Little Girl Lost. Shirlee McCoy
Читать онлайн книгу.
mind, mocking her as she dropped off the baked goods. It was true, she tended to date men who were predictable, stable, easy to understand. That didn’t mean they were boring. Or maybe it did. But that was the way Portia liked it. She’d spent her childhood around men who were often unpredictable and moody. No way did she plan to repeat that pattern as an adult. Still, there was something about Mick she couldn’t ignore. A vitality and energy that appealed to her, an honesty that spoke to the deepest part of her soul.
And there was something else.
It had taken Tad six months to figure out that one of the twins was left-handed, the other right-handed. Even after that, he’d often confused Portia and Rissa. Mick, on the other hand, had seen them together once, yet somehow he’d known which twin Portia was. She found that to be both interesting and alarming.
Portia rubbed a finger against the ache behind her right eye and shoved thoughts of Mick to the back of her mind. The day had just begun and she already had a headache. That didn’t bode well for the remainder of the morning, let alone the afternoon and evening. She wanted to go back to the moment before the Bug had died, recapture the sense of excitement, of renewal. More than anything, she wanted to believe this really was going to be the best day of the new year and that all the days that followed would be better than the ones that had preceded her trip to Stoneley. Somehow, though, Portia doubted they would be. Unless she missed her guess, clouds were on the horizon—dark and foreboding—and no matter how much she might want to outrace the storm, she had a horrible feeling that it was only a matter of time before it caught up with her.
FOUR
Five hours later, Portia had a working car and a four-Tylenol headache. According to the mechanic who’d towed and fixed the Bug, her vehicle was in good shape. Now she just needed her head to follow suit. A few hours of quiet would go a long way to making that happen and she was relieved to see that the Manor’s seven-bay garage was nearly empty.
Even Rissa’s car was missing. Which meant either that her writing wasn’t going well, or she couldn’t bear another moment in the house. It was for the best. Portia had never been able to hide her feelings from her twin, and she had no desire to have to explain her conversation with Mick, or discuss his suspicions about their father. For now, she’d be content to keep the information to herself.
Briny air enveloped her as she hurried toward the house, the thick, salty scent of the ocean sweeping in from the cliffs. Watery sunlight filtered through the clouds, speckling the ground with gold, the trees with vibrant color. Portia’s fingers itched for a paintbrush, the urge to capture the shift of light and shadow easing the pounding pain in her head. For the first time in months, Portia felt the urge to grab her easel and brushes and paint.
She hurried inside, started up the stairs, heard a soft wail from somewhere above and knew that painting was not in her near future.
“Aunt Winnie? Miranda?”
Heels tapped against the hardwood floor. A door slammed.
“Thank goodness you’re home!” Sonya, the Blanchard housekeeper, appeared at the top of the stairs, the panicked expression on her face sending Portia racing toward her.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“You’re grandfather. He…” Her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t bear to continue.
“Is he all right?” Portia raced up the stairs, her heart pounding, her mind filled with a million possibilities, all thoughts of headaches and painting gone. An Alzheimer’s patient, Howard Blanchard’s health had been declining for years, but in the past few months there had been an even more drastic change.
Sonya shook her head, her dark eyes flashing. “He attacked Alannah. Put his hands around her throat and nearly strangled her.”
“Strangled her? He can barely get up out of bed.” Portia started up the stairs that led to her grandfather’s third-floor suite.
“That’s what we all thought, but I’m telling you, somehow he had enough strength to grab Alannah by the throat.”
“Is she all right?”
“It’s hard to tell with that one. She’s in your father’s office, now, threatening to call the police.”
The police? That was the last thing they needed. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Someone better. You’re grandfather is sick. Not a criminal.” Her defense of Howard was a surprise. The tension between the housekeeper and her employer was something Portia and Rissa had often discussed. Neither knew the cause, they only knew it had always been there. Sonya’s urge to protect Howard could only mean the housekeeper thought he was nearing the end.
Portia’s heart beat faster at the thought and she put a hand on Sonya’s arm, hoping the gesture would calm them both. “I’m sure Alannah understands that.”
At least, she hoped she did. Her father’s latest girlfriend was hard to read. That she was self-absorbed went without saying. Whether or not she was spiteful remained to be seen.
Portia hurried down the hall to her father’s office. Sobs and jumbled words drifted through the door, and she knocked, then pushed it open. Alannah sat at Ronald’s desk, clutching the phone to her ear and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
She met Portia’s eyes, gestured for her to enter the room and continued speaking. “I’m telling you, he’s dangerous. He had his hands around my throat. He could have killed me.”
Portia was tempted to grab the phone and tell whoever was on the other end of the line that Howard was too feeble to be dangerous, but Alannah was upset enough without her interference.
Instead, she took a seat in the chair across the desk from the other woman and waited.
“Of course I understand his condition, Ronald. You’ve told me about it often enough.” Alannah sniffed, grabbed another tissue from a box on Ronald’s desk. “I know. I know. Yes, I’ll be there. Give me another half hour.”
She hung up the phone, shot Portia an irritated look. “I suppose you’re here to explain the intricacies of your grandfather’s illness just like everyone else.”
“I’m here to make sure you’re okay.” Making sure she didn’t call the police was secondary to that, though Portia hoped she could manage it.
Alannah brushed strands of red hair away from her forehead, tucking them back into her chignon. “Okay? I just paid big bucks to have my hair styled. Now it’s ruined.”
“Loose chignons are in.”
“If I’d wanted it loose, I would have asked the stylist for loose.” Alannah’s aquamarine eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but Portia suspected they were more from anger than fear.
“I know what happened must have been awful, but Grandfather—”
“Is sick and doesn’t know any better. Miranda, Winnie and your father all said the same. I think I’m smart enough to get it.”
“I know you are. I didn’t mean to imply differently.”
Alannah sighed and nodded. “Of course you didn’t. I’m just upset. Whether your family wants to admit it or not, Howard has become dangerous.” As she spoke, she stood, a diamond brooch winking in the light as she moved. Portia recognized the intricate pattern and Victorian setting. Howard had shown her the piece when she was a child. He’d told the story repeatedly about how his wife Ethel had fallen in love with it, how he’d purchased it from an antique dealer for their tenth anniversary.
“Is that my grandmother’s brooch?” Before she could think better of it, the question escaped.
Alannah shot her a dark look, her hand hovering over the beautiful piece. “Yes. And before you accuse me of stealing it, Ronald told me I could wear it to the hospital fundraiser this afternoon.”
“I wasn’t going to accuse