He lifted his head, eyes blazing. “Randolph was the joy of my life.”
“But—”
“It was Clarissa who didn’t want him. From the day she discovered she was pregnant, she raged against him, complaining that he ruined her figure and made her feel unwell. Once he was born, she left him entirely in the care of Mrs. Givens, except when she felt compelled to play the doting mother. Then she would dress him up and parade him before her friends, but the poor child saw her as a stranger and shrank from her. His timid behavior enraged her, and she screamed at him, calling him horrible names.”
“But he was so small.” Celia thought of the win-some, mischievous grin of the adorable boy in the portrait.
“I didn’t know about the abuse until much later, and thought I’d put a stop to it. Mrs. Givens protected him when she could, but when I wasn’t at home, Clarissa vented her rage on the boy. I believe she saw his growing up as a chronicle of her own aging, and it frightened and infuriated her. I learned too late that she slapped him constantly and yanked his hair, and once I caught her prepared to flog him with a riding crop.”
The images sickened Celia, and she saw her disgust reflected in Cameron’s eyes.
“That’s why I hated her,” he said. “But did I hate her enough to kill her? I honestly don’t know.”
“Even if you did, could you have killed Randolph?”
A tortured cry escaped his lips. “Never! I loved him more than life itself.”
One heart-wrenching sob burst forth from him, then he gritted his teeth and set his jaw and cried no more. When he turned to face her again, his eyes were dry and his expression inscrutable.
“I beg your forgiveness, Celia, for not telling you. When I realized how much I loved you, I tried to take you away from here, from me, to spare you this.”
“I wanted to stay. It wasn’t all your doing.”
He stood, lifted her to her feet, and tilted her chin so that his gaze locked with hers. “Can you still love me, knowing what I’ve told you?”
Part of her wanted to throw her arms around him and press her lips to his, to proclaim that she would love him forever, as she had promised when she married him. But another more prudent part held her back.
“I want to love you,” she said, “but I’m too confused. You must give me time to think, to sort all this out.”
He groaned and bent to kiss her, but she pushed away.
“And you must give me space to think as well,” she added.
The color drained from his face and all expression with it. The look he gave her was a handsome mask, but whether it covered anger or pain, she couldn’t tell.
“I’ll give you time and space. If I have alienated you, it’s my own fault.” He pivoted and stalked back to the house, his back straight and proud.
What have you gotten yourself into now, Celia Stevens, she asked herself. And when she remembered her name was no longer Stevens but Alexander, she wept.
AS THE NOVEMBER DAYS shortened, Celia’s confusion grew. The harder she tried to determine whether she believed Cameron was capable of murder, the more bewildered she became.
The night after he told her that he’d hated Clarissa, she moved from his room back into her own. She longed for his touch, but her doubts kept her from him. When she closed her eyes she was reminded of the bludgeoned bodies so graphically described by the newspapers and wondered if Cameron’s gentle hands could have inflicted the injuries. After seeing her flinch and turn away a few times, Cameron withdrew into himself, breaking his habit of the past month when he would constantly grasp her hand, run his fingers through her hair, or caress her cheek as if assuring himself that she really existed and wasn’t a figment of his imagination.
Cameron returned to the work of cataloging the plants and animals of the prairies, swamps and salt marshes, but he worked alone. Celia remained on the island, sometimes helping Mrs. Givens, but mostly wandering the beaches and trying to convince herself beyond doubt that Cameron could not have killed his family.
She had loved the mystery section of her Sand Castles bookstore and had devoured not only the classic authors but also the contemporary favorites. She’d learned much about motive and opportunity from her reading, and she tried to apply that knowledge to the problem before her.
The question of motive in the murders of Clarissa and Randolph threw a major obstacle into her deliberations. Robbery hadn’t been the goal, unless it was botched in progress and the would-be thieves had fled empty-handed. The only person to profit financially from Clarissa’s death was Cameron. If Clarissa’s murder had been a crime of passion rather than greed, Cameron again filled the bill. By his own admission, he had hated Clarissa for her cruelty toward Randolph and wished her dead.
In both instances, Randolph was the puzzle piece that didn’t fit. Neither of the motives demanded his death—unless he had witnessed his mother being killed and was silenced to protect the killer.
Opportunity also pointed the finger at Cameron. He’d been in the house alone with his family with Mrs. Givens in Liverpool and the servants at the village festival—but such circumstances would have been ideal for an assassin outside the family as well.
And what about Cameron’s own injuries? Had he been intended to die also, or had Clarissa inflicted those injuries in self-defense? The newspapers claimed the ineptitude of local investigators had contaminated the crime scene to the point where blood spatter patterns and other forensic evidence had proved worthless in assessing blame.
As the days passed, Celia wrestled with several possibilities. Cameron had killed his family in a drunken rage and had been too inebriated to remember. Robbers had attacked the family and been frightened away before stealing anything. But it was the third possibility that frightened Celia most of all, the possibility that she knew nothing of the true character of the man she’d married, that Cameron was a cold-blooded killer and a consummate actor who had planned and executed the murder of his wife and child to free himself of their presence in order to inherit Clarissa’s fortune and retreat to his island paradise unencumbered by family responsibilities.
Her heart rejected every possibility but the second, but her pragmatism counseled caution, reminding her that only time would grant her a true assessment of the character of the man she had fallen so deeply in love with and thought she knew.
TWO WEEKS PASSED AFTER Celia had confronted Cameron with her knowledge of Clarissa and Randolph’s murders, but she had found no answers and no peace. There could be none of either without the facts, and all the additional facts were either back in England or buried in Cameron’s subconscious.
Or withheld from her purposely by him.
Accepting that the solution to the crime was beyond her reach, she was faced with a more immediate decision: whether to remain with Cameron on Solitaire until she regained her trust in him and, in doing so, absolve him of any blame, or flee to Key West and return to her home, turning her back on Cameron and Solitaire just as she had on Darren.
Her heart cried out against the latter. She hadn’t loved Darren. She knew that now. Like a kindly older brother, the con man had offered her a way out of her lonely existence after the death of her parents. But she had bonded with Cameron in a love unlike any she had ever known. Did she give that love a chance to prove itself or flee for her life?
It was a choice she was reluctant to make, and fate was to take the decision out of her hands.
Chapter Twelve
“Have a piece of pie, m’dear. You’re wasting away before my very eyes.”
Mrs. Givens shoved the plate across the table toward Celia, but she shook her head. She’d had no appetite for weeks, and between eating very little and pacing the beaches, she’d lost enough pounds that her clothes hung loose.
Her routine on the island had reverted to the way it had been when she first arrived, with Cameron gone, often for days at a time, and Celia taking her meals with Mrs. Givens in the kitchen. The kindly old woman fussed over her, encouraging
her to eat and trying to keep her mind occupied, but neither food nor busyness could mend what ailed Celia.
The chasm between her and Cameron grew wider each day. She had asked for time and space, but that space had grown into a gulf she feared neither of them would be able to cross again.
“Is there nothing I can do to make things better between the two of you?” Mrs. Givens asked. “I can see with my own eyes how miserable you both are. Can’t you forget what’s past and go on as before?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“Cameron’s a good man. You must believe that.” The housekeeper took Celia’s untouched plate and scraped its contents into the scrap bucket for the compost heap.
Remembering mothers of serial killers whom she’d seen on television newscasts proclaiming the same thing, Celia smiled weakly at her. “How did Cameron treat Clarissa? Was he ever unkind to her?”
Mrs. Givens avoided Celia’s gaze and busied herself with the washing up. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did he ever raise his voice? Hit her?”
“It wasn’t what you think.” The housekeeper threw her dishcloth into the soapy water and turned to face Celia. “He was protecting Randolph.”
“From Clarissa?”
“Aye, from his own mother.” Mrs. Givens’s mouth puckered as if she’d tasted bitter fruit. “It was unnatural the way that woman treated the boy—and he was such a good boy, a dear little love.”
“What did Cameron do to Clarissa?” Celia forced herself to ask, dreading the answer.
Mrs. Givens pushed back a gray curl with her wet hand. “At first he tried to reason with her, to understand why she mistreated the boy. When that didn’t stop her tyranny, he yelled at her, but his threats didn’t work either.”
“So he hit her?”
Mrs. Givens flinched as if she’d been struck herself. “Just the one time. The day he caught her ready to beat Randolph with a riding crop. He snatched it from her hands and lashed out at her—but stopped himself before inflicting real harm. When he realized what he’d almost done, he was horrified.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“Only her pride. Her clothing protected her from the glancing blow. But I believe his defense of Randolph made her hate the boy even more.”
Celia felt sick to her stomach. “Did she continue to beat him when Cameron wasn’t there?”
“Not that I know of. I don’t think she ever touched the child after that.”
“Are you implying Cameron knocked some sense into her?”
“No—” Mrs. Givens turned quickly back to her dishpan.
“Then what caused her change of heart?”
A long silence reigned in the room before the housekeeper answered. “She died.”
Celia fled the kitchen. Cameron had told her Clarissa had whipped Randolph with a riding crop, but he hadn’t mentioned he’d caught her at it right before she died. Had her abuse of their son sent Cameron over the edge, provoking him to murder?
But how could that explain Randolph’s death?
She ran north along the beach, as far from the house as she could move and still remain on the island. The exertion of running and the heat of the midday sun warmed her uncomfortably, so she stripped off her clothes, tossed them in a heap on the sand, and plunged into the cool water.
The exercise helped ease the agitation in her mind, and she swam far out into the gulf. She stopped to rest, treading water, and gazed back at her enchanted island, her heaven turned hell. Her attention was drawn to a long, sleek cigarette boat headed for the island’s northern point. As she watched, the boat glided toward shore, and its only occupant secured the anchor, climbed overboard, and waded ashore. He walked straight toward the dune where Celia had left her clothes.
She couldn’t retrieve her clothing without being seen, and she had no idea what the man wanted on the island, whether he was a harmless recreational sailor or one of the dreaded drug-runners Mrs. Givens had warned her of.
Celia struck out toward the south, swimming parallel to the beach until she could no longer see the man among the dunes. Then she headed straight for shore, heedless of her nakedness as she raced through the surf, across the beach, and onto the path between the dunes.
She ran into the hallway, grabbed the conch shell Cameron had given her, and hurried out onto the east veranda. She’d no sooner finished the third trumpeting note when Mrs. Givens rushed in from the kitchen.
She took one look at Celia’s nude form and stripped the pinafore from her dress. “Cover yourself, m’dear, and tell me what’s the matter.”
“There’s a stranger on the north beach.” She slipped the pinafore over her shoulders, crossed the sashes behind her back, and tied them in front. The width of the housekeeper’s apron spanned her entire body, covering her front and back.
The thunder of running feet hit the veranda steps, and Noah burst into view.
“I was fixing that rotten board on the dock when I heard your signal.” He wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
“A stranger on the island,” Mrs. Givens said. “Get Mr. Alexander’s gun—”
“That won’t be necessary,” a strange voice announced, its British accent coarser than Cameron’s.
Celia turned toward a tall, angular man standing in the doorway to the dogtrot. He held an ominous semi-automatic pistol in one hand.
In the other were her clothes.
His black eyes flicked over Mrs. Givens and Noah, then raked over Celia, and a grin lit the small, dark eyes of his narrow face. “These must be yours.”
The stranger held out Celia’s clothes, but when she reached to take them, he jerked them back and pointed the pistol at her in a threatening gesture.
“Stay where you are—and as you are. I find your unusual attire quite—provocative.” He threw back his head and laughed, exposing yellowed teeth.
“What do you want?” Mrs. Givens looked ready to do battle with the intruder.
Celia placed a restraining hand on the housekeeper’s arm. The man appeared prepared to shoot. And enjoy it.
“All in good time, madam. All in good time.” His speech and accent revealed some education, but his clothes were dirty and disheveled.
“Get in there and take a seat.” The stranger waved the pistol at them and herded them before him into the dining room.
Mrs. Givens balked, but Celia nudged her forward, hoping that by cooperating they could stay alive until Cameron returned to rescue them. Celia wondered if Cameron had heard her signal or if he was too far away, planning to remain overnight on the mangrove islands as he’d done frequently the past two weeks. She shivered at the possibility of Cameron stumbling in on their unexpected visitor unawares, and the man before them shooting him from ambush.
“Sit,” the stranger ordered, but when Celia tried to take a chair, he yelled at her. “Not you. Just those two. You get those ropes and tie them up.”
While Celia retrieved the braided cords that held back the draperies, the stranger ordered Mrs. Givens and Noah to place their hands behind their backs. Then he instructed Celia to tie them fast.
“No need to gag you, I suppose,” he said. “You the only ones on this island?”
“There’s—” Mrs. Givens began, but Celia cut her off.
“I’m Mrs. Alexander. I’m a widow, and this is Mrs. Givens, my housekeeper, and our handyman, Noah. We’re the only ones here.”
A strange expression crossed his face, but the intruder simply shrugged. “Good. That makes things much easier.”
“Who are you?” Celia asked, “and what do you want?”
“Better you don’t know my name—but then I don’t suppose it will matter, in the end. I’m Jack Utley.”
Celia shuddered. If he revealed his identity, he was probably planning to kill them. “If it’s money or supplies you want, take what you need and leave us in peace.”
“I’ll take all that, but I want more. Come with me, Mrs. Alexander.” He mo
tioned her into the hall with his pistol and pointed toward the stairs. “I want to see the rest of the house.”
Celia doubted the house itself interested him. More likely, he was searching for anyone who might be hiding, or even worse, he planned to rape her once they were out of sight of the others. With his pistol jammed into the small of her back, she had no choice but to precede him up the steps.
Utley ordered her to open the door to each room and enter before he followed her inside. Her heart stopped when she entered Cameron’s room and Utley opened the armoire to find Cameron’s clothes arrayed there.
“I thought you said you were a widow,” he said in a mocking tone.
“My husband died just a few weeks ago from encephalitis, and I’ve kept the room just as he left it.”
Utley smiled with a warmth that didn’t reach his eyes, then left the room. He immediately entered Celia’s bedroom and focused on the wide bed with its rattan headboard and linen coverlet. Then his gaze traveled over Celia, and she wished for something less revealing than Mrs. Givens’s apron, knowing the thin cotton fabric concealed very little, especially with the setting sun shining behind her.
Trying to keep her nervousness from showing, Celia went to her closet, took out her wedding shoes, and slipped them on. Utley watched her, his tongue flicking over his lips like a reptile’s, and she could read the blatant lust on his ugly face.
She decided the best defense was a good offense and refused to cower before the man. “Why are you interested in my house, Mr. Utley?”
“Business, ma’am. A very profitable business.” He crossed to the veranda and gazed out over the water, his carnal appetites seemingly forgotten.
“What business is there here in the middle of nowhere?”
“I have a delivery to make. A surprise for your husband.”
“I told you. My husband’s dead.”
Utley laughed and shook his head. “Then there’s a dead man sailing the boat that usually ties up at your dock. When do you expect him back?”
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