Deception (3 page)

A few minutes later, she opened the door to her loft, and was immediately enveloped by its comforting warmth and familiar smells. Although the one-bedroom apartment was only a fraction of the size of the Upper East Side town house where she had been raised, these modest quarters had become her sanctuary, the only place where she felt truly at home.

She had fallen in love with the loft the moment she had laid eyes on it in the summer of 1984. She hadn’t been looking for just a home at the time, but a love nest, a place for her and Dan to start their married life together.

Two days later, they had signed the lease.

There had been many changes since then. The marriage had ended in divorce a year later, and the apartment, which she had purchased when the owner had converted the building to condominiums, had undergone a complete makeover. The cheap furnishings she and Dan had bought at a New Jersey flea market had been replaced by heavy oak tables, plump sofas in bold floral chintzes and Turkish throw rugs. The tiny kitchen now boasted new, state-of-the-art appliances, and the bathroom, unusually large for this part of town, had been redone in marble tiles of varying blue hues.

Jill’s decision not to move back home after her divorce had baffled her father. He couldn’t understand why she would choose the inconvenience, not to mention the hazards, of a downtown location, when she could live with them in the lap of luxury.

She hadn’t tried to explain it to him. How could she when she couldn’t even explain it to herself? When she wasn’t sure if her decision stemmed from a need for independence or from her reluctance to let go of the last thread that linked her to Dan Santini?

As Jill put away the groceries, her glance fell on the sympathy card on the kitchen counter. Her ex-husband’s condolences had arrived three days after her father’s memorial service. The message, written in the familiar bold handwriting, was brief and to the point, another of Dan’s trademarks.

Dear Jill:

I was truly sorry to hear about your father. I found out too late or I would have come to the memorial service.

Please extend my sincere sympathy to your mother and the rest of your family.

Dan.

Dan. Once, the mere sound of that name had been enough to send shivers of pleasure down her spine. Nowadays, the only emotion she could conjure, even after all this time, was a deep resentment. And why shouldn’t she be resentful? He was the one responsible for the breakup of their marriage. If he hadn’t been so damned proud, so damned determined to do it all with no help whatsoever from anyone, they’d still be together right now.

From the built-in wine rack above the sink, she took a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape and started to uncork it with quick, angry movements. If she still harbored such ill feelings for her former husband, why was she thinking so much about him these days? Why were memories popping up at her from every nook and cranny of this apartment?

A soft knock at the front door saved her from answering a question she didn’t want to consider in the first place. “Who is it?” she called over her shoulder.

“Ashley.”

The voice made her smile. Suddenly in a better mood, Jill went to answer the door. “Hi there.”

Ashley Hughes, whom she had known since her sophomore year at Columbia, owned the vintage clothing boutique across the street and lived one floor below. She was a petite, effervescent young woman with long, frizzy brown hair and intelligent green eyes. Her little granny glasses made her look older than her thirty-three years and more vulnerable than she really was. Ashley and her husband, Drew, had been living in the building for over a year when Jill and Dan moved in. In fact, Ashley was the one who had told them about the vacancy. Their marriage had lasted longer than Jill and Dan’s, but in the end it hadn’t survived Drew’s incorrigible womanizing.

“I heard you come in,” Ashley said, holding up a steaming casserole rich with the aroma of garlic and fresh tomato sauce. “And thought you might be in the mood for some down to-earth food.”

“Ashley Hughes, you are a godsend.” The yet-to-be omelette forgotten, Jill bent toward her friend’s offering and closed her eyes. “Mmm. Chicken cacciatore?”

Ashley walked past her. “Close but no cigar.” She set the casserole on the counter. “It’s spinach lasagna

And there’s enough for two, so if you don’t mind I’ll join you. I worked all day without a single break and I’m starved.”

“The Summerfield wedding again?” Jill took two stemmed glasses from a cupboard and set them on the counter.

“How did you guess?”

“I’ve seen that murderous look in your eyes before, usually after one of Lucinda Summerfield’s visits.”

Ashley blew a breath that made her curly bangs flutter.

“That woman is, without a doubt, the mother of the bride from hell.”

“What has she done now?”

“She has decided, six days before the wedding, mind you, that her daughter’s wedding dress doesn’t have enough of a 1920s look. Never mind that the gown was made in 1923 and is absolutely perfect as is, she wants me to add a three-foot train to it. Can you believe it? She’s going to ruin the look. Not to mention how long it will take for me to match the antique material.”

“What does her daughter say? It’s her wedding, after all.”

Ashley opened a drawer, took out two yellow place mats and arranged them on the drop-leaf table against the wall. “The poor girl is about to self-destruct. Hopefully, she’ll wait until after the wedding to do it.” She accepted the glass Jill was offering and took a sip. “How about your day? I hope it was more rewarding than mine”

“Not really.” Jill’s expression was thoughtful as she gazed into her glass. “I went to see Wally.”

“And?”

“He’s closing the case, Ash, and I can’t say I blame him.”

“He didn’t find anything?”

“Nothing to indicate that foul play was involved.”

“Maybe that’s because there was no foul play,” Ashley said gently. “Maybe your father’s death was an accident, after all.”

Jill didn’t reply. So many people had told her that, it was a wonder she wasn’t beginning to believe it herself. “I don’t know, Ash. Too many things don’t add up—my father’s nervous behavior, his drinking on the night he died, when he knew he had to drive back to New York.” She took a sip of her wine. “And that damned gun permit,” she added. “If it wasn’t for that, I might be more receptive to the accident theory. Now I can’t. My father was worried about something, or someone, enough that he thought it necessary to protect himself.”

“He may have just been concerned about the rising crime rate. He was often working late, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was, but I’ve never heard my father express fear or even one word of concern for his personal safety.”

Ashley’s gaze drifted to the kitchen counter where Dan’s sympathy card still stood. Biting on her lower lip, she looked back at Jill. “If you feel so strongly about those suspicions of yours, why don’t you call in the cavalry?”

Jill gave her a quizzical look. “Cavalry?”

“You know, someone experienced in that sort of thing, someone with an expert’s knowledge of the criminal mind.” Ashley took a sip of wine, glancing at Jill over the rim of her glass. “Someone like Dan.”

Instant heat suffused Jill’s cheeks. Words blurted out of her mouth so fast, she almost choked on them.

“Have you lost your mind? Why would I want to go to him?”

“Because he was the best homicide detective the NYPD ever had. And because at the time of your divorce, he told you if you ever needed him for anything, all you had to do was call.”

“And I told him no, thanks.”

Ashley chuckled. “That’s not quite the way you put it.” She narrowed her eyes in concentration. “I believe your exact words were “When pigs fly.”

Jill fought a smile. Had she really said that? Had she really been that immature? “Yes, well … I was having a tough day, but my feelings haven’t changed. I would never ask Dan Santini for help. Besides, he’s a college professor now. He’s probably turned into a stuffy, boring nerd who wouldn’t remember the first thing about investigating a real murder.”

Ashley pursed her lips. “Hmm. Somehow I’m having a hard time imagining Dan as a stuffy, boring nerd.”

“Well, I’m not.” Mildly irritated that their conversation had suddenly centered on Dan, Jill shook off this strange mood she was in and forced all thoughts of her ex-husband out of her mind. “Now, can we stop talking about Dan and concentrate on food.” She put her glass down, picked up Ashley’s casserole from the kitchen counter and took it to the table. “All of a sudden, I’m famished.”

Jill’s taxi pulled close to the curb and stopped in front of the Vangram glass and steel tower at Fifty-ninth and Fifth where Bennett & Associates occupied the top four floors.

Simon Bennett, sometimes referred to as the high priest of modernism, had designed the skyscraper nearly three decades ago, creating a mild furor among conservative New Yorkers for his then-ultramodern design. Two months after the building’s groundbreaking ceremony, a British bank had commissioned B&A to design a similar building to house their new U.S. headquarters in Los Angeles, catapulting Simon Bennett to the top of his profession almost overnight.

Glancing at her watch, Jill was relieved to see she was only a few minutes late. The message her uncle had left on her voice mail yesterday afternoon, requesting an early-morning meeting, had her worried. Since her father’s death, B&A had already lost two important clients, both claiming that the death of the firm’s leader put their projects in jeopardy. Neither Jill nor Cyrus had been able to convince them that B&A’s talented team of architects, all of whom had been trained by Simon, were perfectly equipped to handle their project-any project. If this momentum continued, the future of B&A would be in serious trouble.

Crossing the wide atrium lobby, she hurried toward the bank of elevators in the back and rode up. In the fiftieth-floor lobby, a pretty receptionist sat behind a large console desk. She smiled when she saw Jill.

“Good morning, Miss Bennett.”

“Good morning, Lucy.” Jill walked briskly along the long green marble-floored gallery, where models of buildings B&A had designed over the years were prominently displayed, and headed for her uncle’s office.

Cecilia, who had been her father’s secretary for almost twenty years, was at her desk, stapling memos.

“Good morning, Cecilia. My uncle in?”

Cecilia Ramson lowered her stapler and looked up. Plump, discreet and efficient, she had been deeply affected by Simon’s death and had gladly accepted Cyrus’s request to stay on as his secretary.

At Jill’s question, Cecilia nodded toward the closed door marked President. “He’s been waiting for you, Jill. You can go right in.”

Jill found her uncle buried in paperwork, his handsome face set into a perpetual frown as he tried to cut through a mountain of correspondence.

Although Jill had inherited the majority of her father’s shares in the business, she and her mother had agreed that Cyrus was better equipped to be president of B&A than anyone else on the board of directors. Cyrus’s subsequent decision that Jill step into the vacated vice-president position had met with the board’s approval but had brought a new chill to the already strained relationship between Jill and Cyrus’s stepdaughter, her cousin Olivia.

Aware that her uncle hadn’t heard her come in, Jill closed the door behind her and stood looking at him. He was a big bear of a man, with graying red hair, the famous Bennett blue eyes and a broad, solid chest. She had never—until recently—noticed how much he looked like her father. Sitting there, with his glasses perched halfway down his nose and that furrowed expression on his face, the resemblance was so striking that it brought a lump to her throat.

Suddenly, he looked up and grinned. “Hi, kiddo.”

“How do you do that?” Lowering her slender body into a chair opposite his desk, she set her big suede bag on the floor. “How do you always know when someone is there?”

Removing his glasses and tossing them aside, Cyrus leaned back in his swivel chair. “Not just anyone. You. I’m not sure why that is. Must be something to do with mental telepathy.”

There was some truth to that. She and Cyrus had always been close. Soul mates, he’d kidded her once. Next to her parents, he was her favorite person in the entire world. He was kind, thoughtful, intelligent and patient to a fault. And more important, he had always been there for her, professionally and personally.

It was he, rather than her father, who had attended all her dance recitals when she was a little girl, who had taken her to the zoo on Sundays and who had coached her first shaky seconds on a two-wheeler. Her father, busy with the launching of a company that was growing faster than anyone had expected, always seemed to be away or tied up in some important meeting during those early years. Jill realized how much she had come to rely on her uncle—and how much she needed him now.

“So, how did your visit with Wally go yesterday?”

“He hasn’t changed his mind, Uncle Cy,” she said, using the nickname she had given him when she was little. “He still believes Daddy’s death was accidental. ““And you still don’t.”

Aware that he agreed with Wally on that point, she met his gaze without flinching. “I’m having a hard time with that theory, Uncle Cy.”

Cyrus leaned forward, arms resting on his desk. “Jill, listen to me. You’re a beautiful young woman. You have your whole life in front of you. The last thing your father would want is for you to spend it chasing an imaginary killer.”

“I don’t intend to do that, nor do I plan on neglecting my work here at B&A if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“What’s worrying me, kiddo, is you. You and this … this crusade you’ve taken on.”

“There’s no need to worry, I promise.” She gave him a big smile. “Now, what did you want to see me about?”

Cyrus, never one to back away from an argument, started to say something, then stopped as though he knew he couldn’t possibly win this fight. After a moment, he sighed. “I’m afraid I have bad news. The Maitland Group has decided to give the Church Hill Tower project to another firm.”