Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [43]
“Why are you asking this now?”
“It may relate. Just work with me.”
“When she was very young she met an architect. He was an avid sailor, and he taught her. She sailed around the tip of Florida and into the Gulf, where she stayed for a while.”
So far, Barclay’s story jibed. “What do you know about her time in Tarpon Springs?”
“What’s this about?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. “There’s a man in town claiming to be her son.” I didn’t want to tell her over the phone, but she would hear it sooner rather than later. Gossip could, and often did, travel faster than the speed of light. Barclay was not a presence anyone could ignore.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Monica never had a child.”
“Is it possible? This man claims she lived near Tampa for nearly a year. Once she gave birth, she left—or that’s the story he’s telling.”
“I would certainly know if my sister had a child. This man is a liar. And you say he’s in Natchez? Now? Is he behind Monica’s abduction?”
“I intend to find out. I promise you.” My grip on the phone made my knuckles white. I relaxed my hand. “He wants a DNA test. He’s asked me to gather a sample of Monica’s from you. A hair from her brush. Her toothbrush. Something that can be tested.”
“Are you working for him or for us?” Eleanor snapped.
“For you,” I said quietly. I understood her fury. “It’s the simplest way to disprove his claim, if it isn’t true.”
“Monica can give him a sample when we get her back. It’s her choice. Not mine.”
“Eleanor, I’m not saying this is the case, but it’s very strange that all at the same time, someone has been breaking into Briarcliff for the past several weeks. A necklace is stolen. Your sister is taken, and a man claiming to be an heir shows up in town.”
There was a pause. “Do you think these events are connected?”
“I honestly don’t know. But we can’t discount they may be. We really need to validate or disprove Barclay’s claim. Besides, if he is Monica’s son, it in no way obligates you to view him as an heir.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I didn’t push it. There was no point. Eleanor was upset. Maybe by morning she’d come to her senses and see the best way to deal with Barclay was head on.
“Did you record your phone conversation with the kidnapper?” This whole business made me nutty. Monica had been missing for twenty-four hours. The kidnapper seemed in no hurry, as if he knew obtaining the insurance money would take a bit of time even with the pressure the Leverts could apply. I hoped Eleanor might recognize the voice.
“He caught me unprepared. I didn’t get the equipment yet.”
I closed my eyes against the frustration. Eleanor had promised she’d buy a recording device for her phone. I would pick one up in the morning and deliver it, but it wouldn’t recapture the last call.
“Is there anything about the voice you recognize? Think hard.”
“Definitely Southern. Almost as if his drawl was exaggerated. Like he was mocking the way we talk here.” Her voice grew excited. “Does that help?”
“Delta accent? North Mississippi? Coastal?” There are distinctions between the regions that someone attuned to nuances can detect. Eleanor would definitely recognize the faintest whiff of commonness.
“He could be from Natchez. I can’t be certain.”
“Would you know his voice if you heard it again?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”
If we ever got him in custody, Eleanor might be able to put him behind bars for a long, long time. But that was a mighty big if.
“Write down everything he said, exactly as he said it. I’ll pick it up tomorrow morning.”
“I hate the thought of Monica held captive another night.” Eleanor sounded weepy.
“I don’t have the experience to advise you on this. If we mess this up, Monica could be seriously hurt.” She would likely be killed, but stating the obvious wasn’t necessary. Eleanor was hanging on to her composure by a thread.
“He said if I called the police, he’d gut Monica and throw her in the river for the gar to eat.”
This guy was definitely local. The Mississippi River alligator gar, a species of fish with numerous teeth and a body armored