by Meg Tilly
They’d passed a junkie slumped beside a garbage can, her hair matted, her skeletal clawlike hand extended, tremors coursing through her. “Please,” the woman moaned. “Please can you spare some change? Anything will help.” She had open sores on her face. “I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten in two days.” The woman’s eyes were sunken, tortured, desperate.
Zelia dug in her purse, pulled out a five, and handed the bill to the woman. Alexus watched, shaking her head.
“You know she’s going to spend that money on drugs,” Alexus said as they continued on their way.
Zelia shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “I know. I just . . .”
They walked on, but the carefree tone of the evening had dissipated.
“I might drink too much,” Alexus had said, breaking the silence that had descended between them. “Might have smoked the occasional joint in high school. But I would never, ever use chemical drugs. Can you imagine being that woman? Prepared to do anything for a fix. No way. Thank you very much. Not for me. I value my brain too much. Enjoy being smart.”
Suddenly the hot bath was no longer soothing; instead it made her feel claustrophobic. Zelia bolted from the tub, caught an accidental glimpse of her face leached of color, her large breasts swinging as she lunged for a towel. She wrapped the thick terry cloth tightly around herself, her heart thumping way too fast in her chest as Alexus’s words ricocheted in the empty space around her.
“I would never, ever use chemical drugs . . .”
Eight
“ZELIA,” MARY SAID. “You’ve got to stop pacing. You’re making me dizzy.”
Zelia turned and stared bleakly at her friend. “I don’t know what to do.” She was exhausted. Hadn’t been able to sleep all night. Every time she lay down and tried to relax, Alexus’s words would start to play on a continuous loop.
“Come sit down.” Mary patted the metal folding chair next to the little card table in the back room. “I’ve made you a nice hot cup of tea.” Mary opened the cupboard, got out the box of shortbread cookies, and put a couple of them on a saucer. “We’re going to go over this rationally.”
Zelia dropped into a chair. She inhaled, then blew the breath out slowly. Her mouth was dry, as if she had spent the last five minutes with her lips scotch-taped around a blow-dryer. She took a sip of her tea. Too hot. It scalded her taste buds, made her eyes smart. “I don’t believe”—she swallowed hard—“Alexus overdosed on purpose.”
“Honey,” Mary said gently. She placed the cookies on the table and took the other seat, her hand covering Zelia’s. “No one ever means to overdose. They just do. It was a terrible, terrible accident.”
“No. That’s not what I mean.” Zelia turned her hand over and gripped Mary’s hand. “I’m not being clear. My mind is a bit fuzzy from lack of sleep. What I’m saying is . . . I think Alexus was murdered. The overdose was a cover-up.”
Mary stared at her as if she’d sprouted a second head.
“Say something,” Zelia finally urged.
“And you . . . believe this . . . why?”
“She didn’t use hard drugs.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know it. We had a conversation about drugs when we were at Frieze. Took me a while to remember. My only excuse is it was a while back—before you came to work for me.”
“Well, I’ve been here three years.” Mary wasn’t looking at her as she rearranged the buttery cookies on the saucer. “So, if you had this conversation before then—” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, clearly troubled. “A lot can happen to a person in that amount of time.”
“Forget it.” Zelia got to her feet. “You think I’m crazy.”
“No,” Mary replied. “I think you’re grieving. Big difference. You’re feeling bad because of how your last interaction went down. Which I have to tell you, if anyone was being a bitch that night it was Alexus, not you. You have nothing to feel guilty about. For what it’s worth, I believe you are trying to find answers when maybe there are none.”
“I just . . .” Zelia didn’t know quite what she was feeling. “I know”—she thumped her clenched fist over her heart—“something is off with the whole ‘overdose’ picture. You know what?” She snatched her cell phone off the table. “I’m gonna—” Zelia typed “Greenwich Police, Connecticut” into the Google search bar and tapped the call button before she could lose her nerve.
“Zee? What are you doing?”
The phone was ringing. “I’m—”
“Greenwich Police Department.”
Zelia held up a finger, listening hard.
“If this is an emergency,” the recording said, “please hang up and dial nine-one-one. If you know the extension for the person you are calling, please dial it now. For all other calls please stay on the—” There was a click on the line. “Greenwich Police, how may I help you?”
“Hello.” Her heart was pounding. She tried to steady her breath. “My name is Zelia Thompson. I’m calling because a friend of mine, Alexus Feinstein, died three nights ago in the back office of her art gallery, Feinstein and Company, located in Old Greenwich. I’m not sure if you are familiar with the case? The newspapers said it was an overdose. But I’ve been turning it over in my mind and it just doesn’t feel right. I’m pretty sure Alexus didn’t use hard drugs.” Suddenly her words dried up. She just stood there, her face hot, her cell phone plastered to her ear.
“Give me your name and phone number. I’ll pass your concerns on to Detective Hurley, who was at the scene.” The woman on the other end of the line sounded weary.
“Thank you.” Zelia gave the woman her name, her number, along with Alexus’s information, and then hung up feeling slightly embarrassed, like the woman on the phone thought she was wasting valuable police time.
“What did they say?” Mary asked.
“That she’d pass my concerns on.” Zelia flopped into a chair. “I got the feeling that she thought I was a hysterical female, jumping at shadows.” She shrugged. “Maybe I am.” She could feel her face was still flushed.
“Do you feel better for having called?”
Zelia shrugged. “I don’t know.” She didn’t feel better. Not one iota.
“Look. You’ve done what you can. You voiced your concerns. Now it’s up to them to follow through.”
“But what if they don’t?”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“It sucks. It’s so frustrating.” Zelia scrubbed her hands across her face. “I wish there was someone I could talk to who could help me figure this thing out. Nothing about it makes any sense to me.”
Mary nodded. Leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her tea, watching Zelia with a considering expression on her face.
“What?” Zelia snagged a shortbread cookie and bit into it.
“I just had a thought—” Mary paused, then shook her head. “Nah.”
“Mary, you had an idea. Spit it out.”
“Well, that author from last night. I Googled him when I got home—”
“I knew you liked him,” Zelia said, placing her cookie on her saucer and scooting it away.
Mary shook her head. “Not in that way. The way his gaze followed you, made me curious to know more about him. Apparently”—Mary was looking way too pleased with herself—“Gabriel Conaghan went to your alma mater. What are the odds of that? Huh? Maybe it’s a sign that you’re meant to be.” Mary smirked, then wiggled her eyebrows.
“You’re nuts.”
“Seriously, I’m not making this up. You overlapped. Graduated three years apart. Does the name ring a bell? Maybe you knew him, had a one-night stand? Because I’m telling you the heat that was smoldering off that man as he watched you . . .” Mary fanned herself.
“Number one.” Zelia held up a finger. It was best to nip this flight of fancy in the bud. “I don’t kno
w the man. Never met him before in my life. Two.” A second finger joined the first. “I’ve never had a one-night stand.”
“What?” Mary looked as if Zelia had confessed she could fly.
“Never,” Zelia said firmly, sticking another finger in the air. “And three. I was with Ned.”
“The whole time?”
Zelia nodded. “Even if I hadn’t been in a happily committed relationship, the Berkeley campus is enormous. Different majors. We could have attended the entire four years and never crossed paths once.”
“Really?”
“Let me put it this way. The student population is substantially bigger than the entire population of Solace Island, including the weekenders.”
“Oh.” Mary gave a rueful laugh. “You would not believe the happily-ever-after fairy tale I concocted last night. He was an old flame, maybe a one-night stand who never got over you. Tracked you to Solace and wants to get married and have two-point-five babies. Ah well. The start might be different, but that doesn’t mean the ending can’t be the same. Mr. Conaghan is super successful. His novels hit the New York Times Best Sellers list with great regularity—”
“She says, apropos of nothing.” Zelia took a bite of shortbread. “You and your matchmaking—”
“Hear me out,” Mary said with a Cheshire-cat grin. “Matchmaking aside, the guy writes crime fiction. A heavy-hitter author doesn’t operate in a vacuum. He’s got people. I bet he has access to police, FBI profilers, et cetera. You should meet with him and tell him your concerns about Alexus. See if he thinks murder is a likely possibility.”
“Yeah. I bet that conversation would go over well. Hey, you, famous writer. I’d like to pick your brain . . .”
“You won’t know unless you try.”
Zelia shook her head. “I have no idea where he lives. Don’t have his phone number . . .”
“He mentioned he was staying at the Mansfield Manor.” Mary reached behind her and snagged the phone. “You can call him right now.” Zelia stared at the phone in Mary’s outstretched hand. “Take it,” Mary said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “It’s just a phone, not a cobra. You should call him. It might help settle some of your worries about Alexus.”
Nine
ZELIA STOOD ACROSS the street from the Intrepid Café. She wore the hood of her deep-ruby-red cape coat up to help keep the light, misting shower at bay. Deciding to wear her favorite boots for added courage was a mistake. Weather forecasts for clear skies and bright sunshine meant diddly-squat in the Pacific Northwest. Her beloved indigo velvet boots with their darling clear amber heels were now getting speckled from the rain.
Well, she told herself as she squared her shoulders and headed determinedly across the road, at least this meeting is forcing you to get over your ridiculous avoidance of this café.
Solace Island residents had been abuzz ever since Intrepid had opened its doors. Sometimes Zelia felt that if she had to listen to one more person rave about the amazing baked goods to be obtained there she would scream. Enough with the chatter about flaky crusted pies and lemon pound cake drizzled with a mouthwatering citron icing. Who cared about a delicious chocolate cake with broiled nut topping, the sides slathered with high-quality Belgian chocolate?
So, the two Harris sisters who had descended on Solace like a plague of man-hungry locusts could cook. Big deal. Not only could they cook, but they were skinny and gorgeous as well. And if local gossip was to be believed, Maggie and Eve were also kind and charming and lovely and blah . . . blah . . . blah . . .
Okay, fine. Zelia could forgive them for being so perfect. But the younger one, Maggie, had marched into town and promptly scooped up Luke Benson from under Zelia’s nose. Zelia had spent the previous year trying to encourage the delicate blossoming friendship into something more. She’s just here on vacation, looking for a holiday fling, Zelia had told herself. But Luke had married the damned woman, and according to all sources, they were very, very happy. Barf.
Luke was the first man Zelia had been attracted to in the seven years that had followed Ned’s death. It’s been almost eight years now, but who’s counting. Her eyes suddenly felt hot. This is stupid. I shouldn’t still be missing Ned so badly.
Zelia knew the whole being-pissed-at-Maggie-Harris-now-Maggie-Benson for the Luke thing was unreasonable. The man was never meant for her. She knew that now. She was glad he’d found happiness. Even though it was with someone else. She just felt a little less than was all. She’d been prepared to offer him her heart, but it wasn’t enough.
So, she’d avoided the Intrepid Café. It had been easy with so many nice eateries to choose from on the island. She hadn’t planned to boycott it forever. Just until the sharp pang of disappointment subsided. But then one month led to two, which led to four, and here it was, more than a year later and still she hadn’t gone in.
No time like the present. Zelia reached the front stoop of the café. She felt a little embarrassed, but relieved, too, that Gabriel Conaghan had picked the Intrepid and the jinx was going to be broken.
A tiny bell, which was attached to the door hinge with a lilac ribbon, jingled as Zelia swung the door open and entered. Instantly, she was enveloped by the delicious smells of home-baked food. She inhaled deeply. Umm . . . not just sweet baked goods, but savory, too. And what is that . . . soup? A rich tomato soup from the smell of it. Coffee, tea, and . . . Oh. My. God!
Zelia was suddenly frozen to the spot. Where did they obtain these gorgeous, gorgeous paintings?
Someone bumped into her. “Sorry,” Zelia murmured, moving away from the doorway and out of the flow of traffic, her gaze still entrapped by the beauty and lush power of the artwork on the walls. Each piece stood on its own, and yet clearly they were all created by the same artist. Landscapes, all of them. Outwardly simple things—a tree arching upward, a cliff’s edge, the ocean’s surface, a storm rolling in—and yet so much more. Passion and longing and sorrow, too, in every brushstroke. Zelia felt as if the artist had ripped herself open, captured the very essence of her being, and put it down on canvas for the world to witness.
* * *
* * *
GABE HAD WOKEN early. He’d stayed up late typing the report on Mansfield Manor. It had felt good to e-mail the file to his dad, get it off his plate. Then he’d gone to bed tired, planning to book his return flight. But instead of sleep he’d spent a good portion of the night digging through the winding corridors of his brain, trying to figure out why the gallery owner felt so familiar, where else he’d seen her and when. Then, right as he was hovering on the threshold of sleep, an image came to him. A much-younger woman, barefoot, with flowers in her long, lush hair. She looked glorious in the vintage sleeveless white cotton day dress from the twenties, which she must have found at a garage sale or in a thrift shop. The woman had been quite a bit thinner than Zelia and hadn’t had her magnificent breasts, but the face, the length of her body was the same. He hadn’t known either the bride or the groom. Ron, his roommate at Berkeley, had dragged him to the wedding. “Knowing Ned, it’s going to be super informal,” Ron had assured Gabe. “They won’t mind another body.”
It had rained during the ceremony. The grass was wet, but as they all trooped out of that beaten-up old house and down the weathered steps to the backyard, the sun had forced its way through the clouds. A partial rainbow had appeared overhead. It was only for a minute or two, and then it flickered out. Nobody else had seemed to notice it, their eyes on the happy couple taking their vows.
Once the vows were spoken and the register signed, the bride had started to turn to face the assembled motley crew of fellow students and friends when Ned tipped his head toward hers. There was a mischievous smile on his face as he murmured something to her. Gabe was at the far end of the yard, couldn’t hear what Ned had said, but the young woman had burst into joyous, infectious laughter. Gabe had never seen anything as beautiful as her face in that moment, he
r whole being lighting the world around her. The groom, laughing, too, had swung her into his arms and whirled her around and around in an enormous hug.
Someone turned on music, and people started dancing among the battered grass and the mud. Someone lit up and started passing a joint around, and wine and a homemade chocolate cake were brought out.
Gabe made his excuses to his friend and slipped away. Too much happiness. He didn’t want to taint it with his inexplicable longing and lust for her. The bride. Someone he had never laid eyes on before that day.
Was the gallery owner the same woman? That joyous bride of ten years past? If so, there was a sorrow in her eyes that hadn’t been present before. A weight. Not just physical, but emotional as well.
Wouldn’t that be an interesting synchronicity? Life looping around on itself like a labyrinth walk.
If it was her, is she still married? was his last conscious thought before sleep claimed him.
He’d been well into his morning pages when the phone had rung. He’d turned his cell phone to airplane mode but had forgotten there was a landline. He was tempted to not answer, but knowing his father, he’d keep calling every five minutes until he got Gabe on the phone.
It was a pleasant surprise when he picked up the receiver and heard Zelia’s voice. She had spoken only one sentence last night before she was whisked away, but her smoky, sensuous rasp was incredibly distinctive. The second she said hello, he knew it was her.
She’d sounded shy and a little wary, but she had tracked him down to see if he’d be open to meeting up for a coffee, so maybe things were different now. Maybe he had a chance.
