by Sandra Brown
She knew positively that she hadn’t been the one who’d put it there.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Stef bounded up onto the porch. “The boys are asking for a drink. They’re having a blast, although I worry about Bernie’s hip giving out. Are you coming down?” Then she paused and asked, “Something wrong?”
Amelia picked up the watch and turned to her. “I found my watch.”
“Great! Where was it?”
That wasn’t the response Amelia had hoped for. If Stef needed to ask where she’d found it, then she hadn’t put it on the porch railing, either.
* * *
Dawson glanced down at the LED of his jangling cell phone. Headly. He answered dispiritedly. “Hey.”
“What’s up?”
“Why ask me? You’re the one taking Viagra.”
Headly snorted. “I don’t need it.”
“If you say so.”
“Where are you?”
“In my room.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just hanging out.”
“Working on the story?”
“I don’t have a story yet.”
“You heard Amelia Nolan’s testimony.”
“And I’ll hear her cross-examination on Tuesday. Between now and then, there’s nothing much for me to do, is there?”
“Rough draft?”
“I talked myself out of that. I don’t want to write something only to have to scrap it and begin again if the defense attorney destroys her testimony.”
“Which is unlikely.”
“Still.”
“So you’re just hanging out.”
“Watching the grass grow.”
“Any leads on her current address?”
“The last one Glenda could dig up was the townhouse on Jones Street. As I predicted, she no longer lives there.”
“Maybe she moved into her dad’s mansion.”
“No. Glenda learned that she’s donated it to the state. It’s closed up, but will possibly open next spring as a museum. That’s under consideration with the historical society. Something like that.”
“Well, she’s gotta live somewhere,” Headly said with impatience.
“Wherever that somewhere is, it’s under wraps. A bailiff hustled her from the courtroom. I assume the same bailiff will escort her in on Tuesday at nine o’clock. Over the long weekend, the lady is keeping a low profile, and who could blame her?”
“Damn! I’d hoped you could have talked to her by now.”
“As if she would talk to me.”
“How do you know she wouldn’t?”
“Because she’s not talking to any media.”
“The news outlets down there are full of stories about the trial. I’ve been following online.”
“Then you should have noticed that there aren’t any quotes from her, except what she was quoted as saying on the witness stand. The state prosecutor—”
“Lemuel Jackson. I understand that he’s highly regarded.”
“He held a brief press conference outside the courthouse immediately after court was adjourned on Wednesday. I listened from a distance. He didn’t say anything about Ms. Nolan except that her testimony had been compelling. Nothing’s happened since then. Dullsville. So there you have it, an up-to-the-minute report. How about your end? Anything from Knutz?”
“About the Wessons of Ohio? Not yet. This damn holiday.”
“Hmm. Let me know when he gets back to you. Right now I gotta go.”
“If you’re only watching the grass grow, what’s your hurry?”
“I gotta pee.”
Dawson hung up, dropped the cell phone onto the cluttered table, and walked into the bathroom. At least he hadn’t lied to Headly about having to go.
When he was done, he lingered for a moment at the sink, staring at the disheveled guy in the mirror who had haunted-looking eyes surrounded by shadows. Arms braced stiffly on the rim of the sink, he silently asked himself what the hell he was doing here, why he was putting himself through this, why he should give a fuck about Jeremy Wesson.
Arriving at no satisfactory conclusion, he turned on the cold-water tap and splashed his face several times, then dried it, and was doing up his zipper as he walked back into the other room.
Where he uttered a startled sound and drew up short.
Amelia Nolan was standing not ten feet from him, a can of pepper spray aimed directly at his face.
“Tell me now who you are. Because after getting a face full of this, it’ll be a while before you can talk.”
Chapter 5
He raised his hands, palms out. “I swear I’m no threat.”
“Like hell you’re not.”
With her free hand, she gestured to the table behind her where the incriminating evidence was on display.
Shit!
Scattered across the table were dozens of photos of her and her sons playing on the beach. He’d taken the shots with his cell phone, enlarged them on his laptop, and printed them out. Standing on the windowsill were the binoculars through which he’d been watching them.
The pictures he’d taken of her alone made him particularly culpable. In some she looked reflective and a bit sad. In others she was laughing over her sons’ antics, her loose hair like a fiery halo in the sunlight as the three of them capered on the beach.
He’d also captured a private moment of her standing at the waterline in her swimsuit, one hand anchoring her floppy-brimmed straw hat to her head. With the sun behind her, the swimsuit was absorbed into the dark silhouette, and her shape, in profile, was clearly delineated.
She was more modestly clothed now in the familiar caftan, a two-piece swimsuit beneath it. Sand clung to her bare feet, so she must have come directly from the beach. Her hat had obviously been left behind when she decided to storm the house next door to hers, the one that he’d rented two days ago.
He felt like a voyeur and couldn’t fault her for being angry. But that anger was mixed with fear. The hand clutching the canister of pepper spray wasn’t all that steady.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Dawson Scott. Middle name Andrew. See for yourself. My wallet is right there.” He motioned toward the table.
Keeping her eyes on him, she picked up the wallet and flipped it open. Inside it were his Virginia driver’s license. And the damning press-corps ID card.
Her hand dropped to her side as though the wallet was as heavy as an anvil. “You’re a lousy reporter.”
He gave a weak grin. “Actually I’m pretty good.”
She tossed the wallet back onto the table, then wiped her hand on the gauzy material of her caftan as if she’d touched something foul. The pepper spray was still aimed at him.
He tilted his head toward it. “Are you going to squirt me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
* * *
He probably thought she was being facetious. She wasn’t. His being a journalist was only slightly better than his being a pervert who took snapshots of potential victims. They weren’t mutually exclusive, either. “Whom do you work for? Or are you a freelance hacker who sells to the highest bidder?”
“I’m going to lower my hands, okay?” He did so. “I think it’s apparent that I’m unarmed.”
Unarmed and disconcerting, dressed only in a pair of cargo shorts, the fly of which was still partially unzipped. They were riding dangerously low on his hips. He was the one half-dressed, which made her wonder why she felt exposed.
She took a tighter grip on the canister and thumbed the sprayer. “Answer my question.”
“I forgot it.”
“Whom do you work for?”
“I’m a staff writer for NewsFront.”
She was relieved and grudgingly impressed. She’d imagined him affiliated with a publication much more lowbrow, a tabloid possibly, not a serious-minded, hard-news magazine. From his long blond hair to his bare feet, she gave him a once-over and arrived at an uncomplimentary opinion.
“You don’t look that respectable.”
“Well, you don’t look like a museum curator.” He grinned. “Not that I’m complaining.”
She was about to snap, Don’t be cute, but she didn’t want to play into the mild flirtation even to that extent. She was still as mad as hell, and also as creeped-out as she’d been when she found her wristwatch and realized that someone had to have been spying on her.
After discovering her watch, she’d gone down to the beach and helped fly the kite until Bernie cried uncle and returned to his house to rest, promising to join them for supper that night. Then she and the boys played in the water while Stef finished her chores indoors.
At lunchtime, Stef brought the picnic hamper down to the beach, as she had the day before. After they’d eaten and were stretched out on the quilt, relaxing, Amelia experienced again that sensation of being watched.
Shading her eyes against the glare, she’d scanned the eastern horizon. The same boat was still anchored offshore, but was too far away to pose any threat. She looked back toward her house, then at Bernie’s, and then at the row of houses that stretched down the beach in the direction of the village. Nothing had alerted her to danger.
She’d then turned toward the house on the other side of hers, the last one in the row. It had been vacated by long-term renters the previous Sunday. But when she’d looked toward it…
Speaking as calmly as possible, she’d told Stef she had something to do inside, and had left her and the boys beneath the beach umbrella. She returned to the house only long enough to retrieve the pepper spray from the drawer of her nightstand. Going out the back way, she walked to the neighboring house and let herself in through an unlocked sliding glass door. She had hoped to catch the window peeper, for lack of a better word, in the act. If he hadn’t been taking a bathroom break from his spying, she no doubt would have.
When he’d emerged from the bathroom, it was all she could do to keep from gasping. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but not this. Not him. He didn’t look like a man who would require perversion to satisfy his sexual urges. Nor did he fit her image of a writer, which was someone with an absent-minded demeanor, delicate hands, and a pallor. Someone much softer around the middle. Much softer everywhere.
She said, “The IDs could be fake.”
“They’re not.”
“I’ll Google you.”
“Be my guest. You can use my laptop.”
She’d noticed it and the printer on the table, certainly tools of his trade, but she ignored his gesture for her to help yourself. “How did you track me here?”
“Two things I never reveal. One, a source who asks to remain anonymous. And two, how I tracked—Okay, okay,” he said quickly when she thrust the canister toward his face. “There’s a researcher at the magazine. Her name is Glenda. I ply her with candy and wine at Christmas. She comes through for me.”
“My house was bought over twenty years ago.”
“June 1985.”
“Under a corporate entity—”
“WareHouse, LLC. Want to know the purchase price?” Reading the dismay in her expression, he said, “Glenda could find a flea on a single hair on a woolly mammoth. During a sandstorm.”
That last was tacked on with a crooked smile, which only annoyed her. “Did you rent this house?”
“As opposed to what? Breaking in and squatting?”
“Nothing would surprise me.”
“Saint Nelda’s Island Rentals. I spoke to a nice lady. The house was vacant. I have a credit card.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since court was adjourned for the holiday weekend.”
“Only since Wednesday?”
“I arrived after dark.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I thought you’d been here longer.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “However long it’s been, you went to a lot of trouble and expense for nothing. I don’t grant interviews. Ever.”
“My trouble wasn’t for nothing.” He motioned toward her wrist. “You got your watch back.”
She glanced down at it. “Do I have you to thank?”
“I was watching you through the binoculars yesterday while you were building the sand castle. After you and the kids went indoors, I saw something glittering in the sand. I went down later to check it out and found your watch.”
“Why didn’t you just knock on my door and return it like any normal person would do? Any person who wasn’t a sneaking, spying magazine writer.”
“Because I wasn’t ready for you to know that I was here.”
“When did you intend to make your presence known?”
“I’m not sure.” He squinted at her thoughtfully. “But I’m glad you know.”
“I’m sure you are. You can turn the lights on tonight instead of stumbling around in the dark.” He acknowledged the barb, but didn’t comment. “Did you see me searching the beach last night?” Before he could answer, she said, “Of course you did.” Then another thought occurred to her. “The lightbulb?”
“I noticed that it was out. The back of your house was dark. I thought—”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for my watch,” she said, although it galled her to thank him for anything. “It means a lot to me.”
“Why?”
She wasn’t about to answer a question that personal.
Seeming to read her mind, he said, “Okay, if that one’s too tough, how about this one? How did you recognize me?” Holding her gaze, he took a step toward her. “You did, didn’t you?”
She took a corresponding step back. “How would I have recognized you?”
“I don’t know, but you did. If you hadn’t, I’d be writhing on the floor, temporarily blinded and choking. At the very least, you would have called the police and reported me as a stalker.”
“You are a stalker.”
“I know for certain that I’d never seen you until Wednesday afternoon when you took the witness stand. I was seated in the corner of the courtroom, back row. You never so much as glanced in that direction.”
“I didn’t see you there.”
“But…?”
“I saw you after court was adjourned,” she admitted reluctantly. “To avoid the media storm, Mr. Jackson put me in an office on the third floor that overlooks the front of the courthouse. I was watching from the window while he addressed the reporters. You were standing at a distance, leaning against a signpost.”
“You noticed me? From three stories up?”
He shot her that grin again, and it was even more aggravating this time. “I took you for a homeless person. Unshaven. Shaggy hair. That’s why I recognized you when you stepped out of the bathroom. I almost wish I’d gone ahead and sprayed you. It would have served you right for tracking me here.” She looked at the canister of spray, then lowered her hand. “As it is, I’ll leave you with a warning. Do not approach me or my children. If you do, I’ll call the police after all.”
When she turned to go, he said, “As long as you’re here, can I ask you a few questions?”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? No interviews. Ever.”
“Strictly background stuff.”
“No.”
“The girl. Kin to you?” He hitched his chin toward the window, through which Stef and the boys could be seen playing a game with paddles and a ball.
Amelia hesitated, but didn’t see a problem with answering him. “No relation. I hired her as a nanny for the summer.”
“And the old man who was flying the kite?”
“Family friend. He rents the house next door every summer. And that’s all you’re going to get from me.”
She turned to go, but again he stopped her with a question. “What would be the harm in us having a nice, neighborly chat?”
“During which you hope I’ll forge
t myself, let down my guard, and pour out my deepest, darkest secrets?”
He arched one sun-bleached eyebrow. “You have deep, dark secrets?”
“Good-bye.”
Moving quickly, he planted himself between her and the door, but he also raised his hands again. “Look, I understand why you might not trust me.”
“Oh, well, thanks for your understanding. Not that I care whether you understand me or not.” With disgust, she glanced at the photos. “Do you plan to publish those? Sell them to a tabloid?”
He looked offended. “Of course not.”
“Then why did you take them?”
“So I could…”
When he couldn’t come up with an explanation, she sidestepped him. Or tried. He moved to block her path. “Would you have talked to me if I’d walked up to you, looking like a homeless person, and introduced myself as a writer for NewsFront?” He gave her only half a second to answer. “Exactly. So, rather than scare you off—”
“You simply scared me.”
“You were scared?”
“Of course I was scared,” she exclaimed.
“Of what?”
“Of…I don’t know. I sensed—”
“What?”
“Something. I thought—”
“What?”
“I was afraid that—”
“That what?”
“I don’t know! Stop asking me questions.”
“That’s what I do.”
They did another two-step dance, and again he blocked her path to the door.
“Get out of my way.”
“One more question? Just one. Please?” Taking her silent glare for consent, he asked, “How did you discover that I was here?”
“I saw the sun reflecting off something in the window.”
“Must’ve been the lenses of the binoculars.”
“Remember to guard against that the next time you spy on someone.”
“When did you sense someone watching you?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Have you sensed it only since I moved in, or before?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but paused. Looking beyond him toward the beach, she recalled the eerie feeling that had swept over her last night. Speaking to herself, she murmured, “The sensation was strong enough to raise goose bumps.”