Legacy of Lies

“Place your fingers on the stone with mine,” Clara advised. “It will increase the energy flow.”

Eleanor did as instructed. Haltingly, the quartz began to move. R. O. Heat seemed to emanate from the amethyst. Eleanor’s fingertips grew warm. S.

“Rosa,” Eleanor gasped. Anna’s nanny.

Confirming her thoughts, the crystal stopped on A. Eleanor felt light-headed. Spots danced in front of her eyes. The fire flared. Though there was no wind outdoors, the glass panes in the windows began to rattle. Then everything went dark.

* * *

“You’re overreacting,” Eleanor insisted an hour later. She was still in the library. And she was a very long way from being in a good mood. “It was merely a little heart flutter. Nothing more.”

Dr. Averill Brandford frowned as he took the seventy-one-year-old woman’s pulse. “That’s your opinion. I hadn’t realized you’d gotten your medical degree.”

Having been called here from the yacht harbor where he moored his ketch, Averill was casually clad in a blue polo shirt, white duck slacks and navy Top-Siders. His face was tanned and his hair was sunstreaked from sailing excursions off the coast.

“You always did have a smart mouth, Averill,” Eleanor returned. “I remember the summer you boys turned seven and you taught Robbie to curse. Although I’ll admit to finding the episode moderately amusing, James did not share my feelings. It was a week before Robbie could sit down.”

“It was winter. And we were nine.” A tape recorder on a nearby table was playing Indian flute music. He turned it off. “And for the record, it was Robbie who taught me.” He went over to the desk. “I’m checking you into the hospital for tests.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m fine.”

“Let’s just make certain, shall we?”

“Do they teach all you doctors to be such sons-of-bitches in medical school?”

“The very first semester. Along with how to pad our medicare bills.”

“Smart mouth.” Eleanor shook her head in disgust.

Her hair, like her attitude, had steadfastly refused to give in to age. It was as richly auburn as it had been when she was a girl, save for a streak of silver at her temple, which had occurred overnight, after the tragic double murder and kidnapping.

“I think you should listen to Averill, Eleanor,” the other man in the room, Zachary Deveraux, counseled with quiet authority.

“This isn’t fair. You’re ganging up on me.”

“Whatever it takes,” the tall, dark-haired man returned easily, appearing unfazed by her blistering glare.

Zachary was leaning against a leather wall, arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. Unlike the doctor’s recreational attire, Zach was wearing a conservative dark suit, white shirt and navy tie. His shoes, remarkably staid for even this Republican stronghold, were wing tips.

“As president of The Lord’s Group, it’s my responsibility to do everything I can to keep the company strong. You’re more than a vital asset, Eleanor,” he said with a slight French-patois accent that hinted at his Louisiana Cajun roots. “You’re the lifeblood of the chain. We need you.”

His dark eyes, more black than brown, warmed. His harshly cut masculine lips curved in a coaxing smile. “I need you.”

Although she might be in her eighth decade, Eleanor was a long way from dead. Was there a woman with blood still stirring in her veins who could resist that blatantly seductive smile?

Before she could accuse him of pulling out all the stops to win his way, the library door opened and Clara burst into the room. An overpowering scent of orrisroot and clove emanated from the silver pomme d’ambre she wore around her neck.

“Eleanor, dear.” Moving with the force of a bulldozer, she practically knocked both men over as she rushed to the side of the sofa. “I’ve been absolutely frantic ever since your two bodyguards banished me from the room.”

She shot a blistering glare first at Averill, then another directly at Zach, who merely stared back. The only sign of his annoyance were his lips, which tightened into a grim line.

Eleanor’s slender hand disappeared between the woman’s two pink pudgy ones. “I’m fine, Clara. Really,” she insisted. “It was merely a flutter. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Of course not,” Clara Kowalski agreed heartily. “Don’t you worry, dear. I have just the tonic you need in the greenhouse.”

She smiled reassuringly. “A little extract of hawthorn, followed by some pipsissewa tea. That will definitely do the trick.”

“I believe you’ve done enough tricks for today, Mrs. Kowalski,” Averill said.

Crimson flooded the elderly woman’s face, clashing with her lavender turban. “I am not a magician, Doctor. I do not do tricks.”

“Oh, no?” Zach countered, scowling at the Ouija board. “Looks like just another fun evening at home with Hecate.”

“Zachary,” Eleanor murmured her disapproval. “You mustn’t talk that way. Clara’s my friend. And she’s been very helpful. We almost had a breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough?” He didn’t conceal his scorn concerning Clara Kowalski’s alleged psychic powers.

“We nearly made contact with Rosa, Anna’s departed nanny.” Clara’s eyes, nearly hidden by folds of pink fat, dared him to challenge her claim.

“Clara’s guide said Rosa was willing to talk to us,” Eleanor said.

“Ah, yes, the infamous guide,” Zach agreed. “What was the guy’s name again? Jaws?”

“Jarlath!” Clara snapped.

“That’s right.” Zach nodded. “Summer sales could be stronger this season. How about asking old Jarlath to see what he can do about bringing more shoppers into the stores?”

“Jarlath does not control things,” Clara replied waspishly. “He is a spiritual guide, not a fortune-teller.”

“Sounds a helluva lot like voodoo to me.” Zach turned back to Eleanor, his exasperation obvious. “Dammit, Eleanor—”

“Don’t you see, Zachary,” she interrupted earnestly, “Rosa can tell us what happened to Anna.”

The two men exchanged weary, resigned looks. Zach raked his hand through his jet hair and cursed softly in the Acadian French, that during his childhood years, had been the only language spoken in his bayou home.

“Eleanor,” Averill said softly. Gently. “It’s been twenty-four years since Robbie and Melanie were...” He paused, selecting his words carefully. “Since Anna disappeared,” he said, instead. “Don’t you think it’s time you gave it up?”

“I promised Robbie I’d find Anna. Since I never broke a promise to my son while he was alive, I’ll be damned if I start with this one.”

“I’m only suggesting a few days in the hospital,” Averill said. “For tests. And some well-deserved rest. After all, you need to be in tip-top shape to keep up your search. If that’s what you insist on doing.”

“It is.” But Eleanor’s determined expression wavered. Her gaze went to the table, where they’d been so close to contacting the nanny.

“It won’t hurt to have a checkup before we leave for the Paris shows next month,” Zachary pointed out with the unwavering logic she’d always admired.

In so many ways Zach reminded Eleanor of her dear James. Granted, their backgrounds were vastly different. But even discounting her late husband’s family wealth, both James Lord and Zachary Deveraux were quintessential self-made men.

Zachary had been her personal discovery. Eleanor had watched his meteoric progress with a certain secret pride. And although he didn’t yet know it, she was grooming him to take over the reins of the Lord’s chain when she retired.