“The U.S. He’s home. He’s grabbing the next flight out of LAX. He’ll be here tonight.”
“And Meredith?”
Devon blew out her breath. “That call’s going to be harder to make.”
“Sure will,” Monty agreed. “She’ll book herself on the next Greyhound heading for Lake George.”
“Exactly. And I’ve got to talk her out of it.” With another sigh, Devon reached for the phone.
“Tell her to hold off buying a ticket. Tell her I can get her there faster than any bus.”
Devon’s hand paused on the receiver. “Excuse me?”
“I’m driving up to Lake Luzerne. Now. I want to see firsthand what’s going on. Jakes will talk more freely to me, cop to cop. Plus, my being there will kick their asses into high gear. There’s something about the Seventy-fifth in Brooklyn that has a macho effect on cops in the boonies. Makes them want to prove they’ve got what it takes.”
“A good old-fashioned pissing match,” Devon muttered.
“Something like that. So tell Meredith to stay put. I’ll pick her up in an hour and a half. She can ride up with me.”
“So can I.” Devon rose.
“No.” Monty gave an adamant shake of his head. “You can’t. Stay here. I’ll call you the minute I know anything.” His jaw worked. “Devon, your mother’s out there somewhere. She’s going to contact us eventually. You’re home base. Be here to hold down the fort.”
“Okay,” she conceded. “I will. But, Monty…”
“Everything’s going to be fine.” He crossed over, gave Devon a quick kiss on top of her head. “You’ll see.”
CHAPTER 4
Blake Pierson sat at the kitchen counter, his fingers steepled in front of him. He’d come up to the farm to relax, to get away from all the tension in the office. Instead, he was perched here, waiting for his grandparents to show up so they could discuss the ramifications of his uncle Frederick’s death.
It was like a bizarre nightmare.
Untangling his long legs from around the stool, Blake came to his feet. He wished he could do something. But there was nothing to be done. Not until his grandparents arrived. Then he’d have his work cut out for him.
The immediate family had all been notified. Edward had seen to that. He and Blake’s grandmother, Anne, had been the ones who’d gotten the phone call from the sheriff. That was a lousy twist of fate. Sure, Anne was one tough bird and Edward was practically made of stone. But they were nearing eighty now, and Edward’s heart attack last year had thrown them for a loop—a frightening wake-up call that drove home the reality of their own mortality. Finding out that their eldest son was dead might be more than they could handle. At least if they could have heard it from a family member first, someone who could cushion the blow, it might have helped.
But that’s not the way it had played out. The sheriff had done his best. Ascertaining that Frederick was a childless widower, he’d tried calling each of his brothers. He’d reached neither. Niles was in Wellington, Florida, watching his son, James, compete in the winter equestrian jumping competitions. And Gregory, Blake’s father, was in Italy, vacationing with his wife at their Tuscany villa. The sheriff had even tried phoning Pierson & Company, hoping to find an available family member in the office. No luck. Having run out of options, he’d called Edward and Anne at home.
Edward had not only received the news, he’d staunchly contacted both Niles and Gregory at their respective vacation locales. Each of them was now making immediate arrangements to return home.
The only grandchild Edward had gotten in touch with was Blake.
Blake had been up here at the farm, jogging through the woods with his golden retriever pup, Chomper, when his cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, he’d recognized his grandparents’ home number and assumed there was some business crisis at Pierson & Company. He’d never imagined this. But he’d taken it in stride. He had to. If Frederick was dead, the fallout would be monumental.
The front door slammed and footsteps sounded—footsteps that were every bit as sure as they’d been for all thirty-five years of Blake’s life.
“Blake?” Edward Pierson walked into the room. Beneath his thick shock of white hair, his features were taut, the lines on his face more pronounced. His voice was rough, just as it had been when he called from the limo to say he was on his way up to the farm. But his composure was intact. He nodded curtly when he saw his grandson. “Not exactly the relaxing weekend you planned.”
“No, but under the circumstances, I’m glad I’m here.”
Edward unbuttoned his coat and loosened his collar. “I had to get out of my apartment, and out of the city. I breathe better up here.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Plus, I needed someone with a level head to help make arrangements. You’re it.”
“I’ll do whatever I can.” Blake scrutinized his grandfather’s hard amber gaze—the color of his eyes so unusual, so compelling, and such a mirror image of his own—wishing he were the kind of man who’d accept comfort. “Where’s Grandmother?”
“She stayed home. She wasn’t up for the trip. She’s taking this news very hard.”
Evidently, she wasn’t the only one. Edward’s breathing was a little too shallow to suit Blake. “Grandfather…”
“Don’t start that invalid crap again. I had enough of it when I was in the hospital. I’m fine.”
“All right.” Blake bit back his concern. “Do we have another update?”
“Yes.” Edward shrugged out of his camel-hair overcoat and tossed it on a stool. “Only one body’s been found so far. Male. I’m having Frederick’s dental records faxed up there.” He averted his head, a muscle working in his jaw.
“Come into the living room and sit down.” Blake put a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder.
Edward stiffened. “Like I said, I’m fine. I’m not having another heart attack.”
“That’s a relief,” Blake returned drily. “There’s enough drama going on without adding a coronary to the mix. Humor me. Sit down. Take it easy. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“Bourbon. Straight up.”
“Forget it. Ice water. On the rocks.” Blake waited until Edward relented and walked into the living room, lowering himself unsteadily onto the sofa. Then he went to the sideboard and did the honors. “What did you decide to do about James?”
“I told Niles to keep his mouth shut. The last thing I need is for James to hear news like this two days before the Wellington Classic. It’ll screw up his concentration—and his performance. That Grand Prix is too damned important. He needs to win or at least to place. Not just this Sunday, but every damned Sunday between now and the U.S. Open Jumper Championship in March. He and Stolen Thunder are going to win that cup. And be one step closer to Olympic gold.”
No surprise there, Blake thought, bringing the glass of ice water over to the couch. Edward’s oldest grandchild was the apple of his eye, his one soft spot. His skill as a horseman solidified their connection. These past three years James had been showing almost exclusively on Edward’s prized stallion, Stolen Thunder. The two made quite a team. James was good, but Stolen Thunder was extraordinary. The German warmblood came from a highly acclaimed, champion lineage. He was the last in his bloodline. He’d won an impressive number of four- and five-year-old championships on a national and international level before Edward bought him for a small fortune. Edward was now hell-bent on James riding Stolen Thunder to a record number of qualifying Grand Prix wins, then on to the World Games in Aachen and—their ultimate goal—to the Beijing Olympics. There was no way, after the huge financial and emotional investment he’d made, that anything was going to interfere with that.
“Besides,” Edward added, taking a gulp of water, “there’s not a damned thing James could do here. As it is, we’re just sitting on our hands, waiting.”
“True enough. And waiting’s not exactly James’s forte.”
“No. It’s not.”
Blake lowered
himself into the armchair across from his grandfather. “You said the police found one body. What about Sally Montgomery?”
“She’s still missing.”
“‘Missing’ as in they haven’t found her body yet, or ‘missing’ as in she wasn’t there when the fire started?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Edward shrugged, taking another swallow of water. “The firefighters and cops have been combing the debris for hours. There’s still no sign of her. The sheriff tells me there’s no way she could have been in that house and survived. That cabin went up like paper. The place was a pile of ashes in half an hour.”
“Then where is she?” Blake’s brows drew together. “It shouldn’t take this long to search the scene. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No. It doesn’t.” Edward rolled the glass between his palms. “But it better—soon.”
MONTY LEANED BACK against his car and watched Sergeant Jakes talking on his cell. The call was from the coroner, who’d completed his initial examination. Monty had purposely walked away so Jakes could get the low-down in private.
And so he could watch Jakes’s response.
He studied the cop’s expression, his gestures, his stance.
Something he was hearing wasn’t sitting right. Which meant the coroner was informing him that whatever he’d found suggested this fire had not been accidental.
No surprise.
And still no Sally.
Shading his gaze, Monty glanced around, trying to figure out which path she’d taken. Had she reasoned out the safest route before she fled? Or had time been working against her? Had she been too desperate to get away from the fire—and whoever set it—to think rationally? Did the perp realize she was alive? Was he after her to keep her from identifying him? Is that why no one had heard from her? Was she hiding somewhere? Hurt? In either case, calling would be out. No way her cell phone was with her. She hated the thing, rarely carried it. And when she went out walking? Forget it. Dollars to doughnuts, her cell phone had burned to a crisp in that cabin. Which meant she was out there somewhere, alone, with only her backwoods instincts to guide her.
Still, those instincts were pretty damned amazing. They’d keep her alive and help him bring her home. They had to.
“Dad?” Meredith rolled down the car window and leaned out. “What’s going on?”
Monty turned, wincing at the agonized expression on his youngest child’s face. She was taking this every bit as hard as he’d feared.
“Sergeant Jakes is talking to the coroner. I’ll give him a minute to process what he’s being told and to share it with his team. Then I’ll go over there and see what I can find out.” He leaned forward, folding his arms across the open window and meeting his daughter’s gaze with as much parental authority as he had the heart, or the right, to display. “I want you to stay put. No bursting onto the scene, pleading for information. It’ll only piss Jakes off and make him clam up.”
“I’m not a child, Dad. I’m almost twenty-one. I have no intention of freaking out in front of the cops. But I’m worried sick. I keep thinking about all the horrible things that might have happened to Mom.”
“I know.” Monty’s fingers brushed her cheek. “I realize how scared you are. But I told you your mother is alive, and she is. I also told you I’d find her, and I will.”
Meredith gave an anxious nod, swallowing back tears. She didn’t look convinced. And how could Monty blame her?
“I haven’t given you much reason to trust me, have I, Merry?” he murmured ruefully. “I’ve been out of your life more than I’ve been in.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. But it’s also not the point—not now. Just know that you, Devon, and Lane mean the world to me. So does your mother. Trust me to bring her home.”
With a determined sniff, Meredith brushed away her tears. “Go talk to the sergeant. I’ll wait in the car. Just tell me what you learn the absolute second that you do.”
It was the best he was going to get. Not a whopping show of support, but a tentative one. It would have to suffice.
Shoving his hands in the pockets of his parka, Monty strolled back over to the debris that had been the cabin. Damn, it was cold. Even with gloves and a down jacket, he was freezing. He prayed Sally had been wearing layers—warm ones.
He reached the spot where Jakes and his team were standing. “So, what light did the coroner shed on all this?”
The sergeant’s lips tightened as he turned to Monty. “His preliminary exam revealed no soot particles in the victim’s nostrils.”
“In other words, he was dead before the fire started.”
“We’ll need an autopsy to confirm it, but, yeah, it looks that way. He was also the only body on the scene—or anywhere else in the vicinity. Which means things don’t look too good for your ex-wife.”
“She’s alive. What could look better?”
“We don’t know she’s alive. But even if she is, things look pretty bleak.”
“Why?” Monty’s question was deliberately vague and provoking. He wasn’t getting the full story. And he wanted it.
“You know damned well why,” Jakes shot back. “The pile of ashes we’re standing on is now officially a crime scene.”
“Maybe Pierson was smoking a cigarette, had a massive coronary, and croaked, setting the cabin up in flames while Sally was out.”
“Yeah, and maybe a frog will jump out of my left nostril. Cut the crap, Montgomery.”
“If you tell me what else the coroner said, I will.”
Jakes blinked, clearly surprised that Monty had seen through him. “Fine. The victim had cranial damage. Someone bashed the front of his head in before burning down the cabin. We’re talking about murder and arson. Your ex-wife’s missing. So she’s either a criminal, a kidnapping victim, or dead.”
Monty’s jaw tightened. “Your first idea’s complete bullshit. Sally wouldn’t hurt a fly. Your second’s a reach, since neither Sally nor anyone in her family has anything worth a damn; certainly not enough to cough up ransom money. As for dead—I don’t buy it. If the perp was going to kill her, he’d do it here. He’d already knocked off Pierson. One body, two—what’s the difference? It’s the perfect spot for a murder; virtually deserted. So why would he risk transporting Sally somewhere else, where he might be seen? It’s none of the above. Running away is more like it.”
“Or dropping out of sight.”
“Could be. But not for the reasons you’re insinuating. Look, Jakes, let’s put aside my personal feelings. What possible motive could Sally have for wanting Pierson dead?”
“Jealousy? Greed? I haven’t checked out her history with Pierson. But I will.”
“And if she was jealous or greedy and wanted him dead, she’d drive all the way up to Lake Luzerne just to bash in his head and burn down his cabin, letting everyone know they were alone up here so she’d be the prime suspect? That’s a pretty far-fetched theory. Try this one instead. Frederick Pierson’s a hotshot, the CEO of a major restaurant and food services company. That means he has enemies, lots of them. People he screwed over who want a piece of him. Someone came up here and got it. Sally was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“If that’s the case, where is she? Why hasn’t she contacted her family?”
Monty’s gut twisted. “She’s either hurt or hiding. Maybe the perp’s after her. Maybe she can identify him.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s what investigations are for.”
“No arguments there.” Monty forced himself to back off. He’d gotten as far as he was going to. If he wanted to stay on the inside of this investigation, he’d better keep things between him and the sheriff’s office copacetic. “Do what you have to. But I want to be kept up to date.”
“That goes both ways.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that if Ms. Montgomery happens to call any of her family members, I want to be told.”
“Fair enough.”
Jakes yanked out a pad and pen. “I’ve got your daughter Devon’s contact information. I’ll need the same for your other kids. Also for any other friends and relatives.”
“The kids are no problem.” Monty gave Jakes what he needed. “But for ease of purpose, try Devon or me first. I’m bringing Meredith to her sister’s place. Lane’s flying in tonight, and I’m sure Devon will put him up, too.”
“Fine. Friends?”
Monty blew out his breath. “Sally and I have been divorced for fifteen years. The kids would be more current on her friends. I can give you the name and phone number of the nursery school she works for. As for relatives, she’s got a sister, Carol. Divorced. Fifty-one. Lives abroad, in Rome. She’s bilingual, and works for some Italian exporting company. Also, Sally’s parents. They live in Orange County. But go easy on them. They’re in their late seventies, and this is their daughter. They don’t know a thing about what’s happened. I’d appreciate if you’d give me a chance to break the news to them before you drive down there and start asking questions.”
Jakes nodded, glancing over at Monty’s car. “I’d like to speak to your daughter before you leave.”
Monty’s protective-father instinct roared to life, and he had to bite back the urge to refuse. But that would be stupid. Jakes’s request was a mere formality. He was going to question Meredith with or without Monty’s permission. Plus, as Meredith had pointed out a few minutes ago, she was an adult now. Monty couldn’t shield her from the world. On top of which, she’d want to help.
“Yeah, okay,” he agreed tersely, jerking his head in the direction of the car. “Talk in there. It’s warm. Meredith and I will hit the road when you’re through.”
NONE OF THE Montgomerys got much sleep that night.
Lane’s plane landed at JFK around nine. He grabbed a taxi and headed straight for Devon’s. Meredith and Monty were already there. It was a bittersweet reunion, and a toss-up as to who was the biggest emotional wreck.
Both Devon’s siblings bunked at her place. They urged their father to join them, but somehow Monty wanted to be alone. So he drove the thirty-five minutes to Queens, to the little house where he and Sally had been so happy—and so unhappy—and plopped on the couch, throwing an arm across his eyes. He didn’t bother turning on a light or changing his clothes. He just lay there, wide awake, trying to fit together some pieces.