His Brother's Bride

“A little over three years.”

“Right after your daughters were born?” By the sounds of things, this woman had not had an easy life.

“Before,” she said. “I was two months pregnant when Chance, my ex-husband, walked out.”

Great guy.

“Have you considered the fact that Owen Nevil might have arranged to have Byrd disappear as some kind of warning, telling you that while you’d run from the city, changed your name and had your records sealed, you’ve still been found?”

“Yes.” The former NYPD detective spoke volumes with the single word.

Clint nodded as well, his chestnut hair—a shade dark

er than his sister’s—falling over his forehead. “We talked about the possibility, but it’s not likely, is it?”

Shrugging, Scott said, “I sure don’t think so. There’s no telling what the criminal mind will find satisfying, but at this point, we’ll assume your secret is still safe from the Nevils.”

Still, just because he liked all of his bases covered, Scott asked Maureen for contact information for Frank Quigg, her old boss in New York. He’d follow up on the hoodlum and his convict brother as soon as he finished at Twin Oaks.

“Shall we go up and take a look at the room?” he asked.

“I’d rather stay down here if you don’t mind,” Maureen surprised him by saying.

“I’ll take you up,” Clint added, pulling a big brass key from the pocket of his slacks.

With a raised brow, Scott glanced at Maureen. The woman was as qualified as he was to do this job—maybe more so.

“Chances are this whole thing has nothing to do with the Nevils, and I don’t want to do anything to tip anyone off about my previous life,” she explained without his asking. “My suddenly exhibiting detective skills could certainly start people wondering—and talking.”

She made good sense, though Scott didn’t think he could have made the same decision. He’d have needed to take control. “Could you see if you can find the one guest you said was still here? I’d like to question her as soon as Clint and I finish upstairs,” he asked before turning to follow her brother.

Maureen nodded. Her livelihood—perhaps her life itself—was on the line and she appeared amazingly composed.

Scott had a feeling NYPD had lost one hell of a detective when she’d retired.

* * *

BYRD’S ROOM WAS at the far end of the corridor. Though there were some personal effects lying around, the room had a deserted air. The colorful handmade quilt spread neatly across the top of the pine four-poster bed was evidence of the fact that the bed had not been slept in. The plate of cookies on the nightstand hadn’t been touched.

“When were those left there?” Scott asked.

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Also on the nightstand, next to the cookies, was a copy of Byrd’s bestselling book on bed-and-breakfasts, an old photo of a young couple in an amorous embrace used as a bookmark.

Scott took note of everything—both mentally and on paper—touching as little as possible. There was an overnight duffel on the floor by the nightstand. A silk nightgown hung from one of the bedposts and on the dresser was a laptop and a thirty-five-year-old birth certificate for someone called Leslie Renwick. The birth had taken place in Iowa, and the parents’ names were whited out.

“Look at this,” Scott said.

Clint, who’d been standing in the doorway, crossed over and glanced down at the birth certificate.

“Who would just throw an important document like this on the top of a dresser?” he asked.

“Someone who wasn’t intending to leave it there.”

“Someone who left here in a hurry, you mean?” Clint asked, frowning as he gave Scott a sideways glance.

“Possibly.” Scott looked back at the dresser. While there was no real indication that William Byrd had been kidnapped, he was getting a bad feeling about the whole thing. “You know anyone named Leslie Renwick?” he asked Clint.