Dearly Beloved

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  She has no proof of anything. She’s not even sure what’s going on here. If she goes running to a total stranger and starts raving about something strange happening at the inn and there turns out to be nothing wrong, it’ll mean she really is crazy.

  She’ll have to start seeing Dr. Bonner again, with his unforgiving dark gaze, and he’ll make her talk about Harry and relive the terror of what happened to him again and again and again . . .

  And she can’t do that.

  You’re not crazy, she tells herself fiercely. You didn’t hear anything downstairs. And nothing strange is happening here.

  But then where are Sandy and Liza?

  And what was Laura trying to tell you when she called?

  And what about Harry, in the dream?

  Stop it! Everything is fine. It’s just your imagination again, and you have to stop letting it take over. You have to prove you’re not crazy!

  You’re not crazy!

  Shaken, Jennie slowly removes her hand from the doorknob and returns to her bed.

  She curls up into a ball on her side, hugging her knees against her chest. She closes her eyes tightly and rocks back and forth, trying desperately to shut out the memories that are trying to force their way into her consciousness.

  “There it is!” Danny shouts, pointing off to the port side of the boat.

  “What?” Keegan shouts back over the roaring wind and water, his hands wrestling with the wheel.

  “I just saw a speck of land over there. . . . It has to be the island!” Clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, Danny squints against the driving mist of seawater and snow, trying to find it again.

  But the boat is rocking violently on the enormous waves; and every time he thinks he might just be able to see it, they tilt crazily away in the opposite direction.

  He glances back to make sure Cheryl’s okay. She’s still sitting on the bench behind him, clinging to the rail and looking frightfully pale with fear and nausea. She’s already thrown up twice, miserably choking and gagging as Danny held her head and tried to keep her steady despite the wildly pitching boat.

  “We’re almost there, babe,” he calls to her now, and she looks up and offers a weak, trembling smile.

  At least, I hope we’re almost there, Danny thinks, grabbing the rail and pulling himself cautiously forward along the deck until he reaches Keegan’s side.

  “What do you think?” the man asks, turning to Danny. He, like Danny and Cheryl, is drenched and shivering violently.

  “I saw it. . . . I’m almost positive. Out there.” He points to the left.

  “That’s where it should be,” Keegan hollers back. “And I’m trying to steer toward it, but it’s impossible to fight this wind. We might be way off course.”

  Danny’s stomach turns over. “You mean we could be lost on the open sea?”

  “What?” Keegan yells, shaking his head to indicate that he can’t hear.

  Danny doesn’t repeat it. He doesn’t want to risk letting Cheryl hear that. She’ll be terrified.

  Grimly, he wipes at his eyes, which are stinging from the salt spray and grainy snow, and peels them on the distant horizon again.

  Nothing.

  Oh, Jesus . . . we’re going to die trying to reach you, Sandy.

  The thought of his sister in trouble eats away at him, and he tries to put it out of his mind. Tries not to think of how upset and scared she had sounded when she called him.

  Tries not to wonder where she is now . . .

  Whether she’s all right.

  The deck lurches suddenly as they ride over an enormous breaker, and Danny grips the rail with all his might.

  He turns again to make sure Cheryl is all right, and for a moment, panic seizes him when he can’t find her.

  But no, there she is, crumpled on the floor of the boat as a gush of water pours over the tilting rail directly onto her face.

  Danny bellows, “Babe, are you all right?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Babe?”

  “Is she all right?” Keegan shouts.

  “I don’t know . . .” Petrified, Danny makes his way along the rail and crouches at Cheryl’s side.

  She opens her eyes, looking dazed, as soon as he cups her face in his icy hands.

  “Cheryl?”

  “That wave knocked me off the bench. . . . I guess I hit my head and passed out for a second . . .” She draws her brows together in a confused furrow.

  Danny pulls her into his arms, cradling her. “This is insane. . . . We’ve got to go back. . . . I can’t put you through this . . .”

  He turns toward Keegan and raises his voice. “Hey, McCullough! McCullough, we’ve got to go back!”

  “There it is!” Keegan hollers simultaneously, pointing off to the horizon on the port side. “I see the island! It’s right there! We made it!”

  Jasper can’t seem to stop shaking.

  What have you done? he asks himself over and over as he stares at the unconscious Sherm Crandall, whom he’s managed to drag into the small storage room off the kitchen.

  You need to kill him, Jasper thinks, before he comes to.

  He fingers the meat cleaver he’d taken from a drawer in the kitchen and imagines plunging it into the man’s soft belly.

  What would it feel like? Would there be sinewy resistance or would the tip of the blade sink into flesh like a sharpened stick into a marshmallow? Would blood spurt out or would it ooze slowly from the wound?

  Jasper doesn’t want to know.

  It was difficult enough to hit the police officer over the head with the lead-crystal vase. He’d done it impulsively when the man turned his back, realizing he’d heard Laura Towne’s footsteps. In another few moments, Jasper had thought desperately, Crandall would be questioning her. She would tell him about Liza, and he’d find out that Jasper had lied.

  And he’d done such a clumsy job of it, too, he thinks, wincing at the memory of his lame cover-up.

  Stephen would be furious if he knew.

  But you couldn’t help it! The damn cop caught you off guard! He made you flustered, made you so nervous you couldn’t think straight!

  Jasper shakes his head, thinking none of that would make a difference to Stephen. He never gets nervous under pressure. Even when he’d snapped and bludgeoned his own mother to death, he hadn’t seemed all that flustered.

  Jasper still recalls the matter-of-fact way in which Stephen had revealed what he’d done—“I killed Mother.”

  As if he were informing Jasper of something as mundane as “I had tuna for lunch.”

  Back then, and again with Lorraine, Jasper had come through for Stephen, helping him to hide the evidence of his gory crime.

  He’s counting on you again, Jasper reminds himself. And you’ve let him down.

  No, you haven’t. Not yet. Everything is still under control. No one knows what happened.

  He’d been half-expecting Laura Towne to come bounding down the stairs after Crandall hit the floor, but there had been only silence from above.

  Maybe that isn’t such a good sign, Jasper thinks reluctantly.

  He can’t risk making her suspicious. She’s the only thing standing between Jasper and his future with Stephen. If she somehow figures out that she’s in danger, if she somehow escapes, he’s in big trouble.

  No, he has to make sure she’s here and unaware when Stephen comes back for her.

  And he has to get rid of Crandall, too.

  Again, he fingers the handle of the cleaver in his hand.

  It would be so easy . . .

  All he has to do is lower the blade until it sinks into Crandall’s heart.

  Jasper swallows hard and closes his eyes for a moment.

  I’m not capable of murder.

  That fact makes itself known as suddenly and as plainly as another, long-ago revelation had—when he had realized with sudden clarity, that he was a homosexual.

  He acknowledges this new self-discovery with the same, fr
ank acceptance as he had the old. He can’t change it, can’t force himself to be something other than what he is.

  No, he’s not going to kill Sherm Crandall.

  If Stephen wants to do that when he returns, he can.

  For now, Jasper will simply lock the door to the storage room and then do something about the police car parked in front of the inn. Thanks to the storm, there’s not much chance that anyone would be out and about and have noticed the car there, but he can’t let it stay indefinitely.

  Gingerly, he bends and rolls Sherm Crandall over, retrieving a key ring from his coat pocket.

  “First, I’ll move the car,” he says softly to the unconscious man, “and then, I’ll take care of Miss Towne.”

  “Well?” Shawn asks expectantly as Laura comes back into the living room, where he’s sprawled on the couch.

  “No luck,” she says, shaking her head. “The phones are still out of service there. I keep getting a recording.”

  “Did you try the police station again?”

  “On Tide Island? Yes. Same recording.” She plops heavily into a chair and looks at the gray, blustery world outside the window.

  “She’s probably fine, Laura.”

  “Probably,” she agrees hollowly.

  “After all, you were just going on a hunch when you decided something was wrong.”

  “What about the bogus sweepstakes?” she points out. “And Keegan? He was obviously worried when he kept calling me and leaving messages.”

  “Did you try him again?”

  “No answer. I don’t know where he could be. I tried the precinct, too, and they said he called in sick this morning. I know he’s not sick because I saw him yesterday. And Keegan’s not the type who would play hooky without a good reason.”

  “Well, there’s nothing you can do but wait, Laura.”

  “I know.” She looks at him bleakly. “And maybe everything really is fine. But I keep thinking about . . .”

  “What?” Shawn prods her.

  “It’s Brian. My ex. He’s a nut case, Shawn. I was the one who was supposed to be out there this weekend, not Jennie. What if Brian—” She cuts herself off abruptly, shaking her head.

  “Did you try calling him?”

  “I have no idea where he’s even living now. And his parents moved to Florida months ago, and I have no idea where.”

  “How about finding him through one of his friends?”

  “Those creeps?” She makes a face. “They’d never tell me where he is. They all think I’m a cold bitch. That’s what he told them. And you know what? I can be a cold bitch, when someone treats me the way Brian did.”

  She stares off into space, remembering her ex-husband’s cruel mind games and violent temper. She can still feel the sting of his hand smacking her face, the agonizing pain of his cigarette butt searing into her skin.

  “Do you honestly think Brian is up to something?” Shawn asks her, and she shrugs.

  “I don’t know. There was something familiar about the man who sold me the ticket. . . . I told you that. But I can’t seem to place him. Every time I feel like I’m about to remember who he is, it flits right out of my mind. It’s driving me crazy, Shawn.”

  “Well, do you think he has something to do with Brian?”

  “No.” She frowns. “That’s the strange part. I don’t think he does. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out who else it can be.”

  “Was there anyone else you dated . . . or knew . . . who might have something against you?”

  Laura hesitates, not wanting to get into her past with Shawn. He’s the first normal guy who’s come along—she doesn’t want to scare him away by telling him anything that might make her seem promiscuous . . . or hard up.

  Then again, it’s helping to think aloud and she has to do whatever she can to jog her memory. For Jennie’s sake.

  “Let me see,” she says slowly, looking off into space. “I went out with this real asshole for a while after I dropped out of college. But he’s definitely not the one who sold me the ticket.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The guy I dated was Hispanic. The one who sold me the ticket was definitely white, and he had these bright blue eyes—you know, the kind you wouldn’t forget. Like yours.”

  “Mine are contacts.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “Maybe his are, too.”

  “Maybe, but even so, I’d recognize the face. And it wasn’t Orlando.”

  “Okay, so who else did you know who was a real jerk?”

  “There was someone,” she goes on thoughtfully, remembering, “about a year ago. A real S.O.B., it turned out, but he seemed totally normal—had a lot of money. I met him when I was working at the Four Seasons last spring to make extra cash to pay off my Visa bill . . .” She catches herself before she spills the rest of it—that the Visa account had been delinquent and a collection agency had come after her. No reason to tell him that.

  “And . . .” he prompts.

  She shrugs. “He was in Boston on business for the month, staying at the hotel. We went out a few times. He wined and dined me. Then he turned into a creep.”

  “What happened?”

  She hesitates, not wanting to tell him that, either. How the guy had been pissed off because she wouldn’t sleep with him one night. She just wasn’t in the mood.

  But things had gotten ugly. Who would have guessed that such a supposedly mild-mannered businessman would have a nasty temper? Well, with everything you heard about date-rape these days, maybe she should have been more careful.

  But she had been truly shocked when he had turned into a ranting lunatic, ripping off her clothes and forcing her to have sex with him.

  And not just the regular way.

  No, he’d gotten out the handcuffs, the leather S&M gear, the vibrator—all the little toys she’d introduced him to, which he kept stashed in the drawer next to his bed in his hotel suite.

  Suddenly, that awful night, the props that Laura had used as innocent, pleasure-enhancing gadgets were transformed into terrifying instruments of torture. She still remembers how helpless she had felt when he’d cuffed her to the bed and had his way with her body, poking and prodding her endlessly, laughing when she sobbed and begged him to stop.

  If the guest in the next room hadn’t called the management to complain about the noise, who knew what would have happened?

  “Laura . . .” Shawn asks, still waiting.

  What would he say if he knew what she had done? Would he feel that she had gotten what she’d deserved?

  Of course he’d think that. Laura thought it herself. How many times, since that dreadful night, had she chastised herself for being habitually promiscuous? She was lucky she hadn’t run into trouble before the Four Seasons guy and that she’d gotten away from him relatively unharmed.

  The experience had made her vow never to sleep with a virtual stranger again, never to use toys or play kinky sex games again.

  She’d kept that promise, too. Oh, she and Shawn were sleeping together and she still had a healthy appetite for lovemaking. But when she’d met him, she’d played hard to get for the first time in her life. She hadn’t slept with him until their fourth date. And he’d been pleasantly surprised he told her, to discover that she wasn’t a prude after all. She’d gotten a private kick out of that—imagine, someone thinking she might be a prude!

  “What about this guy?” Shawn asks again.

  Laura snaps out of her reverie. “Oh, right. Well, he was a major creep. But he definitely wasn’t the guy who sold me the ticket that day in the parking lot.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. And anyway, he comes from big bucks, like I said. His family’s pretty famous.”

  “For what?”

  She shrugs. “Just being rich, I guess. The other clerk at the hotel recognized his name right away the first time he checked in.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  Laura frowns, trying to remem
ber.

  Then she nods and says, “Oh, yeah, that’s right. It was Gilbrooke. Stephen Gilbrooke.”

  Jennie is still huddled on her bed in a fetal position when the noise of the storm ebbs momentarily and she hears footsteps approaching her door.

  Her entire body grows tense as she listens and waits.

  It has to be Jasper Hammel.

  A short time ago, she had heard the front door slam, and then a car engine starting up.

  By the time she had reached the window to see what was going on, the police car that had been parked out front was no longer there.

  Either the cop had left . . .

  Or Hammel had moved the car.

  Jennie wanted desperately to believe the latter was just another example of her imagination carrying her away. But minutes after the car had vanished, she had heard the front door open and close again.

  Which meant Hammel could have parked the car someplace nearby, but out of the way, and now he was back.

  In the half hour or so that had passed since then, all had been still downstairs.

  Not that Jennie could have heard much of anything, anyway. The storm had grown steadily more powerful, and now the wind was fairly screeching around the house and the wild sea was leaping at the rocky coast like a rabid dog straining on its leash.

  Now she waits, wondering if she really did just hear footsteps or if it were—

  No, there they are again.

  Frightened Jennie turns to look expectantly at the door, as though any moment, Jasper Hammel is going to splinter it and burst into her room, a raving madman.

  The thought should seem ludicrous, but it isn’t. Not entirely.

  There’s a knock at the door, a brief, staccato rapping that causes Jennie to shrink back into the pillows in wide-eyed fear.

  “Miss Towne?”

  It’s Jasper Hammel, all right. But he sounds like his usual self—formal and pleasant.

  Still, Jennie can’t seem to find her voice.

  “Miss Towne?” he calls again with another knock. “Are you in there?”

  “Yes,” she finally manages, realizing that he would have the key so there’s no point in trying to hide.