Catching the Wind Read online

  Her feet slid into her slippers, and she propped them up on the opposite chair, pressing her fingers into the back of her neck. If only she could knead away every tendril of stress that coiled under the skin.

  Two weeks ago, without any sort of fanfare, the War Office had released more than a hundred detailed files related to espionage during World War II, held under lock and key by the curators at the National Archives in London. She’d recently written a series of articles on the influx of refugees in England, and a friend at the archives thought she might be interested in the espionage files as well. He was absolutely right.

  Few people outside England knew about the seemingly ordinary, even upstanding British citizens who’d supported Nazi Germany during World War II, but hundreds of these sympathizers had been rounded up before or during the war for betraying their country. Many of the newly released files contained information about Nazi spies already known to the public, but she’d found a confidential inquiry into the background and character of Lady Janice Ricker—Mrs. McMann’s mother—who’d resided mainly in Kent. A woman whose story would interest both North American readers and those on this side of the pond.

  Lady Ricker was an American citizen who’d married into a wealthy upper-class British family before the war, becoming the wife of an astute Member of Parliament, and according to a memorandum in one of the files, she’d admitted to being sympathetic to the Nazi cause. The British government suspected that her ladyship had assisted the Nazis during World War II, but so far, Quenby hadn’t been able to find any documents with solid proof that she’d operated as an Abwehr spy.

  She’d located the obituary for Lady Ricker in the Kent and Sussex Courier. February 8, 1953. Lady Ricker was survived by a son and daughter at the time, but Louise McMann was the only child who remained now. Since Mrs. McMann refused to answer questions, Quenby would contact Lady Ricker’s grandchildren to request an interview.

  Not that Mrs. McMann wanted the world to know her mother might have participated in German espionage, but she’d thought the woman might be willing to share her family’s perspective in the article, even if it was to declare Lady Ricker innocent of the accusations. Or perhaps give a reason as to why Lady Ricker had betrayed her country.

  If Lady Ricker was innocent, Quenby would write a story about the difficulty deciphering who was innocent and who was guilty of espionage during World War II. An article about trust and deception and witch hunts—today and in the past—sparked by fear. Chandler might ax her story even before Evan Graham, the owner of World News Syndicate, saw it, but it would be the truth.

  She took a long sip of the milky tea she’d brewed an hour ago. In her mind, journalism was a science that educated society about both past and present in hopes of bettering it, keeping people accountable for their actions and informing them about the past so they wouldn’t repeat mistakes. In the mind of Mr. Graham, it was more about keeping a dying industry alive and, of course, selling papers. If people stopped paying for news—online or off—Quenby wouldn’t have a job.

  As president of World News Syndicate, Mr. Graham wasn’t afraid of a little conflict. Or a lawsuit. His family had been in the business of news for more than sixty years.

  A breeze blew through the park below her flat, curling the fog into strange shapes over the pond’s surface. Then a ray of light pierced through it, a spotlight on nature’s stage.

  Cue the actors—otherwise known as mallards—along with the pods of water lilies that had tucked themselves away for the night. In another half hour, she figured, the curtain would rise on them all, and she’d have to make her way to the office for her own performance during their team’s Friday morning editorial meeting.

  Right now, she had about as much clarity as the foggy park below. Without the help of Lady Ricker’s descendants, there would be no story. And Chandler might unravel in front of the whole team if Quenby didn’t have at least a lead.

  Her mobile phone rang, and she glanced down to check the number, but there was no ID. Perhaps Mrs. McMann wanted to talk after all.

  Quenby rotated her mug so it aligned perfectly along the table’s dark oak before answering the call. “Hello?”

  “My name is Lucas Hough,” the caller explained. “I’m looking for Miss Vaughn.”

  Standing, she stepped toward the window. “How can I help you, Mr. Hough?”

  “Is this Quenby Vaughn?”

  “It is.”

  “I’m a solicitor in London.”

  Her heart felt as if it skipped a beat or two. Had Louise already contacted her lawyer?

  “I have a client who would like to meet with you.”

  She leaned against the table, the fog-infused shapes over the park shifting below her. “Why does your client want to meet?”

  He chuckled, a low, amused sound that startled her. Was he laughing at her?

  “I don’t find any humor in that question.”

  “My apologies,” he replied. “Most people would inquire as to who wanted to meet with them before they asked about details.”

  She glanced at the microwave clock. The editorial meeting started in an hour. “I believe I can decipher both the who and why in one shot.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Hough said. “My client is Daniel Knight.”

  He said Daniel Knight like she should know the name, but she didn’t recall contacting anyone with the last name of Knight for any of her recent articles.

  “You still haven’t explained why your client wants to meet with me.”

  “Mr. Knight would like to hire you.”

  She reached for her mug but didn’t take a sip. “He wants me to write a story?”

  “No,” Mr. Hough said. “He wants you to find someone.”

  She sighed. “Then your client should hire a detective.”

  “He already has, but none of the investigators were able to find this person for him.”

  Her mug clasped in her hand, she moved down the narrow hallway, into her bedroom. A stray pair of jeans hung off the side of a woven basket at the end of her bed, and she stuffed them back inside. Laundry would be the first order of business over the weekend. “I’m a writer, Mr. Hough. I find people so I can tell their stories.”

  “This story is quite remarkable, but Mr. Knight wants to hire you as a researcher instead of a reporter.”

  She set her mug on top of a book on her nightstand and pulled a pair of clean jeans and a white blouse from the wardrobe, spreading her clothes across the end of the bed. Then she arranged her slippers neatly underneath.

  Mr. Hough’s secrecy was maddening, but she couldn’t resist a good story and had a feeling this man knew it.

  “Who exactly is Mr. Knight looking for?” she asked.

  “Someone he lost.”

  Maddening, intriguing, and irritating—she mentally added the word to the list. “A child?”

  “No.” He paused. “His best friend.”

  Quenby sat down on the bed and leaned back against the headboard. Her floor trembled as the Tube ran its morning course underground. “When did he lose this friend?”

  “Seventy-five years ago.”

  She groaned. “This is crazy.”

  “Not crazy,” he clipped. “Perhaps unusual, but not crazy.”

  Her head was beginning to ache. If only she could go back to bed and start this day again.

  “I’m simply the messenger, Miss Vaughn. My client has done his homework, and he’s decided that you are the person he wants to locate his friend.”

  “Because I’m a journalist?”

  “His reasoning is unbeknownst to me.”

  This time she laughed. “Unbeknownst?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said without sounding the least bit. “I assumed you understood the queen’s English.”

  She leaned forward, clenching the phone in her hand. He might think his teasing hilarious, but she had no time for this.

  “Assuming can be a detriment in both of our professions,” she replied. “But then again, I�
��ve been assuming that you and your client know I have a full-time position as a journalist.”

  She heard the clicking of a keyboard on the other end. “Mr. Knight will pay you a significant amount of money if you decide to work for him.”

  “I’m not motivated by money, Mr. Hough.”

  “Miss Vaughn,” he said with a sigh, “everyone is motivated by money.”

  She massaged her temples, tiny circles to clear her mind. He was pushing too hard now, and she didn’t respond well to manipulation. Or the condescending tone of his voice. “I can’t take the time off work to help your client.”

  “Before you decide, you should listen to his story.”

  It was like dangling a sweet carrot in front of her, enticing her to follow. She should tell him no, but perhaps she could mine a newsworthy story over the weekend, something to appease Chandler until the Ricker article was complete. “I can meet your client tomorrow morning at Pret’s in Camden Market—”

  “I’m afraid that won’t work.”

  She drummed her fingers on the bedspread. “I suppose you already have a plan.”

  A phone buzzed in the background. “I’ll fetch you in the morning at seven sharp, in front of your building.”

  “Wait—” She moved her feet back over the edge of her bed, onto the rug. “How do you know where I live?”

  His laugh grated on her skin, like a pumice stone sloughing away her nerves. If he laughed one more time, she was going to throw him and his queen’s English into the laundry basket.

  She nudged the lid of the basket with her toe instead and watched it fall over the pile of dirty clothes. For some reason it made her feel better to hide it even though no one could see the laundry but her. “I can arrange for my own ride.”

  “Pack a suitcase,” he instructed. Then he disconnected the call.

  Quenby stared down at the screen in her hand, the time staring back at her. 7:32 a.m.

  She’d done plenty of crazy things in her stint as a journalist, but she wouldn’t be packing her suitcase for this Mr. Hough. Nor would she go with him to some undisclosed location in order to meet a stranger who seemed certifiable, even if he promised her an interview.

  The money was just a ploy. A second carrot dangling on the stick, probably luring her right over the edge of a cliff.

  She didn’t know what these men wanted, but she was certain of one thing—she would be spending her weekend trying to track down someone to interview for her story on the Rickers, not searching for the friend Mr. Knight lost seventy-plus years ago.

  CHAPTER 3

  _____

  “You have to go with him,” Chandler Parr insisted, leaning back against the L-shaped desk in Quenby’s ten-by-ten cube of an office. Her best friend and boss wore a pear-colored blazer and black trousers. Between her fingers, Chandler clutched an unlit cigarette that doubled as a baton.

  Smoking wasn’t allowed in their building—and Chandler was trying to quit anyway—but she liked to cling to a Kent Blue. To combat stress, she said.

  Unbeknownst to her, the staff referred to Chandler’s cigarette as her “dummy.” Pacifier. And now, thanks to Mr. Hough, the word unbeknownst was stuck in Quenby’s head.

  “I’m not packing a suitcase and leaving London with a man I don’t know,” Quenby shot back, drumming her three-inch heels on the floor. “Especially one who won’t tell me where we’re going.”

  She’d thought Chandler would be amused by Mr. Hough’s early morning call, but instead her boss was appalled that Quenby had turned down his request to meet Mr. Knight. Like Quenby was crazy for not driving away with a stranger.

  “Rubbish,” Chandler said. “You may not know Mr. Hough, but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous.”

  “Nor does it mean he’s safe.”

  “Just because your mum told you not to talk to strangers . . . ,” Chandler started. Then she stopped herself, her smile falling. “Oh, Quenby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  Quenby brushed away the apology with a swat of her hand. “I know you didn’t.”

  And this was precisely why Quenby didn’t tell people about her mother. She didn’t want them stumbling over apologies when it wasn’t their fault. Chandler only knew that Quenby’s mother hadn’t wanted to be a mom.

  Chandler nudged her aside and clicked the mouse beside her computer. “Type in your password,” Chandler said, her boss voice prevailing.

  Scrivener, Quenby typed. A medieval reminder that her job was to create new stories, not regurgitate ones that had already been told.

  Chandler usurped the keyboard controls to search Google for Lucas Hough, and she found him at the law office of Hough and Associates. According to the firm’s website, the senior Mr. Hough had been practicing law in London for forty years. The junior Hough probably hadn’t struggled a day in his life, slipping easily into the role his family already carved out for him.

  Quenby despised the bitterness that welled inside her. She should be pleased for his success, not aggravated. If only Mr. Hough hadn’t been so arrogant on the phone.

  Another search, and Chandler selected an image from the faces that filled the screen. A man with wavy brown hair and brown eyes, wearing a gray bomber jacket and jeans. In his smile Quenby could almost hear his laughter. The thought annoyed her even more.

  Chandler tapped her cigarette on the screen. “Let me introduce you properly to Lucas Hough, one of the most eligible bachelors in London.”

  Quenby turned away from the screen. This Mr. Hough wasn’t like one of the friends her boss attempted to set her up with. Chandler had never even met this man. “He may look nice enough, but it doesn’t mean he’s safe.” She didn’t need a mother to explain that to her.

  Chandler sighed. “Mr. Hough is a prominent attorney.”

  “Defending the law doesn’t mean he obeys it.”

  “He’s not going to kidnap a reporter,” Chandler said, waving the cigarette back and forth in front of Quenby’s face. “Go with him. I’ll track you on my phone.”

  “A lot of good that will do if I end up in the Thames.”

  Chandler pushed away from the desk. “You might get a good story out of it.”

  Quenby straightened her keyboard and mouse pad. “Speaking of stories . . .” She opened the e-mail from Mrs. McMann and let Chandler read it.

  Chandler stuck the cigarette between her lips. “You have more contacts than her, right?”

  “I’m e-mailing her grandchildren this morning, and I’ve requested more files from the War Office. They’ll be transferred to the archives on Tuesday.”

  The cigarette shook. “Evan Graham is not a patient man.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” He had personally called Quenby out twice in their editorial meetings this year to say she needed to dig deeper. Find the stories no one else was telling.

  “Go talk to this Daniel Knight,” Chandler said as if she were scrounging for crumbs under the fridge. Then she glanced at her watch. “Let’s not mention the fate of your article to the team yet. You’ll have a break soon enough.”

  “Lady Ricker’s daughter practically threatened to sue the syndicate if I don’t drop the story.”

  “As long as you stick to the facts, she can only threaten.”

  “I figured Mr. Graham wouldn’t mind the publicity.”

  Chandler put her finger to her lips. “He’s in the office today.”

  Quenby cringed. Sightings of their boss were rare and, on days like today, unwelcome. “He’ll ask about my current article.”

  “I’ll cover for you.”

  Quenby reached for her coffee mug and followed her boss into the meeting room.

  Quenby wasn’t packed by seven the next morning. Nor was she waiting for Mr. Hough in front of her building. Instead she’d fallen asleep on top of her bedspread, exhausted after a long night of researching the Ricker family.

  But her mind didn’t rest. Hundreds of puzzle pieces crammed into her dream, different colors and shapes, and she
was desperately trying to fit them together on her table so she could see the entire picture instead of a jumbled mess.

  The puzzle was almost finished when a loud noise rattled the pieces and they blew out the window, floating like bubbles toward the heath. She saw herself for a moment in her flat, her blonde hair tousled around her face, green eyes pale in the mist. Then she saw the girl with straw-colored hair, the one who often haunted her dreams. This time, the girl was alone on the heath, trying to gather the puzzle pieces in her arms. But no matter how tightly she grasped, the pieces kept slipping away.

  Quenby tossed on the bed, knowing it was a dream and yet wanting to help. The girl ignored Quenby, as she always did, and Quenby felt paralyzed in her own body. She wanted to break free. She wanted to—

  More pounding from beyond her dream, and Quenby jolted back into reality. Her arms moved again, as did her legs, but even as she sat up, the lonely girl lingered in her mind.

  She’d planned to meet Mr. Hough downstairs at seven, sans suitcase, and demand that he answer her questions. It was ten after seven now, and she hadn’t even gotten herself dressed for the day.

  Before she answered the knock, she stumbled into the bathroom and replaced her nightshirt with a pair of running shorts and a paint-splattered T-shirt. Then she brushed her fingers through the layers of her cropped hair and swished Listerine around in her mouth. With a glance at her ragged T-shirt in the mirror, she reevaluated her attire but decided there was no reason to attempt to impress this Mr. Hough.

  Mr. Hough was clearly not impressed. “You were supposed to be ready by seven,” he snapped when she opened the door.

  “I never agreed to go with you.” She looked him straight in the eyes, undeterred by their espresso color that was steaming hot—in the precise Oxford Dictionary definition of the word.

  He glanced at the time on his phone and then at the floor beside her like a suitcase might suddenly appear. As if he didn’t have time to waste on someone like her. “We’re going to be late.”