Star Bright (3 page)

Rainie’s gaze flicked to the opening, guarded now by only the flexible flap. The hole wasn’t large enough to accommodate a man, and it was more than an arm’s reach from the doorknob. It would be safe enough for her to leave the portal open so Thomas could go in and out.
Good plan.
She didn’t want to be accused of cat theft if the tom belonged to a neighbor up the street.

After eating, Thomas seemed in no rush to leave. Instead of going back outdoors, he curled up on the worn sofa in the living room, had a bath, and then drifted off to sleep. Rainie felt mildly disappointed. She’d been hoping for . . . what? An intellectual exchange? He was a cat—hello. Maybe he’d be more sociable once they got acquainted, but for now, it just felt nice not to be completely alone.

Rainie returned to the kitchen, grabbed the advertisement section of the newspaper, and dialed the telephone number listed for the bookkeeping position. As the phone rang, she rinsed out Thomas’s empty food dish, refusing to let herself feel nervous. If the job was still open, maybe she could get an interview. If it was already filled . . . oh, well. Keeping books at a ranch wasn’t exactly her dream job.

Parker Harrigan had a corn dog stuffed in his mouth when the phone rang. He plucked it back out without taking a bite and wiped his lips with the heel of his hand to remove the ketchup-and-mayonnaise concoction he used as a dip. His luck, it was his brother Quincy calling. If so, Quincy would be sure to ask what Parker was having for dinner. The conversation would go downhill from there, with Parker receiving a long and extremely boring lecture about his bad eating habits. Quincy, the health nut of the family, rarely missed an opportunity to share his dietary wisdom.

It never ceased to amaze Parker that he and Quincy were from the same gene pool. With their pitch-black hair, brown eyes, and compact builds, they looked enough alike to be twins, but the way they thought about things was totally different. Maybe that was why they talked only about food. It was a little hard to get pissed off at each other over the healthful properties of a carrot.

Only it wasn’t Quincy calling. Parker didn’t recognize the number that flashed. “Yo. This is Parker.”

Silence. For a second, Parker thought it might be a computer call. He often got them at this time of evening. He was about to hang up when a feminine voice came over the line.

“Um, hello. I’m responding to your ad in the paper for a bookkeeper?”

Parker had gotten only two responses so far, and neither applicant had been qualified. “You experienced?” He saw no point in wasting his time on another interview that went nowhere. “I’m not offering any on-the-job training.”

“Yes, I have some experience.”

She sounded halfway smart. A little on the young side, though. In Parker’s estimation, women under thirty tended to be flighty. He didn’t want to hire someone, go through the process of getting her acclimated, and then have her quit on him. “How old are you?”

“I’m sorry?”

He glanced at the four corn dogs, not wanting them to get cold. He desperately needed a bookkeeper, though. He repeated his question, adding, “No offense, but you sound awfully young. I want someone who’ll stay on.”

“Have you ever heard of age discrimination?” she asked.

Parker added
sassy
to the counts against her. Not that he had a problem with sassy women. He just wasn’t sure he wanted one in the stable office, flipping him shit five days a week. “It’s not against the law to ask someone’s age when they’re applying for a job. I need someone dependable.”

“And my being young means I won’t be?”

Parker grinned. Definitely sassy. “How young is young?”

“I’m twenty-five years
old
. I have an undergraduate degree in accounting. I interned for a year as a business analyst. I can keep books with my eyes closed, run any software program you throw at me, and I also make a mean cup of coffee. What else would you like to know?”

Beginning to enjoy himself, Parker leaned his hips against the kitchen counter. Maybe he wasn’t being entirely fair about the age thing. At twenty-five, he’d been running a ranch, after all. “With all that going for you, why are you interested in a dead-end bookkeeping job?”

“My circumstances changed unexpectedly, and I have bills to pay.”

“You’re a tad overqualified for the position. What if a better offer comes along? You gonna quit on me first thing out of the bag?”

“I’m willing to sign a contract, agreeing to stay for a specified period of time. Provided, of course, that the wage and benefit package is attractive and the work environment is adequate.”

He liked this lady more by the moment. “You got a name?”

“Anna Pritchard. Is Parker your last name, or your first?”

“First. Last name’s Harrigan. You like horses, Anna?”

“Is that a job requirement?”

“I raise quarter horses, so, yeah, it’d be a big plus.”

“I like all animals. I’ve never been around horses, so I may find them a bit intimidating at first, but I’m sure I would get used to them quickly enough.”

She was honest. He liked that, too. “Well, then.” He rubbed his jaw. “If you’re interested, I’m open to your comin’ out tomorrow to fill out an application.”

“What’s the address?”

“Out here, it’s easy to miss a house number. I’ll have to give you directions.”

As he did so, she kept halting him to ask questions. What did the hay barn look like? How many roads would she cross after the stop sign? Was a cattle guard one of those grates in the ground, or was he referring to something else? What did he mean by a country mile?

“A country mile,” he explained, “is more or less the same as a regular mile, the keywords being ‘more or less.’”

“I see. Could you translate that into something more precise so I don’t overshoot your driveway and get lost in the middle of nowhere?”

“After you hang a right at the Y in the road, you’ll drive about five miles before you see the hay barn. It might be a hair less than five, maybe a hair more. Just watch for the barn.”

She said, “Sheesh,” her tone disgruntled.

He found himself smiling again. He could definitely tell that she’d lived in the city most of her life. “Just keep my number handy. If you get turned around, give me a call.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

That blew Parker’s mind. Everyone he knew had a cell phone now, even his dad, who complained ceaselessly about having to carry one. “You
don’t
?”

“I’m unemployed, remember. They cost money.”

It had been a lot of years since Parker’s family had been short on money, but he could still remember how it felt. “Well, if you end up working for me, a cell phone will be a must. I’ll have to give you an advance in pay so you can get one. It’s not smart to drive these back roads without any way to call for help.”

“Why? Are the roads bad or something?”

“Not bad, just remote. You never know when a herd of elk may run out in front of you—or when you might have car trouble. It’s just safer to carry a phone.”

“Elk?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, you know, those big, brown creatures that live in the forest?”

“I know what an elk is, Mr. Harrigan. I just didn’t realize they were in this area.”

“We have a couple of resident herds out this way.”

They agreed to meet at one o’clock, when Parker would still be on his lunch break. No point in interrupting his workday for an interview that might be a waste of time.

When Parker hung up the phone, he turned back to his corn dogs, which were now stone-cold. He sighed and stuck them back in the microwave, hoping the extra heating time wouldn’t turn them rubbery. A degree in accounting, huh? He wondered what this Anna Pritchard looked like. Probably a bookworm, he decided, with wire-framed glasses, a no-nonsense hairdo, and an aversion to makeup. No matter. He didn’t honestly care about her appearance as long as she could bring order to his business. Tax time last year had been a bitch. Receipts and purchase orders seemed to procreate in the file drawer where Parker stuffed them, and he’d somehow lost track of his income, unable to reconcile his bank deposit records with the amount of money he thought he’d made. When it came to stuff like that, the IRS wasn’t very understanding.

He plucked the plate out of the microwave, dipped a corn dog into the mayo mixture, and sighed with contentment. Quincy could have his damned tofu.

Smoke spiraled upward from the cigarette Peter Danning held poised between elegant fingers. He had only recently started smoking again and knew the private investigator sitting across the desk didn’t appreciate the smell. The man kept pressing a handkerchief to his nose and giving Peter disgruntled looks.
Too bad.
Peter was the one with the money. Therefore he had the power. The skinny little prick could put up with the secondhand smoke or find another client.

“I want her found, Mr. Riker. I was told you’re the best, and yet you’ve done nothing thus far to earn your fees.”

“I’ve done plenty.” Riker rocked forward on the chair. “She’s dead, Mr. Danning, at the bottom of the sea. I can’t locate someone who no longer exists.”

Peter stubbed out the cigarette with such force that the filter ruptured. “I refuse to accept that. Before the main course was even served, my wife left the dining room to powder her nose. The ladies’ lounge was only a few steps away from our table. Yet I’m supposed to believe that she somehow wandered out onto the deck and fell overboard? No. She staged the whole thing. She’s out there somewhere now, laughing her ass off because I’ve come under suspicion. I want her found. Do the job I hired you to do.”

The investigator sighed, his expression impatient. “We’ve been over this a dozen times. People are checked in every time they board the ship and checked out every time they disembark. Two thousand forty-three people booked passage for that cruise, and two thousand forty-three people boarded prior to departure. When the ship returned to Seattle, only two thousand forty-two people disembarked. One person, your wife, was missing. The vessel stopped at no port of call prior to her disappearance that evening. No late passengers were flown in, enabling her to somehow stow away on a helicopter before it lifted off again. In order for her to be alive, she would have had to jump overboard and swim to shore. Do you realize how cold those waters are?”

Peter lit up another cigarette. Acid indigestion seared the back of his throat as he took a deep drag. He knew that Lorraina had been wanting out of the marriage. Nothing could convince him that she hadn’t pulled a fast one. “Think outside the box, Mr. Riker. I don’t know how she did it. I only know she did.”

“The checkout procedures show that all but one passenger returned to Seattle,” Riker repeated. “Passports were required. Are you listening to yourself? In order for what you’re saying to be true, your wife would have had to board the ship twice, each time under a different identity. While the ship was still in port, was she at any time out of your sight?”

“No. We were together every second until she excused herself from the table to go to the ladies’ lounge.” Peter thought for a moment. Then he arched a blond eyebrow at the investigator. “What if she had help?”

“What kind of help?”

Peter clenched his teeth in frustration. Riker was reputed to be one of the best in his business, yet he had to be led by the hand around every corner. “Suppose, just for a moment, that my wife had a female friend who booked passage under a fictitious name, boarded with fake identification, and then left the ship prior to departure. Lorraina could have gone to the empty cabin, donned a disguise, and stayed aboard ship using another identity for the duration of the cruise.”

Riker shook his head. “No one can leave the ship after boarding, not without there being a record of it. You went through the security checkpoints. Those guards are vigilant, and no one is allowed to disembark without following procedure. It’s extremely important that they be able to account for the whereabouts of every single passenger at all times. The only way a second party could have been involved is if that person were a cruise line employee, someone who could board under a fake name and then vanish into the woodwork.”

Peter considered that possibility. “A cruise line employee?” Something tugged at his memory, but he couldn’t think what. He wished now that he’d paid more attention to Lorraina’s jabbering in the early days of their marriage. Did one of her friends work for a cruise line? He couldn’t remember. “Get me a list of names, both passengers and crew. Maybe something will ring a bell.”

“A list of names?” Riker huffed under his breath. “That may not be easy.”

“If the job were easy, I wouldn’t be paying you so much,” Peter replied. “Get me that list.”

The following day, Rainie stood in front of her cloudy closet mirror, turning first right and then left to study her outfit, a Goodwill purchase that looked as dated as her house. The hemline of the gathered cotton skirt was unfashionably long, the white peasant blouse looked limp and tired, and to top it off, her home permanent was so curly, even with styling gel to tame it down, she looked as if she’d stuck her finger in a light socket.