Inside, she set down the cat carrier and suitcase and looked around. The house still took her breath away. Unlike anything else in Pajaro Bay, it had the soaring ceilings, elegant curves, and luxurious finishes of a true art deco mansion. The two-story high living room ceiling was covered in a silver-and-black pattern of repeating lotus leaves, like something out of an Egyptian tomb. The patio door she'd just entered wasn't the usual rectangle, but instead was a single, black-framed glass door surrounded by more lotus shapes of glass that framed the ocean view outside.
On the opposite wall stood a fireplace that was shaped exactly like the lotus door, but made of jet black marble, trimmed in silver. Above the hearth hung the famous life-size black-and-white Warhol painting of Aunt Zee dressed in the beaded silver gown from the film Lost Love. Aunt Zee had always joked that the painting was better looking than she'd ever been in reality.
White-and-silver Le Courboiser cubed sofas and chairs were scattered about the large room in conversation groupings. The TV was hidden in a black lacquer Chinese armoire with gold leaf trim.
The whole effect was like stepping onto a movie set, which Lori imagined was why it suited Aunt Zee so well.
She released Ophelia from her traveling crate. Ophie stalked away to pout beneath the white sofa. Her fluffy gray tail stuck out, and she whipped it back and forth to express her displeasure.
There was a scratch at the patio door. She got a big bowl from the kitchen (a jadeite piece that looked the least breakable of anything there), filled it with water, and took it out to the dog. He lapped it up happily, then bumped her, apparently to express his appreciation, and lay down on the lawn and rolled some more.
That was settled. Lori wished Aunt Zee was home. Even the silent handyman, Sandy, would be someone to tell the story to, but no doubt he had gone with Aunt Zee. She felt like she needed to talk about the last few days with somebody, and there was no way she was calling her parents.
Calling. Getting a new phone would have to be a top priority. She wondered if Santos' Market carried phones. If not she'd have to order one online.
She went back inside and scribbled a note: Z.—Ophie's hiding in the house; I'll explain about the dog in the back yard. May I stay here for a day or two?
She left the note on the kitchen table, then went out the front door. To see about getting a phone, she told herself, but she knew that wasn't why she was heading downtown. As she walked she realized she was looking at the streets of Pajaro Bay differently—the way a small boy from the wrong side of town might see them, full of closed doors and no admittance signs. If only she understood what had turned the little boy who had been friends with the deputy into a notorious criminal.
She tried to convince herself it was just idle curiosity. It was human nature to be fascinated by a puzzle, and Matt DiPietro was a whopper: a vicious killer who adopted stray dogs and read poetry in his spare time; a man who could kill another human being but who fussed over her when she got a headache. If she were the rebellious type, she would date Matt just to really freak out her parents. Fortunately, she was more of a by-the-book person. A man like Matt DiPietro was the opposite of everything she wanted in her life.
She reached Calle Principal, the main drag in town. The wet pavement was a glossy black ribbon between the little Stockdale buildings and tiny alleys that made up the downtown area. A single car went past with a swish as the tires kicked up a spray of water. Then it was gone around a corner and she was alone on the street again. Not much seemed to be happening on this gloomy January day.
At the end of the street was the town's tiny medical clinic, where someone with an injured ankle and hypothermia would most likely be recuperating. On her right was the general store.
What happened to her pirate from now on was none of her business. She turned resolutely away from the medical clinic, and instead stepped into Santos' Market to see if they'd restocked the cookie aisle.
The little grocery store was quiet except for one female clerk talking to an older woman in a pink parka.
Both women looked up at her, curious.
"Do you carry phones?" She asked. "Cell phones, I mean."
The clerk shook her head. "We have batteries, bluetooth headsets, and chargers. But we don't have any phones in stock. We can order one for you, though."
Lori nodded. "I guess that's what I'll do, then."
The clerk took care of her, the woman in the pink parka offered her opinions on whether the gold phone or the silver one was better, and between the three of them they soon had the phone ordered. Lori paid with her credit card, and then the clerk announced, as if it were news: "You're Ms. Potter's niece, from the lighthouse."
Lori nodded. "Her great-niece. She's my mother's aunt. How did you know?"
"You look like her," Pink Parka said. They both nodded. "Like she was at your age, you know. But without the silver evening gown, of course." The ladies laughed at the joke. "You know the picture." Pink Parka imitated the pose that had been immortalized in the Warhol, and in the countless copies of it.
Lori smiled politely. "Uh huh." Not like she hadn't heard it before. But she felt even less like the confident heroine than she usually did.
"You've watched her films, haven't you?" the clerk asked.
Lori nodded. "Thanks for helping me with the phone." She turned to go down the pet food aisle, but both women followed her, apparently happy to have found some new entertainment.
"So," Pink Parka said, cornering her in front of the dog food. "What are you buying today?"
"I haven't decided," Lori said, trying to sound as uninteresting as possible.
The woman leaned forward, obviously bursting to talk to her. "So what was it like?"
"What was what like?" Lori responded, wary of the take-no-prisoners expression on the woman's face.
"Being alone...." She paused dramatically. "With Him."
"Him?" Lori said, pretending she had no idea who Him was.
"The Shadow," Pink Parka explained in an exasperated way. "The murderer. You were alone with him for days and days, right?"
"Not days and days. Just a day." Or three, but who's counting? "Excuse me," she said, and walked away to get some of whatever was in the next aisle.
But the woman wouldn't be put off that easily. While the clerk wandered back toward the front of the store to wait on someone, Pink Parka followed Lori around the corner to the baking supplies aisle, and watched, apparently fascinated, while Lori pretended to read the label on a lemon chiffon cake mix.
"You look okay," she offered.
"Huh?" she replied, wishing she was better at giving people the brush-off.
"He didn't hurt you or anything."
"No! Of course not." Why was she offended? Why did she want to slap this woman for assuming the worst about him?
"Don't get uppity, dear. It was just an idle comment."
Lori picked up a jar of strawberry pie filling and pondered whether the 17.4 ounces in the can would be heavy enough to make a dent if she bopped this annoying woman on the head.
"I mean, you know what they're like," the woman pushed on.
"Actually I have no idea what they're like," Lori said. "I don't spend much time with them."
"Well, of course not, dear." The woman patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. "You're from a good family. But they're everywhere these days, you know."
"How many murderers have you got in this town?" she asked.
"Murderers? I mean his kind"—her voice dropped to a whisper—"You know what they're like."
"What who are like?" Lori said, getting more exasperated by this woman with each moment.
"The Eye-talians. You know, the Mafia and all that. You can't really trust them. They make good pizza, though."
"You've gotta be kidding, right?" Lori said, then saw from the woman's expression that she wasn't. "I think there might be one or two Italians who aren't in the Mafia," she finally responded, as deadpan as possible.
Her sarcasm was lost on Pin
k Parka "Well, I suppose," she grudgingly acknowledged. "But most of them—"
"—are murderous mafiosos," someone behind Lori said. The women turned around to find a studious-looking, dark-haired man peering over his eyeglasses at them.
"And all the Irish are drunken poets," he added. "I'm Alec O'Keeffe." He grinned at Lori. "And you're our new lighthouse keeper."
"How'd you know?"
"I run the town newspaper. Surely you've read it? The Bay Sentinel: All the News That Fits in Twelve Pages. You can't keep a secret from me. I know who's been to prison, who's new in town, who's a bigot...."
"Well!" Pink Parka had finally had enough. She stalked off, muttering.
Alec turned back to Lori. "Easily offended, isn't she?"
"Not easily enough. I've been trying to get away from her for hours—or at least for minutes."
"Really? I'm surprised. You're the spitting image of your great aunt. Don't you know how to wither helpless peons with one glance?"
Lori laughed out loud for the first time in days. "Unfortunately, I learned a long time ago that though I may look like her, all I inherited from Aunt Zee were the baby blue eyes. Without the attitude to go with them, they're not worth much. So I'm grateful you rescued me."
"Not a problem. If I don't offend Mabel Rutherford at least once a week, I'm not doing my job."
She held out her hand to him. "It's nice to meet you, Alec O'Keeffe. I've been reading your book about Pajaro Bay history."
He shook her hand. "So you're the one!"
"I'm Lori York, but you already know that."
"You're the biggest news to hit this sleepy little town since, well, since Matt DiPietro showed up."
"You know about Matt?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"Yeah." Alec's smile vanished. "We went to school together. A great guy."
Lori must have looked startled, because he added, "I know, I know. He's the devil incarnate to the old biddies of Pajaro Bay. But when I was in third grade he gave me his old bike so we could go racing down that street over there." He pointed out the front of the store. "People are complicated creatures. So," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "You've been out at the lighthouse for a while. Did you see the ghost dog?"
She nodded.
He looked surprised. "Really? The Pajaro Lighthouse ghost and Matt DiPietro in one week. Are you ready to reveal which one was scarier?"
She had to laugh with this jolly guy grinning at her. "No comment. But do you really know everything about everyone in this town?"
Alec peered at her over his glasses. "There's one particular someone you want to know about. Let me show you my morgue...."
"Are you sure we shouldn't take you to a real hospital?" Sam asked him.
Matt fell into the nearest available chair in the clinic waiting room. "I wouldn't recommend having open-heart surgery here, but I'm sure Dr. Lil can pump me full of antibiotics and get me back on my feet."
He stared at the TV in the corner, which was spewing some news program about things happening in Washington or the Middle East or somewhere that seemed very far from Pajaro Bay at the moment.
"You're a mess," Sam said, looking him over.
"Thanks."
"Next time turn on your GPIRB. We could've picked you up in five minutes if you'd signaled your position to us."
"Geez, Sam. I was a little busy trying not to get my head blown off. Besides, it should've gone off automatically when it hit the water. Doesn't matter—I don't plan on getting shot at any more."
"Famous last words. You're lucky that woman was at the lighthouse."
"Yeah, lucky," Matt agreed. Then why did he feel like it would've been better if the sharks had gotten him? Lori. What was he going to do about her?
The TV was now running some commercial for a tooth whitener. He watched it, disinterested.
"Listen up, DiPietro," Sam snarled at him. "We're keeping an eye on you. You don't want to talk, fine. You get in the water again, we'll be on you so fast you won't know what hit you."
Matt looked up, surprised, then saw the nurse heading their way, so he said, "I don't have to explain myself to a cut-rate Marine wannabe like you anyway."
The nurse looked shocked at their little display. Sam hadn't been in the Coast Guard for too long, but Matt had to admit she was pulling off a heck of a performance for an amateur. She had potential at undercover work. He should recommend her to the Project.
"Sit here," the nurse said, offering him a wheelchair. As Matt sank into it with a sigh, he wondered if recommending a young Coastie for undercover work would be doing her a favor.
The nurse wheeled him to a room, and helped him into bed. Sam followed. "You have to fill out some forms," the nurse told him. "Do you want me to call your family?"
He shook his head. They knew better than to come around him right now.
"Okay. I'll be right back," she added with a wary look at Sam.
"I don't think she'll bite me," Matt offered.
The nurse ignored that. "He needs to rest," she pointed out to Sam.
"I'm sure he does," Sam replied, not budging.
The nurse shrugged and left them alone.
"Alone at last." Sam shook her head. "Now where were we?"
Matt started to answer, but stopped when a nightmare in gold chains and polyester appeared in the doorway.
"How could you?" he asked the apparition. "Don't you know it hurts to laugh?"
"Hurt?" the tall, handsome African-American man in the purple-striped polyester shirt responded. "You don't know pain until you've gotten a gold chain stuck in your chest hair. This is a dangerous job."
Sam looked the man over from his day-glo shirt to his heeled boots, then turned to Matt. "You know this... person?"
"Sam, this is my partner, George Asher. George, this is Lieutenant Samantha Rogers, one of the Coast Guard's finest."
Sam shook her head. "I take it you're working undercover?"
"Keeping a low profile," George responded, throwing his orange-and-green striped leather jacket on the nearest chair. "I was working a case in the City when I got a call Matt had fallen overboard."
"I did have a bit of help going overboard," Matt pointed out.
"Yeah, right. Too bad the bullet only grazed you."
"Excuse me?"
"If you'd kept it we could've had it analyzed—might've narrowed down our list of suspects."
"Yeah. Stupid of me not to keep it firmly imbedded in my flesh so you could dig it out of my corpse."
"I'm just saying it would've been helpful."
"I'll try to do better next time. Thanks for the advice."
"No problem. That's what partners are for." George grinned at him, and for the first time Matt relaxed. His partner could watch his back for a little while.
"I had a hard time finding you," George said. "I thought this town's hospital was in back of the feed store."
"No," Sam corrected. "The dance studio's in back of the feed store. The health clinic's in the building with the auto repair shop."
"So what are they doing to you?" George asked him. "Changing your oil? Not that I care how badly hurt you are, but if you die I'll have to break it to your family."
"If I die, promise me you'll change clothes before you break the news to them."
"What's wrong with my clothes?"
"You look like an extra from Rent-A-Pimp."
"The chicks love this outfit."
"They do?" Sam asked. "The chicks on what planet?"
Just then the nurse came in. She looked George over like she wanted to spray him with disinfectant, then scurried back out again.
"See? I'm irresistible." He sat down and his expression changed. "Now enough small talk. Fill us in."
Matt described the last few days, from his early morning scouting mission to the Coast Guard's arrival on the island. George gave him a quick glance, and Matt took the hint to tell the official story they'd worked out for the local Coasties.
"So you have no idea wh
o shot you?" George prompted.
"Nope. I had spotted the drop point—have you ever seen one, Sam?"
She shook her head. "They drop pesticide in the water to mark where the drugs are, and it glows, right?"
"Exactly. When the pesticide hits the water, it not only releases the cyanide that's been killing the seals, it also phosphoresces—glows in the dark—"
"—Like George's shirt?" she interjected.
"Yeah. Except better looking. Anyway, I'd spotted a drop point, after only ten nights of wandering around the bay in the dark searching for one, and I was trying to get close enough to see if a boat was there to pick up the drugs, and then somebody shot me."
"And you didn't see the boat?" George asked.
"Nope. The mist was too thick. They must've had infrared to shoot me like that."
"So we're back where we started," George said.
"Yeah. Basically. Except now I've scared 'em. They know somebody was out there. So I'm gonna make sure they know it was me."
"The infamous Shadow," Sam offered.
"Yup. I'll put the word out that I want to get a piece of the action—help them expand their distribution network. That might bring them to me."
"Yeah," Sam said. "Or it might make them kill you to eliminate the competition."
Matt shrugged. Then he said, "Lori can't go back to the island."
"Yeah, what about her?" George said. "What's her part in this? You thought she might be involved last time I talked to you."
"She's not."
"But the dead sea mammals?" Sam asked. "You said they started washing ashore right after she arrived."
"Right. The seals," Matt said.
"Of course!" George said, when Matt didn't continue. "Why didn't we think of this before?"
"You wanna share your brilliance with the rest of the class?" Matt asked.
"Think about the progression of events. We've had an influx of imported meth in Central California since last fall, coming from somewhere other than our usual Mexican border crossings. The Pajaro Lighthouse was unoccupied for months, then Lori shows up, then the seals and dolphins start washing ashore, which helps us zero in on Pajaro Bay...."
Lighthouse Cottage Page 11