glanced at her black flats and, seeing dust on them, quickly rubbed them against the panty hose under her pant leg.
The door opened to a very young woman dressed in a maid’s outfit. She had dark, straight hair pulled back with a rubber band and big brown eyes that telegraphed naïveté. “Yes?”
Tara smiled brightly. “I’m Tara Mackey. I have an appointment with Mr. Landover.”
The young maid frowned as if confused. “I didn’t realize he was seeing people today. Are you here about the clothes he’s giving away?”
Tara wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “Clothes?”
“His wife’s clothes. He’s giving all her gowns away to charity.”
“Ah, yes. She had such stunning gowns. We have a ten-thirty appointment to discuss the gowns,” she said without blinking.
The maid nodded and stepped aside. “If you’ll wait here.”
Tara’s heart jumped, but she kept her cool as she stepped inside. “Thank you.”
So Landover was giving away Kit’s dresses. Was it a sign that the old man was moving on with his life?
The maid hurried up the carpeted spiral staircase and down the upstairs hallway. Her footsteps faded away. Tara was left alone in the foyer.
She studied the marbled foyer’s black-and-white polished floor. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and caught the morning sunlight, which streamed in through a transom above the door. Across from the door stood an antique Chippendale table pushed against the wall. On the table sat a Chinese vase filled with fragrant, freshly cut roses. The understated decor was all very elegant and expensive and not to her taste at all. She liked simple and unpretentious pieces that were often used and had a quirky history.
To her left, a set of tall mahogany doors stood ajar, giving her a peek into the receiving parlor. Unable to resist, she moved to the open door and looked inside. Immediately her gaze was drawn to the huge painting of Kit that hung over the brick fireplace. In the portrait, Kit wore a soft pink strapless dress that cloaked her lithe body like a second skin. Her blond hair was swept up into a chignon, and a stunning diamond pendant necklace dipped into her full cleavage. Teardrop gems dangled from her ears, and a thick diamond bracelet circled her wrist. Tara recognized the gems in the portrait. They were the ones Kit had been wearing on her wedding day—the ones that had vanished with her and were reported to be worth fifteen million dollars.
Tara glanced up the staircase to see if anyone could see her. Satisfied that she was alone, she pulled out her cell phone, quickly snapped a picture.
The sound of footsteps on the landing had her stepping back into the foyer. She jammed her cell phone into her briefcase.
“May I help you?”
Tara turned to find a stern-looking woman descending the stairs. Dark brown hair was swept tightly back and accentuated sharp brown eyes. She wore a silk blouse, linen pants and high-heeled shoes.
“That’s a stunning portrait of Mrs. Landover,” Tara said. There was no sense hiding the fact that she’d been caught peeking.
The woman lifted a thin eyebrow as if she did not approve. “My name is Mrs. Reston. What can I do for you?”
Tara mentally regrouped. So much for getting in to see the old man today. “I’m Tara Mackey. I’m with the Globe. I spoke to you earlier about an appointment with Mr. Landover.”
Mrs. Reston’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I told you on the phone that Mr. Landover doesn’t speak with reporters.”
Tara smiled, trying not to look the least bit deterred. “I would only need about five or ten minutes of his time.”
Mrs. Reston quickly slid a bony finger under her pearl necklace. “No.”
“The one-year anniversary of his wife’s disappearance is coming up next week.” From her briefcase she pulled out the mock-up of her article. “The Globe is going to do a story about Kit Westgate. The hope is to spark the public’s interest. Maybe someone will come forward with new information about what happened to Kit. Either way, we’d love Mr. Landover’s comments for the piece.”
Thin lips dipped into a frown as Reston stared at the glowing picture of Kit. Jealousy burned in her eyes. Reston had clearly hated Kit. “No reporter has cared a wit for Mr. Landover or all the good works he’s done since Kit Westgate came into his life. Everyone just cared about her. Why can’t your type leave him alone?”
The your type comment had Tara bristling, but she kept her cool. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions. I only need a few minutes of his time.”
“I know Kit Westgate is just a story to you, but she devastated Mr. Landover’s life. The woman was in league with the devil as far as I’m concerned. And frankly, I don’t care if we ever find out what happened to her. Drop this story.”
The show of emotion interested Tara. “You really hated her, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Reston hesitated, realizing she’d let too much of her emotions show through her stoic Boston reserve. “Leave this house before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing. And don’t ever come back here or try to speak to Mr. Landover again.”
Tara could just imagine Miriam’s and Kirkland’s expressions when word reached them that she’d been arrested for harassing Mrs. Reston. Kirkland’s dark gaze was the hardest to banish.
Tara crossed the threshold to the front stoop. She turned. “Mrs. Reston, when was the last time you actually saw Kit?”
Mrs. Reston slammed the door in her face.
For a moment, Tara stood there, staring at the polished brass knocker just inches from her nose.
It wasn’t even noon, and Kirkland, her editor and Landover’s personal assistant had warned her off this story.
Why didn’t they want the case reopened? Solving it would be a huge coup for the police and the paper. And it would bring resolution to Kit’s family.
Tara shoved the newspaper into her briefcase and started toward her car. Her body tingled like it did when she felt as if she’d hit upon a great story.
She sensed that if she kept showing her mock-up around Boston she was going to coax a few hidden facts out of someone.
Smiling, Tara started to whistle as she slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine. She turned on the radio and cranked it loud. “There’s no doubt about it. I’m on the right track.”
Chapter 3
Monday, July 14, 10:45 a.m.
Tara was glad to leave the Beacon Hill district. She cut through side streets, winding her way north for several miles until she reached the north end.
This part of town always brought her blood pressure down. She loved the narrow, winding streets and the four-story brick apartment houses. No one here had a yard, and during summer evenings neighbors often set up chairs on the sidewalk to chat. The taverns had a homey
