Erin was a triple threat—young, exotic-looking, pretty. All the men leered at her. Tate, especially, seemed unable to keep his hands off her. Not that Darla had it much better. She’d thought now that she was in her forties, men would’ve grown up around her and learned how to behave. This latest flight had proven her wrong.

  “Well, doesn’t look like any of these guys will be asking for anything, anytime soon.”

  “I dread having to wake them up when we land.”

  “No thanks, I’ll let you handle that,” Darla said quickly, to which they both laughed. She tucked a strand of hair that had loosened from her low ponytail behind her ear. “Did you make plans for Venice?”

  “No. Who me? I don’t gamble. I don’t shop. I probably couldn’t even afford a gondola ride. And I probably can’t afford anything else in that city,” she said with a shrug. “Not even a decent dinner, on our salary. I’m just going to go back to my flat outside the city and wait for my next assignment.”

  Darla sighed. The difference between the haves and have-nots was never more evident than when she’d started working the jets. She was definitely the latter—and it was especially obvious and painful whenever they visited the most popular playgrounds of the rich and famous. Even a snack from a street vendor was enough to blow her budget.

  “You’re going back home to the States, right?” Erin continued.

  “Yeah. Haven’t been back there in a year. Maybe before I go, you and I can meet up for coffee?”

  “It’s a date,” Erin said with a wink as the pilot came on the loudspeaker, announcing that they should take their seats and prepare for landing.

  They exchanged thankful looks and then hurried to take their seats. Slipping into the spare jump-seat, Darla fastened her seatbelt and closed her eyes, pretending she was about to embark on a great adventure. After all, that was what had interested her in becoming a flight attendant in the first place—the chance to travel and see exotic locales.

  If she’d known she’d have to deal with the Franklin Tates of the world, though, she probably would’ve chosen a different line of work. She hadn’t known she’d have to cater to the rich and obnoxious. All breeding, no manners.

  The rest of the trip was uneventful. The plane touched down at the airport in Venice, and Darla looked out upon the palm trees and opulent old buildings, sighing. This place was beautiful, with warm sea breezes and plenty of sunshine, and yet it had always seemed cold to her. It was so far from Omaha, her heart squeezed in her chest. Soon.

  As the plane taxied among the other private jets, toward the appropriate gate, Darla loosened her seatbelt and stood, smoothing her skirt. The landing bump of the jet on the tarmac had woken some of the sleeping men, who were now stretching and looking out the windows, bleary-eyed.

  She walked past slowly, as one of the men, in a cowboy hat, said, “Hey, darlin’, you coming out with us tonight?”

  “I wish I could,” she said with an appeasing smile, thinking, No way in hell. She was already bruised enough by their company. What she wanted right now was some peace and quiet. Maybe a long, hot bath in whatever hotel she was being put up in. “I’m packing. Going home to the States.”

  “Maybe you’ll be on the same flight as me, huh?”

  I hope not. She grabbed an empty bottle of Jack and some other trash from the seat next to him and added, “We’ll be there in a moment. Are you heading home straightaway, or are you hoping to go to the casino with Mr. Tate?”

  He smirked. “You know I can’t pass a casino without going in. Gonna win big.”

  “I’m sure,” she murmured under her breath as she continued down the aisle. She noticed Franklin Tate, still in the same spot, perhaps slumped a little more.

  Partied a little too hard, hmm? She thought, shaking his arm as she headed for the trash. “Time to wake up, Mr. Tate. We’ve landed. Home sweet home.”

  She tossed away the trash as the plane slowed to a stop. She went to the door and prepared the exit for disembarkation. As she twisted the lever to open the door and fresh air flooded in, she took a deep breath.

  A couple of the men in the party were apparently just as eager to leave the plane as she was. They thundered down the aisle, briefcases and bags in hands, sunglasses on, mumbling their thanks to her. “Have a good day,” she called after them.

  Erin joined her, murmuring, “Good riddance.”

  She grinned at her friend and then looked around the plane. Just a little longer, and she’d be free. The cleaners could take care of the biggest messes. They just needed to take care of the people, and then she could be on her way. One step closer to Omaha.

  So she was annoyed to find that, after complaining incessantly earlier that he couldn’t wait to touch down in Venice so he could blow his winnings in the casino before heading home to his island villa, Franklin Tate was still fast asleep, in his seat.

  She marched down the aisle and nudged him again. “We’re here, Mr. Tate,” she said, summoning pleasantness.

  No response.

  She nudged him harder, but this time, his body lurched forward, folding in half.

  “Mr. Tate?” she asked, now worried, grabbing him by the lapels of his expensive coat and shoving him back. She hadn’t noticed before, but he was slightly paler than normal.

  She felt his forehead. It was cold to the touch.

  Then she noticed a slightly chalky substance in the corner of his mouth. Was that from his drink? She hadn’t noticed it before.

  Her hand traveled down to his collar, fingers delving underneath to find a pulse. But there was nothing. His skin felt doughy but cold, like an inanimate object.

  Slowly, the horror dawned on Darla Mortenson.

  Somewhere in the sky, between Lyon and Venice, something terrible had happened. Because Franklin Tate was dead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Daisy Fortune rested in an uncomfortable chair in the waiting area of Independence Court, the assisted living facility where her father had spent the past year, watching the news.

  Bad news.

  She’d already been in a bad mood, coming here, but the news reporter’s easy skim from a murder uptown, to a burglary downtown, to the dismal state of the economy, was enough to make it even worse.

  Not to mention this place. As much as they tried to dress it up with pretty paintings of woodland scenes and cheerful rainbow wallpaper, nothing could hide the simple fact: It was a last stop before death.

  Even so, she appreciated its existence. Without it, where would she be? The nurses waited on her father, Edward Fortune, hand and foot, and when he was coherent enough to understand where he was, he always had positive things to say about it.

  But she knew his heart was somewhere else.

  The nurse came to her as she was deep in thought, so that when she felt a tap on her shoulder, she nearly jumped out of the seat. “Hi, Daisy.”

  “Oh. Hi, Sarah. Is everything okay?”

  “Yep. Well . . .” She shrugged. “It’s all right.”

  That wasn’t a good sign. But then again, none of this was. Every week, it was another test. And every week, it was the same result: Negative.

  Which should’ve been a good thing. But now, even a year later, they still had no diagnosis for the ailment that had been plaguing her father.

  “So does that mean the doctor still has no answers?” she asked.

  It was a good thing they had Sarah. Sarah was always positive, even on the worst of days. Like today. She said, “It means that he’ll keep digging. We’re not giving up, so you shouldn’t, either.”

  Daisy sighed. “Of course, I won’t.”

  But there were days she wanted to. They’d almost dug to the bottom of a very deep hole. There wasn’t much further they could go. Eventually, they would have to give up and admit that some mysteries of the human body were beyond the help of even the best doctors in the business.

  She stood up and went to the door of the examination room her father had been wheeled into, an hour ago. As much as she wanted to see him, another part of her wasn’t sure. She hated seeing him like this. Gone was the even-tempered, always smiling man who’d raised her, replaced by this person she didn’t quite know. During his good days, he was happy and charming, flirting with all of the female staff. On his many bad days, though? He could be downright cruel. It was like a game of Russian Roulette. No one ever knew which Edward Fortune they’d get.

  The symptoms came and went, but they meant that he needed round-the-clock care. He was suffering from a weakness in his limbs and confusion at times. One day, he would be a perfectly fit 60-year-old man, and the next he could barely stand and didn’t even know his own daughter’s name. On those days, he’d scream and thrash in bed, as though he were in the midst of being tortured.

  During those times, she was the only one who could talk sense into him. She held his hands, reminding him who she was, who he was, until the spell passed.

  Afterwards, he never seemed to remember them, which only made it harder. He never understood why he had to be watched over, twenty-four-seven, and often spoke to her about when he'd return to the Fortune Agency, the detective agency they’d always planned to run together.

  She didn't have the heart to tell him that would never happen. The doctors had said so. His spells were only getting worse and more frequent.

  As she was standing in the doorway, another nurse appeared pushing him in a wheelchair. His face was red, eyes bleary. Daisy’s heart split. It looked like he’d been crying.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said, but he didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge her at all. From the dark in his eyes, she wondered if this was one of the times that he didn’t know her.

  The nurse cast an apologetic look. “He’s a little out of it.”

  She followed behind him to his room, number 131, which was right across from the nurse’s station, and performed her usual ritual, pausing at the door to wait to see which Edward Fortune she’d get today.

  When he was placed back in his bed, she thought he might go right to sleep. Instead, he looked up at her. “Oh, hi, Diz,” he mumbled tiredly.

  She smiled. He’d always called her Dizzy, because she’d called herself that when she was first learning to speak, and it’d stuck. Dizzy Girl, he’d call her, since she was always tripping over her own two feet. At least he remembered that. She stepped in and sat on the edge of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Eh. Same old. I should be able to get out of here in a little bit, though.”

  Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. She looked at the nurse, who was busy filling his water cup. The nurse gave her a guarded look, as if to say, I don’t know where he got that information.

  “Oh, well, you need to stay here as long as it takes. And it takes time to get better,” she said brightly.

  He waved her off. “I am better. I’m perfectly fine.”

  That wasn’t even close to true. In his reality, maybe. But not this one, the one the rest of them had to live in. In that reality, he was far from okay. He didn’t remember the times he was reduced to a combative, confused, frightened man who could do nothing but lie in a motionless heap and yell at people to leave him alone.

  She pressed her lips together, wondering how to break it to him.

  His watery eyes widened, and she could see the pain in them. “Is it Charlie?”

  She winced at the name. Her brother was only eighteen when he disappeared, and the wealthy family that had owned the yacht where he’d last been seen did everything possible to bury the story, make it seem like he’d gone off on his own. It was bullshit, of course. But though the respected private investigator Edward Fortune had done everything he could to bring Charlie back, he’d run up against brick walls, again and again.

  “No. It’s not about Charlie. Charlie is still . . .”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Missing. Presumed dead. Years later, her father still held out hope, even when his health was failing.

  “It’s not that,” she finally choked out.

  “Something wrong at the agency? Too much to handle?”

  She knew that, eventually, it would come around to his baby, the Fortune Agency. She didn’t like talking about it with him. Too much to handle would’ve been a dream come true. The truth was, save for trailing a couple cheating husbands and a murder in Rhodes she’d solved last month, her caseload had all but dried up.

  It was a far cry from the Fortune Investigations Agency that Edward Fortune had run successfully for most of his career. That agency had been New Jersey’s best, admired by presidents and important people all over the world.

  This one, the one she ran? Not so much.

  She was trying to keep it afloat, but paying for rent and his care wasn’t exactly cheap. She’d burned through the money she’d gotten from the case in Rhodes as fast as if she’d lit a match to it. Most of that money had gone to pre-paying for several months of his care, and to paying off debt.

  Now, her bank account was just as sad as it usually was. Here she was, in the same situation she’d been in last month. With a noose, slowly tightening around her neck.

  “No, you don’t worry about it,” she said, fluffing his pillows. “I can handle it. Just get better.”

  “I will,” he said sleepily, settling down and letting his eyes closed. “You’ll see. I’ll be back at the end of this month. Make sure my clients know that.”

  “Come on. You love it here,” Sarah said, giving his hand a tap. “You don’t want to say goodbye to us.”

  He smiled. “As much as I love it here, I’d much rather sleep in my own bed. I miss my home.”

  Daisy smiled only because she knew he was looking at her for confirmation that he’d soon be back there, but the moment his eyes drooped shut, she frowned, looking around his room.

  He would never be back at the agency, or back home. No matter how much he wanted it. This room was it for him.

  Dr. Bower came into the room, jabbing something on a tablet. He glanced at his patient and smiled. “Already asleep, huh?”

  Edward Fortune snored softly in response.

  Daisy blew out a breath, her father’s last words streaming through her head. I miss my home. “Doctor, can I speak to you outside for a moment?”

  “Of course.” He motioned her out into the hallway.

  She wasted no time when they stepped out. “What will it take for me to bring my father back home?”

  The doctor’s thick, gray eyebrows came together. “I thought you said—”

  “Yes, I know,” she cut him off. A few months ago, she’d closed up his home, the home she’d grown up in, hoping he could eventually come back. But when it seemed impossible, she’d put it on the market. It had been for months, without a bite. She could easily take it off, give up the rent on her apartment in East Plainfield, and move home. “But I could make it work.”

  “By yourself?” He looked doubtful.

  She was, too. She was no nurse. And she didn’t have the patience to deal with her father’s volatile mood swings. The women here were nothing short of miracle workers. “Well, couldn’t I get in-home care?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” He pressed his lips together. “I should warn you it wouldn’t be easy. And that he can’t just have a visiting nurse. He’d need 24/7 care, and that care would be even more expensive than the home.”

  She nodded. “Okay, I was just thinking—”

  “You told me you were trying to sell his home.”

  She winced. Her father didn’t know that. If he found out, it would destroy him. “It hasn’t sold yet. I was just thinking—”

  “Listen, Daisy,” he said, fixing her with a sympathetic look. “I understand how hard this is. But if it were me, I’d sell the house. Your father isn’t going anywhere. He shouldn’t be. He’s right where he needs to be. So know you’re doing the very best for him.”

  He gave her a nod and walked off, leaving her alone in the hallway. Yes, she was doing the right thing. He’d never cared much about the house, anyway. It was the business he cared about. So the best thing she could do was keep that going.

  And the best way to do that was to find more clients.

  She’d gotten a few leads from the ads she’d placed in the newspaper, but nothing big and juicy, like that case in the Aegean last month.

  Unfortunately, those didn’t grow on trees. And though the wealthy Vandiveer patriarch had indicated he’d refer her to anyone in his circle who needed a private eye, so far that offer had yet to bring in any business.

  She needed to do something.

  As she went back to her car, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, opening it up to Zachary Hardy. The wealthy British attorney had seen her at work on the Vandiveer murder case and had to have some contacts. Maybe he could spread her name around a bit.

  It was worth a try.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When he’d asked her out a month ago, he’d mentioned dinner.

  She changed it to coffee. Just to be safe.

  She arrived early and got a booth in the front of a little café, down the main drag in town, around the corner from the detective agency. As she was nursing her coffee—she didn’t want him to pay—she saw him jogging across the street toward her.

  If there was any shape that could describe Zachary Hardy, it was a square. Though his voice was that of a tall, svelte British gentleman in a tuxedo, Hardy didn’t live up to that. He was solid, and compact, with a goatee, and a bit of a red, shiny forehead. His face always looked a bit sweaty, as if he’d just gotten done with a workout, and his eyes seemed to be almost permanently squinting.

  Even so, he was a good man. She liked him, even if she wasn’t sure that feeling would ever go past simply friends.

  Today he was wearing a wool sweater with a zip-up collar and khaki pants. The moment he came in, he spotted her and waved.

  “Hello,” she said, relieved when he slid into the seat across from her instead of making a gesture to hug her or give her a kiss.

  “It’s so good to see you, Daisy,” he said.

  “I hope the ride up from Philadelphia wasn’t too long?” she asked, pulling her coffee closer.

 

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