Eye of the Beholder (38 page)

The warm, grandmotherly voice chilled the blood in Alexa's veins. She put down the heavy carton and turned very slowly to look at the petite, silver-haired woman with the sparkling blue eyes who hovered in the doorway.

“Well, shoot.” Alexa fitted her hands on her hips. “I should have known you'd turn up sooner or later.”

“How lovely to see you again, dear.” Harriet McClelland glowed with pleasure. “It's been a long time, hasn't it?”

“Not long enough, Mac. Not nearly long enough.”

34
 

“I thought we should talk, Trask.” Webster rubbed the bridge of his nose in a world-weary gesture as he paced back and forth in front of the balcony window. “Compare notes, as it were. You risked your neck and saved Radstone's life last night. Thought you'd like to know what my accountants have discovered so far.”

Trask looked up from pouring his unexpected guest a cup of coffee. Webster was in his trademark black clothes this afternoon. His silver and turquoise jewelry gleamed as brightly as ever. But the lines at the corners of his mouth appeared more deeply etched, and his eyes did not glow with the usual expression of benevolence and deep-seeing perception. It was obvious he'd gotten little sleep in the past twenty-four hours.

“I'll admit I'm interested in the details.” Trask handed Webster the coffee. “But, first, how is Joanna feeling?”

“She still won't talk to me. All she wants to do is sleep. The doctors say they think she may have ingested
something besides the tranquilizers. An hallucinogen of some sort.”

“Some drug Lutton gave her?”

“Yes. All her vital signs look good now, thank God, but they won't be able to assess her mental state for a while.” Webster's hand closed into a fist. “Every time I think about that bastard, Lutton, and what he tried to do to her…”

“You were going to tell me what you'd found out about Radstone,” Trask prompted.

Webster exhaled heavily. “The doctors say he'll make it. The sneaky son-of-a-bitch was bleeding the trust dry.”

He took a sip from the cup and grimaced. Trask could not tell if it was the taste of the coffee or the thought of Foster Radstone that induced the expression.

“I understand that Lutton was convinced that he'd been charged with some mystical duty to protect the Institute,” Trask said. “But as far as I've been able to learn, his only experience in business consisted of drug dealing and running a small café. Any idea how he uncovered the work of a sophisticated con man like Radstone?”

Webster's brows came together in a thoughtful frown. “I suppose we'll never know for certain. He volunteered a lot at the Institute. Worked in the trust offices for a while.”

“You think he just stumbled into some data that indicated Radstone was skimming from the trust and knew how to interpret it?”

Webster shrugged. “That's the only way to explain it. Radstone wouldn't have had to go to great lengths to hide his scam from me. Fool that I
was, I turned over the entire financial operation to him.”

“Even so, you've got accountants, bookkeepers, and the tax folks involved in any business the size of Dimensions. None of them noticed anything wrong, yet some ex-drug dealer figures it all out?”

Webster eyed him. “You're saying it doesn't feel right?”

“Yeah, that's what I'm saying.”

Webster studied the view through the open French doors. “Strood says Lutton's note indicates that, with Guthrie, Radstone, and Joanna out of the way, he considered his job finished.”

“But he'd botched at least two out of three of those jobs. Joanna is still alive, and he couldn't be sure that Radstone was dead. The only one he actually got rid of was Guthrie. Why commit suicide now?”

“Who knows?” Webster's jaw tightened. “He was crazy. Crazy people do crazy things. Maybe he killed himself because he had failed too often.”

Trask walked forward to join Webster in the open doorway. “There are still some loose threads in this thing.”

“Such as?”

“I'd like to know what happened to Liz Guthrie, for one thing.”

A troubled look passed across Webster's face. “Yes. I'm starting to worry about her myself. Strood still thinks she simply left town for personal reasons. He believes she's safe because there was no mention of her in Lutton's note.”

“I've got someone looking for her. This morning he told me he thought he was getting close. With any luck he'll pick her up today.”

Webster nodded, clearly relieved. “It sounds as if he expects to find her alive, thank God.”

“I've got a question I want to ask her.”

“What's that?”

Trask glanced at him. “I want to know the name of her personal meditation guide. The one who was with her the morning she suddenly left town.”

Webster's expression tightened. “We don't assign personal guides who make house calls. Must have been part of Radstone's con. He probably pretended to be her guide and used his influence to get her to write checks to that account that he controlled.”

Trask considered that. “Maybe.”

Webster smiled slightly. “I can see you're a long way from satisfied.”

“I'm a hard-to-satisfy kind of guy.”

Webster nodded. “Probably what makes you so successful. Trask, I know this is none of my business, but, like everyone else in town, I'm aware that you came back here to Avalon to look for answers relating to your own past. I'm also aware that you didn't find them.”

“I found them. They just weren't the ones that I expected, that's all.”

“That is often the case in life, isn't it? The end result of the harmonic convergence is rarely what we anticipate. But that does not mean that the energy vortices do not resonate.”

“Bell, if you don't mind, I'd prefer to skip the metaphysical lecture today. I'm not in the mood.”

“I realize you don't hold with a lot of our theories, but I can't help thinking that you were drawn back to this place at this time for a reason.”

“There
was a reason, all right. I had a new hotel to open.”

Nathan was right, he thought. He'd finished what he'd come here to Avalon to do. He had no more excuses for hanging around.

The only thing holding him here was a fantasy.

Harriet gave Alexa a cheerful smile. “It's almost time to close your shop, dear. Why don't we go somewhere and have a nice cup of tea together? We can talk over old times.”

Alexa opened another box of gargoyles. “The last thing I want to do is have a cup of tea with you, Mac.”

“Coffee, then,” Harriet said irrepressibly. “I noticed a cute little café at the end of the walk.”

“It's closed indefinitely.” Alexa examined the monsters inside the box and closed the lid. “What do you want, Mac?”

“Oh, dear. I see you're still a trifle upset with me.”

That was too much. Alexa shoved the carton of gargoyles back into place in the stack and swung around to confront Harriet.

“Upset? Why should I be upset, Mac? You pretended you were my friend and mentor, but you set me up to take the fall when your forgery scheme fell apart. You left me to face your irate clients. You disappeared without a trace, leaving me holding the bag.”

“I know you won't believe me, dear, but I never intended for you to get into trouble because of my little side business.”

“Side business? You're an art forger. You cheated
some very powerful people. They were not happy when they found out they'd been taken to the cleaners. Experts hate it when someone makes a fool out of them.”

“I suppose I should be ashamed at having duped the so-called experts and the critics.” Harriet twinkled. “But you must admit, some of them had it coming. Such an arrogant, prissy lot.”

“That arrogant, prissy lot tore my reputation to shreds. I was found guilty by association. I've had to go to ground for over a year to let the worst of the gossip dissipate. I may never fully recover.”

“Nonsense. Ultimately, the publicity will serve you well. Trust me.”

“Trust you? Mac, I did trust you once and you betrayed me.”

“There's no need to go all melodramatic.” Harriet smiled benignly. “You'll do just fine, believe me. When the reviews of your wonderful Art Deco collection at the Avalon Resort & Spa hit print, you'll be hailed as the brilliant expert who exposed the McClelland forgeries.”

“If the word
McClelland
ever appears next to my name in print again, I'll be doomed.”

Harriet shook her head sadly. “You've got fantastic instincts when it comes to early-twentieth-century art, my dear, but you still have a great deal to learn about how things work in the art world.”

Alexa folded her arms. “In the past year, I've learned more than I really want to know, thank you very much.”

“Nonsense. What you fail to grasp is the importance of mystique.”

Alexa raised her brows. “Mystique? Is that another word for stupidity?”

“No, dear, it's another word for presence. For fascination. For excitement. For charisma. For glamour. In short, for all the qualities that captivate those who make a living in the world of art.”

“Oh, yeah?” Alexa swept out a hand to indicate the cluttered back room full of imitation marble statuary, cheap tapestries, and fake swords. “Does this look like I've got a lot of mystique in my life?”

“Give it time, my dear.” Harriet looked wistful. “Young people are always so impatient.”

“Impatient?” Alexa yelped. “Is that what you—?”

There was a movement in the doorway. She broke off to glance between two towers built of Greek pedestals and saw Dylan. He had a Styrofoam cup in one hand. He gave her an awkward smile.

“Uh, sorry.” He glanced uneasily at her and then at Harriet. “Am I interrupting anything?”

Harriet gave him her charm-the-client smile. “Not at all, dear boy. Alexa and I are old friends. We haven't seen each other in a while. We were just renewing our acquaintance.”

“I see.” Dylan looked dubious. He turned to Alexa for guidance.

She managed to unclench her teeth. “Was there something you wanted, Dylan?”

“Brought you some tea.” He held up the plastic cup. “Iced. I'll, uh, just put it down on your front counter.”

“Thank you, Dylan.”

“Sure. Any time.” He stepped back and came up hard against the full-sized suit of sixteenth-century armor.
There was a loud clang. One of the metal gauntlets clattered to the floor.

“Oops.” Dylan's pale face flushed a dark red.

“Careful, there,” Harriet said brightly.

Dylan winced. He stretched out his arm to scoop up the fallen gauntlet. Then he stood holding it with an abashed expression. “I'm not sure how to put it back.”

“Just set it down on the table,” Alexa said. “I'll reattach it later.”

“Sure. Okay.” Dylan set the heavy glove on a table. “See you tomorrow, Alexa.” He nodded politely at Harriet. “Ma'am.”

He disappeared in an embarrassed rush.

Harriet turned to Alexa. “Your friend is the anxious sort, isn't he?”

“Your fault. You made him nervous.”

“But, dear—”

“You make me nervous.” Alexa waved that aside. “Just tell me why you're here, Mac.”

“It's very simple really.” Harriet's smile would have soothed a disgruntled devil. “I need a little help from one of my dearest friends.”

Alexa stared at her aghast. “Me?”

“You.”

“Forget it.” Resolutely, Alexa turned back to the stack of gargoyle boxes. “I'm busy.”

“I can see that. But this won't take long. It's a simple request, really.”

“There is no such thing as a simple request where you're concerned.” Alexa lifted another box down from the stack and yanked open the lid. More gargoyle eyes goggled up at her. “You're bad news,
Mac. I gave you the best years of my life, and look what you did to me.”

“Because of me, my dear, you will one day be a legend in the business. You will surpass that twit, Paxton Forsyth, himself, in prominence. In the future your verdict on any objet d'art created in the first half of the twentieth century will be accepted as the final authority.”

“Yeah, sure.” Alexa was aware of a growing sense of anxiety. The deeper she dug into the heap of gargoyle cartons the more convinced she was that Joanna had been trying to tell her something important. “Let's have it, Mac. Why are you here?”

Harriet cleared her throat. “Well, dear, as it happens, I have recently acquired a rather important client.”

“Client?” That stopped her for a moment. Alexa looked at Harriet over her shoulder. “I knew it. You're still in business, aren't you?”

“Yes, of course.” Harriet chuckled. “Can you envision me just sitting back in my rocking chair, knitting?”

The thought of Mac not involved in the art world was mind-boggling, Alexa admitted silently. “What, exactly, are you doing these days, Mac?”