Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

  He arrived at the café early and claimed the corner table. Used the waiting time to daydream about possibilities. His notebook was out so that if the muse knocked he’d be prepared. He sat with his back to the wall, even though he doubted it was necessary on sleepy Solace Island. The biggest danger to one’s body appeared to be the soggy, multicolored umbrellas that many of the gray-haired set seemed to be wielding. Black, navy, or dark gray umbrellas were what generally populated the city streets on a rainy day, but Solace clearly marched to its own tune.

  He could feel the corners of his mouth kick up. Maybe I’ll put that detail in my next book. Troy Masters striding alongside the wife of one of his Washington, DC, clients. She is carrying one of these colorfully painted pieces of whimsy, which is an annoyance throughout the book. However, when Masters is disarmed, he grabs the umbrella and fashions it into a makeshift lethal weapon. Gabe reached for his mug to take another sip of the piping-hot, well-brewed cup of coffee. It was amazing how soothing he found this island. There was something about the peaceful rhythms of the daily life that was a balm for his weary spirit.

  Then he saw her standing in the middle of the café, staring at the walls—she must have arrived while he was jotting down notes. Zelia. Zelia Thompson, she had told him on the phone. Was Thompson Ned’s last name? He couldn’t remember. Her given name suited her. It was exotic, unique, and rolled out of the mouth in a lush, satisfying way.

  He followed her gaze, curious what had captured her attention. Ah. The artwork on the walls. He hadn’t noticed the paintings before. They really were quite remarkable.

  He looked back at Zelia and watched her turn slowly, taking in each painting, her cheeks flushed. Her hands rose, as though she were sleepwalking, and drew back the hood, revealing her heart-shaped face, the soft tumbling mass of golden-brown curls.

  He was aware of an unreasonable longing to cross the room and bury his hands and his face in her hair and inhale her scent. He’d had the same urge all those years ago at the wedding and again last night at the gallery, where he’d found himself striding across the room like a madman. But she’d slipped away before he’d had a chance to introduce himself. If she was the same woman, Ned hadn’t been there last night. Was he seeing to the business side of things in the office? At home taking care of their children? Were they still together? Divorced? Or maybe Zelia wasn’t the woman at the wedding. Maybe his writer’s mind was playing games with him, leading him on a fanciful chase.

  A family dashed in through the doors, laughing merrily as they brushed the rain off their umbrellas and coats. The sound and their energy appeared to pull Zelia back to the present. She shook her head slightly as if to clear her mind, then crossed the room to the woman manning the register. When they spoke, Zelia’s face flushed even more. Do they know each other? There is a slightly cautious distance to their body language. Then the cashier smiled, a warm, genuine smile, as she bent and scribbled something on a scrap of paper. She straightened and handed the paper to Zelia, who took it as if it were something precious. She folded the paper once, twice, and then opened her purse, placed the paper in an interior pocket, and zipped it shut.

  He was curious what was written on the paper that caused her to treat it with such care.

  After the cashier had rung in her order and Zelia paid, she turned and scanned the café. Her gaze met his, and once again he felt as if he’d been struck by lightning, every cell in his body surging to attention.

  Ten

  ZELIA MADE HER way to the corner table where he was lounging, sensual awareness sparking through her like Fourth of July fireworks. That’s odd, she thought. Even Ned hadn’t triggered this type of visceral reaction in her.

  “Gabriel Conaghan?”

  He nodded and rose to his feet. His movements appeared slow and languid, like honey spooned out of a jar, but Zelia knew that that was an illusion. Just because a large predatory member of the feline family has been caught dozing on a sun-warmed rock does not mean the animal can’t move fast when it wants to.

  He was long and lanky. Tall. Very tall. She had to tip her head back, almost as if she were accepting a kiss, to take him in. Her gaze traveled across the hard angles and planes of his face, chiseled cheekbones, the days-old stubble unable to soften the strong lines of his jaw. There was a slight upward tilt of his lips, as if something amused him, laugh lines fanning outward from the corners of his eyes.

  How long has it been since I laughed—really laughed—with a man? And for the second time that day Ned’s dear face rushed to the forefront. Laughing this time in her memory, that deep hooting laugh that he had, head thrown back—

  “And you’re Zelia.” Gabriel Conaghan’s voice tugged her reluctantly back to the present. Memories of Ned had been less frequent lately, more viscous, not as defined. It made her feel panicky. Like soon she would lose even the wisps she had left of him. As if she were stuck on the shore and he was rowing out to sea in a little dinghy with the fog rolling in. Now barely a faint shadow in the mist. Sometimes she wondered if she was remembering him clearly. Was she saving only the good bits, discarding all the rest? Mary had hypothesized that Zelia had built the memory of Ned to such monumental proportions that there was no room left in her life for any other man.

  “Yes.” Zelia nodded. The sounds of the café surrounded her now, people talking, the clank of dishes and silverware, the air filled with delicious smells of home cooking.

  Her gaze rose to meet his. The piercing awareness in his eyes belied his casual posture as he reached out and clasped her hand in his. She could feel the controlled strength radiating from his lean, muscular body the second he grasped her hand. The feel of his skin, of his warm calloused hand enclosing hers, made her knees grow weak. How did I not see him, she wondered, feeling slightly dazed, the second I entered the room?

  She liked that his dark brown hair wasn’t slicked back with gels or product. It had a tumbled, windswept quality, as if he’d just ridden into town on his horse.

  He was wearing a heather-gray T-shirt with the long sleeves pushed up, a titanium watch with a black dial face. She shook her head. Even the man’s forearms had nice muscle tone. Tan with a light dusting of blond hair. He must have been blond as a baby—

  “You can call me Gabe,” he said, his baritone rumbling through her, jolting her eyes back up to his.

  “All right,” she said, keeping her voice brusque and businesslike. This was not the time to get gaga about some man. Particularly one who lived—where did he live? No matter. It was bound to be far away. She had no time for foolish crushes. There was important business to attend to. The unexpected heat that was thrumming through her was not a reason to turn into a gibbering pile of mush. “I appreciate you meeting with me.”

  “My pleasure,” he murmured, pulling out a chair for her. His voice was low, husky, and trickled through her like brandy warmed over a flame.

  She looked at the chair, a little surprised. Nobody had ever pulled out a chair for her. “Thank you.” She sat and gestured to his coffee. “I was planning on treating you.”

  “Next time,” he said as he returned to his seat. She knew there wasn’t going to be a next time, but still, the promise of it sent a tingle of pleasure through her.

  He swept his notebook and pen into a leather satchel that rested on the floor beside him, then straightened and looked at her. Really looked at her, as if he could see inside to all the places she kept hidden from the world. His eyes were a deep espresso, the color of his irises so dark it was hard to distinguish where the iris left off and the pupil began. “I feel like we’ve met before . . .”

  She felt her face flush. “No. We haven’t. I’m sorry. I know this is probably a little unusual”—she tried to shrug off her feeling of self-consciousness—“a strange woman contacting you out of the blue. You met my colleague, Mary Browning, last night, and she mentioned you wrote crime fiction.”

  He nodded.
He opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Understandable. How was the poor man supposed to respond? Yes, half the modern world is not only aware of my occupation, but is waiting with bated breath for my next bestseller to hit the bookstore shelves?

  Zelia cleared her throat. “I didn’t know where to turn. I was hoping you might be able to help settle my worries—perhaps shine a bit of clarity and perspective on a situation that has arisen. You see, my friend Alexus has died and I . . .” She suddenly had a lump in her throat and her eyes felt hot. “And I—” What am I doing here? This is madness. “I’m sorry,” she said, standing abruptly. “This was a mistake. I’m so sorry to waste your time—”

  “Don’t go,” he said, his voice gentle. “Sit down. Please. I won’t bite. Promise.” She sank back down, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks, her throat. His hand covered hers briefly, warm and comforting. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She nodded, unable to meet his eyes. Knowing that if the compassion in his eyes matched what she could hear in his voice, she would lose it. “It’s no bother. I’m happy for you to pick my brain,” he continued. “Or to be a sounding board. Maybe I’ll be able to help, maybe not. Won’t know unless you tell me what the problem is.”

  He was right of course. Action was called for. Whether she came across as foolish or not was irrelevant.

  “Well . . .” Zelia puffed out a breath, her insides feeling jittery as she dug into her purse, removed her tablet, and placed it on her lap. “I’m not certain if there is a problem or not.” She unbuttoned her cape and hung it on the back of the chair. She could feel him watching her even though she was angled away. It was a little unnerving to be the sole recipient of his laser-like gaze. “It might just be I’m seeing connections where there are none—” She broke off because she could see Luke’s fresh-faced wife approaching their table.

  “Here you are,” Maggie said with a cheery smile. She set down a pot of green tea, a sturdy mug, and a slice of Intrepid’s famous lemon pound cake.

  “Thank you,” Zelia replied, busying her hands pouring the steaming tea into her mug.

  “Would you like your coffee topped up?” she heard Maggie ask Gabriel.

  “I’m fine for now, thanks,” he replied.

  In her peripheral vision she could see Maggie move away. Zelia tipped her head toward her cake. “Feel free to dig in. I’ve heard it’s quite good.”

  “The food here is amazing,” he said. “Discovered this café fresh off the ferry three days ago. I was ravenously hungry, and the quality of the food was a revelation. Coming here has become a daily ritual.”

  “The art on the wall is remarkable,” she said. It was. But that wasn’t why she was here.

  He nodded.

  She exhaled a slow, steadying breath. Braced herself, then dove in. “I brought a couple articles about my friend’s death. I was hoping you would take a look at them? Let me know if anything jumps out at you?” She didn’t mention her last interaction with Alexus. The thought of sharing that conversation with him made her feel hot with embarrassment and a dollop of guilt.

  “Sure.”

  The act of placing her hand on the tablet on her lap—knowing she was inviting a stranger into the dark labyrinth that had taken over her mind—reactivated the shakes she’d managed to battle into submission on the walk over.

  She pushed the saucer with the lemon pound cake to the side, placed her tablet on the table, opened her Dropbox, then passed the tablet to Gabe.

  She watched him read the articles she had accumulated. The panic fluttered inside her as if a gray sparrow were trapped, ricocheting around, attempting to escape the confines of her chest.

  Eleven

  IT DIDN’T TAKE Gabe long to scan the news articles—the Hartford Courant, the New Haven Register, and the Connecticut Post. Different approaches to the same information: One Alexus Feinstein, age thirty-eight, found dead of a heroin overdose in the back office of her art gallery, Feinstein & Co., which was located in Old Greenwich, while a party was taking place downstairs. Her dead body was discovered when a couple, Marla Warren and Kenneth Oakley, “got lost” trying to find the bathroom. Clearly the couple were looking for a place to hook up. Finding a corpse must have been a bit of a mood buster.

  He handed the tablet back to a tightly wound Zelia, who was watching him intently.

  “Well?” she said, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “What do you think?”

  He took a slug of his coffee, sorting through his thoughts. “A gallery owner. Deceased. Drugs were involved.”

  “Do you think there is a possibility of foul play?” She was watching him closely, as if he had all the answers. He wished he did. It would be nice to be the one to eradicate the anxiety that was reverberating off her like a multitude of silver balls in a vintage pinball machine.

  “Do you?”

  She caught her lip between her teeth again, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know.” Her eyes had grown dark with worry. “I hope not, but I need to make sure. See, my friend, Alexus”—Zelia scrolled back and tapped on the Hartford Courant article—“she didn’t use hard drugs.”

  “Sometimes it is difficult to know if someone is using—”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” she said, clearly frustrated. “I know her. She would never voluntarily touch the stuff.”

  Gabe sat back in his chair. “So, you believe there was foul play. That someone killed her and staged it to look like an overdose.”

  Zelia nodded, her gray-blue eyes large. “Perhaps . . .” Her voice cracked slightly. “It’s a possibility. I think there’s reasonable doubt about what actually happened to her.”

  “Have you gone to the cops with your concerns?”

  “Yes. I called the Greenwich Police Department. A detective called me back. He felt my concerns were unfounded. They had done an investigation. Found no evidence of foul play. The doctor concurred with their findings. Declared Alexus’s death an accidental overdose and signed a death certificate saying so.”

  “And you’re hoping I will . . . ?”

  She leaned forward, her face focused, intense, her hand on the table, clenching into a tight fist. “I was hoping through your writing you had access to specialists in the field who could help me dig a little further. Help me clear her name.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “Fine. I’ll deal with that. I just need to know for sure.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s hard to explain. I feel like a rock has been embedded in my chest. It’s not big, but it’s there, cold and uncomfortable—” She broke off, glanced down for a second, then met his eyes again with her chin set. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? Seeing shadows where there are none.”

  He shook his head. “To be honest, at this point it’s impossible to draw a conclusion one way or the other. However, doing this type of investigative work takes time and money . . .”

  “I already thought of that. I have some savings put aside that I can use—”

  “And more often than not, the answers one gets aren’t the answers one was hoping for—”

  “I don’t care,” she cut in, her flushed face determined as she thumped her clenched fist against her magnificent chest. “I need to know. My friend might have been murdered. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

  Twelve

  “I REALLY APPRECIATE you looking into this,” Zelia said as they left the café. The misting rain had let up. The sidewalk was dark from the recent dampness. There were a few puddles to step around, and the world smelled fresh and clean.

  “I’ll do a little digging,” he replied. It felt right walking beside her. “We’ll see where it takes us. I can’t promise I’ll be able to uncover anything.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled. Glanced at him. He could see a trace of vulnerability in the gr
ay-blue depths of her eyes. Well hidden, but there, like the flash of a silver fish and then gone.

  He liked the way she moved. Long strides, an easy flow to the swing of her arms, the rotation of her torso. Did she take dance as a child? Perhaps. There was something about the way she held herself, as if leaning into the world like a racehorse ready to run. But there was a slightly braced quality as well, as if she’d vowed not to stagger in the headwinds that were buffeting her.

  “This is going to seem like the weirdest conversational segue ever, but I’ve got an image in my head that I just can’t seem to shake. Did you go to Berkeley?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, still facing forward but tilting her head slightly, as if trying to capture a melody slipping past on the wind. “Why?”

  “You remind me of someone. I attended a wedding with a friend, maybe ten or eleven years ago. It was a casual affair, students tying the knot in the back garden of an old wooden house, saggy porch, paint peeling. It had been raining earlier, but the weather cleared up. The bride was wearing a white cotton dress from the twenties, barefoot, flowers in her hair—”

  She stopped, her hand alighting on his forearm as she turned toward him. Eyes wide. “That was me,” she whispered. “Oh my God. Were you a friend of Ned’s?”

  * * *

  * * *

  HE’D DROPPED HER off at the gallery, but the memory of her still walked beside him. The sorrow in her eyes when she told him Ned had passed on impacted him. What would it feel like to be loved so deeply? To be missed?

  Would anyone miss me? he wondered as he cut behind the pub and headed for the wooden stairs that led to the back field of the Mansfield Manor. His family, sure, but who else? His readers? Momentarily, but there were a million other crime fiction writers to fill in the gap. His friends? He had colleagues, but who could he count as his friends these days? His true friends. A wave of melancholy swept over him. My parents are right. I’ve lost sight of what is important. So busy building a career, I forgot to build a life.