With Deadly Intent

by Louise Hendricksen

  She put up her hand. “Hold it. Don't start twitching your investigative nose. We have to be careful. If Francine's story is true, and Marchmont finds out she knows, her life'll be in danger.”

  “Ah,"—Simon cocked his head and held up a cautioning finger—"now there's another reason to mistrust her. According to what she says, all this happened four years ago. Why would she take the risk now?”

  He yawned and stretched. “We'd better try and get some sleep.” He rose to his feet. “You go on up, I'm going to check the doors and windows again.”

  She took a few steps, then turned back. “Do you feel it too?”

  “Feel what?”

  His voice sounded casual, but she noticed the lines in his face had grown deeper. “An air of foreboding. It's as if there's some formless monster out there manipulating us. Whenever it suits him, he spins a bit more web and ensnares another victim.”

  He laughed—hollow, tight, devoid of humor. “With an imagination like that, you should be the writer.” He started toward the back door.

  Wednesday, November 2

  Next morning, at breakfast she reported Francine's phone conversation to her father.

  “Don't put too much faith in what she says,” he said. “Law enforcement people get hundreds of calls like that.”

  “True, but it still intrigues me.” She watched as he smoothed a cautious hand over his shaved scalp. The last of his sutures had been removed, but his fringe of hair would never cover the scars. They would always show as a grim reminder.

  B.J.'s fingers touched a tender spot on his head and he puckered up his face. “This case is a real Tartar. I've seldom had one with so much confusing evidence.”

  Simon poured him more coffee and refilled his own cup. “Think you and Amy could get along without me this afternoon?”

  “We can manage.” He lifted an eyebrow at Amy. “Can't we, kitten?” At her nod, he went on. “I've been feeling guilty about taking up your time anyway. Yesterday, I talked to Helen. She knows a gill-net fisherman who injured his left hand. He can't fish, but he's got a family and needs money. Helen says he'd be able to handle my needs until I get these damned casts off.”

  A wretched empty feeling settled in Amy's chest. Was Simon anxious to get away from her? She glanced at him through lowered lashes and his deflated look puzzled her.

  “You're not taking up my time, B.J.,” Simon said. “I like being here with you and Amy.”

  B.J. sat forward. “Your work is important, Simon. You should be out in the world where you can make a difference.”

  “A difference? Not a chance until I get out of the slump I'm in. I've written more meaningful words in the past week than I have since Julie died.” His gaze darted to her and back to B.J. “But if you'd rather get someone else—”

  “No no, son, I enjoy your company. I just don't want to be selfish. Now, what were you about to say when I interrupted?”

  “Nothing important.” Simon glowed as if he'd been awarded the Edward R. Murrow prize for exceptional journalism.

  “Okay, if you say so.” B.J. disappeared behind his paper.

  Simon spread a thick layer of strawberry jam on his toast and took a huge bite. “Delicious,” he said when he swallowed. “Almost as good as the cinnamon toast you made last night.” His gaze touched hers, moved down to her mouth, then upward to capture her gaze again. Slowly as if searching for a stray bit of jelly, he ran the tip of his tongue along his lips.

  She felt as if a steel band had tightened around her chest. She took a quick, open-mouthed breath and without thinking touched her lip with her tongue. Simon's eyes changed from hazel to smoldering mahogany and his features took on a sensual look. Heat flooded her face. Mating games weren't her strong point. They made her uneasy. What if she couldn't, or wouldn't follow through?

  The corners of Simon's mouth curved in a half smile. Regarding her tenderly through half-closed lids, he tilted his chin ever so slightly—once, twice, three times—in subtle invitation.

  Perspiration dampened her neck and still he held her captive with his gaze. From a long way off, she heard her father's paper crackle.

  What am I doing?

  She broke eye contact with Simon and sat gripping her shaking hands in her lap. Does he mean it, or is he only getting even for last night?

  She jumped up and began to clear the table, giving him a wide berth. He rose and began to help. When their bodies accidentally brushed, both of them jerked back as if burned.

  He mumbled something about making an appointment with Mrs. Michaels at Dr. Tambor's office and hurried out of the room. In a short while he came back. “She won't see me. Says she knows who I am now and that I'm just as rotten as Elise said I was.” He leaned against the cabinet. “She blames me for everything that's happened. Everything. Can you beat that?” He went to help B.J. back to bed.

  When he returned, Amy finished wiping off the counter and set the sponge under the sink. “So how about getting at Mrs. Michaels from another angle?” She dried her hands, took a pad from beside the kitchen phone and wrote down a number. “Maybe you can get the answers you need through Lt. Salgado.”

  “I doubt it, but I'll give it a shot.” He tore off the sheet and started out.

  “He's more cooperative if you have something to trade. But don't tell him about Francine.” She grinned. “He has enough to cope with as it is.”

  Simon grinned back. “Gotcha.”

  She finished her cleaning and went down to the lab. After thumbing through all their reference books, she reviewed the collected evidence. Finally, she decided she needed more proof to support her theory. She went upstairs in search of Simon.

  She found him in the library working at his laptop computer. “Do you have a pair of sneakers I can borrow for a little while?”

  “Sure do. What're you up to?”

  “I'm going over to Prescott's Byway. That's where I discovered the clearest footprint. I want to run a controlled experiment.”

  “Could I come along?”

  She remembered the charged atmosphere at breakfast. With him watching her, she'd be all thumbs. “We—ell, I really—”

  “I can be your gofer.” He shut down his computer and came around the desk. “You'll need equipment, won't you? I promise to keep my mouth shut and not get in your way.” He raised three fingers in the Boy Scout oath. “Honest.”

  If she turned down his offer, he'd link it with her actions last night. She shrugged. “I can always use an extra pair of arms. I want to check in with Dad first.”

  “Good idea.” Simon followed her down the hall.

  She found B.J. propped up in bed with a stack of forensic journals on either side of him. He grinned as they came to stand beside him. “Don't let all this fool you, I've been beating a few bushes and I have news.”

  Amy regarded him with a severe expression. “Don't go pushing yourself.”

  B.J. gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. “Hush, girl. I'm too old to change my ways. Now, listen. I talked to a medical examiner in Billings, Montana. We met at a seminar several years ago. He's retired now. I told him about Wade Marchmont and asked him to nose around.”

  Amy puckered up her forehead in a worried frown. “Did you tell him Francine Anseth could lose her life if he happens to talk to the wrong person?”

  “You bet I did and also that asking questions could land him in hot water.” He smiled. “The guy is going nutty with nothing to do. He welcomed the excitement.” He sobered. “But he's no fool. He'll step lightly.”

  “I sure hope so.” Amy told him where she and Simon were going and they left the room.

  Outside, a temperature inversion had given them unseasonable weather for November. The warm, humid air felt heavy and she found it difficult to get a full breath. Overhead, the sun penetrated gauzy cloud cover, spreading a muted, hot house glow.

  She rummaged in the car and handed Simon two forensic kits. Pushing her hair off her perspiring forehead, she said, “I'll meet you in front
of the cottage.” She stowed her unneeded jacket in the car and went in search of a bucket.

  When she rejoined Simon, smile lines crinkled around his eyes. “This is great. We haven't had a chance to be ... er, ah ... to see much since I came. Now, you can point out the walks you enjoy, the views you like. Oren told me once that you and he have explored most of Lomitas.” He handed her the shoes and picked up a satchel in each hand. “Wither way, Captain?”

  “Just follow me.” She tied the sneaker's laces together and slung them around her neck. Taking care not to spill water from the bucket she carried, she set off down the hill. Where the steep sandstone embankment bordering the beach blocked the way, she set down her burden to watch their ketch ride heavy swells. “Something's brewing.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  He stood behind her and she imagined she could feel his body heat. She forced her mind back to his question and pointed to three silent crows in a bare-limbed alder. “Normally they'd be making a terrible racket.” She looked up at the gulls circling overhead. “Even they are quieter than usual.”

  “Ah, just as I suspected, you are a witch.”

  “Don't be silly.” She turned, found him so close her breasts pressed against his chest and her mouth went dry. “D-don't you feel the"—she glimpsed the throbbing pulse at the base of his throat and gulped air—"the strange tension? It ... uh ... it feels like the whole world is ... holding its breath.”

  “Um-m-m-m.” His voice made a mellow vibration in his chest.

  She risked an upward glance, found herself gazing into his eyes, and began to tremble. He brushed his knuckle along her jaw, teased a tendril of hair into place and stroked her ear lobe. Her heart speeded up and her breathing kept pace.

  The color of his eyes deepened and she felt her cheeks grow warm. He took her face in his hands. “Amy, it's okay for you to react to a man.” He smiled a gentle, lopsided smile. “You're a normal, healthy young woman.”

  For some unaccountable reason, her words coming from his mouth irritated her. “I have work to do.” Pushing him aside, she headed down a trail winding through wind-twisted Sitka spruce and low growing shrubbery.

  In the sun-warmed tunnel created by the evergreens, the scent of rosin and Simon's cologne mingled. The combination brought on an infectious sensual languor and she struggled to keep her senses about her.

  On the dunes, winter-browned salt rushes tufted the area she'd marked off with bright orange crime-scene-tape twelve days before. She directed Simon to put her supplies some distance away and got down on hands and knees to study the ground. After a ten minute search, she found a similar combination of soil outside the marked area. She wet it thoroughly with the water she'd brought.

  She straightened and became aware of Simon. He sat in the lea of a large dune staring out across Rosario Strait. Did he think she was as mixed up and unpredictable as Elise?

  She plopped down on the sand near him. “Sorry for my rotten disposition. The pressure is getting to me.”

  He turned and regarded her with a somber expression. “All men aren't bastards, Amy.”

  She picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. “I know, Simon.”

  “Damnit, I wish I could be of more help. Do something to take the load off you.”

  “But you do. You're wonderful ... with Dad.”

  “He's a great guy.” He moved closer. “I learned some more about Roger Norman this morning.”

  Simon shifted position and his bare forearm grazed hers. She felt the brief contact to her fingertips.

  “The man doesn't belong to a labor union.” Simon picked up her hand, placed it on his jean-clad thigh, lay his hand on top, and went on talking. “He hasn't applied for a professional license, nor has he registered to vote. I sent a query to IRS and I also wrote to request his military record, if he has one.”

  “Good going.” She pasted on what she hoped was a self-assured smile—only a naive romanticist would get all warm and trembly about someone holding her hand. Her cynicism failed to slow her racing pulse. “Norman must have some type of income. He couldn't have purchased Elise's car if he was on welfare.”

  A horrified expression spread over Simon's face. “Welfare! God, I hope not. Getting information from them is like trying to get into Fort Knox.” He rubbed the palm of her hand against his smooth shaven cheek.

  “K—keep up the—” Her voice cracked and refused to squeeze through her constricted throat. She coughed and began again. “Keep up the good work. You're doing great.” She gently withdrew her hand and began taking off her shoes. “I took casts of Oren's footprints the night I stayed at Helen's.”

  She slid her bare feet into Simon's Adidas. They felt warm as if he'd just taken them off and to her utter dismay, she got an erotic reaction. Weird. Lately, everything about him turned her on. The thought saddened her. Since her divorce, she'd come to realize her attraction to Mitch had been purely sexual. She didn't intend to make a mistake like that ever again.

  She shoved the thought aside and went on with her conversation. “The problem is Oren's prints don't tell me everything I need to know.”

  She stood and took a step. Her foot came out of the shoe.

  “You'll need socks.” Simon pulled some from his pockets. “Here, let an old hand show you how it's done.”

  She sat down and supported herself on braced arms.

  He knelt in front of her and rested her heel on his leg. “Nice feet.” He worked a thick white sock over her foot, tested the fit of the shoe and added a second sock. “You looked beautiful when you came to my room last night.” He kept his head bent and worked nonexistent wrinkles from the knitted fabric.

  Picking up her other foot, he held it in his warm hand and ran his fingertip down the arch to her toes. He raised his eyes to hers. “Lovely as a...” He licked his lips and swallowed. “As a sea nymph.”

  The air trembled between them. No one around. No one to stop them. She dug her fingers into the sand. Why not give in? Why not let it happen?

  The color in his face heightened, his eyes grew heavy lidded. “Amy, could we ...?”

  Without warning, a searing memory of her ex-husband's final, and most devastating betrayal, burst inside her skull. Him in their bed with her best friend. She passed a hand over her face. Better to feel nothing than to risk that again. She took the other pair of socks from him, put them on and got to her feet.

  She lifted the heaviest satchel in her arms thereby bringing her total weight to 135 pounds and made a set of footprints. To back up her calculations, she had Simon pile driftwood on top of the satchel, then she made some more prints. When the casts hardened, they gathered them up.

  On the trail back, she stopped on the embankment. “You can go on up to the house if you like.” She took a flashlight and a magnifying glass from one of the kits he'd set down. “I'm going to our boat shack on the beach.”

  “I'll come along, if it's all right with you.”

  They stacked everything beside the trail and went down the wooden steps. The barn board shed had been built against a sheer rock face above the high tide mark. Years of salt spray had bleached the eight foot square building almost white.

  Amy pushed open the door. A couple of crab pots teetered in one corner, giving off a pungent odor. Broken jam cleats, blocks, and turnbuckles lay atop a torn sail in another.

  “In September, I bought a spindle roll of 3/8 nylon rope.” She got down on all fours. “After Elise disappeared, Dad noticed the rope was missing.” She glanced over her shoulder at Simon who stood in the doorway. “Of course, someone could have taken it weeks before her death.” She snapped on her light and began to examine the floor where the spindle had rested.

  She'd been scrabbling around for five or ten minutes with her tail in the air and her nose inches from the floor when Simon cleared his throat and said, “Anyone ever tell you you've got an incredibly nice tush?”

  Amy flung him a dirty look. “No cute remarks, fe
lla. This is serious.”

  “Uh huh, so am I.”

  “Sure you are.” She wiped fogged glasses on her shirt tail and peered through the magnifying glass once more. “Could be,” she mumbled. Taking tweezers and an envelope from the pocket of her jeans, she pulled several strands of filament from a splintery board, then rose to her feet. “I'm through.”

  When they got back to the house, she made herself a sandwich, and retreated to the lab. After hours of calculating weight versus depth and pressure, she trudged upstairs to find the table laid, her father at ease in a recliner chair and Simon getting dinner.

  B.J.'s sharp, observant gaze swept her face. “Simon told me about your project. Learn anything new?”

  She massaged aching temples. “The killer wants us to believe Oren walked from the van to the beach the night Elise vanished. Right?”

  B.J.'s chest rose and fell. “What other conclusion is there? His shoes match the casts exactly.”

  “Yes, they were Oren's shoes.” She paused and looked from B.J. to Simon. “But someone with shorter, narrower feet wore them. Someone who weighed between 130 and 140 pounds.”

  “The doctor!” Simon shouted. “He was about five foot eight and had a slight build. And"—Simon used the large kitchen knife he held to emphasize his point—"his shoes caught my eye right away. They were narrow, pointed things. Patent leather like women wear.”

  “I don't know, Simon.” B.J. scratched his beard. “I can see a number of loop holes. Elise appeared to be a fair-sized woman. I can't see a small man carrying her body through ankle deep sand.”

  Simon scooped chopped green pepper into a bowl.

  “Maybe he couldn't under normal circumstances, but I'll bet if I were scared enough, I could lift twice my weight.”

  “Perhaps, weirder things have happened.”

  “Unless my figures are wrong,” Amy said. “And I don't think they are. He didn't carry her to the beach and probably didn't even have her body in the van.”

  Simon stared at her. “He must have, Amy, otherwise how did the bloodstains get in the dinghy?” He took a platter of sliced roast beef, baked potatoes, and a salad to the table, poured milk for everyone and seated himself. “Do you think he dumped the rug and sheet in the bottom of the boat, then changed his mind?”