Legacy of Lies. JoAnn Ross

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      Prologue

      Santa Barbara, California

      April 1958

      It rained the day Eleanor Lord buried her only son. A cold wind, bringing with it memories of a winter just past, blew in from the whitecapped gray sea. Not that the inclement weather kept anyone away; it appeared that the entire town of Santa Barbara had turned out. Rows of black umbrellas arced over the grassy knoll like mushrooms.

      Nothing like a scandal to draw a crowd, Eleanor thought. After all, it wasn’t every day that the scion of America’s largest department store family and his wife were murdered.

      If a double homicide wasn’t enough to set tongues wagging, the fact that the victims were two of the town’s leading citizens added grist to the gossip mill. Then there was Anna....

      Eleanor’s heart clenched at the thought of her missing two-year-old granddaughter. A sob escaped her tightly set lips.

      “Are you all right?” Dr. Averill Brandford asked with concern. He was holding an umbrella over her head; his free arm tightened around her shoulders.

      “Of course I’m not all right!” she snapped, displaying a spark of her usual fire. “My son and his wife are about to be put in the ground and my granddaughter has vanished from the face of the earth. How would you feel under similar circumstances?”

      “Like hell,” he answered gruffly. “Don’t forget, Robert was my best friend. And Anna’s my goddaughter.”

      Averill Brandford and Robert Lord had grown up together. Clad in rainwear and shiny black boots and armed with shovels, rakes and buckets, they’d dug for clams in the coastal tidelands. Robert had been the pitcher of the Montecito High School baseball team; Averill had been the catcher. Together they’d led the team to three district championships in four years. Inseparable, they’d gone on to USC, pledged the same fraternity and only parted four years later when Robert went east to Harvard Law School and Averill to medical school, making his father, the Lords’ head gardener, extremely proud.

      Eventually they were reunited in the Southern California coastal town where they’d grown up. These past horrendous days, Averill had been a pillar of support. He’d arrived at the house within minutes of Eleanor’s frantic phone call, rarely leaving her side as she waited for the kidnapper’s call.

      Tears stung her eyes. Resolutely Eleanor blinked them away, vowing not to permit herself to break down until her granddaughter was home safe and sound.

      She thanked the minister for his inspiring eulogy, not admitting she hadn’t heard a word. Then she turned and began making her way across the mossy turf.

      In the distance the Santa Ynez Mountains towered majestically in emerald shades over the red-roofed city; a few hardy souls were playing golf on the velvet greens of the Montecito Country Club.

      Out at sea, draped in a shimmering pewter mist, a tall masted fishing boat chugged its way up the Santa Barbara Channel. Watching the slicker-clad men on the deck, Eleanor felt pained to realize that people continued to go about their daily lives, that the earth had not stopped spinning simply because her own world was crumbling down around her.

      As she neared her limousine, Santa Barbara’s police chief climbed out of his black-and-white squad car, parked behind it, and approached them. The look on his face was not encouraging.

      “Good afternoon, Chief Tyrell.” Though there were shadows smudged beneath Eleanor’s eyes, her gaze was steady and direct.

      The police chief lifted his fingers to his hat. “Afternoon, Mrs. Lord.” He doffed the hat and began turning it around and around between his fingers. “The FBI located your granddaughter’s nanny in Tijuana, ma’am. Rosa Martinez checked into a hotel under an assumed name.”

      “Thank God, they’ve found her,” Eleanor breathed. “And Anna? Is she well?”

      “I’m afraid we don’t know.”

      “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

      “She didn’t have a child with her when she checked in.”

      “But surely Rosa will tell you where Anna is. Even if she refuses to cooperate, don’t you people have ways of encouraging people to talk?” Thoughts of bright lights and rubber hoses flashed through her mind.

      “I’m afraid that’s impossible.” His voice was heavy with discouragement. “The nanny’s dead, Mrs. Lord.”

      “Dead?”

      “She hung herself.”

      “But Anna...” Eleanor felt Averill’s fingers tighten on her arm.

      “We don’t know,” Chief Tyrell admitted. “With the nanny gone, no witnesses and no word from the kidnappers, we’ve run into a dead end.”

      “But you’ll keep looking,” Averill insisted.

      “Of course. But I’m obliged to tell you, Mrs. Lord,” the police chief said, “that the little girl’s nanny left a suicide note asking for God’s—and your—forgiveness. The FBI’s taking the note as a sign that your granddaughter’s, uh—” he paused, looking like a man on his way to the gallows “—dead.”

      No! For the first time in her life, Eleanor felt faint. She took a deep breath, inhaling the mild aroma of petroleum wafting in from the offshore oil derricks; the light-headed sensation passed.

      She heard herself thank the police chief for his continued efforts, but her voice sounded strange to her own ears, as if it were coming from the bottom of the sea.

      Back at her Montecito estate, she forced herself to remain calm as she accepted condolences from mourners. Finally, mercifully, everyone was gone, leaving her alone with Averill.

      “Are you sure you want to stay here tonight?” His handsome face was stamped with professional and personal concern.

      “Where would I go? This is my home.”

      Needing something to do with her hands, Eleanor absently began rearranging a Waterford vase filled with white lilies. The house was overflowing with flowers; the rich profusion of sweet and spicy scents was giving her a blinding headache.

      “Would you СКАЧАТЬ