Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [45]
“But why?” he said, putting his strong hands on her arms and holding her a few inches from him. “Why did their grandmother die and simply disappear? And what about the other woman? Why are we still here?”
Brenda looked up at him. She was a much better actress than they’d ever given her credit for, and even a talented director like Ted couldn’t see through her performance. Not when he never suspected her of lying. “I have no idea,” she said. “And after all this time, I doubt that we’ll ever know.”
“We could find out. People still talk about us. If we could get down to the tour buses we could find out what they’re saying.”
“We can’t leave the grounds. Besides, I’m not even sure the buses still come here.”
“Then we should listen. Every time someone starts talking about us you start feeling amorous. Just once I’d like to stay and listen to what people have to say.”
“They don’t have the answers, either, darling. You’ve heard enough to know that. No one knows what happened that night. Including us.” The lie was so familiar it almost felt like the truth, and she looked up into his eyes with a clear conscience.
He shut his eyes for a moment, his dear, beloved eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses. And then he opened them and smiled, a crooked, accepting smile. “You’re right, honeybunch,” he murmured. “Why argue with destiny? Particularly when it gave me you.”
And Brenda’s answering smile was blindingly, falsely bright.
10
It was harder than Coltrane thought it would be, facing Jackson Dean Meyer. He drove Dean into work in his Range Rover—he really had no reason to object when Dean asked for a ride in to work, and Coltrane was adept at giving people the impression he was actually listening to what they had to say. People, particularly overbright computer nerds like Dean Meyer, tended to be so absorbed in their own interests that they seldom noticed when someone else was barely paying attention. The sound of their own voices was music enough.
Very few people, including his own children, could approach Jackson without prior arrangement. Coltrane was one of the chosen few. He went directly to the thirty-first floor office, not even bothering to knock.
Jackson Dean Meyer was accounted to be a good-looking man, and Coltrane had no doubt he’d been irresistible to women when he was young. Even now, with the carefully preserved patina of age upon him, he still managed to ensnare almost any female he took a passing fancy to. His young wife, Melba, had to be aware of it, but since he had as little real interest in his love affairs as he had in his marriage she was content with the status quo. And the money.
Meyer was leaning back in his chair in front of the windows, the city spread out behind him like a panorama of his own personal possessions. Everything about him was polished and perfect, from his artificial tan to the creases at his eyes. He’d had the best plastic surgeon, a doctor clever enough to leave character in an older face that didn’t deserve it.
“No one’s supposed to know I’m here,” Meyer greeted him in an irascible voice when Coltrane walked in on him. “Everyone thinks I’m in Mexico.”
“I’m the one who’s been spreading that lie, boss,” he said in a deceptively genial tone.
“I thought you were going to keep Dean busy at home. I don’t need him wandering around asking questions. This is a very delicate time for me. The Justice Department is breathing down my neck, and as far as I can tell you’ve done squat to take care of things.”
“You underestimate me,” Coltrane said smoothly, taking a chair without being asked. “I’ve got everything under control.”
Jackson made a disbelieving noise, his eyes narrowing. “I couldn’t find the Sanderson records.”
“Were you supposed to? I thought the whole point was that no one would be able to find them. They’re gone,