The Missing Heir

Mari raised an eyebrow. “Poor you, all by your lonesome.”

“You got it. Just me and my Blues.”

“You could have worse company than horses.”

“And better, too. Just tell me where to pick you up.” He waited for her to hesitate, to try to wriggle out of telling him, as she had yesterday.

She surprised him. “I’m staying at the Haskell cottage. Do you know where the house is?”

He nodded. “How is Joe? I heard he was in the hospital.”

“He’s holding his own.”

Russ decided not to push further at the moment. The last thing he needed was for her to get suspicious. His dad was going to try to get Joe to order a blood and DNA test on Mari before he came back to the island, but so far the doctors hadn’t let Joe take any calls, even from his attorney, who was also his best friend. Once the tests were done, Russ’s dad had little doubt they’d prove negative, which would mean Mari could be sent packing and not be around to upset Joe once he returned.

Which was fine. Except that Russ wanted her around awhile longer for his own purposes.

“Seven?” he asked.

She nodded, wondering what she was getting herself into. Riding with him was one thing, dinner another. On the other hand, why shouldn’t she accept his invitation? What was wrong with being with a man she liked? She definitely didn’t want to spend her time moping around the Haskell house, wondering if she belonged there. As for Mr. Haskell, whether he was her grandfather or not, there was nothing she could do for him other than hope and pray he recovered.

As they remounted and continued on around the island, she thought about Russ calling Mr. Haskell by his first name. That was more than she felt free to do. If she were certain he was her grandfather, she might be able to manage Grandpa Joe, but that had yet to be proved.

“Do you know Mr. Haskell well?” she asked.

“My father and he are friends. I’ve known Joe all my life.”

Mari tried to think of a way to ask what he was like, but decided it was best not to. The magazine article she’d read on the plane had been a tad intimidating: “Gruff and forceful, Haskell knows his word is law.”

Belatedly, she realized that if Russ knew him that well, he must know all about the search for Isabel. Did he suspect why Mari was staying at Haskell’s place? If so, he didn’t mention it for the remainder of the ride.

When they reached the stables, he said, “I’ll take care of the horses.”

She shook her head. “I rode Jill. She’s my responsibility.” Dismounting, she led the mare inside.

“What do you think of Mackinac so far?” Russ asked as they busied themselves unsaddling the horses.

“I do love Nevada,” she said, “but this island is addictive. Sometimes I feel I’m lost in a time warp.”

“Reality fades, yes. Can be dangerous.”

She looked up to find herself trapped in his green gaze, making her want to reach out and touch him. Her breath caught as he took a step toward her. For a long, anticipatory moment she thought he meant to kiss her, but then Jack snorted and stamped a hoof and the spell was broken.

Dangerous? she asked herself. You bet your sweet patooties.

After they parted company, Mari decided to look into a few more of the shops before she returned to the house. Though she hadn’t brought much money with her, maybe she could find a dress somewhat more casual than the only one she’d packed. Luckily, her sandals would go with anything. The last shop she went into before climbing the hill to the cottage had a sale rack. Though none of the dresses on it suited her, she found an inexpensive white skirt with a red belt that would look great with the multicolored sandals and one of the shirts she’d brought.

Arriving back at the house, Mari learned there’d been no word about Mr. Haskell’s condition. She decided to take that as meaning he wasn’t getting worse—a positive sign. Neither had there been any calls for her. Not that she’d expected Uncle Stan to call, but it would have been be reassuring to hear his voice. She thought about using her calling card and shook her head. There was nothing to report other than her day with Russ and the fact she was having dinner with him tonight. Her uncle wouldn’t consider that news.

Since no one had told her she shouldn’t wander around the house, she decided to take a tour, starting with the ground floor. She intended to visit the kitchen first, but was distracted when she passed what she took to be Mr. Haskell’s study, where floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined two of the walls. In looking over the titles, she found one shelf devoted to old photograph albums, some bound in plush, others in leather. Some held yellowing photos of old Mackinac, which she examined with interest.

Over the fireplace was a portrait of a young woman who, because of the style of clothes she wore, Mari thought might be Mr. Haskell’s wife, Yvonne, Isabel’s mother. She’d learned from the magazine article that Yvonne had died when Isabel was ten. Peering at her own face in the long narrow mirror on the wall by the study door, she could see no resemblance to Yvonne. Mari didn’t find any pictures of Isabel anywhere.

Turning to leave the study, she noticed Diana, the cook, standing in the hall beyond. “I was waiting to ask if you’d be in for dinner,” the woman said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was on my way to the kitchen to tell you I’d be eating out.” Deciding the cook might be a source of information, Mari said, “I wondered if there might be a portrait of Isabel Haskell somewhere, like the one of her mother in here.”

Diana glanced over her shoulder. Looking for the housekeeper? Mari asked herself, aware that Pauline could be intimidating. “I’m not supposed to know anything,” the cook said in a low tone. “But I heard tell Mr. Haskell had her picture stored in the attic after she ran off to marry that rock drummer. They say Mort Morrison was pretty well-known, but you can’t prove it by me. Anyway, Mr. Haskell’s supposed to have burned all the photos of her. They had one in the papers from where she went to school.”

Mari had seen several newspaper photos of Isabel at age eighteen, with Morrison, but in each, her face was half-hidden by her hand, as though she didn’t want to be recognized. In the school photo, taken with five other girls, Isabel looked to be about twelve. Her face wasn’t clear enough in any of the pictures for Mari to decide one way or the other if they looked anything alike.

“After Mrs. Haskell died, they say little Isabel moped about for a long time,” Diana continued. “Her father was away a lot, a busy man, and she badly missed her mother. They were real close, everyone said.”

“How sad,” Mari murmured. Poor Isabel. While Mari’s own mother—could it have been Isabel?—had died when she was born, at least she’d had loving parents in Aunt Blanche and Uncle Stan.

“Yeah, it was that. Mr. Haskell had to raise her all by himself, and they didn’t get on, by all accounts. They say he was kind of strict with her. Well, I got to get back and check on my pies.”

After Diana was gone, Mari started for the stairs to the second floor, planning to see if she could find a way to climb to the attic. Did she belong in this family? Maybe if she could see that portrait of Isabel she might find some feature that had been passed down to her. Besides the hair. Mr. Haskell had said on TV that Isabel’s hair was “an unusual shade of gold.”

Mari fingered her own short curls. Aunt Blanche had always said she’d been named well, since her hair was close to the color of a marigold. Named well? Mari had never picked up on it before, but could Blanche have meant that her birth mother had named her? The thought gave her goose bumps.

Searching for the attic meant she had to open all the closed doors on the second floor. Since she’d already learned that Pauline’s suite of rooms was on the ground floor and that Diana lived on the island, so didn’t spend nights at the house, Mari didn’t worry that she might be intruding.

Behind one door she saw what had to be Mr. Haskell’s suite, surprisingly austere. Most of the other doors led to guest bedrooms except for one that proved to be the entrance to an upstairs sitting room. She ventured inside, toward French doors to a balcony looking out over the lake. Far below, one of the hydrofoils that ferried folks to the island swished past in a spume of spray that glistened in the late afternoon sun.

Behind the next to last door in the hallway, a winding staircase led upward. Mari peered up it and realized she’d found the way to the cupola, not the attic. She closed the door and tried the last one. Locked. It had to be to the attic. She sighed. Stymied, unless she got up the nerve to ask Pauline for a key.

Not today, Mari decided. It was after five and she still had to shower before dressing for dinner.

Later, after trying three different shirts with the skirt, Mari sat at the wicker vanity table, trying to decide if her red earrings were close enough in color to the red belt to be passable. She scowled at herself, annoyed because she’d taken so much time getting ready. What did it matter, when she wasn’t certain she’d be staying on the island or how Russ felt? It was a sure bet he wasn’t spending an hour and a half getting ready just to impress her.

He didn’t need to. Though she’d only seen him in jeans so far, she knew he’d look just as good in anything he had on. Or didn’t have on? She shook her head, warning herself not to get into that. Wasn’t she in a precarious enough situation already?

Chapter Four

M ari remained upstairs until she heard the doorbell. As she started for the stairs, Pauline’s voice floated up to her. “Why, hello there, Russ, how nice to see you.”

He greeted the housekeeper, then asked after Joe Haskell. When Mari was halfway down the steps, he glanced up, saw her and smiled. “Pauline,” he said, “I’m taking Mari to dinner.”

Pauline’s expression gave nothing away as she said, “I had no idea you two were acquainted.”

“We’re both horse people,” Russ told her, as though that explained everything.

Pauline nodded. “Enjoy your dinner.”

After they were outside, Mari said, “She’s always courteous, but somehow she unnerves me.”

“Who, Pauline? She’s harmless.”