by Jean Thomas
None of them, counting the letter she’d just discovered, seemed to Brenna in any way connected with one another. They were like pieces that wouldn’t fit because they were all from different jigsaw puzzles. Or were they?
* * *
Marcus phoned her later that afternoon with an apology.
“I’m sorry to say I won’t be with you for dinner this evening. I’m eating in Georgetown with business friends who flew in from Chicago. I’d invite you to join us, but I’m afraid you’d be nothing but bored. They want to discuss the casino that will adjoin the resort. They’re financing that portion of it.”
“Please don’t apologize, Marcus. Gilda will see to it that I’m well fed right here. I’ll probably turn in early. I’m going to be starting another painting tomorrow in town.”
Brenna was relieved when they ended the call. She wouldn’t have to face Marcus over dinner this evening, or tell him more lies when he questioned her about how she spent her day.
She did retire early, but it took her a long while before she fell asleep. Casey’s image planted itself in her head and refused to go away. She kept remembering his heated, passionate kiss from yesterday.
There were other more disturbing memories. Hottest among them were those mornings when they were engaged. She would wake up with a drowsy awareness of Casey spooned against her in the bed. He would be half asleep, that stone-hard erection of his seemingly with a mind of its own as it pressed against her, pleading for entry.
You can’t let yourself fall in love with him all over again. Can’t suffer the fear of losing him when he goes off on another risky FBI assignment. You just can’t, she chided herself.
Giving his ring back to him and letting him go had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. It had taken her months to get over it. No, she wasn’t going to relive that anguish.
* * *
Brenna was set up with her easel when Casey arrived to pick her up. He found her with a charcoal stick in hand. She had already sketched the buildings on the side of the square she’d chosen. They were appealing two-and three-story structures with shuttered French windows, iron balconies and red-tiled roofs. She was busy now blocking out several stalls in the foreground. The paint, he knew, would come later.
“Nice,” he said, leaning over her shoulder to view the canvas.
“Do you know that’s the only word you ever use to describe my work? Nice.”
“What’s put you in a grouchy mood this morning?”
“Sorry. It’s just that you’re late. I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten about me.”
“Not a chance. I’m late because I didn’t notice until I was almost here that the silver chariot was running on fumes. I had to find a gas station for a fill-up, and believe me they’re not on every street corner like back home.”
“You’re forgiven. But I don’t know if Zena will forgive you. She’s going to be waiting on that bridge and wondering where we are.”
“Relax. I’ll make up for any lost time when we’re on the road.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. I’ll thank you not to treat me to any more of your NASCAR races like the other day.”
He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am. What are you going to do with the easel and your other gear?”
“Load it all in the trunk of the Toyota. I can’t risk leaving it here until we get back.”
Casey refrained from pointing out that, if she hadn’t erected the easel in the first place, they wouldn’t need to be wasting further time. But that was Brenna. When she was fired up about a subject, she couldn’t wait to make a start on it. But, hey, wasn’t that one of the reasons why he’d fallen in love with her?
That was another time, McBride. And you’ve put that behind you. Remember?
Yeah, he remembered. Didn’t mean he couldn’t still be turned on by that sweet body of hers. Which was something he definitely needed to control, and somehow managed to do as he helped her stow her things in the trunk.
Casey waited until they were clear of the city traffic and out on the coast highway before asking her, “So, anything interesting happen up at the villa after I last saw you yesterday?”
“No, why should something have happened? It was all very ordinary. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering if Bradley learned I spent time with you at the market and asked you about it?”
“I didn’t see him. He had dinner in town with friends, and I went to bed early.”
She’s withholding something, he thought. My question worried her, and she answered it with too much haste.
He decided not to press it. She wouldn’t like that. Anyway, if she was keeping something from him, it couldn’t be very important, or she would tell him about it. Or would she? he wondered.
Besides, Casey had his own secret he was hiding. He had no intention, though, of sharing with her the episode of the gun that had been shoved into his back, and the nasty warning following it to keep away from Brenna Coleman. She’d be alarmed if she heard that, insist that he heed the warning for his own safety.
But there was something he did need for her to learn, and he used this opportunity to do it.
“You haven’t asked me what I did after I left you.”
“Okay. What did you do?”
“Learn some interesting information.”
“You were investigating?”
“Not exactly.”
“Casey, stop being evasive. You always did have an FBI habit of doing that. You wanted me to know, so tell me.”
“Right. It’s just that I had a chance to talk to a couple of local guys. Don’t ask me why they trusted me. They just did. Maybe because I was sympathetic, ready and willing to listen to them when they opened up to me.”
“About what?”
“In this case, it wasn’t a what but a who. Marcus Bradley.”
Casey had realized Brenna wouldn’t appreciate his introducing this particular subject. He was right. A swift glance in her direction was all he needed to tell him she was suddenly rigid, a sure sign of defensiveness.
“And?” she asked coolly.
“The man has big influence on the island, too much influence. No, now don’t start getting your back up. Just listen to me. It seems his money has bought him the kind of power that has him in control of the officials that count. The men and women who were elected to serve the people here but instead serve Bradley. Brenna, he owns St. Sebastian.”
“That’s absurd,” she scoffed. “He’s an American. All he can own is the land he purchased. And haven’t I already told you he’s using it with the intention of benefitting the island?”
“Yeah, I remember. A luxury resort that will employ the natives. But what do you want to bet they won’t be hired in any managerial positions? They’ll be doing the menial jobs, the kind of work most of the people are already doing on these islands. Serving the tourists. In this case, the rich ones.”
“You don’t know that. And even if what you’re saying is true, the taxes alone on the kind of place he’s building would help to relieve the poverty here.”
“Would they?”
“Look, I’m not going to argue with you about what’s probably nothing but a lot of gossip.”
She had him there. Casey’s information had come from a bar he’d visited, where the two native men who’d befriended him had told him more than they ordinarily would because their tongues had been considerably loosened by the local rum. Not the most reliable source maybe, but he’d felt then, as he did now, that it bore a certain truth. Marcus Bradley was not all he appeared to be.
Brenna chose that moment to distract him, and herself, by indicating a small church with a squat bell tower on the shore side of the highway. “Now there’s a painting possibility,” she said. “It looks very old. Built out of volcanic rock, I think.”
“You want me to stop so you can snap some pictures of it?”
“Maybe on the way back. I don’t want to make us any later than we are.”
She was qui
et after that, the amber, long-lashed eyes he’d always admired searching for other interesting subjects.
Casey waited until they turned on the road to Braided Falls to renew their conversation, raising another question he knew would only make her unhappy again. But he couldn’t resist asking it, needing to hear her response.
“Did it ever occur to you, Brenna, that the benefactor who provided that deep well for Freedom was Marcus Bradley?”
At first Casey thought she wasn’t going to answer him. Then, after a lengthy pause, she admitted, “It occurred to me. On the other hand...”
“What?”
“There’s nothing to say Marcus did pay to have the well drilled. There are a lot of people with big money willing to spread it around.”
“Granted.”
“And even if Marcus did give the village a new water supply, it doesn’t mean he had something put into it. That could have been someone else entirely. Besides,” she pointed out, “we don’t even know yet that it was altered in any way. It’s only a possibility until Zena learns otherwise.”
“True,” Casey agreed.
He left it there. Privately, however, his worst suspicions about Bradley seemed to increase with each day he spent on St. Sebastian. Along with his fears for Brenna’s safety. But he had a long way to go before he could convince her those fears had any real merit.
There was something, though, that did seem to trouble her without any convincing. White Rose Plantation. He noticed when they passed it several minutes later that she averted her gaze from that side of the road.
She really has a bad feeling about that place, doesn’t she? he thought.
It was a reason for him not to slow the car when they reached the gate, but he wanted to check on something. It took only a few seconds for him to learn there was no sign of the green sedan parked in front of the mansion.
Casey drove on, hurrying them now toward their rendezvous with Zena King. They left White Rose behind them, but his curiosity about it stayed with him. He wondered who owned the plantation.
* * *
There was no sign of Zena on the bridge.
“She must have given up on us,” Brenna said.
Casey shook his head. “We’re not that late. She’s probably just been delayed, like we were. Give her time.”
They waited in silence. The only sound was the splash of the waterfall. Brenna fixed her gaze on the path to Freedom, hoping to see Zena swing into view at any second. When she failed to appear as the minutes dragged by, she expressed her concern to Casey.
“Something’s wrong. We ought to go to the village and try to find her.”
“Bad idea. Zena wouldn’t have agreed we meet here on the bridge if she hadn’t wanted our conversation to be private.”
“You’re right. If we show up in the village, it’s apt to bring questions she’d prefer weren’t asked. Not if she’s trying for now to keep a lid on this thing. But what do you suppose is keeping her?”
“Could be she hasn’t heard yet from her friend in Miami and is waiting on that. Look, we came up here not just to see Zena but so you could get the pictures you missed the other day. Why don’t you get a start on that?”
She understood. His suggestion was meant to keep her from worrying needlessly, and it was a good one. Plucking her camera out of the tote, she got busy recording a series of photographs of the falls from both sides of the stream, as well as from the center of the bridge. She included the deep, dark pool under the cascades.
The whole time she worked, a relaxed, patient Casey leaned his arms on the rail of the bridge, devoting his mesmerized attention to the flow beneath him.
When Brenna felt she’d snapped enough photos of the falls and the pool, and Zena had yet to materialize, she reversed her direction and considered the waters after they passed under the bridge. There was no dramatic activity on this side, but it could on its own make an interesting scene, with the current searching its way downstream between the high banks.
She was looking for the best angle when she saw the band of crimson trailing out from behind a black boulder, its massive head surfacing at the side of the stream like an ancient beast.
Blood? No, it couldn’t be. Whatever she was seeing was too brightly scarlet to be blood, had too much form to be anything but something with a definite substance. Not liquid at all. What then? Maybe a red scarf or a red sash floating just beneath the surface.
The water in that spot was quiet, but not altogether still. A gentle current there stirred something just on the other side of the crimson band.
Brenna stared at it for a very long time, struggling to identify it. Denying its reality in the end. Until she could no longer pretend it wasn’t what she suspected it was.
An arm! A human arm stretched out from behind the boulder! Her reaction was not just alarm. It was horror. Pure horror.
Flashing around, she clamped her free hand over Casey’s forearm. He was immediately alert, turning to her.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Brenna looked back. “Down there,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Next to the boulder.”
She allowed him a moment to concentrate on what she’d indicated before demanding, “It is, isn’t it? A body!”
“The arm of one, anyway. As for the rest—” He considered her with narrowed eyes. “Are you going to be okay if I leave you for a few minutes? Just long enough for a close look at exactly what’s behind the boulder. Or what isn’t.”
She nodded, murmuring, “Be careful.”
Her gaze followed him as he left the bridge, scrambling down the steep embankment carpeted with tangled vines. The growth changed to knee-high ferns when he reached the bottom. They framed the stream on both sides as far as the eye could see.
Brenna watched him wade through the ferns, reach the boulder and squat down behind it. She covered her mouth with her hands as she went on watching him.
He rose at last, his lifted gaze briefly meeting hers before he started back. Even from here, Brenna could see how troubled those green eyes of his were, how grave in expression. Swinging himself up onto the bridge, he came silently toward her.
Why didn’t he speak? Why didn’t he tell her? But she already knew. From the moment she’d sighted that arm, the truth had attached itself to her with a slowly mounting certainty.
Removing her hands from across her mouth, she whispered, “It’s Zena, isn’t it? Is she—”
He nodded.
“No question of it?”
“No question. I’m sorry, Brenna.”
It seemed only right, natural that Casey should draw her against him. Hold her tightly to his chest, rock her in his arms. It wasn’t seduction. It was comfort, and she relished it.
She had known Zena only a few days, spent less than three hours with her altogether. It didn’t matter. Brenna’s tears were just as real, her grief just as intense as if they had been friends for years.
Casey pressed a tissue into her hand when she signaled her readiness to be released. She mopped her cheeks dry and handed it back to him.
“Casey, we can’t leave her down there like that. We have to carry her up here.”
“No, Brenna. She can’t be moved. The scene can’t be disturbed.”
“Yes, I suppose the police will need to verify it was an accident. She probably fell in, struck her head on one of the rocks and was carried—”
“It wasn’t an accident, Brenna.”
Stricken, she stared at him. “What are you saying? What are you telling me?”
“Zena was murdered, Brenna.”
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it. Because if I let myself believe it—”
“I’m afraid it’s true.”
“How?”
“The signs point to her being strangled.”
“The red scarf?”
Casey shook his head. “It’s not a scarf. It’s a sash, and it’s still tied around her waist.”
“Then does that
mean—”
“Yeah, probably a pair of strong hands. Male hands. At least that’s what the ligature marks on her throat indicate.”
Brenna shuddered over the image of those hands tight around Zena’s neck, choking the life out of her.
“How can we just leave her lying down there like that, Casey, as if—as if she’d been thrown away like a piece of worthless trash? She deserves better than that.”
“I agree with you, but she can’t be moved.”
Yes, this was a crime scene, and that meant it was not to be altered. “I understand, but if the murder itself took place elsewhere, and her body floated as far as the boulder, it’s possible it could float out again downstream.”
“Not likely. It’s locked in behind that boulder.”
“I feel helpless. Like we should be doing something.”
“We are.” He slid his cell out of his back pocket. “We’re calling the police.” She watched him check his screen and then shake his head. “I don’t have a signal. What about you?”
She extracted her own phone from her purse, but when she searched for a signal, her result was equally disappointing. “What I get is too weak to be useful.”
“We’re too far from a tower, plus the growth is too thick up here.”
“We need to go to the village,” she decided. “There must be a working phone there.”
“No!” Casey’s reaction was so sharp it startled her.
“But they should be told—”
“Look,” he said, his voice softening, “I know it seems cruel not to inform them of Zena’s death, but we have to leave that to the police. If we don’t, there will be villagers swarming all over this spot, trampling any and all useful evidence that still remains. And you can’t suppose her family won’t insist on her being carried back to the village.”
“So what’s our choice?”
“We leave. We drive back to Georgetown and find the nearest police station.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes.”
She waited until they were back in the car and on their way down from the highlands to ask the question that had been gnawing at her from the moment Casey had reluctantly told her how Zena had met her death.