Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (14 page)

     And then came the flood of emotions. Loneliness, pain, desire,
reaching out...

     Coco broke away and left him standing there, telling herself it was best to end it this way, before it really began.

     She found herself at the edge of the resort, on the tarmac for the landing strip. There were no passengers in the deserted pavilion, and the private jet stood pale and ghostly in the moonlight, like an airliner out of a
Twilight Zone
episode, Coco thought.

     She struggled with her emotions. Kenny standing back there at the aviary, the disappointment on his face. But Coco had spent her life connecting with
men who eventually left her. She was just protecting herself. Both of them.

     She heard voices. Following them, she came to a wooden shack with a windsock on top. Two men were chatting—a man in mechanics coveralls, wiping his hands on a rag, the other Coco recognized as the pilot, the one she had fantasized about Sunday night. And now he was standing there in the flesh, a man who traveled a lot.

     He was tall and angular, very straight-backed as if he carried his morals on his shoulders. A square-jawed Dudley Do-Right who filled out his uniform very nicely. Remembering that one way to fight a fire was to light another fire, Coco waited until the mechanic said, "Good night," and headed in one direction, while the pilot, overnight bag in his hand, headed for another.

     She stepped out. "Hi. I think I'm lost." A quick glance at his left hand. Enough moonlight to show no wedding ring. These types
always
wore a wedding band if they were married.

     "I'll be happy to help," he said in his professional, intercom voice. Polite but impervious to the flirtations and come-ons from lady passengers. Those were the best kind.

     Up close, he was very attractive, eyes looking at her from the beneath the bill of his pilot's hat. No jacket, but a white tailored shirt with captain's bars on the shoulders. He was an adventurer, Coco decided, a survivor, a man who pulled off daring rescues. This milk-run between LA and The Grove was just a breather between hazardous missions.

     "Where are you trying to get to?" he asked.

     She pointed at the jet. "I would love to see your cockpit."

     A mild look of surprise, and then eyes crinkling at the corners.

     The stairs were still unfolded down from the door. He invited her to go up first. The cockpit was small and cramped. Coco looked at all the dials and switches and instruments and thought of his hands commanding such power. "Do you always stay the night here at the resort?" she asked, feeling his warm breath on her face.

     "There are two of us," he said, running his hand up her back, resting it on her shoulder. He caught on quick, she thought. "We take turns staying with the aircraft, and alternate weekends."

     She turned to give him access to her mouth, and their lips met in a kiss. As Coco waited for the flash that sometimes happened, sometimes didn't, it occurred to her that he had done this before.

     There was no room to maneuver. He quickly had her against an instrument panel, his erection pressing rock-hard against her.

     Coco put her hand on his chest and felt something in the shirt pocket. Something small and round.

     She drew back. "What's this?"

     He turned bright red.

     Coco fished in and brought out a gold band.

     Now the flash came to her: wife and kids back in Los Angeles, he removed his ring whenever he got to The Grove.

     "Sorry," he said.

     No sorrier than Coco.

A
S
J
ACK MADE HIS WAY DOWN THE PATH ILLUMINATED BY
soft lamps, toward the private entrance to Abby Tyler's bungalow, he saw lights on in the windows. She was waiting for him.

     He knocked and Vanessa answered the door, inviting him in. The place was decorated tastefully with antiques and objet's d'art. Nothing ostentatious. Understated and classy. Like the woman who lived here.

     He was momentarily arrested by a stunning painting over the fireplace: clouds at sunset, blazing scarlet and orange. The décor of the living room was done in warm tones—peach, tangerine and flame—as if the sunset in the painting were casting the furnishings in the glow of a dying day.

     Abby came out in a rose-pink silk dressing gown, smiling when she saw him. Once again Jack sensed a deep warmth within her, but that she held it in check. He wondered what it would be like to set that fire free.

     He was suddenly annoyed with himself. Jack had always prided himself on his firm resolve. Officers back at the station called him a bloodhound,
because once he was on the scent, he didn't give up. But Abby Tyler was consistently throwing him curve balls.

     "Forgive me, detective..." she said, holding out her hand. "It's been a day. I had to help out in the main kitchen." All afternoon and evening, while Maurice the head chef had sulked. Abby was exhausted and would like to have rested, but she was curious about the mysterious Jack Burns. He was a policeman and he didn't look like he was here on vacation. Should she be concerned?

     She invited him to sit while Vanessa brought in tea service on a silver platter, and then discreetly left.

     "It's Hawaiian hazelnut," Abby said as she poured and handed him the china cup. "I hope you like it."

     Jack stirred in cream and sugar and thought of her name—ABBY TYLER—printed in large letters and circled in red on a note among his sister's papers. The name was followed by three exclamation points. But Nina had written nothing further. Was Tyler the anonymous person she was meeting with the night she was murdered?

     "How are you enjoying your stay here, detective?"

     "Call me Jack," he said and then watched her carefully as he said, "Actually, Ms Tyler, I'm not here on vacation. I'm working on a case."

     She brought her cup to her lips. "What sort of case?"

     "Homicide."

     Her coffee did not get touched. She lowered the cup and said, "Is one of my guests a suspect?"

     "More like a
lead
to a suspect. I can't say anything more right now, and I'd rather no one knew. You might say I'm undercover."

     "Certainly, detective," she said as she sipped her coffee. But he saw worry in her eyes. "When did this murder take place?"

     That startled him. Most people asked how and where about a murder, but rarely when. Did she have a specific murder in mind? "A few weeks ago."

     He saw the barest relaxation in her manner. So, there
was
another murder. Something she had been involved in? "The murder victim was Nina burns," he said, watching her for a reaction.

     "Should I know that name?"

     "She was a rather successful businesswoman and well known in the professional community. She was my sister."

     Abby set her cup down. "I'm sorry. How awful for you. No, I have never heard of her. But you think you might find a lead to her murderer here, in my resort?"

     He didn't want to say anything more, and he saw that she was tired. So he drank in silence, commented on the weather, the artwork on her walls, how efficiently she ran her resort, then he stood and said he had to be going.

     He paused to look at the cup cradled in her hands and realized he was not going to manage a way to get it for the fingerprints. He had hoped she would meet him in one of the restaurants where he could take an opportunity to lift her cup or glass. Now he would have to try again.

     He was surprised to find himself looking forward to another meeting with Abby Tyler.

     "If there is anything I can to do help in your investigation," she said at the door.

     "As a matter of fact there is," Jack said, trying not to notice how the silk flowed over her body, the hint of cleavage where the dressing gown opened beneath her throat. "I would like your permission to look around the resort, maybe talk to a few employees." When he saw her alarm, he quickly added, "I would be very discreet. I won't mention murder or that I'm a cop. Just casual conversation."

     She thought for a moment, then said, "Let me give you a security pass. I'll be right back."

     She disappeared into the next room and closed the door. While he waited, he strolled around the spacious living room, impressed by its taste and classiness. When he came to an old fashioned roll top desk he surveyed the feminine pens and notepads and—

     His eyes stopped on a stack of file folders. The top three were labeled
Ophelia Kaplan, Coco McCarthy, Sissy Whitboro.
The three women Nina had wanted to talk to—the three women who had been born the same week as Nina.

     Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he tapped the stack of folders with a fingertip so that he could read the tabs underneath, and he received a jolt when he read:
Nina Burns.

     He stared in shock. Abby Tyler had lied to him.

     Hearing the latch on the door, he quickly stepped away from the desk. Abby came forward holding out a card laminated in plastic. "This will give you access to any area in the resort, detective. I only ask that you be discreet."

     He took the card.

     "Is something wrong?" she asked.

     "No. Nothing. Thank you for the coffee, Ms. Tyler. Good night."

     After Abby closed the door, she turned to Vanessa and said, "Jack Burns makes me nervous."

     "Don't worry. If he was here to arrest you, he'd have done it already."

     Abby forced Jack Burns out of her mind. She had other things to think about. Ophelia Kaplan had arrived earlier and was settled in the Marie Antoinette Suite. Now Abby could go forward with her plan.

     But she must take the next step with extreme caution. One reckless move and all would be lost. Going to her wall safe, she unlocked it and brought out a rolled-up yellowed poster with thumb tack holes in the corners. She remembered the day she had torn it down from a Post Office bulletin board, thirty-three years ago...

     She was in Bakersfield, California, because Mercy had said she heard the warden say to the doctor "Bakersfield is in a hurry." It was 1972 and a young and scared Emmy Lou Pagan, going under a new name, praying the police didn't find her and send her back to prison, went through the phone book and wrote down all the addresses of adoption lawyers and agencies, desperately hoping to find the man and woman who had driven off with her baby. She made discreet inquiries, pretending she was pregnant, saying she needed money, hoping that it would give her a lead on the blackmarket baby ring.

     But by Christmas she still had not found the man in the white Impala and her daughter was now six months old! Abby couldn't ask the authorities for help because they might still be looking for her after the prison fire. They might even think she caused it.

     With each passing day, that lonely year in Bakersfield, Abby's panic had grown. Where was her baby? Who had adopted her? What sort of people adopted babies through a blackmarket service? Abby had tried to find out
when she visited lawyers, telling them she was pregnant. "I want my child to go to good people."

     "We screen our applicants thoroughly," they all said. "We make sure the adoptive couples are stable, financially comfortable, mentally sound."

     Mentally sound! It had not occurred to Abby that unbalanced people who wanted babies would be turned down by a legitimate agency. They would resort to illegal means, getting babies from people who cared only about the money, not the welfare of the children.

     Abby had gone frantic with worry. Was her baby in the hands of crazy people?

     She had been on her way to an agency she found in the Yellow Pages when it had suddenly begun to rain and she had ducked into the post office for shelter, and as she waited for the storm to pass, she saw something that turned her world upside down.

     On the wall above the counter that held various postal and tax forms was a bulletin board pinned with FBI Wanted Posters. Among the pictures of men wanted for armed robbery, murder, and sex offenses was the sharp likeness of a very familiar face. Beneath it, in bold letters: