Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

  Thirteen

  GABE STARED AT his computer screen, then pushed back from his desk. “Shit.” He rose to his feet, raking his hands through his hair. “Damn. Not good.” He paced the room once, twice, scanned the articles onto his phone, then headed out the door.

  It wasn’t until he arrived under the awning of Art Expressions Gallery that he realized the polite thing would have been to call first. Oh well. He was already there.

  He tugged on the door handle.

  The place was locked.

  “Great.”

  “Can I help you?”

  He squinted in the direction of the voice. An upstairs window was cracked open, and he could make out the shape of a woman standing there. He couldn’t see her features, as the window was awash with color from the reflection of the setting sun. He knew it wasn’t Zelia. The woman had a pleasant enough voice, but it didn’t cause the visceral internal reaction that Zelia’s voice created on his senses.

  He shaded his eyes with his hand. Still difficult to see, but he was pretty sure it was Zelia’s co-worker. What was her name? “I was hoping to speak with Zelia. Is she still inside?”

  The woman opened the window wider and leaned out, a friendly smile on her face. “No. Just me. Wrapping up. Zelia left a couple minutes ago. If you run thataway”—she gestured with her hand—“you might catch her. She usually walks home via the boardwalk.”

  * * *

  * * *

  ZELIA HEARD RAPIDLY advancing footsteps. Either someone was in a hurry or they were up to no good. Always better to face trouble head-on, she thought. She tightened her grip on her shoulder bag. She kept her body language casual and her gaze mild as she rotated, bending her knees slightly and dropping her center of gravity, her feet planted.

  When she saw Gabe jogging toward her, relief rushed through her, temporarily making her legs feel wobbly. “Oh. It’s you.” Or maybe her jelly knees were caused by how hot he looked, with his long legs gobbling the distance between them, windswept hair, and the intense look in his eyes. “Thank goodness.”

  “You looked ready to rumble.”

  “Really? I thought I hid it well.”

  He smiled. The crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes spread outward like sunbeams. The warmth that washed over her caused a fissure in the fossilized barrier she had erected to protect her bruised and weary heart. She had to look away before he saw how much he affected her.

  The sun had started its evening’s descent into the welcoming embrace of the ocean, painting the world with a magical glow. A flock of black oystercatchers skimmed low across the sparkling water.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Perhaps from a normal person, but we writers are suckers for noticing the minutiae, the small contradictory details.”

  She nodded. “Makes sense.” The oystercatchers made a sweeping semicircle, then landed on the water, sending ripples outward. Zelia faced Gabe again. “Where were you headed in such a hurry?”

  The lingering traces of his smile fell away. The seriousness of his expression caused a dropping sensation in her stomach. “I did some digging,” he said.

  “I had a feeling it might be something like that.” Zelia shut her eyes for a second, needing to gather her thoughts. She didn’t know why she wanted to put off hearing what he’d discovered. Just knew she wasn’t ready yet. “Have you had dinner?”

  * * *

  * * *

  “YOU OKAY WITH sitting on the deck?” Zelia asked him. “This time of year can get a little chilly.”

  “It’s snowing in New York,” Gabe replied.

  “Right. The deck it is. Hi, Shirley,” she said, nodding to the frizzy-haired waitress who was deftly steering her way through the crowded interior with a seafood platter and two plates of fish and chips. “I’ll grab some menus. We can seat ourselves.”

  “Thanks, love,” Shirley replied, casting a quick smile Zelia’s way.

  Zelia plucked two battered menus from the wooden box by the cash register, then led the way through the small dining room of the Seaside Shanty.

  The restaurant was right off the boardwalk and perched over the water on spindly footers that would never pass building code now. The place looked to have been built in the 1940s, and the decor hadn’t been touched since. On the walls were the obligatory wooden ship’s steering wheel, old photos, and brass nautical instruments for measuring rain, temperature, and wind speed.

  “Don’t let the smell fool you,” Zelia said, snagging a few blankets from the large basket near the door leading out to the deck. “The food is a little old-fashioned, but it’s super tasty.”

  She must have read his mind. The smell of decades-old fry oil and fish permeated the interior of the small building.

  He followed Zelia onto the deck, enjoying the crisp bite of the fresh air as the screen door swung shut behind them. The last sliver of the sun disappeared into the ocean as they sat at a table in the far corner. The sky was streaked with color. She handed him two of the blankets. “One to sit on, because as picturesque as these wrought-iron tables and chairs look, they are hard on the ass.”

  “The other blanket?”

  “Is for your pleasure: wrap it around your shoulders, drape it over your legs—user’s choice.”

  Gabe snorted. He’d be damned if he was going to huddle under a blanket like an infirm old man. No way. He did, however, follow her suggestion and use one to cushion his butt.

  The only other customer on the outer deck was a weather-beaten fisherman who looked as if he had been eating at the Seaside Shanty since the place opened. No blanket in sight. His false teeth, however, were resting on the table before him as he chowed down on a large bowl of seafood chowder and slurped a thick chocolate shake.

  “What do you recommend?” Gabe asked, perusing the menu.

  “Nothing fancy. Where they shine is in the traditional fare. Fish and chips. The coating is nice and light, not greasy.” She managed a halfway believable laugh. “Well, I guess ‘not greasy’ is relative. If you really want minimal grease, go for the pan seared or baked. Their halibut is fresh. I prefer it over the cod. The bucket of steamed spot prawns is good. All the chowders are great. Old-fashioned milk shakes. Crab cakes to die for. Stay away from the pasta, or anything with a sauce . . .” Her voice petered out, as if the nervousness she’d been trying to outrun had finally caught up with her.

  “Stay away from pasta and sauce. Duly noted,” he said.

  “We’ll place our orders and then you can—ah, here’s Shirley now. Do you need more time?”

  “Nope.” Gabe shut his menu. “Hi, Shirley. I’ll have the fish and chips. Halibut please—two pieces—and a chocolate shake.”

  “Spoken like a local,” Zelia said. She ordered spot prawns and locally brewed elderberry cider.

  Shirley bustled off. Dusk had fallen, the sun’s farewell celebration smothered by the encroaching darkness. He took a sip of the ice water Shirley had left at the table. “Ready?”

  Zelia gave a short nod, her face calm, but the energy pulsating off her reminded him of a cornered animal.

  He removed his cell phone from his pocket and opened the document containing the articles. The information was in his head, but the physical action gave her a moment of privacy. There was no easy way to dispatch this news.

  “While looking into Alexus’s death, I stumbled across this.”

  He slid his phone across the table. It didn’t take Zelia long to read the articles that appeared in the Oregonian and the Register-Guard four months ago, as both were brief: Winnie Efford, forty-nine, owner of Windsongs Gallery, located at the core of the Pearl District, Portland’s thriving art and design area. Previous mental health issues. Heroin overdose. Possible suicide.

  He heard her suck in her breath. Didn’t hear the exhale.

  Zelia laid his phone back on the table and pushed it over to him, her movement cautiou
s. “Do you think it’s a coincidence?” she asked.

  “Perhaps.” His spidey sense was saying no, but they needed to be careful. He earned his living writing fiction. He couldn’t completely trust what his instincts were encouraging him to believe. “We need to do some more digging. It’s best to take emotional thinking out of the equation. To deal with cold, hard facts.” He opened the next document he had scanned. “There was also this.” He handed her his phone. “Not an overdose, but another unexplained gallery owner death. A male this time, however. If these deaths are not accidental, this particular ‘murder’ doesn’t follow the modus operandi of the other two. Once I started reading, I remembered the case. It was splashed all over the newspapers a couple years ago. Richard Rye, thirty-eight, had just opened a new gallery in Chelsea three months prior to his disappearance. His mutilated torso was discovered along the Hutchinson River in New York State by a hiker and his dog. They were able to identify him due to the distinctive tattoo across his left shoulder that spiraled down his spine to his buttock. His right foot was found farther down the riverbank, his Salvatore Ferragamo driving shoe still attached.”

  Zelia winced.

  “Sorry. That was thoughtless of me. Odd details fascinate me.”

  “No worries. I imagine you get immune to the gross-out factor in your line of work.”

  “Still—”

  Shirley arrived with their drinks. “You okay, sweetheart?” she asked Zelia. “You’re looking a little pale.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Zelia said, glancing at Shirley, a slightly strained smile on her face.

  “When did you last eat? Maybe you’re hypoglycemic, like me.” Shirley lit the small candle in the red glass container on their table. “I had to start carrying little baggies of nuts and dried fruit in my purse for when I feel tired.” Shirley patted Zelia on the shoulder. “Well, not to worry. Your order is up next. It will be here in a jiffy.” She moved to the fisherman’s table, reached for his candle, but he waved her off. Gabe was too far away to hear what he said to Shirley, but it made the waitress cackle loudly. She was still chuckling as she exited the deck, the screen door banging shut behind her.

  “I have a vague memory of someone talking about the Richard Rye death at a dinner party.” Zelia’s voice drew Gabe’s gaze back. “They were farther down the banquet table. Their conversation was quite animated, but Alexus and I had just arrived in New York for the SCOPE Art Show. She was dating someone new, so we . . .” Zelia trailed off, seeming to draw into herself.

  “Did you know Winnie Efford?” Gabe asked gently.

  “No.” Zelia shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “But I’ll call Feinstein and Company in the morning. Alexus’s assistant would know if Winnie was a friend.”

  “Good idea. I’ll call my brother in New York. Rick’s an NYPD homicide detective. I’ll see what he can dig up.”

  Fourteen

  HE SLOWLY RETURNED to his body, unsure of the time or where he was.

  He was lying down, but he wasn’t in bed with his smooth silk sheets that cooled and caressed his sensitive skin. He was chilled. Could feel rough, textured fabric under his cheek and hand. It was stiff, damp, and smelled of blood.

  He cracked open an eye. Ah. He was home. Lying on the sofa in his studio. Night had fallen. The room was quiet and dark, a solitary moonbeam causing the large oak tree outside the window to cast witchy shadows on the floor. Everything seemed serene.

  Thank goodness.

  The last episode where he’d lost time, he had come back to consciousness to discover he was naked, the lower half of his body submerged in the muddy swamp at the back of his property. He’d caught a bad chill from being out in the elements for who knew how long. A cough, too, that developed into a bout of walking pneumonia. Missed a couple weeks of work.

  He allowed his eyes to drift shut. Weary. So weary. He breathed in deep, taking in the smell of creativity that permeated his studio. There was something so comforting about the scent of his paints, the chemicals, and turpentine. The copper-penny smell of blood was more prevalent than usual. He didn’t have to turn on a light to know what he would find. He knew well the consistency and texture of the substance that coated his hands. Not just his hands—his face, his hair, the fabric of the sofa underneath him, and God knew what else.

  No matter. No matter.

  He would straighten out the mess in the morning. For now, sleep beckoned. Blessed sleep. A soothing sense of peace wrapped around him, cradled him as if he were a newborn babe swaddled in the finest cashmere, tenderly held in a loving mother’s arms.

  Fifteen

  MARY SMIRKED WHEN Zelia burst into the gallery twenty-six minutes after opening and a full forty-one minutes later than she usually arrived. “Well, Sleeping Beauty, did you have a good evening?”

  “I am never late—”

  “Ahem . . .” Mary made a show of glancing at the clock on the wall. “I beg to differ. But then, I imagine you have a good excuse.” She laughed. “I’m hoping you have a good excuse—like hot, sweaty sex between the sheets with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Heavenly.”

  “How did you know we—”

  Mary pounced on her, glee written all over her face. “So, you did have sex with him! Way to go, you wanton hussy—”

  “No. Good grief, Mary. I didn’t have sex with him. We had dinner.”

  “Aaaand?”

  “And nothing. The man’s not interested. We talked about Alexus.”

  Mary deflated. “Damn. When you were late this morning, I was so certain. I was glad one of us was getting laid. Ah well. Speaking of Alexus, a package arrived from her this morning. I put it on your desk.”

  “That’s odd.” Her friend hadn’t mentioned shipping anything to her.

  “Want some tea?” Mary asked.

  “Sure.” Zelia unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it off her shoulders. “You know what I’ve decided?”

  “What?” Mary asked over her shoulder as she walked to the drink station.

  “I’m going to have a baby,” Zelia said as she hung her jacket in the closet.

  Mary spun around, her jaw dropping. “You’re pregnant? Oh my God! I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”

  Zelia laughed. “If you could only see your face. No. I’m not pregnant. Not yet. But I’m gonna be.”

  Mary was staring at her, mouth still agape.

  “I was lying in bed last night.”

  Mary wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Alone,” Zelia said firmly. “Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about Alexus and how desperate she was to be a mother. It had been a dream of hers, but she was waiting for Mr. Right. Unfortunately, as we both know, Mr. Right never showed up. And now she’s dead. I am done putting off the things that are really important to me. I am not going to continue waiting for someone to fall in love with me so I can begin the rest of my life.”

  “Zee, babies are a lot of work. They’re messy and cry a lot. You’d never again get a full night’s sleep.”

  “I know. And I want it all. The mess. The sleepless nights. I want to know what it is to give birth, to nurse a child, to watch him or her grow and mature. Would I rather have a partner so I’m not doing it alone? Yes. But apparently that doesn’t seem to be an option for me. So, I’m going to start researching sperm banks and—”

  “Sp-sperm banks?” Mary’s sputter morphed into a mini choking fit.

  “You okay?” Zelia thumped her on the back.

  “I’m fine . . . Just breathed in the wrong way,” Mary rasped. “Spit went down the wrong tube.” She blew out a breath, wiped her eyes, and straightened. “Honey . . .” Her voice still sounded a little ragged. “I wouldn’t be a friend”—she wagged a finger at her—“if I didn’t remind you of that old maxim. You are supposed to hold off on all major decisions for six months to a year after the death of someone close to you. You aren’t suppo
sed to move”—another finger joined the first—“quit your job, or change your investment strategy.” Mary looked at her sternly. “I think deciding to have a baby on your own would fall into the ‘major decisions’ category.”

  “Whatever. I’m going to do it.” Zelia headed toward her office.

  “Wait for six months—”

  Zelia whirled and glared at her. “I don’t. Have. Time. My biological clock is winding down.”

  “Two months, then,” Mary said, plopping a tea bag into a mug and pouring steaming-hot water over it. “Two months won’t make that much difference.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She was so not going to think about it. She said she was just to shut Mary up.

  “Good.” Mary topped off her coffee and added a glug of cream from the mini fridge. “By the way, I called Eve Harris as you requested. Arranged for you to go by her studio next week, Tuesday, at one p.m.”

  “Thanks.” Zelia came to a stop in the doorway of her office. A 37-by-4⅜-by-30 cardboard shipping box lay across her desktop. It looked innocuous enough, wrapped in brown paper and thick 3.5-millimeter tape, but something about the package made her throat constrict. Probably because you know she’s dead. Feels a little eerie receiving something from her now, like her soul is reaching out from beyond the grave.

  “Here you go,” Mary said, appearing at her shoulder and handing her a steaming mug of tea.

  The smell of jasmine calmed her. “Thanks.” Zelia took a sip of tea to fortify herself, then stepped forward and placed the mug on her desk. “Right. Let’s see what she sent.”

  Zelia removed an X-Acto knife from the top drawer of her desk and slit the tape. The instant she touched the box, a sense of wrongness swept over her. “Given the shape,” she said—her voice sounded tight, unnatural to her ears—“I’d say this is probably a painting.” She lifted the freed flaps of cardboard and pulled the Bubble-Wrapped object out. “Yep. Looks like one, feels like one—” She was glad she wasn’t alone. Grateful Mary was there. Zelia removed the Bubble Wrap, the cardboard pads, the palette tape and wrap that protected the paint. Why are my frikkin’ hands shaking? Zelia turned the painting over and then she knew.