Light in Shadow (16 page)

Ethan wrapped both
hands around the curved bronze handles and opened the gilded double doors. He stepped into the postage-stamp-sized lobby and pulled aside the velvet curtains.

For a time, he stood looking into the inky darkness of the unlit theater.

Zoe had not simply paused here on the threshold; she had made an excuse not to enter what had to be one of the more interesting rooms in the house.

He found the bank of switches and snapped a couple upward. The bronze and etched glass fixtures glowed to life. They cast a low, glamorous light that lit the aisle between the two rows of seats.

He studied the gilded, dark pink velvet chairs and wondered what it was about the theater that had caused Zoe to shiver.

Because he was very sure that was what he had seen pass through her when she had looked into this room. A shiver.

After a while, he turned off the lights and went back along the hall to his study. Abner Bennett Foote's journal was where he had left it on the desk.

He sat down and opened it to the entry he had been reading earlier and picked up where he had left off.

. . . My beautiful Camelia has invited several of her acquaintances to join us here for a long weekend. The ladies will be beautiful and the gentlemen will no doubt tell excellent stories. There will be a good deal of champagne and gin and everyone will be drunk by midnight. My darling is so young and naïve that she does not see how shallow they all are.

I am not looking forward to the affair but I can hardly object. Camelia's friends are very important to her. When I persuaded my Flower to marry me she made it clear that she would agree only if I would allow her to entertain as often and as lavishly as she wished. This long weekend will no doubt cost me a good deal of money but if it makes my Flower happy, that is all that matters.

There is one bright spot on the horizon this weekend. I reviewed the guest list this morning and Hill is not on it. . . .

“It's a blackmail
note,” Arcadia said.

“Yes.” Zoe wrapped her hands around the mug of hot tea that sat on the table in front of her. But it was no use. Nothing could warm her. She could not seem to stop shaking. These chills were as bad as those she got after she'd had one of her little episodes. “Believe it or not, I did manage to figure that much out.”

Conversation and soft jazz swirled around them, masking their tense discussion. The Last Exit was a café that morphed into a nightclub after nine o'clock in the evenings. Zoe and Arcadia occupied a small booth tucked into the shadows at the back. They had a good view of the stage, but
neither of them paid any attention to the musicians.

“So much for that special firewall that was supposed to keep me invisible,” Zoe commented. “I'd like to get my hands on that broker who sold it to me.”

“The Merchant has a sterling business reputation,” Arcadia said. “I can't believe he double-crossed you.”

Another chill shot through Zoe. She clenched the mug more tightly. “You do realize that if he sold me out, he may have done the same to you?”

“I don't think he sold either of us out. He's been in business for a long time, and there's never been any hint that he might be unreliable.”

“Well,
someone
found out where I am, and we have to consider the possibility that whoever it is knows where you are, too.”

“Believe me,” Arcadia said, “that thought has been on my mind for the past half hour.”

Zoe tried to sort through the few facts they had. “If you don't think the Merchant double-crossed us, how do you explain that blackmail note?”

“I don't know what went wrong, but I can think of at least one possibility.”

“What?”

Arcadia drew her fingertip around the rim of her tiny espresso cup. “The Merchant operates online. His security is good, but no computer security system is perfect. Maybe he got hacked. Whoever got into his files may have been looking for you in particular or maybe the hacker just grabbed a bunch of names at random and got out.”

“I suppose either of those reasons would explain why I got a note and you didn't.” Zoe propped her elbows on the table. “Which means that the blackmailer may be the hacker.”

“Not necessarily. It's possible the hacker is just another online business person who sold your file to someone who knew enough about you to make use of the information.”

Zoe rubbed her temples. “It could be anyone.”

“No, not
anyone,
” Arcadia said slowly. “I think we can
exclude your in-laws. They have no interest in blackmailing you. If they knew where you were, they would be moving heaven and earth to put you back in Xanadu.”

“True.” Zoe forced herself to think. “And the same goes for Dr. Harper. If he had discovered my whereabouts, he would have sent his minions to pick me up.”

“As quietly as possible,” Arcadia agreed. “The last thing he'd want is for Forrest Cleland to discover that you've been running around loose for the past few months.”

“Okay, so the blackmailer is probably not Harper or any of my dear relatives.”

“No, but whoever sent that note obviously knows a lot about your history with Xanadu.”

“The reference to Room 232.”

“Yes.”

“You're right.” Zoe tried to blot out the scenes from her recurring nightmare and stay focused on the logic. “The room number is a very specific detail. Only someone directly connected to Xanadu would know it.”

“I think that's a fairly safe assumption.”

“One of the orderlies? Ron or Ernie?”

“Maybe,” Arcadia said slowly. “Although I would have bet that neither of them is bright enough or sufficiently well connected to have the resources it would take to find you.”

“Good point. They're both sociopaths but they are definitely not the sharpest knives in the drawer.”

“Doubt if they could afford to buy that kind of information, even if someone offered it for sale to them. Whoever supplied your file to the blackmailer probably charged big bucks for it.”

Zoe ran through a few more possibilities. “What about Fenella Leeds?”

“Harper's administrative assistant?” Arcadia gave that some consideration and nodded. “Maybe. Leeds is about as cold as they come and she's smart. I'm sure she knows everything Harper knows. She was sleeping with him for a while, until she got bored and found another victim, remember?”

“Only too well. All right, we'll put her on the list. And don't forget the security chief, Leon Grady.”

“I don't know,” Arcadia said. “He's not overly smart and besides, I always had the impression that he was Harper's creature. He makes a nice living doing what he's told there at the Manor. Remember the Porsche? And that flashy ring?”

“Maybe he got tired of covering up for his boss,” Zoe suggested.

“Maybe.”

“We can't overlook Dr. McAlistair, either. Harper was content to lock me away and keep me doped up, but McAlistair was always scheduling therapy sessions. She kept pushing me to tell her exactly what I experienced when I walked into certain rooms. Always trying to conduct one of her little surprise tests.”

“She did seem to be particularly interested in your case,” Arcadia allowed.

“She had to know about Harper's side business.”

“I agree, but, like Harper, I would think her main goal would be to get you back into Xanadu, not to blackmail you.”

“You're right.” Zoe dropped her head in her hands. “This is hopeless. We'll never be able to identify the blackmailer this way. The most we can do is speculate.”

“I think,” Arcadia said, “that what we need here is some professional expertise.”

Zoe raised her head swiftly, stunned. “Go to the cops? You know that's not possible. The minute they discover that I'm an escapee from a loony bin, they'll fall all over themselves to ship me back there.”

“I wasn't talking about going to the police,” Arcadia said.

Understanding struck.

Zoe sat back very slowly against the cushions of the booth. “No.”

“Got a better idea?”

“No,” she said again. “But this is definitely not a good idea either.”

“Why not? This is the kind of thing he's trained to do. He guarantees confidentiality to his clients, and I think you can trust him.”

Zoe felt ill. “I don't want him to know about . . . about Xanadu and me and the damned walls.”

“You don't have to tell him all the details. He doesn't need to know about your issues with certain rooms.”

“But he'll have to be told about Xanadu.”

“Yes. I don't see any way around that. You've only got two options as far as I can tell. You either go home, pack, and make a run for it, or you call Ethan Truax.”

“When you put it like that . . .”

Friday . . .

He is here. Hill had the gall to come even though his name was not on the guest list. I confronted Camelia and demanded that she tell him he must leave. But she became very angry and refused to send him away. She says that would be ungracious and that there is plenty of room for one more.

Midnight . . .

I saw them together this evening when the cocktails were served before dinner. I knew from the way he was looking at her that he intended to try to seduce her. Shortly after ten o'clock, they went out into the gardens together. I watched them from my study window. The bastard took my Camelia into his arms and kissed her. She made no effort to resist.

I know now that they must have plotted all along to be together this weekend.

I have been a fool. . . .

The phone buzzed, jarring Ethan out of the journal entry. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly midnight. He had intended to be in bed by now.

He reached for the phone, aware of a small tightening in his gut. There were very few people who might call him at this hour. Bonnie was at the top of the list.

“Truax,” he said.

“Ethan? It's me, Zoe.”

A whisper of pleasure replaced the unease. He leaned back in his chair. “What's up? Can't sleep?”

“I need to hire you again.”

 

He walked into
The Last Exit twenty minutes later and stood in the shadows near the entrance until he spotted Zoe and Arcadia in a remote booth. He watched them for a while. Every few seconds Zoe turned her head, glancing anxiously toward the door, but he could tell that she was unable to see him.

He started toward the booth, deliberately weaving his way through the maze of tables in a convoluted path that kept him out of what little light there was. Neither Zoe nor Arcadia noticed him until he was almost upon them.

Zoe started visibly when she realized he was looming over the table. Relief came and went in her face. It was replaced by wariness.

“Ethan.” She spoke very softly. He got the feeling she was exerting immense control. “I didn't see you.”

Arcadia frowned slightly but gave no other indication of surprise. He wondered what it would take to rattle her. A lot, he thought.

“Thanks for coming,” Zoe said in the same tone of voice she might have used to express her appreciation for his having turned up at a funeral.

“Not like I had anything better to do.”

She flushed.

He sat down next to her, purposefully crowding her a
little to see what she would do. She responded by edging back into the corner of the booth. Putting some distance between them. Not a good sign.

“You made excellent time,” Arcadia said.

“I like to encourage repeat business, but I've got to admit I wasn't expecting to get rehired quite so fast.” He looked at Zoe. “What's going on? Got another suspicious client?”

“No,” Zoe said. “This is a personal problem.”

He angled himself loosely in the booth and rested one arm on the back of the bench. “Tell me about it.”

She tightened the fingers of one hand into a fist on her lap. “I'm being blackmailed.”

Well, shit. He'd better start thinking like a professional here.

“Give it to me from the beginning,” he said.

She glanced at Arcadia, as if looking for support. She got a small nod from her companion.

“Two years ago my husband was murdered. Shot dead on the back porch of our vacation cabin.”

“I'm listening.”

“Preston drove up to the cabin a day before our anniversary. Alone. He didn't tell me. He wanted to prepare a surprise.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“Flowers.” Zoe smiled wistfully. “Lots and lots of flowers. Dahlias, orchids, huge chrysanthemums. He filled the cabin with them. They were everywhere. The kitchen, the bathroom, the living room. My husband taught art history at a small college in Northern California. At heart he was a true romantic.”

“Right. A romantic.”

It would never in a million years occur to him to fill a mountain cabin with flowers as a surprise for a woman, Ethan thought. Maybe that was one of his problems.

“There was also a gift for me.” Zoe flexed the fingers of her hand and then knotted them back into a tense little fist. “A camera.”

Something in her face triggered a hunch. “You found him, didn't you?”

She swallowed. “I was away at a three-day conference in San Francisco, but we had arranged to rendezvous at the cabin. I tried to call him that night but there was no answer. I was a little worried but I told myself that there was a perfectly good explanation for why he wasn't answering his phone. Still, the next morning I left the conference early and drove to the cabin.”

“Go on,” Ethan said when she came to a sudden halt.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “When I opened the door I realized at once that something terrible had happened.”

“What did you see?”

“Shattered vases and broken flowers everywhere. The camera had been crushed beneath someone's foot. To me it looked like there had been a fierce struggle. But the police pointed out that Preston had been shot on the back porch. He had apparently gone out to get some firewood. There was no indication that he had even seen his assailant, let alone tried to fight back.”

“How did the cops explain things?”

“There had been a prowler in the area hitting empty cabins,” Zoe said. “They think he shot Preston from ambush and then went into the cabin to steal whatever he could.”

“What did they say about the broken vases and the camera?”

“They concluded that they had been smashed by the killer in a fit of rage and frustration when he failed to find anything significant in the way of cash or valuables.”

“What about your husband's wallet?”

She hesitated. “They found it nearby. It was empty. The assumption was that the prowler had discarded it after he took the cards and cash.”

“The empty wallet does sort of support the cops' theory,” he said gently.

“I realize that,” she shot back with sudden heat. “But I
refuse to believe that Preston was murdered by a passing prowler.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I'm convinced that my husband was killed by his cousin, Forrest Cleland.”

“Motive?” Ethan asked.

“Control of a closely held company, Cleland Cage, Inc. It was founded by Preston's grandfather and his great-uncle. Preston himself was not active in management. His passion was teaching. But he held a controlling block of shares, and he took his responsibilities to the firm and the Cleland family seriously.”

“What about Forrest?”

“Forrest Cleland is the current CEO. He and Preston did not get along well. Shortly before the murder, Preston and Forrest were engaged in a fight over a major acquisition that Forrest wanted the board to approve. Preston was convinced that Forrest was putting the future of the company at risk. He intended to use his controlling interest to halt the project. Forrest was enraged.”

Definitely time to think professionally. Ethan took the notepad and pen out of the pocket of his shirt. He put them on the table.

“You think Forrest Cleland murdered your husband because Preston was standing in his way with those shares, is that it?”

“Yes,” Zoe said evenly. “Yes, that is exactly what I believe. Forrest's plan would have worked perfectly except for one thing. Shortly before he died, Preston made some significant changes in his estate plan. He left me his entire block of shares.”

Ethan tapped the edge of the notebook against the table. “You control that block now?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “It's a long story. But here is how it works. I think Preston had begun to suspect that Forrest might be dangerous. He left his shares to me in a trust with a proviso that if I died, regardless of the
circumstances of my death, the shares would go into another trust to be administered by a bank.”

“Who benefits from that trust?” Ethan asked.

“Any and all members of the Cleland family who happen to be under the age of ten at the time of my demise.” She looked coldly amused. “The Clelands are a fairly large clan. There are a number of kids under the age of ten at the moment. Fifteen or twenty at least. Neither they nor their parents can access the trust until the offspring reach the age of thirty.”

Ethan took a minute to filter that through a fine sieve. Then he nodded, impressed. “It's not that hard to break a will but it's damn near impossible to tear apart a well-constructed trust.”

“Yes. Preston knew what he was doing. He was trying to protect me.”

“Let me get this straight. The bottom line here is that if something happens to you, Forrest can't get his hands on the shares and neither can anyone else in the family. Very clever.”

Arcadia stirred slightly in the corner of the booth. “Not quite clever enough, as it turns out.”

Ethan glanced at her and then turned back to Zoe.

“You want to spell that out for me?” he said.

“There was one loophole in Preston's estate plan,” Zoe said softly. “It's true that if I die, the shares slip out of Forrest's control. But the lawyers convinced my husband to set up a mechanism to handle routine business affairs in the event of a temporary emergency.”

“Such as?”

She moved a hand slightly. “Say I was incapacitated for a time by a serious accident or surgery. It is conceivable that a situation might arise that would leave me temporarily unable to manage my personal affairs. If that happened, Preston did not want my shares going into the irrevocable trust designed for the children because I'd never be able to get them back.”

“As fate would have it,” Arcadia said dryly, “a temporary emergency occurred about six months after Preston Cleland was murdered.”

Ethan was tempted to follow that tangent, but experience kept him focused. “How does this short-term emergency mechanism work?”

“In the event I am incapacitated for any length of time,” Zoe said, “a revocable trust kicks in allowing my shares to be voted by the Cleland board of directors. The revocable trust remains in effect until I revoke it in writing. As things stand now, Forrest controls the board and therefore, the votes.”

“Because you are incapacitated?”

“So they tell me.”

“You look okay to me. How, exactly, are you incapacitated?”

She looked at him with fathomless eyes. “They say I'm crazy.”

There was a beat of silence. The jazz swirled heavily in the darkness.

“You want to run that by me again?” Ethan said softly.

Zoe clenched and unclenched the hand resting in her lap. “My husband's dear cousin managed to get me committed.”

“Committed.” He repeated the word very precisely and very evenly.

“Yes.”

“I'll admit I'm not up on the laws concerning this kind of thing,” he said carefully, “but I was under the impression that it was pretty tricky to get someone committed against her will these days.”

Zoe's jaw tightened. He could see that she had clenched her teeth. Probably wondering if he was buying any of this. It was a legitimate concern. He was wondering the same thing.

“Forrest had some help with the paperwork and the legalities,” she said.

“From?”

“Dr. Ian Harper, the director of a private psychiatric
hospital in California called Candle Lake Manor. I have no idea how much Forrest paid him to keep me doped up, locked up, and incapacitated. But I'm sure it was a substantial sum.”

Okay, he'd had a feeling this was going to get weird, he reminded himself.

“I can't help but notice that you are not in this Candle Lake Manor hospital at the moment,” he said. “You are sitting in a jazz club in Whispering Springs instead.”

“Under another name,” Zoe said. She fixed him with a determined expression that did not quite hide a hint of desperation. “You are looking at a genuine escapee from an old-fashioned lunatic asylum.”

“That's funny, you don't look crazy.”

She flattened one hand on the table. “Let me explain how it happened.”

“An explanation would be nice.”

“The day I found Preston's body at the cabin, I was a basket case. I knew he had been murdered, and I told the cops that I suspected Forrest. They thought I was hysterical. And I can't argue that point.”

“Lot of people would get hysterical in that situation,” Ethan said.

“True. But I was also sure that I was right. I gave the authorities my statement and then I went home, expecting the wheels of justice to grind. Unfortunately there was no evidence linking Forrest to the crime. No one was arrested. The cabin prowler was eventually picked up, but he refused to confess to murder. After three months I realized that Preston's killer would go unpunished.”