Don

by Carlene Thompson

  "I got that impression when I heard it twice the first day I was in town." He frowned. "Do you believe Hunt would have asked Tamara for a divorce?"

  "He could have, but it probably wouldn't have done him much good. Tamara was a devout Catholic. And she was pregnant. She wouldn't have given in without a fight. Hunt could have gotten a divorce eventually, but not without a lot of time and struggle. And scandal. Charlotte 's already been through all that and it's my guess she wouldn't consider Warren Hunt enough of a prize to go through it again."

  "So you think Warren Hunt murdered his wife so he could have Charlotte Bishop?"

  Hysell looked surprised. "Maybe, but this situation called for immediate, decisive action."

  "And you're saying Warren Hunt isn't capable of that?"

  "Let's just say I think Charlotte Bishop is." Hysell paused. "You know, I think Charlotte Bishop is capable of just about anything."

  8

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  Alison sat at the piano. She began Debussy's "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair." Viveca walked through the room and paused at the piano, smiling. Alison immediately stopped playing. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, dear," Viveca said carefully. "That's your song, isn't it?"

  "What's wrong?"

  Viveca's smile locked into place. "Well, you've played it five times in a row. How about something else?"

  "All right," Alison said pleasantly and immediately launched into "The Merry Widow Waltz." Viveca's face slackened. Alison paused. "Don't you like that song?"

  "Not particularly."

  The ghost of a malicious smile capered around Alison's rosebud mouth. "Oh. I forgot. That's what people called you after Papa died. 'The Merry Widow.' "

  "They did not, but please play something else."

  Alison dropped her hands in her lap. "I'm not in the mood to play anymore. I would like to see Warren."

  "I'm sure he's very busy today making arrangements for Tamara."

  "I need to see him. He's my doctor."

  "You don't have an appointment with him today. Besides, you just saw him yesterday." Viveca nervously touched the topaz pendant hanging from a gold chain at her neck. It had been a gift from Oliver Peyton. "Dear, please play something nice."

  Alison raised her long, strong fingers to the piano keys.

  They hovered for a moment. Then they crashed down, sending loud, discordant notes jangling around the serenely beautiful room until at last Alison settled into the piano section of Eric Clapton's "Layla." She'd only played for a minute before Viveca shouted, "Stop!"

  Alison stopped immediately and Viveca looked contrite. "Darling, I'm sorry, but you know I hate rock music. With your talent it's almost sacrilegious to hear you playing it."

  "I like it. Why can't I play what I like?" Alison looked up at her mother with her wide Dresden blue eyes and shouted, "Why can't I ever-play what I like?"

  Viveca recoiled. Her face paled. She drew a deep breath. "Forgive me. Of course you may play what you like." She took a step closer and hesitantly, almost fearfully, touched her daughter's cheek. "I only want you to be happy, Alison. It's all I've ever wanted."

  But Alison had retreated to her own world. It was seventeen years ago. Alison was five. Mama was going away again. Just for a couple of days. She was what they called an "executive" at a big company called Bishop and she had to go on business trips. "I'm sorry I have to leave, darling," she'd said, clutching Alison to her for a final embrace.

  Alison thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. She had long golden hair. She had huge blue eyes. She always wore pretty clothes. She always smelled good. Alison admired Mama. She tried to please Mama. But it was Papa she loved, Papa who didn't care that she was scared of so many things, that she liked to spend lots of time alone talking to herself but couldn't find her tongue in front of strangers, or that she had persistent nightmares, or that doctors said she was something called neurotic. Papa didn't give lectures about how she should act like Mama did. Papa liked her just the way she was.

  She'd stood on the porch, her little hand in Papa's, and waved as Mama drove away. Papa had turned to her. "Your mother left us some very healthy food to heat up for dinner. She says you are to eat, practice the piano for an hour, watch one hour of educational television, and be tucked into bed and sound asleep by eight."

  "Yes, Papa."

  "I, however, am the man of the house in your mother's absence," he had said with a dryness Alison didn't quite catch. "It is Friday night. Therefore, we will order a great big greasy pizza for dinner, play Candy Land, and watch a Disney movie on video." Alison's solemn little face broke into a picture of pure bliss. "We'll have a regular debauch, kiddo. Port Ariel has never seen the like. They'll be talking about this night a hundred years from now!"

  Papa let her choose the pizza toppings and it had been the best she ever had. They'd eaten with their fingers! They'd played two games of Candy Land, watched One Hundred and One Dalmatians and part of Lady and the Tramp before she fell asleep. When her father had placed her gently in her bed, her eyes had snapped open. "What time is it?" Her father had grinned. "Magic Midnight, bunny ears." She still called it Magic Midnight.

  The next day they'd eaten lunch in an open-air restaurant by the lake. They'd walked along the shore, holding hands and talking about everything that interested her. Then Papa had driven her to a giant old house. She'd been afraid of it at first, but Papa said the house had belonged to a brave and beautiful lady who would protect her when she was inside.

  That was when she had first heard the saga of Ariel Saunders. Papa talked about how Ariel had run down to the beach and pulled Captain Winthrop from the freezing water and how later they had married and Zebediah changed the name of the town to Port Ariel in honor of his beloved bride. And best of all, Ariel was Alison's very own great-great grandmother!

  Even then Ariel's house was not in good shape, but Papa had carried her through every one of its damaged rooms, talking in his sonorous voice, conjuring up the splendor that had been Saunders House. Mama said he had a way with words because he used to be a novelist. A strange look always came over Papa's face whenever she said "used to be."

  Lots of times he got out legal pads and pens and called for quiet in the house, but he usually ended up only with pages of crossed-out words. Then he would listen to sad music and drink brandy and Mama would look disgusted and not speak to him, which made everything worse. But today Papa was happy and Alison was ecstatic. She loved Papa and she loved Ariel Saunders's house, the house overlooking the lake, the house of romance and legend.

  By late afternoon Alison was still in a joyful daze, lost in the world of Ariel and Zebediah, posing and preening in front of Mama's full-length mirror, pretending to be Ariel. Papa had passed the doorway, smiling. He carried a laundry basket. "Want to help me do the washing?"

  Alison looked at him in surprise. "But Mrs. Krebbs comes and does it every week."

  "I'm in the mood. I used to help my mama with the laundry when I was a little boy. Come on, bunny ears, it'll be fun."

  So Alison had gone with him to the basement where the washer and dryer sat. Alison rarely visited the basement. She didn't like places full of shadows and she worried about spiders and mice and all kinds of terrors that might be lurking. But she was with Papa and he wouldn't let anything bad happen.

  There were windows high in the walls that let in some daylight, but Papa still flipped a switch and a fluorescent bulb hummed to life. Then they descended the steps and he groaned, looking at water flowing across the floor. "Dammit, we just had the washer fixed two weeks ago. I knew that repairman didn't know what he was doing." He sighed. "I'm going to fix this myself."

  "Do you know how?" Alison had asked, wanting to run away from the water that looked dark and scary like snakes or alligators might lie in its depths.

  "It's probably just a hose on the washer that fool didn't tighten," Papa said. "I think I can fix something that simple. Sit on the stairs, honey."r />
  So Alison had sat down and Papa had placed the laundry basket beside her. Then he had waded into the water. His shoes made squishy sounds and he muttered and fussed and uttered words Alison knew he wasn't supposed to say in front of her. She twisted a lock of her silky white-blond hair around her finger the way that always annoyed Mama.

  "Okay, you infernal beast," he said dramatically to the washer, making Alison giggle, "let's see who's boss."

  Papa stepped behind the washer, facing her, and leaned on the machine. Abruptly blue-red light flared around him. The fluorescent light dimmed. Papa went rigid. A small, agonized sound escaped the rictus in his face, his body shook, and his eyes looked as if they were going to explode from his head. Alison heard a clicking sound nearby. The fluorescent bulb shut off. Papa fell on the concrete floor, his head making a sickening thud as his skull fractured and skin split. Blood rushed out and mixed with water swirling around his motionless body.

  Slowly the world went fuzzy for Alison. She felt as if a heavy, swirling fog enveloped her. She loved the fog because it shut out the awful sight of Papa.

  A day later, when Viveca returned from her trip, she found her husband in full rigor mortis, a stiffened corpse collapsed beside the washing machine. Her little girl sat on the basement stairs, rocking back and forth, twisting her hair around her finger. She'd soiled her clothes and her lips were chapped from dehydration. But the worst, what had choked off Viveca's horrified scream, was the child's eyes-wide, vacant, unblinking. Viveca had rushed her to the hospital. Alison remained unresponsive for nearly a week. Afterward came years of psychiatric care-clinics, medication, endless analysis, even hypnotherapy. But Alison had never been the same since that day in the basement when Papa had tried to fix the washer.

  "Are you going to wear black to Tamara's funeral?"

  Viveca looked up from the magazine she'd been staring at blindly. Whenever Alison mentally left this world, Viveca sat patiently waiting for her to return. Sometimes it took a few seconds. Sometimes it took hours. Today it had been fifteen minutes.

  "I think I'll wear navy blue."

  "I'm wearing black. Even black jewelry. My marcasite and onyx brooch that belonged to Ariel."

  The brooch had not belonged to Ariel, but Alison could not be convinced of this. It didn't matter. It made her happy to think she owned a piece of Ariel's jewelry. But Alison's train of thought was disturbing.

  "Dear, I've been thinking," Viveca said carefully. "Tamara's funeral might be too depressing for you. Perhaps you should stay home."

  Alison looked outraged. "Stay home! I can't. Warren will need me."

  Viveca had been increasingly aware of Alison's interest in Warren. At first she'd been pleased. Alison had hated all of her doctors. Then through Oliver's daughter Tamara she'd met Warren Hunt and wanted to be treated by him. Viveca didn't like Warren, but Alison violently refused to continue with her present psychiatrist or any other. Viveca realized she would either have to relent about Warren or send Alison off to a clinic once more.

  Alison seemed to improve for a while. Then Alison began talking about Ariel again. After her father's death, she talked incessantly of Ariel and even believed she was Ariel. Time and drugs seemed to alleviate the delusion and finally she had completely stopped talking about Ariel. Until lately. First Alison had found a brooch in Lily Peyton's antique shop she was certain belonged to Ariel Saunders and insisted her mother buy it. Last week Viveca had found a book on reincarnation in Alison's room.

  Now there was her preoccupation with Warren Hunt. There was something in the way she said his name, an almost caressing quality, that tripped alarm bells in Viveca's mind. And in the last few months Alison had grown cooler toward Tamara. In fact, cool was too mild a word. Almost hostile was more like it. Hostile and-Viveca cringed at the word-competitive.

  "Dear, Warren will have plenty of moral support," Viveca said soothingly. "He wouldn't want you to go. Funerals are so sad."

  "You mean like Papa's?"

  "Yes."

  "And Eugene 's?"

  Viveca's face tightened. "You were not supposed to attend Eugene Farley's funeral. You did that against my strict orders."

  "I think it's terrible that you didn't go. After all, he was one of your boyfriends."

  "Alison!"

  "Why do you keep squawking 'Alison!' at me? He was your boyfriend. What are you so embarrassed about? That he was young enough to be your son or that he got convicted of embezzlement and killed himself?"

  "He was not young enough to be my son," Viveca said tiredly. "And his death was tragic, but we were no longer together. I really don't want to talk about that sad time."

  "No wonder. You deserted him. I didn't. I loved him."

  "I know. He was like a brother to you."

  Alison let out a peal of laughter with a note of hysteria beneath it. "I did not think of him as a brother, Mama."

  Viveca had trouble conceiving of Alison as anything except a child. The idea of her having a sexual interest in anyone was repugnant, like picturing a five-year-old girl lusting after an adult man. But as much as she hated to admit it, Alison had a libido. Maybe an overactive libido.

  She had first noticed it when Alison was around Eugene Farley. Eugene had been the head accountant at the Bishop Corporation. Handsome, intelligent, funny, he had been sought after by all the single females at Bishop and some of the married ones, too. Before long and against her better judgment, Viveca found she couldn't resist him, either.

  He'd come to her home several times and treated Alison like any normal young woman. He'd talked about literature and music with her, trading books and CD's. They laughed and the girl seemed to blossom. Viveca had thought they acted like brother and sister and she was delighted. She didn't even care that Eugene indulged Alison's taste for rock music.

  Then Viveca saw the way Alison looked at Eugene. A crush she told herself, but self-deception had never been her forte. She couldn't hide from the truth. Her perpetually, innocent child looked at Viveca's lover with a naked carnality that made her sick.

  Eugene was gone now. First she'd banished him from her life and then he had taken his own. As bad as Viveca felt about Eugene 's death, she had been relieved to see the hunger vanish from Alison's eyes. But now it was back, flaring uncontrollably whenever Warren Hunt's name was mentioned.

  "Mama, you will let me go to Tamara's funeral, won't you?"

  It wasn't really the question it seemed. It was a threat. When Alison did not get her way, she would inflict the punishment of her illness on her mother, and it always worked. Viveca's guilt over Alison's emotional state was crushing because she had not been attending a meeting when her husband died. She had gone off for a weekend with another man and in the throes of her passion, she had not bothered to call home during the twenty-eight hours when Alison sat on the basement steps staring at her father's body as she slowly descended into the mental hell from which she would never rise.

  "Of course you may go, Alison."

  "Good. Warren needs me now." Her lips twitched. "Especially now that she's gone." Viveca stiffened but before she could reply, Alison announced, "I'm going to my room."

  To do what? Viveca wondered. The girl was getting agitated. "Alison, why don't I make tea and heat up some croissants and we can have a girl talk?" she tried feebly.

  "I don't know how to make girl talk. You never let me have friends. You've always kept me a prisoner." Alison rose from the piano bench and stomped up the stairs to her room.

  She was prone to sudden rages and the look in her eyes was dangerous. Viveca stood, anxiously fingering her topaz pendant until she heard Alison's door slam.

  What would happen tonight was anyone's guess.

  MONDAY NIGHT

  Warren didn't like the marina at night. He didn't like it in the day, either. Frankly, he hated the water and boats, but you just didn't admit that around here where everyone was mad for Lake Erie. He certainly wouldn't admit it to Charlotte, whose father owned the biggest craft
in the marina and of course named it the Charlotte. They always met on the Charlotte. Warren would rather they went to a secluded motel, but being with Charlotte was worth an evening on a boat.

  Slip Thirty-four was the home of the Charlotte. Custom built, it sat smugly majestic in the moonlight, eighty-five feet of white aluminum, housing four staterooms, a formal dining room, a sky lounge with an entertainment center, a flying bridge with sunning and seating areas, a wet bar, and a saloon with a home theater system and projection unit that dropped from the ceiling. Charlotte said Max had wanted something big and elaborate for corporate cruises. Warren thought Max Bishop just wanted something ostentatious to show how rich he was and that his corporation dominated Port Ariel just as his yacht dominated the marina. The Charlotte was certainly a tribute to conspicuous consumption, Warren thought, and Charlotte loved it.

  Warren threw another furtive look over his shoulder. He always imagined people were looking out the windows of darkened boat cabins, identifying him, noting his destination. The marina was too public, even around midnight. And what if he was spotted tonight, forty-eight hours after his wife's murder? His reputation would be ruined. Worse yet, that damned Meredith would be all over him. The guy was itch ing to nail him for Tamara's murder. Today he had looked at Warren as if he were a stuck bug. He only prayed Lorraine Glover would back up his alibi. She hadn't sounded too willing over the phone when he'd called right after Meredith left, but Lorraine was scared. He'd lied to Meredith. Lorraine 's wealthy husband didn't know she'd been having an affair, but Warren could see to it that Alfred Glover found out. Even if Lorraine corroborated his alibi, though, discovering he was having an affair with Charlotte Bishop would give Meredith a motive to pin on him.

  Then there was that annoying deputy who kept looking at the ship model Charlotte had given him. Warren didn't care a thing about Port Ariel history, but he didn't tell her. He'd kept the model at his office. One day Tamara had dropped by unexpectedly, seen it, and insisted on taking it home. When she spotted the initials, he'd truthfully claimed ignorance and she didn't seem bothered. He'd been uncomfortable every time he looked at it sitting on the mantel, though. And today that deputy had spotted something.