Catherine Coulter - Split Second

“She’s a lousy cook.”

“Maybe not as good a cook as Aunt Jennifer, but I don’t mind cooking for myself. I’ve done it for years now. Don’t worry, Uncle Alan, everything’s okay, I promise. Thank you both for inviting me. But I’ll be fine.” And Lucy rose. There wasn’t much daylight left. She had no intention of spending a single minute in the attic after dark, and she had to get back to it.

He didn’t want to leave, she could see it on his face, a face that reminded her of his older sister, her grandmother, Helen. He was a lot younger than her grandmother—she could never remember how many years exactly. They hadn’t been very warm toward each other much, she remembered, but Uncle Alan had loved his nephew—her father, Josh—very much. After her mother’s death, when Lucy and her father had moved in, he used to visit them in the evenings several times a week. She stood there over him, smiling.

He rose slowly to his feet. He was taller than her father had been, and very proud of how fit he was. He worked hard on it with a program Court had designed for him. As far as she knew, Uncle Alan had only to deal with high cholesterol, and a bit of arthritis, nothing else—amazing, really, for someone in their seventies. Actually, she realized, he was on the thin side, even for him. Grief? She understood that; she’d dropped five pounds herself.

“Thanks for coming to see me, Uncle Alan,” she said, and walked with him to the front door. “Do give my love to Aunt Jennifer and to Court and Miranda. How is Miranda, by the way?”

He harrumphed. “The girl has taken to playing her French horn in her room at all hours. Drives me nuts. When she’s not playing that blasted instrument, she’s still hanging out at coffeehouses, probably meeting another loser like that last one who sent her running back home again.”

Lucy had to laugh. “Ah, Uncle Alan, I meant to ask you: did you know Grandmother did a lot of reading about ESP, mystics, psychics, time travels, strange things like that?”

He stilled, never took his eyes from her face. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, there was a time years ago when Helen was obsessed with odd things. The odder the better. She bought into all of it. What makes you ask, Lucy?”

“I was reading through some of the files in her desk. There’s lots and lots about all of it. She never mentioned it to me, so I was surprised. I wondered if she talked with you about it.”

“I didn’t have much interest,” he said. “Why should I? I was in the most mundane of fields, Lucy, banking, like your father. That’s as far away from magic as it gets. What do you think about it?”

Lucy shrugged. “Everyone’s into something, I suppose. I have a friend who is perfectly nice but is up to his ears in astrology, won’t begin his day unless he knows if Mercury is in retrograde, or whatever.”

“She was your grandmother, not a friend. I’m not surprised she never spoke to you about any of the ESP stuff. Your father would not have approved.” He lightly laid his hand on her shoulder. “Lucy, does this have anything to do with why you’re living here in your grandmother’s house? I mean, you have your own condo; you also have your father’s house. Why this huge house?”

Did he have any idea? No, he couldn’t.

She channeled herself back into a calm, reasoned FBI agent, who could always avoid being pinned down. “Why would you ask that, Uncle Alan?”

“You seem, well, preoccupied, I guess, like you’d really like to see me out of your hair.”

“No, never that. Don’t forget Kirsten Bolger. She’s alive and well, and very likely regrouping as we speak. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“I wonder what your father would have thought about your moving in here.”

“Dad knew I loved this house. It’s why he didn’t sell after Grandmother died.” Now, that’s a big whopping lie. The reason he hadn’t sold the house was because he was saving it for her; he probably believed it would be worth three fortunes in another ten years or so.

“It surprised me when he didn’t sell it,” Uncle Alan said. “You said you were looking through your grandmother’s files? Have you found anything interesting?”

She shrugged, shook her head. “Perhaps in the future, when I’ve got some extra time, I’ll go through her papers more thoroughly. Like I said, I read through some of her files because they were a surprise, but to be honest here, Uncle Alan, I’m really not all that interested in speaking to dead people or aliens right now. Do you know of something that’s particularly interesting I should look at?”

“Well, I’m thinking lately that knowing more about those vampires on TV might put a spark in my marriage. What do you think?”

Lucy was smiling after she closed the front door until she walked back up the stairs to the attic. She’d give it maybe twenty more minutes of searching before she headed back down into the light.

Lucy eyed the stacks of luggage in the far corner. Suitcases of all sizes and more than a dozen carry-ons, most of them older, without wheels, were all piled on top of one another in the front, the oversized luggage and duffel bags behind. Against the wall were a half dozen old-fashioned steamer trunks, all quite large, with an Art Deco feel of the twenties and thirties, looking like aging sentinels guarding all the assorted smaller pieces piled in front of them. She wasn’t all that hopeful about finding anything that would shed light on her grandfather’s death, but it sure beat going through boxes labeled OLD SILVERWARE, and besides, people always left stuff in suitcases. There was only one way to find out.

She lifted the first carry-on off the top of the pile, unzipped it, and found one stray safety pin, nothing else. The second carry-on was black, part of a set of luggage. She found an ancient toothbrush in a side pocket, and an old quarter. She flipped the quarter in the air and stuck it in her jeans pocket. She opened a dozen more of the small pieces and found nothing more than a dried-up bottle of red nail polish, an ancient hairnet that looked like a decaying spiderweb, some more change, and two old Sidney Sheldon novels from the seventies. She still had hope when she moved to the larger luggage, the great bulk of it black. The first of the larger suitcases held nothing more than a single pair of women’s cotton panties, a man’s black sock, and a stick of old deodorant. Her hope was nearly gone when she reached the third suitcase from the bottom of the pile and nearly dropped it, it was so heavy. Her heart began to pound. She unzipped it, threw back the top, and stared down at neatly folded men’s clothes—pants, shirts, suits, underwear, shoes, handkerchiefs, socks, belts. She picked up the handkerchief on top. It wasn’t monogrammed. Lucy looked over at the long clothes pole at the opposite end of the attic crammed with clothing in plastic bags. Why not hang these clothes as well? Why fold them in a suitcase? She’d seen a good half dozen boxes labeled MEN’S CLOTHES . Why were these clothes folded in a suitcase?

She opened the large suitcases that were left. More men’s clothes, mostly vested suits and dress shirts but also a beautiful Burberry coat, gloves, several men’s hats, three pairs of dress shoes. They were well made but hardly up-to-date—like clothes from an old movie set, in fact. She remembered her grandfather wearing clothes like this when she was a young child. Had his clothes been hidden away in these suitcases to make it appear he’d taken them with him?

She kept looking. The half dozen duffel bags were mostly empty, one holding ancient snorkel equipment, another holding a box of condoms, unopened, and that was interesting.

She’d finally worked her way back to the steamer trunks. She could hardly stop now—steamer trunks had lots of compartments, lots of little zippered pockets that could hide—what? She wished she had a clue. She’d probably find more safety pins and loose change. Best to begin with the largest trunk against the wall.