Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir (58 page)

“Thank you.” Iris adjusted the blanket spread over her legs. “You and he have become very close, haven’t you? Almost like you’ve never been apart.”

Bradlee couldn’t tell if the old woman was pleased by this or not. With Iris, you could never be entirely sure—until the hammer fell. “I’ve tried to be his friend,” Bradlee said. Her gaze was direct. “I think he needs one right now.”

Iris nodded, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “You must wonder about our response to his arrival. It must seem as though we aren’t overjoyed to have him home again.”

When Bradlee said nothing, Iris continued. “But we are. Make no mistake about that. Having him here, safe and sound, is an answer to my prayers. For over thirty years, I mourned my grandson, and then to discover he was still alive, to have found him when all hope was lost…” She trailed off, her eyes shimmering with unexpected tears.

Bradlee leaned toward her. “Then why not tell him? Why not let him know what his being here means to you? It could make such a difference to him.”

Iris’s eyes closed briefly. “I want to. I want that more than anything. To take my grandson in my arms, to hold him again as I did when he was little…” Then her voice hardened, drawing shivers down Bradlee’s spine. “You heard about the man who came here a few months ago claiming to be Adam, what he did to Andrew.”

Bradlee nodded.

“I opened my heart to Michael Eldridge. I thought
he
was the answer to my prayers. I loved him the moment I laid eyes on him. I brought him into my home, gave him my devotion, and then to find out he was an impostor, to discover he had helped murder my grandson…” She lifted her chin, her eyes glittering like sapphires. “I cannot go through that again.”

“But you
know
David is Adam. The DNA tests proved that,” Bradlee said.

“Michael Eldridge’s DNA test proved
him
to be Adam.”

“But it was faked. David’s wasn’t.”

“In my mind, I do know he is Adam,” Iris replied softly. “But my heart is still very much afraid to believe.”

Suddenly, the power and wealth and prestige seemed to melt away from Iris Kingsley, leaving a vulnerable old woman who was terribly afraid of being hurt again. For the first time in a long time, Bradlee felt her heart go out to her.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she said. “I know he’s Adam. I
know.
”

Iris’s gaze lifted to meet Bradlee’s. An understanding passed between them. “You’ve been waiting for him to come home, too, haven’t you, my dear?”

“Since the night he disappeared,” Bradlee said simply.

* * *

B
ACK IN HER OWN ROOM
, Bradlee stared down at the list of names. She wanted to trust the pain and vulnerability she’d glimpsed in Iris’s eyes earlier, wanted to believe the real reason no one in this house had welcomed David home was because they’d all been badly hurt.

But there had been something else in Iris’s eyes, a slyness lurking behind the tears of sadness. Bradlee wanted to trust the old woman’s sincerity, but Iris Kingsley was a woman of machinations. She never did anything without a reason.

Could they trust that the list contained the names of
all
those who had been present the night Adam was kidnapped? There was no reason Bradlee could think of for Iris and Edward not to have invited everyone, but she and David had only Iris’s word for it.

What they needed, Bradlee decided, was another list, and she knew exactly where they could get one.

She’d worked in her Uncle Harper’s office one summer after high school, and she remembered that he kept an extensive filing system, never threw any kind of paperwork away. He had a real thing about it.

The whole basement of his office building was used for file storage, and Bradlee would be willing to bet there would still be a copy of the guest list from Edward Kingsley’s fund-
raiser somewhere among the thousands and thousands of folders. The question was, would Harper willingly give her a copy?

Bradlee hadn’t seen her uncle in years, but she remembered him as being secretive, almost paranoid at times. He’d always frightened her a little, and the prospect of seeing him again was daunting, even at her age. But she could think of no other way to get a copy of the guest list.

Opening the door of her bedroom, she stepped out into the hallway. Illiana was just coming out of David’s room with a basket of cleaning supplies.

“Is he in?”

“No, Miss Fitzgerald. He left a little while ago.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

The maid shook her head. “He said to tell you he’d see you later.”

Bradlee thanked Illiana and then went back to her room. Where had he gone? And why hadn’t he told her? He’d said they were in this together.

Since she didn’t know where he’d gone, Bradlee had no idea what time he would be back. In the meantime, would it hurt to pay her uncle a little visit?

She thought about Harper on the way over to his office. In addition to being secretive and paranoid, she also remembered him as being cold and arrogant—not at all an easy man to talk to. The only reason he’d given her a job that summer was because her father had asked him to. Bradford had needed something to occupy his sulky teenage daughter while he made plans for his third—or had it been his fourth?—wedding.

As Bradlee pulled into the parking garage and parked, she tried to plan her course of action. Should she just come right out and ask her uncle for a copy of the guest list? He would probably deny such a list existed after thirty-
two years, but Bradlee knew better. She remembered his secretary, a woman named Lucille Carver, grumbling more than once that summer that Bradlee’s uncle never, ever threw out anything. And Bradlee had had the unenviable task of carting boxes of papers down to the basement and filing for hours at a time.

As she entered the building, she was astonished to see her uncle’s secretary coming out. Lucille hadn’t changed a bit, right down to the snug navy suit, low-
heeled pumps, and tortoiseshell-
frame glasses.
Bradlee started to speak, but just then, Lucille saw
someone on the street, waved, and hurried out.

Bradlee crossed the lobby to the receptionist’s desk. “Hi,” she said. “My name’s Bradlee Fitzgerald. I’m here to see my uncle.”

The receptionist glanced at her curiously. “He’s not in, Miss Fitzgerald. He won’t be back until two.”

“That’s okay,” Bradlee improvised. “I just saw Lucille leaving. She doesn’t mind if I wait in her office.”

The receptionist shrugged. “Go on back, then.”

Bradlee walked down a long corridor lined with offices, most of them closed and silent. Her uncle was obviously not involved in an active campaign at the moment, or all the offices in the building would be beehives of activity. As it was, the place appeared deserted and not a little forlorn.

Harper’s office suite was located at the end of the hallway. Bradlee entered the outer office and stood gazing around. The door to the inner office was closed and more than likely locked. She remembered her uncle being a stickler for security. Lucille’s desk was cleared away and the computer turned off. It looked as if she’d left for the day.

Bradlee casually wandered over to the desk. The summer she’d worked here she’d been assigned to help Lucille, primarily because Harper hadn’t wanted to be bothered with Bradlee himself. Lucille had given her a number of duties to perform, but her primary job had been filing. For the first few weeks, Lucille had accompanied her to the basement, unlocked the door, then lumbered back upstairs to be at Harper’s beck and call.

Even then, Lucille had not been a small woman and had soon tired of trooping up and down the stairs. She’d finally shown Bradlee where she kept the key to the file room, swearing her to secrecy. If Harper ever found out she’d entrusted that key to anyone—even his niece— Lucille warned, it could mean her job.

Sitting down at the secretary’s desk, Bradlee ran her fingers along the ledge underneath. The key was still there, taped to the underside of the desk as if no one had ever thought of such a hiding place. Bradlee wondered what her uncle would say if he knew the key to his precious files had been hidden all these years in the place most commonly used by secretaries the world over.

Tearing away the tape, Bradlee withdrew the key and slipped it into her pocket. Then she crossed the room and hurried down the hall, quickly unlocking the door to the basement stairs. Slipping inside, she stood in pitch-
darkness, sliding her hand along the wall until she found the light switch.

Even with the light on, the huge, cavernous room was creepy. Rows and rows of filing cabinets gave testament to her uncle’s illustrious career managing successful political campaigns. It made Bradlee shudder to think of what secrets might be hidden in the depths of those files.

Five filing cabinets were devoted to the Kingsley campaign. Everything inside was color coded and meticulously cross-
referenced by dates and subject matter. It only took her a few minutes to locate the folder dedicated to the fund-
raiser.

Her fingers shaking, Bradlee withdrew the file and laid it on top of one of the cabinets. For a long moment, she simply stared at the folder, hesitating to open it. The label contained the date of June 24th, the night Adam had been kidnapped.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the folder and riffled through the contents. There was a copy of the invitation that had been sent out, along with press releases, a list of previous donors, including donation amounts—the more generous ones starred for future reference—and a myriad of other paperwork that had gone into the planning and preparation of the fund-
raiser. Toward the back of the file, Bradlee found the list she’d been searching for.

There was a copy machine in the basement, and she hurried over, duplicating the list and then returning the original to the folder. She closed all the drawers and glanced around, making sure no one would know she’d been there.

Back in Lucille’s office, she knelt to retape the key to the desk. Just as she was about to straighten, she heard voices out in the hallway coming toward Harper’s office.

She recognized both voices instantly. Her uncle and her father were coming back from lunch, and by the sounds of it, they’d each had a few drinks.

Bradlee didn’t have time to get up, so she slid under the desk and pulled the chair toward her.

Her father was speaking as they entered the office. “You know she’s always had an obsession with that boy. Since he’s come back, it’s started up again. I don’t think it’s a good idea for the two of them to get so chummy. If she comes around asking you questions about the kidnapping, just don’t say anything that’ll encourage her.”

She could hear Harper unlocking his office door. In a voice lower and colder than his brother’s, he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“It’s for her own good,” Bradlee’s father said, almost defensively.

“You got that right.”

She heard her uncle’s office door close, then all was silent. After waiting a few seconds, Bradlee scurried out from under the desk and, as quietly as possible, slipped from the office.

* * *

C
OTTON
W
EATHERS WAS
a bitter, cantankerous old man with dirty gray hair unbefitting his first name and faded, bloodshot eyes that seemed to stare right through David as the housekeeper ushered him into the study.

The desk the old man sat behind concealed his legs, but not the wheelchair. He dismissed the housekeeper with a crisp, backhanded wave.

“Who the hell did you say you are?” he thundered.

“My name is David Powers. I’m doing some research on the Kingsley kidnapping. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The faded eyes narrowed, looking a lot more shrewd than David had originally thought. “What paper you with?”

David hadn’t actually said he was a reporter, but he’d intentionally given the housekeeper that impression. “I’m from up north,” he evaded.

“Don’t have much use for Yankees,” Cotton warned. “Never did. Ask your questions, then get the hell out.”

“I’ll make this as fast as I can,” David said. “Mind if I sit?”

The old man grunted, which David took as permission. He sat down in a worn leather chair and faced Cotton Weathers. “You were Edward Kings
ley’s chief political foe back then, right?”

He grunted again, his expression one of disgust. “If it wasn’t for his mother, that sumbitch couldn’t have got himself elected dogcatcher.”

“He was trailing in the polls until the kidnapping, wasn’t he?” David prompted.

Cotton’s eyes flared with a hatred unabated by thirty-
two years. “Any decent man would have pulled out of the race, concentrated on finding his kid—but not Kingsley. Oh, no. He used his own son’s murder as a ticket to the governor’s mansion. I always did despise the man, but I couldn’t stomach him after that.”

“Why did you hate him so much?”

“His name was Kingsley, wasn’t it?”

“What did you have against the Kingsleys back then?”

“That’s my business,” Cotton snapped. “My quarrel with them had no bearing on the kidnapping. That
is
what you came to talk about, isn’t it? That’s all anyone’s been talking about since Raymond Colter confessed. Thank God the Kingsleys don’t have someone running for office now. He’d be a shoo-
in.”

“I’ve been told you were the one who leaked the story of Edward’s affair with Pamela Harrington to the press. You came to the fund-
raiser that night to gloat. Any truth in that?”

Cotton shrugged. “There might be. The public had a right to know what kind of man he was. Unlike nowadays, character mattered back then. Least it did until his kid turned up missing.”

“What did you think would happen when you heard about the kidnapping? Did you think Edward would pull out of the race?”

“Like I said, any decent man would have.”

“Maybe you were counting on that.” David watched Cotton’s expression carefully, saw the darkening of his eyes and the hardening of his mouth. But to David’s surprise, the old man laughed. It was an ugly sound, bearing little resemblance to humor.

“You’re no more a reporter than I am. Who the hell are you?”