Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

  Once inside his room he crossed to the closet, pulled on a sweater, and grabbed the tool satchel he had purchased for their Feinstein & Co. foray. Probably too late to pick up any helpful fingerprints—too much time had passed and people had been entering and exiting the gallery—but it was worth a try.

  “You’re back.”

  He whirled around. His mom was standing in the doorway, beaming at him.

  “I told you he was,” Fergus said, huffing up the porch steps behind her. “I saw the lights were on in his room when I got up to pee.”

  “Yes, but that could have been the housekeeper.” His mom crossed the room and wrapped him in a hug, his dad on her heels. Her blouse was damp from the rain.

  “Ma,” Gabe said. “You can’t go running out in the rain. Where’s your coat?” His dad wasn’t wearing a jacket either. “Dad, you just got over a terrible cold. What on earth—”

  “How was your trip, son?” Fergus thumped Gabe on the back, bumping into the satchel, causing the contents to rattle. “What do you have in here?” His dad poked the satchel with his gnarled forefinger.

  “Fergus,” his mother said, giving her husband a stern look and slapping his finger away from the bag. “Gabe is a grown man and is entitled to some privacy. Why you always have to poke your nose in everyone’s business is beyond me.”

  “Don’t you fall for her blarney, boy.” Fergus chuckled. “The second your mother saw you run into your room, she yanked me out of my comfortable armchair. I was enjoying a nice hot toddy, minding my own business, reading peacefully by the fire.”

  “Reading? Ha! You were fast asleep, Fergus Alroy Conaghan.” Alma turned to Gabe. “Of course a mother would want to see her firstborn child after he’s been away. There’s no shame in that.” She grabbed Gabe’s hand. “My goodness. What happened here? You’re bleeding.”

  Gabe glanced down. Shrugged. “Cat scratch.”

  “Oh dear. It could get infected. I’ve got alcohol wipes back in my room.”

  “Mom. Thanks, but it’s really not necessary.” Gabe gave her a kiss on the head. “Will catch up later. I gotta go.”

  “Why?” Fergus demanded. “We just arrived, and now you’re running out the door. What’s wrong with you? You want to break your mother’s heart?”

  “Seriously?” Gabe stared at his father incredulously. “You’re going to pull that? It’s been only three days. Three days!”

  “At our age . . .” Fergus lifted his shoulders in a mournful shrug. “Those three days could have turned out to be all the time we had left before we shuffled off this mortal coil.”

  * * *

  * * *

  THE INTERIOR OF the car had gotten cold. The windshield had fogged. Zelia pulled her cell phone out and checked the time. Gabe said he was going to be right back, but almost twenty minutes had passed. I’ll give him five more minutes and then go down to see what’s taking him so long. She swiped open her phone screen. Oh jeez. A hundred and sixty-four e-mails were now waiting for a response on the artexpressionsgallery@gmail.com e-mail.

  She clicked on the most recent one.

  Hi there, Art Gallery owner,

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Zelia muttered as she switched her phone off and shoved it back into the depths of her purse. “This is the kind of thing that drives me nuts, Charlie. The idiot couldn’t even be bothered to do a minuscule amount of research and insert my name in their stupid form letter.” Charlie didn’t answer. He was a cat, unversed in the finer points of the English language. “I miss Mary. You, too, I bet, huh? She feeds and cuddles you, but I think I win the who-misses-Mary-more contest. She’s not only my friend, but she also heroically slogs through all these bloody e-mails for me, day in and day out. Oh God, where is she? I hope she’s okay.”

  Zelia was grateful for the added warmth emanating from Charlie, who had finally settled and seemed to be sleeping. She flipped down the car’s visor to check in the mirror the scratch damage Charlie’s claws had caused, as her hand gently stroked his fur, as much to comfort herself as him.

  A noise snapped her head up. Gabe opened the back door for his mom, the sound rousing Charlie from his nap.

  Sorry, Gabe mouthed over Alma’s head. He tipped his head toward his father, who was rounding the SUV, and rolled his eyes.

  “Well, this is exciting,” Alma chirped as she strapped herself in, excitement adding extra sparkle to her deep brown eyes. She reached forward and patted Zelia on the shoulder. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again. I’m sorry about the circumstances, though. Hopefully nothing has gone awry and we’ll arrive at your workplace, where your colleague will be waiting.”

  Zelia cast a questioning glance at Gabe, who shrugged wearily. “I wasn’t able to shake them. Didn’t want to leave you sitting in a cold car.” He shut the door behind his mother.

  “And right he was, too,” Alma said approvingly as her son walked around the front of the car, got inside, and started up the engine. “Don’t let the tough-guy exterior fool you, Zelia. Gabe is one of the sweetest men you’ll ever meet.”

  Fergus leaned forward. “That’s right,” he said, using the front-seat headrests to brace himself against the momentum of the SUV backing up. “Our boy is excellent marrying material.”

  “Mrrrouw!” Charlie wailed. His fur started rising, claws extending. Zelia quickly flattened her purse, hoisted the cat up, and plopped him on it, crooking her elbow so her arm was out of striking range.

  “Makes a bloody fortune on those books and even better—”

  Gabe shifted gears and their vehicle headed down the drive.

  Charlie started making choking noises, as if he had swallowed a hairball, his body undulating.

  “Oh dear,” Zelia cried. “Something’s wrong with the cat!” And then the entire contents of Charlie’s stomach erupted out of his mouth. “Oh no.” Zelia was torn between using her free hand to unroll the window, plug her nose, or try in any way possible to remove the warm vomit that was oozing down the side of her purse and into her raincoat-clad lap. The fishy smell of partially digested Salmon Delite was noxious.

  She hit the window button, stuck her head out, and gasped in gulps of clean air. Scooped up what she could of the slimy goo with her hand and flung it out of the window. Oh God. Her hand was now covered in the disgusting stuff. Best to leave my hand out the window until we arrive at the gallery and I can wash it off. She sighed. Maybe the rain will remove some.

  Alma leaned forward and tapped Zelia on the shoulder. “Here you go, dear,” she said, handing Zelia a delicate lily-scented handkerchief with an embroidered sprig of flowers in one corner. A nice sentiment, but there was no way Zelia was going to use that small bit of feminine perfection to mop cat vomit.

  “See, Gabe here has triple-A Conaghan blood running through his veins,” Fergus continued, clapping Gabe on the shoulder, apparently unperturbed by the recent events or the smell of cat vomit that had filled the car. “Great genes and very powerful sperm—”

  What the hell?! Zelia swung around and glared at Gabe. “Did you—”

  “Dad,” Gabe said warningly.

  “That was private,” she growled through clenched teeth, which made things more difficult because she was trying not to take in air through her nose.

  “What’s private?” Alma chirped.

  As Gabe turned left onto the main road, he glanced at Zelia. The look in his eyes was dead serious. He gave an imperceptible shake of his head, and then his expression smoothed over. “Zelia is quite right, Dad,” he said, his tone casual, conversational. “It’s not appropriate to talk about bodily functions, sperm, and whatnot. I do apologize, Zelia, for my father’s lack of manners.”

  “What did I say?” Fergus said, looking slightly chagrined.

  “For crying out loud, Fergus, sit back and curb your tongue,” Alma said sternly.

  “I’m just trying to help
the boyo,” Fergus muttered. “He’s too shy. Won’t brag about his merits.”

  “What you’re doing is scaring her off,” Zelia heard Alma whisper softly.

  “But you want him married and a passel of grandbabies, darling,” Fergus whispered loudly. “And I’m trying to get your dearest wish for you. If I don’t meddle, we’ll be dead and buried before the blessed event happens.”

  “Oh, Fergus . . .”

  In the visor mirror Zelia saw Alma’s hand rise and tenderly stroke Fergus’s cheek. There was a lifetime of love in the gesture. Zelia needed to shut her eyes, block it out. She took a centering breath, then exhaled slowly. Clearly Gabe didn’t tell them about my crazy scheme. Thank goodness. On the heels of relief came guilt. She could feel heat building behind her eyelids, because in that moment she knew her decision had been made. She would no longer be indulging in sweet, heartbreakingly tender baby-making sessions with their son.

  Forty-five

  ZELIA WASHED THE cat vomit from her raincoat, cleaned her purse, and scrubbed her hands in hot water, allowing the scent of the lavender rosemary soap to fill and soothe her nostrils. Charlie had seemed overwhelmed, so she used a couple of hand towels to make him a cozy nest and set up the litter box that Alma had had the foresight to suggest they purchase. She put food and water out. But Charlie just looked at her blearily and twitched his tail as if to say, Are you f—in’ kidding me?

  Once the cat was settled, Zelia went into her office and sat down. She was going to systematically work her way through the room, starting with the desk, hoping to find a note or a clue as to where Mary had gone and why.

  The office felt bare without the warmth of the rug. Colder, too, she thought as a shiver ran through her. She tapped on the keyboard, rousing the computer from sleep. Rather than entering her own password, she typed Mary’s. The screen lit up and a partially finished e-mail to Otto appeared on Mary’s desktop. Was Mary interrupted midtask—a phone call, perhaps, or a customer? Was the person she was writing to at the time of any significance?

  She could hear Gabe, Fergus, and Alma walking through the gallery, the occasional sound of their voices. She was glad she wasn’t alone.

  We are searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack, she thought. Best if I write down anything that seems different. Who knows what dots will connect?

  She reached down, pulled open the middle desk drawer to take a sheet of paper out. Instead of a smooth sheet of paper, her fingers landed on a crumpled one. That’s odd. She glanced into the open drawer. Oh shit.

  She bolted to her feet, the back of her knees bumping the seat of the chair. She could hear the sound of her heart banging in her ears, the chair’s wheels behind her as it spun across the floor. “Gabe,” she yelled, unable to wrench her eyes from the desk drawer. “Gabe!”

  She heard the thunder of feet.

  Gabe appeared in the doorway, his mother and father bringing up the rear. “What is it?”

  “There.” She pointed at the drawer. Her chest felt constricted. She couldn’t seem to control the shaking of her finger. “There was a crumpled paper and there are brownish flecks . . .”

  He was beside her now, his arm around her shoulders, steadying her.

  “See those? I think they might be dried blood.”

  “I think you’re right. You okay? You look pale.”

  “Mm-hm . . .” She wasn’t okay. She might never be okay.

  “Do you need some fresh air?”

  “No. I can keep going.”

  “This was a very good find, Zelia.” His hand was making soothing circles on her back. “But I think now it would be best if we called in the police.”

  Forty-six

  “I DON’T THINK we can,” Zelia said, her eyes troubled.

  Gabe was aware of his parents in the doorway watching avidly, his mother’s hands clasped to her chest. She wore a similar expression when watching—for the millionth time—the make-out scene between her movie-star crush, Jack Nicholson, and Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give. He was going to need to talk to his mom. Didn’t want her to get her hopes up.

  “Mary was hiding something,” Zelia continued. “She was always very distrustful of the police.”

  “Many people get nervous around the police, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want you to call them,” his mom piped in. “If you are right and those are blood splatters, foul play might have occurred.”

  “What if she’d just had a bloody nose?” Zelia said, clearly grasping at straws.

  “It’s possible,” Alma conceded. “However, she could be in grave danger.”

  “I know. Calling the police would be my first instinct as well. But Mary’s situation was complicated.” She bit her lip, clearly wrestling with how much she should say. “She was in trouble. She covered it well, but I could feel her desperation shimmering below the skin . . .”

  “Zee,” Gabe said. “While I appreciate your loyalty to your friend, it is important to share as much information as possible if we are to have a fighting chance to figure out what happened to Mary.”

  Zelia’s fingertips were pressed against her mouth, as if that would keep words from spilling out. He could see her waging an internal struggle. Finally, she blew out a breath, long and slow, and met his eyes dead-on. “Mary didn’t have a social security number,” she finally said in a monotone, her face grim. “Needed to be paid in cash. She hesitated before writing down her name on the application form. Hesitated again at her date of birth. I’m not even sure if Mary is her real name.”

  “And you decided it would be a good idea to hire her?”

  “Don’t bellow, son,” his mother cut in. “Zelia has had a traumatic day—” Alma broke off, bent over slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Did you know there was some sort of lumpy thing under your desk?”

  Both he and Zelia bent down and looked under the desk at the dark gray object that was tucked way back in the shadows.

  “Oh no,” Zelia said softly. “Mary’s purse. She always carried it with her.” She turned and looked at him. He could see the devastation in her eyes. “We had a running joke that that purse was her third arm.” She crossed her arms, hunching over slightly. Her eyes squeezed shut as if that would keep the conflicting emotions contained.

  The office was silent, just the sound of Zelia’s shuddering breath. Then she straightened, threw her shoulders back, picked up the phone, and dialed 911.

  Forty-seven

  THE FOOD WAS stone cold by the time Mary ate it. She had held off as long as she could. When the butler had warned her to “be careful,” she’d thought he was talking about his employer’s rage issues. But as she was cutting into the steak, fear suddenly engulfed her. What if the food was drugged? Was that the warning? The butler had been placing the food on the table. She’d dropped her knife and fork and backed away from the table.

  Eventually, hunger forced her to return. If the food is drugged, so be it. She was actually trembling as she scarfed the meal down. Great gulps of cold water, ice cubes clinking, bumping against her lips as she drained the glass, wanting more. There was a pot of tea. She drank that, too. Was eating the last of the fresh raspberry trifle when abdominal pain doubled her over.

  “You’re an idiot,” she murmured as she gingerly made her way to the bed and curled into a fetal position. Was the food poisoned? Or did I just eat too quickly after breaking a fast? Her eyes fluttered shut as she attempted to push back a wave of nausea. It’s possible. How long has it been since my last meal? Don’t know. How long have I been here?

  Tears squeezed past her lashes as she wrapped her arms around her distended abdomen and tried to force her breath to deepen. Cold sweat coated her body and her face.

  Forty-eight

  ZELIA WATCHED AS the older police officer placed Mary’s purse into a brown paper bag, labeled it, and then plopped it in the box. It felt wrong to let them
take her things, but they needed all the information they could find.

  Brring . . . The phone on the desk rang, causing a jolt of adrenaline to shoot through her. She recentered herself before picking up the receiver. “Hello, Art Expressions Gallery. This is Zelia Thompson. How may I help you?”

  There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. “Uh . . . Yes. My name is Eve Harris. We had an appointment today?”

  “An appointment,” Zelia repeated, trying to focus on what the woman on the other end of the line was saying. Her brain felt mushy, like it was on overload.

  “Yes. At one p.m.”

  Oh. Damn.

  “It’s possible I wrote down the wrong day?”

  “No. No, you didn’t.” She’d just stood up Eve Harris, the spectacularly gifted artist at the Intrepid Café. “I am so sorry!” She could feel a hot flush working its way up her neck toward her face. It didn’t help matters that Zelia could feel the policemen’s eyes on her. Her palms felt damp. Were they considering her as a possible suspect in Mary’s disappearance? Her stomach lurched, and the heat in her cheeks and along her ears intensified. You had better clarify why you are acting so guilty. “So very sorry, Eve,” she repeated, making sure her voice carried to the listening ears in the room, “that I missed my appointment to view your paintings.”

  “I’m still here if you’d like to come by,” Eve said.

  Double damn. “Unfortunately, I’m a little tied up right now.” She was doing her best to pretend her office wasn’t crawling with police. “Would it be possible to rebook for tomorrow?”

  Another hesitation before Eve replied. “Sure. What time were you thinking?”

  “Does nine a.m. work for you?”

  “I’ll make it work.”

  Zelia apologized once more and hung up the phone, embarrassment lingering at having stood up Ms. Harris. This was not the way she liked to run her business.