family?
She climbed the steps to her apartment and unlocked the door. “Home,” she whispered. “My friend.” All around her were reminders of the things she treasured, antiques mixed with comfort. And yes, framed pictures of the dear foster mother who loved her despite the many times Laurel had pushed her away.
She closed the apartment door and secured it. Few visited her, but those who did were always surprised. Like Wilmington. They’d mistaken her for a contemporary gal —high-tech, vivid colors, and abstract art. How would they react to Laurel Evertson’s need for the warmth of a traditional home, reminders of the ten-year-old who’d lost everything?
Sinking into a tufted steel-blue Victorian sofa, she drew air into her lungs and buried her face in her hands. Behind her crime-fighting veneer lived a woman who longed for so much more if only she could find it. Keep it. Hold it tighter than her antiques.
She glanced into the small dining area at her antique crystalchandelier, the most expensive piece she owned. An oak and mahogany library table rested beneath it with a green Depression glass bowl filled with wooden apples in a bed of apple spice–scented leaves. On the wall in her living area, a turn-of-the-century oak buffet held French opera glasses in dark and light mother-of-pearl. Beside it was a Chinese vase etched in greens with a pink dragon. On the other end of the buffet rested Little Women , a 1951 edition, a gift from Miss Kathryn. The rest of her two-bedroom apartment held the same items that appealed to her —old and intricately attractive. Eclectic but hers.
After closing all the drapes in the living room, she walked to her bedroom. There in soothing colors of vintage blue —delicate robin egg–blue wallpaper, a blue-and-white upholstered chair and headboard, and a white chenille bedspread —she changed into workout clothes.
How she hated the loneliness that fit like a tattered dress, but Wilmington had been right in his assessment. She’d go to her grave wondering what was wrong with her wretched soul. Why she’d let Jesse get killed. She’d never shared those dark parts of herself, yet a killer uncovered them. That’s why she couldn’t let anyone get close to her.
4:00 P.M. FRIDAY
Abby chuckled. Dark suits and no smiles. Had to be the FBI. Now to see if they could find out who’d been scamming the elderly, maybe learn how Tom really died.
She wove through the staff scurrying about the front office toward Marsha, who was more nervous than a rabbit staring down a rifle barrel.
“Marsha, who are these visitors?” Abby said.
“Abby, I’m busy with these people. We can talk later.”
“Are these gentlemen from the FBI?” Abby raised her voice. “You know Daniel took Earl and me to their office yesterdaymorning. If you haven’t been there, it’s off Highway 290. Lots of security. Anyway, we’re so upset about the scam and Tom’s death.”
That worked. Abby jarred the attention of two special agents.
“Ma’am, can I have a word with you?” one of the young men said.
Actually 95 percent of the men in the world were young. “Yes, sir. I’d be glad to.”
“We can talk in Miss Leonard’s office.”
Abby followed him down the hall to the small room. He settled behind the desk, and she eased onto a chair. He introduced himself as Jack something or other.
“I’m Abby Hilton, and I’m not a client here.” She explained how she accompanied Earl six days a week to Silver Hospitality.
“Any relation to the new Hilton wing being added?” he said.
She smiled. “We thought the facility needed to expand. Now, sonny, you aren’t here to talk about the new wing but what I know about the scam.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you don’t mind, I’d like to record our interview.”
“Go right ahead. Listen carefully ’cause I hate to repeat myself.” She drew in a breath. “I blame myself for this. Normally I spend the hours with Earl —that’s my
She climbed the steps to her apartment and unlocked the door. “Home,” she whispered. “My friend.” All around her were reminders of the things she treasured, antiques mixed with comfort. And yes, framed pictures of the dear foster mother who loved her despite the many times Laurel had pushed her away.
She closed the apartment door and secured it. Few visited her, but those who did were always surprised. Like Wilmington. They’d mistaken her for a contemporary gal —high-tech, vivid colors, and abstract art. How would they react to Laurel Evertson’s need for the warmth of a traditional home, reminders of the ten-year-old who’d lost everything?
Sinking into a tufted steel-blue Victorian sofa, she drew air into her lungs and buried her face in her hands. Behind her crime-fighting veneer lived a woman who longed for so much more if only she could find it. Keep it. Hold it tighter than her antiques.
She glanced into the small dining area at her antique crystalchandelier, the most expensive piece she owned. An oak and mahogany library table rested beneath it with a green Depression glass bowl filled with wooden apples in a bed of apple spice–scented leaves. On the wall in her living area, a turn-of-the-century oak buffet held French opera glasses in dark and light mother-of-pearl. Beside it was a Chinese vase etched in greens with a pink dragon. On the other end of the buffet rested Little Women , a 1951 edition, a gift from Miss Kathryn. The rest of her two-bedroom apartment held the same items that appealed to her —old and intricately attractive. Eclectic but hers.
After closing all the drapes in the living room, she walked to her bedroom. There in soothing colors of vintage blue —delicate robin egg–blue wallpaper, a blue-and-white upholstered chair and headboard, and a white chenille bedspread —she changed into workout clothes.
How she hated the loneliness that fit like a tattered dress, but Wilmington had been right in his assessment. She’d go to her grave wondering what was wrong with her wretched soul. Why she’d let Jesse get killed. She’d never shared those dark parts of herself, yet a killer uncovered them. That’s why she couldn’t let anyone get close to her.
4:00 P.M. FRIDAY
Abby chuckled. Dark suits and no smiles. Had to be the FBI. Now to see if they could find out who’d been scamming the elderly, maybe learn how Tom really died.
She wove through the staff scurrying about the front office toward Marsha, who was more nervous than a rabbit staring down a rifle barrel.
“Marsha, who are these visitors?” Abby said.
“Abby, I’m busy with these people. We can talk later.”
“Are these gentlemen from the FBI?” Abby raised her voice. “You know Daniel took Earl and me to their office yesterdaymorning. If you haven’t been there, it’s off Highway 290. Lots of security. Anyway, we’re so upset about the scam and Tom’s death.”
That worked. Abby jarred the attention of two special agents.
“Ma’am, can I have a word with you?” one of the young men said.
Actually 95 percent of the men in the world were young. “Yes, sir. I’d be glad to.”
“We can talk in Miss Leonard’s office.”
Abby followed him down the hall to the small room. He settled behind the desk, and she eased onto a chair. He introduced himself as Jack something or other.
“I’m Abby Hilton, and I’m not a client here.” She explained how she accompanied Earl six days a week to Silver Hospitality.
“Any relation to the new Hilton wing being added?” he said.
She smiled. “We thought the facility needed to expand. Now, sonny, you aren’t here to talk about the new wing but what I know about the scam.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you don’t mind, I’d like to record our interview.”
“Go right ahead. Listen carefully ’cause I hate to repeat myself.” She drew in a breath. “I blame myself for this. Normally I spend the hours with Earl —that’s my
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