Dearly Beloved

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  And from here, she can see most of the magnificent houses that sit atop the crescent-shaped windswept shoreline. One of them, she’s certain, belongs to Ethan Thoreau. She’s half in love with him already.

  As she waits for the rain to let up, she dreams about tonight . . . about what it will be like with Ethan. And the goosebumps that cover her flesh have nothing to do with the chill wind or her drenched clothes.

  Sandy knows that she’ll make love with Ethan tonight. There’s no question of waiting, like she had with Frankie, and with Joe. There’s no need, this time.

  After all, with Frankie, her high school boyfriend, it was different because she was a virgin. They both were, actually, and though Frankie had pressured her for the first year they dated, she had suspected that he was secretly just as terrified as she was. And when they finally made love, rather than being a wonderful experience that was worth waiting for, Sandy couldn’t believe what a letdown it was.

  She’d continued to date Frankie anyway, until graduation, when he’d enlisted in the navy. He was married now and stationed in Washington State, the last she’d heard. His wife was someone he’d met in Florida during training. Theresa had met her when Frankie brought her home to Greenbury one Christmas. She had told Sandy that Mrs. Frankie, as they called her, was cute and petite even though she was seven months pregnant and that she had a thick southern drawl.

  When Sandy had told Theresa she was happy for Frankie, Theresa had just patted her arm, as if to say, Sure you are. Sandy knew Theresa was thinking that she was jealous of Mrs. Frankie. The truth was, Sandy had never wanted to marry him. She just missed sleeping with him . . . not because the sex was terrific, but because she missed having sex, period.

  She’d been celibate for two years after he left for the navy, until she’d started dating Joe. She still remembered how attracted she’d been to him, that first time she’d seen him at the Knights of Columbus Mardi Gras Night. He’d been wearing a v-necked sweater and tight jeans that emphasized his beefy build, and she’d thought the tattoo on his forearm was sexy.

  She’d poked Theresa and pointed him out. Theresa, of course, had zipped over to some guys she knew and found out that the stranger was Joe Marconi, a twenty-five-year-old beer-truck driver from Hartford, and that he was single.

  When Sandy met him a few minutes later, she’d seen that Joe wasn’t quite as perfect up close. He had a beer belly that wasn’t quite camouflaged by the dark sweater, and his teeth were stained yellow, probably from the cigarettes he chain-smoked. But still, there was something about him that drew Sandy; and when he’d asked her out, she’d eagerly said yes.

  And when, after their first date—dinner at Pizza Hut and a Jim Carrey movie that had Joe laughing uproariously, to Sandy’s embarrassment—he had taken her back to his apartment, she’d eagerly slept with him.

  If sex with Frankie had been disappointing, sex with Joe was even less satisfying. He was purely selfish in bed, and he insisted on the missionary position, lights out, every time. Sandy, who was ashamed of her lumpy body anyway, didn’t mind the dark, but she did mind the routine love-making and the fact that Joe never even bothered to kiss her anymore, or hold her afterward. It was a wonder that he’d been so traumatized when she’d broken the engagement—he’d never acted as though he were in love with her, especially when they had sex.

  I bet Ethan Thoreau is fantastic in bed, she thinks now, gazing up at the huge houses overlooking the beach. And as she stares dreamily into space, thinking about her date tonight, it gradually dawns on her that the rain has stopped. The sky still looks ominous, though, as if it could open up again any second.

  Sandy scrambles out from beneath the overhang and picks her way up the craggy slope from the beach to the winding road that follows the shore. The wind is in her face and she keeps her head bent as she heads back toward the inn.

  She doesn’t see the middle-aged woman who’s walking a black Lab along the side of the road until she nearly bumps into them.

  “Hi,” the woman, who’s wearing a yellow rain slicker and matching hat, greets Sandy with a smile as her dog lifts its leg and urinates on a bush.

  “Hi.” Sandy points to the dog. “He’s beautiful. What’s his name?”

  “He’s a she, actually. Lady.”

  “I used to have a yellow Lab.” Now that the dog is finished with her business, Sandy bends over to pat her sleek head. “Hello, there, Lady. Hi, girl. You’re just beautiful. Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”

  “You’re not from the island are you?” the woman asks, winding another length of leash around her hand.

  “No, I’m not. . . . How’d you guess?”

  “You don’t look the type. Most of the young people who come to Tide Island are hippie types. They call it Tie-Dye Land.”

  “I’ve heard that.” Sandy straightens and asks, “Do you live here year round?”

  The woman nods and points to a large house with weathered gray shingles that’s set back from the road. “My great-grandfather built that over a hundred years ago. I grew up here. Now my husband and I are about to move to Boca Raton, and my son and his wife are going to move out here. They’re both investment bankers in New York, and they’re taking an early retirement.”

  “That’s nice.” Sandy smiles politely. The woman seems to be the chatty type, so she adds cautiously, “Um, I was looking for a friend of mine who lives around here someplace. Maybe you know him . . .”

  “If he lives around here, I’m sure I do.”

  “His name is Thoreau . . . Ethan Thoreau?”

  At the woman’s blank look, Sandy says, “He’s a surgeon in Connecticut, so he wouldn’t be a year-round resident, but . . .”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” the woman informs her decisively. She glances down at her dog, who’s nosing along the weeds at the edge of the road. “You must have the name wrong.”

  “I don’t think so . . .”

  “Then he doesn’t live around here. Maybe on the other side of the island, where there are some newer, smaller houses. A lot of those are rentals, and—”

  “I doubt he’d live in a small rental,” Sandy cuts in. “He has a private plane and he’s very wealthy.” She wishes she could take the last few words back. They make her sound so . . . pathetic.

  The woman purses her lips and yanks the dog’s leash. “Come on, Lady, get out of there.” To Sandy, she says, “If your friend lives in this area, then I’m afraid I somehow haven’t met him.”

  “Maybe he’s new to the island.”

  “Most of these homes stay within families for generations, like mine. If one had been sold recently, I’d know about it.”

  Sandy shrugs and watches as the woman tugs Lady onto the concrete and starts back toward the huge gray house.

  “Thanks anyway,” Sandy calls, and the woman dismisses her with a brief wave.

  These island people sure are strange, Sandy decides.

  She glances back at the majestic row of waterfront homes, again wondering which one belongs to Ethan.

  Then, as she feels icy raindrops on her face, she turns and hurries in the opposite direction, toward the inn.

  Chapter 4

  Liza sweeps into the foyer of the inn on a gust of wind and rain and slams the door shut behind her with a curse.

  Thanks to this lousy weather, she’s drenched and chilled to the bone. She and Laura had waited as long as they could in the general store for the rain to let up, but finally, Liza’s patience wore thin and she decided to make a run for it.

  Laura had stayed back at the store, saying she wanted to browse around a bit.

  “In here?” Liza had asked incredulously, looking around at the meager inventory.

  “I need some art supplies, and there’s a whole section of them over there,” Laura had pointed out.

  “It figures. No stockings, but this place sells all the paintbrushes and canvases anyone could want.”

  “A lot of artists come to Tide Island,” Laura said quietly.


  “And you’re one of them, obviously.”

  “Not professional. I just like to paint.”

  “Well, knock yourself out,” Liza had said, heading for the door.

  Even as she’d walked out onto the stormy boardwalk, she’d regretted being so snippy with Laura. Why did she always find herself doing that . . . jeopardizing the few potential friendships that ever came along by displaying a generous dose of attitude problem?

  It wasn’t that she had disdain for Laura’s painting hobby, or even for the outdated excuse for a store. It was just that Liza couldn’t help herself sometimes. The hurt little girl she’d once been seemed to surface when she least expected it, lashing out at anyone who happened to be around.

  Like poor Laura Towne, who, to her credit, hadn’t seemed all that thrown by Liza’s bitchiness.

  I’ll make it up to her later, Liza thinks, squishing across the foyer floor in her ruined Italian leather boots.

  There’s no sign of Jasper Hammel.

  She reaches for the small silver bell on the counter and rings it impatiently. She wants to ask Hammel whether D.M. Yates has called for her again, but there’s no response to the bell.

  Frowning, Liza rings it again. When there’s still no response, she walks toward the back of the first floor, checking first the parlor, then the dining room and a small library off the hall. They’re all deserted and the whole house seems eerily silent except for the ticking grandfather clock in the hallway.

  Liza pokes her head into the kitchen. It’s a large room with an old-fashioned black cookstove and double white porcelain sink. Built-in glass-paned cupboards display several different sets of dishes and glassware. A cozy nook off to one side holds a small table covered in a blue-and-white-checked cloth and surrounded by four chairs.

  It occurs to Liza that this is the kind of kitchen that belongs in a quaint country farmhouse inhabited by a happy, messy family—not in this remote New England inn. It’s almost too perfect—every dish and glass in perfect order, the counter-tops and stove sparkling, the dishtowel hanging over the sink folded just so. It doesn’t look lived in—and neither does the rest of the inn.

  No, it’s hard to believe that, even in season, the Bramble Rose is ever overrun by tourists with the accompanying noise and disorder a houseful of people would bring.

  Liza’s brows knit thoughtfully as she steps back out of the kitchen and returns to the front of the house. There’s still no sign of Jasper Hammel. After a moment, she starts up the stairs.

  She pauses in front of the door to her room, struck by a sudden impulse to keep snooping around.

  What do you think you’re going to find? asks a little voice inside her head.

  Nothing in particular . . . I’m just curious.

  Well, maybe more than curious. Maybe a little suspicious, she admits to herself. There’s just something strange about this inn, something she can’t put her finger on.

  The other doors on the second floor are closed, with the exception of the one to the bathroom. Liza quickly and gingerly uses the ancient facilities, wrinkling her nose as she reaches out to pull the old-fashioned chain on the toilet. The pipes creak as she turns on the faucet in the sink, and she’s reminded of the uncomfortable shower she took in the battered clawfoot tub this morning. The water kept going cold and waning to a trickle, and she had shivered her way through, cursing D.M. Yates the whole time.

  Now she hurries out of the bathroom and hesitates in the hallway, staring at the steps leading to the third floor.

  There’s no reason why I shouldn’t just go up and have a look around, she tells herself. After all, what else is there to do?

  On the third floor, she finds herself in a long hallway identical to the one below. There are several closed doors in roughly the same locations as on the second floor.

  Liza tries the one that corresponds with the room she’s in, and is surprised to find that it swings open.

  The room is the identical shape and size as hers, with a similar fireplace and windows in the same spots. But the decor here is drastically different: the furniture is merely functional, the bedspread and tightly drawn curtains an austere white cotton. The floors are wooden and lack the high polish and pretty area rugs of the room below, and the walls are painted a pale yellow that, Liza concedes, might glow warmly on a sunny summer afternoon, but looks drab in the gray cast of winter.

  It’s clear that no one is occupying this room at the moment. The open closet door reveals empty hangers, and a musty smell permeates the air, as though it’s been a long time since the curtains were opened and the windows raised.

  Liza makes her way down the hall, peeking into the other rooms, and sees that they’re similarly devoid of embellishment and are obviously deserted. In the third-floor bathroom, the small sink is dry and the white towel on the rack is precisely folded in thirds and lacks even the slightest wrinkle or smudge.

  At the end of the hall, Liza reaches for the knob on the last door, assuming that it must lead to the top floor and cupola, which she’d noticed from outside the house.

  Funny . . . the door won’t budge.

  And it can’t be locked, because there’s no keyhole . . . Unless it’s bolted from the other side.

  And if that’s the case, Liza realizes, then someone must be up there, someone who has locked himself in.

  She leans forward and presses her ear against the cool wooden door. Sure enough, she hears the faint sound of classical music coming from above.

  Rattling the knob, Liza calls, “Jasper?”

  “What are you doing?”

  Gasping, she turns to see that the little man is standing behind her in the third-floor hallway.

  His voice is calm, but his eyes are narrowed and his mustache twitches nervously.

  “I . . . uh, I was just looking for you,” Liza tells him, stepping back from the door and dropping her hand to her side. “I thought you might be up there.”

  “I’m right here.”

  “Obviously.” Liza quickly regains her composure. “Who’s upstairs?”

  “Nobody. It’s used for storage.”

  “I heard music coming from there,” she informs him. “And the door’s locked from the other side.”

  Is it her imagination or does Jasper Hammel look panicky for a moment before a look of cool detachment settles over his features once again?

  “Nonsense,” he says, stepping closer to the door and cocking his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “But I just . . .” Liza presses up close to the door and frowns. Nothing but silence. “Well, I heard it,” she tells Jasper. “And the door’s locked.”

  “It can’t be. There’s no keyhole, as you can see.”

  “It’s locked from the other side.”

  “That’s impossible. But I can explain why you couldn’t open it. In damp weather, some of the doors in this place stick. Very common in old houses.”

  “But—”

  “Anyway, I’m glad I found you, Ms. Danning, although I’m afraid it’s too late. David Yates just stopped by the inn a few minutes ago, looking for you.”

  “He what?”

  “He was sorry he missed you.”

  “Why didn’t you—”

  “I went up to your room, hoping you’d returned from town, but there was no reply to my knock.”

  Flabbergasted, Liza simply stares at him.

  “I told him you’d gone into town,” Jasper Hammel continues, “and that I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.”

  “Where did he go?” Liza demands, hurrying toward the stairs. “I’ll catch up to him.”

  “I have no idea. He was quite perturbed at your absence and said he’s a busy man and doesn’t have time to waste. But he did say he’ll contact you later this afternoon.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Liza mutters, striding down the stairs to the second floor, Jasper Hammel dogging her heels like a nervous puppy. “At this rate, I’m never going to hook up with D.M. Yates. It’s like f
ate’s playing a cruel joke on me.”

  “Yes, it almost does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Jasper agrees as Liza heads off to her room in a huff.

  The man listening on the other side of the bolted attic door loosens his hold on the knife handle as he hears both sets of footsteps retreat.

  He’d grabbed the knife and crept down the attic stairs when he’d heard the doorknob rattling. When he’d recognized Liza Danning’s voice calling for Jasper, he’d formulated an instant plan.

  She’d been scheduled to die second, after Sandy Cavelli, but it had occurred to him that there was no reason he couldn’t switch the order on a whim. After all, he was the one in charge, here . . .

  This time.

  Yes, everything was up to him, and a feeling of power had surged through him as he clenched his sweaty fingers around the handle of the knife.

  He was just about to open the attic door and clamp his hand over Liza Danning’s startled mouth when he’d heard Jasper’s voice in the hallway.

  Oh, well.

  Liza’s turn would come soon enough anyway.

  Stealing back up the stairs, he sighs and decides to stick with the original plan.

  Sandy first.

  Liza second.

  Laura last.

  When he’d first come up with his plan, he’d considered luring them out here to the island one by one to prolong his pleasure. But then he’d thought better of it. Prolonging the pleasure would also prolong his chances of being caught.

  He’d decided he’d better take care of all of them in a single weekend.

  And what could be more fitting than the one before Valentine’s Day?

  Come Monday, it will all be over.

  Sandy, Liza, and Laura will have joined Lorraine in a place where no one will ever find them.

  And he’ll be on the way to a place where no one will ever find him. . . .