Page 36 of Murder in the Lighthouse

“No, we can wait.”

That ended the call.

But five minutes later, Lucien’s phone rang. It was Graeme, his voice sounding nostalgic and wistful. “I do remember one young woman in Gothenburg. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, possibly younger.”

Lucien put the call on speaker. “And?”

“After the last encore of the night, she left with Rory. Next thing I know, she’s packed her bags and she’s boarding the jet to come with us. She sat beside him on the plane ride as we flew to Dusseldorf. I’m not sure she spoke a single word of English, but Rory didn’t seem to mind since every bit of her was drop-dead gorgeous.”

“What happened to her? Do you remember her name?”

“Britta. I have no idea what her last name was. All I know is that she claimed to be a model. Is Brogan listening?”

“Yeah. I put you on speakerphone. She’s standing right here. Why?”

“As I recall, Britta stayed with Rory for about four, maybe five months. One night in Madrid, after we finished our gig, Rory told me that she’d left, just packed up, and headed back to Sweden with a woman named Rachel. I assume that’s the same Rachel Brinell that Brogan knew as her mother. There was some talk that Britta had gotten pregnant. Rory himself told me that. But it could’ve been Rachel. That was thirty years ago. I don’t recall the exact conversation. He was probably talking about Rachel at the time.”

“But you aren’t sure? Did he ever follow up with Britta once she left?” Brogan wanted to know.

“Sure he did. He spent time in Sweden after the tour ended. The next thing I know, a cable arrives with the news. He’s telling me he has a daughter. He never mentioned anything about Britta. Instead, he kept talking about Rachel Brinell. I just assumed that Rory had slept with Rachel, too, because Rachelbrought the baby back to the States with her, right back to her snooty Connecticut society roots. Rory never mentioned Britta again. At least, not to me.”

“You never asked what happened to Britta?”

“No,” Graeme said, his voice gruff. “What was I supposed to do? Stick my nose in where it didn’t belong? Ask a bunch of nosy questions. Your dad stepped in when Rachel passed, didn’t he? When Rachel’s plane went down, he stepped up to raise you, right?”

“Yes, he did. But why did it take Rachel’s death before I went to live with him? I remember some of the nasty custody fights between those two. I remember her threatening him with all kinds of things. Why would she argue so vehemently about custody when I didn’t belong to her?”

“I can’t answer that. Why stick my nose into the details? Rory and I had enough to fight about without me sticking my nose into his personal business. But I know who could answer your questions. What about Delia, Rachel’s mother? She was always hanging around here on the West Coast after Rachel died. You spent some of your summers back east, but she also stayed here quite a bit. All that told me was that you belonged to Rachel. Who was I to question anything? Delia certainly treated you like her granddaughter. You can’t deny that. She was always there for you. And Rachel left you with a fat trust fund, didn’t she? That was all I needed to know. All those things add up to some mistake with the DNA.”

Lucien felt the need to intervene. “It’s not about the money, Dad. It’s more than that. Besides, we don’t believe the DNA test was wrong. Delia won’t entertain a discussion about it either.”

“She’s probably insulted that you’d bring it up,” Graeme pointed out.

“Be that as it may,” Brogan began, “I’m not trying to hurt Delia. I want someone to tell me the truth. That’s it. And sinceyou remember Rory’s time spent with Britta, maybe Gordon and Nigel will add some details to it. Maybe they’ll recall a last name, something I can use to find her.”

“Good luck with that,” Graeme grumbled. “Without a last name, you’ll likely hit a brick wall. If you belong to Britta, then ask yourself why she hasn’t contacted you all these years? Why did she never get in touch with Rory?”

“Exactly,” Brogan replied, shoving her hair to the side. “That’s why I need to know what happened to her.”

11

After the conversation with Graeme, Brogan didn’t wait for an email from Nigel. Instead, she picked up the phone and dialed his number. She found herself explaining in detail why she needed to know anything he could remember about the woman from Sweden named Britta.

“Do you remember her?”

“Absolutely. No one could forget Britta.”

“Except Dad,” Brogan countered.

“No, I don’t think he did. After he returned to Malibu, he wrote a song about her, a soul-wrenching ballad called ‘Waterfall.’ It took him maybe forty-five minutes to develop the lyrics and the melody. I was there when he wrote it. Remember that one?”

“I do. Tell me what you remember abouther, about Britta.”

“Well, for one thing, she had long silky blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight, almost like spun gold, something you’d read about in a fairy tale. Her eyes were a different shade of blue, a color I’d never seen before. Those eyes seemed to pierce right through to your soul. She had this infectious laughter that could light up a room and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. Everyone on the tour was captivated by her. Britta was a mystery, an enigma that lingered in the memories of those who crossed her path. She was quiet and reserved, yet there was an undeniable allure about her that drew people in. Rory was smitten, infatuated like I’d never seen him before.”

Brogan listened intently, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside her at the newfound knowledge unfolding.

Nigel went on to describe the relationship as he remembered it. “Your dad was like a lovesick puppy whenever she was around. They had a connection that was hard to miss. And then, one day in Belgium, your mother joined Britta. Those two seemed close. They apparently had known each other for a long time. They did everything together—shopping, sightseeing, and visiting art galleries and museums. Four weeks after Rachel arrived, Britta decided to go back to Sweden.”

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