Mom drowning with Uncle Brandon,” Rafe said grimly.
Brett watched Jack’s face. He was the eldest and naturally would remember more of that day when Caine Stockwell had planted the seeds of a lifelong deception. But Jack’s expression didn’t change. He merely reached for a pile of brochures and held them out to Brett.
“Here,” he said. “Madelyn LeClaire’s work is listed in several of these catalogs. Private shows. Group shows. A couple of estate auctions.”
Brett took the items, fanning through them. Some dated back fifteen years. He suddenly knew Kate had entered the room behind them, but kept his attention front and center, where it belonged. On the job.
That lasted about half a second. He looked back at her. Frowned a little at the drawn expression on her face. She looked even worse than she had when he’d left her in the sunroom.
Dammit.
He didn’t want to care how all this was affecting Katy Stockwell. He deliberately looked down at the catalogs in his hand and paged through them once more. The job. Remember the job. “Quite a collection,” he murmured.
“People tended to hang on to them. And I think the owner of that—” Jack lifted his chin toward the portrait sitting against the wing chair “—had a bit of a crush on the artist. He’s the one who said he was certain she was living somewhere in New England and that she was being represented by a dealer in Boston. But that information is a few years old, at best.”
“But it proves something, at least,” Rafe said flatly. “Our mother is alive. She didn’t die in a boating accident. Not here. Not anywhere. Just like we figured after what Caroline and I found in her father’s papers. Did your smitten gallery owner happen to say what she looked like, since Caine saw fit to get rid of any photographs of her?”
“No. But we’ve all heard often enough from other people who knew our mother how much Kate resembled—resembles—her.”
“Well,” Brett said, “since you’ve brought me in on this, I’ve had my people checking the usual sources to locate a Madelyn LeClaire living anywhere in the New England area. No luck. If she is living there, she’s doing it very quietly. Most people leave some footprints of their life. Driver’s licenses, mortgages, property taxes, library cards. Something. But there’s been zilch, so far.” And in his experience, when people lived that quietly, it was for reasons they generally didn’t want to advertise.
He looked at Jack. “Are you sure your Roubilliard in France was certain of his facts?”
“The guy had a major case for her. I’m sure,” Jack answered.
“Then it’s time for a road trip to Boston. Check the art dealers in person,” Brett said. Although each of the brothers had done a lot of legwork, amassing enough information from the sketchy details they’d been given by their father in one of his rare lucid moments, he knew they had lives to lead. While his life was his work.
Which was why he’d been hired. The Stockwells had insisted that he personally take the case even though he had a half-dozen investigators on his staff who could’ve handled what was, essentially, a missing persons case. Even though it would have been easier, wiser, all the way around for someone else to deal with this family other than he.
“My office has already gathered information on the most likely galleries to be dealing with your mother. It’d be an easier task, except that she worked in so many mediums. Painting. Pottery. Sculpture.”
He’d hoped, actually, to accomplish more without having to make the trip. God knew he had no desire to go to Boston ever again. But they’d met with one dead end after another. It was as if the artist named LeClaire was protected by some unspoken shroud of discretion. Dealers knew of her, but nobody would offer more information than that.
“You can handle the trip, right?”
Brett answered Rafe’s question with a terse nod. “I had my secretary juggle my schedule for the next few weeks, just in case something like this came up. I can leave tomorrow morning.”
The other men nodded, satisfied. Cord, after another look at his watch, excused himself to rejoin his wife.
“Surely it won’t take that long? Weeks?” Kate moved nearer, bringing with her that faint feminine scent that was uniquely hers.
Brett shrugged, ignoring the surge in his bloodstream. “Probably not. But there are dozens of galleries and art dealers in Boston alone.”
“And you don’t just handle contacting them by phone?”
He looked at her, keeping his temper with an effort. “I’ve already said we’ve done as much by phone and the internet as we can. Now it’s time to personally visit the galleries. Don’t worry, Kate. All expenses will be accounted for in detail when the case is concluded.”
“I wasn’t implying anything.”
He raised one eyebrow. He knew better and it rubbed him wrong how little she trusted him. “Really?”
Her lovely blue eyes suddenly snapped at him. “It is our mother you’re searching for.” She waved her elegant, long-fingered hand to encompass her brothers. “Is there some reason why we shouldn’t be interested in how you intend to find her?”
“Kate.”
“No, Jack. I want to know.” Her gaze stayed on Brett.
“While you two kids battle this out, I’m gonna go steal my wife away for a hot afternoon date,” Rafe drawled, amused. He nodded sympathetically at Brett and gave his sister a wide berth as he left.
Jack, Brett noticed, just leaned lazily back against the bookcase, apparently prepared to enjoy the show.
“First of all, I’ll continue weeding out galleries and dealers who clearly don’t handle Madelyn LeClaire’s type of art.” He forced himself to remain patient. He’d never before been annoyed at explaining the manner in which his investigations were conducted. Which meant it was just her questions that annoyed him.
“Well, I could do that,” she pointed out smoothly. “What else?”
“Then I’ll take a photo of that portrait sitting there and these catalogs—” he held them up with exaggerated patience “—and personally canvass the remaining list.”
“Okay, enough.” Jack apparently recognized that Brett was speaking through his teeth by now.
“But—”
“Enough, kiddo. Brett’s the best at what he does. And it’s time to let him do it. Agreed?”
Her lips tightened. “Except for one thing.” Her gaze returned to Brett. “I’m going with you to Boston.”
“What?” Jack stared at Kate.
Brett shook his head. “No.”
“I can help you,” she said and he was painfully aware of the edge of desperation in her voice. “You said there were dozens of galleries,” she reminded needlessly.
“I work alone.” It was close enough to the truth. “If I didn’t, I’d take someone from my office. Not you.” He didn’t want to go to Massachusetts at all, much less with her on his heels. Not even if he had to check out fifty galleries.
“I don’t think it’s up to you to make that decision.”
“Listen up, princess.” He saw her chin lift at the name. “You’re not gonna tell me how to run my case. If that’s the way you want to proceed, find another investigator, because I’m outta here. Understand?”
She moistened her lips. Turned to her brother. “Jack—”
“Brett’s right.” Jack pushed away from the wall. “His case. His job. His way.”
“But—”
“You wouldn’t want someone