The wind had picked up slightly. The outer bands of the storm would bring intermittent torrential downpours. I could check on the hurricane’s path on the radio once I’d checked out my father’s office. How strange that I haven’t gone into my father’s studio in years, yet for the second time in less than a week, I’m back. I hadn’t really even thought of my father for a long time. He’d died when I was sixteen and had been distant and uninvolved with my life, much like my mother—not surprisingly, as I’d spent much of my school years at an exclusive, and terribly expensive, boarding school in Massachusetts.
Before I reached the studio, Nana barked someplace up ahead. I hurried toward the sound. I found the frantic dog locked inside the pool area behind the six-foot wrought-iron fence. He greeted my appearance with more barking and leaping at the fence.
“Poor Nana. Did you accidentally get locked—”
Someone had wrapped a chain around the gate and fastened it shut with a lock.
I’d never find the key.
A blast of wind reminded me of the hurricane’s ticking clock. I raced to the studio and quickly entered. Hoping the generator, working on a timer, was still operating, I flipped on the fluorescent lights. The room lit up with a jaundiced light. I swiftly scanned around for a pair of bolt cutters. The hydraulic table had been moved from the center of the room and was now next to the door. The studio space was filled with the golf carts and lawn furniture.
I threaded through the jumble of furniture to the far side, where the few tools were kept. No bolt cutters. Sledgehammer? Could I bash a hole in the wrought-iron fence? Hammer and chisel? Iron rods? A six-foot ladder . . .
I grabbed the ladder, fought my way past the carts and furniture, then charged through the murky drizzle to the pool fence. The top of each picket extended above the top rail. Grunting with the effort, I lofted the bottom of the ladder over the fence, lowered it until it touched the ground, then wedged the top over two pickets. Nana would have to climb up the rungs, then jump down from the top. Not hard for a border collie, but could I get an untrained Newfie to do it? He was iffy with “sit.”
“Come on, Nana. Here, boy. I’ve got a cookie—”
Nana launched himself up the rungs and leaped from the top as if he’d always been a champion at agility. Once on the ground beside me, he opened his mouth wide, scooped up my arm, and gave me an enthusiastic sliming before tearing up the steps to the house for his cookie. I followed him.
An aluminum roll-down shutter protected the door leading from the deck to the house. I raised it with a switch. The door was locked.
“You have got to be kidding me!” Who would lock a door on an island with a hurricane coming?
Who would be stupid enough to go to a barrier island with a hurricane coming?
I didn’t have any keys for this door or any door in the house. I’d never needed any. Someone was always here.
Nana pawed at the door.
“I know I promised you a cookie, but you’ll have to wait.”
The dog perked up his ears at the word cookie, then looked expectantly between me and the door. I didn’t bother to elaborate. I’d exhausted his vocabulary.
Rain began to come down harder. I didn’t have enough time to find a way into the house, search Father’s office, then get both Nana and me off the island before it was too late.
Nana dashed down the path toward the ocean.
After lowering the shutter, I started for the studio. Before I got there, Nana had returned with a gift for me. It appeared to be a piece of driftwood. As the dog grew closer, the treasure in his mouth took shape. Fingers. A watch. An arm.
Adrenaline flooded my system. I opened my mouth to shriek, then clapped my hand over it.
Nana drew closer. I recognized the watch—a Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso. Mother had given Joyce the watch a few years ago for Christmas. “No! Nana, no! Drop it!”
Nana clearly didn’t want to drop his gift. He sat and stared at me.
I tried not to vomit. “Nana, drop it. Now. Pretty please?”
The softer voice worked. The dog placed the arm on the wooden path.
I couldn’t leave the only evidence of Joyce’s fate to get washed away. Stomach churning, I called him over, then walked to the studio.
The room was quiet compared to the storm outside, with only the buzzing of the overhead lights and Nana’s panting. After a few moments I found what I was looking for—a shovel.
Where was I going to put it?
The only place I could think of was on top of the workbench. I’d need to be sure Nana didn’t have access to this area.
Carrying the shovel, I reluctantly trekked to the arm. The closer I got, the more the stench grew. I picked it up with the shovel, then vomited. No one should be found like this.
I brought the remains into the studio, making a point of not looking at it, and placed it on the highest shelf.
The stench filled the room.
After opening the nearest window, I raced outside and pulled off the shutter. Flying debris would probably break the glass, but at least I could enter the studio.
Poor Hannah. I didn’t want to be the one to tell her Joyce wouldn’t be returning.
After crossing to the office door, I wasn’t surprised to find it locked. I put on a work glove, picked up a hammer, and positioned myself in front of the glass window in the door. I turned my head and swung the hammer. Crash.
I jerked my hand back. The shattering of glass was shockingly loud.
Nana had calmly watched everything I’d done so far, but the crashing glass had him pawing at the door. Angling across the room, I let him out into the storm.
I had no idea what Father’s office looked like, nor if there was anything I could use there to get into the main house. I’d never been inside.
* * *
Tucker had no intention of falling asleep, but he must have drifted off. He woke to a blast of rain against the window. His watch told him it was early. He should have time for coffee. While waiting for the coffee to brew, he turned on the television. The news was all about Hurricane Marco with information on voluntary evacuations, evacuation routes, emergency numbers and locations, and other equally frightening information. The station went to commercial break. He filled his coffee cup and was about to turn off the television when his own photograph appeared.
“Early this morning,” the newscaster said, “Mount Pleasant police discovered the body of a woman in an unoccupied condominium. An anonymous caller reported the body, though the address originally given was incorrect. Officials said the body hadn’t been dead more than a day, though cause of death was pending autopsy. The woman’s identity has been withheld until family has been notified. This man”—the newscaster paused for effect—“has been identified as a person of interest. His name is Tucker Landry. If you have any information on Landry’s whereabouts, please call the number on your screen.”
He staggered against the counter. If the police found and arrested him now, Piper and her family could provide him with an alibi, but it would take some time for all that to come together. In the meantime, no one could provide Piper with a warning should any member of her family decide to return to the island.
In any case, he couldn’t flee now even if he wanted to. Returning to the attic, he resumed his lookout.
* * *
I turned on the light to my father’s office and came to an abrupt halt. Of all the things I’d expected to find, this wasn’t even on my radar. The room was empty—not just free of furniture, but someone had ripped into the walls and suspended ceiling. The panels and wallboard had been removed. Rusted nails protruded from the studs, and the framework of the ceiling was exposed. A thin layer of dust lay on the floor.
Whatever might have been hidden here was long since removed, including an extension on the satellite phone. Tucker could have called me and I wouldn’t have heard it. I’d need to call him as soon as I got into the house.
In the corner of the room was a narrow d
oor that could lead to a bathroom. I crossed the room, leaving footprints in the dirt, and opened the door. Beyond lay steps going upward. Dusty cobwebs draped the walls and ceiling. Whatever light originally illuminated the stairwell had long since burned out.
A tremor went through me. The space was narrow, tight, dark, confined.
But I believed it would lead to Mildred and Joel’s apartment. From there I could get into the house—and to the phone.
I closed my eyes and put my foot on the first step. “Abbott and Costello. ‘Yes, now, on the St. Louis team, we have Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know’s on third . . . That’s what I want to find out. I want you to tell me the names of the fellas on the St. Louis team.’” The next step. “‘I’m telling ya. Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know’s on third.’” Third step. “‘You don’t know the fella’s name? Yes. Well then, who’s playing first?’” A gauzy piece of cobweb draped across my face. I snatched it off, then climbed more steps. “‘Yes. I mean, the fella’s name on first base.’” My voice shook. “‘Who. The fella playing first base for St. Louis?’” How much farther? “‘Who. The guy on first base. Who is on first!’” Four more steps. “‘Well, what are ya asking me for? I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Who is on first.’” My outstretched hand touched a door. I frantically groped for the knob. Please don’t let it be locked! The knob turned.
Resistance, something on the other side. Opening my eyes, I pushed harder. A stack of plastic boxes had been shoved against the door. I pushed them aside and leaped into the apartment. “Thank you, thankyouthankyou!” I shut the door with far more force than necessary. “The Naughty Nineties, 1945,” I announced to the empty apartment.
I felt like a sleazy burglar invading Mildred and Joel’s home. The stair door opened to a laundry area with a stacked washer and dryer. The kitchen and living area were open to each other and separated by a granite-topped island. The gas fireplace had framed images across the mantel—recent photos of Mother, Tern, me, and several older photographs. I didn’t want to snoop, but I moved closer. In the dim light coming through the shutters, I could make out a very young Mother and Mildred on the beach in front of the house. It had to have been taken when the island was just purchased and before the house was built. They’d just staked out a sea turtle nest site.
The second photo was of my father and Joel, both in uniform. I’d forgotten that the two men served together and that my parents had introduced Joel and Mildred. The third photograph was of my grandparents, Mother’s parents, seated on wicker chairs on a well-tended lawn, with a nurse holding baby Caroline, who was wearing the family christening gown—the same one I’d used for Dove. Someone had incorrectly hand-dated it 1955, probably assuming the frown on Grandma’s face reflected the time they’d gone broke.
I’d already gone this far. I couldn’t exclude anyone in my investigation. I swiftly checked closets, drawers, cabinets, under the bed. After knocking on walls, looking for extra breaker panels, and stomping on the floors, I was ready to move on. If Mildred and Joel were killers, they kept no souvenirs. I checked my watch. Too much time had elapsed. When I left the apartment and entered the enclosed walkway between buildings, the banging of the rain told me the hurricane wasn’t veering from its path.
* * *
Tucker had just settled in when he spotted the Taire. It docked and Joel hopped off, then helped Caroline and Mildred to disembark. Tern followed, then Ashlee, and finally Silva. The men grabbed luggage and followed the two women toward the house, then passed from view. From this angle, he wouldn’t be able to see who got into the cars and left.
He raced down the stairs as fast as he could manage with his crutches, then sped into the kitchen. He was in time to hear car doors slam and see one car leave. He couldn’t tell who was in it.
The coffee felt like acid in his stomach. Fat lot of good I’m doing Piper!
Banging from the living room told him they were lowering the hurricane shutters. So probably Mildred and Caroline had left in the car with Joel.
In the distance, an engine turned over.
Oh no! He returned to the attic as fast as he could manage. The Taire was gone and he didn’t know which way it had turned.
Chapter 24
The elevated walkway from the apartment opened to the north wing. I ran to the kitchen, then slammed to a stop. Both the handset to the satellite phone and the two-way radio microphone were missing. If anyone was still on the island, Tucker wouldn’t be able to notify me. And I couldn’t call him to check.
A swift look in Mother’s and Tern’s rooms yielded no proof that either knew of Dove’s survival—or had helped to conceal her from me.
Heading to Raven’s old room, a thought struck me. What about the DVD?
The memory jerked me to a stop. “Which DVD?”
You know. With Raven.
The clarity of the thought made me gasp. I raced to my bedroom, pulled out the movie Signs, and retrieved the hidden DVD.
Watch it now.
Was this what Mandy called hearing the Holy Spirit? Or did my own imagination combined with all I’d learned about my family contribute to this urging?
The generator would stop at any time. The television wasn’t even hooked up to it, but my computer had a DVD player and battery. I paced while the laptop booted up, then fast-forwarded the recording to the end. What was I supposed to see? Raven and I again played in the surf with Nana. Again the camera followed Raven. We waved at the camera and a hand waved back. I stopped the video and studied the hand. The glint of a ring showed between two fingers. I knew the ring, and the hand. Ashlee had been filming us that day.
I shoved down ugly thoughts as I ran to Raven’s room. Ashlee couldn’t stop filming Raven that summer. Stop thinking about it. He claimed he was always busy, that work was keeping him late. No more! I reached her room and shoved open the door. It hit the wall and bounced off.
Clearly Ashlee had left in a hurry. His bed was rumpled where he’d probably packed his suitcase.
The overhead light flickered, then went out. The generator had gone off. It was housed outside under the house. I’d planned on leaving through the back door, which I could open from the inside. But without thinking I’d lowered the electrical shutter. I’d have to get out the same way I got in—through the apartment. Down the tiny, narrow stairs.
* * *
Metal roll-down doors came down over Tucker’s view from the attic. The banging ceased and the house was dim from the lowered shutters and rain. He crossed the attic and made it down the stairs. As he made his way through the living room, the tiny red, green, and blue lights that indicated the DVD player, television, and speakers were powered went dark. They’d turned off the electricity. He picked up the phone and dialed the island number. Nothing. He hung up and tried again. Then again. The only sound was the harsh hissing of static.
His heart jerked. How could he get word to Piper that someone could be heading to the island?
* * *
I switched on the flashlight and found my way to the robin print hanging on the wall. Lifting it off, I found the recessed safe with a combination lock.
The air left my lungs like a deflated balloon. I’d thought the key blank would somehow work. I had no idea what the combination was. Whatever Raven had meant for me to find, she’d put it out of reach.
Wait! Raven did like to do sleight-of-hand tricks. Misdirection. So if it wasn’t the safe . . . I picked up the print and examined it carefully. The print itself was a classic Audubon work, framed, with a small sleeve in the back for the certificate of authenticity. Nothing was in the sleeve.
What was Raven’s message? The key ring pointed to the print. Behind the print was a safe. The key on the ring wouldn’t open a combination safe. Maybe the message had been in the sleeve and someone had found it?
I ripped open the glued edges of the sleeve. In the bottom corner was a torn piece of parchment, as if it got caught when someone quickly pulled out
the paper. It had an inked impression along one edge.
No time to figure out what it was. I had to leave. Quickly.
I raced to the top of the stairs before pausing. I didn’t have time to close my eyes and grope my way down. I’d just have to run. Turning on the flashlight, I yelled, “Bogart and Bergman! ‘But what about us? We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have . . . we . . . we lost it until you came to Casablaaaaaanca!’” I tore down the stairs. “‘Where I’m gooooing, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any paaaart of.’”
I reached the studio somehow and gasped out, “Casablanca, 1942.” The sound of the wind was constant and loud. Stopping at the cart nearest the sliding garage door, I checked for a key to the ignition. Gone. None of the carts had a key.
Nana had waited for me in the relative safety of the space under the house. He bounded out. I gave him a hug, then the two of us aimed for Joyce’s place. Half running, half walking, we plowed through the wind and rain. My raincoat had soaked through, and my shoes squished with each step. Downed palmetto fronds and branches littered the path.
We circled Joyce’s house to get down to the landing and my boat.
The boat was lying on its side, smashing against the dock with every wave.
My stomach clenched and a bolt of adrenaline shot through me. I was stuck on the island.
Wait. Joyce’s satellite phone. I hadn’t paid any attention when searching the house earlier. I entered the house, wincing at the mess I’d made. The phone was missing. Only a cut wire showed where it had rested.
Nana had followed me into the house and moved toward the hidden cookies. Suddenly he stopped, raised his head with ears alert, then spun and darted to the door.
“Nana, no! Come back here!”
The big dog pushed through the door and disappeared.
Rats! Why hadn’t I put him on a leash? If I had to find the dog and drag him back here . . . I didn’t even want to think about it. There was no way I’d leave him loose in this storm.
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