She thought of what Kiki had just said about Franklin Tate: Okay, yes, he was a little reckless and didn’t pay attention to the details, but his heart was in the right place.

  He’d been married to Portia for only a month. “Did you get a look at his will?” she blurted, holding the door.

  “Not yet . . .” she began, confused. “Why?”

  “Did he ever mention having it changed so that you could inherit his fortune?”

  “Well . . . no,” she said, thinking. “I’m not sure. We never talked about it, really. I just assumed that he’d change it so that I’d inherit everything, but . . .”

  “But you don’t know for sure.”

  She nodded, eyes widening. “Are you thinking . . .?”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Daisy admitted honestly, grabbing her bag. “Do you have Portia’s address? I think I need to talk to her.”

  “For what reason?” Kiki asked. “I thought—”

  “I don’t know,” Daisy said, following her out the door. “Just to set my mind at ease.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  It was after nine in the evening when Daisy made her way to the grand, gothic palazzo that belonged to Franklin Tate’s third wife, Portia.

  Still turning everything she’d learned over in her mind, she climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. The pieces were coming together, but she still had gaps in the puzzle. She was fairly certain Portia had been in Lyon, possibly wearing the red wig as a disguise so no one would recognize her. Tate, knowing his wife Kiki would’ve disapproved, had arranged for the tryst, far from home. But that still didn’t make Portia a killer. After all, everyone aboard the plane had said that the redhead hadn’t accompanied Tate. So she’d have had no opportunity to poison the drink.

  A maid answered, escorting her into a hallway with grand Venetian chandeliers, intricate terrazzo floors, and 18th-century frescoes. Daisy felt like she was in a museum as the maid said, “She was not expecting you? She was getting ready for bed, I believe.”

  “No, I’m sorry it’s late. But it’s urgent. Please tell her I have news about Franklin Tate.”

  The maid’s eyes went wide. She nodded and scurried up a long, curved staircase, adorned with shelves of multicolored Murano glass pieces. In the light of the chandelier, they painted prisms all over the room, mesmerizing Daisy so thoroughly that she didn’t notice the woman who’d crept halfway down the steps until she said, “You have information about Frankie?”

  Daisy looked up to see the beautiful young woman. She was wearing a flowing dressing gown that touched her toes, and her hair and make-up was perfect. She didn’t look like someone who was even close to going to bed.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry to inform you that your ex-husband is dead.”

  Her breath hitched, and she grabbed for her heart. “How terrible,” she said, as that one movement pointed the way to something Daisy had seen before.

  It was a necklace with a tear-shaped black diamond.

  As she moved closer, Daisy saw it all with perfect clarity, the diamond necklace, the delicate black earrings.

  That confirmed it. Portia had been the red-headed woman, in disguise.

  “No one has told you, Ms. . . .?”

  She shook her head stiffly. “Tate. I kept the last name. No one bothers to think of the ex-wife, unfortunately. How did it happen? Drugs?”

  “So you knew he was into drugs?”

  She shrugged. “Frankie was into a lot of things. If it was expensive, he enjoyed it.”

  Daisy started, “Yes, well, it was suspected to be a heart attack from a drug overdose, originally. But not anymore.”

  The woman’s eyes flashed to Daisy. “No? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that they found traces of Batrachotoxin in his morning drink, and in his bloodstream. It’s something that’s only found in South America.”

  Portia looked away. “Oh, that’s interesting.” She motioned to the door. “Well, thanks for coming by, but I’m tired, and I really should be—”

  “I heard on the grapevine that you used to travel to Brazil?”

  She waved her hand. “Of course. I was a flight attendant.”

  Daisy froze in the doorway as the woman tried to nudge her out. With that, it all became clear. “Erin. You’re Erin? The other flight attendant.”

  Portia’s eyes widened, but just as quickly, narrowed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll please--”

  “Of course. He was still in love with you. He arranged the tryst in Lyon. But for a little bit of fun, he made you the flight attendant. What did you do, drug Darla so she didn’t know when you snuck off the plane in Lyon? None of the guys knew who you were. He was only married to you for a month. And you’d made sure he changed the will to you, but you knew he was reckless and hadn’t yet gotten around to changing the will to Kiki. This was your last chance to inherit everything he had.”

  “You’re blathering nonsense,” she said, trying to shut the door on Daisy.

  Daisy shoved her foot in the space at the last moment, wedging the door open. “It’s true, isn’t it? You had the motive, the opportunity. And you knew that no one would ever know you were on that flight. But you were.”

  She turned around. “Marie! Call the police!”

  Daisy crossed her arms. “Yes, call them. I’m sure they’ll be interested to know my story.”

  “You have no proof,” she snarled, looking up the stairs for her maid, who seemed to be missing.

  “Actually, I do,” Daisy said, scrolling through her pictures. “I have this picture of a pair of earrings that were purchased from a jeweler in Lyon. The jeweler told me there was another set, sold to Franklin Tate, the day he was in Lyon. The ones you’re wearing.”

  Portia reached up and touched her ear, in shock.

  “And I also have this,” she said, showing her the photograph of the flight attendant, in profile, reaching up to an overhead cabinet. “This was taken by the pilot. That, and Franklin Tate’s will? I think there’s enough evidence for the police to see my side.”

  The woman stood there, looking at her in horror. “You don’t know . . .” She closed the door. “I didn’t do this. This is all a misunderstanding. Come with me. I’ll prove it to you.”

  Daisy followed her through the house, her hand wrapped around her phone, ready to make the call if things got weird. Every room in the place was bigger and grander than the next—definitely not something one could afford on a flight attendant’s salary. This woman must’ve gotten a good chunk of Tate’s money from the divorce.

  When she reached the back of the house, she opened a door to a greenhouse. Warm, humid and suffocating air flooded in. It was dark back here, because of the late hour, but there were a few lights glowing on the stone steps, and the sound of trickling water.

  Daisy walked down the steps, noticing the stone barriers, blocking off various pools full of dark water and lily pads. A narrow path cut through a veritable jungle, from where all kinds of exotic plants sprouted. “Isn’t this lovely?” Portia said.

  “Yeah . . .” Daisy said warily as she led her deeper into what looked like an actual jungle, taking path after path. When Daisy ventured a look over her shoulder, all she saw was darkness.

  Would she be able to find her way out?

  At the end of the path was a small clearing. Portia stopped at a small white workbench, scattered with vials and pots, half-swallowed by the vegetation.

  “What is this place?” Daisy asked.

  “It’s my little playground. You see, my father was a world-famous scientist, so I moved around a lot,” she said, surveying the place with a bit of pride. “We moved to Brazil when I was a child. I had some of my best years there. But then we had to move away. How I missed those jungles. Those sounds . . .”

  As Daisy stepped further in, she heard something else.

  The sound of frogs, their low vibrato thrumming in the night.

  When Portia turned around, she was holding a syringe of white-tinged liquid. “This will only hurt for a second.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  “Hell, no,” Daisy said, starting to back away.

  Portia leapt forward, syringe in hand, ready to plunge into Daisy’s body. “Don’t you dare!” she shouted.

  Daisy spun to rush off, but the first thing she did was collide with one of the large jungle trees. She hadn’t remembered passing it, but then again, she wasn’t familiar with any of this. It was absolutely black, except for a bit of glowing light coming from the entrance, and from the workbench behind her. Blinking to get her vision back, she pushed away a giant leaf and threw herself forward.

  Something grabbed ahold of her ponytail, yanking it back.

  She tore it from the claws of a branch of a tree, only succeeding to free part of it as she rushed forward, feeling the pop of hair being pulled from her scalp.

  Daisy rushed into absolute darkness, knowing she wasn’t on the path anymore, wherever that was. She felt soft earth, some mud, under her shoes, as the leaves and fronds of trees slapped her cheeks. Pushing forward blindly, she struck out wildly, hoping to see the lights of the exit.

  When she did, when she finally burst out onto the path, she let out a sigh of relief and reached for the door.

  At that moment, Portia pounced, jumping on her like a wild animal, throwing her to the floor.

  She scrabbled to grab onto anything she could, and found the woman’s hair, and her arm.

  In her peripheral vision, Daisy caught sight of the syringe, its tip glistening wet in the minimal light. As Daisy struggled to get a hold of her assailant’s wrist, the syringe was brought between them, bearing down on Daisy, ready to be plunged into her heart.

  She sucked in a breath as the weight of the woman bore down upon her. Locked in a struggle, she gazed up at the woman, her face twisted in hate. No longer beautiful, she looked half-insane.

  “Let . . . go . . .” Portia ground out, trying to lower the syringe into Daisy’s chest.

  It was so close. Daisy could almost feel it, the scrape against her skin, the pinch, the cold flood of liquid. If Portia succeeded, the poison would have a direct line to her heart. She’d read enough about the poison to know that when ingested, it needed time to make its way to the heart in the bloodstream. But an injection? This wouldn’t be slow paralysis and death—death would be instant, and assured.

  In that moment, the sound of trickling water disappeared. The frogs fell away. She couldn’t feel the lower half of her body. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, pounding in her chest. In the quiet, she thought of Zachary.

  He’d been right that she was in danger. She just hadn’t expected it to come from this source.

  When she thought of him, she thought of home, the good old USA, and how she would likely never get back to it. To the agency she was trying so hard to keep alive. To her father.

  Her poor father, who would maybe never remember her again, once she was gone from his life for good. She was his lifeline to the real world. Without her, she feared he’d only slip further away.

  It was that thought that gave her the strength to squeeze.

  She squeezed Portia’s wrist so hard that she thought she heard the crack of breaking bones. Portia let out a scream of agony, which allowed Daisy to roll her over, onto her back, still holding onto both her wrists. The syringe fell between them.

  Daisy quickly let go, grabbed the syringe, and scuttled back, aiming it like a weapon at the woman, who was still lying there, stunned, in her pink dressing gown.

  She sat up on her elbows, hair a messy spider-web over her face, breathing hard. “What are you going to do with that?” she snarled.

  Daisy started to reach for her phone, and in that moment, Portia lunged, growling like a wild bull, head down.

  Halfway there, the doors to the greenhouse exploded open, and a police officer emerged, gun drawn. “Fermo, non muoverti!”

  Faraway sirens rang in her ears as she realized what was happening. Safe. She was safe.

  Daisy let out a sigh of relief, as Portia growled, “Marie called the police? Stupid woman, what do I pay her for?”

  The police officer inched forward, gun pointed at Daisy. “Drop that weapon and tell me what is going on here.”

  Daisy held up her hands in surrender and opened her mouth to speak. But what happened next occurred in such a quick blur, Daisy had no chance of stopping it.

  As the syringe began to drop from her hand, Portia reached out and grabbed it, plunging it into her own neck.

  Gasping, she fell to the floor, as Daisy and the officer stared on in shock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Four days after the events of Venice, Daisy once again sat at her desk in a rundown section of East Plainfield, New Jersey, the only person in the giant office. She eyed the picture of her bulldog-strong father.

  He’d had another spell, forgetting who he was. Where he was. It was the first one he’d had in a week. And he’d been doing so well . . .

  “Yes, I understand,” she said to Sarah, the nurse at Independence Court. “I can come over after work.”

  “Perfect, Daisy. See you then.”

  She ended the call and set the phone down, thinking. Daisy knew the routine, by now. He’d be confused, borderline combative, and she’d have to sit with him and tell him stories about his life until he finally remembered her and who he was. It might have been just her imagination, but it felt like each time, the stories had to go on longer and longer, before his memory sparked.

  At least she was here, now, and not in Venice.

  When the bell over the doorway jingled, she knew it was Goldie. Though she’d successfully brought the case in Venice to an end, it hadn’t yet done anything to drum up business at the Fortune Agency.

  Luckily, now, she wouldn’t have to worry about money. At least, for the next few months.

  She swiveled around to face the army of empty desks as Goldie Tate sauntered in. She’d gotten a new hairstyle in the week since she’d first seen her—her hair was now as gold as her name. Again, she was wearing an outlandish outfit to accentuate her curves—a red jumpsuit and matching pumps.

  “Darling,” she said, coming around the corner of the desk to give her a robust hug. “You’ve done it, you clever thing.”

  “I wondered if you’d be disappointed to find out it wasn’t Kiki?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, no. Of course not. Truthfully, I’ve always liked that girl. She and I have talked a lot more, since things . . . well, in the past few days. And I think we’re going to be friends.”

  Daisy blinked in disbelief. “Really?”

  “Absolutely. And I’m just glad it wasn’t Matteo. I like that boy.” She licked her lips. “Not to mention that he’s easy on the eyes. Oh, don’t look at me that way! I know I’m old enough to be his mother, but he’s quite the Lothario, don’t you think? You must have thought so?”

  “He was good-looking,” she admitted stiffly. As if she’d have ever had anything in common with a guy who spent all of his time, earning passive income while drinking and lounging away the day.

  Goldie rolled her eyes. “Youth is wasted on the young. If I was your age . . . ” She made an mmm mmm mmmm sound with her lips, reached into her purse and pushed a check over to Daisy. “There’s a little extra, for your trouble. I never knew the third wife, but I heard she was a real bitch to you.”

  Well, she did almost kill me with a syringe of Batrachotoxin, Daisy thought with a nod, deciding not to go over the details. Her hands still shook, every time she thought about it. Instead, she looked down at the check and her jaw dropped. “That’s more than kind.”

  “I’d say it’s deserved,” she said, standing. “Anyway, Darling, I wanted to come and thank you in person. Invite you to lunch, perhaps, as I promised?”

  Daisy leaned back in her chair. “I’d love to, but—”

  “Doesn’t look like you have all that much going on around here! I’ve seen more life in a cemetery!” the woman blustered, looking around, hands on hips. “Come on, girlie, live a little.”

  “I would, really, but I have to visit my father in the hospital after work. Raincheck?”

  “You got it,” the woman said, firing a finger gun at her. “I’ll hold you to that. And the next time I know anyone has a case, you’re going to be the first name out of my mouth. Mark my words.”

  Daisy smiled. “I appreciate that. And if you’d like to leave a nice review online . . .”

  “Consider it done!” she said, and marched out, her red heels clicking on the cracked linoleum.

  When she was gone, Daisy looked at the check, and then opened her bank account on her phone. The check was too big to deposit to her business online; she’d have to make a special trip to take care of it in person. Not that she minded. At least, she knew, for the next few months, her father’s future would be assured.

  Even if Edward Fortune wanted to be somewhere else, at least he’d be safe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Two days later, despite his constant calling, Daisy was finally able to make it to dinner with Zachary Hardy. She almost couldn’t believe how persistent he’d been over little ol’ her. It was almost as if he had a crush on her, she thought. And how long had it been since anyone had a crush on her?

  This time, she met him at a casual restaurant, halfway between East Plainfield and his home base in Philly. When she got there, though she’d tried to be early, she found he was already sitting in a corner booth.

  Again, he was wearing a wool sweater with a zip-up collar, and khaki pants, but he looked a little more dressed up, his hair still wet and combed back from his face after a shower. The moment she came in, he spotted her and waved.

  Then he stood, and hugged her. She’d expected it to be awkward, but she was surprised by how good it felt.

  “Hello,” she said as she sat down and picked up the menu.

 

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