by Meryl Sawyer
He drove into the lot of the Shelter Island restaurant. As usual there were several rows of late-model American cars. Buying American had been an unwritten rule for the naval officers of his father’s generation. Tyler parked his Beamer next to his father’s black Hummer—not an H2 or H3 model but the original Hummer the military had used.
The Outpost was some decorator’s attempt at a hunting lodge. Animal skins were nailed to the log walls in the entry, where a hostess in a safari outfit seated people. One wall of the huge room was a fieldstone fireplace bracketed by tree trunks twenty feet tall. Opposite it a soaring glass wall faced the bay. In the distance the Naval Air Station on Coronado Island glistened in the too-bright morning sun.
This was a great vantage point for the retirees to watch the Navy SEALs train while they ate. His father was already seated at the prime booth by the window. When Quinten gave you a time, he arrived at least ten minutes early himself.
“How was your trip?” Tyler asked as he slid into the booth opposite his father.
“Same old, same old.”
Tall and erect, Quinten Foley had a military bearing that was impossible to miss even in golf clothes. His square jaw told the world he was accustomed to his orders being obeyed. His slate-blue eyes could level a man at fifty paces. His full head of black hair had turned silver, but it only added to his commanding presence.
“I ordered huevos rancheros for you. I know how much you like them.”
Tyler didn’t even attempt a smile. He’d been an eggs Benedict man—until Holly reformed him. He’d never cared for huevos rancheros.
“I have to be on the course at eight-thirty.” His father smiled. “Hope all my traveling hasn’t screwed up my handicap.”
Tyler nodded as if he gave a shit.
“I hear Calvin Hunter died while I was away.”
Adam’s uncle and his father had both been navy commanders. Calvin had skippered a nuclear sub before moving to some top-secret naval intelligence position on land. The men had been golfing buddies when they both were in San Diego at the same time.
“He died of a heart attack.”
“Too bad. Wish I could have returned for the funeral, but I was in Zimbabwe negotiating a deal for a client.”
“Adam couldn’t get back either,” Tyler commented as their waitress poured him a cup of coffee. “He just returned. His uncle left him everything, including a mountain of debt.”
His father’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. “Calvin didn’t have any debt to speak of. He made a lot of money.”
“Showing dogs?”
A beat of silence. “No, in real estate.”
Tyler thought a moment. “Maybe. They’re just sorting through the estate. Adam doesn’t know much. He wasn’t close to his uncle. In fact, he was blown away that he left him everything.”
“Everything?” His father actually looked stunned. The only other time Tyler could remember seeing that expression was when his father had come home to find the MPs, and his wife dead. Tyler had been huddled in the corner with the chaplain, but his father never saw him.
The waitress arrived with a heaping plate of huevos rancheros for Tyler and put scrambled eggs, tomatoes instead of potatoes, in front of his father. To the side was a single slice of toast. The old man wouldn’t butter it.
“I was wondering if you could do something for me.”
“Sure.” Tyler ran his fork through the gooey mess and waited for the “if I should become ill” bit.
“I was in Istanbul last year and ran into Calvin. My laptop was on the fritz. Damn things aren’t reliable. I stored some info on Calvin’s machine. Now that he’s gone, I need to retrieve that file. Could you ask Adam to let me into Calvin’s office? I’d call him myself but I only met him the one time.”
How well Tyler remembered that day. They’d graduated from the police academy together. Adam’s father was there—so, so proud. He’d been with Adam’s uncle Calvin, who’d also been very proud of Adam. Quinten Foley had grudgingly attended, then left before the group went to celebrate at a nearby Mexican restaurant.
“No need to bother Adam,” Tyler said, recalling his conversation at lunch with Adam yesterday. “Right after Calvin Hunter died, thieves broke into the house. All they took was his computer and some discs.”
“You’re lying.”
Tyler slammed down his fork, anger building in his gut. His father had insulted him many times over the years but he’d never called him a liar. He shot back, “Why would I lie about a robbery?”
Quinten Foley flinched at Tyler’s unexpected outburst. He’d never raised his voice to his father. “Sorry, son. I just can’t believe…”
“As an ex–police officer, I can tell you that robberies after a death are quite common, especially if the newspapers give the time of the funeral. Criminals know everyone will be at the cemetery and not at the house.”
“I see,” his father replied, his tone preoccupied.
“The thieves left behind lots of valuable antiques and other things. That means they were after stuff they could sell quickly for drug money. Newer model computers can be sold in minutes on the street.”
All the color leached from his father’s face. His voice faltered. “R-really?”
“Swear to God.” He could have added “hope to die,” but he didn’t allow himself the pleasure. Until last night he hadn’t thought about his father’s death. But one day—in the not too distant future—his father would die. Then, like Adam, Tyler would inherit a bundle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHITNEY WALKED INTO Trish Bowrather’s Ravissant Gallery, Lexi at her side. This morning when she’d picked up Brandy for his walk, Trish had invited Whitney to stop by after her morning rounds to have coffee with her. Trish wanted to chat, and Whitney had a feeling she knew what was on the older woman’s mind.
Ryan Fordham.
Whitney hadn’t heard from her ex last night. She’d been half expecting another call, but it hadn’t come. While she’d been out, FedEx had delivered an express envelope. In it she found the papers Ryan wanted her to sign but no note from him. She read the document; it seemed to be a longer, more legalese version of what she’d signed after arbitration, but she couldn’t find the original document. It was probably in one of the boxes she’d yet to unpack.
“Hi,” Trish called to Whitney, her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. She gestured toward a black lacquer chest that had to be an expensive Chinese antique. On top was a coffee machine and porcelain cups. Cream, sugar and artificial sweetener were beside the coffeemaker.
Whitney unhooked Lexi from her leash. The retriever bounced over to join Brandy, who was perched on a bronze silk harem pillow. It served as his dog bed while matching the studied elegance and sophistication of the gallery. She helped herself to a cup of coffee and added a splash of milk.
The gallery was a commercial version of Trish’s own home. Whitney wondered if the same architect had designed both. The matte-white walls displayed enormous abstract oils. One drew Whitney nearer. Whitney shuddered, but couldn’t help walking closer and closer.
“Thought provoking, don’t you think?” Trish asked.
Whitney practiced her smile. The mammoth painting was mesmerizing. The oil canvas could have doubled as a wall in her small cottage. It was streaked with globs of red and neon-green paint. Off to one side was a large cobalt blue eye that seemed to follow Whitney as she moved. “Who’s the artist?”
“Vladimir. He has some long, unpronounceable Russian last name, so he just goes by Vladimir. He’s one of the most successful artists in the area.”
The eye gave Whitney the willies, but she didn’t mention it. This morning when she was loading the dogs in the SUV, she’d looked up to the second-floor window of the main house. For a moment she’d thought the curtains had shifted. Now she imagined Adam Hunter, his intense blue eyes becoming one, staring down at her from behind a razor-wide gap in the drapes. Just like the haunting eye in the painting.
“Ar
en’t you exhausted?” Trish said. “How many dogs have you walked this morning?”
“Eleven. Three were only short walks before drop-offs at their groomers.” She followed Trish across the white marble floor to a sitting area with a black leather sofa and two matching chairs. She lowered herself into one chair, careful not to spill her coffee.
Trish sat on the sofa and crossed long legs clad in beige linen slacks. “Have you heard anything more from your ex-husband?”
Whitney shook her head. “No, but he FedExed the papers to me. I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t sign—”
“Not without having a lawyer examine them.”
“Right.” Whitney had planned to contact an attorney, but she found Trish’s attitude a little overbearing. “Miranda just married a lawyer. I think his firm might check my papers and—” She stopped herself before saying that she planned to ask to be billed later. Trish must have guessed she didn’t have much money, but Whitney’s pride kept her from letting the woman know just how broke she was.
Trish put down her cup of coffee on the Lucite cube-style coffee table next to the sofa. “Miranda married a local attorney?”
Whitney hesitated a moment, remembering the well-known lawyer didn’t want his clients to know he was away on his honeymoon. “It’s very hush-hush.”
Trish’s brow creased into a frown. Whitney didn’t see any reason for not telling her. Miranda would be returning soon and would have a splashy reception. Then the whole town would know.
“Miranda married Broderick Babcock.”
Trish blinked hard as if trying to clear her vision. “You’re kidding.”
Whitney shifted in her seat, more than a little uncomfortable discussing Miranda’s business. If her cousin had wanted Trish to know, Miranda had had plenty of opportunities to tell her. She shouldn’t have told, but something had urged her to confide in Trish.
“Promise me you won’t mention this to anyone. Rick doesn’t want his clients to know he’s out of town.”
“I won’t say a thing.”
Whitney waited for Trish to comment, but the older woman studied Whitney as if she were a painting by a child that had suddenly appeared on a wall in her gallery. Finally, Trish said, “I wanted to talk to you about your ex-husband. Did you file a police report?”
“No. I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m sure when I sign the papers, I won’t ever hear from him again.”
“Good. I thought it over and did some surfing on the Net. You know, to check the latest.”
Whitney nodded, but she couldn’t imagine why the woman was taking such an interest in her. Didn’t Trish have a life?
“When I told you to file for a restraining order…” Trish let the unfinished sentence hang in a heavy silence. “Well, I was back in the past, when I was living in New York City. I was recalling my own problems.”
Trish stood, absentmindedly shook the creases out of her linen pants, walked across the gallery and stared out the window at the passing traffic. Whitney silently cursed herself for wondering about Trish’s motives. She’d guessed correctly. The woman related to her because of something that she had experienced.
Two beats of silence, then Trish turned, saying, “I had an abusive husband.”
“I’m sorry.” The trite words came out before she could think of something better to say. “What happened?”
Trish returned to her seat, and for a moment Whitney thought she wasn’t going to answer. When Trish did respond, every word grew softer until she was almost whispering. “About a year after we were married, Carter slapped me during an argument. Of course, he was upset with himself immediately. He apologized all over the place and claimed to love me more than life itself.”
Whitney had heard similar stories in interviews she’d seen on television, but this was different. She knew this abused woman personally. She couldn’t help thinking about Ryan. This didn’t fit the profile of their relationship at all. Now that she thought back, Ryan had been verbally abusive toward the end of their second year of marriage. But he’d never raised a hand to her until yesterday. He didn’t need to; Ryan could devastate her with his sarcastic remarks.
“A few months went by, and we had another fight. This time Carter shoved me into a wall. I had a bruise that ran the length of my back and four broken ribs.”
“Oh my God! What did you do?”
“Left him.” There was a pensive shimmer in the shadow of Trish’s eyes. “I wanted to go home to my parents, but I had too much pride. You see, they hadn’t wanted me to marry Carter, but I’d insisted.”
Whitney wished her mother were still alive. She would love to know how her mom would feel about Whitney’s divorce, but she’d died. The only person she had in this world was Miranda.
Again, she found herself wishing her cousin were here. They could talk—as adults—in a way they’d never been able to discuss things when they’d been in high school. Back then, they were too different—or so it had seemed. Now, Whitney wondered if Miranda’s reckless attitude had been her way of dealing with the unexpected death of her parents.
“That’s when the stalking began.” A short, mirthless laugh followed, taking Whitney by surprise. “Of course, Carter didn’t see it as stalking. He kept insisting he was checking on me.”
Whitney couldn’t imagine Ryan “checking on her.” He had another woman in his life. Why would he bother?
“Carter scared off several men who tried to date me and got me fired from a job in a gallery. That’s when I finally went to the police,” Trish added sourly. “They were reluctant to even take a report.”
“How terrible.”
“Back then, less was known about stalking and abusive husbands.” Trish was silent for a moment; the only sound came from the cars going by on Prospect Street. “Weeks went by and I didn’t hear from Carter. I thought the police had told him about the report, and it made him stay away. Wrong. He was still spying on me, but he was getting sneakier. I didn’t see him until a man—just an acquaintance—drove me home from work. He walked me to my door. Carter leaped out of the bushes and beat the guy senseless with a baseball bat.”
Whitney shuddered at the image of a bloody, battered man sprawled across the cold concrete.
“Then Carter rounded on me. The only thing that saved me was a neighbor who’d heard the commotion and called the police. My jaw was broken as well as my arm.”
“My God. What happened to your friend?”
“He survived, but he had to spend months in the hospital and needed three reconstructive surgeries.” Trish sank deeper into to the sofa with a ragged sigh. “My father sent him money to pay his bills.”
“You went home to your parents?”
“Of course, wouldn’t you? At that point, I just wanted to get away from Carter before he killed me.”
For a moment, Whitney remembered the night she’d thrown her things into the SUV and driven away from the home Ryan had insisted on buying. It had been the day she’d been served with divorce papers, and she’d realized all hope of salvaging her marriage had vanished. She’d spent the night with Lexi in a cheap motel. It would have been nice to chuck her pride and return to loving parents. Instead, she’d found a housesitting job in the newspaper.
“At least you got away from him.”
Trish rested her head against the back of the sofa and gazed up at the stainless-steel ceiling fan silently spinning overhead, just barely stirring the air in the gallery. “Carter followed me to Miami.”
“Y-you’re kidding,” Whitney stammered in bewilderment. “Wasn’t he jailed for assault?”
“The man couldn’t identify Carter. The first blow with the baseball bat hit him from behind. The guy didn’t see who struck him, and neither did my neighbor who called the cops. Carter ran off when he heard the sirens coming up the street. It was my word against his. The prosecutor was a man. He believed Carter’s story that I was a rejected wife out to blame her husband for a mugging. Even the police report I’d filed earli
er didn’t sway him.”
“I can’t believe it. What a nightmare.”
Trish’s gaze met Whitney’s. “About a month after I returned home, I drove out of my parents’ home in Coral Gables. There was Carter, standing on the sidewalk, staring at our house.”
“I’ll bet you freaked.”
“Of course. I had no way of defending myself. My jaw was wired shut and my arm was in a cast.” The recollection seemed to weigh on her, choking the life out of her voice. “Besides, I was stunned that Carter would leave the law firm where he was on track to become a partner to chase me. It made no sense; that’s when I knew he was unbalanced. I told my father and he finally convinced the police to issue a restraining order.”
“That helped, right?”
“My father wouldn’t take any chances. He sent me to Italy until the divorce was final.”
Trish stopped there, but Whitney felt there was more to the story. She stood up and went over to the sofa and sat next to Trish. She looked into the older woman’s eyes. “That wasn’t the end, was it?”
“No. I came home and found Carter had moved to Miami and had taken a job with another law firm,” she responded in a low, tormented voice. “He made no attempt to contact me for over six months. I thought, ‘Okay, so he lives here. It’s a big city. Forget him. Go on with life.’
“Then one evening when my parents were out, I came into the living room and there was Carter aiming a gun at me. He said if he couldn’t have me—no one would.”
Whitney put her hand on Trish’s trembling knee and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “What did you do?”
Stains of scarlet appeared on Trish’s cheeks. “Nothing. I froze. All I could think was that I was alone in a huge house with a maniac. I honestly thought I was dead.”
“What happened?”
Trish clicked her fingers twice and Brandy bounded over. She threaded her long nails through the soft fur on his ears. “My father’s boxer raced into the room, snarling and barking like crazy. It distracted Carter just long enough for me to run out of the house.”