by Molly Greene
Her paintings had an ethereal quality, almost like a dreamscape. Like a glimpse of the past, or an idealized life she was longing for. Or a scene viewed through a squinted-eye-view, everything hazy and without rough edges. Gen got the feeling Laura craved something that was out of reach.
The man wrote a check and they left. Francie took care of business at her desk and within three minutes was at Gen’s side. “Hello again,” she said. “Did you find that artist?”
“Not yet. Did you make a good sale?”
“Yes, a very nice one.”
“I met Laura Ingburg while she was working on that piece.” Gen pointed to the canvas.
“Laura paints magic, doesn’t she?”
Gen nodded. “That’s a good way to put it. Have you known her long?”
“As long as I’ve been in Carmel.”
Gen moved to another painting, this one of Laura’s cottage. “I ran into her the other day while I was looking at the Comstock properties. I got the impression she grew up in that house.”
“She did. Her mother was an artist, too. I don’t think you could budge Laura from that place.”
“Is she single?”
“Yes. Always has been, as far as I know.”
“What?” Gen turned up her hands in surprise and smiled as she regarded Francie. “No love affairs? I find that hard to believe.”
Francie warmed to her subject. Everybody in a small town gossiped, it was almost like currency. “Something happened when she was young,” she said. “An affair gone bad. She came out the other side with a broken heart and gave up on love.”
“I suspected.” Gen leaned in and whispered, “Who was the guy?”
“As a matter of fact,” Francie whispered back, “the object of her desire was none other than the son of Gregory Prentiss.”
Gen’s eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling. “What happened that made it go sideways?”
“I’m not positive,” Francie replied. “I don’t know if anyone really knows. But it may have something to do with the fact that he was her stepbrother.”
Gen drew in a sharp breath. “Laura Ingburg’s mother was married to Gregory Prentiss?”
“Once upon a time.”
“I hear Prentiss owns a fabulous house down the coast, and he’s lived there for decades.”
“That he has,” Francie replied.
“So Laura lived there once, too?”
“For a few years.” Stoddard nodded. “She talks about it when she’s in her cups, but she never tells the whole story.”
“Have you seen the place?”
“Oh, yes. Prentiss used to hold open studio there often. It’s been years since he let the public in, but I attended every event. It wasn’t something you’d miss. The property is spectacular.”
“And the son?”
Francie shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to him.”
“Was he an artist, too?”
“A lazy one, I think. Talented but without much drive. I heard he wasn’t hungry for it.”
“What does he look like, do you know?”
A faraway look passed over Francie Stoddard’s face. “Not enormously attractive, but he had a unique appeal.”
“Had?”
“I haven’t seen him for a very long time. The Prentiss clan doesn’t do Carmel.”
“Why not?”
“You got me.”
“How do they buy food and things like that?”
“They have it delivered, I suppose. Or someone on staff shops for them.”
“Why would they hold themselves apart from everyone? There must have been some kind of squabble with the townies.”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I don’t think it was a conscious decision to distance themselves. Greg is older now, and I think it just happened over time.”
“So do you think the son lives with Prentiss?”
“I don’t know that, either. They’ve done a good job of shutting down the gossip mill when it comes to the family. A really good job.”
“Hmm. Makes you think they have something to hide.”
“No more than the next person.”
“Oh?” Gen smiled. “What’s buried in your backyard, Francie?”
“Three husbands and a nefarious background as a Vegas showgirl.”
Gen laughed out loud. “Why would you want to conceal that? It sounds like you’ve lived a full life.”
“Oh, I’ve lived all right.”
“Carmel must seem boring.”
“Not at all,” Francie replied. “I love it here. It seems like a sleepy little town, but there’s a lot to do, a lot to see. Everything I want is here. If I get bored, the city is close enough. That must be how Greg Prentiss feels, too. Laura certainly does, she never leaves the area.”
“My friend Oliver is feeling the draw, as well.”
“But not you?”
“I’m a city girl.” Gen shouldered her bag and offered Francie her palm. “I’ve taken enough of your time. I appreciate the chat.”
“It was my pleasure, Genevieve. I enjoy your company. Come back and see me again some time.”
“I will.” Gen made her way to the door, but stopped just shy of it with another question. “What’s his first name? The son. Prentiss’s son.”
“Patrick.”
Gen froze. “Patrick Prentiss?”
“That’s right, yes. Why?”
Gen shook her head. “No reason. I was just curious. Thanks again.”
“Take care, Gen. Watch out for yourself in the city, now. That’s another thing I love about life down here. Crime is nonexistent.”
Gen gave her a wave and pushed through the door, then headed south on the sidewalk aiming for the beach path. It was nearly five-thirty now. Most of the pedestrians had made their way into the bars and restaurants or piled into a rental car to head for the nearest hotel.
Patrick Prentiss. Isn’t that interesting.
Patrick Noonan was the name of the artist Shannon’s agent swore she was involved with before she evaporated into thin air. Gregory Prentiss had been in New York at the time. It wasn’t a stretch to think his son might have traveled with him.
She needed to find out if they were the same individual. But who could tell her? And why, if Patrick Noonan and Patrick Prentiss were one and the same, would he choose to use an alias?
She wished she hadn’t brought her purse. It was nothing but an impediment to a good walk, and she wanted to get her arms swinging and her thoughts rolling around this latest bit of news. To free her hands, she laced the long strap of her purse over one shoulder and beneath the opposite arm.
By the time she reached the sand, the cove was empty. The tide was out. The beach was wide and beckoning. She broke into full stride and went north with the breeze at her back.
Half an hour later Gen turned around, satiated, and was surprised to see that a fog bank had crept in behind her. The mist was close to shrouding the village cliff. She double-timed, retracing her steps, but the soup was impenetrable within minutes. She was caught in its grip before she had time to make the path and climb back to town. She slowed, placing her feet carefully as she traversed the unfamiliar trail.
It wouldn’t do to fall here.
When she heard a sound behind her, she was actually pleased with the prospect of company. She came to a halt and faced the noise. “Hello?”
The answer came as a trickle of pebbles across the face of the bluff.
“Is someone there?” she called. Then louder, “This stuff is so thick I can’t see three feet in front of me.”
No reply.
It must have been a foraging gull.
She resumed her cautious navigation of the gravel trail. When she felt an overwhelming urge for companionship, she pulled out her cell to call Oliver, thinking she still had time to horn in and have a cocktail with the boys and be away before she could ruin their date.
She thumbed his number into speed dial.
As Gen worked her phone,
she wandered off the path and stumbled across a downed limb. She nearly fell to her knees. The phone flew from her grasp and sailed over the embankment. Two beats later, it hit the rocks below with a metallic ping.
The tinkle of cascading silt came again, like sand through an hourglass. Gen spun right and left, struggling to peer through the filmy mist. All she saw was the thick pea soup and stones peppering the hillside.
Nothing else materialized.
Her scalp prickled. Was someone here with her? Fear muddled her thoughts. She was disoriented by the enveloping fog and crabbed sideways, feeling for the wall of the cove.
But instead of rock, she touched human flesh and felt a shove. Her feet left the path and solid ground. Time stood still. Like a dream sequence, her arms windmilled helplessly in empty space.
Gen barely had time to scream as she sailed over the embankment and struck a rock abutment six feet below.
Her last thought was of Mack. He was right to warn her.
Damn him, he was always right.
Then she lost consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-four hours later Gen was home, covered with bruises on the left side of her body and enough cuts and scrapes on her face to make the neighbors do a double-take.
Life had gone from happy to hostile in the space of three minutes. Her ribs ached. It was difficult to breathe. Sitting up in bed was a nightmare. A cough or sneeze was so painful she was sure she wouldn’t be able to bear the agony for long.
She’d had help going over the edge. Aside from that fact, her biggest worry was that she’d lost her nerve, which was a first for Gen Delacourt. She didn’t want to think it might be the first of many.
The afternoon following their return she was wrapped in a quilt, lying back on a cloud of pillows on the living room couch. She was contemplating her fall, a near-constant scenario since the event. Who had been there with her in the mist? The answer was as murky as the fog had been that evening.
A knock sounded on the door.
“That you, Liv?”
She was answered more or less in the affirmative by the sound of the opening lock. Oliver was the only one who had a key.
“Brought you something,” Oliver called from the foyer.
“Tea and crumpets?”
“Better.” He was behind the couch now, but she was too sore to wrench around and look.
“Tequila and limes?”
Another voice chimed in. “I wish I’d thought of that.”
Honey and Tennessee. It was Mack.
She did a quick appearance check. Her hair was brushed and slicked up into a topknot. The pajamas she’d put on last night were heavy cotton knit, printed with pink and yellow princesses.
Madison bought them for her while she had been convalescing from her broken leg at the Healdsburg house. The pants were cropped and wide as a skirt, easy to pull on over her cast. The plaster was gone and the PJ’s were faded from a thousand trips through the wash, but they were still Gen’s go-to favorites. Especially when she needed comfort.
She gritted her teeth against the pain and struggled upright. “Detective Hackett.”
“Genevieve.” Mack paced around the couch and took a seat in the closest chair.
“Too much starch for me,” Oliver said. “If you’re going to be so formal, I’ll leave you to it. A pleasure to see you again, Mack.”
“You too, Oliver. Thanks for calling.”
Gen tried to catch Livvie’s eye, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. She’d have plenty to say later, but right now Mack was here and she had to deal with it.
Liv tossed them a salute and left without another word.
“I like your place,” Mack said.
“Thanks. It’s a work in progress.”
“Kind of like life.”
“Yeah.” Gen moved her leg beneath the quilt and winced.
“I hope you don’t mind company. You look like you’d prefer to crawl under a rock and be left alone.”
She laughed and clutched her side. “Owww, Mack. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Too soon? Okay. So what happened?”
“I’m extremely uncoordinated,” she replied. “I was walking in the fog. I got freaked out because I thought someone was behind me, and apparently I was right. One shove and I learned how it felt to fly. End of story.”
“Tell me everything you remember.”
“Before or after?”
“Both.”
“I was walking up the path from the beach to the village. The mist was so thick I couldn’t see a thing. I thought I heard something. I called out. Nobody answered.
“The whole thing made me nervous. I was trying to phone Liv when I tripped and lost my cell. I got scared and left the trail. Before I knew it I was sailing through the air with the greatest of ease.”
“Did you feel hands on you?”
“Yes. Somebody shoved me, Mack. And right before they did, I turned into a wimpy bowl of Jell-O. If I hadn’t done that, I might not be sitting here now covered with purple splotches.”
He ignored her. “And after that?”
“I must have been knocked unconscious. The first time I woke up, all I heard was screaming. I thought it was me, but after a second I figured it for Oliver. Apparently the call went through and he heard the whole thing and came down to the beach. That’s where I told him I was going.
“Anyway, he was screeching out my name, over and over, from somewhere up above. I had to wait for him to take a breath. Then I said, ‘here,’ and I must’ve passed out again. The next time I woke up I was in the paramedic’s van. I managed to ask if I had any broken bones. They said they didn’t think so, and then it was lights out again.”
“You were lucky,” Mack said.
“That’s what the EMT kid said. I was so out of it I kept thinking he looked like a Boy Scout, only why was his uniform the wrong color.”
“You could easily have ended up with a whole lot worse than bruises to show for it.”
“Yeah.” Gen sighed. “No doubt about that.”
“Then they took you to the hospital?”
“Yes. The ER doctor was worried about concussion and he made me spend the night. I signed myself out as soon as I could. Livvie packed for me and checked out of the motel. He picked me up and made me lie down on the back seat with his pillows under my head. Then he drove me home.” She looked at Mack and tried to smile. “Oliver always travels with about a dozen of his own pillows.”
“So who do you think it was?”
“In the fog with me?” Gen shook her head. “I wish I knew.”
“Who’d you piss off down there?”
“Only one person that I know of.”
“That you know of? Sounds like a giant question mark.”
“I talked with three people who might possibly not have been too happy afterward. An art dealer named Herman Jacovich, an artist named Laura Ingburg, and a guy who caught me sneaking around on private property.”
“Whoa,” Mack said. “Was he the angry one?”
“Surprisingly not. It was the dealer, Jacovich. I don’t make him for getting his hands dirty following somebody down to the beach and helping them over the side of a cliff.”
“He could have hired it done.”
“Trust me, that’s the only way he would have done it. Jacovich doesn’t strike me as the type to get directly involved. But if he did send somebody after me, it must have been on behalf of his client, another artist. That makes four potentials. None of them seem like genuine possibilities.”
“These things are never coincidental.”
“I know. I’ll be on guard now, but I’m still not convinced I irritated someone in Carmel enough to want to hurt me over it. Mack, you want to know the real issue here? I was a basket case, and I’m never afraid. I totally lost it. That’s what has me the most concerned.”
“Genny.” Mack’s voice was serious. “We’ve talked about it. You need to carry a weapon if you�
��re going to do this work.”
“That conversation was the last thought I had before the lights went out on the rocks.”
Worry lines creased her forehead at the prospect of packing a gun. “I’m not a gun person, Mack. I wouldn’t have pulled out the firepower over the sound of gravel trickling down the path, anyway. The problem was I was too panicked to think about what to do.”
“Why don’t you just walk away from this?”
“What?” Her chin almost hit the floor. “No! When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. I gave my client my word I’d see this through. I won’t walk away from anything just because the going gets a little rough.”
“Good to know.” His lips curved. “Then have you considered a Taser?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I think it’s time you did.”
The thought upset Gen just enough that she wanted to distance herself from it – and him.
“I need coffee. You?” She pressed the flat of her hand hard against her ribcage and rolled to the tender side, then pushed up off her elbow into a semi-sit. From there she stood, doing her best to mask how difficult each movement was.
“Sure.” He stood alongside her but didn’t try to help. Mack wasn’t one to make a fuss. “I’ll come along.”
“I can do it.”
“I’m coming anyway,” he said.
She tried not to think about the princesses cavorting across her backside as he followed her into the kitchen. She pointed to the row of stools beneath the island. He pulled one out and sat.
“So about that Taser,” he said.
“Crap, Mack.” She heard the brittle edge to her voice, but was too beat up to tell herself to lose it. “I don’t want one.”
“I don’t care what you want.” His tone matched hers.
“Why are you pressuring me?”
He came out of the chair and was around the island and beside her before she could register what happened.
Her reflexes needed work.
Mack curled his fingers around her upper arms and she froze, then took a breath and let it out. She felt tears boiling up behind her eyelids but warned herself she’d cut her wrists if even one appeared.
Gen Delacourt does not cry in public.
“Everything happened so fast, you know?”