Trust No One Read online

  OTHER TITLES BY JAYNE ANN KRENTZ

  River Road

  Dream Eyes

  Copper Beach

  In Too Deep

  Fired Up

  Running Hot

  Sizzle and Burn

  White Lies

  All Night Long

  Falling Awake

  Truth or Dare

  Light in Shadow

  Summer in Eclipse Bay

  Smoke in Mirrors

  Dawn in Eclipse Bay

  Lost & Found

  Eclipse Bay

  Soft Focus

  Eye of the Beholder

  Flash

  Sharp Edges

  Deep Waters

  Absolutely, Positively

  Trust Me

  Grand Passion

  Hidden Talents

  Wildest Hearts

  Family Man

  Perfect Partners

  Sweet Fortune

  Silver Linings

  The Golden Chance

  BY JAYNE ANN KRENTZ WRITING AS AMANDA QUICK

  Otherwise Engaged

  The Mystery Woman

  Crystal Gardens

  Quicksilver

  Burning Lamp

  Perfect Poison

  Third Circle

  The River Knows

  Second Sight

  Lie By Moonlight

  Wait Until Midnight

  The Paid Companion

  Late for the Wedding

  Don’t Look Back

  Slightly Shady

  Wicked Widow

  I Thee Wed

  Seduction

  Affair

  Mischief

  Mystique

  Mistress

  Deception

  Desire

  Dangerous

  Reckless

  Ravished

  Rendezvous

  Scandal

  Surrender

  With This Ring

  BY JAYNE ANN KRENTZ WRITING AS JAYNE CASTLE

  The Lost Night

  Canyons of Night

  Midnight Crystal

  Obsidian Prey

  Dark Light

  Silver Master

  Ghost Hunter

  After Glow

  Harmony

  After Dark

  Amaryllis

  Zinnia

  Orchid

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

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  Copyright © 2015 by Jayne Ann Krentz

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Krentz, Jayne Ann.

  Trust no one / Jayne Ann Krentz.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-62100-4

  I. Title.

  PS3561.R44T784 2015 2014023348

  813'.54—dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Frank. I positively love you.

  Contents

  Other Titles by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Garden Of Lies Excerpt

  One

  The note pinned to the front of the dead man’s silk pajamas was a one-sentence email printed out from a computer: Make Today a Great Day the Witherspoon Way.

  Grace Elland leaned over the blood-soaked sheets and forced herself to touch the cold skin of Sprague Witherspoon’s throat. His blue eyes, once so brilliant and compelling, were open. He stared sightlessly at the bedroom ceiling. A robust, square-jawed man with a mane of silver hair, he had always seemed larger-than-life. But death had shrunk him. All of the charm and electrifying charisma that had captivated the Witherspoon Way seminar audiences across the country had been drained away.

  She was certain that he had been gone for several hours but she thought she detected a faint, accusing question in his unseeing eyes. Shattering memories splintered through her. At the age of sixteen she had seen the same question in the eyes of a dead woman. Why didn’t you get here in time to save me?

  She looked away from the dead eyes—and saw the unopened bottle of vodka on the nightstand.

  For a terrible moment past and present merged there in the bedroom. She heard the echo of heavy footsteps on old floorboards. Panic threatened to choke her. This could not be happening, not again. It’s the old dream, she thought. You’re in the middle of a nightmare but you’re awake. Breathe. Focus, damn it, and breathe.

  Breathe.

  The mantra broke the panic-induced trance. The echoing footsteps faded into the past. Ice-cold adrenaline splashed through her veins, bringing with it an intense clarity. This was not a dream. She was in a room with a dead man and, although she was almost certain that the footsteps had been summoned up from her nightmare, there was still the very real po
ssibility that the killer was still around.

  She grabbed the nearest available weapon—the vodka bottle—and moved to the doorway. There she paused to listen intently. The big house felt empty. Perhaps the footsteps had been an auditory illusion generated by the panicky memories. Or not. Either way, the smart thing to do was get out of the mansion and call 911.

  She moved into the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible. A fog of shadows darkened the big house. There were elegant potted plants everywhere—vibrant green bamboo, palms and ferns. Sprague had firmly believed that the abundant foliage not only improved indoor air quality, but enhanced the positive energy in the atmosphere.

  The curtains that covered the windows had been closed for the night. No one had been alive to draw them back that morning. Not that it would have done much good. The Seattle winter dawn had arrived with a low, overcast sky and now rain was tapping at the windows. On days like this, most people turned on a few lights.

  No one rushed out of a doorway to confront her. Gripping the neck of the vodka bottle very tightly, she went down the broad staircase. When she reached the bottom, she flew across the grand living room.

  She knew her way around the first floor of the house because Sprague Witherspoon had entertained lavishly and often. He always invited Grace and the other members of the Witherspoon Way staff to his catered affairs.

  The vast great room had been furnished and decorated with those events in mind. The chairs, cushioned benches and tables were arranged in what designers called conversational groupings. There was a lot of expensive art on the walls.

  Sprague Witherspoon had lived the lifestyle he had tried to teach in his seminars, and the motivational business had been good to him. With Sprague it had been all about positive thinking and an optimistic attitude.

  But now someone had murdered him.

  She whipped through the front door and out into the beautifully manicured gardens. She did not stop to pull up the hood of her jacket. By the time she reached her little compact waiting in the sweeping circular driveway her hair and face were soaked.

  She got behind the wheel, locked all of the doors, put the vodka bottle on the floor and gunned the engine. She drove through the high steel gates that guarded the Queen Anne mansion and out onto the quiet residential street.

  Once outside the grounds she brought the car to a halt and reached into her cross-body bag for her phone. It proved amazingly difficult to enter 911 because her hands were shaking so hard. When she finally got through to the operator she had to close her eyes in order to concentrate on getting the facts straight.

  Breathe.

  “Sprague Witherspoon is dead.” She watched the big gates while she rattled off the address. “At least, I think he’s dead. I couldn’t find a pulse. It looks like he’s been shot. There is . . . a lot of blood.”

  More memories flashed through her head. A man with a face rendered into a bloody mask. Blood raining down on her. Blood everywhere.

  “Is there anyone else in the house, ma’am?” The male operator’s voice was sharp and urgent. “Are you in danger?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m outside now. A few minutes ago I went in to check on Mr. Witherspoon because he didn’t show up at the office this morning. The gates were open and the front door was unlocked. The alarm was off. I didn’t think anything about it because I assumed he was out in the gardens. When I couldn’t find him outside, I went into the house. I called out to him. When he didn’t respond I worried that he had fallen or become ill. He lives alone, you see, and—”

  Shut up, Grace. You’re rambling. You must stay focused. You can have a panic attack later.

  “Stay outside,” the operator said. “I’ve got responders on the way.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  Grace ended the connection and listened to the sirens in the distance.

  It wasn’t until the first vehicle bearing the logo of the Seattle Police Department came to a stop in front of her car that she remembered a fact that everyone who watched television crime dramas knew well. When it came to suspects, cops always looked hard at the person who found the body.

  She had a feeling that the investigators would look even more closely at a suspect who had a history of stumbling over dead bodies.

  Breathe.

  She looked down at the bottle sitting on the floor of her car. Dread iced her blood.

  Don’t panic. A lot of people drink vodka.

  But the only things she had ever seen Sprague drink were green tea and expensive white wine.

  She found a tissue in her bag and used it to pick up the bottle. Not that it mattered much now. Her fingerprints were all over it.

  Two

  I suppose the three of us can only be thankful that we’ve all got reasonably good alibis,” Millicent Chartwell said. She sank languidly against the back of the booth and regarded her martini with a forlorn expression. “I didn’t like the way that cute detective was watching me today when I gave my statement.”

  “He wasn’t exactly smiling at me,” Grace said. She took a sip of her white wine. “In fact, if I weren’t the optimistic type, I’d say he was looking for an excuse to arrest me for Sprague’s murder.”

  Kristy Forsyth put down her wineglass. Tears glittered in her eyes. “I can’t believe Mr. Witherspoon is gone. I keep thinking there must have been a horrible case of mistaken identity and that he’ll come striding through the door of the office tomorrow morning the way he always does, with some fresh-baked scones or doughnuts for us.”

  “There was no mistake,” Grace said. “I saw him. And Nyla Witherspoon identified her father’s body. I was still at the house talking to the police when she arrived on the scene. She was seriously distraught. In tears. Shaky. Honestly, I thought she was going to faint.”

  It was just after five o’clock. The three of them were exhausted and, Grace knew, still dazed. A close encounter with murder had an unnerving effect on most people. She and her office colleagues had not only lost a great boss, they had just lost their jobs. They were all of the opinion that working for the Witherspoon Way had been the best thing that had ever happened to them, career-wise. Their lives had been turned upside down by Sprague’s murder.

  After giving their statements, Millicent had suggested going for a drink. There was unanimous agreement. They were now seated in a booth in their favorite after-work spot, a cozy tavern and café near the Pike Place Market.

  The day was ending the way it had begun, with rain and gloom. The winter solstice had passed a few weeks earlier. The days were becoming perceptibly longer—Seattleites were keen observers of the nuances in the ever-changing patterns of sunlight—but the early evening twilight made it seem as if it was still December on the calendar.

  Millicent sipped her martini and narrowed her eyes. “If I were the police, the first suspect on my list would be Nyla Witherspoon.”

  As Sprague’s bookkeeper and financial manager, Millicent had a tendency to go straight to the bottom line, regardless of the subject. She was a vivacious, curvy redhead with a taste for martinis and the occasional bar hookup.

  Millicent had been working for Sprague for nearly a year before Grace had joined the Witherspoon Way team. On the surface, she seemed to have it all—film star–level glamour and a computer for a brain. She had used both to make her way in the world. What Millicent did not have was a family. Her past was murky. She did not like to discuss it. But she had once said that she left home at the age of sixteen and had no intention of ever returning. She was a survivor. In spite of the odds against her, she had landed adroitly on her stiletto heels.

  Kristy blinked away a few more tears. “Nyla does have the most to gain from Sprague’s death, doesn’t she? But she’s his daughter, for heaven’s sake. We all know that she had issues with him. It was a troubled relationship. Still, murdering her father?”

  Kristy was
the most recent member of the Witherspoon team. Born and raised in a small town in Idaho, she had moved to Seattle in search of adventure and—as she had explained to Grace and Millicent—more options in husbands. With her light brown hair, warm eyes and pretty features, she was attractive in a sweet, wholesome way that went down well with the Witherspoon clients.

  Unlike Millicent, Kristy was close to her family. Although she had confided to her coworkers that she did not want to marry a farmer, it was clear that she had a deep and abiding affection for the bucolic world she had left behind. She was forever regaling the office staff with humorous stories about growing up on a farm.

  Grace and Millicent had privately speculated that Sprague had felt sorry for Kristy, who had found herself struggling in the big city. Perhaps giving her a job had been, in part, an act of kindness back at the beginning. But somewhat to everyone’s amazement, Kristy had quickly displayed an invaluable flair for travel logistics and an ability to charm clients. As the demand for Witherspoon Way seminars had grown, so had the work involved in coordinating Sprague’s busy schedule. Business had been so brisk lately that Sprague had been on the verge of hiring an assistant for Kristy.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time an heir has hurried things along,” Millicent pointed out. “Besides, we know that Nyla was furious with Sprague. They argued constantly. Things between them only got worse when Mr. Perfect came along. Sprague didn’t approve of him and that just made Nyla angrier. I think she was ready to do just about anything to get her hands on her inheritance. She hated Sprague for putting her on an allowance.”

  “Well, she is an adult, not a child,” Grace pointed out.

  “If you ask me, she decided she didn’t want to wait any longer for the money,” Millicent said. She swallowed some more of her martini, lowered the glass and fixed Grace and Kristy with a grim expression. “I think there’s something else we should keep in mind.”

  Kristy frowned. “What?”

  Millicent plucked the little plastic spear out of the martini and munched the olive. “It’s true that Nyla had issues with her father but she wasn’t very fond of the three of us, either. We had better watch our backs.”

  Kristy’s eyes widened. “Jeez, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Millicent said.