JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

Despite her advanced years, despite the fact she now preferred doing business from her Santa Barbara home rather than trek down the coast to the chain’s Los Angeles headquarters, Eleanor remained vigorous and continued her quest to keep Lord’s the most successful department store in the world.

That same single-mindedness that had made Lord’s a leader in fashion merchandising contributed to another, even more unrelenting obsession.

Eleanor had vowed to find her granddaughter, whatever it took. And although twenty-four years had passed, she had not stopped trying.

Each year, on the anniversary of Anna’s disappearance, she’d place an advertisement offering a generous reward for information regarding her granddaughter’s abduction in numerous metropolitan and small-town newspapers.

Thus far, once again, the advertisement had yielded nothing.

A less stubborn woman would have given up what everyone kept telling her was a futile search. But tenacity ran deep in Eleanor’s veins. Besides, some inner sense told her she’d know if her granddaughter had been killed. Anna was alive. Of that, Eleanor had absolutely no doubt.

“As a businesswoman, you utilize your left brain, your logical side,” Clara was saying. Eleanor returned her thoughts to the séance. “Jarlath will help you get in touch with your intuitive side. Once that doorway is open, you will have your answer.”

Eleanor admitted to herself that the medium sounded uncomfortably like one of those frauds Mike Wallace was always unmasking on “60 Minutes.” But, not wanting to leave any stone unturned, she was willing to try anything. Even this dabbling in the occult, which undoubtedly had all her Presbyterian ancestors spinning in their graves.

“Well,” she said briskly, “let’s get started.”

Clara placed an Ouija board between them, took a chunk of quartz from her bag and placed it in the center of the board.

“Rock quartz is allied to the energies of the moon,” she said. “I’ve found it makes a more sensitive channel than the usual pointer. The amethyst shade is exceptionally powerful.”

Eleanor nodded and wondered, not for the first time, what had made her agree to this farfetched idea.

“Now,” Clara said as she lit a stick of incense, “you must clear your mind. Banish all doubts. All cynicism.”

Just get on with it, an impatient voice in Eleanor’s cynical mind insisted. She shifted restlessly in her seat.

“I’m sensing negative energy,” Clara chided. She began to sway. “Jarlath will not come if he is not welcome. Write your negative thoughts on a mental blackboard. Then erase them.”

Immensely grateful that no one she knew was witnessing this outlandish scene, Eleanor took a deep breath and tried again.

“Ahhh.” Clara nodded. “That’s better. Relax your body, Eleanor. Feel yourself growing serene. Open your mind. Allow your physical and spiritual states to become harmonized and aligned,” she intoned. She placed her fingers on the chunk of quartz. “Jarlath. Are you there?”

Eleanor watched as the violet stone slowly slid across the board, stopping on Yes.

“Welcome, Jarlath. This is my dear friend, Eleanor Lord. She needs your help, Jarlath. Desperately. She is trying to locate her granddaughter, Anna.”

Although she knew it to be impossible, with the fire blazing nearby, Eleanor thought the air in the room suddenly felt cooler.

She leaned forward. “Ask him if he’s seen Anna.”

“Patience,” Clara counseled. “Jarlath reveals in his own time.” Nevertheless, her next words were, “Is Anna with you?”

No. “I knew it!” Eleanor crowed triumphantly. Clara’s guide was saying what she’d always known herself. Anna was alive!

There was a long pause. Then the gleaming rock moved to A. Then N. Then O. It moved slowly at first, then faster and faster until it had spelled out Another wishes to speak. The flames of the candles suddenly shifted dramatically to the right, as if a wind had caught them. Caught up in the drama of the moment, Eleanor forgot to disbelieve.

“Who is with you?” Clara questioned. “Who wishes to speak with Eleanor Lord?”

This time the amethyst stone raced across the board. Candlelight reflected off its crystalline surface. Dead.

“Dear Lord, perhaps it’s James. Or Robbie.” Eleanor’s voice trembled at the thought of her son. “Or Melanie.” Her son’s beautiful, tragically unhappy wife. Anna’s mother.

No.

Clara frowned across the table as if to remind Eleanor just who was in charge of this séance. “Who, then?”

Silence.

“Place your fingers on the stone with mine,” Clara advised. “It will increase the energy flow.”

Eleanor did as instructed. Haltingly, the quartz began to move. R. O. Heat seemed to emanate from the amethyst. Eleanor’s fingertips grew warm. S.

“Rosa,” Eleanor gasped. Anna’s nanny.

Confirming her thoughts, the crystal stopped on A. Eleanor felt light-headed. Spots danced in front of her eyes. The fire flared. Though there was no wind outdoors, the glass panes in the windows began to rattle. Then everything went dark.

* * *

“You’re overreacting,” Eleanor insisted an hour later. She was still in the library. And she was a very long way from being in a good mood. “It was merely a little heart flutter. Nothing more.”

Dr. Averill Brandford frowned as he took the seventy-one-year-old woman’s pulse. “That’s your opinion. I hadn’t realized you’d gotten your medical degree.”

Having been called here from the yacht harbor where he moored his ketch, Averill was casually clad in a blue polo shirt, white duck slacks and navy Top-Siders. His face was tanned and his hair was sunstreaked from sailing excursions off the coast.

“You always did have a smart mouth, Averill,” Eleanor returned. “I remember the summer you boys turned seven and you taught Robbie to curse. Although I’ll admit to finding the episode moderately amusing, James did not share my feelings. It was a week before Robbie could sit down.”

“It was winter. And we were nine.” A tape recorder on a nearby table was playing Indian flute music. He turned it off. “And for the record, it was Robbie who taught me.” He went over to the desk. “I’m checking you into the hospital for tests.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m fine.”

“Let’s just make certain, shall we?”

“Do they teach all you doctors to be such sons-of-bitches in medical school?”

“The very first semester. Along with how to pad our medicare bills.”

“Smart mouth.” Eleanor shook her head in disgust.

Her hair, like her attitude, had steadfastly refused to give in to age. It was as richly auburn as it had been when she was a girl, save for a streak of silver at her temple, which had occurred overnight, after the tragic double murder and kidnapping.

“I think you should listen to Averill, Eleanor,” the other man in the room, Zachary Deveraux, counseled with quiet authority.

“This isn’t fair. You’re ganging up on me.”

“Whatever it takes,” the tall, dark-haired man returned easily, appearing unfazed by her blistering glare.

Zachary was leaning against a leather wall, arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. Unlike the doctor’s recreational attire, Zach was wearing a conservative dark suit, white shirt and navy tie. His shoes, remarkably staid for even this Republican stronghold, were wing tips.

“As president of The Lord’s Group, it’s my responsibility to do everything I can to keep the company strong. You’re more than a vital asset, Eleanor,” he said with a slight French-patois accent that hinted at his Louisiana Cajun roots. “You’re the lifeblood of the chain. We need you.”