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“C’mon now,” chided Rex gently. “Pop’s too tough to die.”
“You’ve got a point there, Rex,” agreed Truman.
“We’ll figure this whole thing out,” Sully assured.
“I just don’t get it,” interjected Trudy, lifting her hands to twine them with Truman’s. “He’s an administrator at Police Plaza. He doesn’t even work on cases. The only logical explanation is that he stumbled onto something.”
Rex raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
Trudy shrugged. “Who knows?”
Rex rifled a hand through the blond wig he wore, wishing it didn’t itch in the summer heat. “Even if Pop discovered someone mishandling funds—say, from the Citizen’s Action account—taking the money himself is a strange way of fixing the problem. He had to know he’d be seen on tape. Maybe he posed intentionally,” Rex mused. “Why wasn’t the money invested, anyway? Isn’t that the responsibility of the Dispersion Committee?”
Sullivan shrugged. “All good questions, Rex. But the fact is, we haven’t got any real clues as to what’s happened. Not yet. All anybody knows for certain is that the boat, named the Destiny, docked at the Manhattan Yacht Club and Pop was on deck when it left the slip.”
Rex visualized the mile-long sidewalk fronting Battery Park, overlooking the Hudson River and the Statue of Liberty. “On Wall Street?” he murmured, imagining his father exiting Police Plaza, then walking along Centre Avenue. To get to the yacht club, he’d have passed City Hall, the Brooklyn Bridge and the Stock Exchange. “That’s a pricey place to dock. Donald Trump and Henry Kravis keep boats there. Who owned it?”
“Registered under a false name,” supplied Sullivan. “I’m still looking.”
Rex shook his head. “We need to find that out.”
“And if your father’s still alive,” added Sheila shakily.
“No bodies have been recovered,” Rex reminded.
When everyone fell silent, Rex cast brooding eyes into the garden, long enough that his gaze unfocused, making the world appear to be a blur of color. Situated on Bank Street in the West Village, the Steeles’ home had been handed down through Sheila’s family, and from the front, despite cheerful green shutters, the stone edifice was gloomy. The courtyard opened onto another world, however. Hidden from the city streets, the garden exploded with the flowers Sheila tended whenever she had spare time left after community work.
Silently, Rex cursed his father. Why didn’t he bother to notice how often his wife’s face was drawn with worry? She’d strived so hard to make their lives wonderful. And now this. Staring into the courtyard where they had played as kids, Rex could hear his father saying, “We’ve got to toughen you up, Rex. When you join the force, we don’t want them thinking you’re a pansy, do we?”
Nope. Which is why Rex had turned out as tough as shoe leather. He had a scar from a knife fight on the Lower East Side. A black belt in karate. Promotions for daring feats of courage. Commendations. He could outshoot any officer in Manhattan. But deep down, he was a lover, not a fighter. It was he, not his brothers, who remembered his mother’s worry when Augustus didn’t make it home from stakeouts. And the excruciating times—sometimes minutes, sometimes hours—between hearing a cop was killed in the line of duty, then being told the victim wasn’t Augustus. No doubt, things were as Trudy said. Augustus had discovered wrongdoing, then set out in high macho style to catch the perpetrator himself.
Now Rex would have to find him. A far cry from the last time Ma called us here, Rex thought ruefully. Only a few weeks ago, she’d received one of the biggest lottery wins in New York City history, and driven by a good heart and desperate desire to see her sons happily married, she’d made an unthinkable deal. If Sullivan, Rex and Truman kept silent about the money and married within three months, she’d divide fifteen million dollars between them. Otherwise, she’d give the money to a wildlife research station on the Galapagos Islands.
She’d looked so beautiful that day, too, with humorous lights dancing in her eyes. Unlike the stiff gray suit she’d chosen for today’s trip to Police Plaza, she’d been wearing a vest embedded with tiny mirrors and a brightly patterned skirt, dressed for her volunteer work with CLASP, an organization for the homeless.
Rex could still hear what Truman had to say once the men were alone. “Fifteen million! That’s five million each.”
Sully had shaken his head. “If Ma hadn’t shown us the letter from the lottery board, I wouldn’t have believed something like this could happen.”
Rex had chuckled. “Don’t be so suspicious, Sully. This is Ma we’re talking about. Not a criminal.”
“Beg to differ,” Truman had countered. “Didn’t Ma say she expects us to find wives? And if we don’t, she’s going to give all that money away to a foundation that saves sea turtles?”
“They also save marine iguanas,” Rex had reminded.
“And don’t forget flightless cormorants,” Sully had said.
“Oh, right,” Truman had whispered. “Flightless cormorants.”
At that, the brothers had stared at each other in shock and, a moment later, they were hooting—clapping each other’s backs and wiping tears of merriment from their eyes.
But Rex had meant what he’d said. As far as he was concerned, the Galapagos Islands could have the money. Like his brothers, he’d been weaned on stories of the mysterious volcanic islands just off the coast of Ecuador. Close to a mainland rich with a history of Inca warriors, Amazon explorers and Spanish conquistadors, nature had been left to thrive on the islands, becoming home to wildlife that existed nowhere else on earth. Rex had spent more than one summer vacation lounging on the rocky beaches, sketching the animals.
“We can’t find soul mates in three months,” he’d argued that day, intrigued by their mother’s inventive way of encouraging them to find spouses.
“She said wives, not soul mates,” Truman had argued.
But for Rex, they were the same. Besides, to him marriage was just a piece of paper. Maybe because he was a lawman, he wanted something that transcended legalities. He wanted mystery. Romance. Poetry. Soul-searing sex. A lover whose warm body would twine with his, melting his heart. Each year, on his annual sojourn, he imagined he might find that woman. He envisioned meeting her while wandering in the dunes near a deserted beach and making love to her in the hot sand while sea foam washed over their bare bodies.
Not that it mattered. Sure, he’d love to see his mother’s face light up with the news that he’d found someone, but Augustus was missing, which meant Rex would be looking for him on Seduction Island—not love.
Rex said a silent goodbye to the month-long hiatus he got once a year. At least he’d already forwarded his mail to Casa Eldora, the two-bedroom cottage he’d rented on Seduction Island in the name Ned Nelson. According to the sexy-voiced Realtor whose laughter sounded like crystal bells and who had introduced herself as Pansy Hanley, the waterfront place was on stilts, its shingles weathered to silver. It was nestled where sand drifts gave way to otherworldly, deeply cratered dunes. Accessible by a private shell road, the house was off the main drag, Sand Road, but still in view of the ocean.
How many times had he spoken to Pansy? Rex couldn’t recall. But they’d established an easy rapport. When they met, Rex had been planning to do what he always did on vacation—drop the mask. Lose the disguises. Trade in his sidearm for a fishing rod. He’d ask Pansy Hanley to Casa Eldora for dinner…maybe more. Now he squeezed his mother’s hand. “If Pop’s out there, I’ll find him, Ma. Don’t worry.”
No doubt, he’d be busy on Seduction Island, just not seducing. So much for this year’s hopes that Pansy Hanley might turn out to be a dream lover.
“PANSY? LILY? Are you home yet? We’ve got to talk!”
Long before she saw her youngest sister, Violet, Pansy Hanley registered her high-pitched voice and instinctively double-checked the jacket to the all-white suit she’d slung around the back of a kitchen chair to make sure it was safe from Vi. Vi, when excited, was the world’s biggest klutz, and Pansy wanted to wear the jacket to meet her client, Ned Nelson. “I’m here,” Pansy called toward the screen door, waiting for Vi to appear in the dunes. “Lily just got home, too—”
“I know it was my turn, so thanks for making lunch,” said Lily, breezing into the kitchen and plopping down at the table. “I was running late.”
As Pansy washed down a bite of her specialty—almond butter on homemade rye—she studied her sister’s string bikini. “If you get bored on the beach, Lily,” Pansy offered dryly, “you can always take off your bathing suit and play cat’s cradle.”
Lily chuckled. “Or hog-tie the nearest beachcomber, rub him down with Coppertone and force him to have sex with me.”
Pansy tried to look scandalized. “Your mind’s in the gutter, Lily.”
Lily merely grinned. “Too bad every guy out there with a metal detector is pushing seventy and too old for us. What’s Vi so upset about?”
“Who knows?” Pansy shrugged as Vi pushed through the screen door, lifting a shoulder bag stuffed with mail onto the kitchen table. “You’re a mess,” gasped Pansy, taking in Vi’s mail carrier uniform—a striped shirt and gray shorts—splashed with syrupy pink liquid. Pansy’s eyes dropped to the soda can in Vi’s hand just as Vi crushed her stubby-nailed fingers around it.
“Don’t tell me,” quipped Pansy. “We’re fresh out of boards you can crack with your head.”
Ignoring the good-humored gibe, Vi set aside the crushed can and lifted the remaining sandwich. Between healthy, gulping bites, she said, “Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to change uniforms, so I’ve only got a minute.”
It was hard to say how the same gene pool turned out three such different females. All the Hanleys had light brown hair, just a shade down from honey blond, but Pansy’s flowed in sumptuous layers past her shoulders. The curviest of the three, she liked wearing a trace of makeup and comfortable skirts, practical but feminine, nothing she’d have to iron. Today’s white suit was an anomaly, chosen because the client she was to meet, Ned Nelson, had sparked her imagination during their phone conversations, though she wasn’t quite sure why.
By contrast to Pansy, the middle sister, Lily, owner of Lily’s Pad, a stationery shop, had cut the same almost-honey hair in a sharply wedged bob, and it had been years since anyone had seen her wearing anything besides a bikini or a linen shift. Vi, the youngest, was deeply tanned from surfing. She kept her hair short—less wind resistance, she claimed—trimming it above ears studded with tiny silver earrings.
Having quickly dispensed with her sandwich, Vi pushed aside the plate she hadn’t bothered to use and said, “Okay. Now for the news. You two aren’t going to believe this!”
“By the looks of the mailbag, you’re about to get fired,” Lily guessed in an awed voice, still gaping at the soda drips.
“Or get more demerits,” agreed Pansy worriedly. “Did any of that soda actually make it to your mouth, Vi?”
“Not much,” admitted Vi. “The second I opened the can, Garth Garrison’s dog—you know, that chocolate Lab he named Gargantua?—well, he came after me like a hound from hell. I ran, of course.”
“Very logical response,” said Lily.
“I didn’t want to use the Mace,” Vi defended. “Not even Gargantua deserves that. Anyway, I accidently dumped the soda in the bag. But all is not lost.” Grinning excitedly, Vi held up a cherry-stained envelope as her sisters looked on with dismayed expressions. The flap had come unglued, and in her effort to save the letter, Vi had slipped it from the envelope.
Pansy groaned. “You didn’t read somebody’s else’s mail, did you?”
“I had to!” Vi protested. “I had no choice!”
“Violet Hanley!” Lily exclaimed in censure.
“Somebody on this island won the lottery,” Vi blurted, untucking her uniform shirt and using it to dry the letter.
“The lottery?” echoed Pansy, thinking Seduction Island didn’t have a lottery. “What lottery?”
“The New York lottery,” Violet explained, her voice hitching. “Whoever it is won fifteen million dollars.”
Pansy stared in shock. “Fifteen million dollars?” she echoed as if replacing the emphasis might make the words make better sense.
Violet nodded, stunned. “Yeah. Somebody on Seduction Island!”
Lily whistled. “And I thought we’d already had enough excitement for one week.”
“You’d think,” said Pansy, glancing through the screen door toward where a sliver of ocean was visible through the dunes. New York and local police were diving from an outboard motorboat, searching through the wreckage of a yacht that had exploded. Pansy had been thoroughly questioned, since she’d witnessed the fireworks, and then, less than an hour ago, she’d gotten another shock. A wooden plank had been salvaged from the wreck, and on it was the vessel’s name, Destiny. It was the same name as the boat on which Jacques O’Lannaise had met Iris Hanley years ago. Pansy’s heart clutched as she worried over the strange coincidence.
“Who won?” Lily asked impatiently.
“That’s the thing,” returned Violet. “I don’t know. When I spilled the soda, the ink ran.”
For a second, even fifteen million dollars didn’t have the power to pull Pansy’s attention to her sisters. Her gaze had shifted from the police and the Destiny to Castle O’Lannaise, the romantic white adobe estate perched on a bluff of the north shore, which could be seen from most points of the island. The property had changed hands countless times and had even been owned by a past president, but it was never inhabited long, which, for Pansy, only served to substantiate rumors that it was haunted by the dark, swarthy ghost of Jacques, whose star-crossed lover’s past was so intimately tied to the Hanleys’.
Despite what finding a buyer for Castle O’Lannaise would mean for the realty business, Pansy loved the palatial estate, and for years she’d dreamed of finding a buyer who’d open it as a summer resort, just as Jacques O’Lannaise had planned. She’d felt that putting history to rest would restore Seduction Island’s flagging economy, and she hoped the lottery winner would be interested in the estate.
“Garth Garrison was my next stop,” Vi was saying. “Since the sorters put the letters in order, he’s probably the winner.” She groaned, thinking of the cranky horror novelist who lived in a tumbledown shack near the water. “I hate to think of him winning so much money,” confessed Vi. “He’s such a jerk.”
“A good-looking jerk,” reminded Lily.
“If you like the artistic type.” Vi rolled her eyes as if to say she’d never registered that Garth was male. “Anyway, you all have to look at the address. See if you can read it. If it gets out that I ruined the mail again, I’ll get fired.”
Pansy sidled next to Lily. All three women stared at the business envelope. “That’s definitely the lottery board’s return address,” Pansy murmured, shifting her gaze to forms the winner was supposed to fill out and sign. “And you can make out the word, ‘Mr.”’
Lily grinned. “The winner’s definitely male.”
“Then he’s married,” said Vi. “He couldn’t be single. We’re not that lucky.”
Summer storms aside, meeting so few eligible men was the one drawback to living on this otherwise idyllic island. Most men were salty retired sailors, and by the ripe old age of ten, the Hanleys had tired of having their hearts broken by seasonal tourists, whom they frequently vowed never to date, although they always did.
“Fifteen million,” Pansy whispered, wondering if a buyer for Castle O’Lannaise was about to materialize.
“This is our zip code,” offered Lily.
“What if Garth Garrison is the winner?” Vi said. “You know, Lily, you’re right. He is kind of cute.” Vi paused. “I mean, in a surly, self-absorbed, narcissistic sort of way.”
Pansy frowned. “Did you ask him if he won?”
Vi gasped. “Are you kidding? He’d tear my head off if he knew I dripped cola into the mailbag. He’s never forgiven me for that one manuscript of his I ruined. And it’s not like he didn’t have that book on disk. Besides which, who’d want to read something called Bloodsuckers?”
“You,” Pansy told her.
Vi would prefer not to admit she was a secret admirer of Garth’s lurid novels. “Well, anyway—” she huffed “—I didn’t ask him. I bet he’d complain to Mr. Vincent, and I’d get fired.”
“We’ll send the letter back to the lottery board,” decided Pansy reasonably. “They’ll know how to redirect it.”
Vi shook her head. “The letter’s dated. If the winner doesn’t get it in time, they’ll lose the money.”
Lily chewed her lower lip. “Could that really happen?”
“I don’t know, but it would be terrible,” Pansy agreed, knitting her brows. She’d hate for an accident such as this to cost a stranger the unbelievable sum of fifteen million dollars. “So much for ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”’
The Hanleys were die-hard fans of the show. “Hang it up, Regis,” whispered Vi. “This guy’s getting fifteen big ones.”
“Maybe a tourist won,” Lily speculated.
Pansy considered. “Nope. It’s a local. Tourists never forward their mail. Usually someone at home picks it up while they’re on vacation.” She chuckled. “Besides, there’re only two tourists.” As a Realtor and part-time tour guide, she knew this was the worst rental season in history. And on Seduction Island, that was saying something.
“We have more than two,” chided Lily.
“Three?” guessed Vi.
“Nearly five hundred,” corrected Pansy. “But given our proximity to Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard…”
Vi raised a staying hand. “Please,” she warned, “don’t start talking about how this island’s cursed, Pansy. Right now, I’m in real, ordinary, everyday trouble. I don’t need to hear about your ghost pirate. C’mon. Does anybody have any bright ideas?”
“Lily,” Pansy said, “you’re on the town council and you’re holding the summer meeting for visiting families tomorrow night. Half the locals come anyway, so we could announce this. We’ll just say…that I found the letter.”
“If no one claims it, we’ll post it on one of the bulletin boards. At the grocery store or something,” said Vi in relief. “Perfect. Can you believe someone on our island won fifteen million?”
The Hanleys, of course, knew Seduction Island was public and didn’t really belong to them, but ever since Winston Hanley had arrived in the seventeen hundreds and built the house the women now shared, Hanleys had been taking responsibility for the island and its inhabitants. Besides, everybody knew the island hadn’t become a city dweller’s getaway, despite its proximity to New York City, because Jacques O’Lannaise cursed it when Iris Hanley hadn’t married him years ago. After that, every Hanley had felt doubly responsible for whatever went wrong.
Lily gasped. “What if Lou Fairchild won?”
“Your fellow town councilman?” scoffed Vi. “You have no sense of irony, Lily. It has to be Garth Garrison. Someone as nice as Lou Fairchild would never win so much money.”
“It’s a shame Lou’s not better looking,” sighed Lily.
That was an understatement. Lou Fairchild, despite his name, had a face only a mother could love. But Pansy barely heard. Once more, she was imagining buying Castle O’Lannaise and turning it into the romantic resort it was meant to be. Suddenly, she glanced at her watch. “Oh, no! I’ve got to run,” she said with a start, quickly rising and grabbing her jacket. “I’m meeting Ned Nelson.”
“The guy renting Casa Eldora?” Lily asked, using the name of one of the rental cottages on the water.
“That’s the one.” Pansy had started hoping Ned would be as sexy as he sounded on the phone. Not that a mere man could compare with the fantasies she’d had about her favorite ghost, of course. Pausing at the door, Pansy traced her fingers over the screen, a slow smile tilting the corners of her mouth when she saw Castle O’Lannaise in the distance. “Whoever won the lottery is going to buy that castle,” she announced, excited prickles of certainty washing over her skin.
