I'll Find You Part 24

She slipped from under Andre's arm as Lumpkin, his bluff called, declared, "No need. I have a copy. But it clearly states that I need to be informed of the names of all tenants."

"You mean your mother needs to be informed," Andre pointed out as Daniella scurried away.

Lumpkin looked ready to burst a blood vessel, but didn't take it any further. Instead he headed for the door. "The lease is up in January," he snapped, a final volley meant for Daniella as he headed through the door.

Immediately Andre went in search of her and found Daniella cowering in her room. "I didn't do anything," she said, trembling. "He just stopped by. I couldn't keep him out. I didn't know what to do."

"I phoned you from the airport," he said. "I had to take a cab."

"I-I didn't get the call. I don't know where my cell phone is."

Andre closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to find patience . . . serenity. "What have you been doing since we've been gone?"

"I picked up the Xterra, like you wanted. I've just been around here."

"What made Lumpkin stop by? And don't say it was just random chance. He's never done that before."

"Maybe . . . maybe Teresa led him here? She wasn't doing what you wanted, you know. Maybe she set him on us . . . as a last mean thing."

"A kind of 'f.u.c.k you' on the way out?"

Daniella bobbed her head eagerly.

"It's so easy to blame the dead, isn't it?" Andre asked silkily.

"Teresa's . . . dead?" she warbled.

"Yes, darling. Don't act like you didn't know what the plan was."

"I just didn't know for sure, that's all."

Andre wanted to smack her lying face into the wall. Instead he stalked down the hall to the prayer room.

"Who did it?" Daniella's question floated after him. He could tell she was slowly following after him.

Andre thought of the handmaidens who'd gone with him, Clarice and Naomi. Jerrilyn hadn't made the flight but had said she would catch up to them, something she hadn't managed to, as far as he knew. And Clarice and Naomi had proven worse than useless. "That's something you don't need to know," he told her brusquely.

"Do you know?" she queried, which sent Andre's blood pressure into the stratosphere. He was glad to be done with her, glad to be done with all of them.

"Where is everyone?" Daniella asked. He'd stopped and she was right behind him.

"Doing what I asked of them," he said, though in truth, he didn't know where they were right now. They'd taken separate flights over and back on his orders, but it had left them a lot of leeway. Maybe too much . . .

He turned around to face her. On one side was the prayer room, on his other, the door to the attic. Daniella was looking hopefully at the prayer room, but her expression dimmed as Andre unlocked the attic door.

"Go on up," he ordered her. "I'm tired, and I need to think."

"Oh, Andre, please . . ." she murmured, looking at the steep stairs with despair.

"Who am I?" he demanded, grabbing her arm and shaking it hard. "Who am I?"

"The Messiah," she whispered briefly, bowing her head and turning obediently toward the door. He released her and as she reached the stairway, he slammed the door and locked it again. Briefly he wished he'd taken her to the prayer room first, but that thought flickered away. He really didn't want Daniella. She was too ordinary. Jerrilyn, now, she had that hot, sinuous body and kick-a.s.s att.i.tude, and Clarice, apart from all her "only one true G.o.d" bulls.h.i.+t, was a wide-eyed, s.e.xy innocent. And then there was haughty, beautiful Naomi, who was tall and statuesque, but for some reason Andre generally felt his d.i.c.k wilt around her. She was too mothering. Always worried about how he was feeling.

It was Teresa who'd done it for him all the time, he thought with regret. Teresa who'd craved the adrenaline charge as much as he did. Teresa who'd been the only woman he'd truly loved.

Only now she was gone for good.

Daniella had asked which of the handmaidens had killed her. He didn't know, and he didn't care. He was just sorry she was the one who was gone.

Chapter Nineteen.

William's receptionist ushered her toward the conference room, which surprised Callie until she realized, looking through the gla.s.s, double doors that Angie pushed open, that she'd been ambushed. Seated across from each other at the polished, rectangular, mahogany table were Derek and Diane Cantrell. William sat at the head and he half-rose as Callie stopped short just inside the room. Angie tiptoed back out, softly closing the doors behind her.

Feeling the heat rise in her face, Callie gave William a hard glare.

He looked pained, but Derek was the one who spoke up first. "Oh, don't blame him. Diane and I descended upon him once we learned you were having this meeting."

You shouldn't have told them, Callie thought, keeping her gaze on William, who urged her to take a seat as she came around the table.

"I'll be right back," William said, suddenly breaking for the doors as if the hounds of h.e.l.l were at his heels.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

But then he warned you that he couldn't be your lawyer, too, she admonished herself. You should have listened.

Derek Cantrell looked a lot like Jonathan, lean and sandy-haired with hazel eyes and a slow smile that could turn supercilious at a moment's notice, a trait Callie hadn't seen in her husband until it was too late. Diane had darker hair and eyes and a darker personality as well. She possessed none of her brothers' veneers of charm. She was tough, p.r.i.c.kly, and determined in a way that had always made Callie somewhat nervous. Surprisingly now, as she did an internal check of her emotions, Callie realized she didn't really give a d.a.m.n anymore what Diane thought.

"William says you've packed up," Diane started in. "Did you pack up my brother's things too?"

"C'mon, Diane. Dial it back a bit," Derek said in that lazy way that was meant to put Callie at ease. Good cop, bad cop. Derek played it to the hilt though Callie wasn't sure Diane even recognized the game. She, herself, wasn't buying any of it.

"I've packed up my own clothes and some personal belongings," Callie answered. "Everything's still in the house, the furniture, household items . . . it's all there."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n about your decorating tastes. What about his personal things?" Diane demanded.

"They're still where he left them, untouched."

Her eyebrows lifted at Callie's taut tone. Callie could read her mind: What happened to the mouse Jonathan married?

"Girls, girls, no need to fight." Derek glanced over his shoulder through the gla.s.s doors that led from the conference room to the rotunda outside where William was talking to Angie. His back was to them. He clearly didn't want to be any part of their powwow. She couldn't really blame him for that. She didn't want to be, either.

"What do you want?" Callie demanded, looking at Derek.

"Um . . ." he said, at a loss. He'd probably expected Diane to bully her way into getting what she wanted and for Callie to cede it over with both hands.

"We want to know what happened to the money," Diane said, in a voice that made it clear she thought Callie was deliberately being dense. "You've put us off long enough."

"I've told you. Outside of the joint account I had with Jonathan, there is no-"

"You're lying," Diane cut in harshly. "Don't think you're just going to waltz away with our money."

Anger feathered along Callie's nerves. "You've had accountants on this since Jonathan's death. You probably did even before that."

"I did," Diane admitted. "We did," she added, nodding toward her brother. "I know Jonathan made some bad investments. I know he burned through a h.e.l.l of a lot of the a.s.sets, and they weren't his to burn. I don't give a s.h.i.+t that Father left everything to him," she snapped out as she saw Derek open his mouth to argue. "It wasn't right and it wasn't fair and if you think we're going to just walk away and let you take our money, our inheritance, you'd better check yourself back into that mental hospital again because you're f.u.c.king nuts."

"Jesus, Diane," Derek said uncomfortably.

"Stop acting like such a hero. You're in this with me." Diane glared at him.

"Apart from Jonathan's and my joint checking account, there is no money," Callie reiterated. "You think William hasn't kept me informed of what you want? If there was any money, believe me, I'd hand it over to you."

"You're not even a good liar," Diane declared.

"Since I'm telling the truth, something I understand you may not recognize, I don't think you're the best judge."

"Well, ouch," she said, lifting a brow, then reminded, "You haven't signed the final papers yet."

"I will soon, and the house will be yours."

"Why don't you sign them right now?" Diane suggested.

Callie threw a glance toward the outer office again. William had moved away from the receptionist, but, as if he felt her gaze, darted a look at her before turning away. "I'll look them over once William gives them to me. I'm not doing it today."

"You're stalling," Diane said.

"Call it anything you want."

"Okay, how much is in that joint account?" Diane demanded.

"Diane, give us a break," Derek murmured.

"Not as much as you're apparently looking for," Callie answered her.

She pressed, "Was there an account for Sean? Where's that money?"

"Jonathan didn't look that far ahead," Callie said coldly. "You know all of this already."

"I know what you'd have us believe while you've been out 'finding yourself ' on that tropical island."

Callie fought her rising temper. She'd told herself not to let the Cantrells get to her. She was almost done with them. They had no hold on her. But Diane was really a piece of work. "I'll be out soon, and you can go through Jonathan's things then."

"What kind of guarantee do I have that you won't strip the place before you go?" she asked.

"Diane!" Derek barked.

She lifted a palm. "She's not signing the papers. I don't believe she ever intends to."

Callie got to her feet at this last challenge. The way things were going, she was beginning to feel Diane was right: maybe she wouldn't sign the papers. She didn't care about the house, but she was really getting irked at being treated like a gold digger.

"Where are you moving?" Derek asked.

"Ask William. I'll leave my address with him."

"This have to do with the Laughlins?" Diane asked.

Callie couldn't help jerking in surprise. William, she realized. He told them I asked about the Laughlin family. She momentarily wondered if that was ethical, then decided it didn't matter one way or the other. "My plans aren't set yet," was all she said as she slid her chair under the table and walked to the gla.s.s doors.

"We're not done here," Diane warned.

Callie didn't bother to answer. She flicked a look at Derek, who wouldn't meet her eyes. She was almost more disgusted with him than Diane because of the way he hid behind his sister's skirts, always pretending to be the good guy. "It's almost too bad there isn't any money," she said as she pushed through the doors. "I'm starting to wish I could fight you for it, because G.o.d knows Jonathan never wanted either of you to have any of it."

Callie's righteous indignation followed her back to the house, but slowly dissipated as she wandered into Jonathan's den and reseated herself at his desk, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the expanse of sky beyond. The room faced out over the cliff to the sky and down to the snaking freeway far below. Today that sky was dusty gray, which fit her mood. For all her words about fighting Jonathan's siblings, she really just wanted them out of her life. She wanted to move on.

She hoped to high heaven that Victoria would deem her fit to be Tucker's nanny/teacher, and she could move to Castilla and the Laughlin ranch, at least for a while. If it didn't happen, Callie wasn't sure what she would do. She really didn't have a plan B. Hopefully, West would have some influence over his grandmother, but given his relations.h.i.+p with her, it was hard to know which way Victoria would jump.

Either way, she couldn't really make plans until he returned to Los Angeles.

West prowled the pier, letting his gaze slide over the white spires of sailboat masts, thinking of Egan Rivers's and Jean-Paul's power boats, the Castaway and the Sorciere de Mer. Could Teresa have been a guest on either one of them? The gendarmerie had looked closely at Rivers and Jean-Paul and had ruled them out. From what West had gleaned from them, Teresa's body hadn't been in the water that long.

So, no . . . she'd been on some other boat.

The body was definitely Teresa's, however. The hospital where Teresa had given birth had sent her records, and Tucker had been given a DNA test. Victoria's people had worked their magic and the results had come back with the match in less than a week, record time, especially given the delay of international political rules and regulations. The body pulled from the bay was Tucker's mother, and Tucker was also related to West, who'd insisted on giving a DNA sample himself.

Aimee had been a problem even after she'd viewed Teresa's body herself. She'd insisted that she had guardians.h.i.+p of Tucker, which had created its own whirl of demands and accusations, and she might have won that battle except that West's DNA was a hereditary match . . . and he also offered her a cash settlement if she signed off.

Aimee had seen the writing on the wall and had reluctantly taken the money and handed over Tucker's pa.s.sport. West had been in constant contact with Callie, who wanted to come back and be with Tucker. West had been about to tell her to purchase the airline ticket when he'd gotten an unwelcome surprise: Talia Laughlin, Stephen's mother, had called him on his cell phone-she'd gotten the number from Victoria-and announced she was already at the Fort-de-France airport. As Tucker's grandmother, she'd been sanctioned by Victoria to come and escort the boy home, which p.i.s.sed West off, no end. He would have liked a little heads-up.

Callie would have been the better choice. Tucker knew her and cared about her and vice versa. But Victoria was already making political moves behind the scenes. He could practically read his grandmother's mind: she wanted Tucker under her control, not West's and Callie's, and any roadblock to her plan would be viewed as a breach of familial duty and trust. If West wanted Callie to be chosen as the boy's nanny, he would have to go along with her plans.

Victoria hadn't changed all that much from when he was a boy.

Unfortunately, the police investigation into how Teresa had fallen into the bay wasn't moving at the pace West wanted. The pressure from Victoria's people only concerned what happened to Tucker; they had little interest in how or why Teresa had died. And since Teresa's death wasn't a clear homicide, though West had been a.s.sured the gendarmerie were looking into it, the investigation was at a standstill.

So, while West waited for the legal okay to take Tucker back to the States with him, he was doing his own search into what had happened to Teresa. She'd been planning to leave the night she died, but what had she been doing beforehand? Aimee insisted she hadn't met with Teresa, but West sensed they'd at least spoken to each other. He suspected Aimee had been more forthcoming with the authorities, otherwise they would be grilling her more diligently, but she'd been pointedly disinterested in giving West any information.

Which also p.i.s.sed him off.

Shortly after Callie had flown home, Dorcas had sent West the asked-for picture of her. Too little, too late, but West had studied Callie's photograph for reasons that were far more personal. She'd gotten under his skin in a way that both elated and worried him.

Dorcas had also had some other surprising news. "Paulsen's in deep s.h.i.+t with Gundy."