ShadowsintheMist

by Maureen McMahon

  “I called the doctor. He’s a friend of Dad’s,” David said. “He can’t come to the house but he said to keep an eye on you and if this sort of thing happens again, you’re to go straight to the hospital. He said there’s a flu going around that’s pretty potent.”

  I nodded. “I have been feeling a bit run-down lately.”

  Grant came to stand behind David and the scowl on his face made it apparent he didn’t approve. “I think we should take you over right now and see what’s wrong.”

  “No.” Pain shot through my head as I shook it. “I’ll be all right. I’m sure the doctor’s right. It’s just a bug. Thanks for all the concern but I think all I need is some sleep.”

  Martha appeared at the door and it took nearly twenty minutes to convince them all I didn’t need anything and didn’t want anyone sitting by my bedside. I agreed to leave the door ajar, so someone could look in on me now and then. They drifted out, leaving me to sink into a deep, thankfully dreamless, sleep.

  * * * * *

  In the morning, I opened my eyes tentatively. The dizziness was gone and my stomach was no longer queasy. I was just about to attempt to sit up when Grant popped his head around the door.

  “Awake? How do you feel?”

  “I don’t know yet. So far, so good though.”

  “Can I come in?”

  I nodded.

  He entered, balancing a tray with dexterity on the fingertips of one hand, a white cloth draped over his arm.

  “Your breakfast, madam,” he announced with aplomb. He set the tray down on my bedside table, shook out the napkin and placed it over my lap. With a dramatic flourish, he lifted the lids on the dishes one by one. “Dry toast. Unadulterated oatmeal. And an excellent vintage Jell-O water.”

  I grimaced. “You’re joking, I hope.”

  He looked pained. “I made it all myself. It’s what my mother used to give me when I was sick. Try it.”

  I inspected the offerings and bit into the toast, surprised at how hungry I suddenly felt. Grant sat down on a chair nearby and kept vigil until I finished, encouraging me with nods of approval and a fierce scowl if I balked. Afterward, appeased, he removed the tray and grinned. “My, we are better this morning!”

  “Mmm,” I agreed around a mouthful of porridge. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “This is nothing. You should taste my fettuccine marinara. Magnifique!” He kissed his fingertips.

  “Good Lord, don’t let Lottie hear you!” Anyone dabbling in Lottie’s kitchen courted serious injury.

  Grant cocked a confident brow. “Lottie’s a lamb. You just have to know how to get on her good side.”

  “And I’m sure you’re an expert at that!”

  He gave me a conspiratorial wink and I had to smile. Despite all my doubts about Grant, he could be irresistible when he put his mind to it. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop the rush of attraction that filled me when he smiled just so, or the tingle of excitement when his fingers brushed mine. I rarely had trouble with self-control but the charm or charisma or whatever it was that Grant exuded, seemed to scramble my brain. I lowered my eyes, afraid he might see the turmoil there and reminded myself that Grant might very well be a cold-blooded killer.

  “How come you’re not in Chicago?” I asked, noting his faded jeans and bulky sweatshirt.

  “It’s Sunday. Even I’m not that dedicated.” He paused. “I was wondering, though, if you’d feel up to a drive? That is if you’re recovered enough? It looks like it’s going to be a nice day and I have a feeling it may be our last chance to enjoy the fall colors before the snow sets in.”

  I didn’t answer right away and he sighed. “You still don’t trust me?”

  I shrugged. “I’m finding it hard to trust anyone.”

  “Except David.” He glowered.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  At my look of stubborn defiance, he softened. “Never mind. I suppose logically I’d make a prime candidate for manic perversion. If I didn’t know better, even I’d suspect me!”

  I gave him a grudging smile. I knew I should turn him down but something in me wanted desperately to trust him. If he wanted to do me harm, he’d already had plenty of opportunities.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll go. It’ll be nice to get some fresh air.”

  “You’re welcome to take along a bodyguard.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He threw up his hands. “Hey, I’m only trying to make you feel at ease.”

  “Then, get out of here so I can get dressed!”

  He flashed me that winning smile, lifted my hand and kissed it. The brush of his lips sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. He looked up, searching my face. Our eyes locked and time froze as battles raged within. Finally and I thought, with reluctance, he released my hand and left without another word.

  I stared after him, still frozen with strange, unbidden emotions. Martha’s words echoed in my mind. “He loves you, you know. Has for a very long time.” This time, they didn’t seem so unbelievable and a surge of exhilaration swept over me.

  So much had changed and yet so little. There was still David and, despite my desperate attempts to reclaim my feelings for him, I knew deep down it wasn’t going to work. My emotions were more muddled than ever. I was certain the bulk of them had to do with habit and a need to cling to old securities. They were nothing like the awakening emotions I felt for Grant. Still, I was finding it more and more difficult to trust my instincts. Logic reminded me that I was leaving myself wide open for, at best, disillusionment, at worst, mortal danger. But, for once, I refused to listen. It was time I faced up to and accepted my own long repressed desires.

  In the past, the pressures of living up to the Dirkston name and the inbred fear of disappointing Leo effectively inhibited my personal relationships. It must have been the same with Anna. I was beginning to wonder if it was Grant that Anna feared or the raw attraction he exuded. She would know that her only daughter, so much like herself, would be all too susceptible and such a romantic alliance would certainly be discouraged.

  Or would it?

  It was Leo who had forced our marriage in the first place. Why? David would surely have been a better match—well-bred, well-known, stable, reliable, a friend of the family since birth. Perhaps we all misjudged my father. Perhaps he knew me even better than I knew myself and, in his own inimitable way, tried to force me to accept what lay in my heart all along. If only I could talk to him now, I thought sadly. His death left so many unanswered questions.

  I was surprised at how well I felt considering the previous night’s episode. If I was indeed suffering from a virus, it had come and gone with uncanny speed. Aside from a moderate weakness of muscles and overall sluggishness, I felt no other ill effects.

  I dressed warmly. The mild temperatures of our recent Indian summer had disappeared overnight replaced by a crisp chill of impending snow. It wasn’t unusual at this time of year to enjoy a comfortable swim in the pool one day only to find a layer of ice on it the next. As Darla pointed out, it was next to impossible to dress correctly.

  As if I mentioned her name aloud, there was a cursory rap on the door and Darla appeared. Initially annoyed at the intrusion, I bit back an inhospitable remark and kept silent, refusing to let anyone destroy my good mood.

  “Oh, you’re up. Well, that’s a good sign. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “David’s taking me out fishing today. If I’d known you were better, I’d have asked him if you could come too.”

  I finished pulling the coverlet up on my bed and gritted my teeth. So, she’d come to gloat. Well, two could play that game! “As a matter of fact, Grant and I have made other plans.”

  To my surprise, this didn’t provoke a reaction. She merely nodded and smiled. “Well, just don’t overdo it. You never know about these bugs. One minute you feel great and the next…”

 
“Don’t worry, Darla, if I feel another attack coming on, I’ll be sure to let someone know.”

  She disappeared with a wave of her hand and a smug grin on her face. I felt a childish urge to stick my thumbs in my ears, poke out my tongue and waggle my fingers at her retreating figure. Instead, I pummeled the pillow with unnecessary violence before placing it on the bed. I was sick of everyone treating me as though I were an invalid.

  Did they all assume I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown? This thought in itself was disturbing, for they only knew a small portion of the strange illusions my mind had been playing on me over the past weeks and this latest episode was truly frightening. I’d had various types of influenza before but they’d never affected me like this!

  Grant was in his office when I went downstairs. He had several papers spread out before him and was dictating into a small, handheld tape recorder.

  “Despite fluctuations in market averages, it’s been a favorable year with positive gains on all fronts. We look forward to—” He looked up and took his thumb off the button. “Ah, you’re ready.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” I said and flopped down in the deep leather chair opposite him.

  “No problem. Just working on the annual report.”

  “A good year?”

  “Not bad, so far. Could’ve been better.” He sighed. “Your father was a helluva lot better at this sort of thing.”

  “Too much for you, eh?” I gave him a sly glance.

  He shrugged and looked pensively out the window. “It’s funny how you dream of doing something all your life and when you actually have the opportunity, you find it’s not really what you wanted after all.”

  “Isn’t being chairman of Dirkston Enterprises rewarding enough?”

  “Oh, sure. It definitely boosts the ego. But it takes a certain hardness of character I’m afraid I haven’t developed yet.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  He smiled, choosing to ignore the barb. “Your father had it. He could let a man go who’d worked with him for years without blinking an eye. And yet, at the same time, he could hire someone just because they were down on their luck—even invent a position for them, if there was nothing available.” He shook his head. “I never understood him. I don’t know if I would have wanted to.”

  I was silent, trying to reconcile this statement with Grant’s insistence that Mike Kensington be let go. But I didn’t want to start another argument. Instead, I encouraged his sudden confidence.

  “Don’t try to be like Dad,” I said. “For one thing, it would be impossible. And for another, I wouldn’t like you as well if you were.”

  He turned and looked at me with a deep seriousness that made me acutely uncomfortable. “And do you?” he asked in a low voice. “Like me, I mean?”

  I laughed. “What a question! No. I hate you! You’re irritating, unpredictable, overbearing, chauvinistic…”

  He came around the desk and pulled me to my feet, silencing me with a kiss that left me stunned. Electric sensations shot through me and I stepped back.

  “What was that for?” I asked shakily.

  His gaze was warm. “Because you’re right about me. Also, because you’re stubborn, inflexible, argumentative and exasperating. And because I like you too.”

  I smiled, though I knew my cheeks were flaming. He smiled back and I noticed, for the first time in a long time, the line between his brows, etched from months of strain and worry, had smoothed and his eyes were clear and unveiled.

  I turned away and gathered my coat from the chair, trying not to wonder if he was sincere or merely concentrating his efforts on swaying my allegiance. My hands trembled.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “It’s stuffy in here.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Man is a torch borne in the wind; a dream

  But of a shadow, summed with all his substance.

  George Chapman, Bussy d’Amois, act 1, sc. 1

  We drove north along the lakeside, following less frequented roads which cut through the burnished forest and provided an uninterrupted pageantry of autumn’s brilliant fashions. Maples were mottled orange and yellow, silver birch topped with russet and gold. Poison sumac thrust up soft crimson spears as though begging to be stroked. And rising over them all, the stolid, thickly-plumed pines, unaffected by temperature change, were still heavily robed with blue-green needles and brown cones.

  There were a number of signs to warn motorists to be on the lookout for deer. They made themselves scarce during the day but at dusk could be seen grazing close to the roadside, occasionally darting across in front of oncoming cars in response to mysterious, instinctive urges.

  Grant was silent and I was happy to watch the passing scenery. Despite my familiarity with the beauty of the local terrain, I never grew tired of it. Too soon, the colors would slip to the ground and leave only slick, bare limbs to wait pathetically for the winter clouds to dump their load of snow and wrap them in crystalline whiteness for the interim. Today, the sun shone with a brilliant but waning warmth, as though in a last feeble tribute to summer.

  Grant lit a cigarette and offered it to me. I took it automatically and opened the window a crack while he lit another for himself.

  “You’re a rotten influence,” I muttered, inhaling the noxious smoke and trying not to feel guilty.

  “No more than you are. Do you realize what hell I go through every time I try to light a cigarette in the house?”

  I smiled. “Martha?”

  “Martha, Lottie, Colin…even Alicia, the little hypocrite!”

  “Alicia doesn’t smoke.”

  “Yes and that’s about all she doesn’t do.”

  I glanced at him. “You seem to know a lot about Alicia’s habits.”

  “It would take a blind, deaf mute not to know she’s got a problem with drugs,” he said. “It’s been getting worse the last couple of years. That accidental overdose came as no surprise to anyone.”

  I didn’t comment, preferring to believe my naiveté was a result of prolonged absences. My information regarding Beacon’s private melodramas was apparently very much out of date.

  “Things have changed since you moved out,” Grant said, reading my mind.

  “Not as much as I’d have liked,” I muttered, considering with bitterness the undercurrent of antipathy and mistrust that surrounded us all.

  We fell silent again. The car slowed as we passed through Elberta and Frankfort. To our left, I could just make out glimpses of Lake Michigan beyond the rise of dunes, while to the right, Crystal Lake glittered invitingly through the trees.

  This smaller lake and its environs was a popular resort area. In summer, visitors clamored to share in the fishing, hiking and trail biking, or for the less sports-minded, sunbathing, beachcombing or shopping at the quaint boutiques huddled along its shores. One could spend quite a few pleasant days investigating the many antique shops, sampling the cuisine of neat little restaurants, or just strolling along cobbled walkways lined with old-fashioned gingerbread cottages.

  In winter, Crystal Lake Ski Resort opened its arms to anyone who enjoyed the dubious pleasure of skiing. I was an armchair skier myself, preferring the safety and warmth of the lodge and a cup of hot mulled wine.

  The road continued along the coast and the dunes on our left rose to towering heights. This was Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park, the largest moving sand dune in the world. Each year some twenty-five miles of sand rose, fell, flattened or dipped with the whims of the weather so each day presented a new landscape.

  Grant pulled the car to a stop at one of the Scenic Platform signs. There was an arrow indicating a steep path that wove its narrow way up through the underbrush. I frowned. I didn’t relish accompanying Grant to a cliff edge with only a small retaining wall separating me from a sheer drop.

  He must’ve sensed my lack of enthusiasm. “All right. Forget it,” he grumbled. “I just thought you might like to stretch your legs.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say an
ything!” I cried in defense.

  “You didn’t have to. You know, Suzie, sometimes you’re as clear as glass. Do you think I was planning to throw you from the precipice to the jagged rocks below? You’ve been reading too many of your own novels!”

  I glared at him. “My novels don’t have precipices. Neither do they have women being lured to their demise by evil husbands. If it’s all the same to you, however, I’d prefer to have the courtesy of a few witnesses.”

  He grunted and started the engine again.

  “Where are we going anyway?” I asked. “Or have I already ruined your plans?”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t really make any plans. You may find this hard to believe but I actually thought the drive and change of scenery might help you relax a little.”

  “I am relaxed.”

  “Is that why your face has been puckered with frown lines ever since we left?”

  I forced my brow to smooth and realized he was right. The muscles ached from the intensity of my scowl. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “I know you still don’t trust me,” he said. “But I suppose that’s good. It means you have a healthy respect for the danger you’re most probably in.”

  I shot him a wary glance. “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t Davison spell it out for you? He’s undoubtedly asked you to make yourself scarce until they catch whoever’s been murdering your friends and relatives.”

  “As a matter of fact, he did but I said I wouldn’t go.” I stared at him with rising suspicion. “But how do you know that?”

  He sighed. “I told you I was working with them, didn’t I? What do I have to do to convince you I’m on your side?”

  “Well, you could catch the real culprit or show me a badge—or ‘take me to your leader’.”

  The slump of his shoulders indicated his unwillingness or inability to comply with any of these conditions. “I don’t suppose you’d at least tell me if you uncovered anything in the way of clues?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Would you?”

  “If I could, I would but—”