by J. S. Marlo
“Yes. He loves to convey his passion for wine into the kitchen.”
“It shows.” If Jimmy added any more passion into his recipes, his customers would burst into flames.
Across from her, Chris slowly emptied his plate. Envious of his poise and sturdy palate, she played with her fork.
“You’re not eating. Is something wrong?”
“Yes—” The food. The ambience. The company. Inwardly, she chided herself. She’d promised to give Chris a chance. “No—maybe—” Abandoning any pretense, she pushed the food aside and sipped on her wine. Between them, the bottles with their colorful labels and fruity names seemed to make fun of her unease. “It’s delicious. I’m just not very hungry. There’s been another incident at Buccaneer, and well, I guess it occupies my mind.” Not a complete lie and easier to deal with than the truth.
His gaze locked on her as he leaned back into his chair. “What happened?”
Recounting Winston’s tragic end provided some relief from the oppressive atmosphere weighing on her.
“No wonder you’re distracted. Your shady guest totaled your car and ruined your weekend.”
The feeling she would never understand Winston’s motives weighed more than the actions he’d taken. “I just can’t wrap my mind around his rampage.”
“I wouldn’t call a car accident a rampage.” Reaching out across the table, he patted her hand. “The guy got what he deserved.”
“I wish it was that easy, but he also tossed broken glass under the gazebo.” Winston’s misdeed could have caused serious bodily harm to others. “What kind of sick man does—”
“He what?” The short burst of outrage lent a sharp edge to his voice, and to her relief, he let go of her hand.
It appeared the act of vandalism had struck a deeper chord in Chris than the fatal car accident, but then, he was a doctor. Deadly accidents were familiar occurrences in his world.
“Friday night, Winston sneaked out and littered the ground with shards of glass.” The memory of the sharp, broken pieces sent tremors down her spine.
“Did you report the incident to the police?”
Not yet. “He’s dead, Chris. What would the police do? Charge him?”
A loud sigh deflated his chest. “You’re right. No point filling a useless report and wasting everyone’s time. Anyone injured?”
“Thank goodness, no.”
The safety of her guests was her responsibility. She shuddered, thinking about the children if they had crawled back under the gazebo.
Chris moved his chair alongside hers, and to her dismay, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Did you seal the opening to stop anyone from inadvertently venturing underneath that deathtrap?”
“Yes. Bill—” Strong, invading fingers stroked the base of her neck, hindering her ability to concentrate. “Bill nailed the—” She squirmed in her seat. “The lattice back into place.”
“Good.” The candles highlighted the glints in his eyes and, like hot wax, his fingers scorched her skin. “Would you like to take a walk around the property?”
“Yes.” Suffocating heat seeped through her blouse. Needing to escape the confining cellar and the man, she stood abruptly, knocking the chair and the napkin onto the floor. “Could we go now? Please?”
***
Standing in front of the attic window, Avery stared past the gazebo at the ocean beyond while his conversation with Lancaster replayed in his head.
Years ago, Mattie had named Bill in her will. Then, in the spring, she’d removed him in favor of her niece, but kept him on as an employee. According to his driver’s license, Bill was sixty-nine years old. The autopsy report listed Mattie’s age at forty-six. A twenty-three year difference. A large gap for a love affair, but not unheard of. On the other hand, if the end of the affair had caused her to change her will, one would assume she would have fired him. Unless she was planning to end the relationship and Bill caused her death thinking he’d still inherit Buccaneer. If he’d been unaware of the new will, his resentment could explain the bad blood between him and Rowan.
“He got rid of the ladder. He had means, motive, opportunity…and an alibi.” Avery needed a snack and a drink to make sense of the new information.
Dusk crept over Buccaneer.
By this time, Bill should have returned to town, and Gail should be readying breakfast for the next morning.
The tip of his cane thumped on every other step as Avery descended into the kitchen.
“Hello, luv.”
A tinge of red colored Gail’s cheeks as she wiped her floured hands on her apron. “Good evening, Mr. S. Are you looking for a midnight snack?”
“Not yet. First, I’ll go for a little walk. Is there a flashlight I could borrow?”
“Between the sink and the stove. Second drawer.”
He picked up the device and switched it on. The light formed a circle on the ceiling. Satisfied, he turned it off. “Gail, were you aware Miss O’Reilly would be the one inheriting Buccaneer upon Mattie’s death?”
“No. Why?”
“For my book.” The white lie slipped out effortlessly. “I’m surveying how many people let their entourage know about their wills.”
“Miss Mattie always said she’d leave Buccaneer to family.” Gail fetched a bread pan from underneath the oven, then a container of grease from the cupboard. “To be honest, we didn’t know much about Miss Rowan, and we were worried she’d sell.”
“We?”
“Bill and me.” A kind, crooked smile brightened her face. “Bless her heart, Miss Rowan kept Buccaneer running.”
If Gail wanted him to believe that Rowan had earned her admiration and loyalty, she was putting up a convincing front. He debated asking about her late husband. In the end, seeing no point in raising her suspicions or placing her on the defensive, he opted to postpone the discussion.
Flashlight in hand, he exited by the front entrance and circled the house.
In the afternoon, Bill had scooped up the pieces of glass, cleaned the ground around the gazebo, and nailed the lattice back in place. No trace of the near-tragedy remained, but the handyman had to have disposed of the evidence somewhere. The door of the shed was closed but not locked. It creaked when Avery opened it. He cast the light around the interior. In the corner, a bucket contained broken glass mixed with the dirt that Bill had scooped while removing the sharp pieces. With his cane, Avery stirred the contents of the bucket in the hope of unearthing a big chunk.
The light he shone into the bucket reflected on an inch–long, brownish shard. “What have we here?” He cautiously picked up the broken piece and examined it from every angle. On the edge, a tiny green speck stuck to the glass. The beer bottles in his room sported labels with the same shade of green.
Avery had seen Gail stack bins full of bottles and cans in the kitchen pantry for Bill to take to the recycling depot. Maybe the car thief wasn’t responsible for the glass, and the broken bottles had been an attempt to scare Rowan off or to exact revenge for inheriting Buccaneer.
But from whom? Gail or Bill?
***
The fresh ocean breeze caressed Rowan’s skin, soothing her jittery nerves. Above the rows of grape vines, a reddish sun shone amidst a swirling of pink and purple streaks. Sunset always improved her disposition, and tonight was no exception. The oppressive atmosphere of the cellar slowly evaporated from her mind as she strolled through the vineyard. Dry straw covered the soil, prickling her bare toes. On her next visit to Cormoran, she needed to remember to wear something more comfortable than sandals.
“I’ve always imagined vines to be taller.” Attracted by the dark purple color, she extended her hand and touched a cluster of plump fruits hanging from the three-foot tall vine. “Are they ready to eat?”
Chris chuckled. “I don’t know, but go ahead. Eat a few. Jimmy won’t mind.”
Using both hands, she carefully removed four berries from the cluster and popped them into her mouth. The sweet, juicy bite tickled
her taste buds. “Yum…very tasty.”
He grabbed her wrist, and gently twisting it, turned her palm up. Purple stains marred the inside of her hand.
“Oops,” she chirped.
“You’re messy.” Before she could utter a witty remark, he’d brought her fingers to his lips. The tip of his tongue licked every inch, leaving a wet trail over her skin—like a dog’s slobber.
Unnerved by his brazen display of affection and his crude cleaning technique, she yanked her hand away. “I’m not a lollipop, Chris.”
“No, you’re much more delicious.” The puppy-dog face he projected her way failed to gain him any cookies.
The man didn’t have a single romantic bone in his body. She wasn’t a morsel of meat he could chew on at his discretion. Going out with him only served to exacerbate the longing in her heart, not soothe it. She was grateful for the loan he’d given her, but she’d rather pay interest than spend any more time with him.
“I’m sorry, Rowan.” His shoulders slumped, and he dug his hands into his pant pockets. “I obviously upset you, and that was the last thing I wanted to do tonight.”
“Chris…” When they looked at her with a mixture of innocence and awe, his baby blue eyes were hard to resist. In all fairness to him, he’d never stipulated that the loan was conditional on her dating him, but somehow she’d felt obligated to accept his invitations. Needing to rethink their arrangement, she kept the conversation light. “On the bottles in the cellar, I saw blueberries on a label and cranberries on another one. Would you tell me about the different types of wines?”
“Jimmy will be delighted when I tell him you noticed the labels. He likes to experiment with fruits other than grapes, and he designed the labels himself to reflect the characteristics of each fruit.”
The obvious admiration and respect he held for the owner was at odds with the insensitive behavior he’d displayed toward her, but when he kept his hands to himself, like he was doing now, Chris could be rather interesting—and charming.
“Does he add grapes to his other fruity creations?”
“It depends on the bottle.” Pausing near a tree, he turned sideways. “If you like, we could sit under an apple tree and sample Jimmy’s unique flavors.”
To hear about the different wines was fascinating, and she’d love to taste some of them. “You go get the bottles. I’ll wait for you here.”
She sat in the grass, her back against the trunk of a tree, and listened for the sound of the waves rolling on the sand at the end of the vineyard. Outdoors, she didn’t feel threatened or trapped. The rhythm of the ocean appeased her mind and lured her into slumber land.
“Rowan?” Through the haze clouding her brain, she recognized Chris’s voice.
Reluctant to relinquish her cozy state, she peeked through half-closed eyelids. “I could use a nap.”
The breeze carried his deep laughter. “Tell me I’m not that boring.”
Amazed to discover a mischievous side to his personality, she opened her eyes and dismissed his silly comment with a wave of her hand. “You’re not boring. I’m the one who’s not showing enough consideration toward you.”
“Nonsense.” Seated beside her, he leaned the wine bottles against the trunk and draped an arm around her shoulders. “I love spending time alone with you.” His fingers drew circles over the fabric of her cotton shirt. “You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”
Goose bumps of the creepy kind rose under his touch. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
A smile cracked his face as he pulled her into a strong embrace. “You’re cold. Let me warm you up.”
“No, I’m—”
***
Crouched in the sand dunes, Bjorn spied on the private property guarded by a tall wire fence.
After he’d seen a man in a blue shirt take Rowan inside a low structure attached to the main building, Bjorn had done a reconnaissance tour along the fence. A sign at the entrance, where the yellow BMW had parked, welcomed guests and connoisseurs to Cormoran Vineyard. He hadn’t seen any other entrance, unless someone was inclined to scale the wire fence.
Behind him, the ocean sang a lonely melody. So much of this island reminded him of home, and he would gladly live here if Rowan gave him a second chance.
Youthful chortles turned his attention toward the beach.
A boy, not older than eight or nine, hopped back and forth in the wet sand as the waves rolled in and out. The game ended when the boy bent down to retrieve something near his foot. A huge smile brightened his freckled face as he lifted his head toward Bjorn. “I found one.” His excitement carried loud and clear across the beach. “You want to see it?”
He and the boy were alone, but it still took a few moments for Bjorn to realize he was the recipient of the question. “Sure.” For the boy to want to share with a stranger, it must have been quite a treasure he found.
Beaming with pride, the boy presented his hand. Cupped in his palm was a black, flat, round shell. “It’s a sand dollar. I’m gonna give it to Miss Sarah.”
With his light reddish-blond hair, the boy portrayed the child that he’d hoped to share with Rowan one day. “Who’s Miss Sarah?”
“My teacher. I’m going to have her again, and she likes seashells.” His fingers closed on the sand dollar, and he pointed toward the vineyard with his fist. “That’s my doctor.”
Bjorn spun around. The doctor was walking through the grapevines with bottles in his hands.
“Is he a nice doctor?”
The boy shrugged. “He gives my little sister stickers when she doesn’t cry. Look, there’s a woman. She has a red ponytail like my sister.”
Farther down, Rowan sat under a tree. Busy talking with the boy, Bjorn hadn’t seen her exit the low structure.
All smiles, the doctor sat near her, put the bottles down, wrapped an arm around her, and leaned in to kiss her.
Unable to watch Rowan’s response, he tore his gaze away.
“Ugh!”
The boy’s exclamation mirrored Bjorn’s feelings as he walked away. The letter had said it all, and he’d been a fool to expect otherwise.
***
A crushing kiss silenced Rowan’s objection. Chris tasted of garlic and wine, and when the tip of his tongue pressed against her teeth, visions of gentler encounters played in front of her eyes. Distraught and nauseated, she pushed him away.
“I can’t.”
Needing to put some distance between them, she sprang up like a geyser and hurried toward the exit.
“Wait.” Behind her, steps grew louder, closer. “Rowan? Wait.”
She ventured a glance over her shoulder. Through the rows of grapes, Chris was chasing after her. Something caught her ankle. She lost her balance and tumbled headfirst into a post.
Chapter Eighteen
Avery sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed a quiet Monday morning breakfast. While the lack of guests bode badly for O’Reilly’s business, the childless atmosphere suited his mood.
“Dear Lord…” Busy wiping the counter, Gail lifted her chin toward the ceiling. “Maybe next year, you could steer all the troublesome families that visited us toward the Great Lakes.”
He held little faith in heavenly influence and had always preferred to make his own luck. “Careful what you wish for, luv. Someone worse could come along.”
A hearty chuckle jiggled Gail’s bosoms. “True, but with the string of colorful characters that stayed here this summer, surely someone will take pity on an old woman.”
No one had taken pity on Rachel or the ones she’d left behind, not that Avery was inclined to debate anyone’s fate or faith. “Wouldn’t you rather live in town like Bill? That way you could take a break from the obnoxious guests.”
“And be alone?” She tossed the dishcloth into the sink before looking at him. “After my husband passed away, I hit a rough spot. A few months later, I ran into Mattie at church. She helped me get my life back in order and offered me this job. That’s why I’m s
o grateful to Miss Rowan for not selling.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “Buccaneer is my home.”
The guilt of taking advantage of an old woman’s vulnerability vanished as she gave him the perfect opening to pry into her husband’s fate. “Was your husband sick?”
‘No. It—” She sat at the table and squeezed her hands together. “It was an accident.”
Swallowing glass didn’t enter his definition of an accident. “What happened?” he pressed, hoping to kindle her desire to talk.
“Allan, my husband, he had a daughter from a previous marriage. His ex—she wasn’t right in the head, you know. Allan tried to get custody of his daughter, but his ex disappeared with the baby before they went to court.” Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “When the poor kid was fourteen, her mother threw her in the streets because her new boyfriend didn’t like her. How do you think Nicky survived all those years?”
The hard way. “Was Nicky arrested for solicitation?” Back home, the girls of the night had found an ally in Rachel. In two years, she’d rescued more stray girls than any officer before her.
“The police found her beaten in an alley. Allan had never stopped searching for her, you know. We took her home, but the drugs had damaged her mind. She blamed her dad for abandoning her. She didn’t want to stay with us.”
The tale of neglect and abuse was all too familiar. “What did you do with Nicky?”
“I went to one of those places where they shelter women with problems. I thought maybe they could take her in or give me some advice.”
So Gail had sought refuge at the shelter for her stepdaughter, not for herself. “What did they say at the shelter?”
“Because Nicky was eighteen, they told me I couldn’t force her to get help if she didn’t want to.”
Her stepdaughter had needed professional intervention, but in a misguided attempt to help, Gail had knocked on the wrong door. “What happened next?” He knew the rest of the story, but he needed to hear it from her.