Cross My Heart Page 18

  “Yes. I have a new job opportunity.”

  “Really? What?”

  I cleared my throat. “I can’t really talk about it yet. I need to wrap up my last job and notify some people. It’s a delicate situation.”

  “Sounds like a big deal. Congratulations.” She raised her glass and flashed that plump, sexy smile of hers at me again, which made me smile.

  “Thanks. I’m still not sure I’m making the right choice.”

  “Are you unhappy where you are?”

  “No.”

  “So why leave?” she asked.

  I sighed. “That’s the complicated part. It’s a tremendous opportunity.”

  “A promotion?”

  “A bigger job for sure.”

  My vague reply beat back her line of questions.

  “Oh, well, you must be excited to move back. Does your family still live here?”

  “Yes. Well, my mother and my brother do. My sister lives all over. She’s quite the nomad.”

  Nisha tilted her head with a grin. “What does that mean? You sound suspicious.”

  I laughed. “Of Jazz? No. My brother, Nate, maybe, but not Jazz. It’s just that she majored in biology, went to medical school, and practiced family medicine for a few years. Then she had this big change of heart. She sold her practice and ran off to an ashram.”

  Nisha’s brows shot up to the space between the edges of her sunglasses and her hat. “Like in India?”

  “Eventually, but first California. She studied yoga and all this mystical…” I swallowed the word “nonsense” before continuing. “Mystical stuff. Now, she travels around doing holistic health workshops and life coaching. I don’t get the 180.”

  “Is is such a big difference? She shifted from wanting to be one kind of healer to another.”

  The simplicity of Nisha’s comment made sense, but I didn’t get how Jasmine had gone from relying on peer-reviewed medicine to having a tarot card collection.

  “You’re right. And she’s built a great business for herself,” I admitted.

  “Unlike Nate.”

  I peered at Nisha over top of my sunglasses. “What makes you say that?”

  “You said you’re not suspicious about Jasmine and implied you are suspicious of your brother.”

  I shuffled my feet on my pool lounger. “Man, your journalist brain catches everything.”

  She sat up straighter, then fiddled again with her hat.

  I continued, “Nate’s a good kid.”

  “How old is he?”

  A crack of laughter erupted from my throat before I could answer. “Thirty-two.”

  “So not a kid.” She smirked.

  “No.”

  “He’s the youngest?”

  “Yes, and plays that role to a T.”

  “Hey,” Nisha shot back. “I’m the youngest.”

  “Ahh, and you’re the responsible one.”

  A shadow of emotion crossed her face before it brightened back up again. “I am.”

  That must be why her niece lived with her, but given her reaction to being called out as the responsible one, I didn’t broach the subject.

  “So am I,” I said. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers,” she giggled, and we bumped margaritas. “I never got an answer to my question. Are you glad to be coming back?”

  “I am. It’ll be good. Mom is getting older. Nate could probably use some oversight—”

  “You know, I have a feeling he’s not going to see it that way. He’s going to hate having his square peg brother up in his grill.”

  Square peg? The term needled me. “Is that what I look like to you?”

  Nisha took off her dark glasses and glared at me with an intensely serious look that was only partly playful. “Absolutely not. Someone has keep shit together. I’d just bet that he’s not going to see it that way. The—I won’t say irresponsible. I don’t know Nate,” she laughed. “And I’m probably projecting. But the less-than-totally-responsible ones never see it that way.”

  “You’re right again.”

  “That’s what it means to be the responsible one.” The mirth disappeared from her laughter this time. She had troubles. Maybe something that James didn’t understand—or know about.

  Nisha Donovan wasn’t cold. She was circumspect and kept a tight circle. She made sure someone was worth her time because she had so much life to manage.

  I had no problem with that. Maybe because I was cocky. Sweeping another eye over her taut shape, I grinned. Being worth a woman’s time was my right in my wheelhouse.

  27

  Nisha

  Cocktails with Carter proved useful even though he essentially said nothing.

  I ignored the grime coating my psyche and focused on the notes I jotted down after the barbecue. His new job had to be at J.P. Star Energy. Only a family obligation would make a man like that leave a position he’d fought for alongside his beloved mentor.

  I called Libby and, after chatting for a few minutes, transitioned to a few questions to get confirmation.

  “Hey, my friend wanted me to ask you: the guy who was at that family meeting, have you seen him again?”

  Since she was at work, her tone shifted. “Umm, I’m setting up an office for our new exec.”

  “I thought that meeting was about the family estate? Are you sure it wasn’t just an interview?” I was ninety percent sure of the answer, but I had to make sure.

  “Definitely the former, not the latter,” she insisted.

  “But he came out of it with a job?”

  “Yes. It seems past leadership set that in motion.”

  “J.P. Star? In his will?”

  “Yes. That’s the speculation.”

  The anxious words clipped over the phone line, echoing my own nerves. Why? How the family was reacting? What the mood was around the office?

  More and more questions pulsed in my mind, but Libby wasn’t supposed to know I was the reporter. I also didn’t want to push her. She’d given me a gold mine already.

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” I said. “I’ll tell Cindy I’m not going to pass information back and forth anymore. I know the money is nice, but I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “Good.” A whoosh of relief flooded Libby’s voice. “I can’t repeat the exchange I had with your…er…resource. I’m getting things in order for my new boss.”

  “You’re going to be his assistant.”

  Her chipper attitude returned. “I’ve never run an exec’s desk before. Executive assistant is a big promotion. I’ll be working one on one, not just doing all the overflow admin work.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Thanks.” She lowered her voice. “I need this job, and I’d like to keep it.”

  “I get it.” I pulled a napkin from the takeout bag on my desk and wiped my hands, uneasy about tricking her and stressing her out.

  “Let’s catch up over drinks sometime and talk about anything but work,” she suggested.

  “Sounds good. I need to go anyway. I have a meeting.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I walked down the hall to my boss’ office. Danny wanted a rundown of the stories I was working. Or story. Other than the few local community assignments that justified my having an office at the paper, the Stars were the only thing I had at the moment. At least the puzzle pieces were sliding together.

  I knocked on the partially open door before entering. He waved me in and pointed to the chair opposite the desk. His boisterous laugh reverberated off the towers of bookshelves behind him. Then, he barked a goodbye and hung up, barely taking a breath before lobbing his first question.

  “Are you still working angles on the Star family?” His eyes focused on me like green laser beams. Their protruding roundness emphasized by rapid blinking that stretched and refolded the saggy skin behind his glasses.

  He had the look of every weathered beat reporter I knew. Too many nights drinking and smoking with colleagues and sources at watering holes downt
own etched crags into their faces. Then, the local paper downsized half of its staff twenty years ago and sent its reporters scrambling for work, Danny included. That’s how he ended up at the tabloid.

  He rustled piles of paper on his desk, awaiting my answer. I pulled out my iPad and opened my notes.

  “Yes, I’m still working the Star story.”

  “I saw an expense for a tip. What was it?” he asked.

  “Someone I met last year works at the company. They had some info that I hoped would turn into a lead,” I explained, trying not to get more specific.

  I definitely didn’t want Danny or, God forbid, Shayna knowing about Libby and exposing her, even accidentally. Our sources were our own, but that didn’t mean Danny wouldn’t press. As he loved to say: if one of us got hit by a bus, the paper needed to survive.

  “Did you get the lead? Come on. Two grand is a lot of dough,” he grumbled.

  “There was someone unexpected at a meeting about J.P. Star’s estate, but I haven’t found a connection,” I lied.

  Besides talking to Libby, I spent the morning going through mid-century news clippings, tracing the dead man’s life and career back to the beginning. He bought his first stretch of land and mineral rights from the widow of his old boss. That same widow, Lucinda Canfield, later started an interior design business in Dallas.

  Interestingly, those tidbits came from The Dallas Post’s own archives. The paper started as a society and leisure publication after the war. We did a profile on Lucinda and featured photos of her designs in fashionable homes around town. One of her hallmarks was high-quality linens with custom needlework.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting wonderful artisans all over the world,” she told the paper.

  All over the world or from her childhood? Lucinda Canfield was born Lucinda Love in Gypsy, Oklahoma, which is a few miles from Bristow, Oklahoma—the birthplace of Etta Cross, née Williams. Superstar needlepointer.

  Etta appeared in a photograph with Lucinda in the early ‘60s, identified only as “a seamstress at Canfield Designs.” You could only see half her shadowed face in the background of the grainy black-and-white image, but if you knew her profile as I now did, recognizing her was easy.

  Lucinda closed her interior design studio when she remarried in the mid-1960s, but a new design business popped up in the same location, fronted by a Frenchman and Grandma Etta. An antique shop still operated there in a strip of buildings that, according to city records, belonged to Carter’s mother.

  Love’s Crossing, the ranching property deeded from Lucinda’s father to her husband after her first marriage, now belonged to the J.P. Star estate. Etta probably worked there in the Canfields’ house, which wasn’t in west Texas. The New York-based sports reporter got that detail wrong. Love’s Crossing was in central Texas, near Llano.

  At every turn, the story around J.P. Star and Etta Cross wound together. One piece of information I hadn’t found was evidence of Etta’s marriage to a Mr. Cross, and I was beginning to think he was a phantom.

  I told Danny none of this, and I didn’t want to.

  “You’re holding out on me.” His eyes narrowed.

  I opened my mouth to object, but he cut me off.

  “That’s a good thing,” he barked. “Otherwise, I’d be pissed at you for wasting money, but I need a story. A big one. If I don’t get one in the next two weeks, guess who’s reimbursing the paper?”

  As if I could afford that right now.

  “You’ll get your story this week,” I promised and swallowed hard. “I’m close to something explosive.”

  Danny spun in his chair and whooped. “I knew it. Shayna’s chasing Anthony Star-Fucker or whatever his name is, but you’re getting the goods. I can tell.”

  “Star-Hunter. His father is Ken Hunter. Married to Theresa Star hyphen Hunter,” I explained.

  Did he do any footwork on stories anymore? At least Shayna had made contact with the family. We fed the filth to this fucking beast, and he sat on his narrow ass all day, throwing us pennies in return.

  I clutched the arm of my chair and tried to calm down. This wasn’t Danny’s fault. I signed up for this mess, and now, I had to find my way out of it.

  Trailing back through the years of news and public records, I found bits and pieces of the Cross family’s lives, and salacious as they were, they didn’t deserve to be reduced to gossip. The heady fun of unraveling the mystery pushed me forward, but I couldn’t publish most of it. I didn’t want to.

  That grimy feeling came back again.

  I hated this job. I hated myself in this job. And I was stuck because I needed to finish it. Carter made his choices because he cared about his family, and I had to do the same.

  Two or three front-page pieces. I’d keep them as focused on the Stars as possible. That’s it. That would give me enough financial leeway to say goodbye.

  James had offered me some work before, and maybe Carter really knew some people who could use a freelance writer. I’d text both of them as soon as I got back to the office.

  “Whatever their names are, I need details. Soon. We can’t afford to let this story go cold. Sales—on the newsstand, online subscribers, web traffic and ads—are insane. J.P. Star’s death is our hottest story in years. We need to keep interest going with something fresh.” He buggy green eyes flashed with excitement.

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll have something for you by the end of next week to run the following Monday.”

  “Good. I’d hate to have to fire you,” he sneered.

  I grimaced.

  “Kidding. Have a sense of humor, Donovan.”

  “Sure.” I scooped up my tablet and hurried out.

  28

  Carter

  John Peter Star died trussed up like a Christmas goose and with a ball gag in his mouth.

  He was 90.

  Waves of news crews descended on Dallas to cover the ignominious death of the oil billionaire turned magnate of international business. His death dropped him precipitously from the Forbes list, bumping up friends and some rivals–which would have made John Peter grumble curses through quick puffs on one of his favorite Cuban cigars.

  Police found the elderly man’s body in a five-star hotel room on Christmas Eve after an as-yet-unknown woman called 9-1-1 then split the scene of sexual adventure. Perhaps no one would have known had a tabloid reporter from The Dallas Post not been tipped off by cops and, in the commotion, snuck into the hotel and into the penthouse suite. And snapped a photo. And sold said photo to a national online gossip site.

  Now everyone knew. It was all anyone could talk about.

  I’d thought the entire thing hilarious and recounted each funny fact of the news story with my cackling childhood friends at the barbershop I frequented whenever I came back to town for the holidays.

  When a report notes that police “discovered” you, that alone signals trouble. Dead was, of course, not a good sign. Arms bound. Naked from the waist down. A missing lady friend. The gag.

  I rolled with laughter, doubling over and practically out of the barber’s chair. It was an immature reaction, considering I’d be forty on my next birthday. But wild stories of wealth and perversion served the universal need to bring the well-heeled back to earth. All good fun.

  Then, six months later, I received the phone call.

  “There’s a legal matter I need to discuss with you. Are you available to meet in my Dallas office next Thursday afternoon? It’s vital that we speak,” an attorney informed me.

  “Why?”

  “I’d rather not say over the phone.”

  I rolled my eyes and geared up to tune the man out, reviewing figures on my computer screen. “Well, then I guess you’d rather I not be there. I’m not in Dallas, as my phone number might indicate to you, and have a business to run.”

  Dallas wasn’t home anymore. I’d lived in Raleigh for years.

  The man persisted. “This is a conversation best had in person. If you’d like me to come
to you, I can bring the necessary paperwork, but…” Silence and a sigh. “This has to do with a confidential matter of high importance. Trust me. It’s going to be worth your while. And I’d prefer to talk with you and your siblings at the same time.”

  Trust him? All he’d said was his name was William Traynor, an estate attorney. What did he know about Jasmine and Nate? If this was family business, he could deal with me or Mom, but he wasn’t calling about my mother, clearly.

  “You’re going to have to explain yourself if you want an appointment. I’m a busy man.”

  I worked for a top commercial and residential real estate developer and had projects stretching coast to coast. My time was literally money. Lots of money.

  The guy acquiesced. “Okay. Can we meet in person tomorrow? I’ll fly out.”

  “Fine.”

  So he did. He flew to North Carolina to meet me at my office with shocking news and a nondisclosure agreement.

  Now, here I was a week later, using up vacation days and walking out of the private executive elevator at the J.P. Star Energy corporate office.

  The Stars wanted the meeting in their boardroom, and William was obliging them. The family members stood outside the doors of the meeting room–all donned in black and whispering. They slid their furtive glances at me with lips pressed tight. Anger? Grief? Probably some of both. But I couldn’t quite tell. I didn’t know these people.

  I’d heard of them. All of Dallas had. Their names had been on the lips of every person in the country for months.

  The executive floor looked like I would expect. Endless mahogany panels. Photos of oil fields throughout the years with the famous face of John Peter Star staring out at various ages. Four desks lined each side of the reception area opposite the express elevator–two by two. Only two were staffed, and one of the women stood as I stepped onto the floor.

  The other woman eyed me then looked quickly away with a raised brow, tapping away on her keyboard.