She leaned over and gave him a kiss of sweet comfort. “We’ll talk later, then.”
“Later.”
She was so good, so decent. He couldn’t imagine why she’d want to have anything to do with anyone named Bradford. But maybe someday they could find a way to put all of this behind them. For now, he needed some time and space to clear his head. He climbed into his truck and headed toward the burned-out cabin.
Seeing the charred ruins again, his hands shook at the realization of how easily Gracie could have been a victim of his uncle’s thoughtless crime. He drove on past the remains, restless, edgy, wanting to put an end to the half-truths and all-out lies, to dig down to the bottom of this secret once and for all. There was more to it, he could feel it.
And there was one place he hadn’t visited since his return—one place that seemed to lie at the heart of the whole, tragic affair. He had a hunch that the Old Maine Furniture Factory might hold some of the answers that had eluded him everywhere else. He’d go there and see what secrets lurked in the corners of the drafty, old place.
Maybe he was closer to a solution than he’d realized.
The set of keys Lawrence Sutton had given Dylan before he came to East Langden were in his glove box. One of them fit the main door to the furniture factory.
The old, weathered structure loomed cold and forbidding, with most of its windows boarded up, shingles missing from the roof, and weeds sprouting around the foundation. Dylan retrieved a flashlight from under the seat and strode toward the door. It opened with a creak and a groan. Flashlight in hand, Dylan stepped inside a building steeped in the stale odors of raw lumber and sawdust.
His footsteps echoed as he crossed the hall to the business offices. With a cursory inspection, he saw that they had been emptied long ago. They contained no furniture, no safe stocked with Bradford secrets, no clues of any kind—if he would even recognize one if he saw it. Incriminating evidence would probably have to hit him over the head before he knew what he was looking for.
He moved on to the carpenters’ workshop. All the wood for the famous custom-made Bradford tables, beds, chests, dressers, and chairs had been cut, sawed, planed, shaved, shaped, and fit together in this cavernous room. The flashlight beam illuminated the workbenches and bays for tools and supplies. Years of carpentry residue still coated the wood floors and panels with a fine film.
Except for the set of high-heeled footprints in the dust that led all the way across the floor to an open door in the back. A storage area? He tiptoed over and peered inside.
Empty shelves lined the walls. A mouse scurried away from his light to a hole in a corner. He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. He regretted the action as soon as he spied the figure concealed behind it. Recognition dawned the second before his vision burst into an explosion of bright sparks, then utter darkness, as he collapsed beneath a heavy blow.
The groan that emerged from Dylan’s parched throat rumbled around inside his head like thunder through a canyon. He wanted to stuff his fist inside his mouth to muffle the sound, but his hand wouldn’t obey the command. He tried again and recognized the bite of ropes around his wrists.
Slowly… painfully… he levered his eyelids open.
He lay in the small storage room he’d been about to investigate when the world around him had faded to black. A pair of inappropriate pink high-heeled sandals hammered a trail back and forth before his eyes. He forced his gaze upward from magenta toenails to hot pink Capri pants and a ruffled halter-top.
As the woman made the turn in his direction, he wasn’t particularly surprised to see the artificially preserved face of Karen Hammonds. The awkward piece of the puzzle.
He fumbled to sit up, ignoring the panoramic light show that strobed in front of his eyes. “What’s the point of this, Karen?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
He raised an eyebrow at her extreme measures. The simple gesture shot an arrow of pain straight through his temple. “You could have asked.”
“I planned to arrange a meeting, but when you showed up here, where I’ve been holed up for the past few days, there wasn’t any point in doing it the polite way. I need you to hear me out.”
He nodded and winced as about twenty jackhammers pounded through his head. “I’m all ears.”
She wasted her time and his by batting tired coquettish eyes his way. “I need your help.”
“Okay.” His tongue—like his brain—felt thick and fuzzy. “Why don’t you untie me?” He shifted his hands behind his back, testing the flexibility of the ropes.
“Not yet,” she said. “I don’t trust you.”
How ironic. “Then we’re even.”
“I need to get out of the country fast, and I need you to take me.”
Okay, now he really didn’t think the day could hold any more surprises. “Why me?”
“Because you have a private jet and access to all those piles of lovely Bradford money.”
“Why would I take you anywhere? Or give you money?”
Karen tapped a hot pink fingernail against her lip. “Because right now, your uncle’s sitting in a boatload of trouble, and I can get him out.”
Mention of Arthur brought forth another round of nausea. Dylan swallowed it back. “You know, I don’t feel as kindly toward my uncle as I normally do. I might need more of an incentive than that.”
“No way,” she scoffed. “Everyone knows you Bradfords have more family loyalty than the Kennedys.”
“Not anymore.” Dylan worked his wrists against the ropes while he took a verbal stab in the dark. “But I would like to know why you killed Lana Harris. And Henry Stillberg.”
For one blessed moment, she halted her round of frenetic pacing. “Figured that out, did you?”
“There’s no other reason for you to be here and to be in such a hurry to get out of Dodge. Maybe for the right information I’ll agree to help you.”
She sighed in disgust, reached into a frilly, impractical handbag, and withdrew a .38 handgun. “Maybe you just need the right incentive.”
Damn. Why hadn’t his family thrown more of their wealth and political influence behind a bill for stricter firearm laws? “He who holds the gun,” Grandfather Bradford had always said, “holds the power.” Or something like that. With one leveled at his chest, Dylan couldn’t argue with the premise. “Just stay calm and tell me what you want.”
“We’ll get in your car, and you’ll take me to the Podunk airport where your plane is stored.”
“Right.” His head swam as he tried to get to his feet, but she waved him back to the floor with the gun. “What about the cash you need?”
“You can get it for me when we get to the Caymans.”
“When do we leave?”
“As soon as it’s dark. I don’t want to be seen again here in East Bufu.”
“Then tell me about Lana Harris while we wait.” With his head swimming, he listed to the side and took advantage of the position to rest his pounding temple on the hardwood floor. “What did you have against her?”
“That bitch! She was about to get everything I wanted.” The harsh lines of her face attested to burning emotions undimmed by the passage of time. “It wasn’t enough that she had Matt’s child and was pregnant again, but he was thinking about giving up his family and everything he’d worked for to be with her.”
“Why do you think that?”
“She sent Matt the positive results of a pregnancy test. I saw them on his desk and started digging around. He’d bought property for her out west and made travel arrangements to go with her.” Karen’s face contorted. Dylan flinched when she slammed the hand with the gun into her other palm. “I couldn’t let him throw himself away on that trashy nobody and ruin his career and mine along with it.”
The fruitcake’s intensity fueled Dylan’s fear. If only one of them could think clearly, it would have to be him. Unfortunately, his synapses weren’t firing on all cylinders. Little of what she said made sense. “You were having an affair with Uncle Arthur, too?”