“I don’t understand, Mr. Sutter.” Octavia Ferguson regarded Cabot with an expression of aloof disapproval. “Why in the world do you want to open up the past? No good can come of it. I assume you’re doing this for the money. How much is my granddaughter paying you?”
In Cabot’s experience, the people who were most afraid to open up the past were usually the ones most shackled to it.
Three minutes after being introduced to Octavia Ferguson, he had concluded that Virginia owed her edge and her streak of determination to her grandmother. Octavia was a formidable woman. He was sitting across from her now, and it was easy to imagine her as a stern professor in front of a room full of students. She wouldn’t have had any patience with those who failed to study for an exam or the ones who turned in their papers late.
Toned and fit, she was in her late sixties or early seventies. Her hair was cut fashionably short and tinted a discreet shade of blond. She was dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a blue-and-white-striped sweater. She wore small gold studs in her ears but no wedding ring.
It was early evening and Cabot realized he was hungry. After catching the last of the two ferries required to get back to the mainland, he and Virginia had driven straight down the interstate to Seattle. Octavia Ferguson’s Victorian house on Queen Anne Hill had been their first stop.
Octavia had clearly been pleased to see Virginia, and she had initially regarded Cabot with a welcoming air. He got the impression that she had been both surprised and possibly even a little relieved to see Virginia in the company of a man. Evidently, Virginia was not in the habit of bringing men by to introduce them to her grandmother. He was pretty sure that Octavia would frown upon the serial dating thing.
The welcome hadn’t lasted long. Octavia’s barely veiled curiosity about him had been transformed first into shock and then deep wariness when she had learned that he was a private investigator.
Virginia spoke from a window that overlooked a magnificent garden. “Octavia, please, just listen to what we have to say before you jump to conclusions.”
Watching the two strong-willed women deal with each other was both fascinating and a little scary, Cabot thought.
“From everything you’ve told me, Hannah Brewster had serious mental health issues,” Octavia said. “The authorities made it clear that she took her own life. Why would you waste time and money looking into her death?”
“I think there is at least a reasonable chance that Hannah was murdered,” Virginia said, “or perhaps driven to take her own life. As far as I’m concerned, it amounts to the same thing.”
“That seems highly unlikely,” Octavia said. “But even if it’s true, it’s a matter for law enforcement. You have no business being involved in a private investigation.”
She shot Cabot another disapproving look. He kept his mouth shut. A smart man did not step between two quarreling lionesses.
Virginia turned away from the view of the gardens and faced her grandmother.
“This is my business,” she said. “And it’s Cabot’s business as well. Here’s the bottom line: if Hannah was murdered, then there is a very real possibility that her death is connected to what happened at Quinton Zane’s California compound. Our biggest concern is that Zane himself may still be alive.”
Octavia flinched as if she had been jolted by an electrical charge. Pain, rage and horror flashed across her face. An instant later the emotions vanished behind a mask of cool control.
“That’s impossible,” she said. “It’s been twenty-two years since that monster murdered your mother and so many others. How could anything that happened so long ago affect the present?”
“We don’t know,” Virginia admitted. “But Cabot has a theory.”
Reluctantly, Cabot decided it was time to speak up.
“I agree that it’s possible Hannah Brewster was a victim of her mental health issues,” he said. “But I think that, under the circumstances, the situation needs to be checked out.”
Octavia eyed him, making no secret of her opinion. She blamed him for encouraging Virginia to stir up the past.
“The authorities assured me that Quinton Zane was dead,” Octavia said. “I was told that he attempted to escape the country on a private yacht that he stole. There was a fire on board. They found the wreckage.”
“They found the wreckage of the burned-out yacht but they never found Zane’s body,” Cabot said.
Octavia clasped her hands very tightly together. “They told me that wasn’t uncommon in disasters at sea.”
Virginia looked at her. “I think Hannah Brewster was convinced that she saw Zane shortly before she died.”
Octavia froze. “Impossible,” she whispered.
“Hannah painted a picture showing him in modern dress. She even included a portion of his car.”
“Why would she paint his picture?” Octavia demanded. “Surely if she saw him, she would have told you or said something to the authorities. She wouldn’t have painted a portrait.”
“I think she painted the picture because she couldn’t be sure of what she had seen,” Virginia said. “She was well aware that she suffered from hallucinations. She always told me that the only way she could get at the truth was to paint it. After she finished the last painting of Zane, she took a photo of it and then sent the camera with the photo to me. She destroyed the original because she was terrified that Zane would see it.”
“Those are the actions of a very disturbed woman.” Octavia clenched the arms of her chair and switched her attention back to Cabot. “You still haven’t finished telling me your theory, Mr. Sutter.”
Mostly because I wasn’t given the opportunity, he thought. He let it ride.
“I’m still working on it,” he said. “But the bottom line is that if Hannah was murdered, it was most likely because there’s something new in the equation.”
“Such as?” Octavia demanded.
He glanced at Virginia, silently asking her approval before he moved on to more dangerous ground. She gave him one short, curt nod.
He turned back to Octavia. “Virginia tells me that her mother was a bookkeeper before she joined Zane’s cult.”
“She worked as a bookkeeper because that no-good artist she insisted on marrying couldn’t make enough money with his silly sculptures to put food on the table,” Octavia said through her teeth. “Kimberly was a gifted mathematician. If she were still alive, she would be teaching math at the college level.”
Virginia’s jaw tensed but she said nothing.
“A lot of money rolled in off Zane’s operation,” Cabot said. “At the time, my brothers and I were too young to pay attention to that aspect of the matter. But later when we started looking into the cult’s finances, we discovered that all the money disappeared right around the time Zane did.”
“Of course. He was in it for the money right from the start. He was a thief and a scam artist.”
“Yes, but he probably didn’t keep his own books,” Cabot said, trying to sound patient. “They would have been very complicated books because he needed to find ways to hide the money – offshore accounts, maybe.”
Octavia looked stricken. “You think my daughter helped him hide the money? How dare you suggest that she was a criminal. She was one of Zane’s victims.”
“What I know,” Cabot said, “is what I just told you. A lot of money disappeared at about the same time that Zane did. If he did die at sea, he never got a chance to cash in on the profits from the cult. That means that money might still be out there, somewhere. If your daughter worked as his bookkeeper, she would have known where the money was hidden.”
“But Kimberly is dead,” Octavia said.
“Maybe because she knew too much about the cult finances,” Virginia suggested quietly.
Octavia seemed frozen with pain, unable to respond.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cabot saw Virginia squeeze her eyes shut and turn back to the view out the window.
“According to Virginia, Hannah Brewster was your daughter’s closest friend in the compound,” Cabot continued. “If Kimberly did hide the money for Zane or if she knew where it was hidden, the one person who might also have known the location of the funds was Hannah Brewster. And now she’s dead, too.”
“Twenty-two years later,” Octavia said. She shook her head, bewildered now. “There can’t be a connection.”
“Maybe not,” Cabot said. “But in my business, money is always a powerful motive.”
A long silence fell on the room. The old-fashioned tall clock ticked relentlessly.
Eventually Octavia stirred. “But you and Virginia just said that Zane might still be alive. If you’re right, he got his money twenty-two years ago. That makes your theory utter nonsense. He’d have no reason to come looking for it now.”
“Not unless my mother hid it and took her secret to the grave,” Virginia said quietly.
Octavia digested that for a moment. “There’s still the question of the passage of time. If Zane didn’t get his hands on the money twenty-two years ago and if he is still alive, why would he wait so long to go after Hannah Brewster?”
“That brings us back to the essence of my theory,” Cabot said. “Something has changed. When we identify the trigger incident, we’ll get some answers.”
Octavia sighed. “I don’t understand. How will you even know where to start looking?”
“We’ve already begun the process,” Cabot said. “But the more we know about the past, the better. Would you be willing to answer a few questions?”
Virginia did not move. He knew she was expecting her grandmother to tell him to go to hell. But he didn’t think that was going to happen. Octavia had tried to close the door on a painful part of the past, but now that door had been pried open. She was a trained academic. It was her nature to seek answers.
“Ask your questions,” she said quietly. “I doubt if I can give you any helpful information, but I certainly don’t want Virginia to blame me for standing in the way of the truth.”
Virginia had the good sense to hold her tongue.
“Thank you,” Cabot said.
Octavia met his eyes. “If you’re right, if that bastard Zane is still alive, I will be happy to get a gun and kill him myself.”
“You’ll have to get in line,” Cabot said. “And I’d better warn you, it’s a very long line.”
“Who’s at the front?” Octavia asked. “You and your brothers?”
“No,” Cabot said. “My foster dad, Anson Salinas.”