Close Up

by Amanda Quick

  “Huh.”

  She gave him another wary look. “Now what?”

  “I was just wondering when the rumors about your descent into the world of scandal sheet photography got started.”

  “I’m not sure. After I moved to Adelina Beach I did some work in the old-fashioned pictorial style. But my heart wasn’t really in it. I found it interesting from a technical point of view but not compelling, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think so.”

  “It was when I moved into the new, modernist style that I found my feet as an artist, so to speak. The first couple of pictures, both landscapes, got some attention. Kempton actually took both and sold them. But shortly after that the rejections started.”

  “Interesting.”

  Vivian shot him a quick, searching look. “Something happened out here while I was inside the gallery, didn’t it?”

  “How can you tell?” he asked, intrigued.

  She waved a hand. “Let’s just say I can feel it. Something about your energy.” She glanced down. “And Rex’s energy, too. Both of you look—I don’t know—as if you were a couple of hunters who had picked up a trail.”

  He smiled, cold satisfaction moving through his veins. “That’s exactly what happened. You’re good at this kind of thing.”

  “Well? What happened?”

  He took her arm. “Let’s have coffee. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  He waited until they were seated at a small table in a sidewalk café, two cups of coffee in front of them, Rex stretched out under a chair.

  “I saw the man with the cap and the wrong posture,” Nick said quietly.

  Vivian had been about to take a sip of coffee. She went very still.

  “Where?”

  “He was watching us from an alley on the other side of the plaza. No, don’t look around. He’s gone now anyway.”

  “You’re sure it was the same man that we saw in the photos I took at the fire?”

  “Same slouch, same build, same cap. Too far away to be sure about the shoes, but it was the same man. Even if the clothes had been wrong I would have noticed him.”

  “Why? Is he that unusual?”

  “No, that’s just it. He’s very, very good at making himself unnoticeable. Which is, of course, why I caught him watching us.”

  “I don’t . . . oh, wait. I get it. He stood out simply because he was trying hard not to stand out.”

  “Right,” Nick said, pleased that she understood. “But there was something else, too. You know what it’s like when you get the sensation someone is watching you? You turn around and, sure enough, the person is looking at you and you know it’s not an accident, because just as you’re about to lock eyes, he turns away a little too quickly.”

  “Of course. Most people have had that experience. Is that the feeling you got?”

  “Yes.” Nick picked up his cup and swallowed some coffee. Enjoying the whisper of knowing. The certainty.

  Rex’s ears twitched. He raised his head, silently asking if it was time to hunt. Nick reached down and gave him a pat.

  “Not yet, pal,” he said.

  Vivian looked at him over the rim of her cup. “What do we do now?”

  “We return to the hotel and act like nothing happened. I will call Luther Pell and let him know our guy is here in Burning Cove and watching us. The time has come for Pell to call the Broker and put the word out that a certain journal of handwritten poems is for sale at a very high price.”

  Chapter 32

  Burning Cove

  Later that afternoon . . .

  Jonathan Treyherne dropped the receiver of the pay phone back into the cradle and stood quietly for a moment, trying to get his nerves under control. His heart was pounding and he was sweating hard.

  His offer had been accepted. The Broker had just informed him the journal was in the hands of an anonymous individual who was willing to sell at an absurd price. The Broker had advised him against going through with the deal. No book of poetry was worth the huge sum the seller was demanding. But Jonathan had insisted the handwritten poems were the work of a famous, long-dead poet and that the volume was worth a fortune to collectors.

  The Broker had gone on to explain it would take time to work out the logistics of the transaction. The arrangements had to be acceptable to both buyer and seller. There were a number of ways to carry out such business deals, according to the Broker. The safest method was to use a trusted, professional go-between. Jonathan had refused that approach. He did not want to take the risk of allowing someone else to get hold of the journal, not even for the length of time it took to complete the transaction.

  There was another reason why he did not want anyone else involved. He needed to get close to the seller; close enough to kill him.

  The phone booth was located at a gas station. Jonathan had parked behind the garage. He got into his car and drove back to the isolated cottage he had rented on a bluff overlooking the cove. He had chosen the house and the location because it afforded ample privacy but the amenities were limited. Among other things there was no phone so he had been obliged to use pay phones to stay in touch with the Broker.

  When he got back to the cottage he let himself inside, poured a stiff shot of whiskey, and lit a cigarette. He went outside onto the porch and looked down at the rough surf crashing on the rocks. The sky had been cloudless all day but he had lived by oceans all his life, first on the East Coast and now here in California. He had learned to sail when he was a boy. He knew how to read the sea as well as surfers and yachtsmen did. There might not be any clouds in sight but the waves were thrashing too roughly in the cove and there was a subtle swell lifting the incoming tide. The breeze off the sea was picking up. A storm was approaching. It would probably make landfall in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

  He liked storms. They provided both a distraction and a cover. It was easy to remain hidden in a good storm. The subject never saw you coming.

  He forced himself to think in his customary strategic manner. The problem of the journal was on the way to being resolved. He would set it aside for now. It was time to focus once again on the commission.

  Today he had begun to suspect that the man who accompanied Vivian Brazier everywhere was not a lover, after all. That meant he was more of a problem than he had appeared to be at first glance.

  Something about the manner in which Sundridge had contemplated the window of the Ashwood Gallery while he waited for Brazier to reappear had seemed off.

  As Jonathan had watched from the shadows of the narrow walkway it had dawned on him he might be visible as a reflection in the glass. The more he considered the possibility that he was the one under surveillance, the more unnerved he had become. He had been forced to abandon the scene.

  He told himself it didn’t matter. Sooner or later Brazier would return to the Burning Cove Hotel. He would be able to find her again when he was ready to complete the commission. The hotel had excellent security but that security was not designed to keep out people like him, people who looked like they belonged in such exclusive, expensive surroundings.

  What concerned him now was the possibility that the man’s arrival in Brazier’s life was not simply an inconvenient coincidence. The more Jonathan considered the matter, the more he wondered if the stranger was a bodyguard. That raised a host of unnerving questions. What had made Brazier conclude she needed protection?

  A chill crackled through him as the obvious answer struck with the force of a bolt of lightning. The anonymous individual who was now in possession of the journal had managed to decipher the last entry, the one that named Vivian Brazier as the next commission.

  Jonathan suddenly felt queasy. Light-headed.

  He downed the last of the whiskey in an attempt to regain his nerve.

  It took him a few minutes before he began to realize he
could make the new development work in his favor. If his assumptions about the stranger were correct—if he was a bodyguard—then he had to be taken out first.

  Jonathan went back into the cottage, poured another glass of whiskey, and began to pace. He had to come up with a plan. He had a lot to work with. Burning Cove was a small town and it was isolated on the coast. It didn’t have the resources of a big city. There was a lot of dark, empty land around the glittering core of the town.

  He went into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cupboards and drawers.

  He found the ice pick in the liquor cabinet. It would do nicely.

  Chapter 33

  Vivian saw the mountain of expensive pink leather suitcases and hatboxes piled on the tiled floor of the Burning Cove’s large lobby and stopped in her tracks.

  “Oh, dear,” she said.

  Nick halted, too. So did Rex.

  They both looked at Vivian.

  “What’s wrong?” Nick said.

  She took a deep breath. “I recognize those suitcases.”

  He glanced at the pink leather cases. “You do?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Vivian.” Lyra appeared from behind the row of potted palms that shielded the front desk. She rushed across the lobby and threw her arms around Vivian. “Thank goodness. These people keep insisting that you are not registered here. I told them I was your sister but they still refused to admit you were on the premises. I think they were getting ready to chuck me out into the street.”

  “What on earth are you doing here in Burning Cove?” Vivian asked. She returned the hug and then stepped back. “Are you all right? I called home this morning. Dorothy told me you had packed up and left town without letting anyone know where you were headed. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m here because you’re here. Where else would I go?” Lyra gave Nick a bright, vivacious smile. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Viv?”

  “Nick Sundridge, my sister, Lyra Brazier,” Vivian said quietly. “And before you say another word, Lyra, let’s get you registered at the front desk. We’ll talk later. In private.”

  “Good plan,” Nick said. He looked grim. “We definitely need a little privacy.”

  * * *

  “I can’t believe it,” Lyra said. She sounded awed as well as deeply impressed. “You and Mr. Sundridge are registered here as a couple on their honeymoon? You had better hope our parents don’t find out. Mother would probably faint. I can’t even imagine Father’s reaction. He might go so far as to strike Mr. Sundridge.”

  “Mr. Sundridge will keep that possibility in mind if he happens to meet Mr. Brazier,” Nick said. “Thanks for the warning. It may give me time to duck.”

  Vivian ignored him. She focused on Lyra.

  “Our parents are accustomed to me doing unpredictable things,” she said.

  “Here’s a news flash,” Lyra said. “A scandalous affair with an artist, turning down a respectable marriage proposal, and leaving town to pursue a photography career qualify as unpredictable. Posing as someone’s wife in order to check into one of the most exclusive hotels in California is far beyond unpredictable. I do believe you have topped your own record, Viv. You are no longer just a fast woman. You are downright wild. I’m proud to be your sister.”

  She reached for one of the small, elegant sandwiches, which had been delivered to the villa a short time earlier, and took a large bite.

  There was something very different in her sister’s demeanor, Vivian thought. It wasn’t a new trait, rather a return of the bold, adventurous spirit that had vanished years ago when Lyra had stepped into the role of the good daughter. The new old Lyra was a welcome sight but she had chosen an unfortunate time to rediscover her youthful daring and recklessness.

  Satisfied that Lyra was, indeed, a member of the family, the hotel’s front desk had moved smoothly and efficiently to find a room in the main building overlooking the pool for the new guest. Lyra had directed the bellhops to transport the heap of pink luggage to Number 24. She had taken a few minutes to freshen up and change into a pair of fashionable trousers, stacked heel sandals, and a silk blouse. Then she had hurried to join Vivian and Nick at the villa.

  By the time she arrived, Vivian had ordered afternoon tea with all the trimmings. Between the two of them, Lyra and Nick were making serious inroads on the sandwiches. Rex had managed to snag a couple, too.

  “If Mother faints, it won’t be because of me,” Vivian said. “It will be because you returned Hamilton’s ring and called off the marriage. I still can’t believe you did that. Okay, I can believe it, but I’m still stunned. What on earth happened?”

  “What do you think happened?” Lyra lounged back into a wicker chair and propped her heels on a hassock. “I discovered you were right. Hamilton is a lying, cheating rat. He would have made a dreadful husband.”

  “You were so sure he was perfect for you.”

  “I changed my mind when I found out he was having an affair.”

  “Damn,” Vivian said. “I was afraid of that.”

  Lyra held up a hand, palm out. “Please don’t say it.”

  “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of saying I told you so, because I never actually said that. I just tried to drop a few veiled hints to the effect that Hamilton might not be quite as perfect as he appeared.”

  Lyra raised her eyes heavenward and sighed. “Yes, you did. But I ignored them.”

  “Did you confront him with your suspicions?” Vivian asked. “It’s only fair to give the man a chance to explain.”

  Lyra gave her a steely-eyed look. “There wasn’t any explaining to do. I found them in bed together.”

  “Ah.” Vivian winced. “I’m so sorry. I know you cared for him.”

  “Not anymore. In hindsight, I don’t think I ever felt any genuine passion for him. I just kept telling myself that he was the right man. Mother and Father approved of him. And he is so handsome. Great dancer. Great kisser, too. We had fun together. Enjoyed the same things.” Lyra heaved a tragic sigh. “It was all just too good to be true. Perfect.”

  “I understand,” Vivian said gently. “What did he say when you found him with another woman?”

  Lyra looked very fierce. “The other woman was Emily Parker.”

  “You’re joking. Your best friend? The woman who was going to be one of your bridesmaids?”

  “For the record, Emily and I are no longer best friends.” Lyra sniffed. “Hamilton actually had the nerve to try to tell me she meant nothing to him. He claimed he had not wanted to pressure me into intimacy until our wedding night but that he had to find some physical relief in the meantime. He explained in great detail that it was very unhealthy for a man to be congested.”

  There was a hoarse cough from the other side of the patio. Vivian and Lyra turned to glare at Nick. He cleared his throat.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Cucumber sandwich went down the wrong way.”

  He grabbed his teacup.

  Lyra turned back to Vivian. “Hamilton claims his doctor told him that regular sexual exercise is good for the health, at least it is if you’re male.”

  There was another rusty cough from the other side of the patio. Vivian and Lyra turned toward Nick again. He assumed a somber expression.

  “It’s a good thing you discovered the truth about Merrick before you married him,” he said. “Much less messy this way.”

  Lyra ignored him.

  “You should have seen poor Emily,” she continued. “She was standing there next to the bed, in her robe, listening to Hamilton tell me he had just been using her to satisfy his physical needs. She was furious. She grabbed a heavy crystal perfume bottle off the dressing table and hurled it straight at him. I swear, I was positively inspired. I saw his trousers hanging over a chair. I threw them out the window into the street.”

&
nbsp; “Brilliant,” Vivian exclaimed. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Emily refused to lend him a pair of pants from her father’s closet,” Lyra continued. “Hamilton had to run out onto the sidewalk in his underwear. It was very entertaining.”

  Nick looked impressed. “You two are a couple of extremely dangerous women.”

  “I may not have been dangerous before,” Lyra said, “but I am now. I am a changed woman. I’m going to follow in your footsteps, Vivian. From now on I am a free spirit. I will never again be bound by the boring conventions of society. I shall never marry.”

  “It’s probably best to never say never,” Vivian cautioned. “Regardless, I am very glad you discovered the truth about Hamilton in time to call off the wedding.”

  “Consider it a stroke of luck,” Nick offered.

  Lyra studied him, deep interest sparking in her eyes. “You sound like you’ve been through a divorce, Mr. Sundridge.”

  “Annulment.” Nick tossed a small sandwich to Rex, who caught it neatly in midair.

  Shock flickered in Lyra’s eyes. She recovered quickly. “I see.”

  The phone rang inside the villa.

  Nick grabbed another sandwich and stood. “I’ll get it. That will probably be Luther Pell.”

  He disappeared inside the villa.

  Lyra turned back to Vivian, eyes wide.

  “An annulment?” she whispered. “Dare I ask about the grounds?”

  “It’s not my story to tell.”

  “I see,” Lyra said. She nodded in a commiserating way. “You must have felt sorry for him. That is very kind of you, but pretending to be married to him is probably not the best way to cure Mr. Sundridge. Impotence is a serious affliction for a man. He ought to see a doctor.”

  “Hold on, I think you misunderstand—”

  “Mother has assured me a woman can always fake things in bed if necessary. But a man, well, a man must perform or be labeled incapacitated or something. You are a very capable woman, Viv, but you don’t have any medical training. Mr. Sundridge should seek help from a physician.”