by Meg Tilly
“Zelia. Whatever may come.”
She studied his face, eyes narrowed as if by looking long enough she would discover hidden clues. Then she jerked her gaze away. “No.” She ripped off a bite-sized piece of baguette. “I can’t . . . It’s very generous, but . . . I can’t.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but her hand cut the space in the air between them.
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head emphatically. “I don’t want to hear it.” She swirled the bread into the juice at the bottom of her bowl, then stuck it in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. She ripped off another piece, her face tense. “You’ll thank me for this later.”
Fifty-two
“WHAT DO YOU think?” He nudged his sister playfully in the ribs. Tati had been struck speechless at the sight of his beautiful half-finished masterpiece drying on the easel. “Say something,” he prompted, because she was just standing there in his studio as if the magnificence of what she was beholding had turned her legs to stone. Her hand was clasped to her mouth in an attempt to smother her exclamations of astonishment and joy.
She blinked slowly, as if trying to awaken from a dream. “It’s you,” she whispered.
He hadn’t realized that was what he was waiting for until he heard the words. “Yes!” he cried out, sweeping her into an enormous hug, spinning around so her feet left the ground like he used to do when they were young. “You get it! My art is me. It is so me! You understand, Tati. You always have, like no one else in this godforsaken world.” He pulled back, thumped his fist against his chest, blinking away the unexpected dampness from his eyes. “And I think this painting especially—once it’s complete—will represent the essence that resides at the very core of my being. That’s why I came to Solace Island, to get the necessary supplies to complete this painting. And lo and behold, miracle of miracles, I also found you.” He laughed, feeling almost giddy. What a pleasure to share this with his beloved sister, to share himself, his growth as an artist. “Lord knows, it took me a while to find my style, to find my own unique artist’s voice. Mother didn’t think I could.” Pacing now. Couldn’t help it, so much energy boiling inside. “She said I was a ‘no-talent hack’ and that my work was ‘ugly’ and ‘disgusting’ and I’d never amount to anything! Do you remember how she refused to let me take art classes? Remember that? Didn’t matter how often I begged. Said it would be ‘a waste of time and money,’ but that night . . . ? When you were at your sleepover with Zoe-Ann, Mother went too far. Slashed my painting to ribbons. Burned the remains. Told me they were shipping me to a military boarding school! Me. I would’ve died there. A place like that would’ve destroyed my soul. Fucking bitch!” He could feel the rage rising, feel himself teetering on the edge of control. He needed to rein it in. Tati was still a tad skittish. Who could blame her, being on the run for so many years? She needed to know she was safe with him. He pulled himself back from the brink. Ran his hands through his hair, smoothing the strands into place. “Well,” he said, placing a benign smile on his face. “I’ve shown her, haven’t I?” He returned to his sister’s side. “So, you like it, Tati? You really do?”
Her mouth worked, unable to find words. Finally she nodded. His masterpiece had drawn her gaze back to it like a lodestone. “Your art is unlike any I have ever seen.” Her voice was barely audible.
“I know. It has an intensity, doesn’t it? A real depth of feeling. One can almost taste the life-and-death struggle embedded in the paint.” He slid a sly glance at her to see if she had picked up the cue. When they were younger they could sometimes finish each other’s sentences. He would just look at her across the dinner table, not saying a word, and make her bust out laughing. But Tati wasn’t looking at him. She was still enraptured in his half-finished painting. “I was going to call it Champagne Time, but now, with the new direction I’m going to be taking, I thought Bosom Buddies was a more apt title. I’ll be going into town tomorrow morning to pick up the supplies I need to complete the piece.”
She turned to him, her face pale. “Dattg. That’s you?”
“It’s us,” he corrected. “It’s both of us combined.” He let his finger hover over the signature at the bottom. “See? Death. Art. And then I slipped in this ‘T’ here to represent you. There is my initial, of course, and then the ‘G’ for Guillory to top it off. I wanted to honor you, Tati. I thought you were dead.” Tears came now. There was no stopping them. “You have no idea the anguish I suffered when the fire chief told me you had perished in the flames. You were supposed to be sleeping at your best friend’s house. But Zoe-Ann’s mother said you had woken up agitated a little after eleven o’clock and insisted on being driven home. That you didn’t want to wake the household so you used your key and went in through the back.” He swiped his forearm across his face. “But she was lying. I know that now because here you are. I’ll deal with the woman’s duplicity later.
“Yes. I’ve been giving it some thought since I found you and realized what happened. One of the housemaids must have known about your sleepover and crept into your bed, pretending to be the fine daughter for a night.” He laughed. “Well, she got her just deserts, didn’t she?” He whirled in a happy circle and then hugged Tati again. Hugged her because he could, because she was alive and he wasn’t alone anymore. All was well with the world.
Fifty-three
ZELIA TURNED ON the hot water and added some dish soap. She should be glad a decision had been made, but instead she was weary and sad. Felt heavy, as if she were pushing her way through invisible sludge. Gabe standing beside her—tea towel at the ready—was not helping matters. His presence, the masculine pheromones he was emanating, were making every cell in her body feel as if she were hooked up to a defibrillator. “Seriously, Gabe,” she said, scrubbing the chopping board in the soapy water. “You don’t have to help with the cleanup. It’s been a long day.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his expression unyielding.
She turned to him, exasperated. She was not going to let him throw away his life on her because of some sort of misguided idea of chivalry. He deserved better. “Gabe, I meant it. We aren’t going forward with—”
His cell phone lying on the kitchen counter buzzed.
“I understand,” Gabe said calmly. “I’m not planning on sharing your bed.”
The phone buzzed again.
He ignored it. “Unless”—he tossed her a wolfish grin as he plucked the clean chopping board from the dish rack and started to dry it—“you decide to invite me there.”
Buzz . . . buzz . . .
“Not going to happen.”
“Look, Zelia.” His grin had vanished, his eyes dead serious. “Alexus was one thing. She lived on the other side of the country. But Mary disappearing?” He shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you stay here alone.”
Buzz . . . buzz . . .
“I’m not going to argue about this. I’ll be commandeering your sofa until we figure out what the hell’s going on.”
She knew he was right, but it didn’t make the realization any easier.
Buzz . . . buzz . . .
“Look,” she snapped, rinsing off the pot and banging it onto the rack. “Either pick up your damn phone or switch it to do not disturb.” She glared at the offending object.
His brother’s name was on the screen. “Oh my goodness. Gabe, it’s Rick! He must have some information for us.” She plucked the buzzing phone off the counter and shoved it at him. “Answer it!”
He crossed his arms, unperturbed. “Do we have a deal?”
Buzz . . . buzz . . .
“Yes. Damn you! Now answer the bloody phone.”
Gabe tossed the tea towel over his shoulder, picked up his phone, and swiped. “Hey, bro. What’s up? Uh-huh . . . yeah . . . Hang on a minute. I’m with Zelia. Gonna put you on speakerphone so she can hear. Okay. We’re here. Zelia, Rick, Rick, Zelia.”
&
nbsp; “Hi, Rick.”
“Nice to meet you remotely. So, what I was telling Gabe is, I got the results back from IAFIS—good job, Gabe, by the way. Interestingly, they were able to match several of the fingerprints you lifted from the doorknob leading into the upstairs office. One matched with Alexus Feinstein, the deceased.”
Zelia winced. Gabe must have noticed because she felt his free arm settle around her shoulders.
“How did they know it was hers?” Zelia asked.
“She had a DUI a few years back and was in the system. The DNA we picked up from the lipstick matched the blood left in the needle. There were traces of heroin in the needle, tubing, and port, which was odd. Sixteen-gauge needles are generally used for blood donation, not injections. The second set of prints came up with a hit as well. Apparently, Kenneth Oakley, aka Mr. Makeout-interruptus, had a PL 221.10 a few years back. Since it was his second MJ offense, the conviction stuck and he spent three months in jail. I dug a little further, to see if maybe he was Ms. Feinstein’s dealer, but since the conviction, he’s been clean. It was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Rick sounded tired. His voice was more gravelly than Gabe’s, as if he’d spent a lot of time out in the elements, or yelling. Or maybe he was a smoker.
“Didn’t know you guys were still arresting people for smoking weed.” Gabe grinned. “Lucky thing your adult self couldn’t travel back in time to your senior year of high school.”
“Drop it,” Rick said over the speakerphone.
“Jeez,” Zelia added. “They’d have to toss half the population of Solace Island in the slammer.”
“This was a while ago. The MJ landscape has lightened up considerably. On a more interesting note, one of the prints you lifted was a direct match to one found at the office of Richard Rye.”
Zelia felt Gabe’s body tense slightly, could feel her own eyes widen. “The Chelsea gallery owner”—her throat felt tight—“who was murdered?” She whirled to face Gabe. “You were right. They were connected.” Her mind was reeling. “This confirms that Alexus didn’t overdose. She was murdered, too.”
“It confirms,” Gabe said to her gently, “that they found a print at a crime scene that matches. Nothing is certain until it is proven so.” He turned back to the phone in his hand. “Which print was that?”
“The one from the knob on the back door of the Feinstein gallery leading from the alley into the back of the house. There was a partial print on one of the dead bolts, but it was too smeared to make a positive identification. However, the print on the outside doorknob did not match any of the prints you picked up inside Alexus’s office or on the knobs of either side of her office door.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Zelia said.
“What it means is there’s a possibility that whoever killed Richard Rye tried to open the back door of the Feinstein gallery,” Rick replied. “Whether or not the killer entered the building through the alley, or any other way, is unknown. Since there are no matching prints at the site where Alexus died, either Richard Rye’s killer had nothing to do with Alexus’s death—”
“Or,” Gabe added, “he or she was wearing gloves, as we did.”
“Unfortunately, the identity of the person to whom the print belongs isn’t yet in the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System,” Rick clarified.
“That sucks.” Zelia exhaled. The remnants of adrenaline were still coursing through her. “So, we’re really no closer to discovering and apprehending whoever the killer is.”
“Unfortunately,” Rick said, “that’s true. However, each bit helps. It’s like pieces of a puzzle, which hopefully someday we’ll be able to put together. Given this new information, which I passed on to the chief, the decision was made to reach out to the Greenwich Police Department. They will be taking another, closer look into the circumstances of Alexus Feinstein’s death.”
Cool, healing relief rushed through her. The police are going to reopen Alexus’s case. “Thank you, Rick. Truly.” Her eyes were hot, and she was having a difficult time keeping her voice from breaking. “I can’t even tell you how much this means to me.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Rick,” Gabe said. “Appreciate it.”
“No prob. Give Mom and Dad my love—”
“Wait,” Gabe said. “Don’t hang up. I need to call in another favor.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Gabe’s brother did not sound pleased.
“Hey now,” Gabe said mildly. “There’s a lady on the line.”
She heard Rick exhale heavily. “Sorry, Zelia,” he muttered. He exhaled again. “What is it this time?”
“Zelia’s assistant has gone missing. The Solace Island police were here. They picked up a few prints. Would you see if you could get them to share the prints with you? I need you to run them against the prints we have. I know it’s a long shot, but I want to make sure there isn’t a match.”
Zelia whirled to face Gabe. “You think it’s a possibility?”
“Anything’s a possibility until we rule it out,” he replied.
Rick’s voice came over the phone. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Rick,” Gabe said.
“No promises.”
“Understood.”
Fifty-four
WHEN GABE HAD insisted on driving her to her morning appointment, Zelia hadn’t protested too vigorously. She was glad now. Dark clouds had closed ranks around the scraps of blue sky, and the rain was thundering down once again. Spontaneous creeks draped themselves across the lower portions of the road. Much better to be plowing through all that excess water in Gabe’s SUV with its all-wheel drive than trying to navigate through the storm in Old Faithful. Zelia was very fond of her parents’ twenty-six-year-old Volvo. She had served Zelia well over the years, but lately Zelia was using the car less and less. Wanting to not wear her out. She walked voraciously in an attempt to extend Old Faithful’s life.
“What are you thinking about so intently?” Gabe’s voice pulled her back.
“My parents. I was thinking about their car.” The SUV windshield wipers were going full blast, and still it was hard to see out the window. “I don’t know if you noticed it sitting in my driveway?”
“The 1992 Volvo Turbo sedan? Sure. Didn’t know it was your parents’. Hm . . . Babysitting. Dog sitting. You must be car sitting for them.” He smiled, his dimple appearing briefly and then vanishing again.
She opened her mouth to make a lighthearted quip back, but words didn’t get past the sudden lump in her throat. Weird how after all these years, the missing them would sometimes sneak up and bite her in the butt.
“What is it, Zee?” She could hear the concern in his voice.
She shook her head, waving his question away. “Nothing. Really.”
He eased the vehicle to the side of the road. “Bull,” he said gently. He switched the engine off and turned to face her, taking her cold hands in his warm ones. “Tell me.”
There was something incredibly soothing about sitting in that SUV with him, safe and warm, while the rain pounded down on the roof. “My parents passed away ages ago, my freshman year at Berkeley, so I’m not sure why I’m suddenly feeling emotional about it now.”
“Grief is like that. It follows its own rhythm. Perhaps Alexus passing and the worry about Mary has called memories of your parents to the forefront.”
“Yeah. I think you’re right.”
“So, what is it about the car specifically that is causing this sadness?”
“Well, it was theirs, and my dad was so proud when he bought it. Treated it like it was a second child. Spent the weekends washing it, applying wax until it shone. Yet when it came time for me to get my learner’s permit, he didn’t bat an eye. He braced his shoulders and marched me over to the driver’s seat.”
“Sounds like he loved you.”
“He did. So much. Mom, too. And yet, that last summer before they died, I was such a brat. I didn’t want to spend it on the boat with them. I was bored and longed for home, for familiar friends before I headed to university.”
Gabe wrapped his arms around her, laid her head against his shoulder. It must have been a bit uncomfortable for him, given he had to maneuver past the center console and the gearshift, but she was glad for the comfort.
“When they died, I tried to hang on to our house, but it was an impossible task. There were taxes and bills and the remainder of the mortgage. The money I earned working on weekends at a pizza parlor needed to go toward my university expenses. I was sliding deeper and deeper in the red. Had to sell the family home.
“But I kept their car. Drove it to Berkeley. On spring break, I drove to the Grand Canyon, because that was on my mother’s bucket list. I hiked down, said a prayer, and scattered my mom’s favorite rose petals on the canyon floor. I’d packed down a cold beer and a peanut butter cup and toasted my dad. I needed to make some kind of ritual to say my good-byes. They’d gone down with the boat, no bodies to bury.
“I took a lot of trips with Old Faithful. Drove through the Great Plains, across the Canadian Rockies . . .” Her voice petered out, lost in memories. “But she’s old now. The floor is rusted out. I can actually see pavement whizzing past as I drive.” She felt Gabe drop a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “Dave, my mechanic, says she’s on her last legs, but I don’t want her to be. It’s a conundrum because I need a reliable vehicle for my work, which Old Faithful, bless her heart, is not.”
Zelia sighed and straightened. “I know I have to say good-bye to her, but it’s hard. Don’t like to think of her squashed flat for scrap metal in some junkyard.”
“Because she feels like a tangible link to your past. To your parents.”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
Gabe nodded. “Makes sense.”
