by Nancy Bush
She shivered in delicious excitement.
In the end, her beloved Tom was going to be her best kill.
Chapter Eight
Sam pulled into Joe and Jules’s driveway. He’d tried to reconnect with Georgie over and over again, but the call just kept going to voice mail. He tried calling Gwen, too, but got more of the same.
“Damn it,” he muttered, glancing at the clock on the dashboard as he switched off the ignition. Five forty-five. He’d left Salchuk in search of a burner phone but had failed and would have to try again later. Salchuk was known for not allowing national stores within its city limits, and store owners were all local, which was nice but made shopping for items like a new phone inconvenient.
Climbing out of the pickup, he stretched his back and heard it crack. His head was loads better, but a tiredness had settled in his bones. He headed to the front door, slid the key into the lock, twisted the handle. He walked inside and strode directly to the kitchen and a bottle of water. Inside the refrigerator he saw Joe had a couple of Coronas. He debated on opening one and downing it. He was hot and tired and a little angry. He probed his mind for that anger, like a tongue searching for a lost filling, pretty certain he wasn’t going to like what he would discover.
He landed on it pretty quick. He was mad at Jules that she couldn’t remember anything beyond her brother’s death. She was married to his brother, had been for several years, and before Joe there was him. Sam. Sam and Jules.
She couldn’t remember any of it?
And now Joe was gone and there was something really wrong inside Joe’s business. Something his father had sensed and Phoenix Delacourt seemed to know about. It felt, in fact, like everyone knew things but him.
“Screw it,” he muttered, reaching for the Corona, then opening and shutting several drawers, searching for a bottle opener.
Ding-dong . . . ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong!
Christ, who was this? He looked at the beer, felt guilty about it, and slammed it onto the counter. “Hold on!” Sam yelled. Someone had pressed the doorbell to the ringer and wasn’t letting up.
He strode to the door and flung it open.
The man who stood on the steps was about his same age and same coloring, but carried a good thirty pounds extra. His shirt and slacks were expensive. Sam wasn’t much good with clothing designers, but even he could tell they were some label that screamed money. A pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses covered his eyes. His hair was combed back and applied with product, and that watch . . . If it wasn’t Rolex, it was one helluva imitation.
And then Sam knew him. Jesus . . . “Hap,” he said, dumb with surprise. “What the hell?”
“Hi, Sam,” Walter Hapstell Junior said with a forced smile. “Long time no see.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Maybe I should ask you the same.” He tried to look past Sam. “Where are Julia and Joe?”
“Uh . . . they’re not here. They’re . . .”
He debated on telling him the truth. It seemed like the worst kept secret in the world, but before he could answer, Hap continued, “Tutti said as much. Are you going to her barbecue? She said she invited you.”
“How do you know Tutti?” He looked past Hap to the white Mercedes convertible that was parked in the driveway next to his Chevy pickup. A long-legged redhead was just stepping out of the car.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Tina. In a tight blue dress and matching high heels.
She waved halfheartedly, her smile little more than a grimace. “Hi, Sam,” she said.
“What . . . ? What are you both doing here?” he demanded.
Sam’s ex-wife looked from Sam to Hap, who answered, “Tina and I live on the other side of the canal. We’re the gray house three down from Tutti’s. Tutti said you were here and Joe and Julia weren’t. Are you staying with them, or house-sitting or something? When will they be back?”
Sam stood silent in the doorway. He could scarcely process. He hadn’t seen Hap since high school. He’d heard about him. Through Joe. Through his father. And from what he’d gleaned Walter Junior would inherit all of Walter Senior’s investments, which meant a big chunk of Seaside and most of the rest of the coast south to Tillamook, including Salchuk. They may have sold their house in a down time, but they’d bounced back, higher than ever. Donald had said that Joe had done business with the Hapstells, and Sam had assumed more with Walter Senior than Walter Junior, but you never knew. Hap was on Joe’s doorstep for a reason.
The fact that Martina was with him shouldn’t have been a surprise. If Hap was back in the black and the cash was flowing, Tina was bound to be hovering nearby. It wouldn’t suit her to lose money. She’d been in a complete state when her father had sold their house on the beach and his business had teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. She’d clung to Sam for all she was worth during that time, and he’d always suspected he’d been a safe choice in a scary world. He hadn’t understood it then, and he’d once asked her why she’d chosen him. Her answer had been to hit him playfully on the shoulder and say, “Because you’re as good as it gets, sugar.”
A nice comment, but Tina had a way of complimenting you while she was planning to stab you in the back.
You were the one who wanted out, he reminded himself. Well, that, and the fact that fortunes had begun rising again with the Hapstells, Montgomerys, and his own brother. In the end Martina hadn’t been all that heartbroken about their divorce.
And clearly she’d found her way to Hap.
“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Tina asked, coming up the steps to stand by Hap on the porch, slipping her arm through his.
As much as Sam would like to pose some questions to Hap, he didn’t want him to pass through Joe’s door. “It’s not my house.”
“Well, maybe it is,” Hap suggested. “If there’s been the tragedy I think there has. I know the boat that burned was The Derring-Do and that’s Joe’s boat. Is he okay? Where is he?”
In the morgue . . .
Hap didn’t wait for Sam’s answer. “Joe and I are associates, business associates—”
“And friends,” Tina put in.
“—and have been for quite a while. You knew that, right? That we’ve been working together for a while on some deals? I really need to talk to him. Can you give me some idea when he’ll be back?”
Sam remained silent. He didn’t want to talk about Joe and Jules. He didn’t want to say that Joe was dead, and he didn’t want to say Jules was in the hospital. He didn’t know how the boat had burned, what the circumstances were, but his gut told him it was no accident.
Hap eyed Sam closely. “Jesus, man. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Tina gasped and her hand flew to her throat. A little overly dramatic maybe, Sam thought, cataloguing her reaction. But maybe it was real.
Sam’s cell phone rang, giving him a momentary reprieve. “Excuse me,” he said, shutting the door in their faces. He didn’t want Hap in Joe’s house. Too many questions that needed to be answered first.
Glancing at the screen, he saw it was the Sheriff’s Department. “Sam Ford,” he answered.
“This is Stone,” the detective said. “Forensics came back on the boat. It was doused with gasoline and deliberately set.”
Sam felt his stomach sink. Expected. What he’d known, but it still felt like a blow.
“Who set it?”
“We don’t know yet, but the sheriff heard from a kid down at the marina gas station who says that . . . your brother brought in a can and bought about five gallons of gas about a week ago.”
“No.”
“The kid just volunteered it. He saw The Derring-Do being brought into the bay, but didn’t put it together till he talked to Vandra.”
Sam couldn’t process. There was no way Joe did this. “Joe may have bought the gas, but he didn’t do this.”
“You want to talk to the kid?”
The invitation surprised him. He could already tell Sheriff Vandra wouldn’t take kindly
to any interference. “Yeah. But I’m telling you, Joe would never hurt his wife. And he wouldn’t set his boat on fire. He loved that boat. There’s no reason. He wouldn’t do it.”
The Cardaman file.
Sam leaned against the kitchen counter. Maybe there was a reason. Something financial had gone terribly wrong. Some deal, or deals, or . . .
Bang, bang, bang.
Sam turned to the sound. The front door. Hap and Tina.
. . . Joe and I are business associates . . .
Dogs began barking frantically from the house next door, and Sam glanced their way. He hadn’t heard them earlier, so they must have just gotten there. Jules and Joe didn’t have a neighbor on the other side; they were at the end of the development of houses, the last one on the west side, though the canal meandered away north for several miles. Sam heard Hap yell at the dogs to shush, calling them by name, Less and More, it sounded like, but it only seemed to send the dogs into a further frenzy of barking.
The cell phone at his ear, he saw the bottle opener stuck to a metal knife rack tacked on the wall beneath the cabinets. Sam thought about opening his beer but he stayed where he was, thinking.
Hap wants in the house. Maybe he’s already been in the house. Maybe he’s the one who took the note. Did he have something to do with Joe’s death?
He realized Stone had given him the kid’s name. “What was that again?” he asked, snapping back to the moment.
“The kid’s name is Ryan Mayfield. He’s part-time at the marina. Vandra won’t like it that I gave you the name, but I’d like some follow-up on Mayfield.”
“You don’t believe Joe burned his own boat, either,” Sam realized.
“I’d like a little more corroboration,” Stone admitted.
“Joe would have never set his boat on fire deliberately, and he would have never risked his wife’s life.”
“But he didn’t meet you after he texted you.”
“Something must have happened. Something that changed his plans. Something that changed everything.”
Bang, bang, bang!
“I gotta go,” Sam said, as Less and More ripped into more wild barking. It was lucky they hadn’t been around when he was sneaking through the back window. Sam clicked off, then stared at the front door a moment, before stalking across the room and throwing the door open once more.
“Well, there you are,” Tina said, piqued. “Jesus, when did you get so rude?”
“You’re right, Hap. There’s been a tragedy. That boat that burned today, that was The Derring-Do, Joe’s boat. Joe drowned and Jules is in the hospital.” His throat choked up.
“What? What?” Tina’s eyes were stretched wide. If he didn’t know what an actress she was, he would have thought she was in total shock. As it was, he couldn’t trust her. He couldn’t trust either of them.
Hap looked poleaxed. “Joe’s really dead?” Though he’d posed the idea, he didn’t seem to be able to comprehend the news.
Hearing it again affected Sam, as well. “Yes.”
Tina wobbled on her heels and abruptly sank down on the porch step. “Oh, my God. Oh, Hap. Oh, my God. What’re you going to do?”
Hap said to Sam, “May I come in? I could use a glass of water.”
“Why don’t we all go to Tutti’s barbecue?” Sam heard himself saying. “It’s after five already. I should tell Joe and Jules’s friends. It’s going to be on the news tonight, but I think I should be there. I’ll meet you there.”
He closed the door on them, locked it, and stepped back, half convinced they would still try to get in.
The last thing he wanted to do was go to a barbecue, but someone had taken that note. Someone had let themselves into the house. And Hap was one of the Fishers. It was an opportunity to learn more about Joe and Jules that he needed to take.
Joe hadn’t set his boat ablaze. Joe hadn’t harmed Jules. Joe may have drowned, but he’d also had a bash on his head. Sam had seen it when he’d ID’d his brother’s body. Maybe it was from the accident, or maybe it had happened before the boat had burned. Something happened. Somebody attacked him and Jules, burned the boat, got away....
Why did Joe purchase the gas?
Sam’s gut tightened. No. He wasn’t going to be dissuaded from his belief in his brother. He knew what Joe was capable of and what he wasn’t.
He walked back into the kitchen, thinking, saw the Corona and opened it, drank half of it down, wiped his mouth. He felt like he was in a nightmare. Taking the beer, he walked into the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror. Same dark hair, same blue eyes, same mouth, and chin, currently sporting five-o’clock shadow.
He rinsed his face and dried it off, decided against shaving. He wasn’t trying to win any beauty contest, he just wanted information.
He went out to the garage and pulled down the canoe that was hung by hooks on the wall and took it through the back door of the garage to the dock. He returned for the oar, locked the garage door behind him, then, remembering Tutti’s request to bring a bottle of wine, headed toward the refrigerator where an unopened bottle of Pinot Gris seemed to be waiting just for him. He hoped to hell it wasn’t horribly expensive because he was going to have to pay them back . . . pay Jules back, anyway.
As he left he made sure the house key was still in his pocket, then manhandled the canoe into the water, dropped lithely inside. If Tutti had a key, it was highly possible someone else on the canal did, too. Someone had entered Joe and Jules’s house after Sam had secured the window, and he sensed it was one of the Fishers . . . the friends.... Briefly he thought of Jules, hoping she was getting better. He needed her to remember what had happened on the boat, for his brother and for himself.
* * *
Jules wanted to fall asleep again and dream, but she was restless and achy. She pushed the swing arm table away from her—they’d brought her turkey and mashed potatoes and some anemic-looking peas—got up and used the bathroom. She lifted her right arm inside its sling—yeah, it hurt—then checked out her scrapes and bruises. There was an abrasion along her jawline and a bandage at her temple. She reached up with her left hand and pulled the bandage off. Her hair was stuck to her head and she sported a huge knot with a small cut. Gingerly, she examined the knot. Yep, that hurt, too. She tried to remember how she’d gotten her injuries, but it was a complete blank.
Frustrated, she returned to her bed but didn’t climb inside. She wanted to walk. Wanted to do something.
She skirted the end of the bed and glanced at the meal that she’d barely touched. It was like Thanksgiving, sort of, only not as good. Not like her mom used to make.
She sank onto the only chair in the room, straight-backed with blue cushions and wooden arms. Her mind suddenly clicked on. She had a flash of recall so swift it made her dizzy. She was looking out the window of a cabin in the woods, surrounded by snow. Unexpected snow. Early and unusual for the coast. A dinner table with a cream-colored tablecloth and candles waving in the slight breeze from an interior door opening. The scents of cinnamon and brown sugar. A cornucopia spilling out dried corn cobs with multicolored kernels, tiny pumpkins, hazelnuts, and pine cones. Thanksgiving. There were people in the shadows. Her mother and father?
She immediately had a mental picture of Mama. Sitting in a chair, staring out at the sea. Her mother had always blamed her for her brother’s death even though she’d been a child herself when it happened. Where was her father? He’d been her champion once, but thinking of him, them, made her head feel like it was going to explode.
She eased her thoughts from them, desperate to hang on to the Thanksgiving scene. There were people with her, but they weren’t her parents. One, she saw, was Sam Ford, and he was with . . . Joe . . . and Donald was there, too, their father!
Oh, God, I remember! I remember!
“What else? What else?” she whispered. There was a woman . . . Gwen . . . Oh, God, Joe’s ex-wife and her daughter, Georgie, Joe’s stepdaughter—no, adopted daughter. Joe had adopted her.
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br /> Why do I remember this? she asked herself. Why this?
It didn’t matter. It was a true memory, teased awake by the traditional Thanksgiving meal. Her heart was pounding in her chest, making her head throb as well, but she didn’t care. She wanted to shout for joy.
I remember Joe, she thought, trying to stay with the memory, though it was growing hazier by the moment.
But I was with Sam.
She stumbled to her feet, slamming her knee into the side table. The tray clattered to the floor, splattering potatoes and peas and turkey. The gray curtain pressed down on her, but she held on to the memory for all she was worth. Damn it. Why was this happening to her? Why couldn’t she remember?
Because you don’t want to.... You know you don’t want to. . . .
“But I do want to.”
A brisk, older nurse Jules hadn’t seen before stepped into the room. “You all right?” she asked Jules, who was standing at the end of the bed.
“I just dropped my tray.”
“Okay, I’ll get someone to clean it up.” She was gone in a flash.
You were with Sam first, then Joe.
Was that what she didn’t want to remember? No. She could remember that now, and a lot more. It was coming back, just like Dr. Lillard said it would, though she had to be careful not to try too hard or her brain wanted to shut down.
But she and Sam were ancient history, she realized, rubbing her knee as she sank back onto the chair. She’d been with Sam as a teenager, when her mother’s illness had begun to really manifest, but it was Joe who’d rescued her in those final dark days of her mother’s life when her father had become a stranger to her, and she’d been left caring for her mother basically alone. After her mother’s death, and then when her father killed himself, Joe was there for her. They’d reacquainted when she was taking some night classes at Portland State and he was getting an MBA and working at a prestigious Portland investment firm . . . she couldn’t recall the name just yet . . . while she was working on a business degree that she never finished because she was called home to take care of her mother by her desperate father. She and Joe had recognized each other across the classroom and they went out for coffee at the break. Then it was a glass of wine, after the next class, and then they started hanging out together. Joe became a big part of her social life, and Georgie had been there, too, still just a kid, but she’d bonded tightly with Jules, mostly because her own mother was a cool customer whose time was taken up with her interior design business.