“With the names of all those lottery winners? Come on. How long did Jackson run the scam anyway?”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know. I mean, I was there for nine of them, including you. Started in August. You were Miss April, my last gig.”
LuAnn shook her head stubbornly. “He knows, Charlie; we have to assume that to be true. However he did it, he did it.”
“Okay. So it seems pretty clear the guy wants money.”
She shook her head. “We don’t know that. I mean, why would he set up shop here and bring all that stuff with him? He didn’t need to do that. He could just send me a letter from parts unknown with the same info, and a demand for money to be wire-transferred to his bank account.”
Charlie sat back, his face carrying extreme confusion. He had not looked at the matter in that light. “That’s true.”
“And I don’t think the guy’s hurting for money. He was wearing really nice clothes. Two leased cars, the rent on that cottage isn’t cheap, I’m thinking, and all that equipment he had. He’s not digging his dinner out of garbage cans.”
“Right, but unless he’s already a millionaire, going after you would significantly enrich his bank account,” said Charlie.
“But he hasn’t done that. He hasn’t asked for anything. I wish I knew why.” She was lost deep in thought for a moment and then looked up. “How long did Pemberton say the cottage had been rented?”
“About a month.”
“That makes it even more unlikely he was going to blackmail us. Why wait? Why come right out and warn me that he knows everything? How does he know I won’t just disappear in the middle of the night? If I do that, he’s not going to be filling up his bank account with my funds.”
Charlie sighed deeply. “So what do we do now?”
“Wait,” was finally the answer from LuAnn’s lips. “But make arrangements for us to leave the country on a moment’s notice. By private jet. And since he knows about Catherine Savage, we’re going to need another set of identification papers. Can you get them?”
“I’ll have to look up some old contacts, but I can do it. It’ll take a few days.”
LuAnn stood up.
“What about Riggs?” Charlie asked. “The man’s not going to let it go now.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that. He doesn’t trust us and I don’t blame him.”
“Well, I doubt if he’ll do anything that’ll end up hurting you.”
She looked sharply at him. “How do you know that?”
“Look, LuAnn, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see Riggs has a thing for you.” A hint of resentment tinged his response. His tone softened, however, with his next words. “Seems like a nice guy. Under different circumstances, who knows. You shouldn’t spend your life alone, LuAnn.”
A flush swept over her face. “I’m not alone. I’ve got Lisa and I’ve got you. I don’t need anybody else. I can’t handle anybody else.” She looked away. How could she invite anyone into her life? It was impossible. Half truths competing with complete falsehoods. She was no longer a real person. She was a thirty-year-old shell, period. Everything else had been bartered away. Jackson had taken the rest of it. He and his offer. If she hadn’t made that call way back when. If she hadn’t panicked? She wouldn’t have spent ten years turning herself into the woman she always wanted to be. She wouldn’t be living in a million-dollar mansion. But as ironic as it sounded, she would probably have far more of a life than she had now. Whether it was to be spent in another wrecked mobile trailer or slinging fried foods at the truck stop, LuAnn Tyler, the pauper, would probably have been happier than Catherine Savage, the princess, ever dreamt of being. But if she hadn’t accepted the offer, Jackson would have had her killed. There was no way out. She turned back to Charlie and spread her arms wide.
“That’s the trade-off, Charlie. For this. For all this. You, me, and Lisa.”
“The Three Musketeers.” Charlie attempted a smile.
“Let’s pray for a happy ending.” LuAnn opened the door and disappeared down the hallway in search of her daughter.
Chapter thirty-four
“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Mr. Pemberton.”
“John, please call me John, Mr. Conklin.” Pemberton shook the other man’s hand and they sat down at the small conference table in Pemberton’s real estate office.
“I go by Harry,” the other man said.
“Now you mentioned over the phone that you were interested in a house, but you really didn’t say what area or price range.”
Without seeming to do so, Pemberton looked Harry Conklin over. Probably in his sixties, expensive clothing, air of assurance, undoubtedly liked the good things in life. Pemberton swiftly calculated his potential commission.
“I got your name on good reference. I understand that you specialize in the upper-end market around here,” Conklin said.
“That’s correct. Born and raised here. Know everybody and every property worth knowing about. So would that be the price range you’re interested in? The upper end?”
Conklin assumed a comfortable look. “Let me tell you a little about myself. I make my living on Wall Street and it’s a damn good living if I do say so myself. But it’s also a young man’s game and I’m not a young man anymore. I’ve made my fortune and it’s substantial. I’ve got a penthouse in Manhattan, a place in Rio, a home on Fisher Island in Florida, and a country estate outside London. But I’m looking to get out of New York and radically simplify my life. And this place is about as beautiful as they come.”
“Absolutely right,” Pemberton chimed in.
“Now, I do a lot of entertaining, so it would have to be a substantial place. But I want privacy as well. Something old, and elegant, but restored. I like old things, but not old plumbing, you understand me?”
“Perfectly.”
“Now, I’m assuming that there are probably a number of properties around here that fit that bill.”
“There are. Most assuredly,” Pemberton said excitedly.
“But see, I’ve got one in mind. One I heard about from my father, in fact. He was in the stock market too. Back in the twenties. Made a bundle and was fortunate to get out before the crash. He used to come here and stay with a good friend of his who was in the market too. My father, God rest his soul, loved it there, and I thought it would be appropriate for his son to buy it and live in it.”
“What a truly inspiring idea. Certainly makes my job easier. Do you know the name of the place?” Pemberton’s smile was broadening.
“Wicken’s Hunt.”
Pemberton’s smile quickly faded.
“Oh.” He licked his lips, made a clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth. “Wicken’s Hunt,” he repeated, looking depressed.
“What’s the matter? Did it burn down or something?”
“No, no. It’s a beautiful place, wonderfully restored.” Pemberton sighed deeply. “Unfortunately it’s no longer on the market.”
“You sure?” Conklin sounded skeptical.
“I’m certain. I was the selling agent.”
“Damn, how long ago?”
“About two years, although the people have only been in it for several months. There was a lot of renovation work to do.”
Conklin looked at him slyly, eyebrows cocked. “Think they might want to sell?”
Pemberton’s mind raced through the possibilities. Flipping a property like that within the relatively short span of two years? What a wonderful impact on his wallet.
“Anything’s possible. I’ve actually gotten to know them — well, one of them anyway — fairly well. Just had breakfast with him, in fact.”