around, eyes widening. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke when it comes to my brother. But Xavier is very smart and his survival instincts are well honed. If he has committed murder, you can bet he didn't leave any evidence. I guess that's the good news for us. It's highly unlikely that Xavier will ever be arrested.”

Patricia's shoulders straightened. “Something has to be done about him.”

“I know.” He turned toward the closet and selected a shirt.

“Soon.”

“Soon,” he promised. “I'll talk to Mom and Dad. They've always been able to handle him in the past.”

“We can't let him destroy your future.”

“Trust me, Mom and Dad won't let that happen.”

His wife was damn near perfect, Travis thought, buttoning the shirt. There was just one small thing that worried him. He was pretty sure that if she decided he had too much baggage in the form of a dangerous brother, she would bail.

Women like Patricia did not hang around with losers.