Paradise Lost

By Taffy Cannon

The private calm of Paradise Plaza, a posh Santa Barbara health spa, is shattered when two guests are kidnapped during an early morning hike. Stanford junior Holly Constantine and hot TV star Vanessa Wyatt form an uneasy alliance in their sensory-deprived captivity, while an unorthodox Internet ransom demand from a group of eco-nuts calling itself Parks for People seeks public contributions to create California parks in unlikely locations. Holly’s parents, Beverly Hills entertainment lawyers, hold the media at bay as they coordinate the ransom funding. A determined stalker, old secrets, and a murder complicate the race against the clock.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Taffy Cannon
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958749043

Taffy Cannon

Taffy Cannon is the author of fourteen books, including SibCare: The Trip You Never Planned to Take, which details all aspects of caring for a sibling. She lives in California. 

Book preview

DAY ONE

Monday, April 3

CHAPTER ONE

Holly Constantine woke to the sound of a songbird trilling an early morning wake-up melody outside her cottage. She turned off the alarm that was set to buzz in five minutes, stretched between luxuriant, silky sheets, and glanced over at the other bed. In dim light cast by a mission-shaped night light on the dresser, she could barely discern her mother's tiny body, raising an almost imperceptible lump beneath eiderdown covers. Outside sheer curtains on the window, everything was still quite dark.

Holly felt surprisingly good, all things considered—relaxed, refreshed, well-rested. She'd caught up on her sleep when she got home Friday night after finishing winter quarter final exams, sleeping round the clock and then some. It was an easygoing Saturday after that, watching a British historical movie taped from PBS in the afternoon, going out for an early sushi dinner with her parents before they went to a screening.

She smiled at the thought: raw fish, the condemned woman's last meal. Though if the truth be known, the condemned woman's actual last meal had been an enormous bowl of Breyer's peach ice cream yesterday afternoon, just before her father loaded their suitcases into Connie's Mercedes and waved a cheery good-bye as they headed north toward Santa Barbara.

Holly tiptoed into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and quickly dressed in the uniform she'd be wearing all week: heather gray sweatpants and sweatshirt, with the Paradise Plaza logo and name neatly embroidered in dark green script across her breasts. Size XL. Her mother's sweats, neatly folded in the dresser that held the night light, were an S.

And there you had it, in a nutshell.

She ran a comb through her hair, figuring she'd wash it when she got back from her walk. No point in putting on any makeup just yet, either. There were never more than three or four women on the early morning hike, and at this hour, Holly figured they wouldn't notice or care. They never had before.

The sky was already much lighter when she slipped out of the cottage into the cool, misty morning. This was northern California weather, really, the kind she loved. No blazing sun demanding sunscreen and abbreviated clothing. Maybe even a touch of drizzle, if she got lucky.

The Paradise Plaza compound seemed ghostly, all but deserted as she walked down to the courtyard to meet Lora, the staff member who’d be leading the morning walk. Holly liked Lora. She was lanky and effortlessly athletic, but she didn’t lord it over the guests the way some fitness trainers liked to. Empathetic, that was the word for Lora. Also nice, just plain nice.

Hey there, Holly! Lora offered a sunny smile. She wore khaki shorts, a denim jacket, and a baseball cap imprinted with a bird-of-paradise. She pulled off the cap and ran her fingers through short, brown hair styled in a functional, no-nonsense cut. There’s just three of us this morning, so we can go all the way to the waterfall. It’s really pretty this spring. How’ve you been?

Happy till I got here, Holly thought. But she smiled as she answered. It wasn’t Lora’s fault that she was here. Okay. How about you?

Right as rain. Lora turned her gaze skyward. Which we might just see a sprinkle of this morning. We sure could use it. It’s been awfully dry here.

Not surprising. Southern California was a desert. Holly grinned conspiratorially. Rain’s just fine with me. She looked around. Who else is coming this morning? It didn’t really matter, but she hoped it wouldn’t be one of the old ladies, wives of important men. Women who mostly came to Paradise Plaza for the cosmetic pampering and took lots of little breaks on the morning hillside climb. Holly was actually looking forward to the hike, part of her physical regimen on two previous visits to Paradise Plaza.

Vanessa Wyatt, Lora answered. Do you know her?

Holly shook her head, puzzled. Should I?

She’s an actress, Lora explained. I thought maybe...

Holly shook her head again. People always assumed that since her parents were Hollywood entertainment lawyers, Holly knew everyone who’d ever held a SAG card. Nope. Her name sounds familiar, though.

"She used to be on The Lords of Suffolk County, Lora told her softly. A smallish figure with a head of wild auburn hair was trudging in their direction, wearing Paradise Plaza sweats and a fearsome scowl. Played Susanna Lord, the Virginia bitch heiress, for years and years. Lora turned and waved a hand in greeting. Morning, Vanessa! I’m Lora and this is Holly, another guest. It’s just the three of us this morning, so we can set off now."

Set off where? Vanessa Wyatt came to a halt, hands on hips, and glowered. Her accent was thickly Southern, a molasses-drenched snarl. She glared suspiciously around the quiet compound.

Back there. Lora pointed to a wrought-iron gate in a stucco wall at the rear of the compound. We’ll be hiking into the Los Padres National Forest, up the side of the mountain for about a mile, then back down again. It’s a great walk.

Vanessa Wyatt rolled her eyes, which were strikingly blue and surrounded by improbably long black lashes. If you say so, she murmured doubtfully.

Lora made small talk as they started off, explaining that the lack of rainfall had cut back on the number of wildflowers this year, that there was still a chance of spring rain, but that most mornings lately had been like this one, filled with a promising mist that burned completely off by noon.

As they began the gentle climb, Holly noticed with great pleasure and some pride that she had no trouble keeping pace with Lora. Holly walked mornings up at Stanford, two miles a day and sometimes four if she woke up early enough, but that was mostly level ground. Here the incline was steady and relatively demanding.

Too demanding, it seemed, for Miss Vanessa Wyatt, who made no secret of her lack of enthusiasm. "Ah simply cannot believe that I’m doing such a thing, she whined, not just getting up at such an ungodly hour, which would be quite bad enough, but actually paying y’all to make me do it." A hundred yards down the trail she was already winded, her words puffing out in jagged clumps as she labored along.

Lora answered with a hearty chuckle. By the end of the week, you’ll be sprinting up this path like a mountain goat. Just you wait and see. She herself seemed to be moving at only a fraction of her potential speed, a muscle car idling at thirty, just waiting for somebody to hit the gas.

If I’m not dead by the end of the week, Vanessa gasped dramatically. I should never have worn these new shoes. I’m getting a fearful blister on my heel.

They hiked in relative silence for fifteen minutes, a peaceful quiet punctuated only by Vanessa’s occasional complaints. Then they reached a switchback on the trail, and as they rounded the thickly vegetated curve, Holly saw what at first glance seemed a grotesque apparition.

Two tall figures clad in severe black stepped from opposite sides of the trail, directly into their path. They wore some kind of bizarre black science fiction-type headgear that gave them the appearance of oddly misshapen insects.

Before Holly could react, the figures were right in their faces, spraying blasts of some kind of aerosol directly at them. First they attacked Vanessa and Lora, who were slightly in the lead. Lora leapt up in a startling martial arts kick and then backed off, while Vanessa let out a howl like a banshee and began bouncing up and down like a drop of water on a hot griddle.

Then, before she could really process what was happening around her, Holly herself was hit, feeling her eyes and face explode in pain, a burning sensation of horrifying intensity. She yelped in dismay and anguish, screwing her eyes tightly closed, bringing her hands up to rub and feeling her fingers also burst into burning agony.

As she quietly crumpled to her knees, effectively blinded by the shrieking pain, Holly was aware of dissonant noise all around her, fracturing the quiet morning. Vanessa Wyatt, somewhere nearby, squealed and screeched. And behind her on the trail, somebody was crashing and running, banging into trees and howling.

Lora? It had to be. Lora had great reflexes, had probably seen the ambush coming more quickly than Holly or Vanessa, had gotten off that kick, might actually be able to get away.

But as the crashing grew more distant and then abruptly stopped, Holly found herself unable to focus on anything but her own burning face and hands.

Time passed, probably not much, though it was impossible to tell when every second was punctuated by screaming pain. Then Holly heard a voice just in front of her, tinny and artificial-sounding. It seemed to be filtered through some kind of voice changer, totally appropriate to the alien appearance of the ambushers.

We will now rinse the spray out of your eyes and then blindfold you, the voice declared.

Holly heard a nearby splash, followed by a startled yip that had to be coming from Vanessa. More splashing, and then she felt hands turning her head sideways just before a brief flood of water poured across her own eyes, frigid and startling.

Cold and shocking, yes, but carrying relief at the same time. Rinsing away whatever they’d used for the attack. Pepper spray? Mace? Poison? No matter what, Holly wanted it off. All of it, right this minute. She offered her face and eyes eagerly to the coming stream, held her hands out to catch the water as it sluiced off her face. The whole process was repeated half a dozen times, bringing greater relief with each cascade of water. A sort of glugging sound accompanied it, as if they were pouring the water out of a jug. She still couldn’t really see.

More water, and still more. She was cold now, shivering uncontrollably. She tried to keep her sweatshirt from getting any wetter.

As long as you cooperate, the voice announced, you will not be hurt.

Vanessa whimpered softly. Oh please, no, please don’t, oh please, please, please.

Silence!

Her next whimper was cut off abruptly, and Holly caught her breath in horror. Surely they hadn’t—

She felt a towel being rubbed on her face and hands, drying her skin with rough strokes. Her eyes remained tightly screwed shut as she heard a ripping sound and felt a strip of wide tape being pressed against her eyes, then back around her head, then around again and again. She knelt quietly, offering no resistance, listening to her beating heart in a morning that was once again deathly quiet.

You will stand up now, the tinny voice ordered, shattering the silence. Make no attempt to get away. You will only fail.

Somebody helped her to her feet and held her arm tightly as they marched along. Uphill, it seemed, further along the trail. How far had they gotten? Where were they? Holly hadn’t taken this trail for over a year, wished she’d paid more attention to where they had been when they were overtaken.

Climb into the vehicle, the voice commanded, offering a none-too-gentle boost as Holly clambered up into what seemed to be some kind of a van. She sensed metal under her knees. But before she could figure out anything more about her whereabouts, she felt a sharp sting in her thigh.

Moments later, everything went black.

CHAPTER TWO

Connie Constantine sat at a wrought-iron table on the inner courtyard patio at Paradise Plaza, reading the Santa Barbara News-Press and wishing that the herbal tea she was sipping would turn into a nice double espresso and the newspaper into the Los Angeles Times . The Times would be available later, but the espresso would, regrettably, remain a fantasy. Part of the cleansing regimen at Paradise Plaza included the prohibition of alcohol and caffeine, two of Connie’s most basic food groups.

Constance B. Constantine was forty-four years old, powerful and feared. A tiny, intense blonde, she knew exactly how she wanted to go about the business of her life, and deeply resented having anyone dictate rules to her. Connie Constantine found even the relaxed regime at Paradise Plaza to be almost unbearable. If it weren’t so important for Holly’s sake, she’d be out of here in a New York minute.

Not that Holly particularly appreciated what her mother was sacrificing for her. Holly simply refused to understand how critical it was for her flagging self-esteem that she shape up and get that weight off once and for all, that it mattered what she looked like, that—even though it might be wrong, an argument Holly invariably raised—people judged you by your appearance. For such a smart girl, Holly could be remarkably obtuse.

Connie sighed and looked around. Tubs of colorful spring flowers and potted palms on the Saltillo tile patio seemed slightly muted in the cool, gray morning. A brisk wind rising from the ocean had given her a surprising chill as she dashed over to the patio from their cottage in the citrus grove ten minutes ago, but here in the womblike inner courtyard, she was protected and felt much warmer. A fountain flowed quietly in the center of the patio, rivulets of crystalline water cascading down a series of asymmetrical stone pools.

Paradise Plaza was lovely and restful, the very essence of its name, and Connie hated every square inch of it.

Around her, a dozen other women breakfasted on fruit and herbal tea. Several sat in pairs or groups, conversing softly. Some of them she knew from L.A.; one was a client and two were quite famous. The patio, like all of Paradise Plaza, was designed for quiet and serenity, qualities that Connie Constantine instinctively shied away from.

She frowned and checked her watch. It was almost seven forty-five. Holly surely ought to be back from her walk by now. Connie would have preferred her daughter to participate in a challenging marathon of aerobics—or power yoga at the very least—but it seemed folly to discourage the one exercise program the girl had ever been able to maintain longer than a month. If Holly wanted to get up at dawn and hike here as she did at Stanford, then by God, Connie wasn’t going to argue.

Now she noticed Marlo Dunlap, the owner and director of Paradise Plaza, standing in the archway that led to the spa’s lobby. Marlo spotted Connie and hurried across to her table.

Could I see you for a moment? Marlo asked softly. Her hands were shaking.

Connie raised an eyebrow. Yes?

Marlo nodded toward the doorway. In private?

Connie sighed and rose, following the woman to the lobby. She couldn’t imagine what Marlo might want from her that would require privacy. Surely Marlo knew better than to bother her with the usual sort of nonsense, a screenplay to be read or a nephew needing a show business break. At least not first thing in the morning.

When they reached the lobby, Marlo took her arm, squeezing so tightly that Connie fought not to flinch. Connie, I don’t know . . . I’m sure it’s nothing, but . . . She faltered.

But what? Connie asked, keeping annoyance from her tone, moving deliberately to disengage her arm from the woman’s grip. She considered Marlo Dunlap just a little too presumptuous for somebody who had quite literally sucked her way to success.

But something seems to have happened on the early morning hike, Marlo went on, speaking quickly, the words tumbling over each other. Holly and Vanessa Wyatt are . . . missing. It appears that they’ve been . . . abducted.

Connie felt suddenly lightheaded. She looked around for a chair but before she could reach it, Connie Constantine did something she had never done before in her life.

She fainted.

Detective Suzanne Mathis of the Santa Barbara Police Department was just stepping out of the shower when she heard the phone ring. At this hour it was probably for her sixteen-year-old daughter, Amy, who was out in the kitchen concocting her nasty morning brew of seasonal fruit, brewer’s yeast, and wheat germ. Suzanne could hear the blender.

To her surprise, she heard Amy call, Mom! For you! Work!

Mathis, Suzanne answered crisply as she picked up the bedroom extension, momentarily savoring the secret knowledge that she was stark naked, languidly dripping onto her bedroom carpet. It always gave her a little rush to talk on the phone naked. The rush intensified as she realized she was listening to the police chief himself. What’s more, he sounded almost panicked.

We’ve got a 911 call from Paradise Plaza, he told her, saying two of their guests were kidnapped this morning by armed terrorists.

Kidnapped? Suzanne repeated in astonishment.

From Paradise Plaza? Armed terrorists?

Surely this was a hoax. Paradise Plaza was a glitzy, exclusive, and impossibly expensive women’s health spa in Cabrillo Canyon, totally nonpolitical. Suzanne started rummaging in drawers for underwear and stockings. She would definitely have to upgrade her planned wardrobe for the day to go to Paradise Plaza.

So they say, Chief Morrison went on, and that’s not all. One of the kidnap victims is a celebrity.

I see, Suzanne told him, and she did. Celebrities who visited or moved to Santa Barbara tended to be seeking privacy and quiet, and the city and county police departments did their parts to ensure that they found both. Though not all celebrities were shy. Maybe this was some kind of elaborate publicity stunt. In her underwear now, she tried to scramble into pantyhose using only one hand, always a losing proposition. Who’s the celeb?

The Chief’s voice was scornful. "TV actress, name of Vanessa Wyatt. Used to be on Lords of Suffolk County."

My, my, my. Suzanne had never watched the show regularly, but it had been on the air for years and years. She remembered Vanessa Wyatt’s character as a major league bitch: cunning, manipulative, amoral. The woman’s image certainly fit the notion of a publicity stunt. And Suzanne spent enough time in grocery checkout lines to know that the actress had a very messy personal life.

You know she had some kind of a stalker a while back? she asked the chief.

There was a moment’s silence. Apparently Rudy Morrison wasn’t up to date on his tabloid reading. Who? What?

I don’t remember the details. But it seems to me there was a trial and the guy drew time. It was down in L.A., a few years ago. Somebody at the DA’s office there ought to know.

I’ll get somebody on it, Chief Morrison said warily. You suppose the dink got out and decided to get even?

Not a promising scenario for Vanessa Wyatt’s safety, Suzanne thought. It’s certainly possible, sir. But you said there were two victims. Who’s the other one?

Nobody famous. A kid who was there with her mother.

Suzanne’s thoughts flew immediately to Amy. How old?

Dunno. College age, I think.

What happened?

Not entirely clear. Seems they were out hiking and somebody snatched them in the woods. I’m on my way out there now and as soon as we confirm the events, we can hand off to the FBI. Meanwhile, get Mentone out there and take whatever additional help you need till we can unload this. Morrison sounded truly nervous. This case was the kind of hot potato he would want to dump as soon as humanly possible. And the FBI would almost always jump into a kidnapping, bless their bureaucratic little hearts. Suzanne had never actually dealt firsthand with the FBI, but she shared law enforcement's general disdain for their self-important federal siblings.

From the closet Suzanne pulled a dark gray skirt and blazer, held them up squinting, decided they weren’t too badly wrinkled. I’ll see you there, she told the chief, and hung up. She reached Detective Dave Mentone, filled him in briefly, and checked the clock by her bed. Amy would have to grab a ride to school with friends, which was bound to raise the subject of a second car again. A car Amy might have had by now if her father, Suzanne’s ex, hadn’t blown his wad on a Goleta surf shop that now appeared to be going down for the third time.

Suzanne pulled a red silk tee over her head, slipped into the skirt and blazer, then used the back of her hand to wipe moisture from the bathroom mirror. She combed her wet hair behind her ears and applied makeup swiftly but carefully. She considered a moment, then plugged in the blow dryer and took an extra four minutes to dry her short brown curls. Suzanne had never seen the inside of Paradise Plaza and the very thought of going there now made her a little twitchy.

No way would she show up with wet hair.

Suzanne didn’t need instructions or a map to find Paradise Plaza, though she was aware that if you didn’t know where you were going, the health spa made no effort whatsoever to help you out. They were that exclusive.

The spa was located on the old Windeler property at the end of Paradisio Lane, a spur winding up into the hills off Mountain Drive. Thirty years earlier, as kids living nearby, Suzanne and her buddies had roamed far and wide exploring those hills. Back then, the Windeler place was uninhabited and fantastically decrepit, a once-grand adobe structure that had gradually succumbed to time and the elements. They hadn’t come often to the Windeler place, which was relatively far away from their various homes in the Mountain Drive Colony, but no place that they trespassed was ever more fun.

The last of the Windelers, Agatha, had languished in a nursing home for years before finally dying some fifteen years ago. After her death, the property went to distant cousins who squabbled for a few years before dumping the place on the market. Real estate was hopping just then, and an L.A. high roller picked the place up and began major renovations before abruptly going bust. Abandoned to foreclosure, renovations half-finished, the property was a white elephant for almost three years—faithfully advertised quarter after quarter in the back of Santa Barbara Magazine in the full-color real estate supplement, the asking price steadily dropping with each new issue.

Then, six years ago, it sold to a Beverly Hills consortium. After extensive renovation, Paradise Plaza had opened as a fat farm for ladies burdened with too many pounds and too much money. The spa was reported to be prospering, always booked to capacity with a waiting list. It operated quietly and the guests never ventured into town.

All told, it was the perfect light industry for a town like Santa Barbara.

Suzanne passed a stand of Pride of Madeira shooting up velvet lavender-blue plumes from cool gray foliage on the last curve before Paradisio Lane dead-ended at Paradise Plaza. California poppies bloomed in cheerful orange throw rugs below these puffs of springtime chenille.

Now the spa gate came into view, nearly ten feet tall, fashioned of intricate wrought iron, opening between stucco walls that extended off into stands of live oaks climbing the side of the hill. Vivid clumps of orange-and-purple bird-of-paradise sat on both sides of the gate and vibrant magenta bougainvillea spilled over the stucco walls, suggesting bountiful magic within.

On the stucco stanchion to the right of the gate, a two-foot-square brass plaque identified paradise plaza. The left stanchion featured a telephone and video camera, the better to prevent any local riffraff—or lost tourists from Boise—from accidentally stumbling onto the rich ladies in their mudpacks.

This morning it wasn’t necessary to phone up for admission. A uniformed Santa Barbara cop named Kinnelly was stationed at the gate, his black-and-white parked just outside. He smiled good morning as he swung open the gate to admit Suzanne. Pretty exciting, huh?

Yeah, she told him. Chief here yet?

Kinnelly’s eyes widened. Nope. He’s coming?

So he told me. I’d look sharp. That ambulance I passed on my way up—victim? The chief had warned her to maintain as much of a blackout as possible on the story for as long as possible, avoiding the use of cell phones and police radio. Suzanne knew no more now than when she’d dropped Amy—who rallied and was ready to leave in two minutes—at the high school. That was ten minutes ago. It took a long time to get up to Paradise Plaza from the flatlands, no matter which way you came.

Which meant, she had already realized, that anybody heading down wouldn’t have made fast time either. The kidnappers still had a solid hour’s lead, however. By now they could be stalled in bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic on the Ventura Freeway heading into Los Angeles. They might be over the San Marcos Pass heading north through Buellton and Solvang, or tucked away in a missile silo at Vandenberg Air Force Base. Or, of course, they could be holed up right here in Santa Barbara.

If they hadn’t taken off on a private plane headed . . . anywhere. Somebody needed to check with the airport right away. There wasn’t really any way to set up roadblocks this late in the game.

Kinnelly shrugged and raised an eyebrow. Woman who works here, they said. Found her on the trail where the kidnapping went down.

How bad was she?

Conscious and really hurting. First they pepper-sprayed her, then they taped her eyes.

Suzanne winced. Ouch. She considered. Once they get to the hospital, word will spread fast about this. You better be prepared for a media onslaught. The locals will show up first and they won’t be any problem, but God-knows-what-else might buzz up from L.A. once the word’s out. Get somebody to set up a roadblock down where Paradisio Lane cuts off from Mountain Drive, and stop everybody but local residents down there.

You got it.

She thought a moment. When they were kids, the only wall on the property had been out here at the roadway, falling-down adobe bricks like the rest of the place. This wall go all the way around the complex?

He nodded. Stucco where you can see it and cyclone fencing where you can’t.

Slick. She was starting to be really curious about what they’d done to the physical plant inside. Would she even recognize it? "Get some backup here and have them check