Challenging Matt
Challenging Matt
Julianna Morris
She's putting him to the test As a researcher, Layne McGraw can handle tough situations. So when suspicions arise that her uncle may have been murdered, she won't let anything stop her from finding the truth. Not the risks, and certainly not party-boy philanthropist Matt Hollister.It turns out Matt is more irresistible than she expected. Not only has he reformed his wild ways, but as the new head of his family's charity, he has a lot to prove. And her quest seems to challenge his plans. She knows finding out what really happened could serve both their needs. All they have to do is control their attraction!
She’s putting him to the test
As a researcher, Layne McGraw can handle tough situations. So when suspicions arise that her uncle may have been murdered, she won’t let anything stop her from finding the truth. Not the risks, and certainly not party-boy philanthropist Matt Hollister.
It turns out Matt is more irresistible than she expected. Not only has he reformed his wild ways, but as the new head of his family’s charity, he has a lot to prove. And her quest seems to challenge his plans. She knows finding out what really happened could serve both their needs. All they have to do is control their attraction!
“I wanted to talk to you.”
In response, Matt held up the latest edition of the Babbitt and Layne winced. So much for not antagonizing him.
She stepped off the low retaining wall to the patio below. “I didn’t have anything to do with that article. Not directly, at least. Noah Wilkie, the Babbitt’s social reporter, overheard part of what my aunt was saying at the gala, so he may have mentioned it to one of the other reporters.”
“I see.”
“But I’d still like to apologize, and also about my aunt getting so upset. It wasn’t like her, but she’s been through a lot. And she…” Layne trailed off. She was in danger of starting to babble, and she reminded herself of her plan to treat Matt Hollister as a fact to be researched, instead of a sexy guy who turned her brain into a mass of overreacting neurons.
Dear Reader (#ub92fd9df-da4e-5811-8bec-269056561374),
Welcome to my second book in the Those Hollister Boys series, about the commitment-wary sons of Sullivan Spencer “Spence” Hollister, known in the tabloids as “S.S. Hollister, the man with an ex-wife in every port.” Spence has children and ex-wives all over the world and is a hedonist who lives on charm and an enormous fortune.
Matt followed his father’s fun-loving footsteps, and for years he partied hard and pursued extreme sports. But now that he wants to run his grandfather’s charitable foundation, his reputation is getting in the way. He’s thrown another curve when Layne McGraw shows up, wanting answers about a suicide and theft connected to Matt’s own stepfather.
Classic movie alert: I love old movies, and in my last letter I recommended Hobson’s Choice, released in 1954. Because Challenging Matt includes a mystery, I’d like to suggest watching the 1953 film The Blue Gardenia, with Anne Baxter and Richard Conte. There’s a hint of romance, and a whole lot of suspense in that movie.
I hope you enjoy reading Challenging Matt. I look forward to hearing from readers and can be contacted c/o MILLS & BOON Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, ON M3B 3K9, Canada.
Wishing you all the best,
Julianna Morris
Challenging Matt
Julianna Morris
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julianna Morris grew up wanting to be a writer and started her first novel in sixth grade. It was about an injured ballerina, and needless to say, it’s an incredibly maudlin tale that will never see the light of day. When Julianna isn’t frantically busy with family, cats, dogs and her computer, she’s baking bread, traveling or pursuing one of her other hobbies. She could probably get everything done if she only had forty hours every day and didn’t have to sleep….
To the memory of Aunt Polly and Uncle Del.
Contents
Dear Reader (#ueb449131-11ea-51c9-9390-75f902fe9c89)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua1a4102f-e44d-5e44-82ee-0461b9cf507a)
CHAPTER TWO (#ub36e496c-1d40-53c4-8d9e-76ac5f867f28)
CHAPTER THREE (#u2ff4e532-4c5f-5a87-83cc-37c53b29f679)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u506555a2-de91-57b5-936a-901b32e5547e)
CHAPTER FIVE (#uf1f4e143-e13d-5f5c-b196-7c51bab38751)
CHAPTER SIX (#u6e544531-7966-5da6-89f9-dbb6fd108847)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
“HERE YOU GO, LAYNE,” said Kit Carson, tossing a copy of the Puget Sound Babbitt on the desk.
“Thanks.” Layne McGraw smiled at the lead mail-room clerk.
“Look at the intrepid explorer, pushing his trusty steed. Or is that just a mail cart?” taunted Regina Sorkin, who thought it was a hoot that Kit was named after a famous explorer.
“And if it isn’t The Kitchen Corner’s smart-ass columnist. I see you have more bandages on your fingers—did you screw up another recipe?” Kit returned, appearing annoyed as he pushed his cart forward.
Layne looked at her friend. “Why do you do that?” she asked. “You know how much it annoys him.”
“Because I know how much it annoys him,” Regina replied, unrepentant. “You’d think he’d be more ambitious with a name like Kit Carson.”
“He’s happy running the mail room. People don’t always want to earn a bigger income or get a more impressive job title.”
Regina shrugged and headed back to her own desk, most likely annoyed with Kit for not being ambitious enough to notice her as a woman. Layne felt bad for her—unrequited love was hell. Still, she didn’t think it was right to torment someone over their career choice...the way her family tormented her.
She leafed through her copy of the Babbitt and spotted signs of her work throughout the weekly regional news magazine. Whenever someone had trouble finding information, she got it for them. She took pride in knowing her facts were triple-checked and documented.
Pulling out her lunch, she munched on a sandwich as she read. It was always fun to see how the information she’d researched translated into print.
“I need some things checked for my next op-ed,” said Carl Abernathy as he walked up and dropped a file onto her desk. His eyebrows rose as he spotted her half-eaten sandwich. “Peanut butter again?”
“Peanut-butter sandwiches are great. They’re easy and don’t have to be refrigerated. And they’re healthier than the greasy-spoon burger and fries you eat every day.” Layne grinned, knowing she was one of the few Babbitt employees who could sass Carl and get away with it.
“I’m an editor—I have to eat like one. Don’t you go to the movies?”
“From what I’ve seen, those editors just chomp on cigars and yell a lot. You have the yelling part down all right. Of course, that isn’t healthy, either. Though I’m sure a cardiologist would disapprove of the burger and fries even more than the yelling.”
Carl’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t yell, I suggest. And don’t pay attention to what your famous mother says—it takes the fun out of life to worry about everything you eat. My God, it must have been dreary growing up with a heart doctor for a parent.”
“I survived,” Layne said wryly.
It wasn’t a surprise that Carl knew her mother was a renowned cardiologist; practically everyone at the Babbitt knew about Barbara McGraw...the same way they knew her father was a top orthopedic surgeon, and that she had three megasuccessful siblings. At one time or other, the magazine had done articles about each of them.
“What’s this?” Layne asked, pulling the file toward her.
“Just an editorial I’m writing on endangered species here in Washington State. Look at it after lunch.”
He hurried away and Layne glanced through the folder. She liked Carl; he was a good editor and uncompromising on journalistic integrity. A year after she’d started working at the Babbitt, one of the columnists was caught using her research notes verbatim without giving her credit. It was a firing offense and while Layne had wanted to feel bad about the incident, she couldn’t because Doug was a snake. He’d not only been copying her work for several months, he had patted her butt in the elevator. But he’d only done it once—her father had taught his daughters excellent self-defense skills.
She scrunched her nose at the memory. Both Regina and Annette Wade, who wrote the nuptials column, had wanted her to report Doug the first time he’d plagiarized, but Layne had figured he’d get caught sooner or later, and she wouldn’t have made points by being a complainer.
“Layne, I have two recipes for your aunt to test.” Regina held out a couple of sheets of paper. “They were awful when I tried to cook them myself. I brought them over earlier, but I didn’t want to talk about it with Kit around. The usual pay rate—two hundred and fifty a recipe.”
“Great. What are they?” Layne asked. Her aunt was struggling financially and when the freelance chef who’d done some of the Babbitt’s recipe testing had retired eight weeks before, she’d suggested Aunt Dee as a replacement.
“A tropical chiffon cake and pecan sticky rolls.” Regina glanced down at the first-aid strips on both her forefingers. “Jeez, I can’t wait until Carl lets me do hard news and takes me off this fluff stuff. A cooking column. Almost nothing I try comes out. Hell, I can’t cook any better than you.”
“Sad but true.” A shared lack of culinary skills was one of the things that had cemented their friendship. “I’ll set it up with my aunt.”
“Fabulous. She could make them on Saturday or Sunday, and the staff can taste test both on Monday.” She checked her watch and made a face. “I’m going to lunch—maybe I’ll meet tall, dark and handsome while eating sushi.”
“Check his ring finger before losing your heart. Now that we’re thirty, tall, dark, and handsome is often married.”
“Also sad but true. See you later.”
Picking up the phone, Layne dialed her aunt’s number.
“Hey, Aunt Dee, just a heads-up. Regina has two recipes for you to test this weekend.” She glanced at the tropical cake and made a face. “One is for sticky rolls that should be easy enough with all the bread you make. But the dessert is complicated. It’s a cake with a mousse filling and whipped frosting and a gazillion ingredients.”
“That doesn’t sound too difficult.”
So said the woman who’d once baked all the pies for the church’s harvest dinner fund-raiser, at the same time creating a pumpkin costume for Layne to wear in her school play. As a kid, Layne had spent far more time at Aunt Dee and Uncle William’s house than she did at her own.
Uncle Will.
Would she ever stop missing him so terribly? Maybe it was because of the way he’d died. She still found it hard to grasp that he’d committed suicide.
Layne chatted with her aunt another few minutes and then went back to work, trying to push the sad feeling away. It didn’t seem possible that Uncle Will had been gone for almost seven months; the wounds were still too raw and she missed him too much.
* * *
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON Layne arrived at her aunt’s house and rang the bell.
“Darling!” Her aunt hugged her as if they hadn’t seen each other in a week, instead of attending church together that morning. Dee then peeked into the two bags of groceries she’d brought. “You don’t have to bring the supplies.”
“It comes out of Regina’s expense account.”
It was true, but Layne would have paid for everything herself, rather than have her aunt lose any of the money she got for testing. Things hadn’t been easy for Aunt Dee since Uncle Will’s death. She rarely talked about money, but what she earned as a successful graphic artist obviously wasn’t enough. In a worried moment, Dee had confided that she’d taken out a second mortgage to pay off other debts, but Layne could tell she was still struggling financially. Her aunt had even mentioned that she might need to sell the house.
Layne sat back and watched her aunt work, making notes for Regina and marveling at how easy cooking looked when someone else was doing it. She didn’t think it was the equipment, though her aunt had every gadget imaginable. Uncle William had designed the kitchen for his wife years ago and it still looked great, with lighted quartz countertops, hardwood floors and commercial-grade stainless-steel appliances.
Three hours later the cake was assembled and the sticky rolls were on the counter, rising.
“Regina will be eternally grateful,” Layne said. “I’ll take them to work tomorrow and save you a trip into the city. And I’m sure they’ll cut a check for you right away.”
“Thanks.”
Layne stretched and glanced around the warm, inviting home. Her stomach clenched whenever she thought that Aunt Dee might be forced to sell the house. Some of her happiest childhood memories were here, spent with her aunt and uncle and feeling completely accepted. It wasn’t that her parents and older siblings didn’t love her, but they were always pushing her to be something she wasn’t.
“I got another email from Mom about that medical research assistant position at the university,” Layne said idly. “She has it all mapped out—I can work with Dr. Clark and he can be my faculty advisor while I get my doctorate.”
“You don’t want a doctorate.”
“According to Mother, I do. She doesn’t care what I study...as long as it’s somehow connected to the medical field and I become Dr. McGraw.”
Dee sighed. “I love my sister, but she has tunnel vision when it comes to this stuff. Don’t let her push you, Lani. Just keep doing what makes you happy.”
Lani.
Layne smiled at the nickname that only her aunt and uncle had ever used.
Dee absentmindedly wiped the stone counter she’d already cleaned twice and Layne frowned. “Is something wrong? You’ve been distracted for weeks.”
“I...oh, nothing.”
“Come on, I know you too well. Fess up.”
Her aunt smiled weakly. “It’s just that lately I keep feeling as if William is in the house. In his office, walking up and down the hall or up the stairs. Or lying next to me in bed. Sometimes I can even smell his aftershave.”
The unexpected mention of her uncle made Layne’s stomach drop. “That’s what Grandmother Adele said after Granddad was gone. I’m sure it’s normal.”
“Maybe, but I can feel him, Lani, the way I always used to know he was home. It’s as if he’s looking for something or trying to tell me something. Some people believe a soul can’t rest if they have unfinished business.”
“Is that what you think it is?”
“I don’t know.” Dorothy gathered the dish towels she’d used that evening and threw them into a laundry hamper. “But it started when I received that letter from Peter Davidson, so what better time for Will to come back and haunt the place?”
“What letter?”
“I’ll get it.” Dee dried her hands and went out, returning a couple of minutes later.
Layne read the note from her uncle’s former partner, a scowl growing on her face. “How dare he? This is emotional blackmail.” She stared at the letter in disbelief. “Agree to sell Uncle Will’s company under the terms he offers, or he’ll drag the embezzlement case up again?”
Aunt Dee’s face was pale. “Yes. But wouldn’t making accusations against William be libel?”
“I’m not sure. It’s possible you can’t libel someone who’s...uh...”
“Dead?” Dee finished flatly. “Maybe. But Peter is basically saying I’m not due anything because of what happened, and he’ll make a stink about it if I don’t go along. That was William’s company, too. He’d be so upset if he knew about this.”
“Uncle Will was never actually indicted for embezzling.”
“I know. But I haven’t gotten anywhere with the police or the Carrollton District Attorney’s office on clearing his name. After they decided he killed himself, it seems as if they just stopped investigating. I even heard one of them say ‘he must have been guilty’ the night Will died. I’ve called and called and nobody will even talk to me any longer.”
Layne let out a pent-up breath. “Maybe they think you’re just trying to throw doubt on the suicide verdict to get Uncle Will’s life insurance.”
“God knows I need the insurance money—it’s probably the only way I’ll hang on to the house—but that isn’t the only reason. I hate people thinking Will would steal from his own clients. And now this letter from Peter.... I’ve been dragging my feet, but I have to make a decision soon. He’s working for the Eisley Foundation as their chief financial officer and doesn’t want to deal with Hudson & Davidson any longer. His stepson resigned three months ago to take over as director of the foundation from his grandfather.”
Layne nodded, recalling Matthew Hollister’s connection to her uncle’s company. The notorious playboy, Gordon Eisley’s grandson, had started working for Hudson & Davidson almost a year and a half before, a case of pure nepotism on Peter Davidson’s part. Though Uncle Will had been annoyed about it, he hadn’t objected. And not long before his death, he’d admitted that Matt Hollister had worked hard and seemed to have a decent business head on his shoulders.
Layne had only seen Matt Hollister in person once, when he’d come to Uncle Will’s funeral. A ripple of whispers had run around the church when he’d arrived, sitting in the back. He had slipped out early without speaking to the family, but at least he’d come; Peter Davidson hadn’t even sent flowers.
“Aunt Dee, what did you think of Matt Hollister?” she asked.
“We’ve only met once at a company Christmas party. It was just a hello and goodbye encounter—the other women were crowding around too much for anything else.”
“But what about when Mr. Davidson married Matt’s mother?”
“We didn’t go to the wedding. It was a small, hush-hush affair on Catalina Island to avoid publicity—you know Katrina Eisley’s reputation for being a recluse. Marrying into the Eisley family was a big deal for Peter. Between his new father-in-law and famous stepson, he joined a small, very exclusive social circle.”
Layne returned Peter Davidson’s letter to her aunt. “I’ve done research on Matt Hollister for some of the reporters at the Babbitt. I can’t imagine he’s really reformed. His father, S. S. Hollister, is one of most outrageous hedonists in the world and they seem cut from the same cloth.”
“Except the son never married, and the father can’t stay out of divorce court. Anyway, I sort of understand why Peter claims I’m not due anything from the sale of the firm....”
“I don’t,” Layne said stoutly.
“Unfortunately the math appears to add up. The embezzlement crashed the value of the company and Peter repaid every penny of the stolen money from his own pocket. At the end of the letter you can see he’s offering to give me twenty-five thousand dollars as a goodwill gesture, but that’s all.”
“It’s hard to believe you wouldn’t be due several million at the very least. The property alone is worth a fortune.”
While Dee didn’t say anything, Layne thought she agreed. Her aunt had never dealt much with money, focusing on art while her husband went into business after getting out of the navy. They’d seemed to have the perfect marriage, but Layne wasn’t naive enough to think there hadn’t been occasional problems.
Dee sat next to her and traced a pattern in the quartz countertop. “The thing is, I know how good you are at research and putting pieces of information together. And I’ve been thinking...if anyone can prove Will was innocent, it’s you. And then I could challenge Peter about the sale and be able to pay off the mortgage before I have to sell the house. Will and I built this house together—I don’t want to lose it.”
Layne froze.
Okay, so she was good at her job. That didn’t make her a criminal investigator. And what if she proved Uncle Will had embezzled from his company? How could she tell Aunt Dee? It might hurt even more to know for sure.
“Uh, about the mortgage,” she said. “The house means a lot to me, too, and I have some money saved—”
“I can’t accept it. This is my problem,” her aunt said predictably. “But if you could find out the truth, it would help in more ways than one.”
“What if you don’t like what I find? I’m not saying Uncle Will was guilty, but you never know.”
“I need the truth, wherever it leads.” Dee put a hand in her pocket, her mouth tense. She was a lovely woman, with golden blond hair and warm blue eyes that had twinkled brightly before her husband’s death. She resembled Layne’s mother in physical appearance only; eleven years separated them and Dorothy’s nature was far more artistic than her older, brisk cardiologist sister’s.
“All right,” Layne agreed reluctantly.
She loved Aunt Dee dearly and had loved Uncle Will. She couldn’t say no. Her aunt and uncle were the ones who’d made her feel special when she was growing up with a star athlete brother and beautiful twin sisters who could charm the paint off walls. Her parents were so brilliant and accomplished themselves, they hadn’t known what to do with a daughter who was merely average and didn’t fit in. It was Uncle Will and Aunt Dee who’d understood her.
“Good.” Dee slowly opened her fingers. “This is the key to William’s home office. Maybe you can start with the stack of boxes that Peter sent over from the company. I haven’t had time to open them because there’s been too much to deal with. I know the police went through everything before it was packed, but they were looking for things that made William look guilty, not anything to show he was innocent.”
Heart in her throat, Layne took the key. The metal seemed to be burning a hole in her palm and she quickly hooked it on her keychain. The answers might be in her uncle’s office...but it was also the place where he’d died.
Was that why Aunt Dee was imagining that she’d heard him around the house?
Layne lifted her chin.
Ghosts weren’t real, but if they did exist, she could never be afraid of Uncle Will. He might even help her discover what had happened to him.
CHAPTER TWO
MATT HOLLISTER HANDED a stack of files to his assistant, who gave another stack back to him in return.
“They’re the latest reports and the daily correspondence, boss,” Gillian said. “I couldn’t help the delay—the mail came late this morning.”
“I understand. Did you learn more about who my appointment might be? You mentioned the name seemed familiar.”
“I can’t think of anything. I just wish the temp covering me on Wednesday had put down L. McGraw’s first name and a contact number.”
“It’s not your fault.” Matt flipped open the top file filled with correspondence. Beneath the file were reports on various projects the Eisley Foundation was spearheading. “Anyhow, it’s probably someone with Heifer Project International. I spoke to one of their supporters recently about becoming a sponsor.”
“I guess we’ll find out.” She smiled and left him to work.
Matt read through the letters and memos, making notes in the margins for Gillian, setting some aside to handle personally. Half were pleas for money from outside organizations—with descriptions of their programs and how additional support from the foundation would benefit them. The other half were about existing Eisley Foundation projects...and pleas for more money.
He sighed.
It wasn’t easy seeing how much was wrong in the world, and trying to do something about it was like trying to drain a bottomless pit. Kids, the environment, the homeless, animals... The list was endless, along with the heartbreak.
As for the reports Gillian had given him, he would read the material in depth, before making any decisions. When he’d taken over the director’s seat, he’d starting looking at the long-term projects list—some no longer seemed viable, so he had auditors examining their expenditures, and experts evaluating their merits. Project leaders were screaming, upset about the scrutiny. Nevertheless, the reports were starting to arrive.
“Come in,” he called at a knock on the door.
Gillian poked her head inside. “Hey, Matt. Reception called—your three o’clock is here. They told me L. McGraw’s first name and you aren’t going to like it.”
“Then it isn’t one of the Heifer Project folks?”
“Nope. L. McGraw is Layne McGraw, that’s why it sounded familiar. She’s works for the Puget Sound Babbitt. I see her name at the end of articles—you know, ‘research provided by staff member Layne McGraw.’”
“Maybe she’s branching out into reporting.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gillian said. “There’s a procedural list on my desk for handling calls, saying you aren’t doing any interviews. The temp must have forgotten to follow it.”
“This isn’t your fault,” Matt assured her, determined not to be one of those hard-assed managers who blamed other people for everything. But he was frustrated; the Babbitt was one of several publications that seemed to go out of its way to be annoying. Once upon a time he’d provided steady fodder for the gossip page; now their columnists were gunning for him. They kept publishing editorials, voicing concerns about someone with his reputation running the Eisley Foundation. They weren’t the worst of his critics, but they were bad enough.
Hell, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have any qualifications for the job. He had a degree in business administration, and his grandfather had always planned to have a family member assume control of the foundation one day—Matt had even worked there before leaving for college. Besides, a lot of wealthy people were philanthropists, their only credentials being the ability to spend money.
Nevertheless, Matt had to admit things would be easier if everyone took him seriously. His grandfather had deliberately kept the foundation private so he wouldn’t have to be accountable to anyone except the Internal Revenue Service, but it wasn’t as simple as that for Matt. The Eisley Foundation didn’t operate in a vacuum, it needed serious people involved, and those serious people didn’t want their names linked to a notorious playboy—especially one with his reckless reputation.
“I can send her away,” Gillian offered.
“That’s all right, I’ll handle it.”
She left, giving him a few minutes to stew. When she returned, there was a young woman at her heels.
“Ms. McGraw, this is Matt Hollister.” Gillian introduced them. She sent him another apologetic look before heading back to her desk.
Matt stood and assessed his unwanted guest. The Babbitt reporter had masses of silky brown hair and green eyes in a pixieish face. She wore khaki slacks and a green shirt, and couldn’t be more than five foot three in her stocking feet.
“You’ve wasted your time, Ms. McGraw,” he said. “The assistant who set the appointment forgot that I’m not giving interviews right now.”
Layne McGraw blinked. “I don’t want an interview...that is, I’m not a reporter. I’m here for personal reasons.”
“You don’t work for the Babbitt?”
“I’m a researcher there, but this has nothing to do with the magazine. I have some questions, just not work related. Questions, that is.” She seemed nervous and dropped into a chair without being invited. “Uh, that’s some view,” she said, pointing to the window.
Matt automatically turned his head, though he was well acquainted with the view. The Eisley Foundation building overlooked North Seattle’s Lake Union, and the vista was spectacular, especially on a sunny June day. At the moment a sea plane was coming in for a landing and three crewing teams were skimming across the water, rowing in rhythmic precision.
“The foundation has been located here for twenty-five years,” he explained, anticipating her first inquiry would be about a charitable organization operating out of a multimillion dollar property. “We were part of the restoration efforts for the immediate area. This was a historic structure that was empty for twenty years until we purchased and renovated it for our use.”
“That’s great, I love old buildings. What I wanted to ask about...” She hesitated, looking even more uncomfortable. “It’s about your new chief financial officer. And the company he owns, and uh, where you worked for over a year.”
Matt kept his expression neutral. Peter Davidson was a straight-up guy who’d married his mom four years ago—Pete had made Katrina Eisley genuinely happy, possibly for the first time in her adult life since her very messy, very public divorce from Matt’s father. And Peter had given Matt the job he’d needed to prove to his grandfather that he was serious about changing his life and taking over the foundation.
“What about Mr. Davidson?”
“I know he’s related to you and that he’s now on staff here.”
“While our staff isn’t of public concern since we are a family-endowed foundation,” Matt said carefully, “Mr. Davidson’s salary is one dollar annually. Basically, he’s donating his valuable time.”
“Uh...sure. But as I said, my questions are about his financial management firm. As I’m sure you recall, his partner was accused of embezzling from the business seven months ago.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. He and his stepfather had worked with the Carrollton District Attorney and outside auditors to clean up the mess at Hudson & Davidson. Not only that, Peter had personally assured every single client they wouldn’t suffer any loss because of the thefts. His stepfather had come out of the whole thing squeaky clean, though the betrayal of his friend and business partner had deeply wounded him. Matt had even remained at the firm longer than he’d planned to help sort everything out.
“Again, I have nothing to say. It’s time for you to leave, Ms. McGraw.”
Frustration and another less-defined emotion were visible on Layne McGraw’s face. “Please, you worked there when the thefts occurred and you’re related to Peter Davidson, so I hoped you would be able to get me in to see him or tell me more about the case against his partner. The police and D.A.’s office have refused to release any information and Mr. Davidson is harder to see than the governor.”
“I’m sorry, that isn’t my problem. This is a private office and you’ve been asked to leave.”
“Please, I didn’t start this right. Let me tell you why I’m asking. Mr. Hudson was my—”
“I’m not interested,” he interrupted.
“Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like?”
Something in her quiet question troubled Matt, but he pushed it away. “We know what happened.” He lifted the receiver on his phone and gestured with it. “Now, shall I call security and have you escorted out, or will you go on your own?”
“No, I’ll go.”
When she was gone, Matt dialed the number of his security chief. “Connor, a young woman just left my office. Her name is Layne McGraw. Slim, dark hair, not too tall, wearing a green shirt. Will you make sure she exits the building and doesn’t bother anyone else?”
“Right.”
The phone clicked off without a goodbye, which was Connor’s style. He was a blunt, transplanted Irishman who’d been the Eisley family and corporate security chief for fifteen years. Matt had gotten to know him quite well during his wild college days—Connor had expressed his opinion of spoiled rich kids on a regular basis, particularly when bailing him out of trouble. If Matt’s father had been more like Connor, Matt probably wouldn’t have wasted so many years playing.
Swiveling in his chair, he looked at the view the McGraw woman had admired. Unlike most of his half brothers and sisters, he’d thrown himself into their father’s playboy lifestyle. But at least he didn’t have a bevy of former wives and children and girlfriends strewn around the world like good old S. S. Hollister. He’d taken his share of lovers, but he’d always been careful to keep things casual, only dating sophisticated women who had as little interest in domesticity as he did himself.
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. He might not have been as notorious as his father, but he’d done his best to have fun and duck responsibility for a long time. And now that he wanted to do something important, his former stupidity was getting in the way.
He leaned back for a moment, thinking about everything that had happened over the past few years.
First his oldest brother had gotten married. Admittedly, it had only caused a small blip on Matt’s radar, mostly because he’d believed Aaron was just as cynical about marriage as he was himself. But then Matt’s closest childhood friend had called with the news that he had Lou Gehrig’s disease, and ALS was virtually a death sentence.
Matt remembered how he’d hung up after the call and stared at the cast on his leg, broken in a stupid, reckless accident. There was nothing stupid or reckless about Terry—he’d simply gotten sick and there was nothing anyone could do about it. So Matt had hobbled to the wall and punched it so hard he’d cracked two bones in his hand.
He flexed his fingers.
Maybe it was a good thing he’d had a broken hand in addition to his tibia. Being injured had made him slow down, forcing him to deal with the reality of his best friend’s illness, instead of throwing himself into parties or another extreme sport to forget that Terry could die soon. And gradually, Matt had begun thinking about his grandfather’s philanthropic foundation. The Eisley Foundation funded medical research, and if he became the director, he could push a project to help find a cure for ALS. Even if it didn’t help Terry, it could help other people with the disease.
His grandfather had been hard to convince. Gordon Eisley had finally agreed that if Matt could hold an outside position for a year, he would retire and hand over the reins. During that time they’d worked together every Saturday, with Gordon showing him the ropes. It turned out that for the past decade his grandfather had done little more than review requests for money and sign checks, rather than actively overseeing the foundation’s projects.
Matt intended to be far more involved.
* * *
LAYNE DROVE TO her aunt’s home in Carrollton, Washington, and parked in the driveway. For almost a week she’d spent every free moment in her uncle’s office and wasn’t any closer to discovering answers than before she’d started.
She’d found nothing to either support her uncle’s innocence or to suggest his guilt, and it had quickly become evident that she needed more information on the supposed crime to even know where to look. With the police and District Attorney’s office refusing to cooperate, speaking with Peter Davidson had seemed necessary; when he’d proved elusive, she’d given Matt Hollister a shot.
Sighing, she got out and went inside. Normally Aunt Dee worked at home doing commercial art for a greeting card company and other freelance contracts, but today she was on duty at the gallery where some of her paintings were for sale.
Going into her uncle’s home office, Layne sat in his leather executive chair and felt the familiar rush of grief. Tears had streamed down her face the first evening she’d spent there. The room still smelled like Uncle Will, with a hint of the pipe tobacco he’d smoked once in a while, and the dark roast coffee he’d drunk by the gallon. Or maybe it was just her imagination, wanting to feel closer to him.
She tried pushing the sliding keyboard tray farther under the desk, but it caught on the cord and wouldn’t go all the way. With a sigh, she left it alone, turning again to the boxes Uncle Will’s partner had sent over from the company. Aunt Dee hadn’t exaggerated...there was a large pile against one wall, filled with everything imaginable. Layne had only catalogued the contents of a few, but the careless way they’d been packed infuriated her—things thrown in, papers crumpled and items broken, as if drawers had been upended and surfaces hastily swept off.
It was thoughtless and cruel, because no matter what the firm had believed about William Hudson, his wife shouldn’t have been subjected to something so unpleasant after his death. Thank goodness Aunt Dee hadn’t had time to look in the boxes or it would have upset her terribly.
Layne pressed her lips together; she’d completely blown the meeting with Matthew Hollister. However briefly, he’d worked for Hudson & Davidson and could have given her information about how they operated and facts about how the embezzling occurred, but instead she’d gotten nervous. And it certainly hadn’t helped when he’d learned she worked for the Babbitt.
Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her purse. “Yes?”
“It’s me, darling.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“I just talked with Sheldon at the university. He says you haven’t spoken to him about that position on his genetics project team.”
Layne gritted her teeth. Maybe she could pretend she was losing the signal, except her mother would just call back. “Mom, I’m not interested. I love my job at the Babbitt and I’m good at it. Why isn’t that enough?”
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Here, speak to your father.”
“Layne,” said Walter McGraw’s deep voice. “If you aren’t interested in genetics, I’m sure we can find another medical research study you could join.”
She wanted to scream. “Look, I’m at Aunt Dee’s right now. Could we talk about it on Sunday when I come to dinner? I promise you can nag for at least twenty minutes before I say no again.”
“We just want the best for you.”
“I know. Gotta go, Dad,” she said hastily, hating his hurt, offended tone. “Love to you both. Bye.”
She turned off the cell and dropped it back in her purse. For Pete’s sake, she was offended, too. Nothing she did would ever be good enough for her parents.
Layne leaned her elbows on the desk and studied the records she was keeping of everything found in the boxes so far; she didn’t want anything to go unnoticed. The rest of the office would receive an equally careful inventory and review. Most of it was deadly dull, but research wasn’t always exciting. It was more of a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other sort of activity.
An hour later she heard her aunt arrive home and went out to the kitchen to greet her—Aunt Dee cooked as a stress reliever, so she was in the kitchen a lot these days. Layne was just glad she earned money from the Babbitt part of the time for testing recipes. It wouldn’t fix her financial woes, but maybe it would help stave off disaster for a while.
“Hi. How was the gallery?”
“Fine. How was meeting the gorgeous philanthropist?”
“So-so.” Layne wrinkled her nose. “Matthew Hollister is good-looking, but he isn’t that gorgeous.”
Liar, screamed her conscience. Matt Hollister was tall, dark and stunning. With his expensive suit, black hair and gray eyes, he could have walked off the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Of course, he’d graced the cover of more than one magazine and scandal rag when he was still carousing...usually with a woman and a juicy caption. In person he was magnetic, one of those guys who made you want to tear off your clothes and throw yourself into his arms. Her sisters could get away with it, but her? Not a chance. She wasn’t Quasimodo, but she was hardly in Matt Hollister’s league.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Mr. Hollister wasn’t in the mood to talk. He practically had me thrown out of the building. His security guy showed up as I got off the elevator in the lobby and I thought he was going to pull a gun on me. Followed me clear out to the parking lot and watched me leave.”
“Are you all right?” Aunt Dee exclaimed.
“I’m fine. I’m probably overreacting, since he didn’t actually do anything. He was just menacing, in this quiet, intense sort of way. I bet he just looks at someone and they skedaddle.”
“Lani, I know I asked you to investigate, but it isn’t worth you taking risks. I don’t want you getting hurt, and William wouldn’t have, either.”
“I’m not taking any risks. It was just a conversation. Though I did hope Mr. Hollister would talk about the company and anything he might have seen or heard about the case. I mean, he worked at Hudson & Davidson through the main part of the investigation, so he must know something. I thought he could at least get his stepfather to meet with me, only he didn’t give me much chance to talk. But I can tell you one thing, Matt Hollister sure got uptight when I mentioned Peter Davidson. What can you tell me about Mr. Davidson? I don’t remember him very well.”
Aunt Dee pulled several items from the refrigerator, frowning slightly. “He was focused and dedicated. We became friends with Peter and his first wife at William’s last posting in Guam. It was Peter who suggested that Will go back to school and get a degree in accounting when he left the navy. That way they could go into business together when they were both out of the service.”
Layne scribbled a note on her pad. “I see. Is that why Mr. Davidson moved to the Seattle area, because you guys were here?”
“Yes, though by that time Shelley, his first wife, had died in an accident. I think that’s why he didn’t come to the house that much—it reminded him of those years when we were all so close.”
Not close enough, Layne added silently. Peter Davidson had hung his old friend out to dry the minute a whiff of scandal appeared.
“Anyway,” Aunt Dee said, “Will started an accounting firm when he got his degree instead of going to work for someone else, and when Peter took twenty-year retirement from the navy, he moved here. William sold him half the company so they’d be equal partners. By that time Peter had already made a fortune on the stock market.”
Layne stared at her aunt who was working at the sink. “You mean the company originally belonged to Uncle Will? I thought they’d started it together.”
“In a way they did—they expanded beyond accounting and the company grew exponentially after that, with huge corporate accounts and an A-list of wealthy clients.”
“I see.” Layne gazed out at the wooded backyard. The house faced on a shallow creek gorge and the yard took advantage of a divine natural setting. Whenever possible over the past seven months she’d helped with the upkeep of the property, though Aunt Dee was awfully touchy about it. “But if Mr. Davidson came out of the mess so clean, why won’t his stepson talk about what happened?”
“Who knows? It could mean anything from a bad relationship with his stepfather to concern about negative press coverage—it isn’t necessarily sinister.”
“I suppose.”
Matt Hollister had annoyed Layne, mostly because he was rich and spoiled and no doubt playing at philanthropy the way he’d played at everything else. There were men like him who’d changed their ways, but they weren’t usually thirty-two and in the prime of their life.
“I wonder how long he’s going to last running the Eisley Foundation?” she mused aloud.
“Is it important?” Her aunt put a plate of Cobb salad in front of Layne.
“Not really, though it isn’t as if he earned the job.”
Dee sat down with her own salad. “The Eisley Foundation does important work. Mr. Eisley earned a fortune in the shipping industry and lumber business, then funneled half of it into humanitarian causes.”
“I know, he’s the Andrew Carnegie of the Pacific Northwest,” Layne said, waving her fork. “But that’s the grandfather, not the grandson. After getting out of college Matthew Hollister mostly partied hard, drove fast and dated supermodels.”
Her research on him wasn’t flattering. Honestly, why did some women think a man who partied every night and risked his life in race cars and doing other dumb things was sexy? Except...Matt Hollister was sexy, his exploits notwithstanding. So sexy he’d tied her tongue into knots. She had to view him as a fact to be researched, instead of letting her feminine instincts jump in and turn her into a stuttering idiot.
“It’s a private foundation, Lani. Mr. Eisley can name anyone to the job. Including his grandson.”
“I suppose.” Layne took a bite of salad. Mmm. It was loaded with blue cheese, hard-boiled eggs and bacon, along with thick chunks of avocado. Not to mention her aunt’s homemade croutons, with fresh-baked yeast rolls on the side. “This is so good,” she murmured.
“It isn’t hard to make.”
“You don’t think anything is hard to make.”
* * *
DOROTHY HUDSON SMILED, trying to hide her concern. Her niece looked tired, no doubt from the late nights she’d spent in Will’s home office. Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked Layne to investigate, but it was hard not knowing why her life had fallen apart. And while she didn’t want to be mercenary, she’d lose everything they’d built together if she didn’t get more than twenty-five thousand dollars from the sale of the company.
She’d talked herself hoarse to the police, calling every day and asking if they’d made any progress. Finally they’d referred her to the Carrollton D.A.’s office, who’d told her in no uncertain terms that while the case was technically open, the only continuing investigation would be to find the stolen money. But it kept bothering her. How could she accept what other people said about William, rather than what she felt in her heart? And lately she could barely sleep for thinking about it.
She believed he was innocent, didn’t she?
Sure, a few years ago, Will and Peter had built an expensive new complex for the company. The cost was astronomical, but they’d felt it presented the right image to clients. But then Will’s father had gotten sick. The elder Hudsons hadn’t had health insurance, so she and Will had helped out to make sure the best treatment was available. Their savings and investments were depleted, putting them in debt for the first time in years.
But millions of people had debts and didn’t resort to theft, and Will had always been so optimistic and scrupulously honest; it was one of the things Dorothy had loved about him. Suicide and embezzling were the last things she would have expected.
“I have to say that Eisley Foundation building has the most scrumptious view of Lake Union,” Layne said, distracting Dorothy from darker thoughts. “If I was Matthew Hollister, I’d just move in and make his office my living room. I nearly died of envy on the spot.”
Dorothy cocked her head. “Don’t you like your house?”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t have my garden in North Seattle, so it evens out. He was defensive about their upscale location, but I already knew the stuff he spouted about the Eisley Foundation restoring the neighborhood.”
“They’ve been criticized over the years for being there,” Dorothy admitted. “People forget how bad that area used to be. They just see that it’s pricey real estate and question a charitable trust operating in the middle of so much affluence.”
Layne gasped in mock horror. “You mean the press criticized old Mr. Eisley, too? I thought he’d been granted sainthood.”
“Almost. What did you hope Mr. Hollister could tell you?”
“More details about the embezzlement, for one thing. The police won’t release the evidence against Uncle Will or anything else about the thefts, and it’s difficult to investigate when you don’t have a clue what you’re trying to find out. But I’ll get another chance to talk to him.”
Dorothy pushed her salad around on her plate; she was rarely hungry these days, but she’d wanted Layne to have a good meal and her niece would have refused to eat alone.
“If Mr. Hollister threw you out, what makes you think you’ll have another chance?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
A smile brightened Layne’s face and she hopped down from the bar stool. A moment later she slid a copy of the Babbitt across the counter—it was open to the “Local Doings” section of the weekly publication. New Director of the Eisley Foundation to Attend Mayor’s Charity Gala read the headline of the top article.
“The gala is tomorrow,” Layne explained.
“How is that going to help?”
“Easy, I’m going, too. We always get two tickets to these events at the Babbitt. Naturally the social reporter gets one, but nobody wanted the other, so I grabbed it. Want to go with me? It admits two people.”
Dee didn’t hold with formal mourning periods where women wore widow’s weeds and did nothing but charity work for years, but that didn’t mean she felt like going to a party, especially something like the mayor’s gala.
“Can’t you go with someone else from the magazine?”
“I guess. Noah Wilkie is assigned to cover the event, only his wife is pregnant and the smell of food is making her gag. He suggested I go with him when he found out I was interested. Christine thinks it’s a great idea—she doesn’t want Noah attending with just anyone.” Layne put a finger on the magazine and drew it back toward her. “I’d never hit on a married man, but what does it mean if other women think their husbands are absolutely safe around you? Christine would never be okay with Noah going to a gala with one of my sisters and they wouldn’t run after a married guy, either.”
Dorothy regarded her niece with affectionate sympathy. Layne was lovely, but she’d grown up in the shadow of two strikingly beautiful sisters with classic figures and innate feminine allure. The rest of the family was tall, Layne was small and petite. At best she wore a B-cup bra, and she was direct, rather than flirtatious.
“It means you’re special,” Dorothy assured. “And you have real friends. I remember you getting a present for someone named Christine before you’d even met her.”
“That was for their new kitten. The Wilkies have never had pets and didn’t have any toys or other supplies.”
“You mentioned Christine was pregnant. What have you gotten for the new baby?”
“Oh, I found a terrific set of...” Layne stopped and looked puzzled. “How did you know I’d gotten her something?”
“Because I know you. Now, tell me why Noah wants someone to attend the charity gala with him.”
“He feels it appears less threatening to bigwigs if a social reporter comes with a date.”
“‘Social’ reporter?” Dorothy restrained a laugh. “Is that another name for gossip columnist?”
Layne chuckled. “More or less. Noah is the worst gossip I know. Anyhow, I’d much rather go to the gala with you, especially since I don’t want anyone at the Babbitt knowing about this. Come on, Aunt Dee, we wouldn’t have to stay for long. And even if Matt Hollister won’t talk to me, he might talk to you.”
“All right, I’m convinced. What’s your plan?”
“We’ll quietly approach Mr. Hollister and try to get him to agree to another meeting in a less public place.”
Dorothy ate a bite of salad. “What if he won’t?”
“Then I’ll think of something else. Don’t worry—besides the stuff in the office, there are public records and other places to search. You gave me the names of the employees you could remember and I’ll interview them if needed. And maybe there’s a way to get the rest of the names, even if Mr. Davidson won’t cooperate.”
“They may not talk to you, either.”
“I’ll figure it out. I just wish I knew more about how the embezzling happened.”
Dorothy nibbled a bite of dinner roll.
The sensation of Will being in the house was even stronger than before, sometimes she even smelled the shampoo he’d used and his pipe tobacco, or heard the low murmur of his voice. Or maybe it was just her imagination and a guilty conscience because she hadn’t cleared his name and it was the only thing left she could do for him.
She just hoped Layne could find the answer soon.
CHAPTER THREE
ON SATURDAY EVENING Layne smoothed the front of her dress as she regarded herself in the mirror. Her aunt had just finished doing her hair for her, twisting both sides and fastening it with enameled combs that matched the green silk of Layne’s evening dress.
Still peering at her reflection, Layne turned sideways and sighed. Thin ribbon straps crisscrossed over her shoulders, holding her dress up, and the thing sort of swirled to her waist, and then to her feet. But nothing, not even a clever bra, could give her a respectable silhouette.
“I didn’t want to buy something new that I’d never use again, but I don’t want to be a laughingstock. Do you really think no one will guess this started life as a bridesmaid’s dress?” she asked her aunt.
“Honestly, it’s fine without the cape over the shoulders,” Aunt Dee replied. “And naturally that bow had to go.”
“Yeah, that looked stupid on me. I’ll never forgive Carla for making me wear it. You’d think she’d be nicer to her own cousin.”
She twisted, trying to see the back of the dress. Aunt Dee had removed the girlish bow and created a slim belt to cover any evidence of its removal, saying it would make the “lines” of the gown more classic. Since her aunt was an artist with exquisite taste, Layne would have to take her word for it. She didn’t object to wearing pretty clothes every now and then, but too much froufrou made her resemble an over-decorated birthday cake.
Leaning forward, she checked the light makeup her aunt had applied—just a few touches to her lashes and eyelids, along with lipstick. “And you’re sure I don’t need any other makeup?”
“Not with your complexion.”
Layne collected the matching purse that came with the dress. “Then we’d better get going. I’ll never look as good as you, anyway.”
“Nonsense. You’re lovely.” Her aunt smoothed a hand over her midnight velvet gown. It was high at the neck, with crisscross straps down the back that made it look classily provocative. “I haven’t worn an evening gown in ages.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
They walked out to the car and Layne patted the roof of her classic 1966 Mustang. Much to her parents’ displeasure, her aunt and uncle had given it to her as a high school graduation present. The light turquoise color wasn’t original, but it suited Layne. The Mustang had been Uncle Will’s first car and they’d carefully restored it for her, including the installation of the latest modern seat belts with shoulder straps—they’d been indulgent, not reckless.
She drove downtown to the fancy hotel where the gala was being held. Inside she produced her invitation and they were motioned into the ballroom. Layne wrinkled her nose at the assembly; big, glitzy parties with “the beautiful people” were way out of her comfort zone. Nevertheless, she circulated with Aunt Dee around the room, keeping watch for Matthew Hollister.
It was an hour before they saw him. She nudged Aunt Dee. “There he is.”
“Surrounded by women.”
“Maybe that’s why he never got married. I mean, who’d want to deal with that every day?”
Dee didn’t reply as they maneuvered closer. They’d almost succeeded in getting within speaking distance when Matt noticed Layne and his expression froze. He drifted farther away, and they spent the next twenty minutes trying to get near, while he kept finding ways to shift himself away from them.
She looked at her aunt, expecting to see frustration, but something very different was smoldering in Dee’s eyes. She rarely got angry, but now she was furious. “He really thinks he’s important, doesn’t he?” she muttered.
Layne eyed Matt, tall and elegant in his suit, surrounded by his harem of adoring women. He actually appeared dignified, a major feat for a man who was famous for a bare-chested photo in a hot tub, tipping a champagne flute to the camera.
“I suppose it’s a question of perspective. He’s rich, his mother is from one of the oldest families in Seattle and he’s famous in more ways than one. In his world, he is important.”
“Well, I’ve had enough,” Dee said abruptly, but instead of turning for the exit, she thrust her glass into Layne’s hand and determinedly marched toward Matt Hollister.
Uh-oh. Layne quickly calculated how much wine her aunt had actually consumed, and realized it was quite a lot. Dorothy Hudson did not hold her liquor well.
“Layne, you made it.”
Harried, she realized it was Noah Wilkie. “Yeah. Hi, Noah.” She put the two glasses she held onto a waiter’s passing tray. “Hate to run, but I need to...” She gestured vaguely as she hurried toward her aunt.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Dee was demanding as Layne reached her.
Matt smiled charmingly, though when he saw Layne, his eyes began to glitter. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And this is hardly the setting for a business discussion.”
“It’s as good a place as any.”
“Aunt Dee, please. Not here, and not this way,” Layne said a low, urgent tone. While the admiring crowd had faded away at the prospect of an emotional scene, Noah had followed and he was watching the confrontation with a curious expression.
“Aunt Dee?” Matt repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, I should have told you. I was going to, but then you weren’t...uh....”
“I remember,” he said grimly.
“Peter Davidson is your stepfather and you worked at the company,” Dee announced. “You must be able to tell me more.”
“Aunt Dee, Noah Wilkie is here,” Layne told her urgently. “Remember what I told you about Noah? He works at the—”
“I’m entitled to information, Layne. I’m tired of being put off, with one excuse after another.”
Noah had obviously perked up his ears and Layne grimaced. Terrific. Aunt Dee was running her mouth off in front of the biggest gossip in Seattle. Even if he didn’t write about the incident, he was bound to mention it to someone at the magazine. It was part of the reason she’d wanted to attend the gala with her aunt, instead of Noah.
“Layne, Aunt Dorothy, I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” exclaimed a familiar voice.
It was Layne’s sister, Jeannette, looking flawless from the top of her blond head to the tip of her Prada shoes. Her gown wasn’t a recycled bridesmaid’s dress; it was probably a designer outfit that had cost a fortune. She could afford it as a fast-rising pharmaceutical executive. As for the shoes, Layne only knew they were Prada because Jeannette never wore anything else.
“Hi, Jeannette. I didn’t know you were coming, either.” She should have guessed, though. It was the sort of high-toned party Jeannie attended all the time.
“Oh, yes, the mayor invited me. My company is a major contributor to his favorite charity.” Jeannette turned and gave Matt a dazzling smile. “Matthew Hollister, right? I’m Jeannette McGraw, senior vice president of the Wilcox Pharmaceutical research division. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Layne glanced at Matt Hollister, seeing without surprise that he no longer appeared annoyed. Men were usually overwhelmed when they met one of her older sisters—Jeannette and Stephanie were extraordinarily beautiful and successful. So maybe it was a good thing Jeannie had shown up and provided a distraction. Aunt Dee was looking puzzled, but calmer, while Noah appeared starstruck at the sight of so much womanly perfection.
“Would you like to have a drink with me, Mr. Hollister?” Jeannie asked.
“Delighted, but call me Matt.”
“And I’m Jeannette. I’m very interested in the business model you want to apply to the research on finding a cure for ALS. I’ve never heard of a nonprofit using that approach.” All at once she looked at Layne and Dee apologetically. “But how rude of me. You were speaking with my sister and aunt. We can have that drink later.”
Matt gave them a cool glance. “No need to wait—we’re done.”
Their voices faded as they walked away and Layne nudged a dazed Noah with her elbow. “You’re married, remember?”
He dragged his attention away from Jeannie’s shapely backside. “What...that’s ridiculous. I’m crazy about my wife.”
“Good. Jeannie has broken more hearts than I can count. All she needs to do is smile and they shatter.”
“Is she really your sister? You don’t look at all alike.”
“Yeah, she really is.” Layne was resigned to the question. She took after her father’s maternal grandmother. If she hadn’t looked so much like Great-Grandmother Harriet, she might have suspected she was adopted, or that she’d been sent home from the hospital with the wrong family. There was no justice to being the little sister in more ways than one—both Jeannette and Stephanie topped her by at least five inches. Her mom, too.
Oh, well.
She mentally shrugged; it could have been worse—she could have looked like Great Grandmother Petra.
“Come on, Aunt Dee,” she said. “Let’s go home and have hot chocolate and some of the biscotti you baked yesterday.”
Dee spared a single glance in the direction Matt had disappeared with her other niece. She looked deflated and embarrassed. “All right.”
Layne hurried her out, hoping Noah would be so consumed with the memory of Jeannie’s flawless femininity, he wouldn’t remember the interesting bit of dialogue that had come his way. After all, even though Matt Hollister didn’t seem bothered by press coverage, she knew the rest of the Eisley family abhorred being in the news for anything except ribbon cuttings and Eisley Foundation success stories.
CHAPTER FOUR
MATT CHATTED WITH Jeannette McGraw at the bar as they waited for their drinks. She was tall, articulate, intelligent and had a stunning smile. Basically, the type of woman who had always attracted him, yet he kept picturing Layne McGraw in his mind.
Jeannette’s pint-sized sister was irritating, but she had a quiet freshness that was appealing at the same time. Not that it mattered. Things had just gone from a headache to a major problem. What were Layne and her aunt after, and did Jeannette have anything to do with it?
He looked at the beautiful blonde and saw nothing but a prowling female looking back at him. It seemed improbable that she knew anything about her sister’s activities, or she wouldn’t have interrupted.
“What was that again?” he said, realizing Jeannette had posed a question.
“I, uh, asked if you knew of any other nonprofit organizations applying a business model to medical research?”
“There’s at least one, and they’ve had encouraging results. I read about it a couple of years ago and thought the concept was intriguing.” Matt didn’t add that it was when he’d been laid up with his broken tibia. He’d gone out with a high fever and racking cough to a slope nicknamed the Devil’s Widow Maker; he was lucky he hadn’t broken his fool neck instead of his leg.
He glanced across the large ballroom. Had Layne and her aunt gone home, or were they lingering, hopeful he would relent and give them what they wanted? It had only taken him a second to recognize Dorothy Hudson—she wasn’t the kind of woman you forgot. With her classic beauty she could have stepped from a delicate hand-carved cameo.
“So, how do you know my sister?” Jeannette asked. She laughed lightly. “I was surprised to see her here—this sort of party isn’t her scene. She’s a backyard barbecue sort of gal. Probably complete with tofu burgers. Not that she cooks, but she has vegan friends who do.”
“I’m barely acquainted with Layne.”
“That’s good to know. I wouldn’t want to step on her toes...if you understand what I mean?” She was obviously trying to be delicate, but there was a distinct invitation in her eyes.
Matt was tempted, despite her connection to the Hudson scandal, yet the subtle slap at her sister had put his teeth on edge. He was tired of predatory games. Honestly, he’d heard women stick a verbal knife in one another—some would do anything to get ahead—but between sisters it was particularly distasteful.
“I understand. Do you plan to stay in pharmaceuticals or go elsewhere?” he queried, deliberately moving the subject away from flirtatious topics. Few women could match Jeannette McGraw, but at the moment, he simply wasn’t interested.
Though disappointment flickered in her expression, she began describing her work. Ironically, that was when she seemed most genuine. Her polish and sophistication weren’t unique, but her apparent commitment to developing new antibiotics was admirable.
“So both of your parents are doctors,” he mused after a several minutes. “I imagine that influenced your career choice.”
“Yes.” The playful invitation had vanished entirely from her eyes, which told him she was smart enough to get the message without him needing to be blunt. Whether she knew why he’d lost interest was another question.
Matt swirled the golden liquid in his brandy snifter, then set it on a tray. “It was very nice meeting you, Jeannette, but I have a check to write for the mayor’s favorite charity.”
“I hope we’ll run into each other another time.”
“Certainly.”
Matt quickly made his charitable contribution and headed out to the parking garage, hoping to see Peter before he went to bed. He also wanted to speak with Connor, though the Eisley security chief rarely seemed to sleep in Matt’s experience, so getting there early enough wasn’t an issue.
The city streets were still teeming with people as he drove to his grandfather’s estate. His stepfather and mother lived in a wing of the mansion, while his grandparents lived in another. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, at least for Peter, but he’d agreed because it was what Katrina had wanted. At the security gate Matt stopped and nodded as the guard stepped forward.
“Good evening, Mr. Hollister. We didn’t expect you tonight.”
“It wasn’t planned, but I have some business to discuss with my stepfather.”
“I believe Mr. Davidson is taking his evening stroll. He passed by a few minutes ago, headed toward the water.” The guard gestured to the southwest.
“Thanks, I’ll see if I can catch up.”
Matt parked and hurried down the moonlit path. Growing up he’d roamed every inch of the grounds and could find his way blindfolded. There were acres on the estate, with fine gardens surrounding the house, and the rest in natural woodland crossed by a meandering creek, yet it had seemed like a prison when he was a boy. Nobody would admit it, but his mother had been virtually agoraphobic back then. And she’d tried to keep him confined to the estate as well. It was his grandparents who’d insisted he go to boarding school.
Terrence “Terry” Jackson had been Matt’s only friend. As the son of the head groundskeeper, Terry had come to work with his father during the summer. They’d spent every minute together, discovering ways to beat the security system, goofing off and having fun.
Matt’s mouth tightened.
Damn it, Terry had children and was a dedicated teacher. A new ALS research project to discover a cure, however well funded, was just a shot in the dark. They both knew it was unlikely to yield results in time to help him.
“Peter, it’s me,” Matt called, seeing his stepfather’s silhouette near the high, tree-lined bluff overlooking the Puget Sound. The moon hung above the horizon, painting everything in silver light and shadow.
“Matt, you’re the last person I expected to see tonight. Didn’t you go to the mayor’s gala?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here. Dorothy Hudson was there as well, asking questions about the embezzlement case. And her niece Layne came to my office yesterday about it.”
He heard Peter’s sharp intake of breath. “What did you tell them?”
It seemed an odd inquiry, but it was an odd situation. How many people had a business partner who’d embezzled several million dollars?
“Very little. They want details about how the thefts occurred, and probably some other information. Apparently the police and the Carrollton D.A.’s office won’t speak to them, so they’re going elsewhere for the answers.”
“I’ve tried to protect Dorothy from as much of the ugliness as possible,” Peter said irritably. “You’d think she’d appreciate what I’ve done instead of reopening the wounds. William stuck a damned knife in my back and took the coward’s way out when he got caught. It’s as simple as that.”
“His suicide must make his death harder for her to deal with,” Matt murmured.
“That isn’t my problem.”
The harsh response made Matt uncomfortable, but he tried to put himself in Peter’s shoes. His stepfather felt betrayed and angry and wanted to put it behind him. And he was struggling to make his marriage work, which was no picnic considering Katrina’s problems. Matt adored his mother and would do anything for her, but he wasn’t blind. She hated to have her name in the press, and she didn’t leave the Eisley estate except for a few exclusive social gatherings.
“I appreciate your telling me about this, son,” said his stepfather. “I recently told Dorothy I want to sell the company, so perhaps it’s just a momentary aberration on her part. She’s a nice woman, but she operates largely on emotion, rather than logic. Her artistic temperament, I suppose.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll see you sometime next week.”
They shook hands, yet Matt was more unsettled than ever as he headed for the small house where Connor O’Brian resided on the estate.
Connor’s choice of residence was another puzzle. Matt understood why his grandfather would want his security chief living close by; he just wasn’t sure why Connor had accepted the arrangement. Yet as he stepped to the rise and looked down at the place, nestled against the dark outline of forest behind it, he wondered if the small stone house reminded Connor of Ireland. It had been built by Gaelic craftsmen, along with the mansion and high limestone walls surrounding the estate.
He didn’t have a chance to knock on the door since Connor opened it as he approached. “Do you have an early warning system when people arrive?” he asked the older man.
“Dog. Beats electronics any day.”
“Oh. Do you ever sleep?”
“Only on alternate days. Come in, Matt.”
Like the carriage house exterior, the interior probably looked little different from when it was built. There were white plaster walls, natural wood beams exposed in the ceiling, and the broad planked wood floors were polished smooth by over a hundred years of use. The furniture was basic and solid with no decoration. Matt’s own penthouse apartment was stark, but Connor’s living room gave the word new meaning.
“Hey, Finnster,” he called to the rottweiler lying on the floor. The dog raised his head, let out a faint woof of greeting and settled back again. “This place is pretty bare, Connor. You’ve lived here, what, fourteen years?”
“I like being able to leave at a moment’s notice. Helps if you don’t have a lot of nonsense weighing you down.”
Matt had few physical possessions himself, having moved around on the party circuit for so many years, but he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t take Connor more than a minute to do a fast fade out the back door.
“Do you expect to pick up and leave any time soon?”
“You never know. What brings you here? I figured you’d go home with someone from the party.”
Matt’s jaw hardened. Every time he attended a public function or dated a woman, it started a frenzy of speculation about his social life, which made it that much harder to be taken seriously at the foundation. Did the gossip columnists and everyone else expect him to become a monk, simply because he was handing out money for charity? And why would his sex life affect his ability to take his grandfather’s place?
“Not tonight,” he said shortly. “I’m here to talk with you about the woman who came to my office yesterday. She was at the gala, along with her aunt, Dorothy Hudson. It turns out Layne McGraw is William Hudson’s niece. Dorothy is his widow. I want a security check on them both.”
“You should have a preliminary file in a couple of days.”
“Thanks.” Matt glanced around the small cottage. “I don’t get it. Why haven’t you bought your own house?”
Connor patted Finnster on the head. “My needs are simple and this place meets all of them. There’s plenty of room for my dog. I do my job, your grandfather doesn’t bother me and I’ve saved practically every penny he’s ever paid me. Since my services don’t come cheap, that’s a healthy chunk of money. And that’s on top of the Eisley company shares I’ve received as bonuses for services rendered.”
“But you’re stuck...here.”
“It’s only a prison if you can’t leave,” Connor said. “People make their own jails. It’s too bad your mother trapped you in hers.”
Denial rose in Matt’s throat, but he choked it down. Connor knew everything about the family; if they couldn’t trust him by now, something was very wrong. He got up and headed for the door, then turned around. “Connor, what do you think of my stepfather?”
“Think of him?”
Matt frowned. He’d never heard that careful tone in Connor’s voice before. “You investigated Peter when he began dating my mother—you must have an opinion.”
“I found nothing in the background sweep that indicated a problem.”
“But you don’t like him.”
Connor’s face was expressionless. “I don’t like very many people—it’s a hazard of the job. I’ll let you know when I have a report on the two women.”
“Thanks.” Matt headed toward his car again, still frowning.
Just because Layne McGraw and her aunt were asking questions about the embezzlement case, it didn’t mean anything was wrong. The D.A.’s office hadn’t doubted William Hudson’s guilt, so surely they were satisfied with the evidence. The idea that Matt might have missed something himself was disturbing—should he have seen things the police hadn’t?
Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like? Layne McGraw’s question had been echoing in Matt’s head, and he tried to push it away. It was natural William’s family wanted to believe in his innocence; it didn’t mean he was innocent.
* * *
IN THE BEDROOM Layne always used at her aunt’s house, she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes in relief, grateful she’d decided to stay the night. She hated pumps. And nylons. She hadn’t worn nylons since her job interview with the Babbitt.
No doubt the women Matt Hollister dated were fashion mavens who wouldn’t be caught dead without stockings, and probably silk to boot.
Layne glanced at her reflection in the mirror, chagrined as she recalled Matt’s expression at seeing her sister. Her green silk dress hadn’t looked that bad, but she couldn’t compete with Jeannie. And why she cared when the man in question was Matt Hollister, she had no idea.
Layne lay down on the bed, unable to stop thinking about the gala. At least Hollister had kept his cool better than her aunt; having Aunt Dee confront him was astonishing, but it was an indication of how desperate she felt.
The house was silent and Layne rolled over to stare at the dark ceiling, thinking back to the nightmare almost seven months before. Uncle Will’s suicide note hadn’t sounded like him, just a brief typed message, with no personal word to his wife of twenty-nine years. He’d always handwritten his letters; even his business correspondence was drafted first by hand. Back in December she’d told the police she questioned whether her uncle had actually written the so-called suicide note, but they’d dismissed her, claiming a suicidal person didn’t necessarily follow their normal pattern. Maybe, but she still wondered.
A picture filled her head of Uncle Will laughing on the Friday after the Thanksgiving holiday, not long before his death. They’d been making sandwiches from leftover turkey and he was talking about the future as if he didn’t have a care in the world. A few days later discrepancies were found in his client records, a handful of newspaper articles were published, accusations were made against him....and then he was found dead, before he was even arrested.
Yet if it wasn’t suicide, it had to be murder.
She hadn’t discussed the possibility with Aunt Dee, though it must have occurred to her, as well. And it would mean someone had gotten in and killed Uncle Will in his home office. If that had happened, it was mostly likely someone he’d known well...someone he’d trusted. Someone like Peter Davidson, the partner with whom he’d shared the business. The friend who’d turned his back on his old buddy as soon as the suspicion of embezzlement was raised and was now trying to get away with all the proceeds from selling the company.
It appeared Peter Davidson had emerged from the scandal with a spotless reputation. But what if he was involved? It could mean he was a thief and potential murderer.
Damn.
Layne got up and pulled on a robe, deciding she might as well get some work done since she was too restless to lie still.
Sleep these days was elusive. Her uncle had kept meticulous records and documentation on everything, but his company records were in terrible shape thanks to the way they’d been packed, and most of the home records were boxed and stored in the upstairs storage room next to the master bedroom suite. No doubt Uncle Will could have put his hands on whatever he wanted, but she didn’t know what she was looking for and she couldn’t ignore a single scrap of paper in case it was important.
Sitting at her uncle’s desk, Layne read through her notes and the logs she had made of what she’d found. It all seemed innocuous. The personal items that weren’t damaged she had set aside for her aunt—others needed fixing and some were damaged beyond repair.
At the moment it was nearly impossible to make any progress without knowing what she was investigating. The police department claimed they couldn’t release anything because it was an open case and had to be kept confidential. The excuses might be valid if they were treating it as an ongoing investigation. But they weren’t, and she suspected somebody with influence was blocking her access.
And who could that influential person be?
Peter Davidson?
If so, it was no wonder Aunt Dee hadn’t gotten anywhere. The authorities probably didn’t realize the way they were acting was enough by itself to make her question if they had something to hide. The few newspaper articles about the scandal were no help; they were vague and talked about missing money at Hudson & Davidson, but it had all happened so quickly and with Uncle Will dead, they’d shifted to fresh stories.
Layne pressed a finger to her temple as she read an unfinished memo Uncle Will had scribbled a few days before everything fell apart. There was no address or salutation, so the intended recipient was a mystery.
Come on, she urged her tired brain, trying to determine if there was any significant meaning in the bold, strong lines of her uncle’s handwriting. But there was nothing she could see, and she put it on the stack to read another time when her head was clearer.
Tucking her legs under her, she leaned back in the comfortable executive-style chair and closed her eyes. Talk to me, Uncle Will, she pleaded silently. If you’re here in the house the way Aunt Dee seems to think, you must have a reason.
* * *
IT WAS JUST after 5:00 a.m. Sunday when Connor O’Brian parked across the street from the Hudson home in Carrollton, Washington, his gaze sweeping up and down the neighborhood.
He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t on alert, watching for the next threat to come his way, whether it was a gang of Dublin street brats when he was ten, or a group of mercenaries when he was working in covert ops. Working with half of the alphabet soup intelligence agencies in the world had educated him in more ways than one.
After his father’s death his family had moved to Dublin, and with his mother working several jobs, he’d gotten into more trouble than he cared to think about. It had taken several close calls with the law and a new stepfather with iron nerves to keep him out of more serious trouble. And he’d never even thanked Grady for any of it.
Connor massaged a jagged scar above his knee that had almost ended his career when he was twenty-two. Maybe it would have been better if it had; now his memories were a maze of scars...deaths that ought to have been prevented, friends lost and innocence destroyed. Espionage was a hard road once you’d started down it. Working for the Eisleys had come as a welcome break. Instead of international intrigue, he now dealt with ordinary intrigue. The motivations were often the same, but the scale was smaller. But then, one person’s life was just as important to them as another, so maybe scale was moot.
The rising sun showed details of the house—large and comfortable, in an affluent neighborhood—and he snapped several pictures. His staff was already doing a full background sweep on Layne McGraw and Dorothy Hudson, except there were things you couldn’t learn about people from a security report. He had his own methods, somewhat unorthodox, for getting a read on a situation.
A faint whine came from the passenger seat of the Jeep.
“Not yet, boy,” he said to the large rottweiler.
Finnster whined again, his gaze fixed on the house opposite the Jeep. He was smart; he knew his master was watching that house. There were few men that Connor trusted as much as the highly trained dog.
Finn was the closest thing he had to family in the United States. Everyone else was in Ireland. His stepfather had died of heart failure earlier that spring and his mother had moved back to Dún Laoghaire to be close to her daughter. As a rule, Connor spared little energy on sentimentality, but he regretted Grady’s passing more than he cared to think about. He’d always thought they’d have more time to know each other better.
Catching a flash of his reflection in the rearview mirror made Connor’s mouth twist in a humorless smile. Time? He was fifty-four now, and Grady had been nearly eighty. When were they supposed to become closer—on his rare, brief visits back home?
Still, his lost opportunities with Grady were the reason he didn’t want Matt to trash his relationship with Peter Davidson unnecessarily. He didn’t personally like Davidson—wealthy men sometimes took detours around moral issues and Peter was too polished for his taste—but he was a prize compared to S. S. Hollister. Connor snorted. Now, there was a man he had absolutely no use for...and for a long time it had looked as if Matthew would become just like his father.
Connor focused his camera on the classic Mustang parked in the driveway. It was the same car he’d seen Layne McGraw driving when she left the Eisley Foundation building. Something about her name had bothered him from the beginning, so he’d pulled his file on Peter Davidson after Matt’s visit to his house and found a reference to her in Hudson’s obituary, which was included with Davidson’s file.
William Hudson is survived by his beloved wife, Dorothy; nieces Layne, Stephanie and Jeannette McGraw; and nephew Jeremy McGraw...
The obit didn’t discuss William Hudson’s suicide, or that he’d been facing arrest and indictment for embezzling.
The rottweiler whined again.
“Patience, my friend,” Connor murmured, watching for signs of waking in the household, perhaps a curtain moving or a light coming on.
Ah...or miniblinds being opened.
Finnster nudged Connor’s elbow.
“All right. Let’s see how they react to you.”
He checked the microphone on Finn’s collar to be sure it was secure, tested the receiver in his ear, then let the dog out of the Jeep and tossed him a folded newspaper. He made a gesture with fingers, giving the command. The rottweiler drifted across the street and dropped the paper on the driveway before running to the front door, scratching and barking. When it opened, he pivoted and dashed back to the newspaper.
Layne McGraw followed, yawning. She put her hands on her hips and grinned at Finn. “What are you doing, making all that fuss out here? It’s Sunday morning—don’t you know people are catching up on their sleep?”
Finn nosed the newspaper forward a few inches. The newspaper routine was a maneuver they’d used more than once—how someone acted with a dog was revealing. Besides, Finnster was a good judge of character; his approval could be measured in how close he let someone get to him.
Finnster barked eagerly. He crouched down and cocked his head to one side, looking at Layne.
The ham.
Rottweilers had a reputation for ferocity in some circles, but Finn could make himself into a clown, scrunching up his face and using his eyes with the skill of a silent-screen actress. It was why Connor had picked him as a puppy.
“It’s very thoughtful of you, boy, but that belongs to someone else. Aunt Dee doesn’t take the paper. Did you go for a walk with someone and get away?” The girl’s voice was amused, coming clearly through the radio receiver in Connor’s ear.
Finn yipped again. “It’s all right, I’m harmless.” She held out her hand. “Give me a sniff. I probably smell like my aunt’s cat, but JoJo is okay with dogs as long as they let him be the boss.”
Finnster allowed himself to be coaxed and was soon on his back, legs waving in the air as he got his tummy rubbed, along with the place behind his ears that turned him into mush. He was in canine heaven.
Rolling his eyes, Connor belatedly lifted his camera and began shooting pictures.
“What have you got there, Lani?” he heard another voice ask a minute later.
Startled, Connor realized he’d missed Dorothy Hudson’s arrival. Damn it all, he couldn’t afford to get soft. He eased down in the driver’s seat to be less visible and continue taking photos. Since Layne McGraw had seen him the day she’d come to talk to Matt, she might recognize his face if she got a good look in his direction.
“He’s a marshmallow, Aunt Dee,” Layne declared. “His owner probably took him out for a run and he got away. See? He’s dragging a leash and brought us somebody else’s newspaper. Maybe the house looks like his home.”
“What a good boy.” The newcomer added to the caresses Finn was receiving.
If possible, the rottweiler melted further, wriggling along the flagstone driveway to position himself equally between them. His hind legs were even paddling, a sure sign of his pure and complete surrender.
Connor flipped through the Davidson file and found a picture of Dorothy Hudson. The woman petting his dog was just as beautiful as the woman in the photo, though her smile didn’t have the same merry quality. In fact, something about that sad smile reminded him of his sister back in Ireland, who’d never really gotten over her husband’s death.
“What should we do about him?” Layne asked, drawing Connor’s attention. His instincts told him that Layne McGraw and her aunt were decent people, an opinion Finnster would certainly endorse. Yet even decent people did strange things, and they could make serious trouble with the best of intentions.
“Let’s see if he has a license tag.”
Time for their exit strategy. Connor lifted a dog whistle to his mouth—it was outside the audible range for humans—and blew three short blasts, followed by another two.
What the...?
Connor stared. The bloody animal barely twitched an ear, instead he reached out a leg and pawed Layne McGraw’s knee. He was utterly ignoring the command to leave...the toughest guard dog in the state, with highly specialized and unique training, had been corrupted by a pretty girl and her aunt.
Connor sent the command again and Finn finally scrambled to his feet, cocking his head as if he’d heard something.
He barked twice, looking intently down the street and dashed away before the two women could grab his leash.
Scowling, Connor drove after him. Two blocks away he stopped, leaned over and opened the passenger door. Finn climbed in, panting from running, tongue happily hanging from one side of his mouth.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Connor scolded. “Do you have nothing but fur between those ears?”
Finn didn’t appear abashed. He settled down with a pleased sigh and wagged his tail the way any other dog remembering a treat would wag—certainly not like an animal that had been schooled to follow whistled commands without question. The first time those commands were given.
Connor wasn’t superstitious, but he couldn’t help wondering if the whole thing was an omen.
Perhaps the McGraw woman and her aunt were going to be an even bigger problem than he’d anticipated.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I WONDER IF Jeannie spent the night with Matthew Hollister?” Layne said as she pulled into her parents’ driveway.
“You think she’d go home with a man an hour after meeting him?” Aunt Dee asked. She didn’t exactly have a hangover from drinking too much at the gala, but she looked a little worse for wear and had been quieter than normal.
“I have no idea, but you saw her expression when she met him, and he’s been linked with several women since returning to Seattle.” Layne parked next to her brother’s Acura and behind Steffie’s Lexus. Only Jeannie’s sporty BMW was absent. She looked at the house and sighed; usually she tried to get there when dinner was already on the table, but Aunt Dee liked to arrive early.
“Come on, Lani. It’s just Sunday dinner with your parents,” Dee chided as they got out, each collecting their contributions for the meal. In Aunt Dee’s case, fresh home-baked rolls and dessert, with Layne’s contribution being sparkling cider, a pint of cream and two pounds of Seattle’s Best Coffee beans.
“I know. That’s the problem.” Inside the house Layne dutifully kissed her mother and father and greeted Steffie and Jeremy. “Isn’t Jeannie coming?” she asked, giving her mom the coffee and putting the cream and cider in the fridge.
“I’m here,” Jeannie called as she sailed through the front door. “I got held up at the office.”
“It’s Sunday,” Layne said, nibbling on a piece of celery from the vegetable tray. “Doctors may be on call 24/7, but don’t executives get the weekend off?”
“Hey, I work in the real business world, not a two-bit joint like the Babbitt.” An uncomfortable silence followed and Jeannette flushed. “Oh, Layne, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
Layne shrugged and popped a piece of cauliflower in her mouth. It was hardly a surprise how Jeannie and the rest of the family felt—working at the Babbitt wasn’t prestigious or high paying and would never make her famous. But what was wrong with just being good at your job?
One of these days she’d meet a terrific guy and they’d have two or three kids. She couldn’t be the kind of mom who baked cookies—she was too lousy of a cook—but she’d get them from a great bakery and go to all their school programs and accept whoever they wanted to be. You could do that when you were an everyday person rather than a famous heart doctor or supremely confident orthopedic surgeon and expected all your kids to be supercharged versions of yourself.
It wasn’t even that she resented her parents’ careers—they’d helped thousands of people over the years—but she wanted something like what her aunt and uncle had shared. Though Uncle Will’s company had become hugely successful, it was his marriage that had meant everything to him. Besides, she was tired of feeling as if she’d failed her family because she hadn’t been born as gorgeous and ambitious as the rest of them.
“Uh, well, can I get anyone a drink?” Layne’s father asked. He was a big believer in smoothing over discord.
A hasty chorus of requests followed as Layne stepped down into the open great room to where most of the trophies and awards her brother and sisters had gotten were displayed, among them Jeannie’s Phi Beta Kappa key, a letter of appreciation to Dr. Stephanie McGraw for saving the governor’s wife, and Jeremy’s track-and-field Olympic gold medals. His silver and bronze medals weren’t on display—anything that wasn’t the best wasn’t good enough in the McGraw family.
“Layne, I’m sorry,” Jeannie said from behind her. “I just don’t understand why you can’t work at a national magazine or major newspaper, at the very least.”
“You’re just making things worse, sis,” Jeremy told her, giving Layne a hug. “I personally want you all to quit your jobs and come work on my campaign next year. How about it, Layne? We can be the fighting McGraws, righting wrongs and bringing justice to a weary world.”
Layne loved her family, but sometimes she wished she lived in Timbuktu and only saw them on major holidays. “Save the campaign speeches, Jeremy. I’m staying at the Babbitt.”
“Here’s to our next U.S. congressman,” declared Barbara, handing Layne a glass of her favorite sparkling water.
Everyone dutifully raised their beverages and echoed the toast. Layne was certain Jeremy would be elected; he got everything he went after—like going to the Olympics.
“So when are you getting married, Jeremy?” Aunt Dee asked as they sat down to dinner.
“After Lissette is back from Antarctica and has finished her study on the emperor penguin.”
“It must be hard, knowing she’s down there in an observation station for the winter. It gets to almost a hundred below freezing, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but Lissette has been looking forward to being on an Antarctic research team for years. I couldn’t ask her to give up something so important because we’re getting married.”
Layne cast a grateful glance at her aunt as Dee continued asking questions.
The meal was one of Barbara McGraw’s healthy offerings—chicken breasts with mushrooms and asparagus in a light garlic wine sauce. Delicious, naturally. Barbara wasn’t an inspired cook like her sister, but when she did something, she did it very well.
The expected pitch about going to work at the university came when Layne was helping her mother wash up after dinner.
“Dear, Jeannie shouldn’t have said that earlier about the Babbitt,” Barbara murmured quietly, casting a displeased look into the great room where her husband and three eldest children were playing bridge.
“I’m not sure she can help herself. At least with me.”
“Perhaps. Relationships between sisters are complicated. But we’re all concerned that your talents aren’t being fully utilized at the Babbitt. I realize you love research, that’s why I spoke to Sheldon about your joining the study team he’s forming.”
“It’s not the same kind of research, Mom,” Layne returned drily. For a brilliant woman, Barbara could be quite dense when she chose to be.
“But it’s still uncovering information and learning new things. And if you went after your PhD, just think of everything you could find out. All sorts of new facts about diseases and how to cure them. Give Sheldon a call and talk to him.”
“I can learn new facts at the Babbitt without writing a dissertation and God knows what else is involved in getting a doctorate.”
Barbara’s eyes opened wide. “Layne—”
“I’m kidding, I know what’s involved in getting a PhD,” Layne said hastily. Her mother would have a stroke if she believed one of her children didn’t know every step, in detail, of getting an advanced degree. “But I’m not going to change my mind, I’m happy at the Babbitt and that’s where I’m staying.”
“Stubborn,” Barbara muttered. “You’ve always been just like your grandmother that way.”
Layne gave her a bright smile. “Gee, Mom, that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
* * *
ON TUESDAY EVENING Layne was settled at Uncle Will’s desk, logging more items from his old office at work. She had a feeling she was missing something, she just didn’t know what.
Mostly she needed more information.
Maybe if Aunt Dee got the autopsy report she could approach the investigation from a different angle. Of course, that was a long shot, too. Right now she was operating on her aunt’s belief in her husband, and her own vague sense that something wasn’t right about what had happened. After all, where was the missing money? Aunt Dee sure didn’t have it, and in his letter Peter Davidson had made a point of telling her he’d personally repaid the stolen funds from his own pocket.
Moodily, Layne flipped on Uncle Will’s computer. It went through the regular start-up routine and she figured it hadn’t been turned on since before his death.
Then Layne frowned.
Who had turned the power off? Aunt Dee avoided computers like the plague and certainly wouldn’t have known how to turn it off properly. The police? Maybe if they’d confiscated the CPU and returned it, but it was unlikely they’d hook it back up again. And why would Uncle Will write and print a suicide note, then turn the computer off when he’d always left it on?
Maybe somebody else had been in the office...like a murderer.
You’re reaching, Layne thought impatiently.
After a few minutes Uncle Will’s favorite screen saver appeared—mostly pictures of Aunt Dee shifting one to the next—and Layne wiggled the mouse to show the desktop again. She opened Microsoft Word and looked at the recent document list. It was really old stuff and she was relieved not to find a saved file of the suicide note.
Next she opened Windows Explorer to look for files. There wasn’t much there, except a number of image files. She clicked on the first one, which turned out to be Aunt Dee in her wedding gown, nineteen and luminously hopeful. The next picture was of Layne as a toddler at the reception, held high in Uncle Will’s arms, dashing and handsome in his navy uniform. She pressed the print icon, wanting to take a copy home, but nothing happened. After ten minutes of investigation, she stared at the computer, puzzled.
“What do you think about that, JoJo?” she said to Aunt Dee’s cat. He was lying across a corner of the desk, methodically cleaning his paw.
“Think about what?” Aunt Dee asked. She stood at the door, looking like a Victorian lady in her long flowing gown. Her hair was loosely braided, and the thick gold plait hung over one shoulder, tied with a blue satin ribbon. She could have passed for twenty-five, instead of a woman close to fifty.
“Oh...the computer doesn’t have a print driver for this printer.”
“Speak English, not computerese.”
Layne pointed. “This computer hasn’t been told how to talk to that printer. Did you buy this device in the past few months?”
“Me?” Dee let out a short, humorless laugh. “You have to be kidding. I haven’t been in here since that night. Besides, you know how I feel about computers.”
“The same way I feel about oysters.”
They shuddered together.
Yet Layne glanced at the printer again and frowned. It seemed strange that Uncle Will would type and print a brief suicide note at work, then bring it home. Suicide didn’t fit his nature in the first place, but especially suicide planned in advance. “Uh, I hate to ask this, but where did you find the note that Uncle Will supposedly wrote? I mean the specific location...on the desk...or in his pocket...?”
Dee hugged her arms closer to her body. “I’m not the one who found it. I called 911 when I saw him lying on the floor and it was obvious he was... Anyway, it seemed forever before the ambulance got here, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The paramedics told me to wait in the living room and I knew they believed it was suicide when they came out and started asking questions. Until then I thought it might have been a heart attack.”
Her aunt was hovering at the door, still unable to come into the room where her husband had died. It gave Layne a peculiar feeling, too, even if she didn’t believe that spirits lingered behind to haunt the living.
“Actually, when the police arrived, I think they said something about finding the note on the printer,” Dee murmured. “They gave it to me to read and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”
“Was it in a plastic bag or anything?”
“No.”
Layne wasn’t an expert on police procedure, but if they hadn’t used an evidence bag, they’d probably never considered anything other than suicide. And the police should have handled it differently...if Aunt Dee was remembering correctly, the suicide note had been found on a machine that couldn’t possibly have printed it. She couldn’t explain why Uncle Will hadn’t set up the printer, but that probably wasn’t important now. All that mattered was the fact that nothing added up.
“Well, I’m going to try to get some sleep,” her aunt said. “I’m glad you’re spending the night. You’ve been stretching yourself too thin.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Layne hesitated, glancing at the computer and printer and back to her aunt. “Is the security system turned on?”
“You know I always turn it on before it gets dark.”
“Okay. Sleep well.”
She listened as Dee’s footfalls faded down the hall, barely discernible going up to the master bedroom. Her aunt didn’t like admitting it, but Layne knew staying alone in the house bothered her, and having her niece spend the night sometimes helped her sleep.
Layne checked the printer again and tried copying something. It worked perfectly and she tossed the copy on the desk. She’d wanted to believe in Uncle Will because she loved him and thought he was a great guy, but this was tangible evidence.
Her heart raced with both excitement and fear. Nobody was idiotic enough to come back seven months after murdering someone, on the off chance they’d left a clue that the police hadn’t found, but she was glad Aunt Dee had a security system, nonetheless.
She pushed the sliding keyboard tray, but it still refused to go fully under the desk. Frustrated, Layne reached under the desk to find which part of the mechanism the cord was catching on. But it wasn’t the cord her fingers encountered, it was paper. She pulled out a thin, crumpled folder.
Uncle Will’s distinctive handwriting was on a sheet of paper inside.
“Notes for lawyer, if needed,” he’d scrawled at the top. Layne’s pulse jumped with hope it would contain the information she needed to investigate, but the short amount of text below seemed more like random thoughts than anything else.
We’ve grown too fast, that’s the problem. We need better IT support in the future.
First priority, assure clients they’ll be compensated.
Can’t believe Peter accused me today. I don’t think he’s responsible for the thefts, but why is he acting this way? Told him to get off his duff and help find the truth. I’m innocent.
My Darling Dee must stop worrying. The truth will come out.
Wire transfers have a time/date stamp. Can prove I wasn’t there, at least some of the nights, just have to get my records and everything else together.
My records?
Layne pulled the keyboard out and searched the sliding tray shelf in the vain hope something had fallen out of the folder, but she didn’t find anything else and could have screamed.
What kind of records, and which wire transfers?
These notes might be the last thing Uncle Will had written and the police weren’t going to take it seriously without something substantive to go with it. But at least she could discuss the printer issue with them—surely it wouldn’t compromise their “open investigation” confidentiality rules to verify where the suicide note was found, and maybe it would make them take another look. In the meantime, she could try to figure out what the “records” were that Uncle Will had referenced. And the “everything else.”
Exhilaration replaced the frustration simmering in Layne. She finally had something real to look for—if Uncle Will had believed he could prove his innocence, surely she could, as well.
* * *
“HERE YOU GO, MATT,” Gillian said on Friday afternoon.
She handed him the copy of the Puget Sound Babbitt that he’d requested and hastily exited the office. It didn’t take long to learn the reason. Just above the table of contents was the headline: Who Is Peter Davidson of the Eisley Foundation?
Hell.
He flipped the magazine open and began reading.
The article spoke of Peter’s marriage to Katrina Eisley, his recent altruism in donating time to his wife’s family’s charity organization, his investment acumen and his success in private business. It wasn’t negative, exactly, but it had a tone Matt distrusted.
The author didn’t mention the incident at Hudson & Davidson, but Matt knew it could just be the first of several articles, the opening salvo in an attempt to criticize either Peter, or him through his stepfather. The press had been quick to question every step Matt had made at the Eisley Foundation.
Or was he just being paranoid? And there was another question...did Layne McGraw and her aunt have anything to do with it? So far Connor’s background checks had shown that Layne was exactly what she claimed, a researcher for the regional news magazine, while her aunt was a graphic artist.
It was possible they were simply trying to find out more about what had happened so they could deal with it better. Problem was, it could result in the whole mess being dragged out again in public.
Matt’s jaw set.
However much he disliked getting negative press these days, he probably deserved it. Pete didn’t. Hell, Pete had given him the job at Hudson & Davidson. And his mother had virtually become a recluse after her divorce from Matt’s father, so the media had no business arguing she was a “public figure” and not entitled to her privacy because of it. Not that Matt bought that crap about a person giving up the right to privacy simply by choosing a more public life.
Matt had read the preliminary file Connor had put together on Layne. She had a degree in library science, owned a home in the university district and came from a highly successful family of professionals. No red flags. No reason to think she’d make trouble for the sake of making trouble. Yet that was part of the problem...if Layne didn’t have ulterior motives, she might sincerely wonder if her uncle was innocent. It didn’t mean she was right, but by stirring everything up, she could cause trouble with the best of intentions.
Frowning, he picked up the phone and dialed Connor.
“Yeah?” the security chief answered.
“It’s me. Can you come up to my office?”
“Be right there.”
Spinning around in his chair, Matt looked out the window at Lake Union; it was raining, so the view was partially obscured. Despite the weather, he saw a crewing team on the water, rowing toward the docks. He envied them—the effort, the teamwork, the burn of muscles being used, it was cleaner and simpler than changing your ways and running a multibillion-dollar philanthropic foundation.
Even as the thought formed, the door behind him opened. “What’s up, Matt?”
Matt turned and slid the copy of the Babbitt across the desk. “There’s an article in there about my stepfather.”
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Full of crap?”
“Not exactly. More like damning with faint praise. I have no idea if Layne McGraw is behind it or not.”
“Doubtful. It’s unlikely she’d want media attention on her uncle’s case.”
“I agree.” Matt looked down at the magazine, wishing he could get Layne McGraw’s voice out of his head...the voice that questioned whether there might be more to the embezzlement case than what everyone believed. Anything was possible. “Connor, what do you know about the thefts at Hudson & Davidson?”
“Not much. Mr. Davidson didn’t want me becoming involved with security issues at his company, before or after the thefts.”
Matt’s nerves tightened. “Why?”
“Ego, most likely. He’s wealthy, but it’s peanuts compared to Eisley money. Mind if I have a drink?” Without waiting for a response, Connor pressed a button on the wall and two heavy panel doors glided open, revealing the wet bar left from Gordon Eisley’s day. He poured himself a finger of whiskey before sitting and planting his feet on the office’s nineteenth-century mahogany desk.
Matt smiled. Connor didn’t have any reverence for antiques. He’d probably driven Gordon crazy with his offhand ways and strong language. Gordon Eisley had worked hard and made an obscene amount of money, but he believed in a rigid code of how things should be done. He must have tolerated Connor because he had recognized there wasn’t anyone better to handle the family’s security needs. Not that Matt’s grandfather was playing an active role in his business affairs or the foundation these days; he’d finally decided to listen to his doctor and relax.
“I’m getting rid of that bar,” Matt commented.
“Too bad, it’s the only thing I like in this office. Besides the view.” Connor waved his glass as if in a toast. “I hand it to you Yanks—bourbon whiskey is a fine thing the Americans gave the world, and your grandfather stocked the best.”
“Bourbon was never my drink, so I’ll take your word. Do you have any ideas for dealing with Ms. McGraw?” Matt asked.
“Talk to her. It could be a mistake, but there isn’t much else to do without getting heavy-handed.”
“Aren’t you the one who told me speaking with the press was the same as spitting into the wind? Not that I paid much attention at the time, but even if Ms. McGraw isn’t a reporter, she’s still connected to the Babbitt.”
Connor snorted. “When I told you that, you’d just spent three days with a female shark from the worst rag in the business—pillow talk makes for a fool’s interview. Just talk to the McGraw woman and find out what she wants.”
Matt didn’t try to defend himself. He’d met the female “shark” when he was twenty and terminally stupid. He wasn’t sure if age bred wisdom, but it certainly taught caution, particularly when it came to women and the paparazzi. Not that he’d cared about racy pictures or being seen as a player back then; his concern had been keeping his grandfather from cutting off his monthly trust-fund checks.
“Maybe you should contact Layne,” Matt suggested.
“Bad idea. She’ll think you’re trying to intimidate her. But I’ll go meet the aunt. She hasn’t seen me before, so she won’t recognize the connection to the Eisley family.”
“What good will meeting her do?”
Connor’s gaze dropped to his bourbon as he shrugged. “You never know.”
“Whatever. I’ll go see Ms. McGraw.”
“Fine. But a word of advice.” The security chief swung his feet down to the thick carpet and got up. “Try not to lose your temper with the woman.”
“Wow, thanks. I’m glad I have you around—I would never have thought of that.”
“Sarcasm is wasted on a hardheaded Irishman,” Connor said at the door. “Use irony the next time.”
* * *
ON SATURDAY MORNING Layne dug a stubborn weed from her garden and tossed it onto the patio. Lately she’d had little time to dig for anything except answers about her uncle, and in the lush Pacific Northwest, ignoring your yard was a mistake. With the rain they received throughout the summer, blackberry brambles and other unwanted plants could invade in an instant.
Nevertheless, she loved having her own place.
Weeds and all.
Usually she could clear her mind while gardening, yet this morning everything kept going through her head. She’d shown Aunt Dee the brief list Uncle Will had written, but beyond identifying her husband’s handwriting, Dee didn’t have any insights about it. Dee was relieved to have some confirmation of her husband’s innocence, but there were still too many unanswered questions for either one of them to relax.
Layne flung another weed over her shoulder and heard a sharp exclamation. Whirling around, she gaped. Matt Hollister was standing on her patio, brushing bits of dirt from his fine suit. Her stomach did a cartwheel.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were there,” she said.
“I rang the doorbell and nobody answered, but your car was outside, so I came around. That classic Mustang in the driveway belongs to you, right? You should keep it in the garage for safety. Cars like that can be a target.”
Layne tensed. “I left it out because I’m going to Carrollton later.” And what business is it of yours, anyway? Planning some vandalism? she wanted to add, except it would sound rude and challenging. The McGraws and Hudsons probably weren’t his favorite people at the moment, and it wouldn’t be good to antagonize him further...at least not until she got the information she needed.
“I understand. I wanted to talk to you.” Matt held up the latest edition of the Babbitt and Layne winced. So much for not antagonizing him.
She stepped off the low retaining wall to the patio below. “I didn’t have anything to do with that article. Not directly, at least. Noah Wilkie, the Babbitt’s social reporter, overheard part of what my aunt was saying at the gala, so he may have mentioned it to one of the other reporters.”
“I see.”
“But I’d still like to apologize...and also about my aunt getting so upset. It wasn’t like her, but she’s been through a lot. And she...” Layne’s voice trailed. She was in danger of starting to babble, and she reminded herself of her plan to treat Matt Hollister as a fact to be researched, instead of a sexy guy who turned her brain into a mass of overreacting neurons. Problem was, she tended to babble at the oddest times, anyhow.
“Mrs. Hudson seems like a nice lady.”
Layne nodded. “She is. By the way, I appreciated your coming to my uncle’s funeral.”
* * *
MATT RECOGNIZED THE sorrow still shadowing Layne’s eyes and sighed. It would be a lot easier to deal with the situation if he could simply see her as a troublemaker, not as a grieving niece.
She wasn’t his type, but something about her intrigued him. Her small breasts had tightened in the cool, morning air and their firm imprint under her T-shirt was playing havoc with his pulse. What’s more, she didn’t seem to be putting on a feminine act of any kind. She certainly hadn’t primped or been flustered about her casual appearance.
Matt pushed the thought away. Over the years he’d learned to quickly size up women, and Layne was the sort he avoided—unsophisticated, family oriented and likely to develop expectations about the future.
“If you think William Hudson was innocent, who do you think stole the money?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but his death seems awfully convenient. He died before he could even start to defend himself or present his side of things. And his so-called suicide note didn’t have a single personal message to his wife. It just said ‘I can’t face what’s coming, I’m sorry,’ and that’s all. Uncle Will was honorable and decent. It’s hard to imagine him living entirely one way and then suddenly doing something so totally out-of-character.”
“Actually, some people do.” The words came out more stiffly than Matt had intended, perhaps because he was doing something out-of-character and was having to fight an uphill battle in the court of public opinion. Nobody wanted to believe that Matthew Hollister could go from wild partygoer to serious director of a philanthropic foundation. Because of it, most people preferred to criticize, rather than rolling their sleeves up and working with him.
But he was serious.
Dead serious.
“Look, do you have any reason to think your uncle was innocent?” he asked. “The police and D.A. are convinced he was guilty.”
A hint of anger flared in Layne’s eyes, then she drew a deep breath. “My aunt asked me to look into the charges against Uncle Will and I’ve been searching, but it’s hard to get anywhere without knowing how or when the thefts occurred. All I’ve been able to piece together is that it has something to do with wire transfers and they probably happened at night. I wanted to talk to Mr. Davidson about it, only he wasn’t available, so I got the meeting with you instead. Then a few days ago I discovered something that shows Uncle Will didn’t kill himself. It won’t convince the police, but it’s enough for me.”
Matt frowned. “What is it?”
“Aunt Dee was told he died of a massive drug overdose. They found a note and declared it a suicide, even though the letter was typed and unsigned.”
“That’s hardly proof.”
“No, but I’ve done research on suicide. Apparently a note isn’t that common, and when there is one, it’s usually handwritten. On top of which—” she paused “—it was found on the printer in Uncle Will’s home office, but that printer doesn’t work with his computer.”
“The ink cartridge probably just dried out.”
Layne shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. After his personal belongings were delivered from the company, Aunt Dee locked the office. She never goes in there. The other day I tried to print something on my uncle’s computer and discovered the correct print driver wasn’t loaded to the system. So why would the note be in the print tray?”
Matt got a cold chill through his stomach. What Layne was saying wasn’t conclusive, but it was enough to raise doubts.
“Have you told the police?”
“I spoke to Detective Rivera at the Carrollton Police Department earlier this week. The only thing he’d confirm is that the note was found on the printer, but he said that Uncle Will could have brought it from the office and put it there to be sure it was seen quickly.”
“It’s possible,” Matt admitted.
“Anything is possible, but it mostly sounds like he’s trying to explain things away so it doesn’t look as if the police didn’t investigate properly. It’s ironic. He claims I’m biased, but they seem far more biased than me. The detective dismissed the printer issue before I even finished explaining. He says I just want the finding of suicide reversed so Aunt Dee can get Uncle Will’s life insurance money.”
When Matt raised an inquiring eyebrow, she sighed.
“Life insurance policies have suicide clauses. Aunt Dee didn’t get a penny and she’s about to lose her house. But as much as I want to help her, I wouldn’t do anything unethical.”
“What about income from Hudson & Davidson?”
“Your stepfather claims they’re operating at a loss because of the scandal, so there isn’t any income.”
“Oh,” Matt said uncomfortably.
While the company had taken a hit, they’d fully rebounded even before he’d left to run the Eisley Foundation. And even if Peter was directing all profits to himself to repay the personal funds he’d used to restore client accounts, it wasn’t the same as operating at a loss. He hadn’t legally “loaned” the money to the company, so it shouldn’t be claimable as a line item expense.
Surely Layne had misunderstood.
“Aunt Dee won’t accept anything from the family,” Layne added, frustrated. “The only thing I can do is try to learn what really happened. It isn’t just the insurance—clearing Uncle Will’s name is awfully important to her. And with what I’ve found so far, I think I can do it.”
Matt had an odd feeling Layne wasn’t telling him everything. Not that he blamed her. She’d found something that suggested her uncle had been murdered, and he was connected to one of the people she probably suspected. Hell, maybe she even thought he’d try to protect Peter at all costs.
It was a sobering thought.
He wanted to keep Pete’s reputation from being ripped apart for no reason, but he wouldn’t protect him from embezzlement and murder charges. Besides, why would his stepfather embezzle? Peter had inherited money from a distant relative before going into business with William Hudson, parlaying it into a sizable personal fortune by investing in the right places. He didn’t need to steal from anybody.
His stepfather was a good guy, and he’d given Matt a job at Hudson & Davidson when no one else would consider hiring him. But what if in his haste to save the company, Pete had jumped to conclusions?
And equally as bad, what if Matt had jumped to conclusions himself, wanting to tie things up quickly so he could start his work with the foundation? If William Hudson was innocent, it meant a thief and murderer was still out there.
“Where do you plan to go from here?” he asked.
“I’m going to check everything. Every movement, every piece of paper related to the business, public or private. Backgrounds on employees are a possibility...anything I can put my hands on. If Uncle Will didn’t steal from the company, he was framed for someone else’s crime.”
“Okay,” Matt said slowly. “I’m not sure how much I agree with you, but I’m willing to meet you halfway. I’ll help.”
Layne blinked, appearing astonished. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll help.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult, but why?”
“I didn’t have much contact with your uncle when I worked at Hudson & Davidson, but I liked him. It was a shock when everything came out about the thefts. I don’t like to think we missed something when the police were investigating.”
“That was their job, not yours.”
“Nevertheless, I’m serious about getting involved.”
“Then you’ll tell me more about the case?” Layne asked eagerly.
The memory of his stepfather asking what he’d told Dorothy Hudson and her niece flashed through Matt’s head. Giving Layne information could make things sticky with Peter, but it was one of those “damned if you do and damned if you don’t” situations. Besides, the mess obviously wasn’t going away. And even if it caused problems between him and Peter, Layne and her aunt were entitled to the truth.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you what I know,” he said. “It isn’t that much, but it might be useful.”
Layne’s smile flashed and Matt was startled by its brilliance. “Thanks. Oh...by the way, did you have anything to do with how my uncle’s belongings were sent over from Hudson & Davidson?”
“I’m not sure who took care of that. Any special reason?”
“Just curious. We can talk out here.” Layne gestured to the patio table. “I’ll get something to make notes.”
As she disappeared into her house, Matt once again got the feeling she was holding something back. But she had a truckload of reasons to be careful, and he’d gotten her to agree—more or less—to let him be involved in her search for answers.
Strangely, hanging around Layne didn’t sound as tedious as it ought to, especially with the lingering memory of her bright smile. But that was just because he sympathized with her and her aunt. They were grieving for William Hudson, at the same time trying to find answers about his death. It couldn’t be easy.
CHAPTER SIX
LAYNE QUICKLY GRABBED a notebook and pen from her office upstairs, afraid Matt would change his mind. She didn’t know what to make of his offer to assist with the investigation, but he was also willing to provide information, and that was exactly what she needed. Yet even as the thought formed, she froze on the staircase and frowned.
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Julianna Morris
She's putting him to the test As a researcher, Layne McGraw can handle tough situations. So when suspicions arise that her uncle may have been murdered, she won't let anything stop her from finding the truth. Not the risks, and certainly not party-boy philanthropist Matt Hollister.It turns out Matt is more irresistible than she expected. Not only has he reformed his wild ways, but as the new head of his family's charity, he has a lot to prove. And her quest seems to challenge his plans. She knows finding out what really happened could serve both their needs. All they have to do is control their attraction!
She’s putting him to the test
As a researcher, Layne McGraw can handle tough situations. So when suspicions arise that her uncle may have been murdered, she won’t let anything stop her from finding the truth. Not the risks, and certainly not party-boy philanthropist Matt Hollister.
It turns out Matt is more irresistible than she expected. Not only has he reformed his wild ways, but as the new head of his family’s charity, he has a lot to prove. And her quest seems to challenge his plans. She knows finding out what really happened could serve both their needs. All they have to do is control their attraction!
“I wanted to talk to you.”
In response, Matt held up the latest edition of the Babbitt and Layne winced. So much for not antagonizing him.
She stepped off the low retaining wall to the patio below. “I didn’t have anything to do with that article. Not directly, at least. Noah Wilkie, the Babbitt’s social reporter, overheard part of what my aunt was saying at the gala, so he may have mentioned it to one of the other reporters.”
“I see.”
“But I’d still like to apologize, and also about my aunt getting so upset. It wasn’t like her, but she’s been through a lot. And she…” Layne trailed off. She was in danger of starting to babble, and she reminded herself of her plan to treat Matt Hollister as a fact to be researched, instead of a sexy guy who turned her brain into a mass of overreacting neurons.
Dear Reader (#ub92fd9df-da4e-5811-8bec-269056561374),
Welcome to my second book in the Those Hollister Boys series, about the commitment-wary sons of Sullivan Spencer “Spence” Hollister, known in the tabloids as “S.S. Hollister, the man with an ex-wife in every port.” Spence has children and ex-wives all over the world and is a hedonist who lives on charm and an enormous fortune.
Matt followed his father’s fun-loving footsteps, and for years he partied hard and pursued extreme sports. But now that he wants to run his grandfather’s charitable foundation, his reputation is getting in the way. He’s thrown another curve when Layne McGraw shows up, wanting answers about a suicide and theft connected to Matt’s own stepfather.
Classic movie alert: I love old movies, and in my last letter I recommended Hobson’s Choice, released in 1954. Because Challenging Matt includes a mystery, I’d like to suggest watching the 1953 film The Blue Gardenia, with Anne Baxter and Richard Conte. There’s a hint of romance, and a whole lot of suspense in that movie.
I hope you enjoy reading Challenging Matt. I look forward to hearing from readers and can be contacted c/o MILLS & BOON Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, ON M3B 3K9, Canada.
Wishing you all the best,
Julianna Morris
Challenging Matt
Julianna Morris
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julianna Morris grew up wanting to be a writer and started her first novel in sixth grade. It was about an injured ballerina, and needless to say, it’s an incredibly maudlin tale that will never see the light of day. When Julianna isn’t frantically busy with family, cats, dogs and her computer, she’s baking bread, traveling or pursuing one of her other hobbies. She could probably get everything done if she only had forty hours every day and didn’t have to sleep….
To the memory of Aunt Polly and Uncle Del.
Contents
Dear Reader (#ueb449131-11ea-51c9-9390-75f902fe9c89)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua1a4102f-e44d-5e44-82ee-0461b9cf507a)
CHAPTER TWO (#ub36e496c-1d40-53c4-8d9e-76ac5f867f28)
CHAPTER THREE (#u2ff4e532-4c5f-5a87-83cc-37c53b29f679)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u506555a2-de91-57b5-936a-901b32e5547e)
CHAPTER FIVE (#uf1f4e143-e13d-5f5c-b196-7c51bab38751)
CHAPTER SIX (#u6e544531-7966-5da6-89f9-dbb6fd108847)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
“HERE YOU GO, LAYNE,” said Kit Carson, tossing a copy of the Puget Sound Babbitt on the desk.
“Thanks.” Layne McGraw smiled at the lead mail-room clerk.
“Look at the intrepid explorer, pushing his trusty steed. Or is that just a mail cart?” taunted Regina Sorkin, who thought it was a hoot that Kit was named after a famous explorer.
“And if it isn’t The Kitchen Corner’s smart-ass columnist. I see you have more bandages on your fingers—did you screw up another recipe?” Kit returned, appearing annoyed as he pushed his cart forward.
Layne looked at her friend. “Why do you do that?” she asked. “You know how much it annoys him.”
“Because I know how much it annoys him,” Regina replied, unrepentant. “You’d think he’d be more ambitious with a name like Kit Carson.”
“He’s happy running the mail room. People don’t always want to earn a bigger income or get a more impressive job title.”
Regina shrugged and headed back to her own desk, most likely annoyed with Kit for not being ambitious enough to notice her as a woman. Layne felt bad for her—unrequited love was hell. Still, she didn’t think it was right to torment someone over their career choice...the way her family tormented her.
She leafed through her copy of the Babbitt and spotted signs of her work throughout the weekly regional news magazine. Whenever someone had trouble finding information, she got it for them. She took pride in knowing her facts were triple-checked and documented.
Pulling out her lunch, she munched on a sandwich as she read. It was always fun to see how the information she’d researched translated into print.
“I need some things checked for my next op-ed,” said Carl Abernathy as he walked up and dropped a file onto her desk. His eyebrows rose as he spotted her half-eaten sandwich. “Peanut butter again?”
“Peanut-butter sandwiches are great. They’re easy and don’t have to be refrigerated. And they’re healthier than the greasy-spoon burger and fries you eat every day.” Layne grinned, knowing she was one of the few Babbitt employees who could sass Carl and get away with it.
“I’m an editor—I have to eat like one. Don’t you go to the movies?”
“From what I’ve seen, those editors just chomp on cigars and yell a lot. You have the yelling part down all right. Of course, that isn’t healthy, either. Though I’m sure a cardiologist would disapprove of the burger and fries even more than the yelling.”
Carl’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t yell, I suggest. And don’t pay attention to what your famous mother says—it takes the fun out of life to worry about everything you eat. My God, it must have been dreary growing up with a heart doctor for a parent.”
“I survived,” Layne said wryly.
It wasn’t a surprise that Carl knew her mother was a renowned cardiologist; practically everyone at the Babbitt knew about Barbara McGraw...the same way they knew her father was a top orthopedic surgeon, and that she had three megasuccessful siblings. At one time or other, the magazine had done articles about each of them.
“What’s this?” Layne asked, pulling the file toward her.
“Just an editorial I’m writing on endangered species here in Washington State. Look at it after lunch.”
He hurried away and Layne glanced through the folder. She liked Carl; he was a good editor and uncompromising on journalistic integrity. A year after she’d started working at the Babbitt, one of the columnists was caught using her research notes verbatim without giving her credit. It was a firing offense and while Layne had wanted to feel bad about the incident, she couldn’t because Doug was a snake. He’d not only been copying her work for several months, he had patted her butt in the elevator. But he’d only done it once—her father had taught his daughters excellent self-defense skills.
She scrunched her nose at the memory. Both Regina and Annette Wade, who wrote the nuptials column, had wanted her to report Doug the first time he’d plagiarized, but Layne had figured he’d get caught sooner or later, and she wouldn’t have made points by being a complainer.
“Layne, I have two recipes for your aunt to test.” Regina held out a couple of sheets of paper. “They were awful when I tried to cook them myself. I brought them over earlier, but I didn’t want to talk about it with Kit around. The usual pay rate—two hundred and fifty a recipe.”
“Great. What are they?” Layne asked. Her aunt was struggling financially and when the freelance chef who’d done some of the Babbitt’s recipe testing had retired eight weeks before, she’d suggested Aunt Dee as a replacement.
“A tropical chiffon cake and pecan sticky rolls.” Regina glanced down at the first-aid strips on both her forefingers. “Jeez, I can’t wait until Carl lets me do hard news and takes me off this fluff stuff. A cooking column. Almost nothing I try comes out. Hell, I can’t cook any better than you.”
“Sad but true.” A shared lack of culinary skills was one of the things that had cemented their friendship. “I’ll set it up with my aunt.”
“Fabulous. She could make them on Saturday or Sunday, and the staff can taste test both on Monday.” She checked her watch and made a face. “I’m going to lunch—maybe I’ll meet tall, dark and handsome while eating sushi.”
“Check his ring finger before losing your heart. Now that we’re thirty, tall, dark, and handsome is often married.”
“Also sad but true. See you later.”
Picking up the phone, Layne dialed her aunt’s number.
“Hey, Aunt Dee, just a heads-up. Regina has two recipes for you to test this weekend.” She glanced at the tropical cake and made a face. “One is for sticky rolls that should be easy enough with all the bread you make. But the dessert is complicated. It’s a cake with a mousse filling and whipped frosting and a gazillion ingredients.”
“That doesn’t sound too difficult.”
So said the woman who’d once baked all the pies for the church’s harvest dinner fund-raiser, at the same time creating a pumpkin costume for Layne to wear in her school play. As a kid, Layne had spent far more time at Aunt Dee and Uncle William’s house than she did at her own.
Uncle Will.
Would she ever stop missing him so terribly? Maybe it was because of the way he’d died. She still found it hard to grasp that he’d committed suicide.
Layne chatted with her aunt another few minutes and then went back to work, trying to push the sad feeling away. It didn’t seem possible that Uncle Will had been gone for almost seven months; the wounds were still too raw and she missed him too much.
* * *
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON Layne arrived at her aunt’s house and rang the bell.
“Darling!” Her aunt hugged her as if they hadn’t seen each other in a week, instead of attending church together that morning. Dee then peeked into the two bags of groceries she’d brought. “You don’t have to bring the supplies.”
“It comes out of Regina’s expense account.”
It was true, but Layne would have paid for everything herself, rather than have her aunt lose any of the money she got for testing. Things hadn’t been easy for Aunt Dee since Uncle Will’s death. She rarely talked about money, but what she earned as a successful graphic artist obviously wasn’t enough. In a worried moment, Dee had confided that she’d taken out a second mortgage to pay off other debts, but Layne could tell she was still struggling financially. Her aunt had even mentioned that she might need to sell the house.
Layne sat back and watched her aunt work, making notes for Regina and marveling at how easy cooking looked when someone else was doing it. She didn’t think it was the equipment, though her aunt had every gadget imaginable. Uncle William had designed the kitchen for his wife years ago and it still looked great, with lighted quartz countertops, hardwood floors and commercial-grade stainless-steel appliances.
Three hours later the cake was assembled and the sticky rolls were on the counter, rising.
“Regina will be eternally grateful,” Layne said. “I’ll take them to work tomorrow and save you a trip into the city. And I’m sure they’ll cut a check for you right away.”
“Thanks.”
Layne stretched and glanced around the warm, inviting home. Her stomach clenched whenever she thought that Aunt Dee might be forced to sell the house. Some of her happiest childhood memories were here, spent with her aunt and uncle and feeling completely accepted. It wasn’t that her parents and older siblings didn’t love her, but they were always pushing her to be something she wasn’t.
“I got another email from Mom about that medical research assistant position at the university,” Layne said idly. “She has it all mapped out—I can work with Dr. Clark and he can be my faculty advisor while I get my doctorate.”
“You don’t want a doctorate.”
“According to Mother, I do. She doesn’t care what I study...as long as it’s somehow connected to the medical field and I become Dr. McGraw.”
Dee sighed. “I love my sister, but she has tunnel vision when it comes to this stuff. Don’t let her push you, Lani. Just keep doing what makes you happy.”
Lani.
Layne smiled at the nickname that only her aunt and uncle had ever used.
Dee absentmindedly wiped the stone counter she’d already cleaned twice and Layne frowned. “Is something wrong? You’ve been distracted for weeks.”
“I...oh, nothing.”
“Come on, I know you too well. Fess up.”
Her aunt smiled weakly. “It’s just that lately I keep feeling as if William is in the house. In his office, walking up and down the hall or up the stairs. Or lying next to me in bed. Sometimes I can even smell his aftershave.”
The unexpected mention of her uncle made Layne’s stomach drop. “That’s what Grandmother Adele said after Granddad was gone. I’m sure it’s normal.”
“Maybe, but I can feel him, Lani, the way I always used to know he was home. It’s as if he’s looking for something or trying to tell me something. Some people believe a soul can’t rest if they have unfinished business.”
“Is that what you think it is?”
“I don’t know.” Dorothy gathered the dish towels she’d used that evening and threw them into a laundry hamper. “But it started when I received that letter from Peter Davidson, so what better time for Will to come back and haunt the place?”
“What letter?”
“I’ll get it.” Dee dried her hands and went out, returning a couple of minutes later.
Layne read the note from her uncle’s former partner, a scowl growing on her face. “How dare he? This is emotional blackmail.” She stared at the letter in disbelief. “Agree to sell Uncle Will’s company under the terms he offers, or he’ll drag the embezzlement case up again?”
Aunt Dee’s face was pale. “Yes. But wouldn’t making accusations against William be libel?”
“I’m not sure. It’s possible you can’t libel someone who’s...uh...”
“Dead?” Dee finished flatly. “Maybe. But Peter is basically saying I’m not due anything because of what happened, and he’ll make a stink about it if I don’t go along. That was William’s company, too. He’d be so upset if he knew about this.”
“Uncle Will was never actually indicted for embezzling.”
“I know. But I haven’t gotten anywhere with the police or the Carrollton District Attorney’s office on clearing his name. After they decided he killed himself, it seems as if they just stopped investigating. I even heard one of them say ‘he must have been guilty’ the night Will died. I’ve called and called and nobody will even talk to me any longer.”
Layne let out a pent-up breath. “Maybe they think you’re just trying to throw doubt on the suicide verdict to get Uncle Will’s life insurance.”
“God knows I need the insurance money—it’s probably the only way I’ll hang on to the house—but that isn’t the only reason. I hate people thinking Will would steal from his own clients. And now this letter from Peter.... I’ve been dragging my feet, but I have to make a decision soon. He’s working for the Eisley Foundation as their chief financial officer and doesn’t want to deal with Hudson & Davidson any longer. His stepson resigned three months ago to take over as director of the foundation from his grandfather.”
Layne nodded, recalling Matthew Hollister’s connection to her uncle’s company. The notorious playboy, Gordon Eisley’s grandson, had started working for Hudson & Davidson almost a year and a half before, a case of pure nepotism on Peter Davidson’s part. Though Uncle Will had been annoyed about it, he hadn’t objected. And not long before his death, he’d admitted that Matt Hollister had worked hard and seemed to have a decent business head on his shoulders.
Layne had only seen Matt Hollister in person once, when he’d come to Uncle Will’s funeral. A ripple of whispers had run around the church when he’d arrived, sitting in the back. He had slipped out early without speaking to the family, but at least he’d come; Peter Davidson hadn’t even sent flowers.
“Aunt Dee, what did you think of Matt Hollister?” she asked.
“We’ve only met once at a company Christmas party. It was just a hello and goodbye encounter—the other women were crowding around too much for anything else.”
“But what about when Mr. Davidson married Matt’s mother?”
“We didn’t go to the wedding. It was a small, hush-hush affair on Catalina Island to avoid publicity—you know Katrina Eisley’s reputation for being a recluse. Marrying into the Eisley family was a big deal for Peter. Between his new father-in-law and famous stepson, he joined a small, very exclusive social circle.”
Layne returned Peter Davidson’s letter to her aunt. “I’ve done research on Matt Hollister for some of the reporters at the Babbitt. I can’t imagine he’s really reformed. His father, S. S. Hollister, is one of most outrageous hedonists in the world and they seem cut from the same cloth.”
“Except the son never married, and the father can’t stay out of divorce court. Anyway, I sort of understand why Peter claims I’m not due anything from the sale of the firm....”
“I don’t,” Layne said stoutly.
“Unfortunately the math appears to add up. The embezzlement crashed the value of the company and Peter repaid every penny of the stolen money from his own pocket. At the end of the letter you can see he’s offering to give me twenty-five thousand dollars as a goodwill gesture, but that’s all.”
“It’s hard to believe you wouldn’t be due several million at the very least. The property alone is worth a fortune.”
While Dee didn’t say anything, Layne thought she agreed. Her aunt had never dealt much with money, focusing on art while her husband went into business after getting out of the navy. They’d seemed to have the perfect marriage, but Layne wasn’t naive enough to think there hadn’t been occasional problems.
Dee sat next to her and traced a pattern in the quartz countertop. “The thing is, I know how good you are at research and putting pieces of information together. And I’ve been thinking...if anyone can prove Will was innocent, it’s you. And then I could challenge Peter about the sale and be able to pay off the mortgage before I have to sell the house. Will and I built this house together—I don’t want to lose it.”
Layne froze.
Okay, so she was good at her job. That didn’t make her a criminal investigator. And what if she proved Uncle Will had embezzled from his company? How could she tell Aunt Dee? It might hurt even more to know for sure.
“Uh, about the mortgage,” she said. “The house means a lot to me, too, and I have some money saved—”
“I can’t accept it. This is my problem,” her aunt said predictably. “But if you could find out the truth, it would help in more ways than one.”
“What if you don’t like what I find? I’m not saying Uncle Will was guilty, but you never know.”
“I need the truth, wherever it leads.” Dee put a hand in her pocket, her mouth tense. She was a lovely woman, with golden blond hair and warm blue eyes that had twinkled brightly before her husband’s death. She resembled Layne’s mother in physical appearance only; eleven years separated them and Dorothy’s nature was far more artistic than her older, brisk cardiologist sister’s.
“All right,” Layne agreed reluctantly.
She loved Aunt Dee dearly and had loved Uncle Will. She couldn’t say no. Her aunt and uncle were the ones who’d made her feel special when she was growing up with a star athlete brother and beautiful twin sisters who could charm the paint off walls. Her parents were so brilliant and accomplished themselves, they hadn’t known what to do with a daughter who was merely average and didn’t fit in. It was Uncle Will and Aunt Dee who’d understood her.
“Good.” Dee slowly opened her fingers. “This is the key to William’s home office. Maybe you can start with the stack of boxes that Peter sent over from the company. I haven’t had time to open them because there’s been too much to deal with. I know the police went through everything before it was packed, but they were looking for things that made William look guilty, not anything to show he was innocent.”
Heart in her throat, Layne took the key. The metal seemed to be burning a hole in her palm and she quickly hooked it on her keychain. The answers might be in her uncle’s office...but it was also the place where he’d died.
Was that why Aunt Dee was imagining that she’d heard him around the house?
Layne lifted her chin.
Ghosts weren’t real, but if they did exist, she could never be afraid of Uncle Will. He might even help her discover what had happened to him.
CHAPTER TWO
MATT HOLLISTER HANDED a stack of files to his assistant, who gave another stack back to him in return.
“They’re the latest reports and the daily correspondence, boss,” Gillian said. “I couldn’t help the delay—the mail came late this morning.”
“I understand. Did you learn more about who my appointment might be? You mentioned the name seemed familiar.”
“I can’t think of anything. I just wish the temp covering me on Wednesday had put down L. McGraw’s first name and a contact number.”
“It’s not your fault.” Matt flipped open the top file filled with correspondence. Beneath the file were reports on various projects the Eisley Foundation was spearheading. “Anyhow, it’s probably someone with Heifer Project International. I spoke to one of their supporters recently about becoming a sponsor.”
“I guess we’ll find out.” She smiled and left him to work.
Matt read through the letters and memos, making notes in the margins for Gillian, setting some aside to handle personally. Half were pleas for money from outside organizations—with descriptions of their programs and how additional support from the foundation would benefit them. The other half were about existing Eisley Foundation projects...and pleas for more money.
He sighed.
It wasn’t easy seeing how much was wrong in the world, and trying to do something about it was like trying to drain a bottomless pit. Kids, the environment, the homeless, animals... The list was endless, along with the heartbreak.
As for the reports Gillian had given him, he would read the material in depth, before making any decisions. When he’d taken over the director’s seat, he’d starting looking at the long-term projects list—some no longer seemed viable, so he had auditors examining their expenditures, and experts evaluating their merits. Project leaders were screaming, upset about the scrutiny. Nevertheless, the reports were starting to arrive.
“Come in,” he called at a knock on the door.
Gillian poked her head inside. “Hey, Matt. Reception called—your three o’clock is here. They told me L. McGraw’s first name and you aren’t going to like it.”
“Then it isn’t one of the Heifer Project folks?”
“Nope. L. McGraw is Layne McGraw, that’s why it sounded familiar. She’s works for the Puget Sound Babbitt. I see her name at the end of articles—you know, ‘research provided by staff member Layne McGraw.’”
“Maybe she’s branching out into reporting.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gillian said. “There’s a procedural list on my desk for handling calls, saying you aren’t doing any interviews. The temp must have forgotten to follow it.”
“This isn’t your fault,” Matt assured her, determined not to be one of those hard-assed managers who blamed other people for everything. But he was frustrated; the Babbitt was one of several publications that seemed to go out of its way to be annoying. Once upon a time he’d provided steady fodder for the gossip page; now their columnists were gunning for him. They kept publishing editorials, voicing concerns about someone with his reputation running the Eisley Foundation. They weren’t the worst of his critics, but they were bad enough.
Hell, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have any qualifications for the job. He had a degree in business administration, and his grandfather had always planned to have a family member assume control of the foundation one day—Matt had even worked there before leaving for college. Besides, a lot of wealthy people were philanthropists, their only credentials being the ability to spend money.
Nevertheless, Matt had to admit things would be easier if everyone took him seriously. His grandfather had deliberately kept the foundation private so he wouldn’t have to be accountable to anyone except the Internal Revenue Service, but it wasn’t as simple as that for Matt. The Eisley Foundation didn’t operate in a vacuum, it needed serious people involved, and those serious people didn’t want their names linked to a notorious playboy—especially one with his reckless reputation.
“I can send her away,” Gillian offered.
“That’s all right, I’ll handle it.”
She left, giving him a few minutes to stew. When she returned, there was a young woman at her heels.
“Ms. McGraw, this is Matt Hollister.” Gillian introduced them. She sent him another apologetic look before heading back to her desk.
Matt stood and assessed his unwanted guest. The Babbitt reporter had masses of silky brown hair and green eyes in a pixieish face. She wore khaki slacks and a green shirt, and couldn’t be more than five foot three in her stocking feet.
“You’ve wasted your time, Ms. McGraw,” he said. “The assistant who set the appointment forgot that I’m not giving interviews right now.”
Layne McGraw blinked. “I don’t want an interview...that is, I’m not a reporter. I’m here for personal reasons.”
“You don’t work for the Babbitt?”
“I’m a researcher there, but this has nothing to do with the magazine. I have some questions, just not work related. Questions, that is.” She seemed nervous and dropped into a chair without being invited. “Uh, that’s some view,” she said, pointing to the window.
Matt automatically turned his head, though he was well acquainted with the view. The Eisley Foundation building overlooked North Seattle’s Lake Union, and the vista was spectacular, especially on a sunny June day. At the moment a sea plane was coming in for a landing and three crewing teams were skimming across the water, rowing in rhythmic precision.
“The foundation has been located here for twenty-five years,” he explained, anticipating her first inquiry would be about a charitable organization operating out of a multimillion dollar property. “We were part of the restoration efforts for the immediate area. This was a historic structure that was empty for twenty years until we purchased and renovated it for our use.”
“That’s great, I love old buildings. What I wanted to ask about...” She hesitated, looking even more uncomfortable. “It’s about your new chief financial officer. And the company he owns, and uh, where you worked for over a year.”
Matt kept his expression neutral. Peter Davidson was a straight-up guy who’d married his mom four years ago—Pete had made Katrina Eisley genuinely happy, possibly for the first time in her adult life since her very messy, very public divorce from Matt’s father. And Peter had given Matt the job he’d needed to prove to his grandfather that he was serious about changing his life and taking over the foundation.
“What about Mr. Davidson?”
“I know he’s related to you and that he’s now on staff here.”
“While our staff isn’t of public concern since we are a family-endowed foundation,” Matt said carefully, “Mr. Davidson’s salary is one dollar annually. Basically, he’s donating his valuable time.”
“Uh...sure. But as I said, my questions are about his financial management firm. As I’m sure you recall, his partner was accused of embezzling from the business seven months ago.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. He and his stepfather had worked with the Carrollton District Attorney and outside auditors to clean up the mess at Hudson & Davidson. Not only that, Peter had personally assured every single client they wouldn’t suffer any loss because of the thefts. His stepfather had come out of the whole thing squeaky clean, though the betrayal of his friend and business partner had deeply wounded him. Matt had even remained at the firm longer than he’d planned to help sort everything out.
“Again, I have nothing to say. It’s time for you to leave, Ms. McGraw.”
Frustration and another less-defined emotion were visible on Layne McGraw’s face. “Please, you worked there when the thefts occurred and you’re related to Peter Davidson, so I hoped you would be able to get me in to see him or tell me more about the case against his partner. The police and D.A.’s office have refused to release any information and Mr. Davidson is harder to see than the governor.”
“I’m sorry, that isn’t my problem. This is a private office and you’ve been asked to leave.”
“Please, I didn’t start this right. Let me tell you why I’m asking. Mr. Hudson was my—”
“I’m not interested,” he interrupted.
“Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like?”
Something in her quiet question troubled Matt, but he pushed it away. “We know what happened.” He lifted the receiver on his phone and gestured with it. “Now, shall I call security and have you escorted out, or will you go on your own?”
“No, I’ll go.”
When she was gone, Matt dialed the number of his security chief. “Connor, a young woman just left my office. Her name is Layne McGraw. Slim, dark hair, not too tall, wearing a green shirt. Will you make sure she exits the building and doesn’t bother anyone else?”
“Right.”
The phone clicked off without a goodbye, which was Connor’s style. He was a blunt, transplanted Irishman who’d been the Eisley family and corporate security chief for fifteen years. Matt had gotten to know him quite well during his wild college days—Connor had expressed his opinion of spoiled rich kids on a regular basis, particularly when bailing him out of trouble. If Matt’s father had been more like Connor, Matt probably wouldn’t have wasted so many years playing.
Swiveling in his chair, he looked at the view the McGraw woman had admired. Unlike most of his half brothers and sisters, he’d thrown himself into their father’s playboy lifestyle. But at least he didn’t have a bevy of former wives and children and girlfriends strewn around the world like good old S. S. Hollister. He’d taken his share of lovers, but he’d always been careful to keep things casual, only dating sophisticated women who had as little interest in domesticity as he did himself.
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. He might not have been as notorious as his father, but he’d done his best to have fun and duck responsibility for a long time. And now that he wanted to do something important, his former stupidity was getting in the way.
He leaned back for a moment, thinking about everything that had happened over the past few years.
First his oldest brother had gotten married. Admittedly, it had only caused a small blip on Matt’s radar, mostly because he’d believed Aaron was just as cynical about marriage as he was himself. But then Matt’s closest childhood friend had called with the news that he had Lou Gehrig’s disease, and ALS was virtually a death sentence.
Matt remembered how he’d hung up after the call and stared at the cast on his leg, broken in a stupid, reckless accident. There was nothing stupid or reckless about Terry—he’d simply gotten sick and there was nothing anyone could do about it. So Matt had hobbled to the wall and punched it so hard he’d cracked two bones in his hand.
He flexed his fingers.
Maybe it was a good thing he’d had a broken hand in addition to his tibia. Being injured had made him slow down, forcing him to deal with the reality of his best friend’s illness, instead of throwing himself into parties or another extreme sport to forget that Terry could die soon. And gradually, Matt had begun thinking about his grandfather’s philanthropic foundation. The Eisley Foundation funded medical research, and if he became the director, he could push a project to help find a cure for ALS. Even if it didn’t help Terry, it could help other people with the disease.
His grandfather had been hard to convince. Gordon Eisley had finally agreed that if Matt could hold an outside position for a year, he would retire and hand over the reins. During that time they’d worked together every Saturday, with Gordon showing him the ropes. It turned out that for the past decade his grandfather had done little more than review requests for money and sign checks, rather than actively overseeing the foundation’s projects.
Matt intended to be far more involved.
* * *
LAYNE DROVE TO her aunt’s home in Carrollton, Washington, and parked in the driveway. For almost a week she’d spent every free moment in her uncle’s office and wasn’t any closer to discovering answers than before she’d started.
She’d found nothing to either support her uncle’s innocence or to suggest his guilt, and it had quickly become evident that she needed more information on the supposed crime to even know where to look. With the police and District Attorney’s office refusing to cooperate, speaking with Peter Davidson had seemed necessary; when he’d proved elusive, she’d given Matt Hollister a shot.
Sighing, she got out and went inside. Normally Aunt Dee worked at home doing commercial art for a greeting card company and other freelance contracts, but today she was on duty at the gallery where some of her paintings were for sale.
Going into her uncle’s home office, Layne sat in his leather executive chair and felt the familiar rush of grief. Tears had streamed down her face the first evening she’d spent there. The room still smelled like Uncle Will, with a hint of the pipe tobacco he’d smoked once in a while, and the dark roast coffee he’d drunk by the gallon. Or maybe it was just her imagination, wanting to feel closer to him.
She tried pushing the sliding keyboard tray farther under the desk, but it caught on the cord and wouldn’t go all the way. With a sigh, she left it alone, turning again to the boxes Uncle Will’s partner had sent over from the company. Aunt Dee hadn’t exaggerated...there was a large pile against one wall, filled with everything imaginable. Layne had only catalogued the contents of a few, but the careless way they’d been packed infuriated her—things thrown in, papers crumpled and items broken, as if drawers had been upended and surfaces hastily swept off.
It was thoughtless and cruel, because no matter what the firm had believed about William Hudson, his wife shouldn’t have been subjected to something so unpleasant after his death. Thank goodness Aunt Dee hadn’t had time to look in the boxes or it would have upset her terribly.
Layne pressed her lips together; she’d completely blown the meeting with Matthew Hollister. However briefly, he’d worked for Hudson & Davidson and could have given her information about how they operated and facts about how the embezzling occurred, but instead she’d gotten nervous. And it certainly hadn’t helped when he’d learned she worked for the Babbitt.
Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her purse. “Yes?”
“It’s me, darling.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“I just talked with Sheldon at the university. He says you haven’t spoken to him about that position on his genetics project team.”
Layne gritted her teeth. Maybe she could pretend she was losing the signal, except her mother would just call back. “Mom, I’m not interested. I love my job at the Babbitt and I’m good at it. Why isn’t that enough?”
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Here, speak to your father.”
“Layne,” said Walter McGraw’s deep voice. “If you aren’t interested in genetics, I’m sure we can find another medical research study you could join.”
She wanted to scream. “Look, I’m at Aunt Dee’s right now. Could we talk about it on Sunday when I come to dinner? I promise you can nag for at least twenty minutes before I say no again.”
“We just want the best for you.”
“I know. Gotta go, Dad,” she said hastily, hating his hurt, offended tone. “Love to you both. Bye.”
She turned off the cell and dropped it back in her purse. For Pete’s sake, she was offended, too. Nothing she did would ever be good enough for her parents.
Layne leaned her elbows on the desk and studied the records she was keeping of everything found in the boxes so far; she didn’t want anything to go unnoticed. The rest of the office would receive an equally careful inventory and review. Most of it was deadly dull, but research wasn’t always exciting. It was more of a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other sort of activity.
An hour later she heard her aunt arrive home and went out to the kitchen to greet her—Aunt Dee cooked as a stress reliever, so she was in the kitchen a lot these days. Layne was just glad she earned money from the Babbitt part of the time for testing recipes. It wouldn’t fix her financial woes, but maybe it would help stave off disaster for a while.
“Hi. How was the gallery?”
“Fine. How was meeting the gorgeous philanthropist?”
“So-so.” Layne wrinkled her nose. “Matthew Hollister is good-looking, but he isn’t that gorgeous.”
Liar, screamed her conscience. Matt Hollister was tall, dark and stunning. With his expensive suit, black hair and gray eyes, he could have walked off the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Of course, he’d graced the cover of more than one magazine and scandal rag when he was still carousing...usually with a woman and a juicy caption. In person he was magnetic, one of those guys who made you want to tear off your clothes and throw yourself into his arms. Her sisters could get away with it, but her? Not a chance. She wasn’t Quasimodo, but she was hardly in Matt Hollister’s league.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Mr. Hollister wasn’t in the mood to talk. He practically had me thrown out of the building. His security guy showed up as I got off the elevator in the lobby and I thought he was going to pull a gun on me. Followed me clear out to the parking lot and watched me leave.”
“Are you all right?” Aunt Dee exclaimed.
“I’m fine. I’m probably overreacting, since he didn’t actually do anything. He was just menacing, in this quiet, intense sort of way. I bet he just looks at someone and they skedaddle.”
“Lani, I know I asked you to investigate, but it isn’t worth you taking risks. I don’t want you getting hurt, and William wouldn’t have, either.”
“I’m not taking any risks. It was just a conversation. Though I did hope Mr. Hollister would talk about the company and anything he might have seen or heard about the case. I mean, he worked at Hudson & Davidson through the main part of the investigation, so he must know something. I thought he could at least get his stepfather to meet with me, only he didn’t give me much chance to talk. But I can tell you one thing, Matt Hollister sure got uptight when I mentioned Peter Davidson. What can you tell me about Mr. Davidson? I don’t remember him very well.”
Aunt Dee pulled several items from the refrigerator, frowning slightly. “He was focused and dedicated. We became friends with Peter and his first wife at William’s last posting in Guam. It was Peter who suggested that Will go back to school and get a degree in accounting when he left the navy. That way they could go into business together when they were both out of the service.”
Layne scribbled a note on her pad. “I see. Is that why Mr. Davidson moved to the Seattle area, because you guys were here?”
“Yes, though by that time Shelley, his first wife, had died in an accident. I think that’s why he didn’t come to the house that much—it reminded him of those years when we were all so close.”
Not close enough, Layne added silently. Peter Davidson had hung his old friend out to dry the minute a whiff of scandal appeared.
“Anyway,” Aunt Dee said, “Will started an accounting firm when he got his degree instead of going to work for someone else, and when Peter took twenty-year retirement from the navy, he moved here. William sold him half the company so they’d be equal partners. By that time Peter had already made a fortune on the stock market.”
Layne stared at her aunt who was working at the sink. “You mean the company originally belonged to Uncle Will? I thought they’d started it together.”
“In a way they did—they expanded beyond accounting and the company grew exponentially after that, with huge corporate accounts and an A-list of wealthy clients.”
“I see.” Layne gazed out at the wooded backyard. The house faced on a shallow creek gorge and the yard took advantage of a divine natural setting. Whenever possible over the past seven months she’d helped with the upkeep of the property, though Aunt Dee was awfully touchy about it. “But if Mr. Davidson came out of the mess so clean, why won’t his stepson talk about what happened?”
“Who knows? It could mean anything from a bad relationship with his stepfather to concern about negative press coverage—it isn’t necessarily sinister.”
“I suppose.”
Matt Hollister had annoyed Layne, mostly because he was rich and spoiled and no doubt playing at philanthropy the way he’d played at everything else. There were men like him who’d changed their ways, but they weren’t usually thirty-two and in the prime of their life.
“I wonder how long he’s going to last running the Eisley Foundation?” she mused aloud.
“Is it important?” Her aunt put a plate of Cobb salad in front of Layne.
“Not really, though it isn’t as if he earned the job.”
Dee sat down with her own salad. “The Eisley Foundation does important work. Mr. Eisley earned a fortune in the shipping industry and lumber business, then funneled half of it into humanitarian causes.”
“I know, he’s the Andrew Carnegie of the Pacific Northwest,” Layne said, waving her fork. “But that’s the grandfather, not the grandson. After getting out of college Matthew Hollister mostly partied hard, drove fast and dated supermodels.”
Her research on him wasn’t flattering. Honestly, why did some women think a man who partied every night and risked his life in race cars and doing other dumb things was sexy? Except...Matt Hollister was sexy, his exploits notwithstanding. So sexy he’d tied her tongue into knots. She had to view him as a fact to be researched, instead of letting her feminine instincts jump in and turn her into a stuttering idiot.
“It’s a private foundation, Lani. Mr. Eisley can name anyone to the job. Including his grandson.”
“I suppose.” Layne took a bite of salad. Mmm. It was loaded with blue cheese, hard-boiled eggs and bacon, along with thick chunks of avocado. Not to mention her aunt’s homemade croutons, with fresh-baked yeast rolls on the side. “This is so good,” she murmured.
“It isn’t hard to make.”
“You don’t think anything is hard to make.”
* * *
DOROTHY HUDSON SMILED, trying to hide her concern. Her niece looked tired, no doubt from the late nights she’d spent in Will’s home office. Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked Layne to investigate, but it was hard not knowing why her life had fallen apart. And while she didn’t want to be mercenary, she’d lose everything they’d built together if she didn’t get more than twenty-five thousand dollars from the sale of the company.
She’d talked herself hoarse to the police, calling every day and asking if they’d made any progress. Finally they’d referred her to the Carrollton D.A.’s office, who’d told her in no uncertain terms that while the case was technically open, the only continuing investigation would be to find the stolen money. But it kept bothering her. How could she accept what other people said about William, rather than what she felt in her heart? And lately she could barely sleep for thinking about it.
She believed he was innocent, didn’t she?
Sure, a few years ago, Will and Peter had built an expensive new complex for the company. The cost was astronomical, but they’d felt it presented the right image to clients. But then Will’s father had gotten sick. The elder Hudsons hadn’t had health insurance, so she and Will had helped out to make sure the best treatment was available. Their savings and investments were depleted, putting them in debt for the first time in years.
But millions of people had debts and didn’t resort to theft, and Will had always been so optimistic and scrupulously honest; it was one of the things Dorothy had loved about him. Suicide and embezzling were the last things she would have expected.
“I have to say that Eisley Foundation building has the most scrumptious view of Lake Union,” Layne said, distracting Dorothy from darker thoughts. “If I was Matthew Hollister, I’d just move in and make his office my living room. I nearly died of envy on the spot.”
Dorothy cocked her head. “Don’t you like your house?”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t have my garden in North Seattle, so it evens out. He was defensive about their upscale location, but I already knew the stuff he spouted about the Eisley Foundation restoring the neighborhood.”
“They’ve been criticized over the years for being there,” Dorothy admitted. “People forget how bad that area used to be. They just see that it’s pricey real estate and question a charitable trust operating in the middle of so much affluence.”
Layne gasped in mock horror. “You mean the press criticized old Mr. Eisley, too? I thought he’d been granted sainthood.”
“Almost. What did you hope Mr. Hollister could tell you?”
“More details about the embezzlement, for one thing. The police won’t release the evidence against Uncle Will or anything else about the thefts, and it’s difficult to investigate when you don’t have a clue what you’re trying to find out. But I’ll get another chance to talk to him.”
Dorothy pushed her salad around on her plate; she was rarely hungry these days, but she’d wanted Layne to have a good meal and her niece would have refused to eat alone.
“If Mr. Hollister threw you out, what makes you think you’ll have another chance?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
A smile brightened Layne’s face and she hopped down from the bar stool. A moment later she slid a copy of the Babbitt across the counter—it was open to the “Local Doings” section of the weekly publication. New Director of the Eisley Foundation to Attend Mayor’s Charity Gala read the headline of the top article.
“The gala is tomorrow,” Layne explained.
“How is that going to help?”
“Easy, I’m going, too. We always get two tickets to these events at the Babbitt. Naturally the social reporter gets one, but nobody wanted the other, so I grabbed it. Want to go with me? It admits two people.”
Dee didn’t hold with formal mourning periods where women wore widow’s weeds and did nothing but charity work for years, but that didn’t mean she felt like going to a party, especially something like the mayor’s gala.
“Can’t you go with someone else from the magazine?”
“I guess. Noah Wilkie is assigned to cover the event, only his wife is pregnant and the smell of food is making her gag. He suggested I go with him when he found out I was interested. Christine thinks it’s a great idea—she doesn’t want Noah attending with just anyone.” Layne put a finger on the magazine and drew it back toward her. “I’d never hit on a married man, but what does it mean if other women think their husbands are absolutely safe around you? Christine would never be okay with Noah going to a gala with one of my sisters and they wouldn’t run after a married guy, either.”
Dorothy regarded her niece with affectionate sympathy. Layne was lovely, but she’d grown up in the shadow of two strikingly beautiful sisters with classic figures and innate feminine allure. The rest of the family was tall, Layne was small and petite. At best she wore a B-cup bra, and she was direct, rather than flirtatious.
“It means you’re special,” Dorothy assured. “And you have real friends. I remember you getting a present for someone named Christine before you’d even met her.”
“That was for their new kitten. The Wilkies have never had pets and didn’t have any toys or other supplies.”
“You mentioned Christine was pregnant. What have you gotten for the new baby?”
“Oh, I found a terrific set of...” Layne stopped and looked puzzled. “How did you know I’d gotten her something?”
“Because I know you. Now, tell me why Noah wants someone to attend the charity gala with him.”
“He feels it appears less threatening to bigwigs if a social reporter comes with a date.”
“‘Social’ reporter?” Dorothy restrained a laugh. “Is that another name for gossip columnist?”
Layne chuckled. “More or less. Noah is the worst gossip I know. Anyhow, I’d much rather go to the gala with you, especially since I don’t want anyone at the Babbitt knowing about this. Come on, Aunt Dee, we wouldn’t have to stay for long. And even if Matt Hollister won’t talk to me, he might talk to you.”
“All right, I’m convinced. What’s your plan?”
“We’ll quietly approach Mr. Hollister and try to get him to agree to another meeting in a less public place.”
Dorothy ate a bite of salad. “What if he won’t?”
“Then I’ll think of something else. Don’t worry—besides the stuff in the office, there are public records and other places to search. You gave me the names of the employees you could remember and I’ll interview them if needed. And maybe there’s a way to get the rest of the names, even if Mr. Davidson won’t cooperate.”
“They may not talk to you, either.”
“I’ll figure it out. I just wish I knew more about how the embezzling happened.”
Dorothy nibbled a bite of dinner roll.
The sensation of Will being in the house was even stronger than before, sometimes she even smelled the shampoo he’d used and his pipe tobacco, or heard the low murmur of his voice. Or maybe it was just her imagination and a guilty conscience because she hadn’t cleared his name and it was the only thing left she could do for him.
She just hoped Layne could find the answer soon.
CHAPTER THREE
ON SATURDAY EVENING Layne smoothed the front of her dress as she regarded herself in the mirror. Her aunt had just finished doing her hair for her, twisting both sides and fastening it with enameled combs that matched the green silk of Layne’s evening dress.
Still peering at her reflection, Layne turned sideways and sighed. Thin ribbon straps crisscrossed over her shoulders, holding her dress up, and the thing sort of swirled to her waist, and then to her feet. But nothing, not even a clever bra, could give her a respectable silhouette.
“I didn’t want to buy something new that I’d never use again, but I don’t want to be a laughingstock. Do you really think no one will guess this started life as a bridesmaid’s dress?” she asked her aunt.
“Honestly, it’s fine without the cape over the shoulders,” Aunt Dee replied. “And naturally that bow had to go.”
“Yeah, that looked stupid on me. I’ll never forgive Carla for making me wear it. You’d think she’d be nicer to her own cousin.”
She twisted, trying to see the back of the dress. Aunt Dee had removed the girlish bow and created a slim belt to cover any evidence of its removal, saying it would make the “lines” of the gown more classic. Since her aunt was an artist with exquisite taste, Layne would have to take her word for it. She didn’t object to wearing pretty clothes every now and then, but too much froufrou made her resemble an over-decorated birthday cake.
Leaning forward, she checked the light makeup her aunt had applied—just a few touches to her lashes and eyelids, along with lipstick. “And you’re sure I don’t need any other makeup?”
“Not with your complexion.”
Layne collected the matching purse that came with the dress. “Then we’d better get going. I’ll never look as good as you, anyway.”
“Nonsense. You’re lovely.” Her aunt smoothed a hand over her midnight velvet gown. It was high at the neck, with crisscross straps down the back that made it look classily provocative. “I haven’t worn an evening gown in ages.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
They walked out to the car and Layne patted the roof of her classic 1966 Mustang. Much to her parents’ displeasure, her aunt and uncle had given it to her as a high school graduation present. The light turquoise color wasn’t original, but it suited Layne. The Mustang had been Uncle Will’s first car and they’d carefully restored it for her, including the installation of the latest modern seat belts with shoulder straps—they’d been indulgent, not reckless.
She drove downtown to the fancy hotel where the gala was being held. Inside she produced her invitation and they were motioned into the ballroom. Layne wrinkled her nose at the assembly; big, glitzy parties with “the beautiful people” were way out of her comfort zone. Nevertheless, she circulated with Aunt Dee around the room, keeping watch for Matthew Hollister.
It was an hour before they saw him. She nudged Aunt Dee. “There he is.”
“Surrounded by women.”
“Maybe that’s why he never got married. I mean, who’d want to deal with that every day?”
Dee didn’t reply as they maneuvered closer. They’d almost succeeded in getting within speaking distance when Matt noticed Layne and his expression froze. He drifted farther away, and they spent the next twenty minutes trying to get near, while he kept finding ways to shift himself away from them.
She looked at her aunt, expecting to see frustration, but something very different was smoldering in Dee’s eyes. She rarely got angry, but now she was furious. “He really thinks he’s important, doesn’t he?” she muttered.
Layne eyed Matt, tall and elegant in his suit, surrounded by his harem of adoring women. He actually appeared dignified, a major feat for a man who was famous for a bare-chested photo in a hot tub, tipping a champagne flute to the camera.
“I suppose it’s a question of perspective. He’s rich, his mother is from one of the oldest families in Seattle and he’s famous in more ways than one. In his world, he is important.”
“Well, I’ve had enough,” Dee said abruptly, but instead of turning for the exit, she thrust her glass into Layne’s hand and determinedly marched toward Matt Hollister.
Uh-oh. Layne quickly calculated how much wine her aunt had actually consumed, and realized it was quite a lot. Dorothy Hudson did not hold her liquor well.
“Layne, you made it.”
Harried, she realized it was Noah Wilkie. “Yeah. Hi, Noah.” She put the two glasses she held onto a waiter’s passing tray. “Hate to run, but I need to...” She gestured vaguely as she hurried toward her aunt.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Dee was demanding as Layne reached her.
Matt smiled charmingly, though when he saw Layne, his eyes began to glitter. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And this is hardly the setting for a business discussion.”
“It’s as good a place as any.”
“Aunt Dee, please. Not here, and not this way,” Layne said a low, urgent tone. While the admiring crowd had faded away at the prospect of an emotional scene, Noah had followed and he was watching the confrontation with a curious expression.
“Aunt Dee?” Matt repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, I should have told you. I was going to, but then you weren’t...uh....”
“I remember,” he said grimly.
“Peter Davidson is your stepfather and you worked at the company,” Dee announced. “You must be able to tell me more.”
“Aunt Dee, Noah Wilkie is here,” Layne told her urgently. “Remember what I told you about Noah? He works at the—”
“I’m entitled to information, Layne. I’m tired of being put off, with one excuse after another.”
Noah had obviously perked up his ears and Layne grimaced. Terrific. Aunt Dee was running her mouth off in front of the biggest gossip in Seattle. Even if he didn’t write about the incident, he was bound to mention it to someone at the magazine. It was part of the reason she’d wanted to attend the gala with her aunt, instead of Noah.
“Layne, Aunt Dorothy, I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” exclaimed a familiar voice.
It was Layne’s sister, Jeannette, looking flawless from the top of her blond head to the tip of her Prada shoes. Her gown wasn’t a recycled bridesmaid’s dress; it was probably a designer outfit that had cost a fortune. She could afford it as a fast-rising pharmaceutical executive. As for the shoes, Layne only knew they were Prada because Jeannette never wore anything else.
“Hi, Jeannette. I didn’t know you were coming, either.” She should have guessed, though. It was the sort of high-toned party Jeannie attended all the time.
“Oh, yes, the mayor invited me. My company is a major contributor to his favorite charity.” Jeannette turned and gave Matt a dazzling smile. “Matthew Hollister, right? I’m Jeannette McGraw, senior vice president of the Wilcox Pharmaceutical research division. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Layne glanced at Matt Hollister, seeing without surprise that he no longer appeared annoyed. Men were usually overwhelmed when they met one of her older sisters—Jeannette and Stephanie were extraordinarily beautiful and successful. So maybe it was a good thing Jeannie had shown up and provided a distraction. Aunt Dee was looking puzzled, but calmer, while Noah appeared starstruck at the sight of so much womanly perfection.
“Would you like to have a drink with me, Mr. Hollister?” Jeannie asked.
“Delighted, but call me Matt.”
“And I’m Jeannette. I’m very interested in the business model you want to apply to the research on finding a cure for ALS. I’ve never heard of a nonprofit using that approach.” All at once she looked at Layne and Dee apologetically. “But how rude of me. You were speaking with my sister and aunt. We can have that drink later.”
Matt gave them a cool glance. “No need to wait—we’re done.”
Their voices faded as they walked away and Layne nudged a dazed Noah with her elbow. “You’re married, remember?”
He dragged his attention away from Jeannie’s shapely backside. “What...that’s ridiculous. I’m crazy about my wife.”
“Good. Jeannie has broken more hearts than I can count. All she needs to do is smile and they shatter.”
“Is she really your sister? You don’t look at all alike.”
“Yeah, she really is.” Layne was resigned to the question. She took after her father’s maternal grandmother. If she hadn’t looked so much like Great-Grandmother Harriet, she might have suspected she was adopted, or that she’d been sent home from the hospital with the wrong family. There was no justice to being the little sister in more ways than one—both Jeannette and Stephanie topped her by at least five inches. Her mom, too.
Oh, well.
She mentally shrugged; it could have been worse—she could have looked like Great Grandmother Petra.
“Come on, Aunt Dee,” she said. “Let’s go home and have hot chocolate and some of the biscotti you baked yesterday.”
Dee spared a single glance in the direction Matt had disappeared with her other niece. She looked deflated and embarrassed. “All right.”
Layne hurried her out, hoping Noah would be so consumed with the memory of Jeannie’s flawless femininity, he wouldn’t remember the interesting bit of dialogue that had come his way. After all, even though Matt Hollister didn’t seem bothered by press coverage, she knew the rest of the Eisley family abhorred being in the news for anything except ribbon cuttings and Eisley Foundation success stories.
CHAPTER FOUR
MATT CHATTED WITH Jeannette McGraw at the bar as they waited for their drinks. She was tall, articulate, intelligent and had a stunning smile. Basically, the type of woman who had always attracted him, yet he kept picturing Layne McGraw in his mind.
Jeannette’s pint-sized sister was irritating, but she had a quiet freshness that was appealing at the same time. Not that it mattered. Things had just gone from a headache to a major problem. What were Layne and her aunt after, and did Jeannette have anything to do with it?
He looked at the beautiful blonde and saw nothing but a prowling female looking back at him. It seemed improbable that she knew anything about her sister’s activities, or she wouldn’t have interrupted.
“What was that again?” he said, realizing Jeannette had posed a question.
“I, uh, asked if you knew of any other nonprofit organizations applying a business model to medical research?”
“There’s at least one, and they’ve had encouraging results. I read about it a couple of years ago and thought the concept was intriguing.” Matt didn’t add that it was when he’d been laid up with his broken tibia. He’d gone out with a high fever and racking cough to a slope nicknamed the Devil’s Widow Maker; he was lucky he hadn’t broken his fool neck instead of his leg.
He glanced across the large ballroom. Had Layne and her aunt gone home, or were they lingering, hopeful he would relent and give them what they wanted? It had only taken him a second to recognize Dorothy Hudson—she wasn’t the kind of woman you forgot. With her classic beauty she could have stepped from a delicate hand-carved cameo.
“So, how do you know my sister?” Jeannette asked. She laughed lightly. “I was surprised to see her here—this sort of party isn’t her scene. She’s a backyard barbecue sort of gal. Probably complete with tofu burgers. Not that she cooks, but she has vegan friends who do.”
“I’m barely acquainted with Layne.”
“That’s good to know. I wouldn’t want to step on her toes...if you understand what I mean?” She was obviously trying to be delicate, but there was a distinct invitation in her eyes.
Matt was tempted, despite her connection to the Hudson scandal, yet the subtle slap at her sister had put his teeth on edge. He was tired of predatory games. Honestly, he’d heard women stick a verbal knife in one another—some would do anything to get ahead—but between sisters it was particularly distasteful.
“I understand. Do you plan to stay in pharmaceuticals or go elsewhere?” he queried, deliberately moving the subject away from flirtatious topics. Few women could match Jeannette McGraw, but at the moment, he simply wasn’t interested.
Though disappointment flickered in her expression, she began describing her work. Ironically, that was when she seemed most genuine. Her polish and sophistication weren’t unique, but her apparent commitment to developing new antibiotics was admirable.
“So both of your parents are doctors,” he mused after a several minutes. “I imagine that influenced your career choice.”
“Yes.” The playful invitation had vanished entirely from her eyes, which told him she was smart enough to get the message without him needing to be blunt. Whether she knew why he’d lost interest was another question.
Matt swirled the golden liquid in his brandy snifter, then set it on a tray. “It was very nice meeting you, Jeannette, but I have a check to write for the mayor’s favorite charity.”
“I hope we’ll run into each other another time.”
“Certainly.”
Matt quickly made his charitable contribution and headed out to the parking garage, hoping to see Peter before he went to bed. He also wanted to speak with Connor, though the Eisley security chief rarely seemed to sleep in Matt’s experience, so getting there early enough wasn’t an issue.
The city streets were still teeming with people as he drove to his grandfather’s estate. His stepfather and mother lived in a wing of the mansion, while his grandparents lived in another. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, at least for Peter, but he’d agreed because it was what Katrina had wanted. At the security gate Matt stopped and nodded as the guard stepped forward.
“Good evening, Mr. Hollister. We didn’t expect you tonight.”
“It wasn’t planned, but I have some business to discuss with my stepfather.”
“I believe Mr. Davidson is taking his evening stroll. He passed by a few minutes ago, headed toward the water.” The guard gestured to the southwest.
“Thanks, I’ll see if I can catch up.”
Matt parked and hurried down the moonlit path. Growing up he’d roamed every inch of the grounds and could find his way blindfolded. There were acres on the estate, with fine gardens surrounding the house, and the rest in natural woodland crossed by a meandering creek, yet it had seemed like a prison when he was a boy. Nobody would admit it, but his mother had been virtually agoraphobic back then. And she’d tried to keep him confined to the estate as well. It was his grandparents who’d insisted he go to boarding school.
Terrence “Terry” Jackson had been Matt’s only friend. As the son of the head groundskeeper, Terry had come to work with his father during the summer. They’d spent every minute together, discovering ways to beat the security system, goofing off and having fun.
Matt’s mouth tightened.
Damn it, Terry had children and was a dedicated teacher. A new ALS research project to discover a cure, however well funded, was just a shot in the dark. They both knew it was unlikely to yield results in time to help him.
“Peter, it’s me,” Matt called, seeing his stepfather’s silhouette near the high, tree-lined bluff overlooking the Puget Sound. The moon hung above the horizon, painting everything in silver light and shadow.
“Matt, you’re the last person I expected to see tonight. Didn’t you go to the mayor’s gala?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here. Dorothy Hudson was there as well, asking questions about the embezzlement case. And her niece Layne came to my office yesterday about it.”
He heard Peter’s sharp intake of breath. “What did you tell them?”
It seemed an odd inquiry, but it was an odd situation. How many people had a business partner who’d embezzled several million dollars?
“Very little. They want details about how the thefts occurred, and probably some other information. Apparently the police and the Carrollton D.A.’s office won’t speak to them, so they’re going elsewhere for the answers.”
“I’ve tried to protect Dorothy from as much of the ugliness as possible,” Peter said irritably. “You’d think she’d appreciate what I’ve done instead of reopening the wounds. William stuck a damned knife in my back and took the coward’s way out when he got caught. It’s as simple as that.”
“His suicide must make his death harder for her to deal with,” Matt murmured.
“That isn’t my problem.”
The harsh response made Matt uncomfortable, but he tried to put himself in Peter’s shoes. His stepfather felt betrayed and angry and wanted to put it behind him. And he was struggling to make his marriage work, which was no picnic considering Katrina’s problems. Matt adored his mother and would do anything for her, but he wasn’t blind. She hated to have her name in the press, and she didn’t leave the Eisley estate except for a few exclusive social gatherings.
“I appreciate your telling me about this, son,” said his stepfather. “I recently told Dorothy I want to sell the company, so perhaps it’s just a momentary aberration on her part. She’s a nice woman, but she operates largely on emotion, rather than logic. Her artistic temperament, I suppose.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll see you sometime next week.”
They shook hands, yet Matt was more unsettled than ever as he headed for the small house where Connor O’Brian resided on the estate.
Connor’s choice of residence was another puzzle. Matt understood why his grandfather would want his security chief living close by; he just wasn’t sure why Connor had accepted the arrangement. Yet as he stepped to the rise and looked down at the place, nestled against the dark outline of forest behind it, he wondered if the small stone house reminded Connor of Ireland. It had been built by Gaelic craftsmen, along with the mansion and high limestone walls surrounding the estate.
He didn’t have a chance to knock on the door since Connor opened it as he approached. “Do you have an early warning system when people arrive?” he asked the older man.
“Dog. Beats electronics any day.”
“Oh. Do you ever sleep?”
“Only on alternate days. Come in, Matt.”
Like the carriage house exterior, the interior probably looked little different from when it was built. There were white plaster walls, natural wood beams exposed in the ceiling, and the broad planked wood floors were polished smooth by over a hundred years of use. The furniture was basic and solid with no decoration. Matt’s own penthouse apartment was stark, but Connor’s living room gave the word new meaning.
“Hey, Finnster,” he called to the rottweiler lying on the floor. The dog raised his head, let out a faint woof of greeting and settled back again. “This place is pretty bare, Connor. You’ve lived here, what, fourteen years?”
“I like being able to leave at a moment’s notice. Helps if you don’t have a lot of nonsense weighing you down.”
Matt had few physical possessions himself, having moved around on the party circuit for so many years, but he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t take Connor more than a minute to do a fast fade out the back door.
“Do you expect to pick up and leave any time soon?”
“You never know. What brings you here? I figured you’d go home with someone from the party.”
Matt’s jaw hardened. Every time he attended a public function or dated a woman, it started a frenzy of speculation about his social life, which made it that much harder to be taken seriously at the foundation. Did the gossip columnists and everyone else expect him to become a monk, simply because he was handing out money for charity? And why would his sex life affect his ability to take his grandfather’s place?
“Not tonight,” he said shortly. “I’m here to talk with you about the woman who came to my office yesterday. She was at the gala, along with her aunt, Dorothy Hudson. It turns out Layne McGraw is William Hudson’s niece. Dorothy is his widow. I want a security check on them both.”
“You should have a preliminary file in a couple of days.”
“Thanks.” Matt glanced around the small cottage. “I don’t get it. Why haven’t you bought your own house?”
Connor patted Finnster on the head. “My needs are simple and this place meets all of them. There’s plenty of room for my dog. I do my job, your grandfather doesn’t bother me and I’ve saved practically every penny he’s ever paid me. Since my services don’t come cheap, that’s a healthy chunk of money. And that’s on top of the Eisley company shares I’ve received as bonuses for services rendered.”
“But you’re stuck...here.”
“It’s only a prison if you can’t leave,” Connor said. “People make their own jails. It’s too bad your mother trapped you in hers.”
Denial rose in Matt’s throat, but he choked it down. Connor knew everything about the family; if they couldn’t trust him by now, something was very wrong. He got up and headed for the door, then turned around. “Connor, what do you think of my stepfather?”
“Think of him?”
Matt frowned. He’d never heard that careful tone in Connor’s voice before. “You investigated Peter when he began dating my mother—you must have an opinion.”
“I found nothing in the background sweep that indicated a problem.”
“But you don’t like him.”
Connor’s face was expressionless. “I don’t like very many people—it’s a hazard of the job. I’ll let you know when I have a report on the two women.”
“Thanks.” Matt headed toward his car again, still frowning.
Just because Layne McGraw and her aunt were asking questions about the embezzlement case, it didn’t mean anything was wrong. The D.A.’s office hadn’t doubted William Hudson’s guilt, so surely they were satisfied with the evidence. The idea that Matt might have missed something himself was disturbing—should he have seen things the police hadn’t?
Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like? Layne McGraw’s question had been echoing in Matt’s head, and he tried to push it away. It was natural William’s family wanted to believe in his innocence; it didn’t mean he was innocent.
* * *
IN THE BEDROOM Layne always used at her aunt’s house, she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes in relief, grateful she’d decided to stay the night. She hated pumps. And nylons. She hadn’t worn nylons since her job interview with the Babbitt.
No doubt the women Matt Hollister dated were fashion mavens who wouldn’t be caught dead without stockings, and probably silk to boot.
Layne glanced at her reflection in the mirror, chagrined as she recalled Matt’s expression at seeing her sister. Her green silk dress hadn’t looked that bad, but she couldn’t compete with Jeannie. And why she cared when the man in question was Matt Hollister, she had no idea.
Layne lay down on the bed, unable to stop thinking about the gala. At least Hollister had kept his cool better than her aunt; having Aunt Dee confront him was astonishing, but it was an indication of how desperate she felt.
The house was silent and Layne rolled over to stare at the dark ceiling, thinking back to the nightmare almost seven months before. Uncle Will’s suicide note hadn’t sounded like him, just a brief typed message, with no personal word to his wife of twenty-nine years. He’d always handwritten his letters; even his business correspondence was drafted first by hand. Back in December she’d told the police she questioned whether her uncle had actually written the so-called suicide note, but they’d dismissed her, claiming a suicidal person didn’t necessarily follow their normal pattern. Maybe, but she still wondered.
A picture filled her head of Uncle Will laughing on the Friday after the Thanksgiving holiday, not long before his death. They’d been making sandwiches from leftover turkey and he was talking about the future as if he didn’t have a care in the world. A few days later discrepancies were found in his client records, a handful of newspaper articles were published, accusations were made against him....and then he was found dead, before he was even arrested.
Yet if it wasn’t suicide, it had to be murder.
She hadn’t discussed the possibility with Aunt Dee, though it must have occurred to her, as well. And it would mean someone had gotten in and killed Uncle Will in his home office. If that had happened, it was mostly likely someone he’d known well...someone he’d trusted. Someone like Peter Davidson, the partner with whom he’d shared the business. The friend who’d turned his back on his old buddy as soon as the suspicion of embezzlement was raised and was now trying to get away with all the proceeds from selling the company.
It appeared Peter Davidson had emerged from the scandal with a spotless reputation. But what if he was involved? It could mean he was a thief and potential murderer.
Damn.
Layne got up and pulled on a robe, deciding she might as well get some work done since she was too restless to lie still.
Sleep these days was elusive. Her uncle had kept meticulous records and documentation on everything, but his company records were in terrible shape thanks to the way they’d been packed, and most of the home records were boxed and stored in the upstairs storage room next to the master bedroom suite. No doubt Uncle Will could have put his hands on whatever he wanted, but she didn’t know what she was looking for and she couldn’t ignore a single scrap of paper in case it was important.
Sitting at her uncle’s desk, Layne read through her notes and the logs she had made of what she’d found. It all seemed innocuous. The personal items that weren’t damaged she had set aside for her aunt—others needed fixing and some were damaged beyond repair.
At the moment it was nearly impossible to make any progress without knowing what she was investigating. The police department claimed they couldn’t release anything because it was an open case and had to be kept confidential. The excuses might be valid if they were treating it as an ongoing investigation. But they weren’t, and she suspected somebody with influence was blocking her access.
And who could that influential person be?
Peter Davidson?
If so, it was no wonder Aunt Dee hadn’t gotten anywhere. The authorities probably didn’t realize the way they were acting was enough by itself to make her question if they had something to hide. The few newspaper articles about the scandal were no help; they were vague and talked about missing money at Hudson & Davidson, but it had all happened so quickly and with Uncle Will dead, they’d shifted to fresh stories.
Layne pressed a finger to her temple as she read an unfinished memo Uncle Will had scribbled a few days before everything fell apart. There was no address or salutation, so the intended recipient was a mystery.
Come on, she urged her tired brain, trying to determine if there was any significant meaning in the bold, strong lines of her uncle’s handwriting. But there was nothing she could see, and she put it on the stack to read another time when her head was clearer.
Tucking her legs under her, she leaned back in the comfortable executive-style chair and closed her eyes. Talk to me, Uncle Will, she pleaded silently. If you’re here in the house the way Aunt Dee seems to think, you must have a reason.
* * *
IT WAS JUST after 5:00 a.m. Sunday when Connor O’Brian parked across the street from the Hudson home in Carrollton, Washington, his gaze sweeping up and down the neighborhood.
He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t on alert, watching for the next threat to come his way, whether it was a gang of Dublin street brats when he was ten, or a group of mercenaries when he was working in covert ops. Working with half of the alphabet soup intelligence agencies in the world had educated him in more ways than one.
After his father’s death his family had moved to Dublin, and with his mother working several jobs, he’d gotten into more trouble than he cared to think about. It had taken several close calls with the law and a new stepfather with iron nerves to keep him out of more serious trouble. And he’d never even thanked Grady for any of it.
Connor massaged a jagged scar above his knee that had almost ended his career when he was twenty-two. Maybe it would have been better if it had; now his memories were a maze of scars...deaths that ought to have been prevented, friends lost and innocence destroyed. Espionage was a hard road once you’d started down it. Working for the Eisleys had come as a welcome break. Instead of international intrigue, he now dealt with ordinary intrigue. The motivations were often the same, but the scale was smaller. But then, one person’s life was just as important to them as another, so maybe scale was moot.
The rising sun showed details of the house—large and comfortable, in an affluent neighborhood—and he snapped several pictures. His staff was already doing a full background sweep on Layne McGraw and Dorothy Hudson, except there were things you couldn’t learn about people from a security report. He had his own methods, somewhat unorthodox, for getting a read on a situation.
A faint whine came from the passenger seat of the Jeep.
“Not yet, boy,” he said to the large rottweiler.
Finnster whined again, his gaze fixed on the house opposite the Jeep. He was smart; he knew his master was watching that house. There were few men that Connor trusted as much as the highly trained dog.
Finn was the closest thing he had to family in the United States. Everyone else was in Ireland. His stepfather had died of heart failure earlier that spring and his mother had moved back to Dún Laoghaire to be close to her daughter. As a rule, Connor spared little energy on sentimentality, but he regretted Grady’s passing more than he cared to think about. He’d always thought they’d have more time to know each other better.
Catching a flash of his reflection in the rearview mirror made Connor’s mouth twist in a humorless smile. Time? He was fifty-four now, and Grady had been nearly eighty. When were they supposed to become closer—on his rare, brief visits back home?
Still, his lost opportunities with Grady were the reason he didn’t want Matt to trash his relationship with Peter Davidson unnecessarily. He didn’t personally like Davidson—wealthy men sometimes took detours around moral issues and Peter was too polished for his taste—but he was a prize compared to S. S. Hollister. Connor snorted. Now, there was a man he had absolutely no use for...and for a long time it had looked as if Matthew would become just like his father.
Connor focused his camera on the classic Mustang parked in the driveway. It was the same car he’d seen Layne McGraw driving when she left the Eisley Foundation building. Something about her name had bothered him from the beginning, so he’d pulled his file on Peter Davidson after Matt’s visit to his house and found a reference to her in Hudson’s obituary, which was included with Davidson’s file.
William Hudson is survived by his beloved wife, Dorothy; nieces Layne, Stephanie and Jeannette McGraw; and nephew Jeremy McGraw...
The obit didn’t discuss William Hudson’s suicide, or that he’d been facing arrest and indictment for embezzling.
The rottweiler whined again.
“Patience, my friend,” Connor murmured, watching for signs of waking in the household, perhaps a curtain moving or a light coming on.
Ah...or miniblinds being opened.
Finnster nudged Connor’s elbow.
“All right. Let’s see how they react to you.”
He checked the microphone on Finn’s collar to be sure it was secure, tested the receiver in his ear, then let the dog out of the Jeep and tossed him a folded newspaper. He made a gesture with fingers, giving the command. The rottweiler drifted across the street and dropped the paper on the driveway before running to the front door, scratching and barking. When it opened, he pivoted and dashed back to the newspaper.
Layne McGraw followed, yawning. She put her hands on her hips and grinned at Finn. “What are you doing, making all that fuss out here? It’s Sunday morning—don’t you know people are catching up on their sleep?”
Finn nosed the newspaper forward a few inches. The newspaper routine was a maneuver they’d used more than once—how someone acted with a dog was revealing. Besides, Finnster was a good judge of character; his approval could be measured in how close he let someone get to him.
Finnster barked eagerly. He crouched down and cocked his head to one side, looking at Layne.
The ham.
Rottweilers had a reputation for ferocity in some circles, but Finn could make himself into a clown, scrunching up his face and using his eyes with the skill of a silent-screen actress. It was why Connor had picked him as a puppy.
“It’s very thoughtful of you, boy, but that belongs to someone else. Aunt Dee doesn’t take the paper. Did you go for a walk with someone and get away?” The girl’s voice was amused, coming clearly through the radio receiver in Connor’s ear.
Finn yipped again. “It’s all right, I’m harmless.” She held out her hand. “Give me a sniff. I probably smell like my aunt’s cat, but JoJo is okay with dogs as long as they let him be the boss.”
Finnster allowed himself to be coaxed and was soon on his back, legs waving in the air as he got his tummy rubbed, along with the place behind his ears that turned him into mush. He was in canine heaven.
Rolling his eyes, Connor belatedly lifted his camera and began shooting pictures.
“What have you got there, Lani?” he heard another voice ask a minute later.
Startled, Connor realized he’d missed Dorothy Hudson’s arrival. Damn it all, he couldn’t afford to get soft. He eased down in the driver’s seat to be less visible and continue taking photos. Since Layne McGraw had seen him the day she’d come to talk to Matt, she might recognize his face if she got a good look in his direction.
“He’s a marshmallow, Aunt Dee,” Layne declared. “His owner probably took him out for a run and he got away. See? He’s dragging a leash and brought us somebody else’s newspaper. Maybe the house looks like his home.”
“What a good boy.” The newcomer added to the caresses Finn was receiving.
If possible, the rottweiler melted further, wriggling along the flagstone driveway to position himself equally between them. His hind legs were even paddling, a sure sign of his pure and complete surrender.
Connor flipped through the Davidson file and found a picture of Dorothy Hudson. The woman petting his dog was just as beautiful as the woman in the photo, though her smile didn’t have the same merry quality. In fact, something about that sad smile reminded him of his sister back in Ireland, who’d never really gotten over her husband’s death.
“What should we do about him?” Layne asked, drawing Connor’s attention. His instincts told him that Layne McGraw and her aunt were decent people, an opinion Finnster would certainly endorse. Yet even decent people did strange things, and they could make serious trouble with the best of intentions.
“Let’s see if he has a license tag.”
Time for their exit strategy. Connor lifted a dog whistle to his mouth—it was outside the audible range for humans—and blew three short blasts, followed by another two.
What the...?
Connor stared. The bloody animal barely twitched an ear, instead he reached out a leg and pawed Layne McGraw’s knee. He was utterly ignoring the command to leave...the toughest guard dog in the state, with highly specialized and unique training, had been corrupted by a pretty girl and her aunt.
Connor sent the command again and Finn finally scrambled to his feet, cocking his head as if he’d heard something.
He barked twice, looking intently down the street and dashed away before the two women could grab his leash.
Scowling, Connor drove after him. Two blocks away he stopped, leaned over and opened the passenger door. Finn climbed in, panting from running, tongue happily hanging from one side of his mouth.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Connor scolded. “Do you have nothing but fur between those ears?”
Finn didn’t appear abashed. He settled down with a pleased sigh and wagged his tail the way any other dog remembering a treat would wag—certainly not like an animal that had been schooled to follow whistled commands without question. The first time those commands were given.
Connor wasn’t superstitious, but he couldn’t help wondering if the whole thing was an omen.
Perhaps the McGraw woman and her aunt were going to be an even bigger problem than he’d anticipated.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I WONDER IF Jeannie spent the night with Matthew Hollister?” Layne said as she pulled into her parents’ driveway.
“You think she’d go home with a man an hour after meeting him?” Aunt Dee asked. She didn’t exactly have a hangover from drinking too much at the gala, but she looked a little worse for wear and had been quieter than normal.
“I have no idea, but you saw her expression when she met him, and he’s been linked with several women since returning to Seattle.” Layne parked next to her brother’s Acura and behind Steffie’s Lexus. Only Jeannie’s sporty BMW was absent. She looked at the house and sighed; usually she tried to get there when dinner was already on the table, but Aunt Dee liked to arrive early.
“Come on, Lani. It’s just Sunday dinner with your parents,” Dee chided as they got out, each collecting their contributions for the meal. In Aunt Dee’s case, fresh home-baked rolls and dessert, with Layne’s contribution being sparkling cider, a pint of cream and two pounds of Seattle’s Best Coffee beans.
“I know. That’s the problem.” Inside the house Layne dutifully kissed her mother and father and greeted Steffie and Jeremy. “Isn’t Jeannie coming?” she asked, giving her mom the coffee and putting the cream and cider in the fridge.
“I’m here,” Jeannie called as she sailed through the front door. “I got held up at the office.”
“It’s Sunday,” Layne said, nibbling on a piece of celery from the vegetable tray. “Doctors may be on call 24/7, but don’t executives get the weekend off?”
“Hey, I work in the real business world, not a two-bit joint like the Babbitt.” An uncomfortable silence followed and Jeannette flushed. “Oh, Layne, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
Layne shrugged and popped a piece of cauliflower in her mouth. It was hardly a surprise how Jeannie and the rest of the family felt—working at the Babbitt wasn’t prestigious or high paying and would never make her famous. But what was wrong with just being good at your job?
One of these days she’d meet a terrific guy and they’d have two or three kids. She couldn’t be the kind of mom who baked cookies—she was too lousy of a cook—but she’d get them from a great bakery and go to all their school programs and accept whoever they wanted to be. You could do that when you were an everyday person rather than a famous heart doctor or supremely confident orthopedic surgeon and expected all your kids to be supercharged versions of yourself.
It wasn’t even that she resented her parents’ careers—they’d helped thousands of people over the years—but she wanted something like what her aunt and uncle had shared. Though Uncle Will’s company had become hugely successful, it was his marriage that had meant everything to him. Besides, she was tired of feeling as if she’d failed her family because she hadn’t been born as gorgeous and ambitious as the rest of them.
“Uh, well, can I get anyone a drink?” Layne’s father asked. He was a big believer in smoothing over discord.
A hasty chorus of requests followed as Layne stepped down into the open great room to where most of the trophies and awards her brother and sisters had gotten were displayed, among them Jeannie’s Phi Beta Kappa key, a letter of appreciation to Dr. Stephanie McGraw for saving the governor’s wife, and Jeremy’s track-and-field Olympic gold medals. His silver and bronze medals weren’t on display—anything that wasn’t the best wasn’t good enough in the McGraw family.
“Layne, I’m sorry,” Jeannie said from behind her. “I just don’t understand why you can’t work at a national magazine or major newspaper, at the very least.”
“You’re just making things worse, sis,” Jeremy told her, giving Layne a hug. “I personally want you all to quit your jobs and come work on my campaign next year. How about it, Layne? We can be the fighting McGraws, righting wrongs and bringing justice to a weary world.”
Layne loved her family, but sometimes she wished she lived in Timbuktu and only saw them on major holidays. “Save the campaign speeches, Jeremy. I’m staying at the Babbitt.”
“Here’s to our next U.S. congressman,” declared Barbara, handing Layne a glass of her favorite sparkling water.
Everyone dutifully raised their beverages and echoed the toast. Layne was certain Jeremy would be elected; he got everything he went after—like going to the Olympics.
“So when are you getting married, Jeremy?” Aunt Dee asked as they sat down to dinner.
“After Lissette is back from Antarctica and has finished her study on the emperor penguin.”
“It must be hard, knowing she’s down there in an observation station for the winter. It gets to almost a hundred below freezing, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but Lissette has been looking forward to being on an Antarctic research team for years. I couldn’t ask her to give up something so important because we’re getting married.”
Layne cast a grateful glance at her aunt as Dee continued asking questions.
The meal was one of Barbara McGraw’s healthy offerings—chicken breasts with mushrooms and asparagus in a light garlic wine sauce. Delicious, naturally. Barbara wasn’t an inspired cook like her sister, but when she did something, she did it very well.
The expected pitch about going to work at the university came when Layne was helping her mother wash up after dinner.
“Dear, Jeannie shouldn’t have said that earlier about the Babbitt,” Barbara murmured quietly, casting a displeased look into the great room where her husband and three eldest children were playing bridge.
“I’m not sure she can help herself. At least with me.”
“Perhaps. Relationships between sisters are complicated. But we’re all concerned that your talents aren’t being fully utilized at the Babbitt. I realize you love research, that’s why I spoke to Sheldon about your joining the study team he’s forming.”
“It’s not the same kind of research, Mom,” Layne returned drily. For a brilliant woman, Barbara could be quite dense when she chose to be.
“But it’s still uncovering information and learning new things. And if you went after your PhD, just think of everything you could find out. All sorts of new facts about diseases and how to cure them. Give Sheldon a call and talk to him.”
“I can learn new facts at the Babbitt without writing a dissertation and God knows what else is involved in getting a doctorate.”
Barbara’s eyes opened wide. “Layne—”
“I’m kidding, I know what’s involved in getting a PhD,” Layne said hastily. Her mother would have a stroke if she believed one of her children didn’t know every step, in detail, of getting an advanced degree. “But I’m not going to change my mind, I’m happy at the Babbitt and that’s where I’m staying.”
“Stubborn,” Barbara muttered. “You’ve always been just like your grandmother that way.”
Layne gave her a bright smile. “Gee, Mom, that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
* * *
ON TUESDAY EVENING Layne was settled at Uncle Will’s desk, logging more items from his old office at work. She had a feeling she was missing something, she just didn’t know what.
Mostly she needed more information.
Maybe if Aunt Dee got the autopsy report she could approach the investigation from a different angle. Of course, that was a long shot, too. Right now she was operating on her aunt’s belief in her husband, and her own vague sense that something wasn’t right about what had happened. After all, where was the missing money? Aunt Dee sure didn’t have it, and in his letter Peter Davidson had made a point of telling her he’d personally repaid the stolen funds from his own pocket.
Moodily, Layne flipped on Uncle Will’s computer. It went through the regular start-up routine and she figured it hadn’t been turned on since before his death.
Then Layne frowned.
Who had turned the power off? Aunt Dee avoided computers like the plague and certainly wouldn’t have known how to turn it off properly. The police? Maybe if they’d confiscated the CPU and returned it, but it was unlikely they’d hook it back up again. And why would Uncle Will write and print a suicide note, then turn the computer off when he’d always left it on?
Maybe somebody else had been in the office...like a murderer.
You’re reaching, Layne thought impatiently.
After a few minutes Uncle Will’s favorite screen saver appeared—mostly pictures of Aunt Dee shifting one to the next—and Layne wiggled the mouse to show the desktop again. She opened Microsoft Word and looked at the recent document list. It was really old stuff and she was relieved not to find a saved file of the suicide note.
Next she opened Windows Explorer to look for files. There wasn’t much there, except a number of image files. She clicked on the first one, which turned out to be Aunt Dee in her wedding gown, nineteen and luminously hopeful. The next picture was of Layne as a toddler at the reception, held high in Uncle Will’s arms, dashing and handsome in his navy uniform. She pressed the print icon, wanting to take a copy home, but nothing happened. After ten minutes of investigation, she stared at the computer, puzzled.
“What do you think about that, JoJo?” she said to Aunt Dee’s cat. He was lying across a corner of the desk, methodically cleaning his paw.
“Think about what?” Aunt Dee asked. She stood at the door, looking like a Victorian lady in her long flowing gown. Her hair was loosely braided, and the thick gold plait hung over one shoulder, tied with a blue satin ribbon. She could have passed for twenty-five, instead of a woman close to fifty.
“Oh...the computer doesn’t have a print driver for this printer.”
“Speak English, not computerese.”
Layne pointed. “This computer hasn’t been told how to talk to that printer. Did you buy this device in the past few months?”
“Me?” Dee let out a short, humorless laugh. “You have to be kidding. I haven’t been in here since that night. Besides, you know how I feel about computers.”
“The same way I feel about oysters.”
They shuddered together.
Yet Layne glanced at the printer again and frowned. It seemed strange that Uncle Will would type and print a brief suicide note at work, then bring it home. Suicide didn’t fit his nature in the first place, but especially suicide planned in advance. “Uh, I hate to ask this, but where did you find the note that Uncle Will supposedly wrote? I mean the specific location...on the desk...or in his pocket...?”
Dee hugged her arms closer to her body. “I’m not the one who found it. I called 911 when I saw him lying on the floor and it was obvious he was... Anyway, it seemed forever before the ambulance got here, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The paramedics told me to wait in the living room and I knew they believed it was suicide when they came out and started asking questions. Until then I thought it might have been a heart attack.”
Her aunt was hovering at the door, still unable to come into the room where her husband had died. It gave Layne a peculiar feeling, too, even if she didn’t believe that spirits lingered behind to haunt the living.
“Actually, when the police arrived, I think they said something about finding the note on the printer,” Dee murmured. “They gave it to me to read and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”
“Was it in a plastic bag or anything?”
“No.”
Layne wasn’t an expert on police procedure, but if they hadn’t used an evidence bag, they’d probably never considered anything other than suicide. And the police should have handled it differently...if Aunt Dee was remembering correctly, the suicide note had been found on a machine that couldn’t possibly have printed it. She couldn’t explain why Uncle Will hadn’t set up the printer, but that probably wasn’t important now. All that mattered was the fact that nothing added up.
“Well, I’m going to try to get some sleep,” her aunt said. “I’m glad you’re spending the night. You’ve been stretching yourself too thin.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Layne hesitated, glancing at the computer and printer and back to her aunt. “Is the security system turned on?”
“You know I always turn it on before it gets dark.”
“Okay. Sleep well.”
She listened as Dee’s footfalls faded down the hall, barely discernible going up to the master bedroom. Her aunt didn’t like admitting it, but Layne knew staying alone in the house bothered her, and having her niece spend the night sometimes helped her sleep.
Layne checked the printer again and tried copying something. It worked perfectly and she tossed the copy on the desk. She’d wanted to believe in Uncle Will because she loved him and thought he was a great guy, but this was tangible evidence.
Her heart raced with both excitement and fear. Nobody was idiotic enough to come back seven months after murdering someone, on the off chance they’d left a clue that the police hadn’t found, but she was glad Aunt Dee had a security system, nonetheless.
She pushed the sliding keyboard tray, but it still refused to go fully under the desk. Frustrated, Layne reached under the desk to find which part of the mechanism the cord was catching on. But it wasn’t the cord her fingers encountered, it was paper. She pulled out a thin, crumpled folder.
Uncle Will’s distinctive handwriting was on a sheet of paper inside.
“Notes for lawyer, if needed,” he’d scrawled at the top. Layne’s pulse jumped with hope it would contain the information she needed to investigate, but the short amount of text below seemed more like random thoughts than anything else.
We’ve grown too fast, that’s the problem. We need better IT support in the future.
First priority, assure clients they’ll be compensated.
Can’t believe Peter accused me today. I don’t think he’s responsible for the thefts, but why is he acting this way? Told him to get off his duff and help find the truth. I’m innocent.
My Darling Dee must stop worrying. The truth will come out.
Wire transfers have a time/date stamp. Can prove I wasn’t there, at least some of the nights, just have to get my records and everything else together.
My records?
Layne pulled the keyboard out and searched the sliding tray shelf in the vain hope something had fallen out of the folder, but she didn’t find anything else and could have screamed.
What kind of records, and which wire transfers?
These notes might be the last thing Uncle Will had written and the police weren’t going to take it seriously without something substantive to go with it. But at least she could discuss the printer issue with them—surely it wouldn’t compromise their “open investigation” confidentiality rules to verify where the suicide note was found, and maybe it would make them take another look. In the meantime, she could try to figure out what the “records” were that Uncle Will had referenced. And the “everything else.”
Exhilaration replaced the frustration simmering in Layne. She finally had something real to look for—if Uncle Will had believed he could prove his innocence, surely she could, as well.
* * *
“HERE YOU GO, MATT,” Gillian said on Friday afternoon.
She handed him the copy of the Puget Sound Babbitt that he’d requested and hastily exited the office. It didn’t take long to learn the reason. Just above the table of contents was the headline: Who Is Peter Davidson of the Eisley Foundation?
Hell.
He flipped the magazine open and began reading.
The article spoke of Peter’s marriage to Katrina Eisley, his recent altruism in donating time to his wife’s family’s charity organization, his investment acumen and his success in private business. It wasn’t negative, exactly, but it had a tone Matt distrusted.
The author didn’t mention the incident at Hudson & Davidson, but Matt knew it could just be the first of several articles, the opening salvo in an attempt to criticize either Peter, or him through his stepfather. The press had been quick to question every step Matt had made at the Eisley Foundation.
Or was he just being paranoid? And there was another question...did Layne McGraw and her aunt have anything to do with it? So far Connor’s background checks had shown that Layne was exactly what she claimed, a researcher for the regional news magazine, while her aunt was a graphic artist.
It was possible they were simply trying to find out more about what had happened so they could deal with it better. Problem was, it could result in the whole mess being dragged out again in public.
Matt’s jaw set.
However much he disliked getting negative press these days, he probably deserved it. Pete didn’t. Hell, Pete had given him the job at Hudson & Davidson. And his mother had virtually become a recluse after her divorce from Matt’s father, so the media had no business arguing she was a “public figure” and not entitled to her privacy because of it. Not that Matt bought that crap about a person giving up the right to privacy simply by choosing a more public life.
Matt had read the preliminary file Connor had put together on Layne. She had a degree in library science, owned a home in the university district and came from a highly successful family of professionals. No red flags. No reason to think she’d make trouble for the sake of making trouble. Yet that was part of the problem...if Layne didn’t have ulterior motives, she might sincerely wonder if her uncle was innocent. It didn’t mean she was right, but by stirring everything up, she could cause trouble with the best of intentions.
Frowning, he picked up the phone and dialed Connor.
“Yeah?” the security chief answered.
“It’s me. Can you come up to my office?”
“Be right there.”
Spinning around in his chair, Matt looked out the window at Lake Union; it was raining, so the view was partially obscured. Despite the weather, he saw a crewing team on the water, rowing toward the docks. He envied them—the effort, the teamwork, the burn of muscles being used, it was cleaner and simpler than changing your ways and running a multibillion-dollar philanthropic foundation.
Even as the thought formed, the door behind him opened. “What’s up, Matt?”
Matt turned and slid the copy of the Babbitt across the desk. “There’s an article in there about my stepfather.”
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Full of crap?”
“Not exactly. More like damning with faint praise. I have no idea if Layne McGraw is behind it or not.”
“Doubtful. It’s unlikely she’d want media attention on her uncle’s case.”
“I agree.” Matt looked down at the magazine, wishing he could get Layne McGraw’s voice out of his head...the voice that questioned whether there might be more to the embezzlement case than what everyone believed. Anything was possible. “Connor, what do you know about the thefts at Hudson & Davidson?”
“Not much. Mr. Davidson didn’t want me becoming involved with security issues at his company, before or after the thefts.”
Matt’s nerves tightened. “Why?”
“Ego, most likely. He’s wealthy, but it’s peanuts compared to Eisley money. Mind if I have a drink?” Without waiting for a response, Connor pressed a button on the wall and two heavy panel doors glided open, revealing the wet bar left from Gordon Eisley’s day. He poured himself a finger of whiskey before sitting and planting his feet on the office’s nineteenth-century mahogany desk.
Matt smiled. Connor didn’t have any reverence for antiques. He’d probably driven Gordon crazy with his offhand ways and strong language. Gordon Eisley had worked hard and made an obscene amount of money, but he believed in a rigid code of how things should be done. He must have tolerated Connor because he had recognized there wasn’t anyone better to handle the family’s security needs. Not that Matt’s grandfather was playing an active role in his business affairs or the foundation these days; he’d finally decided to listen to his doctor and relax.
“I’m getting rid of that bar,” Matt commented.
“Too bad, it’s the only thing I like in this office. Besides the view.” Connor waved his glass as if in a toast. “I hand it to you Yanks—bourbon whiskey is a fine thing the Americans gave the world, and your grandfather stocked the best.”
“Bourbon was never my drink, so I’ll take your word. Do you have any ideas for dealing with Ms. McGraw?” Matt asked.
“Talk to her. It could be a mistake, but there isn’t much else to do without getting heavy-handed.”
“Aren’t you the one who told me speaking with the press was the same as spitting into the wind? Not that I paid much attention at the time, but even if Ms. McGraw isn’t a reporter, she’s still connected to the Babbitt.”
Connor snorted. “When I told you that, you’d just spent three days with a female shark from the worst rag in the business—pillow talk makes for a fool’s interview. Just talk to the McGraw woman and find out what she wants.”
Matt didn’t try to defend himself. He’d met the female “shark” when he was twenty and terminally stupid. He wasn’t sure if age bred wisdom, but it certainly taught caution, particularly when it came to women and the paparazzi. Not that he’d cared about racy pictures or being seen as a player back then; his concern had been keeping his grandfather from cutting off his monthly trust-fund checks.
“Maybe you should contact Layne,” Matt suggested.
“Bad idea. She’ll think you’re trying to intimidate her. But I’ll go meet the aunt. She hasn’t seen me before, so she won’t recognize the connection to the Eisley family.”
“What good will meeting her do?”
Connor’s gaze dropped to his bourbon as he shrugged. “You never know.”
“Whatever. I’ll go see Ms. McGraw.”
“Fine. But a word of advice.” The security chief swung his feet down to the thick carpet and got up. “Try not to lose your temper with the woman.”
“Wow, thanks. I’m glad I have you around—I would never have thought of that.”
“Sarcasm is wasted on a hardheaded Irishman,” Connor said at the door. “Use irony the next time.”
* * *
ON SATURDAY MORNING Layne dug a stubborn weed from her garden and tossed it onto the patio. Lately she’d had little time to dig for anything except answers about her uncle, and in the lush Pacific Northwest, ignoring your yard was a mistake. With the rain they received throughout the summer, blackberry brambles and other unwanted plants could invade in an instant.
Nevertheless, she loved having her own place.
Weeds and all.
Usually she could clear her mind while gardening, yet this morning everything kept going through her head. She’d shown Aunt Dee the brief list Uncle Will had written, but beyond identifying her husband’s handwriting, Dee didn’t have any insights about it. Dee was relieved to have some confirmation of her husband’s innocence, but there were still too many unanswered questions for either one of them to relax.
Layne flung another weed over her shoulder and heard a sharp exclamation. Whirling around, she gaped. Matt Hollister was standing on her patio, brushing bits of dirt from his fine suit. Her stomach did a cartwheel.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were there,” she said.
“I rang the doorbell and nobody answered, but your car was outside, so I came around. That classic Mustang in the driveway belongs to you, right? You should keep it in the garage for safety. Cars like that can be a target.”
Layne tensed. “I left it out because I’m going to Carrollton later.” And what business is it of yours, anyway? Planning some vandalism? she wanted to add, except it would sound rude and challenging. The McGraws and Hudsons probably weren’t his favorite people at the moment, and it wouldn’t be good to antagonize him further...at least not until she got the information she needed.
“I understand. I wanted to talk to you.” Matt held up the latest edition of the Babbitt and Layne winced. So much for not antagonizing him.
She stepped off the low retaining wall to the patio below. “I didn’t have anything to do with that article. Not directly, at least. Noah Wilkie, the Babbitt’s social reporter, overheard part of what my aunt was saying at the gala, so he may have mentioned it to one of the other reporters.”
“I see.”
“But I’d still like to apologize...and also about my aunt getting so upset. It wasn’t like her, but she’s been through a lot. And she...” Layne’s voice trailed. She was in danger of starting to babble, and she reminded herself of her plan to treat Matt Hollister as a fact to be researched, instead of a sexy guy who turned her brain into a mass of overreacting neurons. Problem was, she tended to babble at the oddest times, anyhow.
“Mrs. Hudson seems like a nice lady.”
Layne nodded. “She is. By the way, I appreciated your coming to my uncle’s funeral.”
* * *
MATT RECOGNIZED THE sorrow still shadowing Layne’s eyes and sighed. It would be a lot easier to deal with the situation if he could simply see her as a troublemaker, not as a grieving niece.
She wasn’t his type, but something about her intrigued him. Her small breasts had tightened in the cool, morning air and their firm imprint under her T-shirt was playing havoc with his pulse. What’s more, she didn’t seem to be putting on a feminine act of any kind. She certainly hadn’t primped or been flustered about her casual appearance.
Matt pushed the thought away. Over the years he’d learned to quickly size up women, and Layne was the sort he avoided—unsophisticated, family oriented and likely to develop expectations about the future.
“If you think William Hudson was innocent, who do you think stole the money?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but his death seems awfully convenient. He died before he could even start to defend himself or present his side of things. And his so-called suicide note didn’t have a single personal message to his wife. It just said ‘I can’t face what’s coming, I’m sorry,’ and that’s all. Uncle Will was honorable and decent. It’s hard to imagine him living entirely one way and then suddenly doing something so totally out-of-character.”
“Actually, some people do.” The words came out more stiffly than Matt had intended, perhaps because he was doing something out-of-character and was having to fight an uphill battle in the court of public opinion. Nobody wanted to believe that Matthew Hollister could go from wild partygoer to serious director of a philanthropic foundation. Because of it, most people preferred to criticize, rather than rolling their sleeves up and working with him.
But he was serious.
Dead serious.
“Look, do you have any reason to think your uncle was innocent?” he asked. “The police and D.A. are convinced he was guilty.”
A hint of anger flared in Layne’s eyes, then she drew a deep breath. “My aunt asked me to look into the charges against Uncle Will and I’ve been searching, but it’s hard to get anywhere without knowing how or when the thefts occurred. All I’ve been able to piece together is that it has something to do with wire transfers and they probably happened at night. I wanted to talk to Mr. Davidson about it, only he wasn’t available, so I got the meeting with you instead. Then a few days ago I discovered something that shows Uncle Will didn’t kill himself. It won’t convince the police, but it’s enough for me.”
Matt frowned. “What is it?”
“Aunt Dee was told he died of a massive drug overdose. They found a note and declared it a suicide, even though the letter was typed and unsigned.”
“That’s hardly proof.”
“No, but I’ve done research on suicide. Apparently a note isn’t that common, and when there is one, it’s usually handwritten. On top of which—” she paused “—it was found on the printer in Uncle Will’s home office, but that printer doesn’t work with his computer.”
“The ink cartridge probably just dried out.”
Layne shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. After his personal belongings were delivered from the company, Aunt Dee locked the office. She never goes in there. The other day I tried to print something on my uncle’s computer and discovered the correct print driver wasn’t loaded to the system. So why would the note be in the print tray?”
Matt got a cold chill through his stomach. What Layne was saying wasn’t conclusive, but it was enough to raise doubts.
“Have you told the police?”
“I spoke to Detective Rivera at the Carrollton Police Department earlier this week. The only thing he’d confirm is that the note was found on the printer, but he said that Uncle Will could have brought it from the office and put it there to be sure it was seen quickly.”
“It’s possible,” Matt admitted.
“Anything is possible, but it mostly sounds like he’s trying to explain things away so it doesn’t look as if the police didn’t investigate properly. It’s ironic. He claims I’m biased, but they seem far more biased than me. The detective dismissed the printer issue before I even finished explaining. He says I just want the finding of suicide reversed so Aunt Dee can get Uncle Will’s life insurance money.”
When Matt raised an inquiring eyebrow, she sighed.
“Life insurance policies have suicide clauses. Aunt Dee didn’t get a penny and she’s about to lose her house. But as much as I want to help her, I wouldn’t do anything unethical.”
“What about income from Hudson & Davidson?”
“Your stepfather claims they’re operating at a loss because of the scandal, so there isn’t any income.”
“Oh,” Matt said uncomfortably.
While the company had taken a hit, they’d fully rebounded even before he’d left to run the Eisley Foundation. And even if Peter was directing all profits to himself to repay the personal funds he’d used to restore client accounts, it wasn’t the same as operating at a loss. He hadn’t legally “loaned” the money to the company, so it shouldn’t be claimable as a line item expense.
Surely Layne had misunderstood.
“Aunt Dee won’t accept anything from the family,” Layne added, frustrated. “The only thing I can do is try to learn what really happened. It isn’t just the insurance—clearing Uncle Will’s name is awfully important to her. And with what I’ve found so far, I think I can do it.”
Matt had an odd feeling Layne wasn’t telling him everything. Not that he blamed her. She’d found something that suggested her uncle had been murdered, and he was connected to one of the people she probably suspected. Hell, maybe she even thought he’d try to protect Peter at all costs.
It was a sobering thought.
He wanted to keep Pete’s reputation from being ripped apart for no reason, but he wouldn’t protect him from embezzlement and murder charges. Besides, why would his stepfather embezzle? Peter had inherited money from a distant relative before going into business with William Hudson, parlaying it into a sizable personal fortune by investing in the right places. He didn’t need to steal from anybody.
His stepfather was a good guy, and he’d given Matt a job at Hudson & Davidson when no one else would consider hiring him. But what if in his haste to save the company, Pete had jumped to conclusions?
And equally as bad, what if Matt had jumped to conclusions himself, wanting to tie things up quickly so he could start his work with the foundation? If William Hudson was innocent, it meant a thief and murderer was still out there.
“Where do you plan to go from here?” he asked.
“I’m going to check everything. Every movement, every piece of paper related to the business, public or private. Backgrounds on employees are a possibility...anything I can put my hands on. If Uncle Will didn’t steal from the company, he was framed for someone else’s crime.”
“Okay,” Matt said slowly. “I’m not sure how much I agree with you, but I’m willing to meet you halfway. I’ll help.”
Layne blinked, appearing astonished. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll help.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult, but why?”
“I didn’t have much contact with your uncle when I worked at Hudson & Davidson, but I liked him. It was a shock when everything came out about the thefts. I don’t like to think we missed something when the police were investigating.”
“That was their job, not yours.”
“Nevertheless, I’m serious about getting involved.”
“Then you’ll tell me more about the case?” Layne asked eagerly.
The memory of his stepfather asking what he’d told Dorothy Hudson and her niece flashed through Matt’s head. Giving Layne information could make things sticky with Peter, but it was one of those “damned if you do and damned if you don’t” situations. Besides, the mess obviously wasn’t going away. And even if it caused problems between him and Peter, Layne and her aunt were entitled to the truth.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you what I know,” he said. “It isn’t that much, but it might be useful.”
Layne’s smile flashed and Matt was startled by its brilliance. “Thanks. Oh...by the way, did you have anything to do with how my uncle’s belongings were sent over from Hudson & Davidson?”
“I’m not sure who took care of that. Any special reason?”
“Just curious. We can talk out here.” Layne gestured to the patio table. “I’ll get something to make notes.”
As she disappeared into her house, Matt once again got the feeling she was holding something back. But she had a truckload of reasons to be careful, and he’d gotten her to agree—more or less—to let him be involved in her search for answers.
Strangely, hanging around Layne didn’t sound as tedious as it ought to, especially with the lingering memory of her bright smile. But that was just because he sympathized with her and her aunt. They were grieving for William Hudson, at the same time trying to find answers about his death. It couldn’t be easy.
CHAPTER SIX
LAYNE QUICKLY GRABBED a notebook and pen from her office upstairs, afraid Matt would change his mind. She didn’t know what to make of his offer to assist with the investigation, but he was also willing to provide information, and that was exactly what she needed. Yet even as the thought formed, she froze on the staircase and frowned.
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Julianna Morris
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Стоимость: 463.26 ₽
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: She′s putting him to the test As a researcher, Layne McGraw can handle tough situations. So when suspicions arise that her uncle may have been murdered, she won′t let anything stop her from finding the truth. Not the risks, and certainly not party-boy philanthropist Matt Hollister.It turns out Matt is more irresistible than she expected. Not only has he reformed his wild ways, but as the new head of his family′s charity, he has a lot to prove. And her quest seems to challenge his plans. She knows finding out what really happened could serve both their needs. All they have to do is control their attraction!