To retrieve the necklace, she’d have to unwrap the dead animal and wash the chain and…
Don’t touch it! Don’t touch a thing! You have to go to the police! You have to tell them what’s going on. They can fingerprint everything and check for clues. Otherwise, whoever is behind this will continue to terrorize you—or worse.
Letting out her breath, she straightened, leaving the package where she’d dropped it on the floor. She opened a window and let in the fresh air.
Think, Adria, think. Scraping her hair away from her face with tense fingers, she pulled herself together.
Slowly she began to calm. She’d grown up on a farm. Dead animals and all kinds of rodents—rats, mice, shrews, squirrels, and the like—were something she and the barn cats had dealt with. The rat’s corpse didn’t frighten her, but the intent behind the package did, and the fact that someone had broken into her room at the Hotel Danvers, violated her personal space and taken items, then took the time to kill a rat and send it anonymously, was terrifying.
She reached for the phone. She could call the police. Or hotel security. Or Zach.
Which is probably what the sicko expected. Whoever he was, he was counting on her running scared and calling the authorities. Whether she wanted to or not, she had to wait…at least until she figured out what was going on.
For now, she’d bide her time, but be on her guard.
Whoever was behind the depraved prank wasn’t going to get the better of her.
But he could be dangerous. This might be just the start of something worse. The more you push the Danvers clan, the more the clan will push back.
She considered the members of the family. Was it one of them? Or someone else, someone she hadn’t yet met? Someone connected to the Danvers family who didn’t want London to surface?
Whoever it was behind the stupid little charade was going to get a surprise. Adria wasn’t backing down. Gingerly, using the tissue, she slipped the plastic bag into the envelope and opened the refrigerator of the minibar. Quickly she removed several bottles of beer and soda, then placed the envelope inside. She’d put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and figure out her next move.
Wedged between the pool tables and the rest rooms, the phone booth was located in the back corner of the tavern. Sweeny waited as the phone rang in Portland. He needed to report to Danvers, but first things first.
Foster’s voice boomed over the line. “You have reached the offices of Michael Foster. I’m away from the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number and the time you called, I’ll get back to you—”
“Bullshit!” Sweeny growled. The beep shrilled in his ear. “Foster? You there? It’s me, Sweeny. Pick up the goddamned phone.” He waited, but no one answered. “Hell,” he ground out. “Look, I know you’re there, so pick up. I’ve got a job for you. One that pays well. If you’re interested…” He waited but still no answer. Drumming his fingers on the edge of a tattered copy of the yellow pages, he finally decided to give up. “I’ll call later.” As he slammed down the receiver, he tried to shake off his bad mood, but it lingered, like the cold-blowing wind that seemed to forever cut through this town.
He settled into the bar, drank his beer, and listened to some country-western ballad where the guy was all choked up over some dead woman. Christ, what a miserable place. A few of the locals came in, smiled and chatted with the bartender, and climbed onto their usual stools. Just like Cheers on television. Sweeny could name them all—Norm, Cliff, Sam…Rather than gawk at the hicks, he turned his attention to a television positioned over the bar where a baseball game was in progress. He didn’t even check the score.
His bones ached from the job he’d done the night before. After he’d driven to the farm where Adria Nash had been raised, he’d talked with the people who’d leased the place, but he hadn’t learned much. Either the couple was tight-lipped by nature or they’d seen through his story of being an insurance agent interested in selling fire insurance on the house and outbuildings. He’d never even gotten inside. The woman had kept the screen door closed and locked and had spoken tersely through the torn steel webbing. After striking out at the farm, he’d driven to the only bank of storage units in town, bribed the kid who was the night watchman and broken into Ms. Nash’s unit. Sweeny, sensing a bonanza, had spent hours in the cramped space, moving boxes, climbing over old, tasteless furniture, and digging through pile after pile of crates until he’d hit pay dirt and come up with the family Bible as well as copies of tax returns that proved how broke Adria Nash really was. No wonder she was after the Danvers money. The tax files and the Bible were now sitting securely back in the storage unit. He’d taken copies of the returns and the family-tree section of the Bible, including any pages with notations on them, then slipped the kid watching the storage place a fifty, and replaced Adria’s property in the packing crates. She’d never be the wiser.
But he was still stuck in this frigid hellhole. He downed another beer and checked his watch. Hauling his briefcase, he strolled back to the phone booth. This time, Foster was there. The computer nut picked up on the second ring.
“ ’Bout time,” Sweeny grumbled.
“Oswald. Always a pleasure.” Foster didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm in his voice.
“Yeah, right.”
“Okay, so I got your message. What’s up?”
“It’s a piece of cake. I want you to find some people for me. The first one has several names. She goes by Ginny Slade, Virginia Watson, or Virginia Watson Slade. She’s somewhere around fifty, give or take a few years, I think, and was married to Bobby or Robert Slade.”
“That’s it?” Foster asked.
“What more do you need?”
“Watson and Slade aren’t uncommon names. How about a location to start with—you know, something like east of the Mississippi?”
“Just a minute.” Impatiently Oswald opened his briefcase and pulled out his copies of the family tree from the Bible. “Okay, let’s see,” he said, running his finger down the page. “Looks like Virginia was born in Memphis, Tennessee. She and Bobby were married in the First Christian Church in June of 1967. Other than those specific dates, all I know is that she cruised through Montana at one time and gave up her daughter, probably named Adria or something like it, for adoption. An old couple—Victor Nash and his wife Sharon—adopted the kid sometime in late 1974, I think, though I can’t find any reference to a specific date and no official papers were filed.”
“That all?”
“Not quite,” Sweeny said, loving to spread news meant to shock. “Get a load of this—we suspect this Virginia Watson Slade might have been the governess for London Danvers.”
There was a long, low whistle on the other end of the line. “Ginny Slade.”
“Bingo.”
“So why’re you involved? No, let me guess. The kid’s shown up and is demanding her part of the fortune.”
“You got it.”
“Could be interesting.”
“See what you can come up with.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“I’ll call you. Need anything else?”
“How about a social security number?”
“Right.” Sweeny sorted through his notes on Ginny Slade. “Got it,” he said, and rattled off the series of numbers she’d used when she was London’s governess. He explained a little more about the case and hung up, satisfied that Foster would come up with something. He was a computer hacker from the 80s who’d found a way to put his skills to work. Sweeny didn’t really know how he operated, if he broke into the IRS’s files or had someone in the government working for him, but Foster was part of a national service where people who had been lost were found—even people who didn’t want to be located. He’d get the job done one way or the other.
Satisfied, Sweeny snapped his briefcase shut. He felt better. Another drink and he’d call Jason Danvers.