Songs for Perri Read online

  SONGS FOR PERRI

  by NANCY RADKE

  Praises for SONGS FOR PERRI

  “Perri flies into a romantic world of spies and shadows, mystery and subterfuge.” JNF

  “Charming and wonderful with a dramatic twist at the end.” AddyM

  “This rogue is very much a gentleman. Reminded me of some of the more courtly romances we used to read.” KS

  “No one is who they seem. Take care. The mystery lies in who everyone actually is.” ManFan

  “A dangerous spin around Mazatlan, right into the arms of a sweetheart.” Quentin T.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  OTHER WORKS BY NANCY RADKE

  THE SISTERS OF SPIRIT SERIES

  SHOW & TELL BIBLE SERIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CONTACT INFORMATION

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  Tragedy gave no warning.

  Slamming the door on her mother’s new Range Rover, twenty-six year old Perri Linn started to pull her much-traveled suitcase, then paused to watch the swiftly approaching car.

  Her step-father's home was perched on the edge of the mesa near Phoenix, and was the last house on the road. If the car passed the next driveway...which it did...it must be coming here, to his place.

  Squinting to see better through the heat waves, Perri recognized Walt's silver gray Mercedes. She knew they weren't expecting her yet, so why would he and her mom be coming home in the middle of the day? Could it be an emergency—they were traveling awfully fast?

  They must slow down to turn into the driveway!

  As if in defiance, the car roared on past and smashed into the large rocks set as a barricade on the mesa's edge. Red dust swirled upward towards the hot Arizona sun, cloaking the twisted metal.

  With a noiseless scream, Perri raced down the gravel drive. A woman lay half out of the car on the driver's side, her light golden hair, so like Perri's own, revealing her identity.

  The wreck burst into flames, but Perri ignored the furnace-like heat and half-carried, half-dragged her mother out of danger; then used her hands to snuff out the fire on Crystal's dress.

  Blood. Everywhere. Flowing from Crystal's face and arms and body—mainly her head. Perri yanked off her own blouse to press against the deepest wound. "No...no...no," she whimpered, trying vainly to stop the torrent. Wasn't anyone around to help? She didn’t have her cell phone, she had dropped her purse as she ran.

  "Papa? Was he with you?" she shouted.

  "No. He's...he's still working..."

  Perri sighed in relief. Her step-father was deaf, but that wouldn't have hindered his escape if he wasn’t injured.

  "My pendant." Her mother yanked at the large ivory pendant around her neck as if it were choking her. A favorite piece of jewelry, it had been given to her by a friend working in Africa.

  "Leave it, Mom." Frantic, Perri looked toward the nearby homes. Hadn't anyone heard the crash?

  "Take it," Crystal insisted, in a voice so weak Perri had to concentrate to hear. "Take it to..." She faltered, recovered, tried to speak again; all the time struggling with the pendant's leather thong.

  Her actions pushed Perri's hand away; started the flow of blood again. "Mom, please. Lie still."

  But her mother fought the thong until Perri unscrewed the ivory clasp. With the pendant's removal, Crystal relaxed and let Perri reapply the compress.

  "You go—” Her words were slurred.

  "I can't. You'll bleed—”

  "No. You go. You go... must have it..." Crystal's eyes glazed and she seemed to lose her thoughts.

  "Mom!" Perri shouted, desperate to keep her mother conscious. "Mom, what happened?"

  "Scorpion."

  Perri kept the shirt pressed against her mother's head as she glanced over at the burning wreck. A scorpion in the car? No wonder her mom had crashed. She had an excessive fear of all snakes and bugs and spiders.

  "It's cooked now," Perri assured her, looking back down. Her mother's next words were almost too faint to hear.

  "No. No. Pendant. Take it. Inside..." Giving a small sigh, Crystal dropped into unconsciousness.

  "Mom!"

  The crunch of gravel next to her caused Perri to look up, seeing her parent's nearest neighbor, a nurse, running to them. Crouching down, the woman took Crystal's wrist, feeling for the pulse.

  "She's still with us, Perri. Keep that pressure on." The woman had brought a first-aid kit with her, plus an armful of clean towels. She bandaged as she talked. "My son called 9-1-1, then Walt, while I grabbed these things."

  "Thanks."

  An ambulance pulled up a few minutes later, followed by a fire truck and patrol car. "Anyone else in there?" a fireman shouted, undoing a hose as two medics ran up to Crystal.

  Perri glanced at the flames. "No." Helplessly she stood aside, silently praying for her mother's life. The neighbor placed a towel around Perri's shoulders and she huddled into it, her mind struggling with reality. This couldn't be happening.

  After five minutes one of the medics stood up, shoulders sagging. "She's gone. Anyone here know her?"

  "It's her mother," the neighbor lady answered, putting her arms around Perri. "Crystal Putman."

  Then Walt arrived, his face pale and strained. In silence they clung together, the image of her mother blocking out everything until a voice broke in, insistent in its authority. "Perri. Did you see it happen?"

  She stared at the short gray-haired man. Walt's new boss, Luke Rogers. He must have brought him. "Yes. She didn't even try to stop." She glanced over at the blackened wreckage. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have borrowed her car for my trip."

  “My car,” Walt moaned. “I should have been driving. Not her.”

  "It wasn't anyone's fault," Luke Rogers insisted, touching her step-father's hand so he would lip-read what he was saying. "I'll have Jordan check the car, Walt. Just in case."

  "Do that."

  "Who's he?" Perri asked, signing the words as she spoke. She always signed when speaking to him.

  "An insurance investigator. He finds things the police miss. Crystal should have slowed down for her own driveway."

  "A scorpion was in the car."

  "A scorpion? You're sure?"

  "Yes. She told me. She’s terrified of them."

  Luke frowned. "You're positive she was talking about an insect."

  "Well...sure." Perri looked at him, puzzled. What other kind was there?

  "We won't bother Jordan then. I'll take care of your latest project, Walt. Don't worry about things at the office." Bending down, Luke Rogers picked up the pendant by its leather thong. "You won't want to lose this," he added, dropping the smooth ivory into Perri's hand.

  She clutched the pendant with both hands. "Mom kept saying she wanted me to have it. She wouldn't let me take care of her until I took it."

  "Injured people tend to focus on one thing," Luke said. "Usually it's an object; sometimes a person."

  His words made Perri remember her step-brother, in the middle of a three-week business trip. "Owen. He needs to know."

  "Right," Walt agreed, then looked straight at his boss. "Ask the company to bring Owen home. He needs to be here."

  "Regardless?"

  "Yes."

  "Alvaro, wasn't it?" Luke Rogers mouthed the words, but Perri could read lips very well, having practiced with her step-father.

  "Yes. Just don't tell Owen why he needs to come home. I wouldn't want him to get careless."

  * * *

  "Is he dead?"

  "No. His wife took the car."

  "I thought you never missed."

  "I don’t, normally.
But an accident, like you requested—well, it's not so certain. I’ll set up another."

  "Cancel that. I've a better plan; one that will rid me of both him and his son."

  "He has a daughter."

  "Splendid. She can be the bait."

  CHAPTER ONE

  Perri walked into the entrance hall and handed Walt the mail, frowning even as she welcomed him home. "You know, Papa, Owen should have been back by now.”

  She watched as he sorted through it, almost dropping a brightly colored postcard.

  "Dora." The postcard had only the one word printed on it, but Walt stared at it as if it were a summons of death. Perri was alarmed at the change in his expression and asked, "What's wrong?"

  He didn't answer — he wasn't looking at her — just stared at the card until she touched his arm. He shifted his gaze to her, his eyes stricken with despair...or was it worry?

  "What is it?" she asked again, indicating the card in his hand. It displayed a colorful picture of a Mazatlan sunset and she had admired the beauty of the place before handing it to him.

  "Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a postcard."

  Perri didn't believe him. His face had turned pale under his tan and he looked like he just might collapse onto the Navajo rug which covered the tile floor. "Who’s it from?"

  "Uh...an old friend. She's in Mexico."

  "She didn't write anything."

  "She didn't have to. Just letting me know she's on vacation." He took a deep breath and handed the card to Perri. "I have to go back to the office tonight. I might not get back until late, so don't wait up."

  "But you just got home. The food's ready." The sweet aroma of hot rolls dominated the smells of supper, making Perri's mouth water. Walt loved her cooking.

  "Don't worry, I'll catch a bite when I return. I just remembered a file I should have brought with me. I'll finish it there. It was due today." Grabbing his briefcase, he hurried out the door.

  Perri watched him back his new Buick down the long drive. She couldn't help but worry. He hadn’t bothered to even glance at the rest of his mail, and he always looked it over as soon as he got home. He had been acting strange lately...she wouldn't have noticed it, except she had been staying in the house for the six weeks since her mother's death, helping with the funeral, sorting through her things and interviewing housekeepers. Thoughtfully, she placed the card back on the small table with the rest of his mail and walked into the living room. What was wrong with Walt? Instead of getting better, he seemed to become more and more distracted every day.

  The long evening rays of the Arizona sun slanted across the plush bronze carpet, its brilliant glow highlighting the room. Perri dropped into a leather armchair and let her gaze rest on the statues, rugs, and pottery Walt had brought back from his many trips abroad. A few were Perri's, some Owen's, including some death masks from Mexico. The white faces with their brightly colored decorations stared back at her.

  Perri had most of her collection at her apartment in Phoenix. She traveled extensively as a buyer of decorative accessories for a large chain of department stores. It was a job she excelled at, although she didn't look the part. She looked like she was barely out of high school instead of a college graduate fluent in five languages.

  She had finally found someone who would come in daily to fix Walt's meals and keep the place clean. The woman had an extra key and lived just a mile away. In addition, she was very cheerful, and would keep the house from feeling so empty.

  Perri was satisfied with her choice. Walt would be all alone when she moved back to her own place. By then maybe Owen would be home. His company had been unable to contact him as he was somewhere in Bolivia, traveling on his own, between jobs. It all seemed strange to Perri, for Owen always called his father at least twice a month, no matter where he happened to be.

  He hadn’t made it to the funeral. Her cousin, Stormy, had made it, along with Ellen and Jo, her “sisters” from college. They were able to comfort her, somewhat. But it would have helped to have had Owen there.

  The car spun sideways on the curve and Walt accelerated enough for the tires to grip and straighten it out.

  He'd been so shook up by the postcard, that he'd almost said Owen's name when Perri asked who had sent it, but years in the CIA had taught him to think before speaking. He was a desk-bound director now, had been ever since the explosion years ago which deafened him and shattered his right leg. Perri had no knowledge of his job, or Owen's.

  It had been a joke — nothing more — when Owen made up the code word for Pandora's Box. "Just in case," Owen had said with a grin, "things ever fall apart for me and I can't find anyone I trust, I'll send you a postcard with the name ‘Dora’ on it. That'll mean, ‘Help! Come rescue me. There's a leak in the organization, and I just fell through the crack.’”

  What had started as a jest might now save his son's life. Maybe. He had to move. Fast.

  What had happened, that Owen would send such a message? Who was the leak? Owen was working out of Langley, so Walt didn't know any details.

  He wasn't going to the office, but to Luke Roger's house. Owen had said to trust no one, but Walt had to take at least one person into his confidence. He couldn't work alone. He'd get as much information out of Luke as possible, without telling him where Owen was. Walt drove directly there and thumped on the door.

  "Sorry to bother you, but I can't wait any longer. Can you check with Langley and find out where my son is?" he asked as Luke answered it. "Didn't he get that defector out of Cuba? Alvaro?"

  Luke frowned and motioned him inside. "Why the sudden concern?"

  "I'm just worried. I promised I'd not "hover" over him—that I'd treat him like any other agent—but I can't stand not knowing anything. Will you check on him for me, please?"

  Luke looked at his watch, then dialed. "They'll think something's up, this time of night. I'll say you couldn't sleep." He spoke at length, hung up and turned back to Walt who was pacing the floor. "Owen and his man had to lie low for several weeks in Cuba. When they managed to get to Mexico everything fell apart. Alvaro must have been more important than we thought, to warrant so intense a pursuit."

  "So what's being done?"

  "I notified Langley when Crystal died and they sent in a man to take over from Owen. They made contact immediately. Then...no word, from him or Owen."

  "Where was that?"

  "Mexico City."

  "No one else went in?"

  Luke shook his head.

  "Who's Owen's control?"

  "Juan Martinez. But he's on vacation. I think Larry's handling things."

  "Larry? Larry Smith?" Walt had always thought him a bumbling fool and was dismayed that he was handling Owen.

  "Yes. He's at home right now. Maybe there's a message he didn't pass on. I'll call him if you want me to."

  "When was Larry put on the case?"

  "Last week."

  "Don't bother him. At least I know Owen got to Mexico. I thought he might still be in Cuba."

  "Can I do anything else for you?"

  "Yes. Perri's moving back to her apartment. That's going to make my place pretty empty for awhile. I'd like to take a few weeks off, go to Kingman to visit Hugo."

  "Who's he?"

  "The best friend a man could ever have."

  Perri covered the cold food and placed it in the refrigerator, then turned out the lights. She wandered for several hours through the moonlit house, her bare feet cool on the tile floor. She caught herself folding her mother's favorite afghan once again, and stopped, her fingers stroking the fine fibers. It was why she made so much bread — kneading the dough gave her hands something to do while her mind struggled to recover.

  The emptiness of the house drained her spirit. Why hadn't Walt returned? Was it the postcard? Or was it herself?

  Since her mother's death, Walt had grown more and more distant. Tonight he had hurried out as if he couldn't stand to be with her. Was it because she looked so much like her mother? Could he no longe
r bear the sight of her?

  It seemed like, as soon as the funeral was over, he had thrown himself back into his work, night and day. His accounting job had never required that many hours. Perri had gone to work herself a week later, but they had sent her home by mid-afternoon, as she was unable to focus. Interviewing housekeepers and packing Crystal's clothes had taken up part of the time, but she found it hard to settle to any task.

  By midnight he was still gone, so she went to bed, tossing and turning as usual, her mind unwilling to let her body rest.

  Feeling somewhat better after making his arrangements with Hugo, Walt drove to his office and set about gathering all the information he could on the man Owen was to bring out. It was impressive...a Cuban defector who was bringing with him a submarine tracking device, developed by the Russians.

  The next day he left for work early, not returning from his office until late. He knew he was acting preoccupied, because he was.

  Entering the living room, he stretched out with a sigh of exhaustion on his favorite chair—a black leather recliner—with his legs propped high.

  Perri followed him in, her eyes expressing her welcome. "Hi, Papa." Without further ado, she sat at the foot of the recliner and began to massage his crippled leg, working out the cramps formed in the strained calf muscles.

  It was a task of love—one that Crystal used to do for him. Perri had taken over the job the day her mother died. The simple act had seemed to help Perri deal with the pain of her passing. He'd never tell her that it reminded him so much of Crystal, he would have willingly foregone the relief to his leg.

  "I wish you'd tell me what's wrong, Papa," she said, her blue eyes—so like Crystal's—staring anxiously at him.

  She was worried, but if he told her what he was about to do, she'd worry even more. Hugo had gone on ahead, setting things up in Mazatlan. It was now his time to go, for he knew Owen would not come out of hiding for anyone but his father. His father's heart went out to him.

  He looked at Perri, spoke the lie. "I'll be out of town for awhile. How long, I don't know. Until I get a problem solved."