Treasures aka See How She Dies

  Treasures aka See How She Dies

  Lisa Jackson

  The bestselling author of "Twice Kissed" and "Wishes" brings sensuality and suspense to enthralling new heights as a woman seeking to discover her identity finds herself thrust into a world of hidden secrets and dangerous desires.

  Lisa Jackson

  Treasures aka See How She Dies

  © 1994

  For the record I’d like to acknowledge and thank the

  following people for their help and encouragement:

  Nancy Bush, Anita Diamant, Sally Peters,

  John Scognamiglio and Larry Sparks.

  PROLOGUE

  1980

  Needles of hot water pounded upon her bare back. Steam filled the large, tiled stall, fogging the glass doors. Kat Danvers stood beneath the spray, hoping the shower would clear her mind, help her shake the feelings of lethargy and dizziness brought on by too many drinks that had washed down a handful…was it two?…of her favorite pills.

  The three V’s.

  Valium

  Vicodin.

  Vodka.

  No wonder her mind was sludge, her vision blurry, her every movement seeming exaggerated. A bad taste crawled up her throat and she had the feeling she was slogging her way through quicksand. She let her breath out slowly. Wondered if she’d throw up.

  Come on, snap out of it, Kat. Pull yourself together! Her conscience never seemed to miss an opportunity to nag.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her arms against the slick tiles. The water was so hot it nearly scalded her. She needed to sober up, and fast. As quickly as she could, she twisted the faucet hard. Immediately the hot water turned to ice and she gasped, sucking air in through her teeth. Her mind cleared for an instant.

  She felt it then, an odd sensation. As if something stirred and she heard a faint, indistinguishable noise over the rush of cascading water. Her eyes flew open and she tried to peer through the misty glass. Did she see a shadow pass through the open doorway to the bedroom? Or was it her imagination? A trick of her tired, overdrugged mind and blurred vision? She needed her contacts or her thick glasses.

  It was probably nothing.

  And yet her skin crawled beneath the frigid spray; tiny goose bumps of fear pebbled her smooth, wet skin.

  “It’s all in your mind,” she muttered, but turned off the water anyway and stood, shivering and dripping, while her ears strained to hear anything out of the ordinary.

  There was nothing. Just the steady drip of water from the showerhead, the soft rumble of the heater, the strains of Christmas music drifting from hidden speakers-and farther away and muted, the quiet hum of traffic in the city. But nothing else. No sound of a shoe scuffing over the thick carpet of the presidential suite, no rattle of the room-service cart, no click of keys in the lock…nothing out of place.

  Sluggishly, she clicked open the glass door and reached for her robe.

  “Mama…”

  A tiny voice. A girl’s voice.

  Kat’s heart clutched. She froze.

  No! It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t believe it. No toddler’s voice had spoken. Her mind was playing tricks on her again…that was it. The drugs and booze had combined to-

  “Mama?”

  Oh God.

  Kat’s knees nearly buckled.

  Frantically she stepped out of the shower and nearly fell on the slick marble as the notes of “Silent Night” filled the room. “Baby?” she whispered.

  Barefoot, leaving a trail of water, she stumbled toward the door, somehow managing to force her unwieldy arms through the robe’s sleeves. Get a grip! You’re hallucinating again and you know it. There is no baby. Your daughter is not in any of the other rooms. Grab hold of yourself! Grasping onto the doorjamb, she peered into the bedroom. The king-sized bed was rumpled, a small impression visible on the comforter where she’d fallen asleep earlier. Her near-empty glass was sweating upon a bedside table near two empty bottles of pills.

  The closet door was ajar, giving her a view of her clothes neatly lined up on hotel hangers.

  “Mama?”

  The sound was distinct. Clear.

  Coming through the open French doors.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Kat cried, her voice cracking as she turned quickly-too quickly-toward the living area and fell against the night table, scraping her arm and cheek. The antique lamp tumbled to the carpet, its bulb shattering.

  Don’t believe it, Kat! Don’t think she’s alive. Don’t you dare trust your foolish heart.

  But she couldn’t stop that tiny sliver of hope from burrowing into her heart as she climbed to her feet again. The room spun. Using one hand, she braced herself on the wall and chairs as she staggered into the living area. She blinked hard. Tried vainly to focus. Nothing seemed disturbed. Nothing out of place. Flowers and a fruit basket sat upon a glass-topped table. Two Queen Anne chairs and a small love seat surrounded the antique fireplace where flames burned quietly.

  No boogeyman lurked in the shadows.

  Her daughter wasn’t waiting for her.

  Of course not. Her imagination and paranoia were working overtime again. She was falling apart. Unraveling. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cringed at the foggy image. Disheveled, wet hair, a gaunt body draped in a robe too large, no makeup on a face once beautiful and now ravaged by pain and guilt. Tears, unbidden, filled her eyes. She was losing her mind. Bit by bit.

  Wiping her hand beneath her nose, she chided herself for being a fool. She, a woman who had always known what she’d wanted and gone after it. She, who had used her beauty and brains to snag the wealthiest man in Portland. She, who so recently had everything any woman could ever want. And now she was reduced to shards of harsh memories, sleepless nights, and long hours trying to dull the pain with prescriptions and alcohol.

  Cinching the robe around her thin body, she felt a draft…the tiniest breath of wind against the back of her neck. She looked over her shoulder. Saw the curtains near the balcony doors move. But she’d locked the French doors just before her shower…right? She’d taken her drink onto the small verandah and stood overlooking the city, contemplating suicide, and finally discarding taking her life as too dramatic, too frightening, too self-defeating.

  So why was the door unlatched?

  Hadn’t she come back inside and turned the dead bolt behind her? Yes…that was right. After securing the lock, she’d taken one last swallow of her drink, then left the glass on the bedside table before stripping and heading unsteadily for the shower. That was right, wasn’t it?

  Or was she mixing things up?

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  Why was everything so fuzzy?

  Maybe she’d imagined locking the door.

  Maybe she had heard someone prowling through these rooms while she’d stood under the shower’s spray.

  Her throat turned to dust.

  Again she sensed a presence.

  Something eerily out of place.

  She started for the telephone.

  “Mama.”

  A scared little voice.

  Kat’s heart nearly stopped. “London? Baby?” The sound was coming from the verandah, through the crack in the door. This was insane. She should reach for the phone. Phone hotel security. Call the police.

  Like you did before?

  And have them all look at you like you’re crazy?

  Have them exchange glances as they noticed the vials on the nightstand?

  Have them suggest you “talk” to someone?

  Is that what you want to go through again?

  No.

  Heart thudding, she inched her way to the exterior doors where the curtains billowed slightly and the chill of Dec
ember seeped inside. Through the sheers she saw a dark shadow. Small. Shivering.

  London?

  Precious, precious child!

  Kat yanked open the door.

  A blast of winter hit her hard.

  A cacophony of street noise, traffic, music, voices rushed up nineteen floors.

  The huddled little figure moved.

  “Oh, honey-” Kat whispered, her throat suddenly tight.

  The interior light snapped off.

  The figure turned a face toward her, and even through the fog in her mind and the semidarkness of the city, she recognized the face-not of her missing daughter, but of a treacherous, wicked liar.

  “You,” she spat, trying to turn away. Blindly, she flailed, trying to escape.

  Too late.

  Strong fingers grabbed her shoulders and a fierce, intent weight shoved her closer to the short brick wall surrounding the verandah. Kat screamed. Her knees hit the century-old brickwork; she tried to grab something, anything, to no avail. The force of her body slammed against her backside-the sheer determination of her attacker propelled her forward, closer to the edge and the crumbling…“No! Oh, God, no!” Kat cried, seeing a hand in her peripheral vision. Gloved fingers clutched a bit of brick. Kat cringed.

  Bam!

  Pain exploded behind her eyes. Blackness pulled her under. She started to sag, but was propped up, pushed forward, the railing hitting her in her middle and disintegrating with her weight.

  And then suddenly she was falling, sailing through the cold night air…

  PART ONE

  1993

  1

  If only she could remember.

  If only she knew the truth.

  If only she were certain she wasn’t on a fool’s mission. She glanced up at the dark October sky and felt the gentle wash of Oregon mist against her face. Had she ever tilted her head back and let the moistness linger on her lips and cheeks? Had she stood on this very corner, across the street from the old Hotel Danvers, holding onto her mother’s hand, waiting for the light to change?

  Traffic rushed by, cars and buses spraying water as tires splashed through puddles. Deep in the folds of her coat she shivered, but not from the cool autumn air, or the breath of a breeze rolling off the dank Willamette River only a few blocks to the east. No, she shivered at the thought of what she was planning to do-her destiny, or so she’d been told. She knew she was in for the battle of her life.

  But she was committed. She couldn’t give up now. She’d traveled hundreds of miles, been through emotional hell and back, and spent days searching her soul during painstaking, laborious hours in libraries and newspaper offices throughout the Northwest, reading every chronicle, article, or editorial she could find on the Danvers family.

  Now her plans were about to come to fruition. Or ruin. She stared up at the hotel, seven stories of Victorian architecture, which had once been one of the tallest buildings in the city and now was dwarfed by its concrete-and-steel counterparts, great skyscrapers that knifed upward, looming over the narrow city streets. “God help me,” she whispered. As beautiful as it was, the edifice of the Hotel Danvers seemed sinister somehow, as if it knew secrets-dark secrets-that could change the course of her life forever.

  Which was just plain silly.

  Still, Adria felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind whipping through Portland’s narrow streets.

  Without waiting for the light to change, she dashed across the street, the hood of her coat blowing off with a strong gust of wind. Daylight began to fade as the cloud-shrouded sun settled behind the westerly hills, hills still rich with green forests and dotted by expensive mansions.

  Though the Hotel Danvers was closed to the public, as it had been for the past few months while it was being renovated and brought back to its turn-of-the-century grandeur, she walked through the lobby door that had been propped open for the workmen. The renovation was nearly complete. For the past two days she’d watched as delivery vans had brought tables, chairs, and other furniture to the service entrance. Today, linens, glassware, even some food had been delivered in anticipation of the grand opening, which was slated for the weekend.

  The entire Danvers clan, Witt Danvers’s first wife and his four surviving children, were rumored to be in town. Good.

  A cold fist of apprehension tightened in her stomach. Ever since learning of the hotel’s closure and reopening, she’d planned her introduction to the family, but first, to test the waters, she needed to speak with the man in charge of the hotel’s face-life: Zachary Danvers, the rebel of the family and second son to Witt. According to every article she’d read, Zachary had never quite fit in. The Danvers family resemblance, so evident in his brothers and sisters, had skipped over him, and during his youth he’d had more than one brush with the law. Only the old man’s money had kept Zachary out of serious trouble, and gossip had it that not only was he the least favorite of Witt’s children but was also nearly cut out of the old man’s will.

  Yes, Zachary was the man she needed to see first. She’d studied his photographs so often, she knew she would recognize him. A little over six feet, with coal-black hair, olive skin, and deep-set gray eyes guarded by heavy brows, he was the one son of Witt Danvers who didn’t resemble his father. Leaner than his brothers or the bear of a man who had sired him, his features were as chiseled as the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He was a rugged man, rawhide-tough with a hard mouth that was rarely photographed in a smile. He bore a scar over his right ear that interrupted his hairline, and his broken nose was testament to his violent temper.

  In the lobby two men were staggering under the weight of a long couch wrapped in plastic. She heard other workers talking in the background, saw hotel employees and workmen scurrying to and from the dining room and kitchen located opposite the front doors. The smells of cleaning solvent, turpentine, and varnish greeted her, and the whine of a skill saw screaming through the vestibule was muted by the rumble of industrial vacuums.

  As the workmen shoved the couch near a huge fireplace, she paused in the lobby and eyed the hotel that had once been the most opulent in Portland, a place for dignitaries and town fathers to gather, where decisions were made and the shape of the future had been planned. She gazed upward to the intricate stained-glass windows that rose over the outer doors where they caught the last rays of daylight and cast a pool of amber, rose, and blue on the tile floor in front of the desk.

  She swallowed against a lump that closed her throat; this hotel was her legacy. Her birthright. Her future.

  Or was it?

  There was only one way to find out. She headed for the wide, curved staircase that swept upward to the balcony.

  “Hey, you! Lady, we’re closed!” The voice, deep and male, was coming from a big, burly man poised on the top of a high scaffold positioned under the second-floor landing. He was fiddling with the chandelier situated over the lobby desk.

  Ignoring him, she started up the carpeted steps.

  “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!”

  She hesitated, her hand trailing on the banister. This wasn’t going to be easy, but the electrician was only a small stumbling block. The first of many. With a determined smile meant to disarm him, she turned and squared her shoulders. “Are you Zachary Danvers?” she asked, knowing full well he wasn’t.

  “No, but-”

  “Are you related to the Danvers family?”

  “What the hell?” Beneath the edge of his hard hat, he scowled at her. “No, of course not, but you can’t go up there!”

  “I have a meeting with Zachary Danvers,” she insisted, her voice filled with chilly authority.

  “A meeting?” the electrician repeated, obviously not believing her bluff.

  She stared at the worker without giving an inch. “A meeting.”

  “That’s news to me. I’m his foreman and he didn’t mention anything about it.” His scowl grew dark. Suspicious.

  “Maybe he forgot,” she said, as she forced a cold smi
le. “But I need to talk to him or a member of the Danvers family.”

  “He’ll be back in a half-hour or so,” the man said reluctantly.

  “I’ll wait for him. In the ballroom.”

  “Hey, I don’t think-”

  Without another glance in his direction, she hurried up the remaining stairs. Her boots were muffled on the thick carpet and her breath was shallow, a sign of her case of nerves.

  “Shit,” the man muttered under his breath, but stayed atop his perch and turned back to his work. “Damned women…”

  Her heart was beating so fast she could hardly breathe, but at the top of the landing, she turned unerringly to the left and shouldered open the double doors. The room was dark. Her throat closed in on itself and with her fingers she fumbled for the light switch.

  In a glorious blaze, the ballroom was suddenly lit by hundreds of miniature candles suspended in teardrop-shaped chandeliers. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of the polished oak floor, the bank of tall, arched windows, the dizzying light from a million little bulbs that reflected in the cut crystal.

  Her throat clogged and she blinked back tears. This was where it had all happened? Where the course of her young life had been thrown from its predestined path and into uncharted territory?

  Why? She chewed on her lower lip. Oh, God, why couldn’t she remember?

  October rain slid down his hair and under the collar of his jacket. Dead leaves, already sodden, clung to the sidewalk and were beaten with the thick Oregon mist that seemed to rise from the wet streets and gather at the corners of the buildings. Cars, delivery vans, and trucks roared by, their headlights feeble against the watery illumination from the street lamps.

  Zachary Danvers was pissed. This job had lasted too long, and wasted too much of his time. What little pride he had in the renovation was tarnished. Working here made him feel like a hypocrite, and he was thankful the project was just about over. Muttering oaths at himself, his brothers, and especially at his dead father, he pushed open the glass doors of the old hotel. He’d spent a year of his life here. A year. All because of a promise he’d made at his father’s deathbed a couple of years ago. Because he’d been greedy.