by Darci Hannah
As Tate was fighting for all he was worth, I was going around with Alexa, slowly working my way toward the bow of the ship as she fired shot after shot at my head. The bow was crashing into the waves, sending spumes of cold water leaping over the side. My clothes were getting soaked as I clung to the little rail for dear life.
I knew what Tate was trying to do. When rounding Death’s Door, a sailor was faced with a dangerous outcropping of rock and shoals. One wrong turn and a ship could be flung upon the rocks or scuttled by a rogue wave. Alexa, unfortunately, was totally oblivious to anything but killing me. I, however, was preparing myself for the worst.
The boat was picking up speed. I looked out over the dark water and saw the lights high on the bluff getting closer. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Alexa!” I cried, peering over the rounded decking of the bow. “Please put the gun down and listen to me.”
“No!” she cried. “I’m not going to prison, not for the death of that horrible woman.”
“Okay. But seriously,” I cried, poking my head a little higher. She aimed her gun and shot. “For the love of Pete! How may bullets do you have in that damn thing?”
“Enough to finish the job. Stop moving!”
The engines on the boat roared even louder as the yacht picked up more speed. I looked up and saw Tate in the wheelhouse. The other two men were nowhere in sight. Tate gave me a thumbs-up, then disappeared. It was my cue but I hesitated.
“Alexa, please listen to me. Drop the gun and head for the back of the boat. Look!” I cried over the crashing of the waves. “Look over there.”
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, anger gripping her voice. “You’re trying to ground my yacht!” She shot her gun off one last time before throwing it into the water. Alexa might have been mad but she wasn’t a fool. Taking my cue, she began gingerly making her way along the narrow decking on her side of the boat, heading for the back of the yacht.
I scrambled down my side and beat her, finding Tate already there. He tossed me a life jacket. I hastily put it on, then tossed one to Alexa, who was stumbling toward us like a befuddled toddler.
“We’re going to have to jump!” I told her.
“In there? Never!” she yelled, but I was pleased to note that she put the life jacket on in spite of her words. “Those waves are too high, and lake water ruins my hair.”
“Suit yourself,” Tate cried, and took hold of my hand.
I was terrified. Jumping off the waters near Death’s Door was akin to suicide. Staying on the boat as it crashed into the swiftly closing rocks, however, would be worse. Seeing my trepidation, Tate gestured to a spot on the lake. Above the roaring of the motor and the crashing of the building waves I saw what Tate had pointed to. It was another boat racing through the darkness with lights flashing.
“Coast Guard. We can do this. Ready, babe?”
“Ready,” I cried and squeezed back. And then we ran to the back of the yacht, over the seat cushions of the plush bench seats and into the shocking cold water off the bluffs of Death’s Door. The moment we surfaced in the building waves, pulled up by the buoyant life jackets, we heard Alexa scream. A moment later, the sound of metal grinding upon solid rock hit our ears. The beautiful yacht had made its last voyage.
Forty-Seven
Tate and I weren’t in the water long before the small Coast Guard cutter that had been chasing us came to our rescue. But it wasn’t a member of the Coast Guard that stood on the back platform ready to fish me out of the cold water. It was Jack. And the look he gave me as he assisted me onto the boat was one of confounding contradictions. He was both elated and angry at once. I suppose I deserved it, but I had to be honest, the sight of him sent my heart fluttering away like the wings of a butterfly in a particularly succulent garden.
The moment I was firmly on deck his expression broke. A blanket came around my shoulders and I found myself wrapped in his arms. “Jesus Christ, Whitney,” he chided, holding tightly, cradling my head against his warm, fleece-covered chest. “This is the second time I’ve pulled you from the water in the dead of night since you’ve been up here. And I don’t mind telling you that I don’t like it one bit.”
Tears sprang to my eyes as I held him back just as tightly. “I’m sorry,” I said, sniffling. “But … but I had a hunch. About Alexa’s portrait.”
“I know. Giff told me all about it. I heard how you roped him into your madcap plan by sending him to the house to create a diversion while you went to search Alexa’s boat. The moment Alexa saw him, he said, was the moment you set off the floodlights out back. She knew instantly that something was up. Her housekeeper tried to detain him while Alexa, her yacht captain, and her groundskeeper went after you. Thankfully Giff escaped, or else … Christ, Whitney, I don’t even want to think about it. But you should have called me,” he reprimanded. It was then that a small, pain-stricken groan escaped his lips. “You do realize that before you showed up, Cherry Cove was a quiet, boring, sleepy little village?”
I forced a smile. “It was never boring, Jack. But I will give you quiet. It might not be so quiet now that I’m here. Are you really mad at me? I did find Tate, after all, just as I found Silvia’s murderer.”
“Quiet’s better than boring,” he breathed, tightening his grip on me. “I’m just happy you’re here, safe in my arms.”
I looked at the partially sunken yacht, now awash in floodlights. The once sleek hull was a tangle of metal grinding against the jagged rocks. Alexa, looking like a drowned rat trapped in an extra-large life jacket, was bobbing in the waves twenty feet off the bow of the cutter. She wasn’t enjoying a minute of it. And she certainly wasn’t going to love what the lake water had done to her hair and makeup. She was currently being towed to the boat by two men from the Coast Guard. Her lackeys were still aboard the sinking yacht, waiting for the second Coast Guard cutter to arrive and take them off.
“Alexa Livingstone,” I uttered, and shook my head. “I never saw that one coming.”
“Neither did I … not until Giff called me. He explained your suspicion of the black cape we found on the island. He also said that you were obsessed about getting a look at her portrait. I’m curious. What did you find?”
“Nothing,” I told him honestly. “It was a stunning piece of artistry. But I learned that it wasn’t really about the painting, Jack. The whole senseless murder took place because Alexa’s portrait didn’t look anything like she assumed it would. It depicted her as she really is, an older woman. Due to her ego and pride, Alexa refused to acknowledge that the old woman staring out from the painting was her.”
Jack looked across the water at the woman now in the spotlight, floundering in the waves. “In general, I’d say there’s nothing wrong with clinging to one’s youth. Growing up and getting older is a part of life, but sometimes not an easy one. You and I, we’ve grown up a bit, haven’t we? And I have to be honest, there are days I feel very old.”
“You’re far from old, Jack.”
He smiled gently. “We’re all in denial about something. As long as it doesn’t lead to murder, I suppose it’s harmless enough. Good work, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey! MacLaren!” Startled, we both turned in the direction of the voice. It was Tate, standing on the other side of the cutter with a blanket draped around his shoulders and a mug of hot coffee in his hand. I felt a welling of relief at the sight of him. An hour ago, we’d all believed he’d committed a murder-suicide. It had been a horrible night, but the fact that he was still very alive and very innocent of murder made us both smile. “Dude,” Tate continued, staring at Jack. “For the love of God. Stop hugging my girlfriend!”
Jack fell silent as he studied the dripping, blond-headed man. A look, part confusion, part terror, seized him, and I could feel his grip on me begin to slacken.
“Tate,” I said, gripping Jack tighter. “I believe I made
it quite clear back there on the yacht that I’m not your girlfriend.”
The look on his face was pure challenge as he stared at Jack. Jack stared back. Then, suddenly, Tate’s face broke into a dimpled grin. “Right. Just checking. Thought maybe you changed your mind.” He winked and took a sip of coffee.
“Nope. I haven’t,” I said. “But you do know that we all still love you, right?”
“Of course. I mean, look at me. I’m practically the embodiment of Cherry Cove, and who doesn’t love Cherry Cove?”
It was then that Jack released me and walked over to Tate. “No hard feelings?” he asked, extending a hand.
Tate stared at him a moment, then grinned. “No hard feelings, bro. Actually, I’m a bit relieved. Ever since her return to Cherry Cove, Whitney’s been hazardous to my health.”
Forty-Eight
Alexa Livingstone was arrested for the murder of Silvia Lumiere as well as the kidnapping of one Tatum Vander Hagen of Cherry Cove, Wisconsin. Although it was a beautifully done portrait that had finally thrown her over the edge, the truth was that after years of putting up with the difficult, snarky, and unduly mean painter, Alexa hadn’t been able to take one more insult from the woman. It was doubtful that Silvia had even been aware of the level of Alexa’s narcissism or her fear of aging. The artist had simply done what she did best: she painted what she saw. Only in Fred Beauchamp’s case had she veered from that path. Why Silvia had chosen to mock him was a secret she’d taken to the grave.
It was a sad ending to what had been a surprisingly lucrative few weeks at the Cherry Orchard Inn. Jack wrapped up the paperwork and gave the okay for us to open for business, now that Silvia’s belongings had been removed from the Sailboat Suite and the place had been deep-cleaned. Yet in an unexpected twist, things continued to get better for us financially, since the murder of the portrait painter was creating quite the sensation.
Greta Stone, the sexy reporter from Baywatch News (Grrrretah!), certainly had a hand in generating the buzz. She thrived on scandal and murder, and the savvy advertiser in me understood her value. Giff did too. After a short chat, we’d decided to call Greta up and offer an exclusive interview. We explained our role in hunting down the real person responsible for the murder of Silvia Lumiere. And while I felt that my performance was good, I couldn’t deny that it was Giff who really stole the show. The man had never met the portrait painter, but that little detail wasn’t about to deter him. His descriptions were animated, his mannerism dramatic, and best of all he planted the notion on live TV that Silvia Lumiere’s restless spirit still lingered at the inn, particularly around the last step or two of the grand staircase. He then highly recommended the sour cherry martini (Ms. Lumiere’s favorite) to really summon her spirit—or just to enjoy, because it was a house specialty. By that afternoon, the phones were ringing again.
Things were about to get better for Hannah too. Due to the fact that Silvia didn’t have a next of kin and had never bothered to make a will, her ex-husband was left with her worldly belongings. Stanley Gordon and his dear wife, Carol, did what they could, but in the end, I believe, they just wanted to wash their hands of the whole business. After careful consideration they decided to give everything over to Silvia’s poorly treated assistant, Peter McClellan. No one could deny that Peter hadn’t earned the windfall of paints and canvases, antique furniture, and vintage costume jewelry. But the thing that excited him most was Stanley Gordon’s generous offer to let him keep the huge Cadillac Escalade for the duration of the lease. Peter also committed to finishing the work Silvia Lumiere had started, and part of that task was to proceed with the scheduled unveilings.
Mom, harboring a soft spot for Silvia’s hippie assistant, agreed to let him stay in the Pine Suite for as long as he wished, with the one stipulation that he couldn’t smoke in there. Peter, thrilled with the offer, agreed and presented Mom with one of Silvia’s prized antiques as payment. Mom didn’t require payment but loved the gesture all the same. Besides, it was a beautiful eighteenth-century cabinet, which Mom brought straight to the breakfast room. Somehow it looked perfect in there.
“Dude,” Peter said to me as I ran down the front steps of the inn carrying a tray of finger sandwiches stuffed with cherry chicken salad. “Jump in the Lade, Whitney Bloom, or we’re gonna be late.”
“Right,” I said and climbed into the back seat with my goodies. Giff, occupying the seat beside me, shot me a deprecatory look while tapping the face of his watch.
“Always running late,” he said. “And you’re the one who insisted on removing the black veil of this highly awaited portrait.”
“Sorry,” I apologized.
Hannah, sitting in the front seat next to Peter, looked back and shot me a grin. “Buckle up. Tay’s just texted me. She says half of Cherry Cove is already there, anxiously awaiting the big reveal of”—she paused to put up air quotes—“Mother and Son.”
Peter laughed, then quickly suppressed it.
“What? Have you seen it?” Hannah cried, shooting an accusatory look at him. “You’re not supposed to look at the portrait until it’s revealed.”
“Dude,” he said, this time addressing his girlfriend. “Like, it’s my job. I have to look.”
“Oh, do tell us,” Giff chimed in mockingly. “I’m on pins and needles.” I cast him an eye roll, secretly thankful that he had stayed on at the inn, helping wherever needed and eating plenty of Grandma Jenn’s food. Giff had also spent a good deal of time at the marina. Although his motives were purely selfish, Tate genuinely enjoyed his company. I believed this was because Giff had been regaling him with stories of Chicago, including my most embarrassing moments. It might also have been because Giff was a great guy and fun to hang out with. He didn’t come from Cherry Cove but had plenty of connections to it, and that was just what Tate needed. I’d never let on that Giff had been enchanted with him from the moment he’d spied a picture of us sitting on my desk.
It was a short drive to Char’s house, but Hannah was right. Cars lined both sides of the narrow street, and people were still arriving. The moment we walked through the rose-covered trellis to the backyard, Tay and Char, with wineglasses in hand, trotted over to greet us. Lance, with a bottle of microbrewed beer, came over as well. His bruises were healing nicely. His face was almost as handsome as on the day we’d met outside Tay’s shop.
“Is that it?” Char asked excitedly. Peter nodded but kept walking until the covered portrait was brought to its place of honor on the patio.
“She’s been giddy as a schoolgirl all day,” Tay informed us with a grin. She took the tray from my hands, adding, “Todd too. But that’s not unusual considering he’s still going through puberty.”
“Tay,” Lance chided, though clearly just for show. Having hung up his sword for the summer, the Black Knight had been forced to spend more time with Tay’s mom and her fiancé. He got along fine with them both but couldn’t keep from laughing at Tay’s jokes.
“Oh, by the way, somebody else has been anxiously awaiting your arrival and it’s not Edna Baker,” Tay said. I looked to the patio and saw Jack standing there. Our eyes met, and he smiled. Tay continued. “Word on the street is that it’s a big day for you as well. First an unveiling, and then your first date with Jack. Any idea where he’s taking you?”
“None whatsoever,” I said. I was about to wander over to where Jack stood when Hannah appeared.
“You’re up,” she said, pulling me to the opposite corner of the patio where Peter and the painting awaited.
Peter introduced himself before giving a little talk about his former employer, one that highlighted her strengths and her gifts, in order to help perpetuate her legacy as well as her legend. While he talked, I stood beside the covered portrait and studied the crowd.
They were all there—our friends, our neighbors, our little community of Cherry Cove. Mom waved. She and Dad were beside Dr. Engle and his wife,
Diane, standing on the left side of the spacious patio. Gran and her group of friends, Cecelia Cushman and Edna Baker among them, stood by the food table sampling the offerings and, no doubt, discretely judging them. I was especially tickled to see old Doc Fisker, the county coroner, and his wife, Ginger. Although I was currently banned from the morgue at Door County General, it did nothing to mar our relationship. Old Doc Fisker, with a plate full of Gran’s award-winning cherry pie, smiled and gave me an encouraging thumbs-up.
Most surprising of all was the group of women, young and old, that flocked around Giff and Tate as they stood near the back of the patio. Although both men appeared utterly oblivious, wrapped in their little bro-cocoon of microbrewed beer, bacon-wrapped cocktail wieners, and laughter, the women were always at hand when the snacks ran out. I was aware of Giff smiling at me as he whispered something to Tate. I had no idea what was said, but apparently it was hilarious.
Amongst the crowd I was surprised to see Fred Beauchamp. He was standing beside the younger artist, Jeffery, both men looking sad and humbled as they watched the proceedings. I felt quite sorry for them. Clearly they’d worshiped the deceased portrait painter, and both had been knocked off their feet by how the Cherry Country Arts Council president had let them down.
Then my eyes settled on the tall, lean form of my old high school friend and nemesis. He looked good, dressed in khakis and a summer-weight sweater in navy. Sunlight glinted off his hair, turning it to sparks of flaming copper. I found that I couldn’t look away and was lost in a fantasy all my own, wondering where our first date was to be. First dates were important. They were memorable. They set the precedent on which the entire relationship would be built.
“Whitney!” It was Peter. He was hiss-whispering my name.
