Grand Passion (29 page)

“What about the possibility that it's someone from out of town who's read the book and tracked Cleo down?” Trisha asked.

O'Reilly shook his head. “The only place a stranger could be staying here in Harmony Cove is at this inn, Cosmic Harmony, or the motel on the other side of town. None of those establishments have had any repeat customers in the past couple of months.”

Ben considered that. “So there was no one person who kept showing up around here each time there was an incident, is that it?”

“That's it,” O'Reilly said. “Now, I'm not saying someone couldn't have snuck into town and staged the incidents, but he would have had to know his way around. He would also have had to know something about Cleo. The fact that she was dating Nolan Hildebrand, for example. The time of night she usually goes upstairs to bed. Which room is hers. The fact that she often visits Cosmic Harmony. That kind of thing.”

“Good heavens,” Andromeda said uneasily. “It sounds like someone has researched Cleo.”

“Exactly,” O'Reilly said. “That kind of detail can only be learned by studying a person's routine over a period of time.”

“All of which means that whoever is doing this knows a great deal about what goes on around here.” Max picked up his cane and got to his feet. He ignored the protesting twinge in his thigh as he walked to the window.

It was raining outside, but Max felt warm and comfortable and replete. It had been a pleasant homecoming. Andromeda and Daystar had fixed a special meal of clam chowder, barley salad, and homemade bread. There had been new drawings by Sammy to admire on the refrigerator door. Everyone had exclaimed over Cleo's ring and had instantly begun making plans for the future. It was a future that included Max.

A man could get used to this kind of life real fast, Max thought. But a smart man would never take it for granted. He prided himself on being a smart man.

“Like I said,” O'Reilly continued, “it could be a complete stranger, but whoever it is has spent time in and around Harmony Cove. My gut feeling is that someone would have noticed him in a small town like this. Trust me. When we find out who's behind the incidents, the first words out of everyone's mouth will be ‘
But he seemed like such a nice guy
.’”

“Or girl,” Cleo murmured.

O'Reilly nodded. “Or girl.”

Max braced both hands on the cane. “All right, what's the next possibility?”

O'Reilly glanced down at his notes. “There's a clear connection between the start of these incidents and the death of Jason Curzon.”

Cleo and the others went very still.

“Damn.” Max gazed out into the rain. “You're right, O'Reilly.”

“I usually am,” O'Reilly murmured.

“I should have seen that for myself,” Max said, disgusted.

“What on earth are you saying?” Andromeda asked anxiously. “How could Jason's death have anything to do with this?”

“Because he left a quarter of a million dollars worth of art unaccounted for,” Max said grimly. “And everyone seems to think Cleo knows where the paintings are.”

“Everyone meaning you and Garrison Spark?” O'Reilly asked dryly.

Max set his back teeth. “I know Cleo doesn't know where the Luttrells are. But Spark still believes she does. He's already tried to talk her into turning them over to him for a fraction of what they're worth.”

“You wouldn't believe how many people think I'm not real bright,” Cleo said. “My theory is that my choice in foot attire gives the wrong impression.”

O'Reilly ignored her. “You think maybe these incidents are part of some sort of elaborate ploy to terrorize Cleo into producing the paintings, Max?”

“It's a possibility,” Max said. “As you pointed out, the timing fits. They started shortly after Jason died.”

O'Reilly hesitated. “Then why hasn't she received any notes warning her to sell or else?”

Cleo held up a hand for attention. “Maybe Mr. Spark or whoever is behind this wants to get me really spooked first. When I'm totally traumatized and scared to death, he'll zing me with a demand to turn over the Luttrells.”

“Maybe,” O'Reilly agreed. He didn't look convinced. He tapped his notebook with the tip of his pen. “Something else I wanted to mention while we're on the subject of the paintings. Nolan Hildebrand has to be counted as a suspect.”

“Nolan?” Cleo's eyes widened. “Are you crazy? Nolan wouldn't stage those incidents.”

“You can't be sure of that,” Max said. “He tried to get you to help him find the paintings so that he could collect Spark's finder's fee, remember?”

Cleo grimaced. “Yes, but I just don't see Nolan as the sort who would concoct all those stagy incidents. Besides, he was genuinely shocked when he found out I'd written
The Mirror
. I know he was. He couldn't have known about it earlier.”

“His shock could have been an act,” Max said. “He might have been trying to deflect suspicion from himself.”

“I don't know.” Cleo's expression was dubious. “Nolan just isn't that convoluted in his thinking processes, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean he's simpleminded?” Daystar asked bluntly.

Cleo scowled. “Not quite. I just don't see him as the type to put together a real devious scheme like this.”

“Maybe,” O'Reilly said. “Maybe not. I still think we have to consider him as a possibility.”

Cleo threw up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Nolan is a suspect. In that case, you might as well add Adrian Forrester to the list. The same logic applies. But I want you all to know that I'm going on record with my own private, personal opinion that neither one of them is behind the incidents.”

Max looked at her. “You were willing enough to consider Forrester as a suspect earlier.”

Cleo sighed. “I know, but I was annoyed with him at the time. I've had a chance to calm down, and I have to admit that I really can't see him doing this kind of thing.”

Max considered that. He had to allow for the possibility that she was right. Cleo could see into people the way he could see into paintings. He should know. She had looked into him and seen what he had wanted most in the world. And she had given it to him.

A twinge went through his thigh. Max stirred, changing position slightly. The long drive from Seattle was taking its toll. He pushed the old, familiar ache to the back of his mind and concentrated on the problem at hand as he walked to the fountain.

“If Spark is behind these incidents,” he said quietly, “I think we can squelch the problem fairly easily.”

Everyone stared at him.

“How?” Sylvia asked.

“I'll call him tomorrow and arrange a meeting.” Max gazed into the turquoise blue fountain. “I'll tell him to forget the Luttrells. I'll also tell him that I want him to vanish.”

O'Reilly eyed him in cool appraisal. “We're talking about a quarter of a million bucks here. What makes you think Spark will back out of the scene quietly when there's that kind of money involved?”

“He'll go,” Max said.

No one said a word. They all sat in tense silence, staring at him. Max felt their silent questions hammering at him, but he did not volunteer an explanation of just how he would get rid of Spark.

“Okay,” O'Reilly finally said in a brisk, businesslike voice, “that takes care of the Spark angle. Which leaves us with a third possible explanation to consider.”

Max met O'Reilly's eyes. “I think I like this one the least.”

Cleo frowned. “You haven't even heard it yet.”

O'Reilly smiled wryly. “Max has a very analytical brain. He's already figured out that the third possibility is a rather nasty one.”

“What is it?” Trisha asked uneasily.

Max looked down into the bubbling fountain water. “That there is something in Cleo's past that has triggered someone into coming after her.”

“Shit,” Ben whispered, awed. He looked at Max. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Max looked at Cleo, then continued. “I know we talked about this possibility briefly and then let it drop. I didn't want you worrying about it. But it looks like we need to look into it further.”

“What is there to look into?” Cleo asked. “I've already told you that I don't have any strange, obsessive men in my past. Nothing bizarre has ever occurred in my life except for the deaths of my parents.”

“Your parents died in a very unusual manner,” Max said quietly.

“Yes, but there was a logical explanation for it,” Cleo reminded him. Her eyes turned bleak. “At least according to the authorities there was a logical explanation.”

O'Reilly glanced at Max. Then he turned to Cleo. “I think this is as good a time as any to tell you that I did a little checking into the death of that investigator you hired last summer.”

Cleo's gaze swung to O'Reilly. “You looked into Mr. Eberson's death? Why?”

“Because you mentioned that he was working on your case at the time, and because I am a very thorough investigator myself,” O'Reilly said.

“Well?” Cleo waited expectantly. “Was there anything strange about his car accident?”

“Not officially. The records indicate that it was an accident. But when I phoned the insurance salesman who took over Eberson's office space, he mentioned that he'd had to wait quite a while before he could move in.”

Max watched O'Reilly's face closely. “Why?”

“Because there was some fire damage that had to be repaired first.” O'Reilly closed his notebook with a snap. “It seems that there was a small blaze caused by faulty wiring in the office. It completely destroyed Eberson's files.”

“Is that so?” Max asked softly.

Cleo wrapped her arms around her knees. Her eyes were huge with worry as she gazed at O'Reilly. “What are you saying? Do you think that Eberson had uncovered something about my parents' death that may have gotten him killed?”

O'Reilly held up a hand. “Cleo, I will tell you honestly that I don't know where this is going to lead. It could very well be a dead end. In fact, in all likelihood, it is a dead end. But it's something that needs to be checked out.”

“What are you going to do?” Ben asked.

“I'm going to resume the investigation that was dropped when Eberson died,” O'Reilly said. “Now that Max is here to keep an eye on all of you, I'm going to Seattle to start looking into the background surrounding the death of Cleo's parents.”

Max saw Cleo go absolutely rigid.

“I'm not sure that's a good idea,” she whispered. “What if there is some crazy person out there?”

“Then we'd better find out who he is, hadn't we?” O'Reilly asked calmly. “Before he does any more damage.”

Sylvia shifted uneasily in her chair. “I don't want you to take any risks, O'Reilly.”

Max noted the very personal note of concern in Sylvia's voice.

O'Reilly beamed reassuringly. “Hey, I'm good at this. It's what I do.”

“Sylvia's right,” Cleo said quickly. “If there's something dangerous going on here we should call in the police.”

“There's no point doing that at this stage,” O'Reilly said. “We haven't got enough to go on. Like I said, we're probably chasing a dead-end lead. I just want to be sure we've covered all the bases.”

Andromeda frowned. “You still think Spark is the most likely suspect, don't you?”

“That's exactly what I think,” O'Reilly said. “The timing of the incidents and the amount of money involved make that the most likely possibility.”

“I don't like this,” Cleo whispered. “I'm getting a weird feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?” Trisha asked.

“I don't know. It's just weird.”

Max reached down to take her hand and pull her to her feet. “I think it's time we all went to bed.” She didn't resist when he tugged her up off the chair, but the coldness in her fingers worried him.

Trisha looked at O'Reilly. “You're going to leave in the morning?”

“Afraid so.” O'Reilly glanced at Sylvia.

“But you'll be coming back, won't you?” Trisha asked. “You said you'd be here for the wedding on Friday.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” O'Reilly said. “I'll definitely be back on Friday. With my best suit.”

“God help us,” Max muttered.

Andromeda beetled her brows at him. “I'm sure O'Reilly's best suit is very nice.”

“It's green, and it's made out of polyester,” Max said. “Need I say more?”

T
he following night, Cleo put her hands behind her head and gazed up at the shadowed ceiling of the attic. “I'm going with you tomorrow when you talk to Spark.”

“No,” Max said from the other side of the bed. “For the last time, I don't want you there.”

The argument had been festering since four o'clock that afternoon, when Cleo had discovered that Max had made arrangements to talk to Garrison Spark the next day. She had immediately announced her intentions of confronting Spark with Max. Max had put his foot down with a forcefulness that had not only startled her; it had hurt her.

“Max, this is all happening because of me. I have a right to be there with you when you talk to Spark.”

“Cleo, stop pushing. I told you, I'm going to handle this.”

She sat up in bed, exasperated to the point of anger. “Why are you being so bloody-minded about it? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't be there.”

“You don't know anything about handling someone like Spark.”

“And you do?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you an expert?” she snapped.

“I told you, I once worked for Spark. I know how he thinks. I also know how he operates.”

“So?” Cleo challenged.

“So I don't want you anywhere around when I talk to him about what's been happening.”

“I'm not an idiot, Max. I won't mess up your plans, whatever they are.”

“I never said you were an idiot.”

“I am also not as naive as everyone seems to think.” Cleo paused suddenly. “Max, does it strike you that we're having our first major quarrel?”

“We're not quarreling.”

“Sure sounds like a quarrel to me.”

“We are not quarreling, damn it.”

Cleo was taken aback by the fierce insistence in his voice. “Okay, so we're having a heated discussion. Whatever you want to call it, I think the time has come for you and me to clear up a little communication problem we seem to have developed.”

“What communication problem?” he asked warily.

Cleo took a breath. “You once noted that you and I have different styles of management. Well, those two styles have just collided, and they will probably do so again in the future. We need to learn how to deal with each other when that happens.”

“Damn. The last thing I need tonight is a conversation like this.”

“Tough. We're having it.” Cleo touched his shoulder. “I think you and I need to get something settled here, Max. You can't walk into this family and just start throwing your weight around the way you apparently did when you worked for Curzon International. If you and I are going to make this relationship work, we're going to have to learn to work as a team.”

Max did not move. The new tension radiating from him was palpable. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Cleo watched him uneasily. She had the feeling that she had accidentally stepped into a minefield. “I'm just trying to talk about our mutual problem.”

Max moved without any warning. He shoved the covers aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. He reached for his cane and got to his feet. “Are you telling me that if we don't do things your way, our relationship, as you call it, is over?”

“
Max
.” Cleo clutched the sheet to her breast. “For heaven's sake, I never said that. I just said we needed to iron out some of our communication problems.”

“
Communication problems
sounds like code for
I'm having second thoughts about marrying you, Max
.”

“That's not true,” Cleo retorted. “We're having a little trouble relating to each other, that's all.”

“Don't give me a lot of pop-psych communication theory.” Max looked down at her with dangerous eyes. “Just cut to the bottom line.”

“There is no bottom line.” Cleo was bewildered by his reaction. “I'm only trying to tell you that you can't expect me to meekly step aside and let you take over running the family and everything else in sight. Good grief, no wonder Kimberly was afraid to give you a seat on the board. She knew you'd take over Curzon if you got half a chance.”

Max looked as if she'd slapped him. His hand clenched around the handle of his cane. “Is that what you think I'm trying to do? Take control of your family and your inn?”

Cleo was horrified. “Of course not.” She scrambled to a kneeling position in the center of the bed. “Max, you're getting this all wrong.”

“Is that right? What part am I getting wrong? It all sounds very clear to me. You think I'm taking over, and unless I handle things the way you want them handled, you're going to back out of the marriage. Did I miss anything?”

“I am not going to back out of the marriage. Will you please stop putting words in my mouth?”

“I'm using the words you used.”

Cleo lost her temper. “What on earth is the problem here? Why don't you want me with you tomorrow when you talk to Spark?”

“Because I don't want you there. Isn't that reason enough?”

“No, damn it, it's not.”

Max moved to the window and stood looking out into the darkness. “It's all the reason you're going to get. And if that's not good enough, you'll have to make your own decision about what to do next.”

The bleakness in his voice was Cleo's undoing. His words echoed with a cold, aloof loneliness that tore at her heart. She wondered how many times in his life Max had waited for others to make the decisions that would send him down the road to the next temporary home.

With a soft exclamation of pain that was as deep as his own, Cleo leaped off the bed and ran across the room to where he stood at the window. She threw her arms around him and leaned her head against his bare chest.

“Max, I've got news for you. It doesn't work like that now.”

He touched her hair with a hesitant hand. “What do you mean?”

Cleo raised her head to meet his eyes. She framed his hard jaw between her palms. “You don't get kicked out of this family just because you are occasionally as stubborn as a mule and have an annoying tendency to govern by fiat.”

“I don't?” He searched her face with eyes that mirrored both grim acceptance of his fate and a tiny flame of hope.

“No.” Cleo stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You're one of us now. It doesn't matter if you occasionally screw up, remember?”

Max's eyes were more enigmatic than Cleo had ever seen them. “You're sure?”

“I'm sure.” Cleo grinned. “Of course, in return, you have to learn to accommodate some of my little foibles, which may tend to irritate you now and again. For instance, I am not going to give up on this matter of going with you when you confront Spark. But that's family life for you. A little give and take. What the heck. Nothing's perfect.”

There was no answering amusement in Max's expression. “Cleo…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

Max pulled her against him and held her so tightly Cleo thought her ribs might crack. But they didn't.

After a while Max led her back to bed.

A long time later Max stirred and rolled reluctantly off of Cleo. “You can come with me tomorrow,” he said.

Cleo wondered why he sounded like a gambler who had just bet everything on a long shot.

* * *

The meeting had been arranged on neutral territory. Spark had suggested that Max meet him at a small motel located forty miles from Harmony Cove. Max had agreed.

He had thought about the meeting most of the night, but he was still not fully prepared for the flood of memories that assailed him when Spark opened the door of his small motel suite. No matter how he sliced it, Max thought, there was no getting around the fact that he owed Spark a great deal.

It was Spark, after all, who had first made it possible for Max to indulge his grand passion for fine art. It was Spark who had allowed him to handle some of the most brilliant paintings that had been produced by West Coast artists in the past twenty years. It was Spark who had provided Max with the opportunity to meet Jason Curzon.

“Well, well, well.” Spark's expression was one of cool, half-amused appraisal. “It's been a long time, Fortune. You seem to have done rather well for yourself. Hard to believe that once upon a time you made a living running errands for me.”

Spark had changed little during the past twelve years, Max thought. He looked as polished and sophisticated as ever. He still had the supercilious curl of the lip and that expression of bored condescension that was so useful for intimidating timorous collectors.

“There's no point wasting time reminiscing,” Max said. He tightened his grip on Cleo's arm. “You've met my fiancée, I believe.”

“Fiancée?” Spark's smile was rueful. “I'm sorry. I hadn't realized you had actually made the mistake of falling in love with Fortune, my dear. What a pity. Do come in.”

Cleo glared at him as she walked into the room. “We're here to discuss the paintings, Mr. Spark. I suggest we skip the small talk.”

“Ah, yes. The Luttrells.” Spark motioned Max and Cleo to chairs and then sat down himself. He crossed one leg languidly over the other. “I must admit to being rather startled when I got your call yesterday, Max. May I assume that you are ready to deal?”

“There is no deal,” Max said. “If and when the Luttrells are found, they belong to me. I have no intention of selling them.”

“I have a bill of sale from Jason Curzon.” Spark's eyes were speculative. “It clearly shows that he sold the Luttrells to me shortly before he died.”

“That bill of sale is as phony as the Maraston you sold to that collector down in Portland last year,” Max said calmly.

Spark's eyes narrowed. “You can't prove that painting was a forgery.”

Max smiled faintly. “Sure I can. I own the original.”

A flash of annoyance appeared in Spark's eyes. It vanished almost instantly. “You're lying.”

Max shook his head with weary patience. “No, Spark, I'm not lying. We both know that I never bluff. I picked up the original three years ago. It's been hanging in my vault ever since. If you insist on producing your bill of sale, I'll contact the Portland collector and suggest he have his Maraston examined by an expert.”

“You're the leading authority on Maraston's work.”

“Exactly.” Max shrugged. “I'll be only too happy to volunteer my expertise in this instance. I imagine the Portland collector will be very grateful. I think it would be safe to say that he'll probably want his money back from you. He will undoubtedly never buy anything from you again, and neither will anyone else who hears the story, which I imagine would spread like wildfire in certain circles.”

“Bastard,” Spark said, but he sounded more resigned than outraged.

Spark was, at heart, a businessman, Max reflected. He knew when to cut his losses. “I'm surprised you're still peddling the occasional forgery. I would have thought you'd have given up that sideline by now. After all, you do just fine handling the real thing. What's the matter? Still can't resist a quick buck?”

“Some of us never change, do we, Fortune?” Spark's answering smile was tinged with poison. “I see you're still as much of an opportunist as ever. I'm amazed that you've stooped to seducing nice young women in order to get what you want, however. Even in the old days you had some rather irritating standards.”

The standards hadn't been all that high, Max reflected. The arrangement he'd had with Spark was a simple one. In exchange for being allowed to handle the art he craved more than food, Max had agreed not to voice his opinions to Spark's clients.

Unless those clients asked for his opinion.

Jason Curzon was the only one who had ever asked Spark's rough-edged errand runner and odd-job man for an opinion.

Out of the corner of his eye, Max watched Cleo's expression. His insides were twisted into a cold knot of anticipation. He had known what would happen if he brought Cleo with him to this confrontation. That was why he had fought so hard to keep her away from the meeting.

But in the end she had destroyed his defenses in her own gentle fashion. At some point last night Max had realized he would have to take his chances. He did not know how she would react to this glimpse into his less-than-savory past, but he accepted the fact that his fate was in her hands.

“Do we understand each other, Spark?” Max asked quietly.

“I think so.” Spark turned to Cleo. “Did your fiancé ever tell you precisely what he did for a living when he worked for me, Ms. Robbins?”

Cleo shot a quick glance at Max. “He said he did odd jobs for you.”

“That he did.” Spark looked pleased. “Some very odd jobs. His duties included picking up extremely valuable works of art from certain sources that were, shall we say, less than reputable. Fortune carried a gun when he worked for me, Ms. Robbins. That should tell you something of the nature of his responsibilities.”

Cleo frowned. “I imagine that transporting expensive art requires some security precautions.”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed.” Spark chuckled. “Especially when some of that art was purchased from collectors who had ties to the underworld. And then there were the occasions when Max delivered paintings which had rather cloudy provenances.”