by Judi Lind
“If you don’t need us, Miriam, think we’ll go downstairs and see what the others are up to.” Storm eased Elisa’s chair out.
“Are you sure we can’t help?” she asked.
Swiveling her head, Miriam called over her shoulder. “Told you I don’t like anybody messing around in my kitchen. Now go on downstairs and visit with the others.”
When they reached the cellar, the Bowmans, Hank, Carey and Heather were gathered around a large card table, engaged in a boisterous game of Trivial Pursuit. As usual, David Welton was off to himself, sitting on a camp chair in the corner, flipping through a magazine.
“That’s not fair.” Heather yelled. “He always gets the easy questions.”
“Whine, whine…” Carey grinned as he stuck a colored wedge in his game piece.
Storm and Elisa hung around the table, watching their progress, until Carey answered the last question correctly and won the game with a loud victory whoop.
Mark Bowman flexed his arms above his head. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready for a break.”
“Quitter,” Betty teased, but rose to her feet when he did. “Think I’ll find a quiet corner and read for a while. I’ve only got twenty pages left, and I’m dying to know who the villain is.”
“So am I,” Storm muttered under his breath. Heather glanced up sharply, and he realized she must have heard him. He had to be more careful, or he’d alert the would-be killer.
Carey Howard looked around the room, a triumphant grin on his face. “Okay, who’s next? Who among you care to challenge the master?”
Hank stood up and lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Not me. A man doesn’t need to have his shortcomings exposed twice in a row. I’m going up and tune in the shortwave. Sure wish ol’ Jake would either come on or go away. This danged waiting is getting me down.”
“How about you, Dave? Care to join us?” Despite their words of the evening before, Carey Howard, at least, seemed content to let bygones be bygones.
The lawyer tossed aside his magazine. “No. But thank you. I think I’ll join our host at the radio. Maybe get an idea of how many more eons I’m going to be stuck in this hellhole.”
Storm’s backbone tensed. David Welton must be the token attorney who kept the stereotype alive; he was rude, obnoxious, condescending and pompous beyond belief. Waiting out a hurricane was hard on everybody. But this group had every convenience, pleasant company to share the tension, enough food and water and a very sturdy shelter. Storm was glad Hank had already gone upstairs; he wouldn’t take kindly to hearing his beloved hotel referred to as a hellhole.
Heather chimed in. “So how about you two?”
“Sure, I’m game,” Storm replied, happy for a chance to keep Elisa in sight.
When she continued to hesitate, Heather waggled her eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. “I realize you probably have other things you’d rather be doing, but you have to rest sometime.”
“Give it a break,” Elisa snapped. “I’m getting weary of the innuendo.”
Heather threw the die onto the game board, and glared at her friend. “What is eating you? For the past two days you’ve been snapping and snarling like a dog tied just out of reach of the neighborhood cat. Now tell me what’s up!”
Elisa’s chewed on her lower lip. Instead of offering the apology Heather seemed to expect, she said, “Actually, I would like to talk to you for a few minutes before we start the next game. Alone, if that’s okay.”
Carey leaped up like an obedient servant. “I need to visit the, uh, little boys’ room. If you ladies will excuse me?”
“Anybody need something to drink?” Storm asked. “I’m going to see if Miriam has any of her homemade cookies hidden away.”
The two women shook their heads as the men disappeared up the staircase.
When they were alone, Elisa sat across from Heather. “I wanted to talk to you about Jay.”
“Jay! I knew that damned David Welton was going to stir up trouble.”
Elisa’s hand slipped into her pocket, and she fingered the computer disk. “This has nothing to do with David. It’s about the letter Jay mailed to me.”
Leaning back in her chair, Heather cast an appraising gaze across the table. “What did he say? You know he was under a great deal of stress those last weeks, so I wouldn’t pay much attention if he said anything, er, strange.”
“What do you mean ’strange’?” Elisa frowned.
“I don’t know, just strange. He was like a different person before he died, shouting, accusing, all sorts of odd behavior. To tell you the truth, I was looking for another job.”
Elisa didn’t doubt her claim. The night before his death, Jay had shouted accusations at her. But this was the first time Heather had hinted of problems in the office.
“Why haven’t you told me all this before?” Elisa wanted to believe her friend, but to do so she would have to accept harsh truths about a man she’d once cared for.
Heather tucked a strand of copper hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. At first you were so banged up, it never occurred to me to discuss anything serious. Then, when you started healing and couldn’t remember stuff, I figured the less you had to worry about, the better off you’d be. Besides, with Jay gone, there didn’t seem much point.”
A spear of guilt shot through Elisa; she should be ashamed of having doubted her friend’s motives. Even momentarily. Trust Heather to always have a logical explanation. Since the moment Elisa awakened in the hospital, the younger woman had been her constant companion. As punctual as a precisely tuned Swiss clock, Heather had skipped into the hospital at two sharp, every afternoon. She’d brought flowers, candy, balloons, raunchy get-well cards, and always a funny story to cheer her friend.
So how could Elisa question her veracity now?
“Anyway,” Heather said, breaking into her troubled thoughts. “You never said what was in the letter.”
Elisa shook her head. “Nothing. Literally. At least, nothing I could understand.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“I hope so. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Was Jay having…business or money troubles?”
Heather’s blue gaze darted away and settled on a spot behind Elisa’s shoulder. “I don’t know for sure. But…but I was suspicious. He seemed awfully worried about something. I didn’t have access to the clients’ accounts, of course, but I knew if a securities broker went under and lost his clients’ money, that the feds would take over and indict the whole staff, including the janitor. That’s why I thought I should get out of there.”
Elisa nodded. “It all seems to fall together, then. The day he died, Jay mailed me a computer disk, with a brief note asking me to hold on to it until he wanted it again. Why do you think he’d do something like that?”
Heather sucked in a deep breath and seemed to consider the question. “You know, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but the only thing I can think of is a second set of books. I’m not into math or computers or anything, but what if he had set up some dummy accounts and was siphoning funds from his clients? Maybe he knew an audit was coming. He would have been disgraced, probably sent to jail, and his license would have been permanently revoked. Under that kind of threat, his suicide is understandable.”
Elisa lifted her hand to her mouth, as if she could physically hold back the tears that were scalding her throat. Could Heather’s conjecture possibly be true? If it was, it would explain so much. But what did it say about her? Was she such a poor judge of character that she could have dated a con man, a swindler, and never had a clue?
That was something she’d have to figure out later. But one thing was certain—she was going to be far more careful in the future. This wasn’t the first time she’d been involved with a deceitful man, but it was an error she didn’t intend to repeat.
The scuffle of footsteps and the murmur of male voices on the staircase heralded Storm and Carey’s return. She took Heather’s hand. “Thanks for sharing
with me. This must have been very distressing for you. I…I really appreciate all you’ve done for me this summer.”
Heather brushed her hand away and dismissed Elisa’s words with a toss of her head. “Don’t be silly. That’s what friends are for. Hi, guys!” She waved as the men thundered down the wooden steps into the cellar. Before they crossed the cavernous room, she leaned over and whispered, “So what are you going to do about the disk?”
Lowering her voice, as well, Elisa said, “If he was bilking his clients, this might help recover their money. As soon as I can get back to the mainland, I’m turning it over to the federal accountants who are closing up Jay’s office. If any of the other brokers were involved, I hope this puts them away for life.”
STORM’S JOVIAL MOOD lasted until about the middle of their second game. Heather’s high, whiny voice was getting on his nerves, and Carey’s instant obedience to her every command reminded him of an indulgent parent kowtowing to a rebellious two-year-old.
And since her private talk with Heather, Elisa had withdrawn into herself. She acted depressed. Morose. Scarcely seeming to recognize his existence.
When Heather finally squealed, “I won! I finally won!” Storm sighed with undiluted relief.
“I don’t know about anybody else, but I’ve had enough. Think I’ll try to find out what the latest weather report had to say. Elisa, are you coming or staying down here?”
“What?” She glanced up, her eyebrows raised as if she’d been startled. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
When he patiently repeated his question, she rose to her feet. He took that as an indication that she was going with him. As she silently climbed the narrow staircase ahead of him, Storm could almost see the yoke of anxiety on her slumped shoulders. What could Heather have said or done to pile on this additional burden?
“Anything you want to talk about?” he asked as they passed through the kitchen.
“No. I need to think something through.”
“Sometimes it helps to share.”
He pushed open the dining room door and stepped aside, holding the heavy door for her.
Taking a few steps across the hardwood floor, she paused and spun to face him. “I don’t understand this compulsion to hear all my problems. I thought you were a doctor, not a priest.”
Taken aback by her bluntness, he led the way to a small table in the corner. Gathering his thoughts, he glanced around the old-fashioned room. All the tables were set with snowy white linens. Pale lavender candles in small glass pots served as centerpieces, and the napkins wore matching lavender rings. The room was perfect. Pristine. Waiting for the dinner crowd that wasn’t coming. He wondered if this was how the dining room on the Titanic looked just before the ship went down.
He had the grim feeling that whatever progress he’d made with Elisa had just sunk to the bottom of the ocean floor.
She finally took the chair beside him and watched him with a wary eye.
Storm reached into his pocket and tossed his old business card on the table.
After a brief hesitation, she picked it up.
F. Storm Delaney, M.D.
Head of Pediatric Psychiatry
Confusion darkened her eyes to the color of charcoal. “You’re a psychiatrist? I thought you were a regular doctor. I mean, you put stitches in Brian’s arm. Is a shrink supposed to do that kind of thing?”
“For the record, I am a medical doctor. I went through the same grueling eight years as an internist. Then, when it came time to choose my specialty, I had another four years of intensive training in psychiatry. Granted, until these past few months I haven’t had much occasion to practice physical medicine, but I’ve managed to stay qualified and am licensed to do so. Any more questions about my qualifications?”
He watched her expressive face as she processed the information and came to a conclusion that sent a flush of anger to her cheeks. “You should have told me! Instead of letting me pour out all my problems like I was talking to a friend, when the whole time you were—”
“An experienced professional who might be able to offer real help, instead of well-meaning but useless advice?”
She leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “When you say it like that, it sounds so…so reasonable. I suppose you learned how to manipulate patients in Freudian Mumbo jumbo 101?”
He laughed. “Ah, a skeptic.”
“I don’t know,” she grudgingly admitted. “I’ve never been to a shrink, never even met one that I can recall.”
“Good for you. Your life must have been very stable and relatively untroubled. Until now.”
“What do you know about ’now’?”
He leaned back and propped his feet on an adjacent chair. “I know what you told me this morning. And a couple more things I’ve guessed. I’m hoping you’ll share the rest with me now.”
When she didn’t reply, he leaned across the table, taking care to keep his tone steady, relaxed and nonthreatening. “Look, Elisa, even without my training, I can still relate to your situation. I understand the guilt that sometimes goes along with being the survivor of a suicide victim. Your days and nights are haunted. Why hadn’t you foreseen this? What could I have done to save her? You feel guilty about everything, including still being alive. I know. Believe me.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” she breathed. “But tell me, Doctor, does your empathy come from personal or professional experience?”
“Both,” he said shortly.
In a rapid shift of subject, he said, “Look, I have two choices here—either I dismiss these apparent attempts on your life as a combination of your imagination and sheer coincidence, or I believe you. And you said someone is trying to kill you. Which option should I work from? Are you neurotic, paranoiac and mentally disturbed, as Heather implies, or do you truly believe your life is in jeopardy?”
She hesitated so long he feared she wasn’t going to answer at all. Finally, in a voice so soft he had to lean even closer in order to hear it, she murmured, “When those things happened, I wasn’t hallucinating, or under a paranoid delusion, if that’s the proper term. I felt those hands on my back. And there was no way I could have engineered that wardrobe crashing onto my bed. But in the light of day, although we haven’t actually had much light, it all seems so incredible. Unbelievable. So how would you diagnose that, Sigmund?”
“I don’t think we have a choice. We have to operate on the assumption that you were in full possession of your faculties when you fell down those stairs. To proceed otherwise would be foolhardy, and could cost you your life. The question now is, where do we start?”
She scrunched up her mouth and nibbled on her lower lip. Sadly shaking her head, she admitted, “That’s my problem in a nutshell, Storm. I’ve told you everything I know. This traumatic amnesia they say I have is keeping everything else locked in my brain. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember. I just can’t remember!”
Recognizing that she was pushing herself to the edge of her ability to cope, Storm decided to back off for now. She’d already opened up a great deal more than he had expected; maybe tomorrow they would make more inroads into her repressed memory bank.
Right now, he just hoped the killer was content to bide his or her time another day. When the generator was shut off tonight, and Elisa was alone in her room, she would be particularly vulnerable to another attempt on her life.
Chapter Ten
“Good night,” Elisa called down the corridor to the others who’d decided to continue the hurricane watch from the comfort of their own rooms.
She closed the door, and lit the lantern wick. Darkness scared her right now. Rotating her shoulders to relieve the kinks, she dropped, fully clothed, onto her bed, deeply thankful for the coming hours of repose and relative tranquillity. Shutting her eyes, she waited for the vivid images of the day’s events to fade. She was so weary. So confused.
But all Storm’s talk of a killer in the hotel had turned her mind into a frenz
ied maze of unanswered questions. Giving in to a driving need to make sense of the recent events, she meditated, willing her mind into a clean slate that would hold all her questions. And the pitifully few answers she had ferreted out.
First was the wholly unexpected news that Jay had named her sole beneficiary in his will. That was disturbing in itself, but perhaps even more so was the unanswered question of why David Welton had felt it necessary to bring the news in person. Could his appearance be as simple and kind-spirited as it seemed? Had he come all this way to warn her that the police were bound to suspect her in Jay’s unsolved death?
And Heather, with her quick and effortless explanations for every question Elisa posed. They’d been constant companions since Elisa’s release from the hospital. When Jay’s apparent suicide became public knowledge, why hadn’t Heather voiced her suspicions about her employer’s bookkeeping methods? Why wait until now, when they were incommunicado and couldn’t pass on the information to the proper authorities?
Thinking of Heather brought to mind the disk in her skirt pocket. With her eyes still closed, she tossed it on to the night table. She’d tuck it back between the mattress and box spring with the other documents later.
She was on the edge of dozing off when a soft tap sounded on the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Can I come in for a minute?”
Elisa sighed wearily and forced herself to be gracious. “Sure, Heather, come on in.”
The lanky redhead slipped in and perched on the edge of the bed. “Feeling any better?”
“Just a little tired.”
Heather smoothed the hair away from Elisa’s face. “I can imagine—you’ve really had a tough time lately. Listen, ’Leese, I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.”
“Forget it.”
“No, I can’t. I must be exhausted, too—I never lash out like that.”