A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4)

by Scott William Carter

  "No."

  "Did she say anything about going with Marcus?"

  "I'm telling you, she didn't say anything to me at all!"

  "And your housekeeper, Sonya, she'll confirm your story?"

  "I don't know what she knows. I don't really think they were close or anything."

  "How about you give me her phone number?"

  Bob hesitated.

  "So," Gage said, "you aren't telling me everything?"

  "No, no, it's not that. It's just—you meant what you said, right? If I cooperate, you're not going to make trouble for me, are you? Sonya's been a good employee."

  "Ah," Gage said, "you're also worried about her being deported."

  "Well, good help is hard to find."

  "I wonder if you even realize the irony in you saying that."

  "Sorry?"

  "Forget it. Just give me her number. If everything you said checks out, I think I can look past whether she has a green card or not."

  Bob nodded glumly, then fumbled around on his desk until he found a black spiral notebook. He flipped through it until he found the page he was looking for, scribbled a number on a yellow sticky note, and handed it to Gage. He struggled to maintain eye contact with Gage. "And the other thing? The, um, talking to the press thing?"

  "Depends on how it goes," Gage said.

  "Okay."

  "But I'll tell you one thing. No matter what Sonya says, I'm going to check back with her from time to time. She better tell me that one, she has a job with you unless she chooses not to have it. And two, that the little hole in the storeroom was patched over never to be used again."

  "Already done," Bob said.

  "Good."

  "Is that it?"

  "No, there's one other thing." The trepidation on Bob's face made Gage want to wait as long as possible before continuing, but he was too banged up to enjoy watching the man squirm for long. "We'd like to book two rooms for the night, please."

  Chapter 13

  Relieved that his torture appeared to be at an end, Bob wanted to give them the rooms compliments of the house, but Gage insisted on paying. No way he would allow himself to feel even the slightest bit of indebtedness to such a pathetic slimeball. Tatyana also further insisted on paying for her own room. Gage wished she'd insisted on only staying in one room, then felt like a bit of a slimeball himself.

  He liked to think there was a wide gulf between someone like him and Bob Martin, but perhaps the gap wasn't so big after all.

  The rooms were spartan, spacious, and decorated with the same over-the-top redwood, the furniture airlifted straight form the '70s. A faint dank smell pervaded both rooms, which may have been why the windows were cracked open. They were sparkling clean, though, no doubt a testament to Sonya's housecleaning abilities, and the beds were large and firm enough to do the job. A big bed, a built-in desk, a couple of chairs—Gage didn't need much else. They brought in their bags, refreshed for a few minutes, then got together in Gage's room to call Sonya from the room phone.

  It didn't take long. Her spoken English was a bit disjointed, but she understood him perfectly well—especially when Gage made it clear he understood all about Bob Martin's dirty little secret. Her English also seemed to improve when he explained that he was going to do everything he could to leave her, Bob Martin, and the Mill Creek Motel out of this so long as she cooperated and told him everything she knew about the housekeeper she knew as Mary.

  "I don't know her much," Sonya said, raising her voice to speak over a baby crying in the background. "She clean rooms. Then she meet a man and leave."

  "After she had her little blow-up with your boss," Gage said.

  "Yes," Sonya said. "But I think maybe she leave anyway. She was scared."

  "Scared of what?"

  "Of someone finding her. She say only one time, when we talk about how rude some boys were who stay there to surf beach, she say, 'I was with a man much worse.' And I ask her who, but she not tell me. I think this man look for her."

  "Do you have any idea where she was from?" Gage asked.

  "No," Sonya said.

  "Or anything else that might help me figure out who she is?"

  "No. I wish I help more. Oh, creo que ella era rica ... I mean, I think she very rich before."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Because she very bad at cleaning. Muy mal. Like she never have to even clean one toilet in her life. She did not know what a toilet brush is. But I show her and she learn fast. She get good. So she not dumb. She just not know."

  Gage didn't get the sense that she was holding anything back. He thanked her for her help, told her he might call again but only if it was really necessary, and hung up. Mostly it was because his eyes felt like they were coated in lead. The little digital clock next to the bed showed that it was just past eleven, but it felt much later, another day, another week. A lifetime had passed since they'd left Barnacle Bluffs that morning.

  Tatyana, who'd been standing at the window, turned to face him. Far from the bedside lamp that lit the room, she stood partly in shadow, the walkway lights outside casting her blonde curls with an amber hue. Something about her shape, the way the jeans hugged tight to the curve of her hips, was alluring. The little denim jacket, which actually hid most of her curves, still managed to offer a tantalizing promise of what lie beneath. He marveled at himself. Even after everything that had happened, even as tired as he was, he couldn't help but be attracted to her. He caught the glint of the CK necklace and wondered, again, who had given it to her. Tatyana. Tatyana Brunner. So many layers. Such a complicated woman.

  Sitting as he was on the bed, the two of them alone in the room, the mood changed. He could sense it. When Tatyana spoke, her voice had a slightly husky quality.

  "Learn anything?" she asked.

  "Excuse me?"

  "From Sonya."

  "Oh right." Gage relayed Sonya's half of the conversation, then said, "Unfortunately, it's not enough to prove that she didn't kill Marcus."

  "She doesn't seem to have a motive."

  "Not an obvious one, that's for sure. Why would she kill a man she had just met, a man who was taking her away from all of this? If we can catch the other guy who tried to kill me, maybe the police can offer to cut him a deal for testifying against whoever is behind this. My bet is on Omar Koura. He must have wanted Marcus killed."

  "Why?"

  "I'm sure it has something to do with eTransWorld."

  "But I thought you said Marcus had already sold his half of the business."

  "Well, that's the official story," Gage said. "Who knows what was really going on between them. This is a pretty shady financial company dealing with pretty shady people, after all."

  "And if we can't find this other man? Or if he will not turn against Omar?"

  Gage shrugged. "I admit, we don't have much else to go on yet. There might be enough already to create reasonable doubt in a jury's mind that Miranda is guilty, but I'd hate to pin our hopes on that. Any ideas?"

  Tatyana fell silent. He couldn't tell if her eyes were closed or open. He liked looking at her, hoping she would just go on standing there. He knew she'd said nothing was going to happen between them tonight, but as long as she was in his room, he could pretend.

  "Maybe we're digging into the wrong person's past," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've been trying to figure out who Miranda is because of the amnesia. But maybe we should be trying to figure out a little more about what Marcus was up to before he set sail. Instead of proving Miranda is innocent, maybe we should be trying to prove that someone else is guilty."

  "Hmm. I'm trying to avoid a trip to San Jose, but I suppose I'll go down there if need be."

  "You might start by talking to his ex-girlfriend. There might be things she would tell you that she will not tell the police."

  "Actually," Gage said, remembering what Quinn had said back in the hospital a few days earlier, "I think the police got their information f
rom Omar. I don't know if anyone has talked to her directly at all. Would be pretty easy to check to see if Miranda was his girlfriend down there, so I doubt Omar would lie about that. But she might have something to say that he didn't want us to hear. Hey, you're a pretty smart cookie, you know?"

  "Well, I do have a medical degree," Tatyana said. "I guess that means I'm not a complete dummy."

  "My dear," Gage said, "I can think of many words to describe you, but dummy is not one of them."

  "Oh? And what words might those be?"

  "I better not say. They might give you the wrong idea."

  "And what idea would that be?"

  "Oh, I think you know."

  "Pretend I don't."

  Her tone was coy, playful. He couldn't see her face well enough to read her expression. What was she doing? She'd already drawn the line between them they weren't going to cross. He didn't want to be presumptuous, take the chance on offending her.

  "Well," he said, "I could give you a long list of adjectives that are much more fitting than the word dummy, but under the circumstances I think you would question the sincerity of my motives. Let's say we call it a night, okay? This bed is just begging me to use it, and I think eight hours of sleep will do me a world of good."

  "Yes, I think rest is a good idea." Her playful tone was gone. "I should go back to my room. Maybe you will have a brilliant insight while you sleep and figure out everything in the morning. Then this will all be over."

  "Don't count on it. I can barely think straight even when I'm conscious. We'll head back to Barnacle Bluffs first thing, okay?"

  "All right. Good night then?"

  "Yes, good night."

  She put her hand on the door knob, but didn't not turn it. She stood like that for a while, then bowed her head.

  "Tatyana?" he said.

  "I hate to admit this," she said, "but I am a little afraid to go back to my room."

  "Oh."

  "I hate seeming so weak."

  "You're not weak. You're human. We do have police protection, you know? And the chances of that guy trying to do something, after everything that's happened, are pretty slim."

  "I know." She looked at him, hand still on the door knob. "But maybe I could sleep in here? I mean, on the floor?"

  "Honestly, you're probably better off in your own room. In the slim chance that somebody came after me, at least you wouldn't be in the line of fire."

  "Oh. I guess that's true."

  The way she nodded, it was as if she was trying to convince herself, but she didn't move. It was obvious to Gage, as it should have been from the beginning, that logic and reason weren't going to assuage her fears. He felt like a heel for even trying.

  "What am I saying?" he said. "Of course you can stay in here. But you take the bed and I'll take the floor."

  "Absolutely not."

  "Tatyana—"

  "No, no, no," she said. "I'm the one imposing. I will definitely take the floor, no matter how much it hurts your pride. I will just go get a pillow and bedding from my room, okay? Just make it a bit more comfortable."

  "All right," he said.

  "All right?"

  "Yes."

  She nodded, then turned back to the door, hand still on the knob. But she didn't turn it. A truck passed on the highway. The pop machine across the parking lot rattled out a can for someone. The seconds ticked away.

  "Do you want me to go with you?" Gage asked.

  "No."

  "What then?"

  She sighed. "I don't want to sleep on the floor."

  "Well, like I said, I'm more than willing—"

  "I don't want you to sleep on the floor either."

  "Oh. Well ..."

  He trailed off. Was she really saying what he thought she was saying? She locked the door, and the click of the deadbolt was answer enough. When she turned around, slowly, with purpose, it was even more clear what her intentions were. Gage was no womanizer, at least not by his own standards, but he'd been with enough women over the years to recognize the steady look in Tatyana's eyes—a mixture of appraisal and hunger, of desire and trepidation.

  "But I thought you said—" Gage began.

  "I changed my mind," she said.

  "Are you sure? I don't want you to do anything you regret."

  "I won't regret it."

  "It's probably just your nerves. When people are frightened—"

  "Garrison, it's not that either."

  "You say that, but I don't want to take advantage of you. You just said you were scared to be alone."

  "Yes."

  She took off her denim jacket and laid it on the back of the chair near the door. She slipped off her shoes, her socks. Then, while looking at him, a bit of rabbit fear in her eyes, she started to unbutton her shirt.

  "Tatyana ... " Gage began.

  "Shh. I know myself. I am scared to be alone tonight, but that's not the only reason I want to be here with you. That's what I just realized. I realized if I was lying on the floor, I would just be thinking all night about being held by you. Something has changed, changed inside of me. I don't want to wait anymore. I was more afraid of being with a man again than being alone. I was never afraid of being alone before. I wanted to be alone. So this is a very different feeling. It's not just because of the danger."

  While she spoke, she worked her way down all the buttons, then slipped off the shirt and laid it, too, on the back of chair. She did this with such deliberate care that it was actually more tantalizing to Gage than if she had been trying to do a more traditional striptease. He was only slightly surprised to find that her blue bra perfectly matched the color of her shirt. He was even less surprised to find that the shape of the body beneath the shirt exceeded what he had imagined, and he had imagined the body of some kind of goddess.

  This was a goddess. It was only more so when she slid off her tight designer jeans, folded them neatly, and placed them on the seat of the chair. Blue lace panties, blue silk bra, and her CK necklace—that's all that stood between him and her naked body. It was not that everything about her was perfect. In isolation, her shoulder blades might have been a little too pronounced, her breasts just a tiny bit lopsided, her stomach not quite as flat as some kind of ideal, but like all goddesses, Tatyana wove these imperfections into a perfect whole.

  She took a tentative step, bare feet silent on the thin carpet. The swish of her blonde hair, and the way it fell over her bare shoulders, mesmerized him.

  "I'm a little nervous," she said.

  "You don't have to do this."

  "If you say that again, I think I will yell at you."

  "Okay."

  "Just promise you won't laugh. If I do something wrong."

  "Tatyana, I could never laugh at you. You're beautiful in every way."

  Her eyes started to mist before she shook her head, a vigorous, forceful shake, the way she might have tried to shake water out of her hair. She unbuttoned her bra and slipped off her panties, and these she simply let fall to the floor. Here was the goddess, naked and pure, standing before him with wide-eyed expectation. He felt as he always did when a woman chose to give herself to him in this way: unworthy. Grateful, yes, he felt that, too, gratitude in abundance, but the unworthiness was like something cold clenching over his heart.

  This passed. It had to pass, if only because eventually masculine desire always swamped all other feelings. The world had suddenly gone quiet, Gage's heartbeat loud in his ears. There were no tan lines, but the flesh around her breasts and thighs was slightly more pale, all of it as smooth and white as milk. He had the feeling that if he touched her, her skin would ripple like the surface of a pond. Perhaps she was like a reflection in that pond, and if he touched her, it would all go away.

  "I want you to see me," she said.

  "Oh, I see you."

  "Do you? Nobody ever really sees me. I want you to see me. Call me beautiful again."

  "You're beautiful."

  "Call me good. Call me a good person."


  "You're a good person."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Tatyana—"

  "Shh. It's all right. Garrison?"

  "Yes?"

  "What are you waiting for?"

  Since Gage couldn't think of a good answer to that question, he stopped waiting and reached for her.

  Chapter 14

  If Tatyana's lovemaking skills were rusty, the rustiness certainly did not last long. Her first tentative touches suddenly gave way to ravenous grasping and clutching. In the span of a few seconds, she went from gingerly stroking Gage's cheek, in a way someone might touch a crystal figurine, to grabbing and ripping at his belt buckle. What he had presumed would be a slow and sensual affair, with lots of false starts and tender give and take, turned into something much more frenetic.

  It bordered on violence, the way she acted, her fingers scratching across his back like claws, her touches more akin to punches and shoves. He expected this mood to burn out quickly, that it was the result of a lot of pent-up hormones, but whatever rocket fuel she had stored inside her seemed to be in endless supply. It went on this way for hours, testing his stamina, each time leaving them both sweaty and spent, and yet within minutes she was on him again, yearning for more, always more.

  At some point, no matter how much he wanted to will himself to stay with her, the deep fatigue of the long day and his injuries must have finally caught up with him, because suddenly he was opening his eyes to darkness. Tatyana lay pressed against him, naked flesh against naked flesh, her head on his chest. He saw a vertical bar of light between the closed curtains, a red glowing dot on the ceiling where the fire alarm was, a green glow off to his left where the digital clock sat on the nightstand.

  His own breathing stirred her hair, and he breathed in the smell of her, of cooled sweat and sex, of some honey scent of her shampoo tinged with remnants of the ocean breeze. He felt a tangle of sheets around his ankles, but otherwise they lay completely exposed. He might have been cold except that she had tried to press every bit of her body against his own. One of her hands pressed against his chest, as if she had been feeling his heartbeat.

  "Awake?" he whispered.