A Secret in Salem Read online

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  Published by Days of our Lives Publications, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Anderson, Sheri.

  A secret in Salem / Sheri Anderson.

  p. cm.

  1. Rich people—Fiction. 2. Women fashion designers—Fiction. 3. Married people—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.N5465S43 2010

  813’.6—dc22

  2010035795

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Esther and Cliff, who taught me the value of love, family, and romance…I miss you.

  Contents

  1. SHAWN AND BELLE

  2. MARLENA

  3. JOHN

  4. CHARLEY

  5. MARLENA

  6. CHARLEY

  7. SHAWN AND BELLE

  8. MARLENA AND JOHN

  9. JACKSON

  10. MARLENA AND JOHN

  11. CHARLEY & OLIVIA

  12. IN AN INSTANT …

  13. THE PARTY

  14. THE HOSPITAL

  15. JACK AND JENNIFER

  16. THE MORNING AFTER

  17. RICHIE

  18. SHAWN AND CHARLEY

  19. ABBY AND CHELSEA & BELLE AND CLAIRE

  20. THE GAINESES

  21. MARLENA AND JOHN & SHAWN AND BELLE

  22. CHARLEY

  23. MARLENA AND MONTE CARLO

  24. JACK AND JENNIFER

  25. MARLENA

  26. CHARLEY

  27. THE ISA

  28. SHAWN, BELLE, AND MARLENA

  29. THE FUNERAL

  30. THE RECEPTION

  31. THE SEDUCTIONS

  32. ROCK THE BOAT

  33. AFTER MIDNIGHT

  34. CHARLEY

  35. MARLENA AND JOHN

  36. CHARLEY

  37. THE HARBOR

  38. THE TOXICOLOGIST

  39. THE JOHN BLACKS

  40. GREED

  41. CLUES

  42. BLACK TIME

  43. THE JACKSON FIVE

  44. COMMAND CENTRAL

  45. OIL AND WATER

  46. SPECTACULAR

  47. WHO?

  48. WHAT?

  49. IDENTITY

  50. OMG

  51. WHY?

  52. ANOTHER FUNERAL

  53. LAUSANNE

  54. RESTITUTION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALTHOUGH HE’D BEEN HALFWAY AROUND THE WORLD, SHAWN Douglas Brady had never seen a fleet of ships like this one. While the blue-and-green-striped sails of his 45-foot Nicholson were usually impressive, he felt like a moth in the midst of monarch butterflies. But then, he was in Monte Carlo, the playground of the rich and famous.

  Surrounded by Italy and France, it had the smallest, most exciting beachfront in the world at only 3.5 miles. Occupying only 1 square mile of land, the principality was considered the gem of the Riviera, if not the world.

  Monte Carlo? Were they really there? It had been over a year since he and his wife had left Salem—on the yacht the Fancy Face IV, bought for them by Belle’s magnanimous father, John Black—for their adventure. Shawn, the handsome but oft-troubled son of two of Salem’s finest, had married the blonde spitfire Belle and then had an adorable daughter, Claire. But Belle had often fallen through the cracks in their social circle, which was dominated by her manipulative and malevolent half sister, Sami. So she was thrilled to take to the high seas. They needed an escape, and John knew that seeing the world from this vantage point would give his daughter and son-in-law a new perspective.

  “Belle, get up here!” Shawn shouted excitedly. “You and Claire have to see this!”

  A curly-haired moppet popped out from the galley.

  “Mommy’s in the head, Da’!” Claire squealed.

  “Then you get up here, now!”

  Shawn grabbed his daughter and hoisted the little girl onto the beautifully defined shoulders that topped his sinewy, tanned body.

  Claire giggled and pointed at the mass of sailboats, cruisers, and yachts that filled the harbor. “Wow.” Claire giggled. “Even bigger than in Crete! Those sure aren’t ‘stinkpots.’”

  Belle made her way up from below. Though a bit wobbly, when she looked around her, she was totally overwhelmed.

  “Unbelievable.” She gasped.

  “Both the scene and our daughter. For a three-year-old, she’s a well-traveled little girl.”

  “Not little, Da. And I’m four—almost!”

  Belle, looking a lovely shade of chartreuse, stroked her daughter’s hair.

  “How you feeling?” Shawn asked carefully.

  She smiled wanly. “As good as I look?”

  Uh-oh, Shawn thought.

  “But—damned excited to be here.”

  Shawn knew why. One of those yachts would later be holding a lavish sweet-sixteen party for Dalita Kasagian, the daughter of überrich Serge Kasagian, and Belle’s fashion idol was going to be there. “Olivia Marini Gaines,” he stated emphatically. “OMG.”

  With that, Belle puked all over the deck of the yacht.

  THE MASSIVE PALE PINK DOOR TO LA JOLIE CLINIQUE SWUNG open, and a beautiful blonde of indeterminate age made her entrance.

  The petite redhead behind the reception desk immediately suspected an American but had been taught to never assume. The clientele came from every corner of the world, for every conceivable nip and tuck—and some not so conceivable. It was called medical tourism, and Geneva was one of its capitals.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” the receptionist said.

  “Bonjour,” the blonde replied. Then, in English, she said, “Marlena Evans. I have an appointment with Dr. Masters.”

  “Please fill out this form, and we’ll be with you shortly. Mineral water with lemon? Or perhaps a glass of champagne?”

  “Water will be fine, thank you.” Marlena smiled. They certainly know how to treat their patients.

  As she glanced around the waiting room, Marlena noticed that the clientele were deserving of champagne in crystal flutes, or at least they thought they were. As they reclined in overstuffed down chairs with footstools, the red soles of their Christian Louboutins reeked of money.

  Marlena settled in and looked at the clipboard. She knew these forms well, having offered hundreds, probably thousands by now, to her patients back in Salem. But Salem didn’t seem across the world at this moment; it seemed as if it were in another galaxy.

 
Marlena was in Geneva, home to some of the most well-respected clinics in the world. And not just “spas” like the one she was nestled in.

  She shook her head as she saw the information they wanted. Height. Weight. Color of eyes and hair, and ethnicity. Skin type. Allergies. Medical history. She laughed softly to herself. Do you think they’d believe the number of stab wounds, pregnancies and miscarriages, accidents…the demon possession? Yep, even demon possession. Anything could happen back in Salem, and while some of that life washed over her like a nightmare, it had all been real when it happened. Very real, she mused. But, at this point, none of it mattered.

  Marlena’s name was called, and she was ushered in for a consultation with Europe’s most discreet plastic surgeon.

  Dr. Masters looked as though he had stepped out of an L.L.Bean catalog. Roughly handsome with tousled salt-and-pepper hair and a bit of scruff. His hands were the only things that gave him away. They were beautifully manicured and welcoming as he shook her delicate but strong hand. He flashed a warm smile and surveyed her quickly.

  “Not sure what it is you’re here for. You have amazing skin and look to be in terrific shape.”

  For a woman your age, that’s what he means.

  “And I don’t mean for a woman your age.”

  To her surprise, Marlena blushed. Can he read minds too?

  “Seriously. So many women—and men too these days—come in here needing a nip or tuck. Sometimes it seems crazy,” he added, touching her face gently. “You’ve probably heard about Serge Kasagian’s extravaganza tomorrow. Hence the full waiting room. But I wouldn’t want to change this face. Perfect nose, lovely full lips, great symmetry…”

  She knew she should interrupt as he took in her well-toned body, but the compliments felt good. Wonderful, in fact. Is it a surprise that the most competent, attractive, even beautiful women—even psychiatrists like me—need to hear them? she wondered.

  “Great—uh, symmetry,” he said again as he examined her body. Marlena suddenly realized his American accent was perfect.

  “You from the States?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Montana.”

  “Ah, I’m originally from Colorado—most recently, Salem.”

  “Massachusetts.” He nodded. “Home of the witch trials.”

  “A different Salem,” she countered, then quickly changed the subject. Her Salem was much too confusing to explain in a sentence or two. Suddenly she felt as if she were flirting, which she had no intention of doing, no matter how hot this doctor was. “So, I’m actually here about scar repair and tattoo removal.”

  She noticed he cocked his eyebrow.

  “Not mine. My husband’s. He has a tattoo of a phoenix on his back.”

  “Which you hate.” Dr. Masters smiled.

  “I always said I didn’t care…” she said, tears forming in her expressive hazel eyes. “And I don’t…But now I think it may be killing him.”

  TO THE OUTSIDE WORLD, JOHN AND MARLENA’S RELATIONSHIP was back on track. Living as man and wife in Switzerland.

  The first time they met, he was wrapped in bandages from head to toe, having undergone extensive plastic surgery. He was suffering from amnesia and had no memory of who he was.

  From there, his life story made Jason Bourne’s look like a kindergarten fairy tale. But from his time as a blue-collar cop to his initiation into an elite international spy organization to his role as chief of a multimillion-dollar company, there was only one constant: his love for Marlena.

  Their love affair was wildly passionate, tear-jerkingly romantic, and often so turbulent it tore them apart. They had other relationships—even other marriages—but their magnetic field always wrenched them back together.

  John was always Marlena’s hero. Until he was paralyzed from the neck down.

  Fortunately, the paralysis wasn’t because of a brain stem stroke, which would have meant he’d never regain movement in his limbs. That tragedy, known as locked-in syndrome, kept its victims from moving anything more than their eyelids. Instead, while John’s paralysis was totally debilitating, he had retained a small bit of movement below the neck. They hoped for more someday, but for now it remained just a hope.

  John’s paralysis stemmed from his being injected by a lunatic of a still-unidentifiable fluid. Science and technology have given the world some of the greatest cures and inventions of all time but have also placed havoc in the hands of demons.

  Marlena had left that morning, after telling John she was going to Geneva for a meeting. He had nodded. Since moving to the Alps, she’d occasionally done some consulting. Once a psychiatrist, always a psychiatrist. It’s said that head doctors are more screwed up than their patients, and at times the outside world might think his Doc’s life was a little wacky. But he knew better.

  “You should go,” he said in the throaty voice that was just above a whisper. “Doc’ll be back soon.”

  “And you, rest,” answered the tanned and lean brunette whose hands had just slid over his entire body.

  “Thanks, Tara, for everything,” John said.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked with the Dutch accent he found oddly appealing.

  “If Marlena’s in Geneva, absolutely.” He smiled. “I like where this is headed. You’re a real pro.”

  Tara moved to the birdseye maple armoire in the corner of the bedroom and slid open a drawer, taking out five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. Then, noticing Marlena’s cream Mercedes driving up the winding path to the estate, she slipped out of the bedroom.

  What she hadn’t noticed was the car following Marlena’s. And although John gazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his massive bedroom, neither did he.

  “Of all the estates in Lausanne, this is the most impressive I’ve ever seen,” Dr. Masters said as he entered the foyer behind Marlena.

  “John always wanted me to have the best,” Marlena responded quietly.

  “He obviously thinks you deserve it.”

  The house was indeed amazing. Named Maison du Noir—the House of Black—it was a contemporary glass, wood, and steel structure that miraculously complemented the lush hillside overlooking historic Lake Geneva. Outsiders felt the name was depressing, but it was John’s last name, not to mention his condition for the last few years.

  “My life’s never been about money.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he quipped.

  “When you can buy anything you want, nothing has value,” Marlena added as she placed her cream alligator bag on the side table.

  “Yet you spent beaucoup bucks on an OMG,” he noted.

  Was he gay? Why would he know the cost of an OMG Grace handbag?

  “No, I’m not gay. My wife loves handbags,” he replied to her quizzical expression.

  He actually can read minds. Wait.

  “Wife?” she said, realizing there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. “I mean, you’re not wearing a ring, not that all married men do, and not that it matters.”

  What was she doing? He was there to see her husband.

  “John’s room is this way,” she added, clearing her throat.

  They made their way up the winding, free-floating staircase that encircled the living room. Behind her, he couldn’t help but focus on her shapely legs. He also knew she was flustered, and he liked that.

  “And the handbag? Actually, it was a gift, Dr. Masters,” she tossed out casually. “And a knockoff. I’d never let anyone spend $25,000 on a purse.”

  It took less than thirty minutes for Dr. Masters to finish his examination of John. John’s medical records were updated on a daily basis by the nurses who had quarters in the three-bedroom guesthouse on the edge of the property and took round-the-clock shifts.

  “Wanna tell me what this is really about?” John asked, staring at Marlena, who had moved to the window.

  “Dr. Masters’s specialty is plastic surgery,” Marlena evenly stated.

  John knew exactly what that mea
nt.

  “Did she tell you I’ve had the tattoo removed three times, Masters, and now it’s darker than ever?”

  “Obviously not a standard ink.”

  “Bright guy.”

  “It’s reacting to a chemical in your system that hasn’t been identified,” Masters stated plainly, not about to let John intimidate him. “We need to find out what that is.”

  “Simple as pie, right?”

  “My wife’s a chemical biologist, and she’s doing some remarkable studies. I’ll take a scraping of the tattoo for analysis; then I’d like her to see you.”

  Wife. There’s that word again, Marlena thought.

  “Maybe we could have a foursome.”

  “John!” Marlena said admonishingly.

  “My sense of humor’s a little shaky these days, Doc,” he apologized.

  Dr. Masters removed a small case from his pocket. Using a sterile knife, he quickly took a skin scraping from the area around the tattoo, nicking John in the process.

  “Hope it’s not too painful,” Masters said.

  “Not after all I’ve been through,” John answered. Then he added, “Send your wife around, unless you want Doc to bring me to her.”

  Masters knew Marlena could do that. Not only was the bedroom set up with every conceivable lift system, it had voice-activated commands for lights, heat, sound, and entertainment modules. He knew they had to have a state-of-the-art van for John to travel when the whim hit him.

  “Your call,” John replied.

  Marlena was pleased. At least John was receptive.

  “Could I bring you some dinner?” Marlena asked John.

  “Not hungry. Didn’t sleep much this afternoon, and after all this, I think I need a rest,” John answered.

  “You’ve got one lovely wife, Mr. Black,” Dr. Masters said.

  “Call me John. I don’t like formalities.”

  John also didn’t like the way Dr. Masters looked at Marlena. He also knew this was a man Marlena could relate to, if he were ever out of the picture.

  “Then you may call me Blake,” the doctor answered. He then followed Marlena out of the room.

  “You came a long way, and I truly appreciate it,” she said softly, meeting his gaze. “He’s a good man, really.”