She just managed to stay on her feet. "You crazy mutt!"
The dog sidled up against her, bumping her with his side and grinning. He was a powerful animal, and she almost lost her balance again. Why was he doing that? He didn't seem vicious, but he was so pushy.
She looked out at the fog. Nothing. She couldn't see the ocean, or any boats that might be out there. And she had no way to signal them even if they were there.
She looked up again toward the light tower. The beam was on again, triggered by some automatic circuit that measured the amount of ambient light. It didn't do much good in the fog, though. The light just made the fog look glistening and shadowy as the beam reflected in the moist air. She watched the shimmering patterns for a bit.
She glanced down at Shadowfax, and noticed he was sitting right in front of her as if posing for a picture: flat on his haunches, sitting up straight and tall, with his front paws close in front of him, and his head cocked slightly to one side as he watched her eagerly, as if he were trying to say something to her.
"What?" she said.
The dog was still sitting there looking at her. Lori shook her head, and lost her balance, grabbing at the dog to keep from falling. The dog took it well, staying in the same position until she was able to straighten up and let go of him.
Seizure.
She must have been out for only a minute. She hadn't fallen this time. She raised her hand to rub her forehead, where the roar of a fresh headache had begun its familiar hammering. Her hands felt sore, and she saw she'd dug her fingernails into her palms, leaving half-moons pale in the flesh.
The dog's fur was wet from the fog, his dark coat glistening. She suddenly pictured Matt on the ground, her hands brushing through his damp black hair as she comforted the wounded lost sailor.
She turned around and went back inside to face him. The dog still sat there in the same position, as if waiting for something, so she finally made a motion toward herself, and the dog bounded up to follow her inside.
Once inside, she took off her sneakers, which had gotten all muddy again. Then she took a hand towel and wiped most of the mud off the dog's paws before they both headed back to the kitchen.
"What's wrong?" he asked when he saw her.
"I have epilepsy," she told him flatly. "I had a seizure and I need to lie down. I'm taking the bed." She went down to the bedroom. He called after her, asking if there was anything he could do to help her, and she ignored it, slamming the door on him once she got inside.
The dog had come with her, scooting in the door behind her before she banged it shut.
She lay down on the bed. Shadowfax jumped up and curled up next to her. He rested his graying muzzle on her belly and settled in as if ready for a long nap. She was too wiped out to argue with him about it. She pulled the pillow over her head to dull the throbbing headache.
She woke to more rain. But the fog had been driven off by the wind, and she could see for a couple of miles across the gray, choppy sea. She stood at the bedroom window, which faced toward the shore. For the first time in days, could make out the colorful little fishermen's cottages that hugged the base of the sandstone cliff, and the beachfront amusement park that looked cold and shuttered on this winter day. The fishermen's wharf jutted out into the bay toward her, dark and quiet as it rested on its pilings. Far above, at the top of the cliffs, sat the houses Pajaro Bay was famous for, rows of hand-built cottages in the distinctive Pajaro Bay style, as well as some rebels: a glass-and-steel 1950s modern mansion, a couple of pseudo-California mission estates, and Aunt Zee's art deco house.
It was impossible to pick out Aunt Zee's house from this distance. So close yet so far.
Shadowfax grunted as he stood up on the bed. "You really shouldn't be up there," she said to him. Of course he just grinned at her.
She rubbed her head. She needed her medication. "Well, come on, dog. Let's go see where your master is."
Shadowfax just looked at her. She put her hand in front of herself and brought it toward her, as Matt had done before. The dog immediately jumped off the bed and came to sit in front of her. She patted him on the head, then with a sigh, she went out to the kitchen.
Matt was sitting in the rocking chair, reading the True Tales book.
"You did a good job on the bandage," he said, pointing to his leg. "You could have a career as a paramedic."
With apparent effort, he pulled himself to his feet. "I'll pay you back with a gourmet breakfast," he announced.
"It's too late for breakfast."
His eyebrows went up at her tone. "Okay, brunch. You got any eggs?"
"No."
"Are you okay? You seem a bit tense."
Uh oh. She'd better get a grip before he suspected something. "I'm fine. I usually have cereal for breakfast."
"Okay. Cereal sounds good for brunch." He picked up a mop handle he'd apparently found somewhere, and used it like a cane to maneuver himself away from the stove, toward the sitting room. "And I'll get out of your way so you can fix it. Didn't mean to step on your turf."
She watched him from the kitchen as he slowly made his way to the bookshelves flanking the fireplace. He picked up one of her books. Those murderer's hands were pawing at her things.
"Is this a good book?" he asked. "I haven't been reading much recently."
Murder and mayhem must be keeping him too busy to peruse the bestseller lists. "I haven't read it yet," she said, trying to sound friendly. She wished she possessed Aunt Zee's acting ability. Her hands were shaking.
He limped over to the corner to pull another volume from the bookshelf. "Oh, good. You have a Shakespeare anthology. I wanted to re-read Ophelia's insanity scene from Hamlet ."
Hamlet . Perfect. Just about everybody's been murdered by the end of that play. "I'll bet that one's your favorite," she said sarcastically.
"Nah. Just read it in school. So why did you name your cat Ophelia?"
"She's Aunt Zee's cat. Why did you name your dog Shadowfax?" Why would a murderer do that? She realized she'd made it sound like an accusation, and the confusion in his eyes made clear he'd heard the challenge.
"He needed a new name when I got him. It seemed right for him. It's from a book," he added, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. "My favorite book."
"The Lord of the Rings . Yeah, I saw the movies." Elves and wizards didn't seem a likely choice for a man who got away with murder because the witnesses disappeared before his trial, but she didn't say that.
"I never got around to seeing the movies." Then he paused. "You don't like it." It was a statement. If he preferred to think her annoyance was about some book, that was probably best. "It's a classic," he explained.
"I know. But...."
"But what?"
She didn't want to talk to him, but letting him see what she thought of him could be dangerous. She had to get control of her emotions. Play it cool.
He sat down on the antique settee with a sigh of relief, and propped the sore leg up on the table. He ran one hand across the spine of her Shakespeare anthology. Had he strangled anyone with those hands, or did he just order his henchmen to do it for him?
She turned away so he wouldn't see the hatred—the fear—in her eyes. She picked up the dishcloth to dry the one unbroken soup bowl. If her hands didn't stop shaking this one would end up in pieces on the floor, too, and they'd be eating cereal out of tea cups.
"Why don't you like it?" he asked. This guy was persistent. Why couldn't he just go back to sleep until the storm ended?
"I don't know," she said. Answer him. Say something. "I guess because it's so sad."
"Sad?"
"Because the hero went off on a quest to save the world...."
"And he succeeded. The world was safe—"
"—but he never got to enjoy it," she said. "Everybody else got to live happily ever after, but the hero was too wounded to go back to his life, and the people there never realized what he'd sacrificed for them...." Why was she talking about this wi
th him? The Shadow was hardly the person to discuss heroism and self-sacrifice with. The dishcloth in her hand tore, and she quickly laid it on the counter so he wouldn't see.
He hadn't noticed the cloth. "You can't always have what you want. That's the way life is," he said quietly. "There aren't any happy endings." His voice grew even softer, almost a whisper. "For the hero, it was enough to know the rest of the world was safe, even if he could never go home again. He didn't do it for himself. He did it for the children who could live in peace after he was gone."
Something in his voice made her turn around and face him. He was staring at the spine of the book, but as if he was seeing something far away from this little room.
He leaned back against the ornate settee. He smiled, appearing to shake off his previous mood. "Man, this chair's rock hard. Apparently the Victorians didn't place much priority on comfort."
He looked around the sitting room. "Why on earth did they bring this fancy stuff way out here?"
He wasn't going to shut up, was he? They were stuck here, so she'd better talk to him, or he'd get suspicious. And the last thing she wanted was for him to stop trusting her.
"I've been reading up on the history of the lighthouse." She pointed to the parlor's ceiling, where a beam split the room in two. "See here? This section was part of the original lighthouse, built in 1880 or so. The second section, the part you're sitting in, was an addition Joseph and Charity Aiden made when he was lightkeeper in the 1920s to '30s."
She walked into the room, but made sure to keep a certain distance between them.
"They wanted a place for a piano in this corner, by the fireplace. The Aidens were newlyweds, you see. He wanted to give his wife all the comforts of home. Charity came from a wealthy family in Ireland, but when she fell in love with poor lighthouse keeper Joseph Aiden—"
"—Big mistake," he interrupted.
"What?"
"Classic story. She's from a wealthy family, and he's a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks."
"So?"
"Sounds like the makings of a tragedy to me."
What an odd thing for him to say. "Haven't you ever heard that opposites attract?"
"Only in books, Lori." He was watching her intently. "In reality being attracted to someone out of your league just messes up your life."
"What a romantic thought." What an insufferable man. She started to turn away from him. "If you don't want to hear the story, fine."
"So what happened to the Aidens?"
Reluctantly, she turned back around to face him. He was smiling sweetly at her. "Did they live happily ever after?" he asked.
He really was insufferable. "You already know, don't you?" she snapped.
He laughed. "I know a woman was murdered out here a long time ago. And from the way I've annoyed you I'm guessing it's Mrs. Charity Aiden, the idealistic upper-class girl who loved a man far below her station. So, come on, tell me how it all turned out." He smiled that dazzling smile at her. "Come on, Lori. We're stuck out here with nothing to do. Tell me the rest of the story."
Wow, he was good. He could probably make women do anything by looking at them like that.
She smiled her own fake sweet smile back at him. "All right. I'll tell you if you stop interrupting me. When Charity was pregnant with their first child, Joseph became ill with influenza."
Despite her unsavory audience, she found herself warming to her topic. She loved telling people about history. "Charity tried to care for her husband, but before help could get to the island, he died. So Charity became the lighthouse keeper in his place."
In her mind's eye she saw the lonely widow trapped out here, with the responsibility for her child, and for her husband's job, resting on her narrow shoulders. "It's said that she kept the place running all alone throughout her pregnancy," she continued quietly. "Through the storms that rocked the coast, she never once let the light or the foghorn fail. And after she gave birth to their daughter Rose, she walked the widow's walk every night, carrying the baby around the light tower while she kept her watch, with only her faithful collie for a companion." She stopped.
He was grinning at her.
"Now what's so funny?"
"Nothing. You tell the story well. You bring Charity Aiden right into this room."
"I just read it in a book."
"But you have a gift for telling the tale. You'd make a good teacher."
"No, I wouldn't," she said firmly.
"Why not?"
"I have epilepsy," she blurted out.
"Yeah. You said so. I guess I don't see the connection. Why couldn't you be a teacher?"
"I have seizures. I can lose consciousness without any warning, so I can't be responsible for a bunch of children." She sounded more bitter than she meant to. She had wanted to be a teacher. But of course helpless little Lori couldn't do that.
He really knew how to push all her buttons, didn't he?
"What causes it? I mean, if you don't mind talking about it."
"I've answered it so many times, I don't mind. Every once in a while, I have these extra electrical impulses in my brain, like a short circuit, sort of. It's just something I was born with. My mother has it, too. And my grandmother did before her."
"So it's a flaw in your wiring."
"Yeah, basically. And when the system overloads, I lose awareness for a second or a minute. It doesn't hurt or anything, but I have no control over when it happens." And that loss of control was the worst thing.
"Like a thunderstorm in your head."
"Yeah. That's one way to put it."
He looked genuinely concerned. "I'm sorry, Lori. I guess that must be rough. Isn't there anything doctors can do to help you?"
"I'm on medication that helps. But it doesn't completely control the seizures. I could have part of my brain cut out. That sounds pretty outrageous, but it's actually a good solution for a lot of people. But the location of the problem makes that too risky in my case."
"I can understand that. Your brain is—" he paused. "Extremely impressive."
That may have been one of the nicest compliments anyone ever paid her. It was unfortunate the compliment came from a murderer.
"But can't you just go lie down when you're going to have a seizure?" he asked.
"Gee, why didn't I think of that?"
He frowned. "Not a good idea, huh?"
"It's a great idea. But it only works if you have an aura—a signal that warns you you're about to have a seizure, like getting a headache, or feeling an odd sensation. I don't have any aura, usually. I can avoid things I know trigger seizures. Like flashing lights," she added, thinking of the lighthouse ghost. "I'm convinced there's a spot in Hades reserved for the inventor of the rotating mirrored disco ball—"
Matt chuckled.
"—and don't get me started on those horrid frantically flashing video games. But most of the time I don't know I had a seizure until I wake up."
If she had a seizure. Everything in her life was restricted by that one phrase. She never knew when they were coming, and she never knew she'd had one until she woke up with a whopping bruise on her head or a crowd of curious spectators gathered round her like she was a sideshow attraction.
"Well, it doesn't seem to have affected your life much."
She touched the finger of her left hand, no longer weighed down by Richard's ring.
"No. It hasn't affected me at all."
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to pry."
Of course he wasn't sorry. He was nosy, and obnoxious. He looked sorry, though. He looked, as always, sympathetic and gentle, and understanding. Like someone she could bare her soul to. What a sham.
There was an awkward silence, broken only by the patter of rain against the windows, and the snoring of Shadowfax from his spot curled up on the kitchen floor.
She watched the man surreptitiously as he sat there. Though he appeared pale, and a bit worse for wear from his ordeal, he still managed to project, as ever, the rakish pirate
quality that she'd noticed the first time she'd met him.
"So, um, what happened to Charity?" he finally asked. She supposed he thought he was steering their conversation toward more neutral territory, but Charity's fate was inextricably bound up with all those dashing pirates who, in her imagination, looked exactly like the man seated in front of her.
"Charity Aiden was killed by rum smugglers two months before Prohibition was repealed."
"Ouch. How's that for ironic?"
"The baby was adopted by some family," she added, wanting to get past the part with the pirates—and the murder. "She later grew up to marry their son. The book calls the family the leaders of Pajaro Bay society. And that's the end of the story. Is that tragic enough for you?"
Matt laughed. "That would be the Madrigals."
"What would?"
"The leaders of Pajaro Bay society. I played football in high school with Kyle Madrigal. His family founded Pajaro Bay, so Rose Aiden Madrigal would probably be Kyle's grandmother, or great-grandmother, or something like that."
"Wow, you've rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous," she joked. After the words came out they hung there in the room. He was the famous one. Famous for murder and mayhem.
He didn't seem to notice her gaffe. "My family doesn't rub shoulders with Madrigals," he corrected. "When the Madrigals were busy running Pajaro Bay, my family was gutting fish in Wharf Flats." He frowned, then added, "And never the twain shall meet."
Oh, please. Was that his explanation for turning to crime? Pleading poverty? Aunt Zee had said something about the infamous Matt DiPietro playing into all of Pajaro Bay society's stereotypes about low-class 'wharf rats from Wharf Flats.' But that was hardly an excuse for his crimes.
She turned away, disgusted, both at him for drawing her into conversation and at herself for momentarily forgetting who he was.
She stomped off to the kitchen to make herself breakfast. He could starve for all she cared.
Chapter Eight
Matt watched her as she poured herself a bowl of cereal. She was a bundle of prickly, poorly concealed anger. The easy rapport of last night was gone.
Lighthouse Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Mystery Book 3) Page 8