Stolen (9 page)

O
UT IN THE DISTANCE, A THIN
fog drifted in patches over the harbor. The slate-gray sea seemed to lift up like the edge of a bowl to meet the dulled cotton of the sky. Only the bright sails of pleasure craft riding the ocean waves brought any color to the scene.

An elderly man in faded blue coveralls stood guard over the marina gate. He watched Molly as she walked along the pier. Her heels clacked against the rough wood.

The marina was old and in need of refurbishing. Many of the buildings, warehouses and offices were weathered and gray. Almost all of the color had drained away, leeched out by the sun and the constant damp. Seagulls and terns flocked across the pier, the boats' and ships' rigging, and the buoys that marked the various sections of the harbor.

“Can I help you, mum?” The man stood on the other side of the locked gate, a Members Only sign prominently welded to the wrought iron. Molly noticed the knife and net scars on his hands, and then saw he held a new shiny black walkie-talkie.

“I'm a member.” Molly took her identification card from her handbag and showed it to the man. She and Michael kept a cabin cruiser at the marina.

The man looked at the card. Gray stubble knotted his lined cheeks. “Your boat ain't docked here, mum.”

“No. I'm here to see a friend on the
Crystal Dancer.
”

With a nod, he returned Molly's identification card.
“Yes, mum. We just have to be careful. Got a lot of strangers in town right now, and there's all manner of things going on.”

“I understand.” Molly waited till the man unlocked the gate, then strode through. The wind whipped around her, chilling her and filling her nostrils with the brine smell of the sea and the odor of decomposing fish.

On the docks, fishermen worked their hauls. Heavy blades chopped through tuna and other fish with meaty thunks against the thick wooden slabs. Nets hung from rigging, some of it still dripping water in machine gun–fire drips. Pop music and hardcore rock warred with the cries of the gulls and terns.

Molly felt out of place around the fishermen. She always did. Michael, on the other hand, could mix in with anyone, including the close-mouthed individuals that mined the sea for a living. On occasion, he had gone with some of the men for a day or two at a time when the fish were running. He loved new experiences and so far she hadn't seen him turn away from anything.

But she enjoyed the atmosphere of the area. The marina and the harbor always summoned up images of Blackpool's past. All she had to do was gaze off in the distance and she could imagine pirate ships and privateers sailing into port.

Michael, too, was fascinated by the legends of the place. History always seemed to call out to him and hurl his imagination into overdrive.

But Molly had fallen in love with the romance and mystery of the town. So many stories yet remained to be told.

Like the one about the train robbery in 1940.

Crystal Dancer
sat at anchorage near the end of the
dock. The boat's position told Molly that she was a visitor to the area—a resident would have had a closer berth.

The boat was a sixty-footer, sleek and clean. She rode the water well, balanced and poised. Her white hull had yellow and blue stripes that appeared freshly painted.

Molly followed the narrow planking that ran alongside the boat. Farther out, the pier stretched uneasily, more at the mercy of the sea as it swayed atop shifting pilings.

“Hello?” Molly gazed up at the yacht.

A man in dress whites sauntered over to the side in a rolling gait that offered mute testimony that he'd spent years at sea. He looked like he was in his late thirties or early forties, handsome and clean cut.

“Good morning,” he called down from the railing.

“My name is Molly Graham. I'm here to talk with Simon Wineguard, if he's available.”

“What business do you have with Mr. Wineguard?” The smile remained in place and the man maintained his polite demeanor.

“Just give him my name, please.”

“Aye, ma'am. I'll see if Mr. Wineguard is aboard.”

“If you were any kind of ship's crew, I'd think you'd know that without having to check.”

For a moment she feared the man had taken offense at her words, then his smile spread. “Aye, ma'am. I suppose you're right.” He slipped a cell phone from his pocket and made a call. After a brief conversation, he put the phone away and returned his focus to Molly. “If you'll move over a bit, I'll run out a gangplank and we'll pipe you up. As it happens, we do have a Mr. Wineguard aboard. Perhaps it's
your
Mr. Wineguard.”

“Wouldn't that be fortuitous?” Molly didn't bother to curb her sarcasm. She took a couple steps away.

The man maneuvered a metal gangplank onto the pier,
bridging the expanse of sea between the berth wall and the boat's hull. Black friction patches on the gangplank provided a more sure-footed passage.

Molly walked up, conscious of her heels.

“Mr. Wineguard and Miss Roderick are downstairs in the salon,” the man said as she stepped on board. He pulled the gangplank back up and put it away.

“You told them I was here?”

“Aye, ma'am.” The sailor tugged on his short-billed cap. “I'm Hugh Dorrance, captain of this vessel. Now, if you'll follow me, I'll take you to Mr. Wineguard and Miss Roderick.”

 

“M
OLLY
?” S
IMON SAT ON A PLUSH
white couch across from an attractive young woman who Molly judged to be in her mid to late twenties.

The cabin was as elegant and fully outfitted as a living room in a house. Only the stainless-steel galley and numerous windows on the wall gave away its true nature. The couch formed a horseshoe around an equally white low table.

“Good morning, Simon.” Molly focused on the woman seated across from the director. “I didn't mean to interrupt, but I wanted to speak with you as soon as possible. You weren't returning my calls or Miss Abernathy's. I thought something might have happened to your mobile.”

The woman spoke. “It's no interruption, Mrs. Graham.” She was beautiful and self-assured. Bone-white hair cascaded across her bare shoulders. Pale blue eyes held a rounded innocence that Molly just couldn't bring herself to believe in. Her body was long and lithe, that of an athlete, and she wore designer jeans tucked into chocolate calf-high boots, and a chocolate scoopneck blouse. A silver
and sapphire-clustered necklace looped in the hollow of her throat.

“Thank you.”

Flowing to her feet effortlessly, the woman offered a hand. “Evidently Simon has lost all sense of manners. I'm Synthia Roderick. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Graham. Simon has told me a lot about you.”

“You have a very lovely boat, Miss Roderick.”

“Call me Syn. Everyone does. Please sit. Would you like some tea to take the chill off?”

“Thank you. And you can call me Molly.” Stepping into the sunken living room area, Molly sunk into one end of the horseshoe-shaped couch, across from Syn Roderick.

Syn nodded and sat back down, curling her booted legs under her. Almost immediately a young woman in kitchen whites brought over a cup and an individual teapot and placed them in front of Molly.

Molly glanced at Simon and saw the director was somewhat at a loss for words. He appeared irritated and nervous at the same time.

“How did you find me?”

“It seems Inspector Paddington is having us both followed.”

“He's what?” Simon cursed and looked more anxious. He pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger.

Syn grinned impishly and cocked an eyebrow at Simon. “The police are tailing you?”

“Yes.” Molly was disturbed by the reaction of Syn and Simon. What did Simon have to be worried about? And there was certainly nothing amusing about the events that had triggered Paddington's interest.

“Did the police follow you here?” Simon had paled a little.

“One of the constables trailing me told me where you were.”

Syn laughed then. “Delicious. Your little production is definitely going to get a lot more press than you'd expected, Simon.”

With a scowl, Simon shook his head and glared at the young woman. “This isn't good, Syn. Not good at all.”

“Why? What are we doing wrong? Nothing, that's what.” She dipped a finger in her drink, swirled it about, then sucked the liquid off. “You're so negative, Simon.”

We?
Molly noted the plural pronoun and immediately wondered about that. If Synthia Roderick was involved in the documentary, Molly should have known. She shifted her attention to Simon. “Why isn't it good?”

Simon shrugged, but the effort wasn't relaxed or nonchalant. “I don't want to be distracted during the filming. That's all.”

Syn tapped her glass with an elegant fingernail, still smiling. “I would think the death of that unfortunate woman would already be a big distraction. Especially if it's connected to your documentary.”

“It's not connected. And this is not something to be so carefree about.” Simon drained his drink. He held up the glass and the uniformed woman immediately came for it.

“Does the inspector believe the woman's death was tied to our film?” Syn studied Molly.

“I don't know. Inspector Paddington plays things very close to the vest.”

“In a town this small,” she said, “the police would be stressed to capacity tailing people. Not to mention keeping track of all the media types turning over rocks for a story.”

“The police seem up to the task at the moment.” Molly didn't bother to explain. “Did I interrupt anything?”

Simon accepted a fresh drink from the young woman. Given the glaze over his eyes, Molly was sure he'd been drinking more than he should have.

“Not at all.” Syn set her glass aside. The attendant came forward to remove it, then hesitated. Syn waved her off. “Just two old friends catching up.”

Molly didn't buy the “friends” act. Simon was easily twice Synthia Roderick's age.

“Syn is practically family.” Simon nodded at the young woman. “I knew her parents quite well.”

“I've always thought of Simon as a doting uncle.” She favored him with a smile.

“Are you going to be in Blackpool long?” Molly asked.

Syn shrugged. “It depends on how busy Simon gets with his work. I bore easily. I own this boat and the crew is full-time. I travel wherever and whenever I wish.”

And you wished to be here today.
“Doesn't sound boring.”

“Trust me, I avoid boring whenever I can.”

Simon cleared his throat. “Was there anything you needed, Molly?”

Molly considered confronting Simon with Joyce Abernathy's suspicions about Simon's true motives for doing the documentary. But she was reluctant to do that in front of Syn, or while Simon was intoxicated. She shook her head. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I am.”

“And to make sure we're on track to begin shooting principal footage tomorrow.”

Simon nodded. “Provided we can keep the media away.” He pointed toward Syn with his glass. “Privacy is the chief
reason I took Syn up on her invitation to come visit. I wasn't getting much at the B and B. And my mobile kept ringing. That's why I finally turned it off.”

“Not having a mobile number to reach you at could be problematic.” Molly clamped down her irritation at Simon's lack of consideration.

Syn scooped up a Lana Marks silver crocodile bag, easily worth six figures, and drew a business card from it. The card was surprisingly simple but heavily embossed and perfumed. It read SYN and gave her mobile number.

“If you have trouble getting Simon, you can call me. I plan on keeping up with him over the next few days. At least until the circus goes away.”

“Thank you.” Molly put the card in her own clutch and stood to go. “You were aware, Simon, that Miss Abernathy spent the night in the Blackpool jail because she was trying to protect you?”

Simon hesitated, then scratched his chin. “I thought she would only have been questioned a bit by the inspector.”

“She didn't get out till this morning.”

“How sad for her,” Syn said. “Jail can be
so
boring.”

Personal experience?
Molly barely restrained herself from asking the question.

“I'm sure she's all right.” Simon waved his hand dismissively. “During the years of our association, Miss Abernathy has always proven herself to be resourceful.”

“Despite last night, she's concerned about you,” Molly said.

Simon let out a labored breath. “She's loyal. She's always been extremely loyal. That's gotten her into trouble before, I'm afraid.” He gave her a brief smile. “But if there's anything else you need, Molly, feel free to call that mobile number. I'll be in touch.”

Knowing she'd been dismissed, Molly said her goodbyes and left, angrier than when she'd arrived. And she was very disturbed by the sudden change in Simon Wineguard.

“H
ELLO, LOVE.”

Michael stood in one corner of the Blackpool library near a model replica of the town as he spoke to Molly on his mobile. Near as he could be certain, the model was over two hundred years old.

Several of the buildings had changed over the intervening centuries, but Glower Lighthouse, Crowe's Nest—the ancestral home of Charles Crowe—Widow's Peak, the library and the house where the police department had taken up residence all stood out. The firehouse was even on the same block, except that in the model the fire brigade was depicted with horse-drawn wagons instead of modern engines. Tall-masted ships stood in the harbor.

Each time he'd come to the library, Michael had been drawn to the model. It was one of the most intricately designed creations he'd ever seen and he couldn't imagine the amount of time that had gone into its construction. The man who had painstakingly built the miniature town had to have been obsessed. According to the small brass plaque, it was Charles Crowe, the Crowe family patriarch, who had done the work himself back in the eighteenth century. Michael doubted that and wondered if there had been a collaborator somewhere along the way.

But then, Blackpool was a town founded on secrets. As a pirate port, the residents had jealously guarded their vices and crimes. Michael hadn't been able to get any straight
information about the ruins of Ravenhearst Manor or what had happened to its owner—Emma Ravenhearst. Puzzles bothered him till he solved them—but he had enough puzzles to deal with without adding Emma Ravenhearst and a ghost to the mix.

“I hope you're having a better day than I am.” Molly sounded vexed.

“Did you locate your wayward director?” Michael leaned against the glass case housing the model and looked out into the harbor. Only a few remnants of the fog remained.

“I did. Not where I'd expected. It seems he's got new lodgings with an old friend I hadn't known about. If it wasn't for Paddington's men, I might not have found him till he was ready to be found.”

“It's good to know that they're capable. Is Simon hiding out?”

“Not especially. But he didn't seem thrilled to see me.”

“I can't imagine anyone having that reaction to you.”

“You're sweet.”

Michael shifted as he transferred his gaze back to the tiny town. “I can understand Simon trying to get away from the media.”

“Have you ever heard of Synthia Roderick?”

He could hear the sound of her car starting. “Syn?”

“Michael, do
not
tell me you know her.”

“Ah…we've met, love. Nothing more. She was interested in investing in the game studio a couple of years before I met you.”

“Are you sure that was all she was interested in?”

Michael reflected on the evening he'd spent with Syn Roderick and thought perhaps there were some things it was best to keep Molly in the dark about. Syn had made
it clear that she found him very appealing and she hadn't been easily convinced that the “appeal” wasn't mutual.

“She's a flighty one, love. Definitely not my cup of tea. Why did you ask about her?”

“Simon's with her. She has a very large boat,
Crystal Dancer,
out in the harbor.”

“Interesting.” Michael took his finger back from the glass display case. “Blackpool isn't a place she'd just happen by.”

“She didn't just ‘happen by.' She came to see Simon. As I said, apparently they're old friends.”

“Aha… Well, I've got news, too. I researched the Sterling family,” Michael said. “I've found out some things that I'm curious about. Is it close enough to lunch that we could get together and talk?”

“Sure. I'll meet you at the Smokehouse.”

 

L
OCATED ON
B
ELL
S
TREET
, the Smokehouse stood three stories tall and offered seating on verandas around the second and third floor. Patio dining was available on a flagstone addition in the alley between it and the clothing shop next door. Most patrons preferred the scenic views from the upper floors.

Molly sat at a small table near the railing overlooking Bell Street. Brass bell-shaped torches lined the narrow street and gleamed in the noonday sun. The day had warmed up considerably and she sat without a coat, basking in the rays. Idly, she straightened the yellow rose in the table setting.

“Put that between your teeth, love, and this will be one of those lunches I've always dreamed of.”

Glancing up, Molly spotted Michael winding through the close-set tables toward her. He had his leather jacket flung over one shoulder. His casual dress of jeans, black
soccer jersey and amber aviator sunglasses made him seem rugged.

“All manly and you brought a jacket?” Molly smiled at him.

Michael leaned in for a kiss, then hung the jacket over the back of his chair and sat. “I brought the jacket for you. In case you get a chill.”

“You've got a good heart, Michael Graham.” Molly folded her arms and looked at him. “Syn Roderick.”

“So that's the way it's to be, eh?”

“I'm curious.”

The waitress approached the table and set a pot of tea in front of Michael and a cup of hot chocolate before Molly.

“I took the liberty of ordering for us.” Molly sipped the hot chocolate delicately so she wouldn't scald her tongue. “You're having lobster. I'm having fish. I thought we could share.”

“Brilliant.” Michael shifted in his chair and got comfortable. “Syn Roderick is from old money. Her parents died in a plane wreck while she was in college and she assumed control of the family businesses. Mostly she contents herself to staying out of the boardrooms and letting her majordomos run the corporations. And getting as much ink in the tabloids as possible.”

“But occasionally she takes an interest.”

Michael nodded. “She does. Generally she tries to acquire new industries outside the periphery of her holdings. Her majordomos tend toward the stodgy. She likes to think she's innovative. After all, she does have a masters in business, and she's very intelligent. Make no mistake about that.”

“She hides it very well.”

Michael flashed her a grin. “People, especially other
women, tend to discount any good sense Syn might have.”

“Out of jealousy.”

“Out of prejudice. That young, that beautiful, how could she be smart, as well? It's hardly fair.”

“It doesn't happen often.”

Michael covered her hand briefly with his. “It's been my good fortune to chance upon such women more than most.”

“You're very slippery.”

“Syn is also notoriously fickle.” Michael blew on his tea and sipped it. “The society pages constantly pair her up with rock stars, athletes and movie stars.”

“And video game designers?”

“I can assure you that I have never been in the society pages.” He shrugged. “She's concerned mostly with herself, which is what surprises me about her having any kind of relationship with Simon Wineguard.”

“Not her type?”

“Syn isn't looking for a father figure and she isn't famous for her charity. Simon doesn't move in her circles.”

Molly considered that. “Then why is he staying on her boat?”

“Why don't you ask her?”

“Maybe I will. We're going to be working on this documentary for the next month. If Syn Roderick is going to play a part in managing Simon's time, I'll need to know what I'm dealing with.”

“All right, but I'll warn you now that she may simply disappear tomorrow of her own volition.” Michael took a small notebook and digital camera from his jacket pocket. “As for the fruits of my research today, it's my considered opinion that Bartholomew Sterling is not a nice chap.”

Molly lifted her eyebrows and waited.

“Evidently Simon is likely correct in that Sterling is associated with organized crime.” His gaze flicked over his notes.

Though her husband had committed most of the information to memory—he had a steel trap for a mind—he used the notes to keep his presentation organized.

“The man muddles in a lot of things, but he hasn't yet gotten caught in anything his solicitors couldn't get him out of. Or that he hasn't had a fall guy for.”

“What connection does he have to the train robbery?”

Michael shrugged. “Other than his young cousin's unfortunate death when the train was wrecked, I haven't found anything.”

“Did the Sterling family lose more than Chloe Sterling?”

“Definitely.” Michael flipped a few pages and found what he was looking for. “Several paintings from the Sterling collection were stolen in the robbery. Evidently the family had been collectors for generations.”

“Bankability. Even in tough economies, art remains almost unaffected by market fluctuations.”

“Whoever the robbers were, they got away with millions of pounds when they disappeared.”

The waitress arrived with their plates and served them. After replenishing their drinks, she quickly left.

Michael tucked into his food and ate with a hearty appetite. Molly watched him and wondered again what kind of boy he had been. Seeing his pure enthusiasm for his food, she felt certain the distance between adult and child bridged easily.

A shadow suddenly fell over her, blotting out the sun and bringing a slight chill.

“Excuse me.” The voice sounded like it came from the deep hollows of a cave.

Glancing up, Molly saw a large man standing behind her chair. Across from her, Michael pushed himself to his feet. His face was hard, all humor gone. A step brought him to Molly's side.

The man must have been nearly six and a half feet tall and was broad and heavy-set. He looked like a weight lifter or a professional boxer. Molly opted for boxer because his nose had obviously been broken a number of times. Despite his build, his suit fit him well. His blond hair was short and neat and his face was vaguely childlike. His eyes, though, were chipped flint.

“Something I can do for you, mate?” Michael spoke calmly, but Molly sensed the tension in him.

The big man smiled, showing gapped front teeth. “Didn't mean to interrupt, Mr. Graham. I was hoping to have a word with you and your lovely wife.”

The other patrons were watching them closely. Molly scanned the patio for her police escort and realized the constables had remained parked below. They couldn't see what was happening.

“I don't know you, mate.” Michael's gaze never turned away from the man.

“Conway.” He didn't offer a hand and faced Michael squarely. “Hershel Conway.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Conway?”

“My employer wishes to talk to you when you have some free time.” Conway extended a large hand, a business card dwarfed within it. “He said you can call day or night.”

Without glancing at the card, Michael plucked it from the man's big hand. “We're busy at the moment. I can't promise anything.”

Conway grimaced, looked like he was going to say something, then shrugged. “Mr. Sterling thought meeting
with your wife—with both of you—might prove beneficial. Mutual interests. That sort of thing.”

“We'd prefer to get back to our meal now.” Michael spoke levelly.

Conway's jaw muscles flexed as if he were swallowing something unpleasant. “Sure. You have a fine day, Mr. Graham. You, too, Mrs. Graham.” He turned like a large automaton and lumbered away.

After Conway had disappeared inside the restaurant, Michael sat back down. A bleak expression pulled at his features.

“Lovely.”

Molly leaned forward and reached for the business card her husband held. “He did say
Sterling.
”

“Yes.”

Bartholomew Sterling's business card was cluttered with information regarding investments and various enterprises. A mobile number was scrawled on the reverse.

“You're getting popular, love.” Michael pushed his unfinished plate away. “With all the wrong people.”