JoAnn Ross - Legacy Of Lies

Legacy of Lies

JoAnn Ross

To Jay,

who gives my life meaning.

"The birth certificates for both children list themas twins."

"Birth certificates can be forged."

"True. But there's no reason to believe these were.Or that she's Anna."

"There's one way to find out for sure."

"You're not going to tell her what you suspect?"

"No. Believe it or not, Zachary, even this old dogcan learn a few new tricks. I'm not going to tip my hand. At least, notyet."

Zach's relief was short-lived.

"You know," Eleanor mused aloud, "it's been a longtime since I had a party."

"I suppose Alexandra Lyons's name is at the top ofthe invitation list."

Eleanor smiled for the first time since Zach hadarrived with the dossier. "Of course."

As he left the estate, though he knew it was wrong,Zach found himself looking forward to seeing Alexandra Lyons again. Oh,there was no way he believed she would ultimately prove to be AnnaLord. But perhaps, he told himself during the drive back to L.A., nowthat fate was about to throw them together again, he'd discover thathis usually faultless memory had merely exaggerated Alexandra's charms.

Perhaps she was nothing more than a romantic,moonlit bayou fantasy.

The hell she was.

"Ms. Ross takes her audience on a thrilling roller coaster ride thatleaves them breathless."

Also available from MIRA Booksand JoAnn Ross

A WOMAN'S HEART

NO REGRETS

BAIT AND SWITCH

SOUTHERN COMFORTS

TEMPTING FATE

CONFESSIONS

STORMY COURTSHIP

DUSK FIRE

No one can write a book alone, and I've beenwonderfully fortunate to have been on the receiving end of a great dealof help.

To everyone who makes writing for MIRA such a joy:Brian Hickey, Hugh O'Neil and Randall Toye, for their unparalleledcorporate support; Candy Lee and Karin Stoecker, who told me to writewhatever I want (heady advice for any author); Katherine Orr and StacyWiddrington, who somehow manage to arrange nearly effortless travel;Krystyna de Duleba, for the dazzling artwork (and for actuallywelcoming my ideas); Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore and Ilana Glaun, whoprovide editorial support most writers can only dream of; and, ofcourse, my own incomparable editor and friend, Malle Vallik, who manytimes understands my stories better than I do.

Also, heartfelt gratitude to Robin Lester andLeslie Burton, for all the years; Shelley Mosley and Julie Havir, forthe monthly lunches; and Anna Eberhardt, Jan Flores and Patty GardnerEvans, whose phone calls and faxes keep me reasonably sane.

Last, but certainly not least, I'd like to thank mytalented son, for believing in his mother. Here's to tons of sales andmailboxes filled with your own royalty checks, Patrick!

Contents

Prologue

Santa Barbara, California

April 1958

I t rained the day EleanorLord buried her only son. A cold wind, bringing with it memories of awinter just past, blew in from the whitecapped gray sea. Not that theinclement weather kept anyone away; it appeared that the entire town ofSanta Barbara had turned out. Rows of black umbrellas arced over thegrassy knoll like mushrooms.

Nothing like a scandal to drawa crowd, Eleanor thought. After all, it wasn't every day thatthe scion of America's largest department store family and his wifewere murdered.

If a double homicide wasn't enough to set tongueswagging, the fact that the victims were two of the town's leadingcitizens added grist to the gossip mill. Then there was Anna....

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

"Are you all right?" Dr. Averill Brandford askedwith concern. He was holding an umbrella over her head; his free armtightened 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 tobe put in the ground and my granddaughter has vanished from the face ofthe 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 uptogether. Clad in rainwear and shiny black boots and armed withshovels, rakes and buckets, they'd dug for clams in the coastaltidelands. Robert had been the pitcher of the Montecito High Schoolbaseball team; Averill had been the catcher. Together they'd led theteam to three district championships in four years. Inseparable, they'dgone on to USC, pledged the same fraternity and only parted four yearslater when Robert went east to Harvard Law School and Averill tomedical school, making his father, the Lords' head gardener, extremelyproud.

Eventually they were reunited in the SouthernCalifornia coastal town where they'd grown up. These past horrendousdays, Averill had been a pillar of support. He'd arrived at the housewithin minutes of Eleanor's frantic phone call, rarely leaving her sideas she waited for the kidnapper's call.

Tears stung her eyes. Resolutely Eleanor blinkedthem away, vowing not to permit herself to break down until hergranddaughter 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 makingher way across the mossy turf.

In the distance the Santa Ynez Mountains toweredmajestically in emerald shades over the red-roofed city; a few hardysouls were playing golf on the velvet greens of the Montecito CountryClub.

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

As she neared her limousine, Santa Barbara's policechief 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 wereshadows 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 aroundand around between his fingers. "The FBI located your granddaughter'snanny in Tijuana, ma'am. Rosa Martinez checked into a hotel under anassumed 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 checkedin."

"But surely Rosa will tell you where Anna is. Evenif she refuses to cooperate, don't you people have ways of encouragingpeople to talk?" Thoughts of bright lights and rubber hoses flashedthrough her mind.

"I'm afraid that's impossible." His voice was heavywith discouragement. "The nanny's dead, Mrs. Lord."

"Dead?"

"She hung herself."

"But Anna..." Eleanor felt Averill's fingerstighten on her arm.

"We don't know," Chief Tyrell admitted. "With thenanny gone, no witnesses and no word from the kidnappers, we've runinto 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 asuicide note asking for God's--and your--forgiveness. TheFBI'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 feltfaint. She took a deep breath, inhaling the mild aroma of petroleumwafting in from the offshore oil derricks; the light-headed sensationpassed.