Priscilla Richards wasn't in the party spirit, but she
held a full glass of champagne and went through the social
motions โ the feigned smiles, the required chitchat.
Outside, the night was bright and clear. Inside, the
penthouse was elegant, the decor festive.
Byron Van Zandt, an investment banker, had spared no
expense in throwing a first-class celebration for his
daughter Sylvia's recent promotion. He'd even hired a
violinist through the philharmonic. So it wasn't any
wonder that the mood of those in attendance was upbeat.
Well, not everyone's.
Priscilla was ready to thank her host and go home. But not
because she wasn't happy for the young woman of honor.
She and Sylvia had met at Brown University, where they'd
both graduated with a master's degree in literary arts.
Then they'd landed dream jobs at Sunshine Valley Books, a
small but growing publisher that specialized in children's
literature.
Being colleagues had only deepened their friendship, so
there was no way Priscilla would have made an excuse to
stay home, where she'd prefer to be.
She just wished she could be more enthusiastic for her
best friend's sake.
"Hey," Sylvia said, making her way to Priscilla's side
with a half-filled flute of champagne. "You're finally
here!"
"I wouldn't miss it." Priscilla managed a weak but sincere
smile. "Congratulations on the promotion."
Sylvia, with her dark hair cropped in a short but stylish
cut, nodded toward Priscilla's full glass. "I hope that's
not your first."
It was, so she nodded. "Drink up, Pris. You can crash
here. No need to worry about going back to Brooklyn
tonight."
"Thanks for the offer, but I need to get home. In fact,
I'm going to cut out early."
Sylvia drew closer and studied Priscilla intently. "You
know, I'm starting to worry about you."
"I'll be okay. Really."
Apparently Sylvia wasn't convinced, because she crossed
her arms and shifted her weight to one leg.
"I know you adored your father, Pris. And it's normal to
grieve. But I hate to see you so down. Maybe you ought to
talk to a doctor and get some medication. Or better yet,
why don't you make an appointment with a professional,
like a minister or a counselor?"
It wasn't grief that had knocked her for a loop. Priscilla
placed an arm around Sylvia and gave her an affectionate
squeeze. "Thanks for the advice. But all I really need to
do is bite the bullet and go through my dad's belongings.
I'll be fine after that."
"Does that mean you'll be returning to work soon? Ever
since you took that leave of absence, I haven't had anyone
to gossip with. And right now I think the new receptionist
is sleeping with Larry in Marketing."
"Syl, you never gossip."
"Only with you." Sylvia took a sip of champagne.
"So when are you coming back to work?"
Up until last night, Priscilla had planned to go into the
office on Monday morning.
Now she wasn't so sure. "I may need to request another
week or so."
Sylvia clucked her tongue. "Aw, Pris. Come stay with me
for a while. You've been cooped up in that brownstone for
months and need a change of scenery. We can make fudge and
eat ice cream, which always makes me feel better. And
we'll pull out my entire collection of Hugh Grant DVDs."
"Thanks, Syl. Let me take care of a few things and I'll
take you up on it. But no more Hugh Grant movies."
"How about Mel Gibson?"
"Only if he's wearing a white cowboy hat and boots. I'm
leaning toward the John Wayne type." Someone who didn't
remind her of her father.
"Mmm. Mel in a cowboy hat. I'll see what I can do." Sylvia
chuckled, then changed to a serious tone.
"Can't you wait and go through your dad's belongings in a
couple of weeks?"
"No, I'm afraid not." Priscilla's curiosity was fast
becoming a compulsion to find answers to the questions
she'd had. Questions she'd been afraid to voice.
"Well," Sylvia said, "it must be a relief to know your
father isn't suffering anymore."
The last few months, as cancer had racked his body,
Priscilla had taken time off work to care for him. It had
been a drain to see him waste away, to know how much pain
he'd suffered.
"You're right, Syl. He's in a better place."
"And there's another upside," her friend added.
"He's with your mom now."
Priscilla nodded. It hadn't been any big secret that
Clinton Richards had been devastated after losing his wife
more than twenty years ago. And rather than look for
another woman to love, he'd devoted his life to his
daughter, to her happiness and well-being. In fact, when
Priscilla had been accepted to Brown University, he'd
moved to Providence, Rhode Island, just to be close to
her. And when she'd landed the job with Sunshine Valley
Books, he'd relocated again โ to New York. Fortunately, as
a self-employed Web site designer, he worked out of the
home and had a flexibility other fathers didn't have.
Priscilla hooked her arm through Sylvia's and drew her
toward the front door. "Listen, Syl. This has been a great
party, but I really need to get home."
"Oh, no you don't." Her friend lifted a nearly empty
champagne flute. "You need to finish that drink and
mingle."
"Actually my stomach has been bothering me the past couple
of days." Okay, maybe not for days, but ever since last
night, when that unsettling dream woke her at two in the
morning. And it had intensified when she'd padded into her
father's bedroom and begun to dig through his cedar chest.
"I'll bet it's the stress you've been under that's
affecting your stomach," Sylvia said.
"Probably." But it was more than grief bothering her. She
just wished she could put her finger on exactly what had
knocked her digestive system out of whack.
She did, however, have a clue.
The mild-mannered widower who'd loved her had taken a
secret to his grave. A secret Priscilla was determined to
uncover.
Would she feel better if she confided in Sylvia? Maybe,
although now didn't seem to be the time. On the other
hand, keeping Sylvia worried and in the dark might put a
damper on an evening when she ought to be celebrating.
Priscilla took a long, deep breath, then slowly let it
out. "I had a dream last night and woke up in tangled
sheets and a cold sweat."
"A nightmare?" Sylvia asked. "Those can be pretty
upsetting."
"Yes, they can. But so can a repressed memory, which is
what I think it was."
Sylvia stopped a waiter walking by, placed her flute on
his tray and gave Priscilla her undivided attention. "What
do you mean?"
She wasn't sure. At first, it had been a niggling,
restless feeling. Then there'd been a collage of images.
A two-story house. The scent of vanilla and spice.
Laughter. Bedtime stories.
Loud voices and tears.
A marble-topped table crashing to the floor. The remnants
of her dream, of the memory, of her odd discovery, settled
over her like a cold, wet blanket.
She tried her best to shake it off, at least long enough
to level with her friend. "When I woke up, I felt so
uneasy that I went into my father's room and opened the
old chest where he kept his things and went through it."
"What did you find?"
"Evidence that my name might not be Priscilla Richards."
"Wow." Sylvia furrowed her brow, then cocked her head in
disbelief. "Are you sure?"
"No. I'm not. But until I get to the bottom of this, I
won't be able to focus on anything else. I just wish I
knew where to start digging."
Sylvia stood silent, focused. Then she brightened. "Wait
here."
"Where are you going?"
Without answering, Sylvia dashed off, swerving to avoid a
waitress balancing a tray of hors d'oeuvres, and ducked
into her father's study.
Oh, for Pete's sake. Sylvia could be so dramatic. But like
a child waiting for guidance, Priscilla remained in the
entryway.
Moments later Sylvia returned and placed a glossy business
card in Priscilla's hand. "This is the firm my dad uses
for employee screenings."
Priscilla scanned the card.
Garcia and Associates
Elite and Discreet Investigations Offices in Chicago, Los
Angeles and Manhattan
Trenton J. Whittaker
"The agency is reputable and well respected," Sylvia
said. "Of course, they're not cheap. But I'd be happy to
loan you whatever you need."
"Thanks. But my dad had a healthy savings account he
transferred to me before he died. And he also had a good-
sized life insurance policy. So I'll be all right."
"For what it's worth," Sylvia added, eyes growing bright
and a grin busting out on her face, "I met that guy โ
Trenton Whittaker โ at my dad's office the other day. And
he's to die for. You ought to hear the soft Southern drawl
of his voice. It's so darn sexy it'll make you melt in a
puddle on the floor."
Priscilla rolled her eyes. "When I choose a private
investigator, it won't be based upon his looks or the
sound of his voice."
"You can't go wrong with Garcia and Associates. They're a
top-of-the-line agency. And if the P.I. also happens to be
single and hot, what's the problem? Heaven knows your love
life could sure use a shot in the tush. And believe me,
Pris, this guy will do it. If I weren't involved with
Warren, I'd have jumped his bones in a heartbeat."
Priscilla wasn't interested in finding Mr. Right. After
all, she couldn't very well expect a happily ever after
when she'd had too many questions about once upon a time.
But she took the card and slid it into her purse, figuring
she'd give the agency โ not necessarily Mr. Whittaker โ a
try.
Then she handed Sylvia her nearly full glass of
champagne. "Congratulations on the promotion. Thanks for
inviting me."
"Don't thank me for that." Sylvia placed the glass on a
table in the entry. "You're my best friend."
"And you're mine." Priscilla gave her a hug.
"Hey. I just thought of something."
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