In Bed With...Collection

Lionel Armstrong shrugged off the failure. “Her known life began the night Vivian met her and offered her the job as his nanny.”

“Well, she very conveniently sprang alive then,” Beau commented acidly. “How did he meet her?”

“He said she was selling roses.”

Beau barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Maggie Stowe had done her homework on Vivian Prescott. He’d been her mark and he’d fallen for her; hook, line, and sinker.

“What did my grandfather say when you put it to him that you could collect no background on her?”

“He laughed and dismissed it as of no importance.”

Lionel Armstrong’s laissez-faire attitude niggled Beau. “Didn’t you argue with him? Point out the dangers?” he accused more than asked.

“Naturally. But to no effect. Your grandfather did have a mind of his own, Beau, and there was no changing it on Margaret Stowe.”

Bewitched, Beau thought broodingly.

“In fact, he said something I’ve never forgotten,” the solicitor went on musingly. “And I must say, he did seem to have taken on a new lease of life.”

“What were the unforgettable words?’ Beau demanded tersely, unable to suppress his frustration over getting nothing tangible to hang on Maggie Stowe.

“I think Vivian revelled in her nonentity status. He said, “ ‘She’s going to be my creation, Lionel. And very possibly my salvation.“’ And his eyes were twinkling in that impish way he had.”

“Salvation?”

The solicitor shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he thought he’d found an angel.”

“If she sprouts wings, I’ll start believing it,” Beau said caustically. He’d had enough talk of angels.

“Disturbs you, does she?” The solicitor eyed him with speculative interest.

“I don’t like mysteries,” Beau growled.

“Well, perhaps being such an experienced explorer, you’ll dig it out.”

Beau intended to, one way or another.

After he left the solicitor’s office, he stopped at a street cafе to grab some lunch and chew over what he’d learnt so far. Which wasn’t much. Maggie Stowe was twenty-eight years old and she was the only one who could tell him about herself. It would probably be a stack of lies he’d get from her but at least he could have the lies checked.

He’d blundered in being too direct this morning, putting her offside. He would have to smooth that over this evening, lull her into feeling he accepted her at face value. It would be stupid to give offence again. Better to charm the information out of her. Let her think she was winning.

He thought briefly of dropping in at the head office of the travel agency he’d established in Australia. It was hardly urgent. Helen Carter had been running the business efficiently for the past three years. It was a courtesy to tell her he was back home again, but it could wait another day. He was too obsessed with Maggie Stowe to give Helen or anything else his undivided attention.

The firm of accountants was housed in the MLC building, right in the city centre. With clients as wealthy as Vivian Prescott, they could well afford such premises. Beau thought of all the parking stations and lots his grandfather owned—he now owned—around Sydney. With traffic the way it was, and ownership of cars always on the up and up, the business of providing parking was probably the most solid investment of all in a fast-moving world.

Beau had no intention of interfering with it. John Neville and his associates had been handling the family finances for many years and were very proficient at it. They earned their fees. Beau had no doubt everything would be in order on the business side. It was his grandfather’s personal expenses over the past two years that interested him, particularly in regard to their connection with Maggie Stowe.

John Neville was happy to oblige him with this information. He was a small, neat, precise man, proud of his meticulous bookkeeping. For some reason. Beau found Neville’s bald head reassuring. His gold-rimmed spectacles also seemed to add an air of no-nonsense professionalism.

“Miss Stowe’s salary was generous.” He pointed out the figure from the wages book. “But, as you can see, not outrageously so, considering she was always on call. Never had days off.”

“Never?”

“Not even a vacation. Vivian took her everywhere with him and he paid for what he called her appearance clothes out of his own pocket. Naturally, he used credit cards. Everything he bought for Miss Stowe to wear has been itemised.”

He passed over a detailed printout for Beau to peruse. Dresses, suits, hats, shoes, handbags...practically all designer wear if the steep cost was anything to go by.

“As you know, your grandfather enjoyed a very full social calendar with his many charities and he liked Miss Stowe to shine at his side.”

“From the look of this, she certainly shone. What about jewellery?”

“Rented for any big occasion. Miss Stowe would not accept jewellery from your grandfather. In fact, she sold some of the evening gowns Vivian didn’t want her to wear again and returned the price she got to us. All properly docketed. The accounts for the funeral were scrupulously kept, as well.”

“No discrepancies?’ Beau queried. His ”feathering her nest” theory was being shot down and that didn’t make sense to him.

“None,” came the firm reply.

“Nothing missing?” Beau pressed.

John Neville looked uncomfortable. “There is and there isn’t. I find it very vexing. Nothing I could do about it but I strongly dislike not having everything accounted for.”

“Please explain,” Beau encouraged, his interest sparked again.

“Oh, it has nothing to do with Miss Stowe.” He beetled a frown over his glasses. “Vivian could be a very wilful man. When he didn’t want to take advice, he wouldn’t.”

Beau had more or less heard the same from Lionel Armstrong and the matter was very definitely connected to Maggie Stowe. He waited for John Neville to enlighten him further.

“He came in one day, about two months before his death, and asked me to get him a million dollars in cash.”

Two months before his grandfather’s death rang a bell in Beau’s brain. That was when his last will and testament had been made...including Margaret Stowe.

John Neville pursed his lips in disapproval. “Now that amount of money one simply does not carry around in cash. Legitimate transactions are all paperwork. Naturally I inquired the reason for such a request.”

“And the answer?’ Beau prompted.

“He said it was his money and he could do what he liked with it and it was none of my business.” The affront of that statement coloured John Neville’s voice. “I could not shake him into telling me what he wanted it for. He stubbornly insisted I get the cash for him. I had no other choice. It was his money.”

“Did you find out where it went?”

He dolefully shook his head. “I expected it to turn up. A purchase. A land deal. Something. I looked for it. I even asked around in certain circles. Very discreetly, of course. Not a trace, not a hint. I can show you the paperwork attached to the handing over of the million dollars to your grandfather. He took it. I have witnesses to his taking it. But what he did with it was, and still is, a complete mystery.”

Beau now had two mysteries.

The case of the woman from nowhere.

The case of the missing million.

He also had a very strong conviction...find out the background of Maggie Stowe and he’d find the missing million.