One True Secret. Bethany Campbell
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And they’re loyal to him. Absolutely. They don’t talk, and they don’t want to.”
“A wife and two granddaughters, right?” Merriman accepted a frosted mug of beer and nodded his thanks to the barman.
Eli’s expression grew more intense. “Roth’s son, Damon, handled his father’s business. All of it. And protected his privacy. He was good at it. Since he died, it’s the granddaughters’ job. They’re just as good. Maybe better.”
Merriman cocked his head. “What you’re saying is you want me to be aggressive. But discreetly aggressive.”
“Right. Take all the pictures you can. Don’t be intimidated. Don’t offend them if you can help it, but don’t let them push you around.”
“I take it nobody has to tell you to be aggressive.”
Eli let the remark pass. Anybody who thought the art world was stodgy, highfalutin and boring didn’t know it. He’d uncovered smugglers, forgers, black marketeers, thieves and killers. In his business, he’d dealt with everything from tomb robbers in Yucatán to looters in Baghdad.
He stuck to the subject of the Roths. “I hear the younger granddaughter’s the more pliable. Less worldly. You may be able to work her better than the older one.”
Merriman looked dubious. “Are you saying come on to her? Flirt with her? Me?”
“Whatever.” Eli kept his face and voice impassive.
“These women will pretend to cooperate. We’ve got to get past that.”
“So what’s she like? The younger, pliable, unworldly one? What’s she do?”
“The domestic stuff. She’s the stay-at-home one. The older one handles the business end.”
Merriman smiled, and the lines appeared across his forehead, under a lock of sun-gilded hair. “Oh, yeah. She comes to New York. I hear she’s a looker. What’s her name? Emilene or something?”
Eli’s face grew more guarded than usual. “Emerson. Yeah. She’s a looker.”
He’d seen her once, last year at a gallery opening in Soho. He’d caught only the briefest glimpse. But in that glimpse, Eli had seen she was a true beauty: flowing dark hair, the eyes of a gazelle and the long legs to match. But though she had a gazelle’s grace, the word was that she also had the protective instincts of a lioness when it came to her family.
Almost as soon as he’d spied her that afternoon, she’d left, simply vanished. Later he heard she’d left because of him.
Like her, he had a reputation. When he went after the truth, nothing stopped him, and he had the scars to prove it. If she thought she could keep things hidden from him, she was dead wrong.
“These people don’t live in this town, right?” Merriman asked. “They live on the next key or island or whatever you call these things.”
“Three islands up. Mimosa Key. About fifteen miles away.”
“Pretty isolated?”
“Fairly isolated. Mimosa’s been built up in recent years. But not much. The estate’s on a finger of land that juts away from the main body. No close neighbors. People who’ve seen it say it’s a little bit of paradise.”
Merriman grinned. “If they’re going to team us, this is the right assignment. A little bit of paradise? Couple of women with a rich granddaddy? Beats chasing after criminals and con men. Me, I’m allergic to danger.”
“The only danger is that these women hold us off.” Eli was concerned about this, but not worried. Not deeply.
“The older one? Emerson?” Merriman said.
“What about her?”
Merriman shrugged. “I heard she’s smart, that’s all. And she can be tough.”
“She’s not as smart as she thinks.” Eli finished the last of his beer and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“And she may be tough. But she’s not tough enough.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Emerson sat in the library, curled up in the ancient velvet armchair, her legs dangling over its arm.
The library was on the second floor of the house, and its large glass doors opened to a balcony that looked out on the ocean. The ocean tossed more than usual today because the wind was high, with long, gray clouds streaking the sky.
Books crammed the teakwood shelves, books of every sort, and they were piled on the desk and floor and on the antique sofa where no one ever sat.
A teak counter ran along the east wall, and the wall above it was covered with framed paintings, wild with color and boldly signed Roth. Beneath the counter were cabinets designed to hold magazines, some decades old.
Magazines were what interested Emerson this morning. A fallen stack of them spilled across the wine-colored ottoman, and others littered the carpet.
The library was Emerson’s favorite part of the house. It had its own fireplace for the rare spell of winter cold, and an old-fashioned ceiling fan to dispel heat. She loved the feel of being surrounded by books yet being only steps away from the sense of space and freedom offered by the balcony.
This room was Claire’s bane, for Claire was neat, and the room defied all her efforts to make it tidy. But Emerson did not mind that the place was a hodgepodge. She found its disorder as comfortable as a pair of old jeans.
A knock sounded at the library door. Emerson looked up from her magazine, her face brightening. She recognized that delicate knock; it was Nana’s.
“Come in,” she called. The door opened, and her grandmother entered.
Lela Roth was a tiny woman, seventy-three years old. Her hair, once ink-black, was now dark gray, and she wore it in one long braid down her back. Her black eyes, large and thickly lashed, were her most striking feature, and Emerson had inherited them.
Lela’s back was still straight, her movements slow but sure. She spoke with an accent, for she had been raised in Paris. Nathan had always teased that he’d kidnapped her from her strict father and made her his child bride. She was ten years younger than her husband.
“I thought I would find you here.” Nana moved to Emerson’s side and kissed her on the cheek. “What are you doing?”
Emerson kissed her back, then waggled her magazine. “My homework.”
“Phaa!” said Nana. “You’re reading things by that man, that Garner person.”
“It’s important to know your enemy.” Emerson rose, gesturing for Nana to take the armchair.
“You do not have much time to learn about him,” Nana said, sitting. “He and the photographe arrive in an hour. Your sister is going crazy.”
Emerson cleared the ottoman and sat by Nana’s feet. “My sister’s an alarmist.”
“I’m a bit alarmed myself.” Nana shook her head.
“You’re sure it’s wise to do this?”
“I’m sure.” Emerson took the toe of her grandmother’s embroidered slipper and squeezed it playfully. “How’s the Captain?”
“As usual,” Nana said with an expressive shrug. “I’ve been sitting with him.”
“How’s the painting going?”
“It goes well, I think.” Nana frowned slightly. She had been a great beauty in her day, and now she was an elderly beauty. Even her frown was becoming. It had style.
She tilted her head and gave Emerson a stern look. “But you’re changing the subject on me. This man, Garner. This is how you get ready for him? Only looking at magazines? Again?”
“By their works