Wrong Place, Wrong Time (9 page)

“Sure have.” Monty didn’t even glance at his notes. “James is your oldest grandchild; Niles’s son. He’s also VP of sales, reporting directly to Philip.”

“
And
he’s a champion show jumper,” Edward added proudly. “He and my stallion Stolen Thunder are a one-of-a-kind team. Real Olympic material.”

“So I hear. The reports from Wellington are impressive.” A corner of Monty’s mouth lifted at Edward’s startled expression. “I don’t just do homework; I do
lots
of homework.”

“Obviously.”

“You said you bent some rules. Elaborate.”

“The usual.” Edward gave a dismissive wave. “A few political contributions to local politicians who wield power in communities where we wanted contracts for our food-service business. Some gifts to their family members. A few golf trips, here and there. Just some perks.”

“I think they call that white-collar crime.”

“No, they call that networking. The point is, Frederick thought Philip was going one step further — bribing officials, paying them off in cash to get what we wanted. He was pretty upset about it.”

“I can understand why. Did he have proof?”

“Nothing I saw. And my gut tells me that Philip’s too smart to channel company funds into something illegal.”

“But if your gut is wrong,
and
if some proof actually existed, then Philip Rhodes would have a motive for murdering Frederick.”

Edward’s jaw began working. “I won’t believe that.”

“But you can’t afford to dismiss it, either.”

“I’m not dismissing anything. But, like I said, there’s more to this nightmare — more that makes me believe it’s someone on the outside who’s trying to bring us down.” He unlocked his center drawer, extracting an envelope.

“Will this explain your comment about not believing in coincidence?” Monty demanded.

“Two attacks on my family in one weekend? That’s no fluke.” Edward thrust the envelope across the desk. “Take a look at this. I got it on Thursday. It was mailed to me at the office.”

Monty eyed the envelope without taking it. It was laser-printed, and addressed to Edward Pierson at Pierson & Company. “Extortion,” he surmised aloud. “Which kind, blackmail or ransom?”

“Blackmail.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“Because I thought the letter was a hoax until Frederick was killed. Then I called you.”

Nodding, Monty reached into his parka pockets. He groped around, whipping out his ski gloves. “No point in contaminating the evidence any more than it already has been,” he said, yanking on the gloves. “I doubt we’ll find any distinguishable fingerprints. But, just in case, let’s not taint them.” He leaned forward and took the envelope, eyeing it again. “No return address,” he noted. “And a Manhattan postmark.”

He slid out two folded sheets. The first was clearly a letter. The other was a computer printout of an article from
Horse Daily News
. He scanned that first.

ANTIDOPING AGENCY DISQUALIFIES TWO MORE HIGH-PROFILE RIDERS FOLLOWING POSITIVE DRUG TESTING, the headline read. The story, dated the previous October during Manhattan’s National Metropolitan Horse Show, went on to describe the growing problem of drug use among equestrian riders, both at competitions and at random out-of-competition testing.

Monty skimmed the article just enough to get the gist of it. Then he turned his attention to the letter. Identical laser printing. Double-spaced. Nondescript in format.

Not so in content.

Sometimes disqualified riders aren’t responsible for what shows up in their urine. Or their horse’s urine. It could happen to anybody. Like James. Or Stolen Thunder. It could happen at an Olympic qualifying event. Like the US Open Jumper Championship CSIO in March. That would ruin everything. Lives. Reputations. All gone up in smoke.

     
Two million would keep them out of trouble. And safe, in and out of the show ring. Otherwise, who knows what might happen?

     
Consider the offer. I’ll be in touch.

“No salutation. No signature,” Monty muttered.

“And no follow-up.” Edward took another shaky gulp of water. “I haven’t heard word one from the scum who wrote that. At first, I thought it was some kind of sick gag. Then Frederick was killed.”

“There’s no mention of Frederick in the letter.”

“What about the part about going up in smoke?”

Monty pursed his lips. “Yeah. There’s that. It could be a reference to Friday’s fire. But it still doesn’t make sense. If the blackmailer wanted his cash, why kill Frederick before giving you a chance to come up with it?”

“An incentive, maybe.” Tension creased Edward’s forehead. “An act to show he means business.”

“That’s one hell of an incentive. Arson and murder. And why Frederick? Were he and James particularly close?”

“Our whole family’s close. We fight. We make up. But family’s family.”

That wasn’t an answer, but Monty left it alone. “We could be looking at payback of some kind. I’ll need the names of anyone who might have a grudge against the Piersons. I’ll also need to talk to your other family members. Not today, obviously. Over the next few days. I’ll speak to them one at a time.”

“I don’t want them knowing about the blackmail letter. Especially James. He’s high-strung enough. I don’t want him to panic.”

“I understand that. But he should be on the lookout for anything suspicious.”

“He doesn’t need to be. I’ve arranged for twenty-four-hour security around him, in New York and in Wellington. No one will get near him.”

“He doesn’t know about this?”

“It’s not necessary. My people are discreet.”

“I’ll bet,” Monty returned drily. “When is he going back to Wellington?”

“After the funeral.”

“Make sure he comes into the office before that. I’ll talk to him there. It’ll seem less official, and he won’t get as spooked. Don’t worry — I’ll only go at it from the angle of Frederick’s murder. I won’t mention the letter.”

Edward gave a tight nod. “Fine.”

“What else should I know?”

“My grandson Blake will be your alternate contact. If I’m not around, go to him. He’ll be the only person I fill in on all the facets of your investigation.”

“Including the blackmail letter?”

“Yes. Blake’s the future of my company. He’s smart. He’s tough. And he’s my sounding board. I’ll pull him aside later and tell him about the letter.”

“Good.” Monty pushed back his chair and rose, pausing to scoop up his fifty-thousand-dollar retainer and tuck it in his pants pocket. “I’ll need a list of your employees, and background information to go with it.”

“No problem. When you get to the office tomorrow, stop at human resources. My granddaughter Cassidy can give you whatever you need.”

“I’ll be in around nine. Let her know to expect me.”

Relief flashed across Edward’s face as he rose. “I will.”

Monty refolded the article and the letter and slipped them back into the envelope. “Can I keep these? I want to look them over more thoroughly.”

“Go ahead.” Edward was back to being the tough businessman. “Just figure out who sent them.”

“I will.” Monty stared him down. “Count on it.”

Devon stood on the Piersons’ front doorstep, hands shoved in the pockets of her camel-hair overcoat, staring at the formidable double doors.

It was showtime.

She sucked in her breath, wishing her talk with Roberto, the Piersons’ groom, had yielded something of substance. No such luck. Striking up a conversation with the guy had been easy. They’d talked horses, riding competitions, and proper care of warmbloods. As for a lowdown on the Piersons, she’d learned nothing she hadn’t already read in Monty’s notes, other than how profound a role James’s equestrian triumphs played in his grandfather’s life. It seemed that James’s accomplishments in the show ring had been a lifeline for Edward after his heart attack. According to Roberto, James’s growth toward Olympic potential had given Edward the will to live.

The groom was clearly proud. Devon heard all about James’s extraordinary form, his unique affinity with Stolen Thunder, his drive to win. Roberto’s reports were glowing. Unfortunately, they were totally unrelated to yesterday’s tragedy.

So now it was time to execute step two of her plan — befriending the Piersons.

She hoped she could pull it off.

She
had
to pull it off. Monty was counting on her.

More important, her mother was counting on her.

Blowing out her breath, Devon rang the bell.

A somber-looking butler opened the door. With his wrinkled face, sucked-in stance and sallow complexion, he looked like a sour pickle with hair. “Yes?”

“I’m Devon Montgomery, Sally Montgomery’s daughter,” she introduced herself. “I drove up this afternoon to check on my mother’s house. When I passed your farm, I noticed all the cars in the driveway. I wonder if I might pay my respects to the Piersons?”

The pickle frowned, obviously unsure if he should allow her to enter.

“Please tell them I’m here,” Devon suggested quickly. “They’ll know who I am. If they’d prefer not to see me, I’ll leave.”

“Very well.” He disappeared.

A murmur of voices followed, after which Devon heard the
click-click
of high heels approaching. A minute later, a striking young woman of about Devon’s age appeared at the door. She was wearing a black Donna Karan suit, and her dark hair feathered the sides of her face, complementing her high cheekbones and fair complexion, before brushing the top of her shoulders in a blunt, silky cut.

“Hello — Devon, isn’t it?” Seeing Devon’s nod, she opened the door wider. “Won’t you come in?” She scrutinized Devon as she complied, her pale green gaze as sharp as chips of jade. Then she extended her hand. “I’m Cassidy Pierson. Frederick is…was…my uncle.”

Cassidy Pierson
. Devon could see the page in her mind’s eye.
VP of human resources. Twenty-eight years old. Daughter of Gregory. Sister of Blake
.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Devon replied, shaking Cassidy’s hand. “Although I wish it were under different circumstances.”

“As do I.” Cassidy waved her arm toward the rear of the sprawling, dimly lit house. “Please join us.”

“I don’t want to intrude. I just…” Devon cleared her throat. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. And maybe to be among others who understand. I didn’t know your uncle, but my mother held him in high regard.”

Cassidy’s probing gaze softened. “You’re scared. I don’t blame you. Whoever did this horrible thing is still out there.”

“And so’s my mother.”

“I know.” Cassidy turned as the pickle reappeared. “Albert, please take our guest’s coat.”

“Certainly.” He waited while Devon shrugged out of it, then draped it over his arm and walked away.

“Are you sure this isn’t a bad time?” Devon felt compelled to ask.

“Not yet. Right now it’s just family and a few close friends. Later, it’ll be a circus.” Cassidy’s reply was refreshingly and, surprisingly, honest. “Come on,” she urged. “I’ll introduce you.”

Devon followed her through the polished hardwood foyer. The house was imposing. Like the family.

The voices grew more distinct, and the foyer opened up into an expansive pillared living room with burgundy leather sofas, walnut chairs and end tables, and about a dozen chatting people.

The Pierson clan.

All eyes were on Devon as she stepped into the room. Her first thought was that she now understood what Cinderella must have felt like when she made an entrance into a royal ballroom. Her second thought was that she was glad she’d listened to her instincts and changed into a tailored pantsuit before heading over here from her mother’s. The jeans and sweater she’d had on before would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

“This is Devon Montgomery,” Cassidy announced — a mere formality, since everyone already knew who she was.

Actually, they weren’t at too much of an advantage. Devon had very little trouble figuring out who was who. She quickly put faces to the names and profiles Monty had gone over with her last night.

Anne Pierson was a matriarch if ever there was one. The grande dame of the family, she had silver white hair, piercing ice blue eyes, and a regal carriage that nearly made Devon curtsy instead of acknowledging Cassidy’s introduction with a handshake.

“I’m so terribly sorry about your loss,” Devon told her sincerely.

Those frosty eyes pinned her to the spot. “Thank you. Has there been any word on your mother?”

“None since yesterday. We’re trying to stay positive.”

“Of course you are.” It sounded more like an accusation than an acknowledgment.

“Grandmother, you should sit down,” Cassidy interceded to suggest. “You look exhausted.”

“You’re right. I am.” Anne lingered a moment longer, her gaze fixed on Devon. Abruptly, she turned away. “Please excuse me.” It sounded more like an order than a request.

Next, Cassidy introduced Devon to her uncle Niles and aunt Lynn, followed by her parents, Gregory and Natalie.

No surprises there, either. Niles and Lynn were the snobs; Gregory and Natalie were the free spirits.

Devon was just meeting Philip Rhodes when there was a commotion from the hall, and a golden retriever puppy exploded into the living room. He was about three or four months old, Devon surmised; still chubby, with paws too big for his legs — a furry, adorable, clumsy ball of energy.

Ignoring the exclamations, he shook off a layer of snow, then sprinted into the center of the room, stumbling, panting, and wagging his tail all at once. His warm brown gaze found Devon and he bounded over, sniffing as he did. He jumped up, yanking at Devon’s blazer with his teeth, and yipped excitedly. Just as swiftly, he was back on all fours, crouching down so he could sniff at the hem of her pants. He grabbed the material between his teeth and began to chew, just as a tall, dark-haired man strode over, snapping his fingers and commanding: “Chomper! Drop it!”

Chomper’s ears went up. But he didn’t miss a beat. Totally ignoring his owner, he dragged more material into his mouth, made a nice, wet wad, and settled down to chew on it.