Tall, Dark, and Deadly

by Heather Graham

  The laughter started again. Rasping. Raking down her spine.

  “Marnie? Marnie?”

  Help, help, help me, oh, God, help me. She wanted to shout the words.

  Didn’t matter. Not to him.

  As if he had read her mind, he spoke to her. “Oh, honey, I’m all the help you’re going to get tonight.”

  He quietly replaced the phone on the receiver.

  “Damn her!” Laura said. “Now she’s hung up on me!”

  “The hot and heavy date must have gotten there,” Sam said, taking the fish out of the oven. “You can dial her back.”

  “For what? She’ll just hang up on me again. And I think Aidan’s here. I just saw his car out there.”

  “I didn’t hear him drive up.”

  “Neither did I,” Laura said, “but his car is out there.”

  “Well, it’s perfect timing. Dinner is cooked—and I didn’t burn it!” Sam said, relieved.

  “Smells great, and thank God Aidan made it. Honestly, he’s usually late all the time now. Or maybe it’s just with me. I’m telling you, Sam, it’s a rough road. Kids! You give them your life, and suddenly they’re just gone, and they don’t understand that after all the years you’d like a little piece of their lives now and then in return. I’m going to go get him.”

  With an excited smile on her face, Laura hurried on out of the kitchen.

  As Sam started to move the fish from the baking dish to a serving platter, she noted that Gregory was staring out the glass enclosure. Did reflections attract his attention? she wondered. The porch was dark, though, except for the light spewing from the Lion King tape in the VCR. That must be it—animated creatures playing on the glass.

  “Dinner, Gregory.” She would probably have to lead him to the table. But he turned to her when she spoke, looking grave. He pointed an arm toward Marnie’s house. She was surprised; Marnie sometimes seemed uncomfortable with Gregory, although, to her credit, she was always gentle, affectionate, and patient with the boy.

  “She’s not coming, Gregory. She’s busy,” she said, wondering if he had really wanted Marnie, and if he really understood anything she was saying.

  But Aidan was here, and dinner was ready.

  Marnie hadn’t wanted anything to eat anyway. Sam would call her back in the morning herself, go on over, ooh and aah over the house.

  She wouldn’t call back tonight.

  It seemed that Marnie’s evening was already all planned out.

  Chapter 2

  Rowan could feel the heat—a fierce, terrible burst of heat within him that suddenly seemed to saturate his body.

  And then the cold.

  Icicles dripping through him, wrapping around his limbs, his veins, his insides, his soul.

  Because he could still see her face in death. Her flesh, so white, her eyes, wide open, staring. At what? What had she seen as she died? He would never forget seeing her face… Entering the house, calling her name. He'd been angry with her, as usual of late. She'd wanted her own life, but she’d refused to leave him alone. She would tell him that she was hurt, but then she’d go and do things that cut like a knife. Nothing seemed to matter, nothing was sacred to them anymore. What they shared hadn’t been a real marriage in a very long time. She’d caused him more than a few nights in the holding cell of the local jail, because she’d lied, and she’d bled him financially over and over again. He’d paid for many of her nights with her lovers, and yes, it had made him mad enough to see red…

  Mad enough to kill? The cops had asked.

  And there she ’d been…

  But now, in memory, in the dreams that taunted his sleep, she was dead, and yet she turned. She turned with wide-open eyes, swollen tongue, pasty—once beautiful—face. “You did this to me!” she shouted at him.

  He protested. “No. I said you needed help, I said we needed help.”

  “You wanted a divorce,” she reminded him.

  “You wanted other men.”

  “You loved another woman.”

  “Not until—”

  “You did this. You said you loved me once, you loved me still, but in a different way. And it wasn’t enough, you cared but not enough. You cared about the band, too, but not enough. Reilly was your friend, and you said that you would help, but it wasn’t enough. The way you cared for me, it wasn't enough, I wasn’t enough, I betrayed you, but you—you didn’t know how to forgive. There was never enough, you could get so mad…”

  Mad enough to kill? The cop asked again in his dream. Buddy, if you were, I could see it. Just admit it, you were mad, you hated her. She drove you over the brink. So where is the body? You know you hated her, had to hate her…

  No, he had never hated her. The cops didn’t know about the times she had cried to him, about the times they had tried over again. He would never forget the day after she had come back the last time, the way she had looked at him, huge blue eyes filled with tears. He’d known then that anything he’d hoped for in his own life would just have to go on hold. There was nothing else to do; she was in a dangerous mental state. “Why do I do this, Rowan? What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I stop? I don’t want to hurt you, but I start on something, and I can’t seem to stop. I’ve made you hate me.”

  “No, I love you.”

  “You can’t!” she whispered softly. “You can’t anymore.”

  “But I do. Honestly. I'll always love you. Clean slate, we’ll start over.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t leave you. We’ll get help. Rehab. It’s not you, it’s the addictions you’ve acquired. I’ll be with you, I will always love you.”

  Her smile was so sad, the way she touched his hair… “I’m just like Jessica Rabbit out of the movies, huh? I’m not really bad, I’m just drawn that way! Oh, Rowan, what have I done to you, to us?”

  “Dina, it will be all right. We’ll get the best help.”

  “Don’t pity me, don’t be kind. You're trying to do the right thing, but you don’t love me anymore.”

  “I do love you.” He did, yes, they'd been through a lot together. But she was right; it wasn’t the love she wanted. That had been lost somewhere along the way, in a hotel room, in a bottle of pills, a fifth of Gordon’s. He couldn’t let her see that now.

  “You’re just saying that because you’re worried about me. You think you can save me. I wish I were different. You can't love me enough. You can’t make someone love you enough…”

  “I can help you to stop drinking, I can get you off the pills—”

  “And the other men, too, Rowan? Can you stop me from wanting to—”

  He awoke with a start. Sweating. Shaking. Damning himself.

  It was the weather.

  Hot. Yes, hot as hell. It was the middle of the day. May. Not summer yet, but close enough. He’d listened to some of the talk down at Jimbo’s the other day. If May was this hot, God help them all! July, August, and September would be hot enough to kill.

  Enough to kill…

  Hot, yes, as the expression went, it was killer hot.

  No, not so bad when he sat up—there was a slight breeze. He’d fallen asleep right on the deck by the pool. On the bay there was always a breeze.

  Standing, Rowan faced the water. He halfway closed his eyes. Water and sky blended in a beautiful blur of aqua and powder-puff blue. The breeze was wafting over his hot flesh, almost like a caress. It was so beautiful here. He loved it already, as if he’d been born to it, this balmy breeze, in front of invitingly warm water. He was an excellent diver, and now he could jump in anytime he liked. He hadn’t been born to this life; he’d come from very far away. A different world in thought, style, and heritage. Here the land was flat, he was surrounded by water. Where he’d been born, crags and mountains had risen up everywhere around him, and any water he might have touched had been freezing. His family home was not far from Loch Ness, where even in the height of summer, the water remained just above freezing. He still loved his home in the gray
and mauve valley near the loch where his father had made his money—as his father before him—in sheepherding. And he loved his father deeply—despite the tremendous disagreements they’d had over his chosen profession. Naturally, every argument they’d fought had been enhanced by the events that had plagued his career. After Dina’s death he had gone home for a while, and it had been a good thing to do. They hadn’t talked much, but standing by his mother’s grave, he’d felt closer to his father than ever before. He knew that his father had hoped he’d stay home, but he’d become far too Americanized, restless. He longed for warm waters. And Robert had understood. The arguments, the days of his rebellious youth, were gone. They were both adults, they’d both learned their lessons, and between them now there was both peace and love.

  Different from what it had been.

  His first fight with his father had been at seventeen. His mother had already passed away from the cancer, and Ewan, wise beyond them all in his fragile form, had been gone since Rowan was thirteen. After no effort, no prayer, on his part could change the ravages of disease that stole his brother, Rowan had decided that he didn’t believe in God. Hindsight being great, he rued the heartache he had added to his father’s fife at the time, but bitterness had sent him running. His flight had taken him to the States. Music had been his solace, and he had found himself playing backup for a group that had brought him to the college town of Gainesville, Florida. His father had flown over and suggested that since he’d run to an American college town, he at least go to an American college. He did so and got a bachelor’s in fine arts while making a success of his group. Success had bred wild days, and he was surprised that his father had stuck with him. But Robert Dillon was a deeply spiritual man; while Rowan had been denying the existence of a god, his father had steadfastly told him that he was entrusting his son to God’s hands and, God help them, they would both survive.

  Well, he had survived. Others hadn’t. But standing by his mother’s and brother’s graves in the ancient Scottish valley, he had grudgingly admitted that his father’s God might well have been there, granting him that survival, against all odds.

  And so he was here now.

  He’d fallen in love with this area when he came here to play years ago. South Florida. In the restlessness of his youth he’d often felt like an interloper. But so many here were. In buying the house, he’d had a sense of coming home. He’d felt a sense of peace unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

  So…

  Why?

  Dina had been dead more than five years. Why was her ghost haunting him now? Why had he seen her so clearly in his dream?

  Maybe because he had inadvertently bought himself right back into the past.

  He hadn’t expected to find himself suddenly neighbors with old friends.

  He looked up at the house next door to his. Marnie’s house. He shook his head. Great. The way they’d started out again…

  Well, it had been fine. Nothing more than some pleasant conversation, a few beers, talk about the old college town. Then a bottle of champagne, celebrate his being back. Yeah, he was back. Then they’d been in the hot tub. And they were both well over twenty-one, both alone, definitely scarred, and both a little wary, a little jaded, and so…

  He’d felt sorry for her. Marnie confided in him in a way he didn’t think she confided in other people. She seemed to know about Dina in a way that other people couldn’t. About Dina—and about Billy. Losing Dina had been bad enough. But then there had been Billy. He had talked in a way he hadn’t in a long time. Marnie understood addiction.

  In turn, after that bottle of champagne, she’d talked about her past to him. A little girl deserted by her mother, abused by her father. She’d envied Rowan his family, and admitted that she was always out there searching, desperately searching. She had always seemed so strong, but really she was so vulnerable.

  Then he’d learned that Sam was living next door to her.

  And he’d shriveled, inside and out. His soul had gone as cold as his flesh. He felt as if he’d been hit in the chest with a bulldozer.

  There were still a few of the original families around—he’d bought into Old Guard property, although, the way his realtor had explained it, the face of the city had changed so much, there wasn’t really much Old Guard left. He’d found the real estate attorney through Jerry Styker, a retired cop who’d decided to befriend him against all odds in the north of the state. Jerry was moving down to the Keys to retire, and he’d used this law firm to find his property. Best people in the world to find what you wanted and close a deal. Rowan hadn’t known that Marnie was with the firm until he’d seen her in the office. She had never mentioned Sam’s house.

  Not until he’d moved in. Not until he’d realized exactly where her property was.

  Yep, she had a house here. There were three houses on the farthest spit of land; his, Marnie’s, and Sam’s.

  Had it all been by chance? How much had she known about him and Sam? Hell, had it meant anything at all?

  The yards—small yards, close to the downtown area of Coconut Grove—were all right on the water. But he couldn’t really look straight through Marnie’s yard to see Sam’s—there were high hedges separating all three yards. Coconut Grove was known for its foliage. But looking up, he could see the top of Sam’s house. One of the original homes here on this limestone peninsula, built in the early twenties. The realtor had mentioned those facts. He hadn’t mentioned the family name of the property owners.

  What if the realtor had mentioned it? Would he have looked elsewhere? People changed in five years. She might be married now, with the statistical two-point-three kids. She might have forgotten his face. No.

  Ego? Male pride? Why not?

  How could she forget a man who was accused of killing his own wife?

  He turned back to the water, suddenly feeling as rigid and defensive as he had at the time. All you had to do was come from money, and you were a spoiled rich kid. Couple that with being a rock musician and you were surely on drugs, the spawn of Satan, capable of any evil. The devil incarnate.

  Not that some of his past didn’t deserve serious scrutiny. There had been some wild days. When he’d come to the States and joined the music scene, he’d had friends. And he’d had girls. More adulation than he could handle. The new world in which he lived had been intoxicating; success at something he loved so much ignited a wild streak in him, and he became a demon.

  He met Dina in those days. And she was a wildfire. She flamed so brightly and so desperately that she burned herself out. He loved, and he lost, and he paid the price. And learned to live with his demons.

  But now…

  What about Sam? She might hate him, but she hadn’t forgotten him. Of that he was certain.

  He turned and walked toward the house. Fuck it. What the hell else could he do? Sell the house? Politely disappear?

  He’d come here for peace. For stability. For a new beginning. He’d come to bury the past. He was going to live his life the way he wanted. With or without past friends.

  Or lovers.

  Sam nibbled the end of her pencil, staring over at Marnie’s house.

  She wasn’t surprised that Marnie had turned down fish and chips, though the evening had been really nice. Aidan was all excited about the way his career was going, and he actually thanked his mom for being so supportive and helpful. He played a new tune for Gregory on the guitar, and Gregory picked it right up on Sam’s old grand piano. Laura was walking on clouds. If Marnie had shown up it might not have been such an intimate evening.

  Marnie was the type who would break a date with friends if a new guy walked into her life—she would never in a million years blow off a date to spend an evening with friends. Insulting, of course, but something that she did with all honesty, expecting other women to understand.

  But now Sam was getting worried. Marnie was just so thrilled with the house, so proud, that she would want every little nook and cranny appreciated. Her crown moldings
, her Spanish tile, her granite countertops, and so on.

  Sam glanced at her watch. Three-thirty.

  Maybe the guy had been the answer to Marnie’s prayers—and she had stayed out with him all night. Yet something wasn’t right.

  Marnie wouldn’t have slept with a guy on a first date—if it had been a first date—but she would have made him come to her house. She was blunt about men. She liked them; she needed them in her life. She was the perfect huntress. Sex was a simple human instinct, she said. Those who wouldn’t admit it were repressed fools. But she liked men on her terms, and Sam couldn’t begin to imagine that there was an Adonis in existence who could have made Marnie forget her new house. She had talked about bringing men to the house, how cool it would be to seduce a lover in the huge marble whirlpool tub that was the centerpiece of the master bath. She had adored her queen-size bed, facing the eastern windows so she could see the sun rise in the morning. She had purchased black satin sheets in anticipation of quickly finding a lover to go with her new furnishings and lifestyle.

  Sam rose from the desk in her bedroom and walked around the room for a minute, stretched, came back and sat down.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Marnie’s house. The answering machine clicked on. She left another message.

  She stared at the phone again. Maybe something had come up. Maybe Marnie had come home and gone to work.

  She dialed Marnie’s private number at the law firm. Marnie’s voice came on—leave a message. Sam did. On a whim, she called the main number. To her surprise, a woman answered.

  “Hi. I was looking for Marnie Newcastle.”

  “Miss Newcastle isn’t due in this weekend. If it’s an emergency—”

  “No, this is just a friend. No emergency.”

  “Have you tried her at home?”

  “Yes. She isn’t there.”

  “Well, perhaps she’s out with other friends.”