Double Deception: Clara Tinder Investigation Thriller Series, #3

1

Shouldn’t everyone have the chance to reinvent themselves and be happier to be the person they always wanted to be?

As a name, Cecelia had never worked for her, which was why she needed to change it. In Latin, it meant blindness. Previously, the name Clara had worked for her, and significantly, it meant light. She liked the idea of being a person of light. It gave her the sense she could always be hopeful, optimistic, and even enthusiastic. For a long time, she had been thinking about renaming herself, change her image, and leave the trap of herself behind to be different. If it didn’t work, she could always revert to her old name. Yet, as soon as she changed her name legally, hey presto, she was offered a job.

But giving yourself a new name doesn’t instantly provide a new personality. It needs working on. So, where had this depression come from? It was part of the person she used to be. On the first page of a brand-new notebook, Clara jotted down a few details of the person she wanted to be. Someone fantastic, smart, and who takes chances and isn’t afraid of change anymore. Someone who recognizes the truth. Was this possible? Why not? It was who she would like to be.

Her first official job as an investigative journalist was to be held in a designer bar. And it was cool, so cool. You would need a mortgage to eat there. Walking into the restaurant with the attitude that I come here often was an approach that wasn’t working yet. Nervous around confident people, for this was their territory. Were all eyes on her? Not really.

The restaurant shimmered with sophistication. When she whispered her names to the maître d, his eyes quickly flickered to attention before taking her to the table. So polite, so well trained.

Glad that she wore a suit instead of the jeans which laid waiting to be selected. Not so happy, though, was the fact that she was picking up the tab for this meal. Yet, this must be considered an investment, a cent for a dollar.

Settling herself into her chair, a glance at her watch confirmed that her guests were late. This meal would be costly, but they were worth it because they must have the money to live this lifestyle. Afterward, she would add the price of this meal to her fee.

Late, it was not a healthy sign. It said volumes about them not being responsible; to Clara, it said disrespect. But a job should not be about personalities; it should be about getting paid at the end of the day.

What Clara would get out of this, she hoped, was an interesting article. So desperate to get a job, she would say yes to anything. A missing daughter, who they were anxious about. And a nice expensive place to live in and be worried.

Two beautiful people walked towards her behind the maître d’, smiling and nodding; they knew most people here. She was stunning and slender, about five feet seven, and could even have been a natural blonde. And as for how she dressed, wow, her clothes were beautiful and faultless; it made Clara feel awkward and dowdy, uncomfortable and even jealous.

‘How nice to meet you,’ the beauty settled herself into the chair.

Faultless teeth that were obviously unnatural. Everything was perfect about her. While standing behind her hovering around, was the maître d’. She smiled; she was used to this sort of attention.

‘Shall we order and then talk?’

‘Yes,’ said Clara, feeling the silk cut into her purse.

Now that they were comfortable, and the fanfare had settled, the drinks were on the table; sips were taken from the wine, straight to business, and the reason she was here.

‘It’s Raphael’s daughter from his first marriage,’ spoke the wife in a relatively low and measured voice. She was at ease with herself and her delivery.

Anise, the beautiful long-haired blonde wife, took the lead by introducing the subject. She was a natural blonde and somewhere in her early forties, but she still looked exquisite and would always be beautiful. Expressive hazel eyes in an exceptionally balanced face. Not too full lips, sculptured eyebrows, which added elegance to her comments. Everyone would agree with her and like her just because she was beautiful.

‘You have been married before?’ this question was directed to Raphael but not answered by him because Anise intervened.

‘It was a miserable marriage.’

This intrusion offended Clara. If Anise wanted to be the journalist and write their own story, then so be it.

‘I am trying to understand what happened to your daughter,’ Clara directed her question again to Raphael. ‘I take it your daughter did not live with you?’

‘She lived with us until she decided she wanted to do just exactly as she pleased. She didn’t want us telling her what to do.’ Anise once again replied.

‘Was she unhappy?’

This time, Clara didn’t even bother to ask the father; she went straight to the beautiful tigress. ‘Children only run away when they were unhappy.’

‘Unhappy? I would call her ungrateful,’ Anise spat indignantly. ‘Everything she wanted—she only had to ask my husband; he would bend over backward for her. I tried my best to be an excellent mother, but she was impossible. It was a great difficulty for us because we had five other children. Charisse wanted such-and-such, and so she got it. Our other children wanted to know why she was so special.’

‘And was she special?’

‘If you call being very rich special,’ Anise’s eyebrows raised.

The Lamonts. Something from Clara’s memory rang. She had heard the name before in the newspapers. She had to be right about this.

‘Charisse Lamont? Is she the daughter of the late Natasha Hunter, an heiress of the Hunter tobacco fortune?’

‘She was my wife.’

‘I know something about her.’ Clara was excited. ‘Natasha was found dead from a drug overdose. She had a four-year-old daughter. I thought I had heard the name before. It was very tragic. A sad little girl completely alone in the world.’

‘Not completely alone,’ added Raphael. ‘She had me. This is how the media wanted to present her to sell their fodder.’

‘I took her in as one of my own.’

Anise again turned to Raphael with a look of concern.

‘She was never alone. How can you be alone when you have a father?’ she shrugged. ‘It was my intention to adopt her, but because of her money, I found out that I couldn’t.’

Pampering time, Anise stroked the ends of her blonde hair to settle herself down into her calm and beautiful composure.

‘The fact is,’ said Raphael, ‘that we did the best we could. But we failed. We obviously weren’t good enough for her.’

‘She didn’t want to be a part of our family. She wanted only her daddy, but not the rest of us.’

Clara stared at them both. No, she didn’t like either of them; she particularly didn’t like the wife. It was not difficult—not difficult at all. But maybe it was too soon to make a judgment?

‘I take it you want me to find out where Charisse is and ask her to come back home?’

‘We need to know what’s going on with her,’ replied Anise. ‘We worry she may be dead.’

‘Dead? Why?’ Clara frowned.

Why did she have to be dead? Obviously, Anise didn’t like her, which was probably why Charisse ran away. But there was no need for her to be dead because of that.

‘Unfortunately,’ Anise’s beautiful eyes warned Raphael not to answer this awkward question. ‘As much as we tried to be exemplary parents, Charisse was spoiled. Discipline was hopeless. She always seemed to find fault with me. She was always saying such dreadful things to me as if it was my fault her father left her mother for me. You remember?’ Anise turned to Raphael. ‘You heard her.’

‘Anise—’ Raphael’s eyes pleaded.

‘Her mother was a drug addict and an alcoholic. Raphael tried his best with Natasha, but she was unbelievably controlling. He had to get away. Look at the evidence. She died from a morphine overdose. What more can I say? We’re not the ones on trial here?’

‘My daughter left our home of her own volition,’ tried Raphael. ‘If there was an impediment to Natasha and now Charisse, it was because of their fortune. I was in charge of Charisse’s money until she came of age.’

‘She was questioning everything,’ jumped in Anise. ‘We got a bigger house, a new car. Charisse wanted to know where the money came from and if it was from her money? I said to her, well, look, honey, we need to live if we are looking after you. She was paranoid about her money. She felt we were taking it away from her. Damn her, what we had used made no difference to her vast wealth. I put the problem down to the fact she was just jealous. She hated me—’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘About three years ago,’ said Raphael, now frowning.

‘Three years?’

‘Yes, three years—’ snapped Anise. ‘She was impossible. She chose to leave us, not us leave her.’

‘Why do you need to know where she is now?’

‘We know where she is. She’s joined this commune, and now she’s disappeared.’ Anise couldn’t help herself.

‘You see,’ began Raphael. ‘The problem is, Charisse is a very wealthy young woman. People use her because of that.’

‘And take advantage of her,’ again Anise jumped in.

It was all now beginning to make sense to Clara. Thoughts were chasing one another with stimulating deductions, and she was about to crown her suspicions.

‘When did your daughter come into her fortune?’

‘Four months ago.’

Raphael shook his head while Anise’s hazel eyes gleamed with sparkling hatred.

‘Let me,’ he put his hand over to stop his wife. ‘We were receiving money from the trust—this is what the argument was about. Unlike my late wife, I was not in possession of a substantial fortune, but I still needed to live. We hoped we could talk to her about this. After all, I am her father.’

Seething with outrage, Raphael took a few seconds to breathe.

‘The payments we received dried up when she came of age. I don’t believe my daughter would have done that to me. Yes, we had problems when she was with us. Well, money creates problems. Unfortunately, she couldn’t forgive me for moving on with my life and falling in love with another. And when she lost her mother, I had no choice but to take care of her.’

His eyes were gritted with anger.

‘I love my daughter, but going without money is difficult when you’ve become dependent on it.’ Now he was working to make this woman understand what their lives were like? ‘I can’t apologize for enjoying money.’

Anise enclosed her hand, now on top of Raphael’s. It was a very special sharing moment for them both, which Clara noted.

A calm sensation followed in the wake of Clara’s thoughts. The question compelling Clara to ask—was, when did you miss your daughter? When the money ran out? When the jingling of coins stopped filling from your piggy bank?

Taking her pen as if she were about to write, this little motion called these two people to her attention.

‘You believe the commune had something to do with Charisse’s disappearance?’

‘Absolutely,’ nodded Anise, and then to her husband. She waited for him to show the same loyalty.

He looked disturbed, as if losing his eldest born affected him. Sometimes, in life, people just want to get on with living. There was nothing wrong with that.

‘Yes, I do. I know Charisse wouldn’t have left us high and dry despite her feelings about us. She is a decent girl. The problem was her mother. It was Natasha’s way of getting back at me by poisoning our daughter’s mind.’

And then he stopped and stared at his glass.

‘I just want to know if Charisse is all right. I want her to know I care about her. It’s up to her what she does with her money.’

Stunned, Anise dabbed his arm as if he should not have said this.

It hadn’t been an easy interview, mostly. But now Clara was trying to fight off the prejudices about this couple. A beautiful woman who had clearly intoxicated this man by making him her own and taking him away from his wife. Where were her scruples? But it couldn’t matter and mustn’t. Everyone follows the course of their lives, and we aren’t there at that vital crossroads where decisions are made. The present has the power and knowledge, and this is what she had to work with.

There was one question she needed to ask, if only out of vanity. Why had they chosen her? But it wasn’t her they had first selected. They wanted a proper detective, and they were going to pay him once the job was completed.

‘Why was that?’ Clara was forced to ask.

‘Simple, because we don’t have any money,’ said Anise, insulted to answer this.

‘I need money.’

Did this couple think she was going to work for them for nothing?

‘But you would be prepared to work cheaper?’ again Anise answered for them both. ‘We can only give you what we can afford. And when we have the money, we will pay you the rest we owe you.’

How dare Anise look at her as if she were a grateful servant, pleased to be working for them? How dare she think their lives were more important than her own? The incense was almost enough to demand she walk out on these two spoiled people, but she had already drafted a story about Lamont’s daughter. And this could be a big seller, and she certainly needed the money with a mortgage payment coming up and expecting to be paid. This arrangement required thinking about.

‘How much can you pay me?’

She was looking at the clothes Anise was wearing, a beautiful dress in white with striped lemon. This was not the sort of clothing you bought off the peg. So perfect and untouchable, sitting there with one eyebrow slightly raised, as if Clara dared to touch her.

‘We thought two hundred dollars.’

‘For the day?’

Anise laughed. ‘For the week. It is what we can afford.’

‘Like you, I don’t sell myself too cheaply. I have standards to keep, you know. Make it five hundred with expenses.’

‘We can’t, can we, Raphael?’

Anise turned to him and shook her head.

‘Four hundred then, and you make a note of the expenses which I’ll square up with you when the job is over.’

Two hundred and seventy-five would cover the cost of her mortgage—something she couldn’t afford to throw away.

‘Very well, four hundred,’ she nodded.

Clara was rewarded by a slow smile rising from both of their faces. She knew then that she had been duped.

‘I hate that woman,’ the cab she had promised herself vanished. Walking now was going to be the option of the day. Oh, how she hated Anise. She hated the fact that this woman had gotten her own way in everything. She was used to it.

But there was no use fuming over it. The bargain was made, and like everything, she would do an excellent job of it—a new way of thinking because of money. There was a story in it. And Clara could feel it. She was excited. Work towards the positive; make the best of any situation, and surely, by giving one’s best, it will all work out.

The Lamonts gave her the details, addresses, and dates that she asked for, and, as usual, Anise took charge of this. After this, they stared at her; it was uncomfortable. When she told them she had to go, they didn’t disagree. But what next? Should she offer her hand to them? No, she didn’t want to touch this beautiful woman’s hands.

Standing there gave an awkwardness about her presence. Clara looked at them as if she must ask permission for her to leave. Why didn’t she tell them she wouldn’t do this job and watch their expression? It might be worth it even to lose the paltry four hundred dollars.

‘I’ll let you know how I get on,’ she said as she picked up her briefcase while trying to look efficient.

‘We will pay you on a monthly term,’ said Anise, picking up her glass of wine.

‘No.’

They both thought this was novel.

‘No?’ questioned Anise, a smile, a frown, an insult.

‘I need to have some money upfront; I too have my bills to pay.’

‘We will give you the first four hundred, but it will have to be deducted from the monthly account.’ Anise sipped her wine.

‘Yes, I’ll take the four hundred now.’

Clara was desperate; her house depended on it.

‘Raphael,’ said Anise to her husband, who, like an obedient child, went to his trousers and took out his wallet.

They had come prepared. From his wallet, he took out eight fifty-dollar bills and passed them across the table to Clara. Anise watched, clearly enjoying this exchange. Once she took the money, the deal was sealed, and there was no way for Clara to get out of this trap.

But now walking, the money was sitting in her briefcase while her feet paced the sidewalk. She had this month’s mortgage; she wasn’t going to lose her house yet. For the time she was going to work for this couple, she could pay her bills.

Plotting and planning. Some people have so much money that they don’t know what to do with it. Well, she did. If they had too much money, they could pass some of it over to her. But life never pans out like that. These people like others to be beneath them. In this way, these poor people can always be grateful.

One day, she would be rich. She could feel it and see it. Only this interminable future always seemed so far from her grasp.

2

Walking always helped Clara to think and plot out her thoughts with every step she took. Charisse had gone to a clinic that specialized in rehabilitation, especially with drugs and alcohol. It was an expensive private clinic, which meant only the very rich could afford it.

Charisse had been in rehab for three months, and it appears she took well to the treatment. Even though she was still very vulnerable. Raphael and Anise hoped that she would return home for a while; they needed to see her. Clara could guess what this meant; money, and a comfortable life, but they didn’t get this chance to talk to her before she disappeared.

Catching the 110-shuttle bus took most of the brunt of the walk. Sitting by the window and watching with a vacant eye as the city scenery passed by. Other passengers didn’t interfere with her. The conversation she was having with the human dolls in her head was much livelier.

The first time she had been in hospital, she swore it was going to be her last. It was humiliating talking about things she didn’t want to speak about while the nurses watched on with amusement. When she thought about suicide, everyone does; it’s natural, but it didn’t mean she would do it.

For this job, there might not be any alternative but to enter the clinic as a patient. She hated the idea, but trying out the other option to apply as a mental health assistant would not work. If she applied for a position, she could blow her cover for any further attempt. She would just have to submit herself to be a patient. At least she knew what they would expect of her, having already gone through the system.

An hour later, she was home. The telephone which she had been trying to avoid for the last week rang persistently. Only a week late, and already the bank was on her back.

‘What is it?’ Clara answered in a waspish temper, and then after a few minutes, she put the telephone down.

Impossible to know what to think at first. Wow, then really and then no.

Congratulations followed the expressions of sad news. The caller wanted her to sign some papers and bring some proof of identity to his offices; he was a lawyer. This was a nightmare gone crazy. How was it possible she had been left with all of Peter Thornton’s possessions? He was terribly sorry for her loss.

‘Peter is dead?’ those awful words were spoken.

‘Yes, I am very sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ said Mr. Anderson.

‘Peter is dead—really dead? But he is not supposed to have died. I got a card from him just a month ago.’

‘I am sorry to have shocked you, but I—’

‘No, no, that’s all right. He is never ill.’

She was grasping for contact, putting her hands out to grab hold of reality and that elusive question. Why?

‘I am afraid to tell you he took his own life.’

‘Suicide?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, Peter wasn’t that type.’

And then she remembered the nature of his work. In those few seconds of discernment, it became clear. Peter didn’t take his own life. Someone else did.

‘Oh, poor Peter,’ she held her hand to her mouth in shock. ‘So young.’

‘Miss Tinder, can I ask if you are all right?’

‘Yes—well, no, but yes. When did it happen?’

‘About six weeks ago. I’ve had trouble locating you. Originally, you were called Cecelia Clark.’

‘Yes, I know—but I didn’t expect to become rich. I didn’t expect Peter to die.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Fortunately, I had your telephone number for this house—’

‘How did he die?’

‘Consider Miss Tinder if you want to hear this,’ worried Mr. Anderson.

‘I need to know because, if I don’t, I shall still believe him to be alive.’

‘Suicide is a very personal affair just as people take overdose—’

‘He overdosed?’

‘No, and he didn’t step in front of a train either.’

‘Was he pushed in front of a train?’

‘No, absolutely no. When a man takes his own life, he will determine his own ending; he died the way he wanted to die or deserved to die. He jumped out of a sixth-floor window and landed on spiked railings.’

She gasped. The image of Peter falling through the air made her freeze. He must have seen where he was about to land. Poor Peter. A horrible death, even though he did this sort of thing to others, it became ironic and even in poor taste that this should happen to him.

‘Are you still there?’ Mr. Anderson tentatively asked. ‘I am sorry I told you, but you insisted on knowing.’

‘Yes, I’m okay, and thank you for telling me. It was a shock, you know. Poor, Peter.’

‘Yes,’ he muttered, aware that death greets most people either pleasantly or otherwise.

But the good news, when she replaced the receiver and still feeling a little strange and uncertain, what came out of it was she was going to be rich—rich. Rich, like in fabulously wealthy, if Peter was telling her the truth. He was a man who was incapable of telling lies. Clara was to meet Mr. Anderson tomorrow at eleven sharp.

How rich was she going to be? Should she say a prayer for dear Peter? A year had passed since she last saw him. Knowing him then, his face and slim yet very strong body did not warn her or him that he had only a year left. But he must have guessed this was a possibility. When you kill others, they will try to return the favor. If she had foresight, would she have told him he had so little time left? Would she have married him when he demanded? It was difficult to say, or was it? The truth—she would not have.

The call was over, and Clara was still in shock. Peter is dead. A thought she found almost impossible to take in. When Peter asked her to marry him, which she thought was what she wanted, her answer became no as soon as he asked. The idea had suddenly become abhorrent. Most peculiar, she had been attracted to him right from the beginning until he asked her to marry him. Bizarre, it didn’t make sense; she felt panicky. A commitment she could not make. And the bewilderment came when she realized he was asking her to be his wife. And then, why? What did he see in her to desire her for the rest of his life?

The incomprehension of losing someone who had become a debt because she had always feared him. But now, the debt was gone. It was a strange relief. Did she miss him? Did she feel sad he had gone? Should she think it was sad he was dead? That strange word. Dead in that she would never see him again. For the first time, she didn’t know. She didn’t know how to think about him. It would be so ungrateful to