Jasper finds Liza sitting in the dining room, staring moodily into space. She looks up when he pokes his head in the doorway, and says, “Well?”
“There’s an eleven o’clock ferry,” he says smoothly, “and I’ve called to arrange for a car service to bring you to the dock.”
She frowns and sets her mug down on the table. “You did? Why?”
“Surely you don’t think I’m going to let you walk all the way to the ferry, with your luggage, in this weather.” He gestures toward the window behind her, where the snow is falling steadily.
“Well, I appreciate it,” she says after a pause, during which she had seemed to be trying to decide whether to accept his offer. She pushes back her chair and gets up. “I’ll go up and get my bags. When is this car service supposed to show?”
“In about twenty minutes,” Jasper tells her and moves over to the sideboard to flick a speck of dust from the gleaming wooden surface.
“Okay. I’ll be ready. You didn’t see Laura while you were upstairs, did you?”
She heard him go upstairs? He keeps his expression carefully neutral as he says, “No, I merely went up to find the schedule, which I correctly thought I had left in one of the guest rooms.”
“Mmm.” The blonde is staring at him with a calculating look, and Jasper nervously wonders what she’s thinking.
Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? In twenty minutes, she’ll be leaving the inn for good. And he’ll never have to worry about her again.
Two down, one to go, he thinks, humming softly to himself as he leaves the room.
“Come on, Keegan, pick up,” Laura says, listening to the phone ring for the tenth time.
“He’s not there?” Shawn, standing at her side, asks. “Doesn’t he have an answering machine?”
“No, and it used to drive Jen crazy when they were dating.”
Her sister was going to get him one for Christmas, Laura remembers, but then she had decided it was too impersonal. She’d bought him a pair of antique cufflinks instead . . . then dumped him a week later. Go figure.
“You might as well give up, Laura,” Shawn says, as she continues to let Keegan’s line ring.
“I guess you’re right.” She plunks the receiver into its cradle and looks at him. “Where do you think he went?”
Shawn shrugs. “He was pretty anxious to talk to you. Maybe he’s on his way over here.”
She contemplates that, then shakes her head. “He left the last message in the middle of the night. It’s—” She checks the stove clock. “—past ten-thirty now. He would have called back this morning before coming all the way over, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” Shawn shoves his hands into the front pockets of his faded jeans and leans against the counter. “Now what?”
“I have no—oh, yes, I do. I’m going to call the inn where my sister’s staying and make sure she’s all right.”
“Good idea.”
“But first,” she says, looking around with a puzzled expression, “I have to figure out where she is.”
“You don’t know?”
“I can’t remember. But I got a letter when the sweepstakes people told me that I’d won, and I’m pretty sure it mentioned the name of the inn.”
“Did you keep the letter?”
“I think so,” she tells Shawn, jerking open a drawer and starting to shuffle through the papers inside. “I’m just not sure where. But it shouldn’t take me long to find it . . .”
Liar, she scolds herself, closing the drawer and opening another one. It’s going to take forever. And Shawn—Mr. Right—is going to find out that you’re a pack rat and a slob.
The sign on the diner near the ferry parking lot at Crosswinds Bay says We Never Close.
“Isn’t that the truth,” Danny mutters as he and Cheryl follow Keegan McCullough inside.
After all, the weather can’t get much worse than it is on this dismal Sunday morning, but the place is lit up and there are even a few people inside.
They take one of the empty booths along the wall, and a waitress instantly appears to pour steaming coffee into the cups that are already on the table.
“You want menus?” she asks, tossing a handful of sugar and creamer packets onto the chipped formica surface.
“No thanks,” Cheryl says, and Danny and Keegan shake their heads.
As soon as the waitress leaves, Danny takes a sip of the hot coffee, not bothering to add anything, though he usually takes it light and sweet. Then he says, “Now what?”
For a moment, Keegan says nothing. He’s the quiet type, Danny has noticed in the brief times since they met. Hasn’t said much, except to tell him and Cheryl that he’s worried about his girlfriend, who’s out on the island.
When Cheryl had asked him why he was worried, he’d just said, “Because of the weather.”
Danny suspects it’s more than that, but he wasn’t about to push it. He had told Keegan, briefly, that his sister had gone out to the island to meet some blind date, then made the phone call that had alarmed him and Cheryl. The guy had asked a few questions, acting concerned, which Danny thought was pretty nice, considering that he seemed to have problems of his own.
Now, Keegan shrugs and tells Danny and Cheryl, “We obviously need a boat. I thought we might find some fisherman types in here.”
Danny glances at the counter where two men, one elderly, the other barely out of his teens, sit on adjoining stools, having a cheerful, loud argument about something.
“What about them?” Danny asks, pointing.
Keegan nods. “I’ll go talk to them.” He gets up and ambles over to the counter.
Cheryl looks at Danny. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he lies.
“You look beat.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly a pleasant drive down here,” he reminds her, and gulps more of the bitter, hot coffee. Then he turns to look at Keegan, who’s having a conversation with the two men.
From here, it’s impossible to hear what’s being said, but the fact that the men are shaking their heads doesn’t seem to be a good sign.
As Danny watches, Keegan reaches into his pocket and pulls something out, showing it to them.
Whatever it is seems to have a big impact, because now the men are nodding reluctantly and getting to their feet.
Cheryl and Danny exchange a puzzled look.
“What do you think he’s up to?” she asks.
“Beats the hell outa me.” Grimly, Danny swallows more coffee, burning his throat and not caring.
Keegan comes back over to the table and says, “We’re all set.”
“What do you mean?”
“The older guy’s retired, but the younger one’s still a lobster man. Has a boat. He doesn’t want to take it out on the water in this weather, but he’ll let us borrow it.”
“Yeah?” Danny raises his eyebrows. “How’d you talk him into that?”
“Showed him my badge.”
“You’re a cop?”
“Yeah.”
Relief courses over Danny. “Thank God. I know you need to find your girlfriend, but maybe you can help me with my sister . . .”
“I’ll try.” Keegan tosses a couple of dollar bills onto the table. “You guys ready?”
“You bet,” Danny says and takes Cheryl’s hand as they get to their feet.
“So you know how to drive the kind of boat this guy has, right?” she asks Keegan as the three of them approach the two men at the counter again.
From the look on his face, Danny knows what’s coming.
“Actually, I don’t,” Keegan tells her slowly. “I’ve never driven a boat in my life. How about you two?”
“I know how to row,” Danny says feebly as Cheryl turns white and shakes her head.
“What about the weather?” she asks, glancing toward the plate-glass window of the diner. Outside, the churning Atlantic is clearly visible several yards away, the same brackish color as the sky.
“Yo
u two can stay here if you want,” Keegan says, following her gaze. “But I have to go. I have to get to Jennie.”
“I’ll go,” Danny tells him resolutely, thinking of his sister, hearing her panicked voice again. He turns to his wife and squeezes her clammy fingers. “But, Cheryl, you stay here.”
“No way,” she says, shaking her head. “If you go, I go.”
Danny is about to protest, but knows, from the gleam in her blue eyes, that she’s not going to waver now that she’s made up her mind.
He turns to Keegan. “We’re with you. Let’s go.”
Chapter 12
Liza is standing in the foyer of the inn, looking out the window, when a big black car glides to a stop at the foot of the driveway.
“That must be the car service,” she says, turning to Jasper Hammel, who’s at the desk behind her.
He looks up from the paperwork he’s been doing and comes over to look through the window. “That’s it,” he says.
“Do I need a voucher or anything to give the driver?”
“A voucher? Oh, no. It’s all taken care of. The inn has a contract with the driver.”
“Okay.” She picks up her bag and reaches for the doorknob.
He gets to it first. “Allow me, Miss Danning.” He opens the door with a sweeping gesture. “It’s been a pleasure having you as our guest. Please come back to stay with us again.”
Not on your life, she thinks, but merely nods as she steps out into the icy wind.
Then, remembering something, she turns and looks back at him. “Do me a favor. . . . Tell Laura Towne to look me up if she’s ever in New York.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out one of her business cards.
Jasper Hammel takes it and smiles. “I certainly will.”
Liza hurries through the wet snow toward the car, thinking, Good riddance, you little creep.
The driver steps out and opens the trunk so that she can put her bag in, holding an umbrella over her head. He’s a tall man; and though Liza keeps her head bent against the stinging snow, she notices, in surprise, that he’s wearing a long dark coat and a cap with a visor.
Who would expect a formal car service on such a podunk island? This is more like it, Liza thinks to herself.
Pleased, she smiles and thanks him as he holds the back door open so that she can get into the car.
He nods, and she sees that he’s wearing tinted aviator glasses—the kind that went out of style years ago.
Oh, well, she thinks, I guess upscale service and high fashion would be too much to ask out here. And it could be worse. He could be wearing a leisure suit or something . . .
Amused with her thoughts, she settles back against the upholstery—real leather, at least, she notes, running her fingers over the seat.
The driver gets behind the wheel again and shifts the car into Drive. Its engine purring, the car pulls away from the shoulder of the road.
Liza is so busy thinking about how thrilled she is to be leaving that, for a few seconds, she isn’t paying attention to where they’re going.
Then, with a start, she glances out the window and says, “I’m supposed to be taken to the ferry dock.”
The driver merely nods.
Uneasy, Liza looks out the window again, then back over her shoulder at the winding road.
“Isn’t the dock back that way?” she asks.
The driver doesn’t reply, just keeps looking straight ahead through the windshield, his black-gloved hands expertly maneuvering the steering wheel as the car speeds along the winding seaside road.
Liza frowns and tries to ignore the edge of panic that’s working its way through her. “Excuse me,” she says frostily, trying to keep the shakiness out of her voice. “I asked you a question. Isn’t the ferry dock back in town?”
He nods.
“And aren’t we heading away from town?” Her voice sounds shrill to her own ears as she stares out the window at the remote landscape, then looks at him again.
His only response is to step on the gas so that the car picks up speed, barreling in the wrong direction.
She sees him watching her in the rear-view mirror; and though she can’t see his eyes behind the tinted lenses, there’s no mistaking the cunning smile that plays over his lips.
Liza looks wildly about, terrified. For a moment, all she can do is wonder who this man is, why he’s doing this to her—and what he’s doing to her. Abducting her? For what? Money? Revenge?
Revenge.
Her mind fills with rapid-fire images of her past, of the things she’s done, the men she’s used. . . .
Somewhere along the way, she realizes, she crossed the wrong person.
Now someone wants to make her pay for her sins.
She can’t bear to consider what he has in mind, and she has no intention of finding out.
So she does the only thing she can think of to do.
Her heart beating a frenzied staccato, Liza waits until he slows the car slightly to go around the curb.
Then, in one swift motion, she reaches for the door handle, opens it, and—silently offering the first prayer she’s said in years—hurls herself out of the moving car.
Jennie finds Jasper Hammel in the foyer, behind the desk, when she comes in.
He glances up and says pleasantly, “Good morning, Laura.”
Then a tiny frown darts over his face as he catches sight of the traveling bag over her shoulder.
“I, uh, was planning to take the ferry home this morning,” she says, because she feels that she should.
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows and seems to be waiting for more of an explanation.
“I wasn’t feeling well, so I thought . . .” She shrugs.
“But you changed your mind?”
She wants to say yes, but decides against lying. “No. Actually, the ferry was canceled.”
“I see. Because of the storm, no doubt.”
She nods and starts for the stairs, then remembers something. “Is Liza around?” she asks Jasper over her shoulder.
“Liza?” He looks blankly at her.
“The other guest? Liza Danning?”
“Oh, of course,” he says, nodding. “She . . . I haven’t seen her yet today, no.”
“I saw a car pulling away from the inn as I was coming around the curve in the road and I thought maybe she was leaving for that meeting she was planning to have with that author.” Jennie watches him carefully.
But he only says, “I don’t think she left. I’ve been right here for the last half hour.”
Jennie nods. She wants to ask him who was in the car, but decides it’s really none of her business. Instead she nods toward the stairs and comments, “I guess Liza must still be in her room.”
He looks as though he’s about to say something, then apparently changes his mind. “She must be,” he agrees.
Jennie heads up to the second floor with her bag, conscious of Jasper Hammel watching her until she rounds the landing.
He’s definitely an odd man.
But is he dangerous? she wonders, going toward her room. Is all of this my imagination or am I really in trouble here?
Not wanting to dwell on her fear again, she unlocks her door, deposits her bag on the floor just inside, and then goes back down the hall to Liza’s room.
The door is closed, and there’s no answer to her knock.
Puzzled, Jennie calls, “Liza?” and jiggles the knob.
No reply.
Maybe she’s still sleeping, she thinks. Or she might be listening to a walkman or something and can’t hear me.
But as she stands there in the hallway, staring at the closed door, Jennie senses that there’s no one behind it.
If Liza really is gone, she thinks, suddenly feeling a case of the jitters descend over her again, then where can she be?
Even if Liza had decided to take the ferry, not realizing it was canceled, Jennie would have seen her down at the dock or on the road between here and there.
Maybe s
he did leave to have her meeting with that author, Jennie thinks hopefully before she remembers what Pat Gerkin told them about D.M. Yates last night.
I guarantee you that he doesn’t live here.
But the fact that the man doesn’t live on the island doesn’t mean he wouldn’t come out here to meet with Liza. On the other hand, why would he? And Liza herself had seemed to have doubts about it.
Her mind jumbled with disconcerting thoughts, Jennie turns away from Liza’s locked door and slowly makes her way back to her room.
Sherm drives slowly up the narrow lane leading to the old Gilbrooke place at the northern tip of the crescent-shaped stretch of coast. There’s been no sign of Pat’s Chevy so far, but maybe he got stuck at the house itself.
In winter, when the trees are bare, the Victorian mansion is visible from the road that winds by it and then away from the coast. In summer, when the Gilbrookes used to use the place, it’s shrouded from view by dense trees and shrubbery that border the edge of the property. The Gilbrookes liked it that way, Sherm recalls. They were an odd bunch, even before Aurelia came along.
Andrew’s father, Andrew Senior, had made a fortune in his Manhattan-based import-export business in the early part of the century. He and his wife, Helena, used to throw lavish parties on the island when they spent summers here.
Of course, back then, Tide Island had been a fashionable resort for the social elite of Boston and New York. It was even dubbed “Little Newport” in the roaring twenties, when the enormous homes on the northern coast of the island were filled with wealthy urbanites every June, July, and August.
But then, with the depression years and then the war, the summer crowd had gradually dwindled. Many of the rich had sold their lavish oceanfront homes.
The Gilbrookes never did, though. In fact, they seemed to like the island better when it became less populated. They had always been big on privacy, keeping themselves carefully apart from the rest of the island’s inhabitants.
Andrew Senior and Helena had spent their summers here well into the fifties, usually with their son Andrew, who had been Sherm’s playmate when they were both children. His parents probably hadn’t been crazy about their son’s mingling with the locals; but then, they might have been grateful he had any friends at all.
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