by Alice Sharpe
Eventually, he heard Ron tell the sheriff about finding his gun and his sister missing, how he’d raced here to elicit help, how he’d almost been too late.
And Alex had thought to himself that he’d almost been too late, too.
Eventually, he rode with Liz to the hospital and stayed by her side as they treated her, stayed by her side as her doctor examined her, stayed by her side as they wept with relief that the baby was okay, that they were okay, wept with great sorrow for what had happened to Emily…and Ron.
Eventually, he arranged to have Sinbad taken to the vet’s for boarding, and checked them into the nearest hotel, a plush place overlooking the rain swept sea where, still dressed in their damp clothes, they fell into each other’s arms and slept.
IT WAS ALMOST midnight when Liz woke from a sleep as dark and quiet as death. The rain had stopped and a sliver of moon now hovered over the ocean. For some time she lay there looking out the undraped window at the remarkable vista, Alex’s regular breathing a peaceful sonata beside her.
Emily would never see the moon again.
Liz felt her eyes fill with tears. She felt the bed shift and then Alex’s finger gently wiped a tear from her cheek. “No more crying, my love,” he whispered.
“But—”
“Not now,” he said. “You’re cold, I can feel you shivering. I know just what you need.”
He kissed her cheek and got off the bed, walking around to her side and helping her stand. “The only room they had left was the honeymoon suite,” he said softly, leading her toward another door. He flicked on a switch and the bathroom came to life. The star of the show, a pink heart-shaped bathtub sat smack-dab in the center.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
He laughed as he turned on the faucets. “I figure what you need is warm water and plenty of it.” From the array of supplies provided by the hotel, he picked up a trio of pink spheres and plunked them into the roaring water. “And bubbles,” he added.
“My arm—”
“We’ll be careful,” he said. Looking deep into her eyes, he added, “You’ll need help.”
It was time to let go of her fears. She nodded. With a slow smile, Alex disappeared back into the bedroom. As he spoke on the phone, she looked into the mirror; for the first time she got a good look at her face, her hair, the big white bandage on her upper arm, the bloodstains…
What a mess.
Oh, Emily.
New tears blurred her eyes and she flicked them away as Alex came back into the room. Smiling at her, he dimmed the lights, casting a soft glow over the small room. He touched her chin, kissed her lips, his own warm and soft.
“Let me undress you,” he said as his hands ran across her body. She managed a nod, but by then he was unbuttoning her top which was actually one of his shirts. She spent one moment wondering what he would think of her new underwear. No wispy brassiere; a woman as pregnant as she had to think about support, and oddly enough, at least in Ocean Bluff, maternity underwear did not come in lace, black or otherwise.
He unhooked the bra and her full breasts suddenly filled his hands.
“I look different,” she whispered shyly.
“You look beautiful,” he said, kissing each nipple.
Forgetting about her appearance, she gave herself over to her husband’s tender care. He untied her shoes as she sat on the edge of the tub, pulled off her socks, then helped her take off her slacks. He smiled at her bright white undies printed with frolicking lambs and daisies and she laughed. The laughter felt wonderful, it felt like a spring bubbling out of the ground after months of lying under a thick layer of permafrost.
He pulled her panties down and ran his hands over her swollen belly, trailing moist kisses that rivaled the steam rising from the bath. There was a knock on the outside door and he stood up, kissing her lips again, excusing himself as he closed the door behind him. She turned off the tap.
In a moment he was back with a tray. An icy pitcher of orange juice and two crystal goblets, beautiful scones with currants and orange zest, a white tulip in a vase. He set the tray on the vanity and pulled his shirt off over his head. She felt her heart accelerate at the sight of his muscular chest and shoulders, at his tapered body and the fine mist of dark hair that disappeared under the waistband of his jeans. As he pulled off his pants, the sight of his excitement, miraculously—she had to assume—evoked by her, left her breathless.
“Oh, my,” she said.
He smiled again, but this time his smile was confident, a smile that wrapped her in its warmth while at the same time exciting her with its promise. He stepped into the tub first, then extended a hand to steady her, helping her climb in beside him. As their bodies pressed together, she felt the last doubts and fears melt away.
Together they sat in one curve of the heart, his back against the porcelain, her cradled in his arms against his chest, her feet floating, toes poking through the bubbles, his hands on top of her belly, her head tucked under his chin.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Speaking was hard for her. There was so much that needed to be said and she wasn’t sure where to start, or if she did find a place, if she’d ever be able to stop. At last, she mumbled, “When I thought she might shoot you, I panicked. I’m sorry I told Ron about the scarf—”
“It’s okay,” he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“But Emily took the damn thing,” she said, because she couldn’t pretend all this hadn’t affected her profoundly. “I think hearing me tell Ron was what set her off. I don’t understand why she killed Uncle Devon, I don’t think Ron’s in love with me, I think that was all in her head. How did she rig those stairs, how could she have hurt Sinbad, how—”
“Tomorrow,” he said against her neck. His fingertips grazed her nipples and suddenly she realized that he was right, that there had been enough death and pain for one day, that it was time to shut off her mind and give herself to her husband. Instead of mourning, she would celebrate the fact that Alex was free and their life could resume….
“YOU’RE STILL thinking too much,” he said, moving his hand between her legs and touching her in such a way that she was no longer capable of any thought at all. He caressed and stroked her until her excitement matched his, until all her thoughts were a maelstrom of sensation, until she climaxed with a shudder that shook her to the center of her body, then he lifted her in the water and she turned to face him, straddling him, at first awkward because of her shape, but eventually finding a way to fit together. His eyes were midnight-blue and gleaming the way they did when he was fully aroused and ready to possess her. His mouth was hungry and demanding and she gave herself willingly, lovingly, sharing in his release, ultimately shedding more tears and not caring which originated from happiness and which were the holdovers of grief, all of them twining together and becoming the same thing.
They spent the rest of the night dozing, nibbling on the scones and talking.
Liz told Alex about the letter sent to her uncle by a woman named Irene. He couldn’t think of anyone they knew with that name and eventually Liz attempted to put it out of her mind. She’d gone to school with an Irene, so maybe she’d made a subliminal connection that only seemed recent. Irene’s baby, well, she was harder to dismiss….
Alex brought Liz up to speed on what Battalion Chief Montgomery had disclosed about the sheriff’s use of blackmail to get what he wanted. It took a long time for them to both realize that none of it mattered anymore, at least not on a personal level, because Emily had been behind all their troubles, she’d confessed, and it was over.
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK the next morning a deputy approached them in the hotel restaurant. “Sheriff said I was to bring you two into the office to give a formal statement in the suicide death of Emily Watts,” he said.
Alex shook a few drops of tobasco sauce on his French fries and said, “After we finish our early lunch. Pull up a chair, have something to eat.”
The deputy declined and said he’d wait in his car. They took their time with their sandwiches, then Alex held Liz’s hand as they walked out into a crisp winter day and climbed into the back of the deputy’s car.
Alex was pleased that Liz kept the existence of her green scarf out of her statement, and decided they were going to go get the damn thing and burn it at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, he was a free man. He could barely believe it.
Sheriff Kapp came in as they were about to leave. He stopped them with one of his glares and Alex, knowing what Kapp had in store for Chief Montgomery, felt his blood boil.
“Not so fast,” the sheriff said.
Beside him, he heard Liz groan. “Sheriff, honestly, haven’t we been through enough? We gave the deputy our statement. Ron and Alex both heard Emily say she killed Uncle Devon—”
“Now, I won’t say Emily Watts wasn’t nuttier than a fruitcake,” he said deliberately, staring at Alex. “But I also don’t know that she killed Hiller. And even if she did, Harry Idle is suddenly talking though he isn’t making a whole lot of sense yet. He swears someone came to his house that night and he’s talking about a feud with Alex. It’s clear someone tried to kill the old guy. My money is on you, Chase.”
“Are you charging me with something?” Alex said gruffly.
“Not yet. But I don’t buy this story about Emily Watts so don’t go too far away, you hear?”
Liz opened her mouth. Alex could see she was about to blurt out something about the blackmail attempt with Montgomery so he gently pulled her away. There was no point in riling the man at that particular moment.
His feeling of freedom had lasted about eighteen hours.
They met Ron Boxer coming into the station as they left. Liz immediately embraced Ron who closed his eyes as they filled with tears. Alex shook his hand and expressed his condolences.
“What I feel worst about is how sick she was and even I didn’t know it,” Ron said. “Maybe if I hadn’t always tried to shelter her—”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Liz said quickly. Alex wasn’t so sure. Liz added, “She had delusions, I think, about you and me—”
“And that’s my fault, too,” he said. “I had a little crush on you, Liz. Unfortunately, before Emily ever moved to Ocean Bluff, I told her about it. It’s humiliating to admit this. Anyway, Emily apparently blew it all out of proportion, made up some fantasy in her head. She stole your scarf at the party. I saw it, you know, and at first she told me you gave it to her and then later she claimed she lost it and swore me to secrecy. The other night, when she heard you talking, she must have realized I’d know she was lying again, and that eventually I’d wonder how it ended up with Hiller. She sent me out to fill a prescription, took my gun and drove to your house. She could have killed one or both of you. I can’t help feeling it’s my fault.”
Alex watched Liz comfort Ron. He felt bad for the guy, but there was something about Ron that bothered him. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d been coveting Liz for a year and a half, telling his sister about his feelings for a married woman, unwittingly feeding her neurosis.
Ron looked at the glass doors ahead of him and said, “All I have to do is read and sign the statement I gave them yesterday. I know you guys don’t have a car here. Wait for me to finish here and I’ll give you a lift home.”
Before Alex could say no thanks, Liz told him they would. Alex bit down his irritation even as he admired his wife’s sense of loyalty.
“I feel so bad for him,” she whispered, then she turned to face Alex and added, “Sheriff Kapp thinks you tried to kill Harry.”
“Forget Harry. He’ll eventually explain what really happened. The bigger problem is that Kapp still wants to pin your uncle’s murder on me. He doesn’t buy Emily’s confession.”
“But how could he not? Three of us heard her—”
“If Kapp killed your uncle himself, then he knows Emily was lying. If Emily didn’t murder your uncle, then it means she left the scarf at the house and Kapp picked it up to throw suspicion on you or me and away from himself. He may be wondering how he could have missed it and that it might suddenly be more important. All along he’s said that he’s going to re-examine the crime scene. We need to go over there right now and take care of that little detail, Liz. After Ron gives us a ride home, we’ll get it over with.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said.
Chapter Thirteen
The Hiller Estate sat on half an acre of manicured land. Consisting of three stories of white paint and gray gingerbread, the one hundred year old Victorian house had been built by a lumber baron for his third wife. As it domineered a prominent place in the high rent district of Ocean Bluff, Alex hadn’t been aware the place existed until he met Liz.
Back then he’d thought it impressive if intimidating. Now he thought it presented something of a firetrap. Too many trees growing too close, too little access and an old wood shingle roof that needed replacing. Liz had called ahead and given the housekeeper the rest of the day off, so they knew they’d have a few hours to themselves.
It had been over six months since Alex had rushed into the house, determined to tell Devon Hiller what he could do with his money. Today he entered it slowly, deliberately, trying to think like a killer. As Liz closed the door, he flipped on the overhead chandelier.
The house was predictable in its layout. Kitchen and dining room occupied the back of the house, while double doors on one side of the foyer led to Hiller’s den, identical doors on the other to a formal living room. When they were all open, as they were now, the front of the house was huge. Sweeping stairs led to the second-story bedrooms and baths, a more modest stairway accessed the attic and nursery on the third floor. The current housekeeper had separate living quarters above the detached garage.
“This is the first time I’ve been back,” Liz said.
Alex squeezed her hand as he looked around, amazed at all the nooks and crannies in which to hide if that was what a person had in mind. Closets, huge potted palms casting mysterious shadows, a grandfather clock at least eight feet high…and that was just in the foyer.
Liz ran her hand along the polished banister. “I always wanted to slide down this thing but I never dared.”
“Why not?”
“It was forbidden,” she said. She wrinkled her nose and added, “What a great house this would have been if a child had been allowed to be a child.” She cleared her throat and added, “Alex, I love our place on the ocean, but lately, with so much happening there and that bluff, well, I was just thinking that it may be a difficult place to raise a child. Maybe we could move back into this house.”
He stared at her. She couldn’t be serious.
She must have seen the skepticism on his face. “This was my home for most of my life. Why shouldn’t I want to reclaim it and fill it with happy memories?”
“I can’t believe it,” he said, interrupting. “Your uncle was murdered here.”
“And Emily killed herself in our backyard.”
“Okay, that’s true, but so is this. Assuming I don’t wind up in jail again, this house is way too expensive for me to even pay the taxes on, let alone renovate.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I have money left to me by both my parents and Uncle Devon,” she said. “I can afford it.” Her eyes grew wide as she apparently heard her own words. “What I mean is that my money is your money—”
“Most of your money is your uncle’s money. I won’t live off your uncle.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Take it or leave it.”
Narrowing her eyes, thrusting out her chin, she said, “Are you issuing me some kind of ultimatum?”
“I’m relating a simple fact. I won’t live off your uncle’s money. Period.”
“Even if it means living apart from me?” she said, eyes wide.
“I’m hoping you won’t force me to make that kind of choice,” he said, and took her hand and rubbed the bare fingers of her
left hand. “You still aren’t wearing your wedding band,” he added. “Why not?”
She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears.
Another moment or two of tense silence followed, then he sighed. “Listen, honey, we don’t have time for this now. Can we agree to disagree and get this over with?”
She took a deep breath and turned to the den. Both their gazes went to the desk and the empty carpet in front of it. “I don’t know what I expected,” Liz said.
“Your housekeeper did a good job of cleaning up after the police. No fingerprint dust, no tracks on the carpet.”
Behind the desk loomed a wall of books, hundreds of them, all dark and forbidding looking, not the kind to curl up with in bed. The aroma of ill-gotten cigars lingered in the room.
Alex moved quickly across the room, coming to a stop behind the desk. He moved three thick volumes, stacking them on the desk, just as Liz had done, as a teenager, the one and only time she’d sneaked him into her uncle’s den and revealed the secret cubbyhole.
“I can’t believe you didn’t leave any evidence of having fooled around over here when you hid my scarf,” Liz said, coming to stand beside him.
“My prints were all over the room which was expected as I’d been here before so that wasn’t a giveaway, and your uncle didn’t…well, he didn’t bleed much from his wound.” Glancing at his shoes, he added, “No bloody footprints,” before pressing on the hidden hinge which was so cleverly built into the back of the book case that it was almost impossible to see. A small door sprang open.
It was a relatively shallow spot, and the scarf fell out on its own. Alex picked it up reluctantly, the memories associated with it almost unbearable.
“What’s that?” Liz said, peering over his shoulder. “Behind my scarf, what’s that dark paper?”
He stuffed the green silk scarf in his pocket and withdrew a brown envelope from the hidey-hole. He handed it to Liz who shook the contents onto her uncle’s desk. Two tiny cassette tapes, one piece of paper, a folded document of some kind.