Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  Her arm stretched inside as far as it could reach. Nervously, she patted the floor of the tree house, fearing mice would scamper or snakes would slither across her hand. Instead, leaves crunched in her ears and rubbed into her hair. A sudden dryness attacked her throat, as she coughed on pollen and dust, and strained to see the full interior. Suddenly she felt something furry and she shuddered, let out an abrupt scream and almost lost her balance. Breathing hard, she steadied herself with one hand clutching the bottom planks of the tree house, and realized it had been an abandoned birds' nest.

  Her eyes stung with tears, not just from the dust and pollen that threatened to clog her throat, but also from the waterfall of memory. So many years gone by, the tree left to bloom, and the piece of childlike architecture still in the center. There was something beautifully sad about it. So much had grown around it, yet preserved it at the same time.

  Now she sneezed. Blinked her eyes clear, coughed again. Straining, she reached even deeper inside—and with questing hands, she felt something. Deep in the back corner of the tree house was the edge of…what was this?

  It felt hard and angular, but covered in something soft, like velvet.

  Nicole’s heart was jumping as she got a grip on the thing and dragged it forward. With curious, trembling fingers, she found an opening in the velvet and peeled back the satchel.

  She thought she heard Puddle's bark then—but the sound stopped. Perhaps a squirrel or chipmunk had scurried past and caught the dog's attention.

  She returned her attention to the velvet satchel.

  Inside, there were three brown paper packages stacked on top of one another. She knew she shouldn't dawdle out here; she should bring these into the house and take a better look. But curiosity overtook her and she pried open one of the packages.

  Then—she gasped.

  “Oh my God...”

  With an uncertain smile, she realized that it was a painting of Alyssa. Instantly Nicole recognized the little girl standing near the surf, smiling; she recognized her sister's apricot-colored dress with the high ruffly collar. In the painting, Alyssa looked to be about five years old. Immediately, Nicole knew that her aunt had painted this—but what she didn't know was why Aunt Nina had hidden it. Was it so the Goliath Gallery in Boston could not lay claim to it? That was all Nicole could think of.

  Before she could open the other two packages, she noticed an envelope taped to the brown paper. She pulled it off and opened it. A letter from Aunt Nina, dated the first week of September. Hastily, Nicole read and tried to absorb the meaning, but she really needed to go inside and give all of this careful attention, so she folded the letter and put in her jacket pocket. Then she tried to pull the entire velvet bag through the archway and balance herself at the same time—but quickly discovered there was no point.

  In one frightful instant, she was grabbed by the legs. Like an octopus strangling her knees. She couldn't escape, couldn't fight the force that grabbed onto her and yanked her down. Her heart lurched into her throat as she came plummeting to the ground.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Before Nicole could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth and she was dragged by her hair, up onto her feet, and then toward the house, the sides of her shoes scraping into the ground. It couldn't be happening again, she thought frantically, registering now the hideous face of her attacker, which was all too familiar. The same man who had attacked her two weeks earlier on the beach. How could he have become a distant memory already? She had literally forgotten about him—about the scariest moment of her life—until now.

  Now she was reliving it. Wrestling against him, Nicole reached up and tried to pull his brawny arm off her mouth, but he was too strong. In seconds, her heels were clopping on the steps as she was pulled up the porch, and shoved through the back door.

  “Come on, stop it,” he growled. He all but threw her over the threshold into the kitchen, then slammed the door behind him. Lurching forward, he gripped her arm before she could run. His dirty fingers dug into her flesh until she whimpered in pain. Her heart was galloping so hard, it threatened to pummel her chest from the inside out, to burst her ribs. She was never so scared in her life. Michael was not here to save her now. Nobody was. What would she do?

  Suddenly short of breath, she was nearly hyperventilating when the man shoved her into one of the kitchen chairs and let go of her. That was when she realized she was crying, because she tasted the saltiness of her tears streaming into her mouth.

  Through blurry eyes, she looked at him—even uglier and more terrifying than she remembered—than she had allowed herself to remember, maybe.

  Maybe that was it, she found herself thinking, as the man stepped closer. A voice seemed to appear abruptly in her mind, chiding her. This is real, it's not a book, you can't close it, you can't put it on the shelf, you can't interpret it the way you want—

  She shot her leg out to kick him in the kneecap. But she just missed, her attacker averting the kick. He tightened his merciless claw on her arm. “Stop it! Cut it out, you bitch!” With that, he took out some kind of stretchy cord from his coat pocket and threw his duffel bag on the kitchen table. Instinctively, Nicole eyed the bag—and noticed the angular corners that were jutting against the nylon. Then she realized...in those hazy seconds when she'd come spilling down onto the ground, this man had scooped up the paintings that had tumbled down with her. He'd put them in his duffel bag.

  Why? she asked silently. This was not a random attack? Not a psychotic act of violence, but a kind of calculated theft? Was that possible? she wondered, as the man grabbed her hands and wrapped the cord tightly around her wrists.

  Hastily, he dropped to his knee and wrapped more cord around her ankle, securing it to both the chair and the table.

  After that, he seemed to lose all interest in Nicole, and instead turned his attention to the contents of his duffel bag. Savagely he pulled out one wrapped painting and then another. The first one was the painting of Alyssa that Nicole had already opened. Wait, there were only two in his bag, Nicole observed, as she watched him fearfully.

  With thick, greedy fingers, he tore the rest of the brown wrapping off, his eyes literally gleaming with lust, his upper lip curling off his teeth. Nicole swallowed down a hard lump of disgust, watching him, not knowing what he was about, or what he might do next. “What the...” he began and pushed the painting aside. He tore the wrapping off the other one and scanned it feverishly. His face screwed up in a confused, angry kind of wonder. “What the hell!” he yelled. “Where is it?” Then he squinted and looked closer. Puffed out a sigh that sounded like he'd abruptly sprung a leak. Then held up the painting to Nicole and said, “Does this look blue to you?”

  Taken aback, she hadn't been prepared for conversation of any kind—yet he seemed genuinely to be expecting her input. Once she looked at the work, she recognized her sister, Linda, in it. As with the painting of Alyssa, this one captured Linda from years ago, back when she was around eight or nine, with her black hair hanging in curls the way she used to wear it and the green checkered dress their mom had made for her, swaying in the breeze.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Is this goddamn blue or not!”

  “No,” Nicole replied quickly, hoping that was the “right” answer. “No...it looks green to me,” she said truthfully.

  His face turned ferocious. “What the fuck!” he shouted. “Where is it?!” With a clatter, he dropped the second painting on top of the first. “Did Corso take it already?” Nicole didn't dare say anything; the man was probably insane or schizophrenic or delusional. At this point, who knew what he wanted to hear? Fury boiled over as he slammed his hand on the kitchen table and yelled, “Answer me! Did Corso take it?”

  “Take what?” she replied feebly. “Who's Corso?”

  That made him even more impatient. “Oh, whatever the fuck you call him! Mike, Michael, whatever.”

  “Michael...?” she repeated, confused.

  “Yeah, Michael,” he barked. Then
, with unmistakable cruelty, he gave a short laugh; his eyes seemed to mock her as he shook his head. “You didn't really think he was here to be your buddy, did you?” The shock must have flooded Nicole's face because she felt her cheeks burn and her lower lip fall. “How stupid can you be?”

  She didn't answer, because she honestly had no answer. It couldn't be true what he was implying. That Michael had—

  “This was all that was up in that tree?” the man asked her now, and jerked his chin toward the two paintings on the kitchen table.

  Nicole shook her head. “There was three,” she admitted.

  Like a shot, the man was back out the door. He'd thrown it open so hard that it hit the wall and rebounded back, clicking shut. She could hear the man's footsteps thundering down the porch steps. Why was he so determined to get the third painting?

  A sickening, cold feeling slithered over her as she realized that the third painting was of her. It had to be; it only made sense. Linda, Alyssa, and me, she thought. The Three Sisters. Three original works that Aunt Nina had created and hidden away for her nieces.

  It still begged the question: what did this man want with the painting of Nicole as a child? And what did Michael have to do with it? What had he called him—“Corso”?

  Futilely, Nicole tried to move over so she could lock the back door before the man returned, but the table was too heavy. She barely managed to shimmy and scrape over a few inches when suddenly, she heard the doorbell.

  Thank God! Someone was at the front door. Except...

  Nicole's eyes squeezed shut. She couldn't even get there.

  Her breath was coming up short as she tried to think this through, tried to come up with a plan, something so she would feel more in control of what was happening. The doorbell rang only twice and then stopped; whomever it was must have left. A fresh wave of tears filled her eyes then, and poured out, running down her cheeks in hot rivers. What now—

  The door burst open again, startling her. Her attacker was back, carrying the third painting, which he had already torn open outside. He set it on the table beside the others and Nicole was able to get a brief look at it. More tears gushed from her then, her cry overwhelming even though it was silent.

  She recognized herself in the painting; she recognized the blue dress that had been her favorite. It was navy with a white collar, and looking at it now, Nicole fondly recalled that it was the sweetest, most demure thing.

  In Nina's painting, Nicole was sitting, carefree, in front of a tree. She was pretty sure that she had never posed for a painting specifically, but that it had come from the inspirations of her aunt's memory. Emotions threatened to engulf her, then. Warring emotions, terror and sadness. Her attacker noisily went about his business. Barely spared Nicole a glance, but went straight for the duffel bag. Filled it with the other two works, and this last one, he set on top. He had just zipped the bag shut with a screech when the back door flew open again.

  Michael!

  Relief washed over her, changed her whole face. The same man who had saved her once before—then she realized: should she even be relieved? Who was Michael really?

  “Nicole!” he exclaimed. “Oh Jesus...”

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Corso? I thought you were meeting me at the diner right about now.”

  “What'd you do to the dog, Lucius?” Michael demanded. Puddle! In all her terror, Nicole had forgotten that Puddle had been outside at the same time that—

  “Nothing,” the ugly one called Lucius scoffed. “Doped him, no big deal. What, you think I'm gonna kill a dog? I'm not a monster.” Then he patted the duffel bag. “As you can see, I had to do your job for you.”

  Michael hesitated. His jaw hardened. “You got the painting?” he said.

  Nicole swallowed hard, feeling sick again. So it was true. Michael was involved in some way with a scheme against her—a plot to steal from her. It was worse than she'd thought. This morning, she had feared that maybe all this talk of treasure had gotten the better of him, made him greedy. But this confirmed that their whole relationship had been disingenuous from the start.

  When he glanced at Nicole, she couldn't keep the hurt out of her eyes—she could feel it, hooded in her gaze, beaming straight through the filmy dew of her tears. Michael just looked at her, his expression unreadable.

  “Yeah, got that one and two more for myself.”

  “Huh?” Michael said.

  Lucius grinned with satisfaction. “I think 40% of a Demberto, and 100% of two more ought to keep me happy for awhile. Fuck, I can retire.”

  Michael came closer and reached for the bag.

  Lucius tried to block him, but Michael was more forceful, knocking Lucius's arm out of the way. “Let me just see for chrissake,” he said and unzipped the bag. He lifted one, then the other, taking a glance at all three.

  “Three fucking original Dembertos, and two of them are all mine. By the way, don't try to get smart and shake me down for my bonus action, because my contacts on the market are some fierce shit.”

  What language was this? Nicole thought, stymied.

  “These aren't Demberto,” Michael said.

  “What do you mean? The other two are just like the third, they must be by the same artist—”

  “Nina Corday,” Michael supplied, pointing at the small signed “NC” in the bottom right corner. “These are original works all right, but from Nina Corday. Not Arturo Demberto.”

  Arturo Demberto? Nicole's mind echoed the unfamiliar name.

  “Face it, Lucius, you've been had.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don't you see?” Michael said, and gave a brusque laugh, as if he was just getting it, too. “There was never a Demberto here. Whoever you're working for just said that to draw you—and by association, me—into this whole mess.”

  “Bullshit,” Lucius barked. “You're just trying to trick me. To get me to give these up.”

  “All right, then go,” Michael told him, lifting his hands up from the bag, the paintings. “You got what you want, so take it and go.”

  “Right and you're just gonna forfeit your cut? Why don't I believe it'll be that easy?”

  Impatiently, Michael shook his head. Then he motioned to the painting resting on top that was visible through the yawn of the open duffel bag. “This is the one he was after the whole time. The little girl in the blue dress—”

  Me, thought Nicole, feeling that sickening chill again, feeling her stomach churn, but not daring to speak.

  “Painted by Nina Corday,” Michael continued.

  “But...that doesn't make sense,” Lucius said, twisting his face up again in a contortion that was apparently concentration. “I mean...this shit can't be worth what a Demberto would be.”

  “I guess it is to somebody,” Michael said. “Wanna tell me who?” Lucius stood there, appearing angry and uncertain. Finally Michael said, “Look, why don't you just take your merchandise and go. You have what you came for.” Except, even Nicole could surmise, Lucius really hadn't. It seemed he had been diving for a pearl and come up with a lovely, pretty seashell instead.

  As she watched, she struggled to understand what Michael's role in all this was. Why would he do all this and then let his partner take the paintings and go? Just because they had been misled—by someone—that what they were after in this house was an original work by a more famous artist than Aunt Nina had been, still—money was money, especially to crooks, and that was what she was beginning to realize that Michael was.

  Nicole knew that her aunt's paintings had fetched around $40K or $50K when Nina was alive; with her death, the value would multiply. With these being new, undiscovered paintings, not even brokered through a gallery—well, to a crook they should still be worth hanging onto.

  So why was Michael seemingly turning his back on the three?

  He seemed more intent to get Lucius to leave than to come to any kind of terms. Was this another trick? Nicole wondered now. Another staged confrontation, like that one on t
he beach must have been?

  How stupid can you be? The man's taunting words echoed in her mind. Now she noticed that Lucius was eying the corners of the room, darting his pupils from one side to another. “All right. I'm outta here,” he said finally, and turned to go.

  Or seemed to, but suddenly reeled back and in one violent motion, grabbed a decorative glass bottle from the window sill, stretched it over his head and crashed it down. It just missed Michael, who veered back, and then lunged forward again, wailing a hard punch straight into Lucius's nose. Arm raised, Michael came at him again, delivering a bone-cracking blow to the side of Lucius's face.

  Lucius tripped backward, knocking against the back door as he fell. The duffel bag collapsed with him and the painting of “the little girl in the blue dress” skidded out, and skated across the floor.

  Trembling, Nicole suddenly became aware of her own frantic breathing. This was not the Michael she had known; this was a dangerous man she had never seen. Though he had shown a glimpse of this fierceness that night on the beach, that had been fake, she realized. But now, there was nothing artificial about the defeated lump that lay on the kitchen floor.

  Nervously, her eyes moved back to Michael, who was breathing hard himself; he wore an intense expression on his face. What would he do next? With his partner down, he could simply take the paintings himself. Nobody in town knew who he really was—this Corso person—did they? He could just leave.

  But would he leave her there tied up, to have to deal with this man, Lucius, when he came to? She panicked. And what about the fact that Nicole could tell the police all about Michael? He looked at her now and in two steps, knelt beside her. “Are you okay?” he said as he worked on the cord. No! her mind wailed. How could he ask that of all things? “I'm sorry, Nicole,” he murmured. “I'm so sorry.”