“Why were you in the cellar? Is Elizabeth with you?”
“She’s gardening. And don’t get yourself all twisted.” He walked to the window and looked out. “She’s been sharing the history of Palmerston House and is quite happy for me to look around and take whatever photos I want. For my new book.”
“I don’t see a camera.”
Bernie left the window, pushing past Charlotte to get a glass for himself. “None of your business, is it?”
“I’m warning you—”
“Warning me?” He leaned in close, trapping Charlotte against the table. “I’d be careful, Lottie.”
“These people don’t deserve your lies, Bernie. Why not tell them why you’re really here?” She glared at him, her fingers digging into the wooden table.
“Why don’t you tell me why I’m really here, seeing as you know so much?” With a sneer, he stepped away. “What is it you think you know about me?”
Heart pounding, Charlotte put the table between them. “You were my patient for a long time. You talked a lot about this town and this property.”
He opened the fridge and stared into it. “Exactly. You need to remember I was your patient. Which brings a certain privilege. Doctor.” Without taking the lemonade out, he slammed the door. “I’m done reminding you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Take from it what you want. But stay away from me, Lottie.”
Charlotte put her glass onto the table. His temper was short, she knew from past experience, but he’d always regained control quickly and apologised. His upbringing affected his choices even now and part of her was fascinated by his deeply held sense of entitlement.
“Lemonade sounds nice, some tea?” Elizabeth – still wearing gardening gloves, hat and sunglasses – wandered in. And stopped. She looked from Charlotte to Bernie, then peeled off the gloves and removed the sunglasses. “Everything okay in here?”
“Have a headache coming on. Might go to my room for a while.” Bernie put his glass back into the cupboard and left.
“I might have a shower, Elizabeth. Long walk today. Sorry.” Charlotte tried to smile. I so want to talk to you. What would she say? Bernie believes he owns Palmerston House?
“Charlotte, have your drink first. You don’t want to get dehydrated on a warm day.”
“Okay. I’ll just take a lemonade with me if you don’t mind?” Without waiting for a response, Charlotte picked up her glass and opened the fridge. Talking about this would be a mistake.
***
Trev pushed himself back from the desk with a frustrated sigh. Nothing on Bernard William Cooper. Yet something was wrong. His senses told him so, even though it was the sudden plea in Charlotte’s eyes he based the feeling on. The other night when he’d pulled young Cooper over for speeding, nothing was amiss. Bit of a charmer, but no warrants or alerts on his licence or car. He’d spotted him a couple of times since, on foot and with several cameras around his neck.
He scratched his head. Unless Charlotte felt like explaining herself, there was little to be done. Was he being over-protective and imaging things? He liked her so much and all it would take was one tiny invitation from Charlotte and he’d fall for her heart and soul. Idiot. She didn’t see him as a future partner. Not even as a friend, really. Always something held her back.
What did he really know about Charlotte Dean? Practising psychiatrist from interstate somewhere. She loved dogs. He smiled, remembering the night on the beach in the storm when she’d bossed him around as she treated Randall for exhaustion. She had steady hands and a no-nonsense attitude he’d appreciated in the face of near-panic around them.
“You look worried.”
Trev jumped at Charlotte’s voice from the other side of the counter. So deep in thought, he’d not heard her come through the front door. How long was she there? “Hi. Didn’t hear you come in.” He got to his feet.
“Good thing I’m not some bad guy.” She leaned on the counter, something like amusement in her eyes.
“Oh, I’ve got a special radar for bad guys.” Those eyes were gorgeous. Trev found himself opposite her, a goofy smile on his face. “How did the visit go the other day?”
She frowned.
“With Christie?”
“Oh. Oh, it was interesting. Good timing actually, as she’d decided to fall out of the attic and poor Randall had no idea how to use the phone to call for help.”
“She what? Is she—”
“Just winded. Probably bruised, but we didn’t get that personal. Anyway, I’m not here to tell tales on Christie. Would you have a few moments to talk?”
Chapter Twelve
“Is this an official talk, or social?” Trev gestured for Charlotte to sit opposite him
She settled in the chair, crossing her legs. “Bit of both.”
“Coffee?”
“I’m coffee-d out, thanks though.”
“Water? Orange juice?”
“Trevor. I’m fine.”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair to give her time to speak. She glanced around, her eyes showing none of their earlier amusement. They were cautious and it bothered Trev no end.
“I have a... a friend. With a question. If it’s okay to ask something?”
“It’s always fine to ask questions. For a friend or otherwise.”
“Maybe this was a mistake.”
“Charlotte. Ask. I’m approachable.”
She hinted at a smile. “Okay. My friend has a concern about a third party. A person who might have some... intentions that are not the best. No proof or anything except a feeling. What would you do?”
“You’re not giving me much to go on. Does your friend have some relationship with the third party? History that makes them feel this way?”
“No relationship! Of course not.” Charlotte must have realised how sharp her response was, taking a couple of fast, shallow breaths. “I mean, not a personal relationship. But some previous knowledge of this person.”
“Are you talking about intentions to cause harm to your friend?”
Charlotte opened her mouth and shut it again. Her fingers were interlaced tightly and when she saw Trev glance at her hands, she separated them and dropped them out of his sight. “I don’t believe so. Not to anyone as such. Perhaps financial or property.”
“I’d be suggesting your friend have a chat to me. Or someone like me.” Trev kept his voice even. “Preferably me.”
“What if my friend can’t do that?”
“Why?”
“Because doing so might compromise a binding arrangement.”
Trev leaned forward to reach for a pen. He found a piece of clean paper underneath a pile of files. “Humour me. Person one – let’s call them ‘Good Guy’ – knows person two. Who we’ll call ‘Bad Guy’, okay?” He drew two stick figures and named them, not willing to look at Charlotte in case she was laughing at him. “So, Good Guy has some sort of knowledge about Bad Guy.” He drew a line to connect them. “Bad Guy might be planning something... bad.”
Now, he glanced at Charlotte. She watched his hand, her face so worried he longed to reach over and smooth the lines away. Instead, he wrote ‘Danger’ under Bad Guy.
“Good Guy wants to do something. She has good instincts but something stops her from doing what they tell her to. Let’s call it ‘Ethics’”. Trev sensed Charlotte tensing up. “A good person with good ethics who is worried.”
“What are you doing?”
Trev raised his eyes to Charlotte’s. “Nothing is ever as simple as it looks on the surface, I know better than most. These silly stick figures mean nothing. The point is if there is any risk of Bad Guy harming someone, or something, then Good Guy needs to find a way to tell someone who can help. Someone like me, Charlie.”
“I said it is a friend.” Her eyes never left his and there it was, the unspoken plea in them.
“Let me help.”
In a sudden movement, Charlotte stood. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake.
I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Why?” He stayed sitting although he wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close. Calm her until she trusted him enough to talk openly. “I won’t betray your confidence.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “But that’s the problem.” It was more a whisper and as soon as she said it, Charlotte put her hand to her mouth.
“Hey, don’t cry.” As Trev stood, Charlotte shook her head and turned, taking off through the gate beside the counter. “Charlie, wait!”
The front door shut behind her. He should have listened, not drawn pictures. His earlier gut feeling was right and whether she liked it or not, he was going to make sure Charlotte Dean stayed safe.
***
In the same spot on the cliff he’d sat in days earlier, Bernie watched a yacht cruise by. So many luxury boats around here and he’d seen where they moored – in the next harbour across, Willow Bay. Elizabeth said their owners were mostly weekenders who kept a house in one of the new estates. Fine for some, money to throw away, whilst others struggled for every dollar.
He’d come better prepared this time. Hours spent on his laptop, viewing all the photographs and local maps, helped him plan. A trip to an equipment shop in Warrnambool kitted him out with a harness and proper boots. Afraid to interact with the over-friendly assistants, he’d guessed at the type of ropes and descenders, grabbing a selection along with climbing gloves. He didn’t bother with a helmet. It wasn’t a long descent.
Bernie’s heart raced in excitement. The rope was secured around one of the big bushes and all he needed was the yacht to pass by. And another drink. He pulled a bottle of water out and sucked it thirstily. Water and a touch of vodka. First drink in the morning and last one at night. Just taking the edge off.
The water drained, he tossed the lid into the backpack on the ground at his side and crushed the bottle before throwing it into the bushes further along the cliff face. Below, the ocean foamed against the base of the cliff. From this high, with the sun overhead, he saw rocks barely below the surface. One would not want to fall.
He slid the gloves on.
Deep breath in. And out. He turned onto his stomach and lowered himself bit by bit. His feet kicked around at first, instinctively seeking a foothold. Then he relaxed and let his arms do the work. He was strong and lowered himself five, ten metres. Then, as if caught on something, the rope refused to give any more length. And he heard a sound above. A bark.
He grabbed a rock and hung on. No more barking, only seagulls and the ocean itself. He listened to its power. Waves pounding the cliff wall, sending spray streaming upwards.
He pushed himself out and looked down. Just visible in the rock face was an opening, perhaps another ten metres down. But the rope wouldn’t come with him and with a groan, he remembered the length he’d purchased. Not nearly long enough.
***
As soon as she was clear of the shopping precinct, Charlotte began running. Somehow she’d stayed at a brisk walk since leaving the police station but now she gave in to the panic. Footpaths became dirt tracks beside houses on the outskirts of town, then nothing but grass verge. Her heartbeat filled her ears and tears blinded her eyes but on she flew, desperate to leave River’s End behind. To leave Bernie and his evil intentions behind. And Trevor. With his stick figures and uncanny insight.
A side road came up and she turned into it, away from the traffic to and from town. It stretched before her, long and straight. The road she’d got lost down when she first met Trevor. Out of breath, Charlotte stumbled to a walk, then stopped and dropped onto the grass. She lay on her back, brushing the tears away and gulping in air. The sky was clear blue with no clouds. One breath. Two. Deep and slow. Start over. One breath. Two.
Charlotte focused on the rise and fall of her chest. She opened each hand and laid the palms flat on the grass, imagining them becoming part of the earth. Sink into the ground, be at one with nature. One breath. Two. The mantra and routine always worked.
Her body and mind under control again, Charlotte sat up. A lone cow watched her from the other side of the fence through placid brown eyes. “Silly human, huh?” She stood, her legs shaky from the running. The cow was friendly and she scratched her velvet forehead before sitting against the fence.
What was she to do? Bernie was nosing around the property but was it with bad intent? His obsession with the diary his mother gave him as a kid was unhealthy but hardly dangerous. As her patient he’d shown no indicators of potential violence, just a belief he was owed something based on events from more than a century ago. Now he was here – because she was. She’d stopped seeing him professionally a year ago so his decision to visit her mother was bizarre. In fact, it was what distressed her most. A line he shouldn’t have crossed, but it didn’t mean she could cross her own line.
Ethics, Trevor said as he drew his ridiculous stick figures. Confidentiality was what he wanted to say, she’d felt it. Without a genuine belief Bernie was here to cause harm, she couldn’t break his confidence. And now Trevor would be watching her, if not investigating her. Well, she’d find a way to redirect his interest because her private life was too complicated and uncertain to let him any closer. No matter how much he made her pulse race.
***
“Randall, leave the bunnies alone!” Christie called from the deck of Martin’s house as she dug in the pocket of her jeans for the key. As soon as they’d crossed the meadow he’d taken off down the cliff path. She’d heard him bark, the same woof of excitement from finding something he liked. If he didn’t hurry up she’d go and get him because she didn’t have time to bath him if he decided to dig after a rabbit.
She opened the sliding door and left it open, stepping into the cool and dark living area. Martin had closed the curtains before leaving almost a week ago, and now Christie drew them to let the sunlight in. He’d be home tomorrow, although his timing, according to the last text, was vague.
As she crossed to the kitchen, Randall trotted in, his ears up expectantly. “Sorry, doggie. He’ll be back soon though.” Unconvinced, Randall disappeared to the other end of the house. Christie checked the fridge, pulling out old milk, seafood, and fruit. She should have done this much earlier instead of wasting it now. The milk went down the drain and she tossed the rest into the bin, which smelt pretty bad already.
After emptying the bin and replacing the liner, she left the rubbish outside the door for when she left. Going back to the kitchen, she checked the cupboards and made a quick shopping list. In the morning she’d come back up with fresh produce. And some flowers. She smiled. When she became Mrs Christie Blake, she’d grow lots of flowers and fill the house. She’d need them for the salon anyway, bringing the beauty of outdoors inside for the ladies of River’s End.
Christie found Randall in Martin’s bedroom, sitting beside the bed with his head resting on the covers. “Come on, you’ve still got me. And Thomas and Martha. Let’s go find them.”
Randall followed her out with less enthusiasm than when he’d come inside and her heart went out to him. Martin might joke about Randall adoring Thomas and even Christie above himself, but it wasn’t true. The bond between dog and master was extraordinary and Randall missed him. So do I. Locking the front door behind them, Christie collected the rubbish bag and headed to the studio.
In there, the rubbish bin was almost filled with empty paint tubes. She took a few moments to plump the cushions on the sofa, check the small fridge for supplies, and do a quick sweep of the tiled floor. In the middle of the studio, beneath the biggest skylight, a sheet hung lopsided off an easel. Rubbish bag in one hand, Christie attempted to straighten the sheet but instead, the whole thing fell to the ground. With a sigh, she put the bag down to retrieve it.
Martin was private with unfinished paintings, unless he wanted an opinion. It would never occur to Christie to look under a sheet or steal a glance if she happened upon Martin as he worked. But, holding the corners of the sheet ready to place over the top of the easel,
she was unable to look away from the work in progress.
In his customary oils, it was a self-portrait. Martin, black hair plastered to his skull, knelt in the shallows of the ocean. In his arms like a baby was Christie, her own long hair trailing back into the sea as her head lay against his chest. Her eyes were closed... or were they just open? Head on Christie’s lap, Randall also was soaked to the skin. His eyes were on Christie’s face, as were Martin’s. They were in the middle of a storm, the sky purple-black with lightning behind Martin.
The sheet slipped from Christie’s fingers and she stepped back, hand flying to her mouth to stifle a small, unbidden cry. It was as beautiful as it was terrible.
Since the night of the storm, the night Jasmine Sea almost sank and the ocean nearly claimed her life along with Randall’s, flashes of fear had haunted Christie. Never once had it occurred to her Martin might very well be experiencing the same thing. It was all my fault! She’d led Derek to this town, refused to reconcile or sell him the cottage, and his subsequent rage might have destroyed everything. The pain on Martin’s face in the painting was more than Christie could bear.
Chapter Thirteen
Martha ran her hands over the trunk, now on the dining room table. She remembered every inch of its old surface, even the smell of oak. Back when Dorothy was the big sister she loved to distraction, Martha was allowed to play with the dolls kept inside. Dorothy played less with them every year, although Martha knew she sang to them sometimes.
If only Dorothy had been permitted to pursue her dream of becoming a singer, how different both their lives would be. Mother hadn’t seem to notice what Martha did with her time – often spent with the local girls – but Dorothy had potential. Her role in the family was taken seriously and the expectation she’d become a businesswoman kept her attention on her studies. Mother ran the family and wanted Dorothy home with an education to take their timber business to new heights.
“Hello? Christie?”
“Oh. Charlotte!” Martha hurried to the open front door, its screen door locked. Charlotte stood on the top step.
The Secrets of Palmerston House Page 8
