The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(81)

Vortex had dumped him but he did not think that he had to fear them.

That left the Foundation. According to the Vortex source, the cleaners had picked up all three of the Harkins triplets and Nyla Trevelyan. The triplets were not a problem. They were just hired muscle with a little talent. They were distant cousins from the Harkins side of his family. He had recommended them to York/Trevelyan because they had what it took to sell drugs and run hot artifacts. As far as the three were concerned they had been working for Trevelyan. They knew nothing about him.

Alma York/Nyla Trevelyan knew everything about him, of course. But she was dead. There had been no way she could have been allowed to survive, regardless of the outcome of the project. He had done his research. The last time he had picked up her medication he had substituted the tablets in the bottle with a substance that was guaranteed to be lethal to a person with her particular heart condition.

Mentally he went down his checklist. York/Trevelyan was no longer a problem. The triplets did not know enough to be dangerous to him. There were only two people who could conceivably cause trouble for him now—the same two people who had been a problem right from the start.

So close. He had been so close. He had taken so many risks, and all for nothing. Because of Catalina Lark and Olivia LeClair.

A smart man would walk away now, cut his losses and leave Seattle. He had money stashed in an offshore bank. He could leave town tonight and vanish. There was nothing to link him to the disaster in Fogg Lake.

But the longer he thought about how it had all gone wrong, the hotter the fires of rage burned. Someone needed to pay.

He would start with Catalina Lark.





CHAPTER 39


Catalina pulled into the driveway in front of the old Victorian mansion and parked her car behind an aging Cadillac.

Beatrice Ross had phoned Lark & LeClair that morning and pleaded with Catalina to examine what she was sure was a crime scene. She explained that she was thinking of redoing her will because she suspected her nephew was plotting to murder her to get his inheritance.

“I’m sure now that he murdered my sister,” Beatrice had explained in quivering tones. “I’m afraid I might be next.”

The sister’s death had been attributed to natural causes. A lifelong smoker, she had suffered from a variety of ailments, including lung disease. Beatrice had found the body on the floor of the kitchen one morning a few weeks earlier. There was no obvious reason to suspect murder. Then again, those were often the kinds of cases that convinced people to call in Lark & LeClair.

Catalina grabbed her handbag and slipped out from behind the wheel. Looping the strap of the bag over her shoulder, she walked along a stone path to the front door of the faded mansion.

She pressed the doorbell and surveyed the expansive gardens while she waited for a response. The house sat on a large chunk of property located in an exclusive neighborhood on the shores of Lake Washington. The views of the lake and downtown Seattle made it worth a fortune. Beatrice Ross had been a successful actress. She had made some sound investments over the years and now lived quietly.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. A moment later the door opened and an elegant wisp of a woman peered out. Beatrice was in her early eighties. It was clear that she had been a beautiful woman in her younger days. Her blue eyes glittered with intelligence and a barely concealed excitement.

She was dressed in an expensive knit trouser suit. The jacket was studded with snappy gold buttons. The diamonds in her ears and around her throat looked real. Gold bracelets were stacked on each thin wrist. Rings adorned several fingers.

It was obvious that she had gone out of her way to dress for the meeting. She beamed at Catalina.

“You must be the psychic,” she said. “I’m Beatrice Ross.”

“I’m Catalina Lark from Lark and LeClair. A pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in? Let’s go into the living room and have tea while I explain my problem. This way, dear.”

Beatrice led the way into a heavily shadowed living room. Catalina followed, heightening her senses. Old homes were the most difficult to read accurately. The energy of decades of emotions had seeped into the floors, walls and ceilings. The heavy vibe could confuse her senses. Whatever the cause, she was getting the someone-just-walked-over-my-grave chill that told her something was very wrong in the mansion.

The lack of light was unnerving. There were wall sconces in the hallway and lamps in the living room but none of them were illuminated. The blinds were open, but the woods outside, combined with an overcast sky, filtered out most of the sun.

“Do take off your coat, dear,” Beatrice said. “You look as if you’re ready to rush out the door.”

“I’m a little cold at the moment,” Catalina said. “I’ll leave my coat on if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself, dear. Please, have a seat.” Beatrice indicated a cream-colored sofa. “My lawyer arrived a few minutes ago. I asked him to wait in the solarium at the side of the house. Trey insisted on meeting you because he knows I am prepared to change my will immediately if your investigation confirms my belief that my sister was murdered. He’s quite concerned. You know how lawyers are.”

“I see.”

A man appeared in the doorway.

“You’re here, Ms. Lark,” he said. “Right on time.”