Storm Warnings

by Judi Lind

  He scratched the reddish stubble along his jaw. “Well, you girls have been pretty good to a lonely old bachelor this summer. Especially Heather, always bringing me leftovers.”

  Elisa blanched. “Oh, my God!”

  Both men stepped forward, as if to catch her. She waved them away. “No, I’m not sick or dizzy. I just remembered, Brian doesn’t know yet—about Heather!”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said glumly. He opened his screen door and beckoned them to follow him inside. When they were seated in the dim, and noticeably cooler, great room, Brian wiped his eyes. “Hank Danziger was making the rounds of the island yesterday, making sure everybody was okay, and stopped by and told me. Saddest damn thing I ever heard of.”

  Storm and Elisa murmured their assent.

  Brian leaned forward and focused his pale blue gaze on Elisa. “What happened? I thought you two were such good friends.”

  Storm saw her eyelids flutter at Brian’s mild reproach. He wished he could take her pain, her undeserved guilt, and carry it on his own soul for a while. His protective instincts demanded he step in and stop McPherson’s interrogation. But Elisa was her own woman and needed to answer for herself. So he kept his counsel and waited, with Brian, for her reply.

  “I thought we were friends, too, Brian. That’s why we’re trying to find out what happened. Did Heather ever say anything…odd?”

  “About you?”

  “About anything,” Storm added.

  Brian’s huge fingers grazed his beard again. He stared into space, as if lost in thought. Finally, he shook his head. “Nope. Nothing that I can recall, anyway. Heather was always…real special, you know?”

  There didn’t seem to be much left to say. Storm and Elisa rose to their feet. “Thanks, anyway.”

  “Anytime,” he said, as he followed them to the door.

  The door to a study off the great room was standing open, and Storm noted an impressive array of computer equipment. “Whew! You could open your own computer store. Use all that in your work?”

  Brian nodded. “Thanks to computers, modems, faxes and the Internet, I was able to leave the city and keep my job.”

  “What line are you in?” Storm asked.

  “Crunching numbers and information,” Brian answered vaguely.

  The man was obviously still too grief-stricken to engage in polite conversation, so Storm took advantage of the lull to make their exit.

  Elisa was still unusually quiet. Ignoring her remoteness, Storm took her hand as they walked away from McPherson’s place. The only sound in the soundless midmorning air was their feet crunching on the mixture of sand and crushed seashells that created a path of sorts between the beach houses.

  “By the way,” Brian called out as they climbed into the Jeep, “according to Hank, the ferry’ll be running again in the morning. ’Course, no telling how long before the power’s restored.”

  Storm waved an acknowledgment and started the engine. When they drove away, Brian was standing on the porch again, his sad eyes following their departure.

  They rode in silence over the rutted and littered road to the village. Storm considered the ramifications of renewed ferry service to the mainland. Those stranded on the island would be free to leave in the morning. If he and Elisa failed in their efforts to identify Heather’s accomplice, a killer might very well go unpunished.

  A second, even more disturbing, thought surfaced. What if Elisa chose to take that ferry? Her life was in the city, and surely that was where she’d return at the first opportunity. Would she go back to New York, or return to her mother’s home in California?

  It didn’t really matter, he reflected. Either place would take her away from him.

  In more ways than one, time was running out.

  ELISA GLANCED across the bucket seats to where Storm was staring out the windshield, looking as though his mind were a thousand miles away. She knew he was thinking about the ferry; so was she. When that boat arrived in the morning, she and the others would no longer be confined to Double Dare Island.

  But, unlike the others, she was torn. Her mind told her to run for safety, run back to her friends and family. Her heart told her to stay. Explore the wonder they’d started to discover last night.

  But what did Storm want?

  As if feeling the searching heat of her gaze, he swiveled his head to face her. “Before we reach the hotel, I think we should come up with a game plan.”

  His husky voice was impersonal, detached. She locked away her troubled heart. He was right; they should stay focused on finding the killer. Only a few hours remained between the murderer and freedom. And once she left the island, Elisa knew, she’d be on her own against him.

  Forcing a layer of aloofness into her tone, she asked, “How do we go about questioning them? One at a time, or as a group, à la Agatha Christie?”

  “Individually, I think. Since neither of us are experienced investigators, if we have too many people to keep track of, we may miss some gesture or nuance.”

  Actually, Storm was quite experienced in interrogation, she thought. His years of studying and evaluating patients would prove invaluable in ferreting out the truth. But if their quarry was one of the hotel’s occupants, they’d already spent considerable time in his company without feeling any vibes. Anyone who could kill so brutally wouldn’t flinch at telling a few well-chosen lies.

  They pulled into the hotel drive and Storm eased along the side to the parking lot in the rear. Hank, Mark Bowman and David were dragging vegetation and refuse into a huge pile at the edge of the concrete pavement.

  “Why don’t you go on inside?” he said. “I want to talk to Hank for a minute.”

  “Sure.” Feeling like the unwanted thirteenth guest at a dinner party for twelve, Elisa slid off the high bucket seat and onto the ground.

  Tears stung her eyes as she hurried up the back steps and entered the quiet, deserted kitchen. For once, Miriam had abandoned her usual post, and Elisa had the comforting room all to herself. She took a soft drink from the cooler and sank into a chair at the kitchen table.

  The tears felt hotter now, more imminent. And she didn’t even know what she was crying about. As usual, Elisa’s inner voice knew when she was fudging the truth. It wasn’t the frustration, fear, guilt or despair of this long ordeal that was wearing her down. Her tears were for the lost intimacy she’d had with Storm last night.

  The soul-satisfying tenderness that no other man would ever be able to evoke in her. The tenderness that had been missing this morning.

  Sighing deeply, she mentally closed the book on any future with Storm Delaney. She stood up and arched her back. She might as well go upstairs and gather the rest of her things. Later, she’d have Storm drop her off at her cabin so that she could finish packing. Tomorrow, she would take the first ferry off the island.

  She heard the murmur of voices in the parlor, and treaded softly as she crossed the foyer to the staircase. The last thing she wanted—or needed—was another shouting match with Carey Howard.

  Luck was with her, for she didn’t encounter a soul on the short journey to her room. She hesitated outside the door. Her return to the scene of the crime. If she closed her eyes, she could still see Heather’s body, lying in a pool of her own blood. Every tiny detail was crystallized in her mind. The way Heather’s leg had crooked. That strand of red hair across her face. The smear of crimson where her bloody head had touched the dust ruffle.

  Blanking her mind to the abhorrent memory, Elisa pushed open the door.

  For the first time, she saw the bedroom in natural sunlight. The pale wallpaper with tiny pink cabbage roses was a perfect complement to the diaphanous white sheers at the window. The brass bed was dressed with a new coverlet, in pale mint green. It was a lovely room, decorated with gentility and taste. The sort of furnishings she might have chosen for herself.

  If not for the utter devastation.

  Her room had been ransacked. The perpetrator had been thorough and chaotic. The mat
tress was off the bed, its ticking ripped to shreds, bedsprings poking through the damaged covering. Every drawer had been rifled, and her clothing was strewn about haphazardly. Her favorite silk blouse was on the floor, trampled by muddy feet.

  Nothing had been spared. Even bath and cosmetic items in the bathroom had been opened and dumped on the floor. The plastic file with her personal papers had been ravaged, its contents ripped apart and discarded.

  The incongruous scent of spilled cologne and bath powder wafted through the room.

  Who, she wondered, could have done this? She knew why. The person who combed through her belongings had been looking for one thing: the computer disk. It was the obvious key. So far, it had caused the deaths of two people. People she’d cared about.

  But who knew she even had it? Unless Heather had told her confederate, Storm was the only other person who knew it was in Elisa’s possession. That detested niggling doubt wormed its way into her mind again. Storm had been at the hotel yesterday. Saying he was picking up clothing for her had given him the perfect excuse for being in her room.

  She clasped her hands over her mouth to keep from crying aloud. It had to be Storm. Or Heather’s vague, ghostly accomplice, who seemed to be everywhere at once. If he even existed. The idea of Heather having a partner in her crime had been Storm’s. And Elisa had been so quick to believe him.

  She rubbed her palms up her cheeks, stretching the supple flesh as if she could somehow flex her mind. If only she could recall the rest of that night, then she’d know for certain.

  Leaning against the door frame, she strove to sort out her contradictory emotions. One minute she was falling in love with Storm, the next she suspected him of murder. He was right on one account, at least. She obviously needed professional counseling.

  But as she relived the events of the past few days, the wonderful, generous, caring and exquisitely sensual side of Storm Delaney won hands down against her vague mistrust. He was no more capable of deliberate, cold-blooded murder than she was. He’d literally saved her life. He’d stood beside her when the others abandoned her. He’d even shared his own heartache. How could she have hoped for his love, when she hadn’t been able to give him her trust?

  Her hand slowly dropped to her waist, and she pulled up the edge of her T-shirt. Tucked into her waistband, where it had been since Storm retrieved it after Heather’s death, was the much-sought-after disk. Proof positive the killer wasn’t Storm. He’d known that blue floppy was with Elisa at his cabin. He hadn’t needed to search for it.

  Shame filled her at the realization that she’d needed his innocence verified, confirmed beyond a doubt, while his confidence in her had never wavered.

  She sank to the floor, just inside the doorway. She’d absorbed one too many shocks; one too many terrors. One too many ugly self-realizations. She’d reached the end of her emotional tether.

  STORM HAD BEEN WAITING for Elisa nearly a half hour when he finally climbed the stairs in search of her. Rounding the landing, he saw that her bedroom door was open. The distorted shadow of someone’s upper body and head was clearly visible on the hallway carpet. Unlike a human form, however, the shadow wasn’t moving, not even minutely. His steps quickened.

  “’Leese? Are you all right? What’s going on?”

  He reached the doorway and halted abruptly. She was sitting on the floor, her back to the doorway, her head bowed as if in prayer. Glancing past her, Storm saw that her room had been ransacked. And by someone who enjoyed destruction.

  Dropping to his knees behind the unmoving woman, he lightly touched her shoulders. “Elisa? It’s me, Princess. Everything’s going to be okay now. C’mon, let’s go downstairs and have lunch.”

  Slowly, as slowly as honey dripping through a pinhole, she lifted her head. Twisting her neck slightly, she faced him. “Guess I zonked out. Sorry.”

  Sorry? The man who’d destroyed her things and was dead-set on destroying Elisa was the one who was going to be sorry.

  Storm’s jaw clenched until his muscles ached. He’d never been angrier in his life. If he could get his hands on this bastard for just five minutes…

  Right now, though, Elisa was more important than his own feelings of inadequacy and powerless rage.

  Rising to his feet, he took her limp wrists and drew her upright. He ran his palms up her bare arms, over her shoulders and up the smooth dusky column of her neck. Cupping her face, he leaned close and whispered softly, “You have nothing—do you hear me?—nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I feel like such a weakling. Like I’m always falling apart and you have to patch me up again.”

  He shook his head in wonder. “Elisa Montoya, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. I spent two years locked away in my own guilt, my own self-pity, until you drew me out.”

  She didn’t comment or raise her eyes to meet his, but he sensed that his words were penetrating her despair. Tilting her chin until she was forced to look at him, Storm continued, “In the past two months you’ve gone through more emotional and physical havoc than most people face in a lifetime. And you have the nerve to call yourself weak? Give me a break, Princess—you make Schwarzenegger look like a wimp.”

  A tiny smile cracked her frozen expression. “A female Terminator, huh?”

  Relief washed over him. Once again, she’d found the emotional strength to pull herself out of shock. This woman was like a velvet-wrapped blackjack. Soft and fuzzy on the outside, with a forged-steel interior. Lightly kissing her forehead, he led her into the hallway, quietly pulling the door closed behind them.

  “Come on, Arnold, let’s go downstairs and terminate those suspects.”

  BUT THEORY proved easier than practice.

  Carey Howard flatly refused to discuss his relationship with Heather. “You’re only trying to muddy the waters, Doctor. The murderer is standing right beside you.”

  His baleful eyes tossed a scornful glance at Elisa. “Go ahead and keep trying to cover up. You’re not fooling anyone. All the smoke and mirrors you can drag out won’t erase what really happened to Heather. Believe me, the truth will come out soon enough when the police get here.”

  With that, he slammed his door in their faces.

  Was his refusal to discuss the matter a sign of guilt or of a broken heart? Storm couldn’t tell. He only knew Carey Howard was at the top of his list of suspects.

  The Bowmans agreed to speak only if they could remain together. Storm didn’t consider them serious suspects, although it was possible Mark and Heather had been having an affair behind Betty’s back. But Jay’s death had occurred at the height of tourist season on the island. Mark Bowman swore he hadn’t been ashore for more than a half day since April. Betty nodded her agreement. Unless she was covering up for him, Storm was ready to scratch him from the suspect list.

  Nor did Hank and Miriam provide any worthwhile information. Like the Bowmans, the hotel kept them firmly in place from late spring until fall. Miriam had gone to Norfolk for two days for dental work in early June, but since then, the Danzigers declared, they hadn’t left the island. The hotel demanded so much of their time, they even ordered groceries and cleaning supplies by phone.

  “Listen, you two,” Miriam said as they rose from the kitchen table. “I’m just an old country woman who didn’t get much schooling, but I know one thing. Evil is stalking this island right now. Steer clear of whoever this devil is. Don’t let him get his clutches into you kids.”

  Storm ran his knuckles along her withered cheek. “You ever decide to leave that old man of yours—” he winked at Hank “—you look me up.”

  “I’ll do that.” She tittered, twitching her shoulders like a schoolgirl. “Where are you two headed now?”

  “We want to talk to the others,” Elisa said.

  “Then we’re going back to my place,” Storm added. “I think Elisa will be safer there.”

  Hank drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop. “Don’t know, son, you’re a far piece away from town. You might be
a better target out there alone. Reckon you two ought to stay here tonight?”

  Storm chuckled. “You old miser, you just want two more nights’ rent.”

  “That would be fine, too,” the old man agreed.

  Miriam’s ever-present dishtowel snapped.

  “Ouch! What’s wrong with you, old woman?”

  “You let these kids stay where they’ve a mind to. They’ll come back for dinner. Won’t you?”

  Storm glanced at Elisa, as if waiting for her answer. “I, uh, don’t think so, Miriam.” The idea of Carey Howard’s hate-filled eyes staring at her across the table would ruin everyone’s meal.

  But Miriam wouldn’t accept no for an answer. Hank was going to fry his infamous Southern-style chicken, and she’d already made coleslaw and baked beans. Miriam allowed as how she was even considering frying up some hush puppies. “So you just have to come,” she concluded. “This is our last night. We have to celebrate surviving the hurricane. It’s tradition.”

  Elisa refused to show her ignorance by inquiring what manner of food a hush puppy might be. She tried to think of an excuse for declining the invitation that Miriam would understand. Finally, she settled on the truth. “I just don’t want to get into another wrangle with Carey. It’s not fair to anyone.”

  Miriam swallowed her in a fleshy embrace. “Why, bless your soul, child. He’s just upset. Carey doesn’t mean any harm. Besides, it’s such a pretty evening, we’re going to set up picnic tables on the patio. You won’t have to be at the same table with anybody, if you don’t want to.”

  Unable to come up with a valid rebuttal, Elisa gave in.

  Storm stepped forward to rescue her from Miriam’s smothering bear hug. “I think I just saw David in the parlor. Come on, ’Leese, we’d better get in there before he disappears.”

  “Don’t forget—six o’clock!” Miriam shouted as they escaped through the swinging doors.

  Once they were seated across from him, Storm broke the ice by asking if David could tell them his whereabouts on the night of Jay’s death.