Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

  “Mary. Hey, where are you?”

  “In the car on my way to the gallery. Had to pull over to answer. The police are on a rampage about driving while using mobile devices, and I do not want to get stopped. What’s going on?”

  Zelia had called to let Mary know that she would be on her own at Art Expressions for another day. Instead, what came out of her mouth was, “You’re never going to guess what I did.” Zelia grinned, imagining what Mary’s reaction was going to be. “I asked Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious to impregnate me and he said yes!” she said. She held her breath, waiting for Mary’s squeal.

  Long pause. No squeal.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Mary finally replied. She didn’t sound excited. She sounded worried.

  “No.” Zelia was suddenly feeling a little defensive.

  “Oh, Zelia.” Mary was using that voice she sometimes dropped into that sounded way too old and weary for her age. “Please tell me you haven’t already started on your baby-making mission.”

  “What if I have?”

  Mary sighed in exasperation. “Zelia. This is important. You need to think it through. Your friend just died and you are grieving. Now is not the time to be leaping into helter-skelter schemes like this. Did you get him to sign a contract?”

  “A contract? What for? It’s not like he’s going to be involved. He’s coming back to New York. It’s perfect really. No messiness, no running into each other at the supermarket. I know he’s super smart. He’s gorgeous. I’ve met his parents and they are lovely. I couldn’t get a better gene pool.”

  “I’m talking about a quit claim contract, so that if he does indeed impregnate you, he gives up any legal rights to the baby.”

  “Seriously, I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal, Mary. Besides, I wouldn’t mind if he wanted to visit with the child once in a while. It might be nice for my baby to know who her father was.”

  “So, that means no. You didn’t protect yourself legally. You have no idea, do you?” Zelia didn’t need to see Mary to know that she was shaking her head. “A girlfriend of mine was an ‘accident’ baby. Her mom’s boyfriend at the time had agreed to be there, help out. However, two months after she was born he took off.

  “Unfortunately, her mom had put the father’s name on the birth certificate. It was a nightmare. Her mom wasn’t able to make medical decisions without his approval. Couldn’t get her a passport or travel across the border to visit her mom’s family in Ontario without a notarized letter of permission from the deadbeat ex-boyfriend. A notarized letter, which was only valid for one year! Every single year until my friend reached legal age, her mom had to write a new letter, chase this asshole down, physically drag him to the notary, and pay for the service.”

  “Okay,” said Zelia, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “No big deal. I won’t put his name on the birth certificate.”

  “Zelia,” Mary said firmly. “You said you met his mother and father, that they’re nice people. Are you sure they’d be willing not to have a relationship with their own grandchild? What if they felt you were an unfit mother? They could petition a judge to assign them guardianship.”

  “I won’t tell them. If they don’t know about the baby, how could it hurt them?” But even as the words left Zelia’s mouth, she knew that her conscience was going to be yammering at her day and night.

  Mary didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

  “I’m so damned tired of putting everyone else’s feelings first,” Zelia finally said.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not.” And she wasn’t. Was her heart suddenly heavy? Absolutely. But how could she be mad at Mary for looking out for her and loving her enough to make her face some uncomfortable truths?

  “Why not take it slow, Zee? See where this relationship leads you. Who knows? If you’re patient, maybe you’ll end up with the man, the baby, and your happily-ever-after.”

  The idea was so ludicrous it made Zelia laugh. “Come on, Mary, get real. The only reason he offered to help me was out of the kindness of his heart.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Puleaze. The man is a world-famous author, has a great family, is financially secure and fabulous in the sack. He’d never settle for someone like me.” She was acting jaunty even though her heart felt as if an iron fist were wrapped around it and squeezing tight. “No. The best I can hope for is to enjoy the hell out of his hot bod and hopefully walk away with a baby to boot.”

  “Let me reiterate, I don’t think it’s wise.”

  “Fine. Point taken. Look, I called to let you know I’m still in New York. I can’t make it in to the gallery today.”

  “Think about what I said, Zee.”

  “I will. See you Monday.” Zelia hung up and went into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. And if she needed to weep a little, no one was the wiser.

  Twenty-nine

  “HAVE YOU LOST your mind?” Rick bellowed as he slammed his coffee mug down. The dark liquid sloshed out and formed small quivering puddles on the Formica tabletop. The middle-aged woman ensconced two booths down glanced over, her mouth twisted in disapproval. Her husband didn’t look up from his scrambled eggs and toast.

  “Do you know how many fucking laws you just broke?” Rick hissed through clenched teeth, leaning forward, palms flat on the table as if he were considering vaulting over it to wrap his hands around Gabe’s neck.

  His brother had just gotten off a stakeout and didn’t look good. Clearly hadn’t slept, hadn’t shaven, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. Probably not the best time to ask a favor, but he and Zelia had a plane to catch that afternoon.

  Best to try to lighten the mood. Rick’s always better when he’s laughing. “I didn’t know they had laws about fucking—” Gabe said.

  “Don’t even think,” Rick spit out, “about pulling that erudite, intellectual bullshit wordplay with me, you smug bastard.”

  Well, that worked well.

  Gabe sighed. “It was a joke, Rick. When’d you lose your sense of humor?” Gabe was glad he’d asked for a booth at the back of the diner. His brother seemed to be having difficulty keeping his voice down and looked ready to blow a gasket.

  “Around the time you told me you’d blacked out several security cameras, disabled an alarm system—”

  “And did a damned good job of it, too,” Gabe said, feeling oddly proud, which was messed up and would require further thought.

  “You committed a ten twenty-one, a ten twenty-two . . .” Two of Rick’s fingers were now thrust in Gabe’s face.

  “Stop with the numbers,” Gabe said, leaning back against the burgundy vinyl booth seat and taking a slurp of coffee. “Yes, I’ll cop to the B&E, but as for the larceny? We can return the laptop once we’ve gone through it.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.” At least Rick wasn’t shouting anymore. Sounded weary instead. “There’s all sorts of ways they can trace it to you. Electronic fingerprints, mail tracking, DNA—”

  “We’d wear gloves—”

  “The woman is dead. She doesn’t need the damn thing, and returning the computer could draw attention to you, complicate things.”

  “Okay, no biggie. We won’t return the laptop.”

  “You know how to do computer forensics?”

  “My guy does.”

  “Your guy?”

  “Yeah. Mitch Clarke. I dropped the laptop off this morning. He helped me on numerous books. Met him way back in the early days, when I was researching Deadly Kindness.”

  “And you trust him to keep his mouth shut?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Rick slipped his hand under his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit of his when he was stressed.

  “I know breaking into the Feinstein gallery wasn’t my finest moment—”
/>   “You think?” Rick said. He exhaled heavily.

  The waitress arrived at their table and dropped a honking platter of greasy breakfast food in front of Rick. “Sure you’re good with just coffee, love?” she asked Gabe.

  “Yep. Thanks,” Gabe replied, watching Rick slice into his eggs, yellow yolks spilling over the whites, mopping up the goo with a triangle of toast. “Were you able to dig up anything on the Richard Rye and Winnie Efford deaths?”

  “I’m waiting to hear back from the Portland precinct. I pulled the Richard Rye file. Haven’t had a chance to look through it yet.”

  “Appreciate it.” Eggs, sausage, crispy bacon, and home fries were flying off his brother’s plate and disappearing into his bottomless stomach, the whole concoction washed down with an exorbitant amount of coffee.

  “Damn, I was hungry,” Rick said after five minutes of concentrated eating. He leaned back, stretched his arms, and locked them behind his head. He looked in much better spirits. “How are Mom and Dad?” He smirked.

  “You dickhead.” Gabe launched a packet of sugar at his brother. “You knew they were flying to Solace Island, didn’t you?”

  Rick caught the packet midair and plopped it back into the sugar bowl. “Who do you think drove them to the airport?” He grinned. “Besides, didn’t want you to dissuade them from making the trip. They’ve been on the warpath. Want me married with a gaggle of kids.”

  An image of Zelia round with his baby popped into Gabe’s mind, and a feeling of fierce longing swept through him. “Wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “It would be a nightmare. Anyway. I’m glad to have the parents out of New York for a while. It’s been hell since Dad retired. He’s become such a busybody with his matchmaking schemes, poking his nose into everybody’s business. Hopefully, micromanaging you and the renovation of the hotel will keep him occupied for a while.”

  “Yeah. Thanks a lot, little brother. You always were a pest,” Gabe said. They both laughed. “So, you’ll run the fingerprints through the Integrated Automated Fingerprints Identification System for me?”

  Rick sighed, held out his hand. “All right,” he said. “Give them to me. If they are readable, I’ll run them.”

  Gabe removed the sealed envelopes containing the latent fingerprints from his bag and slid them over to his brother along with two paper bags.

  Rick scowled. “What are these?” he said, jerking his chin toward the bags.

  “I also need you to see if you can get anything off this needle, port, and tubing. I couldn’t lift any fingerprints, which seems odd.”

  “It might not be connected.”

  “I know. But why are there no prints? There should be trace blood on the needle. And I’m wondering if the DNA matches with this lipstick Zelia found under the leather love seat in the deceased’s office.”

  “Even if your hunch is correct and the woman was murdered, this”—he gestured to the pile of sealed envelopes and paper bags on the table between them—“might not be admissible in court. Both you and Zelia would need to attend a hearing with the judge on the case outside the presence of the jury. The judge would then determine whether or not the evidence had been correctly gathered or if it had been compromised by—”

  “Give me a break. The scene was already compromised when the Greenwich Police Department, in their infinite wisdom, ruled Alexus’s death an overdose.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “Zelia needs answers.”

  His brother tried the death stare on him.

  It didn’t work.

  Rick sighed. Ran his hands wearily through his hair. “Fine.” He looked haggard. “I’ll see what I can get. But, Gabe . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you meant well, helping this chick out, but seriously, dude. You’re a writer, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got to trust me when I tell you, you are not cut out for this. Leave the sleuth work to the professionals.”

  Thirty

  A HEAVY RAIN had been thundering down, keeping the Saturday art browsers at home, snug under their down comforters or nestled in front of wood-burning fires with mugs of warm beverages and a slew of good books.

  Not a single person had entered the gallery all day, and if the deluge continued, Mary didn’t imagine anyone would. She’d kept herself busy trying not to worry about Zelia. She updated the computer, deleted old files, and sorted through the constant barrage of artist queries that arrived daily. She answered the majority, inserting the artist’s name in their standard form letter rejection. A few garnered a personal response. Every once in a while she would come across true talent, and those she’d place in a file for Zelia to look over.

  When she heard the front door swing open, she was more than happy to exit the office and stretch her legs a little.

  A slender man in his early thirties was entering the gallery. He shook the rain off his large black umbrella and onto the floor, then shut and secured it.

  Really? Would it have killed you to shake it off under the awning outside? She smiled. Probably. Entitlement seemed to be bred into the man. Ah well, she thought wryly. That’s what mops are for. She couldn’t really fault him. That could have been her not so long ago. Marching along her merry little life, believing in happily-ever-afters, taking all the privileges life had gifted her for granted.

  She sighed. No sense crying over spilled milk, she told herself sternly, and tugged her focus back to the present.

  The man’s umbrella was quite unique. Perhaps it was custom made? Seemed more solid than the regular run-of-the-mill. The engraved knob handle seemed Victorian inspired and was made with a high-quality gold. Looks quite dramatic, but gold isn’t light. It must be heavy as hell.

  The man obviously wasn’t from Solace Island. Not because of the umbrella. She could think of at least half a dozen local residents who would seriously lust after that umbrella. It was everything else about him that screamed old money and city chic. He was wearing a double-breasted, slim-cut gray suit that looked to be cashmere, a crisp white shirt, a knotted striped tie, and dark-framed glasses.

  Mary was tempted to say, Rabid fan of the Kingsmen movies, much?

  She didn’t.

  She smiled politely. “Hello,” she said. “Welcome to Art Expressions.”

  He swiveled to look at her. His motions were graceful, and yet there was something odd about them. It’s almost as if he were an extremely refined robotic clone of a human, she thought, smothering a smile.

  He wasn’t tall—five eight max. His excessively perfect eyebrows were raised, as if the sound of her voice had surprised him. Shocked him even.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Feel free to take a look around.”

  He didn’t answer. Just looked at her with his head tilted slightly to the side. His slim, elegant fingers were moving restlessly, tracing the floral pattern on the golden knob of his umbrella.

  There was something in his gaze that made Mary feel off-balance, uncomfortable. She took a step back, then another, but he closed the gap. He was staring at her intently. His eyes had an unfocused look, almost as if he were sleepwalking. Mary wasn’t sure what to do. This guy was circling her now, as if she were up on an auction block. “Tatiana?” he whispered. He almost looked teary-eyed.

  “Pardon?”

  “You colored your hair.”

  Mary tried to smother a sudden flash of fear. “Right. Well, if you have any questions,” she said, retreating a step farther, “please let me know.”

  He blinked once, twice.

  “Oh . . .” he said, shaking his head as if she’d somehow let him down. “We’re playing that game, are we?”

  The guy was clearly unhinged. Mary didn’t bother replying, just smiled politely.

  He rapped the point of his umbrella on the floor, the crack of sound making her jump. “Fine. Hello there, whoever you are,�
� he said, breezily gesturing to the side as if encompassing her and a crowd of twenty. His mouth was a mocking moue, as if to say, Happy now? “I’ve come for my Michael Lowdon painting, Below the Surface.” His voice was smooth, melodious. “I fear I’ve arrived earlier than expected. Unforeseen circumstances . . .” The end of his sentence was an elegant shrug, as the outer edges of his lips lifted in a smile.

  There was an echo of something familiar in that smile. Flashed her back to a memory she had worked hard to suppress for the last three years. It took a second to regain her equilibrium. Now is not the time to freak out. Kevin is on the other side of the country. Thinks you are dead. You are safe. No one knows who you really are. She forced her mind back to the present. What did this gentleman just say? The Michael Lowdon painting, Below the Surface. Who was the purchaser? Focus, woman.

  “Mr. Guillory?” she said, plucking a name from the recesses of her brain, hoping it was the correct one.

  He nodded. “Yes. Guillory.”

  Relief washed through her. He was a customer, an art collector, in which case weirdness was often par for the course.

  “But we both know you can do better than that,” he said, a gentle correction, as if she were remiss in not remembering his given name as well.

  Pompous prick. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” she replied with a gracious smile. “I don’t blame you for deciding to come early. Solace Island is so lovely and not too crowded at this time of year. Is this your first visit?”

  “Yes. I’d been meaning to come for some time. Your boss and I have some unfinished business, but alas, work got in the way.” He sighed bemusedly. “Ah well. I’m here now.”

  “I’ll wrap your purchase. Will be right back.” Listening must not be his strong suit because she could hear him following her through the gallery to the office. The sound of his footsteps was accompanied by the staccato of the tip of his umbrella striking the floor.

  She stopped. She didn’t want to be rude, but the idea of being trapped in the small confines of the office with him made her uneasy.