Dearly Beloved

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  The caller sighs. “Danny Cavelli. And my sister’s name is Sandy. She was staying at the Bramble Rose Inn.”

  There’s a coincidence, Sherm thinks, writing it down. That’s the second time in five minutes that someone’s mentioned the place.

  “And you don’t know where she is now?”

  “Missing!” Danny Cavelli practically shouts into the phone. “Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying? I can’t find my sister. Do you know what it’s like to have no idea where to find someone you care about?”

  Sherm’s eyes fall on the framed photograph of Carly that sits on his desk.

  You bet I do, he thinks grimly.

  Aloud, he says only, “Please go on with your story, Mr. Cavelli.”

  Stephen is methodically washing his hands with strong, anti-bacterial soap, watching Sandy’s blood mix with water in the kitchen drain, when a sudden, shrill, ringing sound shatters the silence.

  His eyebrows shoot up and he turns to look at the old-fashioned black telephone on the desk by the window. Only one person has the number here: Jasper. Well, that’s not entirely true. Father has it, of course—but considering where Andrew Gilbrooke is, he’s not likely to be making phone calls.

  Frowning, Stephen hurriedly turns off the faucet and dries his hands on a paper towel instead of the dish towel, just in case there are still telltale remnants of blood on his fingers. Then he picks up the phone.

  “Yes?” he asks cautiously.

  “Stephen, it’s me.”

  “Jasper, what the hell are you doing, calling me out here? I told you only in an emergency—”

  “I know, and I’m sorry—” Stephen curls his lip in distaste at the near sob in the fool’s voice. “—but this is an emergency.”

  “What do you mean?” Stephen’s stomach churns slightly, and he looks back in the direction of the drawing room, where Sandy Cavelli’s bloodied body lies in a heap on the floor.

  “She called her brother,” Jasper says in a near-whisper.

  “Who called her brother? What are you talking about?”

  “That Cavelli girl. She got to a phone and called her brother, Stephen, and now he’s worried about her.”

  Stephen frowns, thinking back to when he cornered Sandy in the upstairs study. Everything was a blur.... But she had been holding the telephone, he realizes now, his heart dropping with a sickening thud. At the time, he’d been too frenzied to realize that she might have actually made a call.

  “How do you know this?” he asks Jasper urgently.

  “Her brother called here looking for her a few minutes ago.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Just what I’ve been telling the other two guests . . . that she left the island on the late ferry.”

  “You idiot! There is no late ferry today.”

  “I know, Stephen, but I got so confused and I didn’t know what else to say . . .”

  “You were supposed to say that she checked out early and you saw her leaving with her date!” Stephen rakes his fingers through his hair, trying to think straight.

  “I know, I . . . I forgot. Please don’t be mad at me, Stephen. I’m sorry. I just got nervous, and—”

  “Shut up so I can figure this out!” he barks into the phone and is met by instant silence.

  After a moment, he asks, “Did you get rid of her stuff, like I told you?”

  “Yes, I buried it out in the dunes, just where you said,” Jasper replies quickly.

  “And what about the other two? Where are they?”

  “Upstairs. When I went out to get rid of Sandy’s bags, they were having dessert and tea in the parlor; and when I came back, they were already up in their rooms.”

  “Thanks to the sleeping pills you tucked into their dessert . . . right?”

  Is it his imagination or does Jasper hesitate slightly before answering, “Of course, Stephen.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Everything is under control. Don’t worry about anything.”

  “Then don’t give me any reason to.”

  Stephen hangs up and examines his short fingernails for traces of blood. Nothing. Good.

  Reaching into a kitchen drawer, he pulls out a pair of gardening gloves and slips them on. Then he returns to the drawing room and stands over Sandy’s body, clad in the red-stained white wedding gown.

  Just like Lorraine, he thinks, pleased, remembering that day in the suite at the Waldorf-Astoria.

  Getting rid of her had been surprisingly simple, though, thanks to that fancy brass-trimmed steamer trunk he’d bought her for their honeymoon.

  A smile curls his lips as he remembers how he’d tipped the eager-to-please bellhop fifty dollars to bring the pile of luggage to the lobby for him.

  At first, the guy had looked perplexed when Stephen had opened the door of the suite. “I was just up here a little while ago,” he’d said. “Miss LaCroix called the concierge and asked for someone to bring her bags down. But no one answered the door when I knocked.”

  Stephen had thought rapidly and pasted a sly smile on his face. “Oh, well, we, uh . . . you know, we’re about to be married and we, uh . . .”

  “Gotcha,” the bellhop had said with a wink. “Say no more, sir.”

  With that, he had carted the bags, including the trunk and its macabre cargo, down to the lobby. Stephen had met him there and stood by as the luggage was loaded into the trunk of a yellow cab. He’d instructed the driver to take him to the Connecticut estate that had been deserted ever since his father had been committed to a mental hospital a few years before.

  That night, by the light of a full February moon, Stephen had buried his unfortunate bride deep in the barren, sandy soil of what had once been his mother’s herb garden . . . a few feet from the decaying corpse that had once been his mother.

  Now, he sighs and eyes Sandy. Too bad he can’t just bury her on the cliff behind the house and have it over with. But what with the erosion that plagues the coast of the island, he can’t take any chances. Especially since this time, he’s going to have three bodies to worry about.

  No, he’ll have to go along with his original plan. That means stowing her body on board his yacht, which is moored in the water behind the house. Then, when he’s left Tide Island for good, he’ll simply toss Sandy Cavelli—and Liza Danning, and Laura Towne—overboard and let the shark-infested waters of the Atlantic destroy the evidence.

  A gust of wind slams into the house as Stephen bends over Sandy’s body, and he remembers the storm that’s raging outside. No, he can’t bring her out to the boat now. He’ll have to find someplace inside to keep her until the weather dies down.

  He’s dragging her across the floor when a sudden ringing sound makes him stop short.

  He mentally curses Jasper again.

  Then he realizes, with a chill, that it isn’t the phone after all.

  It’s the doorbell.

  Chapter 10

  Sherm Crandall waits until nearly midnight for Pat to return to the police station.

  Finally, yawning and closing the still-unfinished detective novel, he stands and goes over to look out the window. From here, across the wide main street, he can see the waves slamming fiercely into the deserted ferry dock. The storm is gaining momentum, and if he doesn’t start boarding up windows now, it might be too late.

  Reluctantly, he reaches for his coat on the hook behind his desk.

  He wonders idly whether Danny Cavelli’s sister Sandy is out somewhere in this weather, maybe lost or disoriented . . . or worse.

  But there’s not much he can do at this point. He’s already called the Bramble Rose and spoken to Jasper Hammel, the manager. The man confirmed what Cavelli said—that the sister had checked out earlier.

  “Do you know where she was going?” Sherm had asked, his pen poised over the pad on his desk.

  “She said she was leaving on the late ferry, but of course, there is no late ferry on Saturdays,” Hammel had told him. “I didn�
��t let on that I knew that, though, because I assumed there was a reason she was lying to me. I seem to remember that she had earlier said something about meeting a date here on the island . . . a blind date. Maybe—and this is indelicate, I know—but I got the impression that she didn’t want me to suspect she might plan on spending the, er, evening with the man.”

  “I see. Is there anything else you think might be helpful?”

  “No. There was no reason for me to think anything unusual was going on, so I didn’t pay much attention to Miss Cavelli while she was here. Do you . . . you don’t think something happened to her, do you?”

  “I hope not,” Sherm had said, thinking not just of her worried brother but of the negative publicity it would bring to Tide Island—and its police department.

  “It would be a shame . . . such a nice, cheerful girl. If I think of anything else, Lieutenant Crandall, should I call you?”

  “Please.”

  After Sherm hung up, he’d made a mental note to stop by the Bramble Rose as soon as he got a chance, to check it out. It was probably less expensive than the other island hotels that were open during the off-season. His sister Michelle and her husband had wanted to come out and visit him over Easter, and Sherm didn’t have room to put them up at his place.

  No, it’s not that you don’t have room. . . . It’s that you’ve let the place go to hell ever since Carly left. Cleaning, cooking, laundry . . . that was all her department. Now it’s barely fit for you, let alone company.

  With a sigh, Sherm glances again at the pad where he jotted down the notes about the Cavelli girl. Since she hasn’t been missing for twenty-four hours yet, his hands are tied— something her brother failed to understand.

  “But what about that phone call?” he kept asking Sherm, a note of desperation in his voice. “She sounded so scared . . .”

  “It could have been a joke,” Sherm had told him, hating himself for the cold efficiency in his own voice. But it was his job to handle this by the book. It wouldn’t be the first time that some young girl had taken off with a guy and made her family crazy with worry.

  “And even if it weren’t a joke,” he’d added, “I have no way of finding your sister without a trail to follow.”

  “Can’t you just go out and look for her?”

  “Where do you suggest I start?”

  “I don’t know. . . . Isn’t it a small island?”

  “Everything’s relative, Mr. Cavelli. We’re in the middle of a nasty storm out here; and anyway, I can’t just go driving around aimlessly, looking for your sister. At least, not at this stage.” With exaggerated patience, he repeated, “She’s not officially a missing person until she’s been gone—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Twenty-four hours.” Danny Cavelli’s voice had an edge, and he said curtly, “I’ll be in touch again before that, believe me.”

  And with that, he had hung up with a sharp click.

  Now, zipping his coat up to his throat and pulling the hood snugly over what’s left of his graying hair, Sherm puts Cavelli and his sister out of his head.

  As he heads for the door, his thoughts return to Pat. It isn’t like him to say he’ll do something and then not do it. But then again, the poor kid’s not even supposed to be on duty in the off-season, and here he is, going out of his way to make sure everyone on the island knows where to go if they need to evacuate.

  Pat lives in a small, weathered cape on the north coast of the island, not far from the old Gilbrooke place. Sherm decides that he probably headed home for a while to change out of his wet clothes or grab something to eat.

  After pulling on his thick, insulated gloves, Sherm starts to gather the hammer and other supplies he’d gotten ready earlier, then pauses.

  Something’s making him uneasy, and it isn’t just the fury of the storm, or the run-in with Cavelli.

  After a moment, he goes back to his desk and takes off his right glove. He checks the number in his Rolodex, then punches out the buttons on the phone and waits for Pat to pick up.

  After four rings, the answering machine clicks on.

  “Hey, you’ve reached Pat Gerkin. You know what to do. Later.”

  At the tone, Sherm says, “Pat, this is Sherm. . . . I waited for you at the station, but it’s almost midnight and I’m heading out now. I’ll be home if you need me, and I’ll call you if we have to start evacuating. If not, have a good night, and thanks for helping out.”

  He hangs up the phone, frowning.

  If Pat isn’t home, where is he?

  Don’t drive yourself crazy. . . . The kid has a lot of friends on the island. Probably stopped off for a beer or a hand of cards somewhere, Sherm tells himself, and pulls his glove on again.

  But as he heads out into the roaring wind to board up the station windows, he can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right on the island tonight.

  And after so many years of police work, Sherm’s instincts are usually on target.

  Danny Cavelli paces the bedroom, as he’s been doing ever since he hung up with the Tide Island police station over an hour ago.

  “If she would just call again,” he tells Cheryl, glancing at the silent phone on the nightstand. “I mean, I just want to know that she’s okay.”

  “I know you do. I still think you should call the local police. And your parents.”

  “Oh, jeez Cheryl, we’ve been through this. What are the Greenbury cops gonna do if the Tide Island police don’t even give a shit about Sandy and she disappeared out there? And I’m not dragging my parents into this unless I have to. Maybe nothing’s wrong . . .”

  “Maybe not.”

  Danny stops pacing and looks at his wife. “No. No, she’s in trouble. I know she’s in trouble. The way she sounded . . . she would never play a joke like that on me.”

  “I know.”

  “Some guy was doing something to her, dammit!”

  “Even if he were, Danny . . .” Cheryl gets off the bed and walks over to where he’s standing by the dresser. She puts a hand on his wrist. “Even if some guy date-raped her . . .”

  He winces at the words.

  “. . . if that’s what was going on—she’s going to be okay, Danny,” Cheryl finishes. “She’ll have a hard time getting over it, but she’ll be okay.”

  “And if that’s what happened, I’m going to kill the son of a bitch with my bare hands,” Danny says, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes. “I swear to God, Cheryl. I’ll find him and kill him.”

  “Okay, Danny, calm down. It’s not helping Sandy if you get carried away . . .”

  “And it’s not helping Sandy if I just hang around here waiting for something to happen, either,” Danny announces suddenly, slapping his palm on the dresser-top so hard that the framed wedding photograph of him and Cheryl topples onto the floor.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks, bending to retrieve it.

  “Go out to Tide Island.”

  “Danny, don’t be—”

  “Cheryl, I can’t just sit here. I’ve got to find my sister; and if the cops don’t want to help, that’s fine. I’ll do it on my own.”

  “No, you won’t,” she says quietly, and he spins angrily to face her. But as he opens his mouth to lash out, Cheryl adds, “You won’t do it on your own, because we’ll do it together.”

  His jaw closes; and wordlessly, he gathers her into his arms and gives her a grateful squeeze.

  In the attic of the Bramble Rose, Stephen carefully removes his blood-soaked tuxedo from the plastic bag he used to transport it back from the house by the water. He had so wanted to wear the same suit again for Liza, and for Laura, but he had forgotten about the blood.

  It splattered him from head to toe as he stabbed Sandy, something he hadn’t taken into consideration earlier.

  And that bothers him. He’d trusted himself to think of everything—how could he have overlooked such an important detail?

  It’s not a good sign.

  That—coupled with Jasp
er’s phone call about Sandy Cavelli’s brother, not to mention the unexpected visit from that redheaded kid—is making him nervous.

  Somehow, his careful plan suddenly seems in danger of derailing.

  No, it won’t, he tells himself as he feels along the sloping wall for the familiar loose board. Everything is fine. There’s no problem, not really. Just a few complications.

  He finds the loose board, pulls it away from the wall, and shoves the tux into the space behind it. He’ll deal with it later. Then he removes the wedding album he’d stashed there and replaces the board.

  Sitting in his rocker with the album on his lap, he closes his eyes momentarily and takes a deep, cleansing breath, then exhales.

  Better . . . much better.

  He begins to rock, gently so as not to creak the floorboards and wake anyone below . . . not that Liza and Laura are likely to stir, considering the strong doses of Seconal Jasper was supposed to give them in their dessert.

  Flipping the album open to Sandy’s page, he replaces the old name card with the new one . . . the one written in her blood. Squatting beside her body in the drawing room, he’d taken the time to painstakingly letter her name in calligraphy, dipping an old-fashioned pen again and again into the pool of red on the floor as he worked.

  Now he holds the wedding album away from his face a bit to admire his handiwork, then glances over at the camera he put on the table by the door. Such a pity he can’t go ahead and develop the photographs he’d taken of her as she lay dying at his feet.

  Now, thanks to an unexpected interruption, he might as well wait for the others. He’ll do them all at once, in the makeshift darkroom back at the waterfront house.

  Again, he thinks of how messy things got.

  Why did that damn kid have to come along and ruin everything?

  He hadn’t opened the door, not even when the kid rang the bell persistently and kept calling, “Anybody home?”

  Then, just when he’d thought the intruder had left, two things had happened simultaneously.

  He’d remembered that he’d left the car parked in front of the door and the porch light on so that Sandy wouldn’t get suspicious when he’d brought her here earlier. . . .