Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

  Chhhsss . . . chhhsss . . . chhhsss . . . The water splattered against the gray concrete surfaces, streaked down the wall, then lapped its way across the floor, congregating at the stainless-steel floor drain in the center of the room. A tiny whirlpool spun around and around before disappearing down the drain. A repeat performance of what the blood had done a few days prior.

  Chhhsss . . . chhhsss . . . chhhsss . . .

  So fucking erotic, the tears, the blood, her helpless screams, and then the silence. Absolute, total silence.

  Jesus! He was hard as a rock now. Didn’t have time for this foolishness. There was work to be done. A timetable to stick to. He would have to take care of his unruly dick a little later.

  He switched off the water, looped the hose and hung it.

  Removed the stiff scrub brush from the cupboard and carefully, systematically, went over the area with vinegar, neutralizing any remaining sodium peroxide.

  This was important for two reasons. The first: to alleviate any lingering traces of blood from the test run. Which was—he could feel his dick twitch just thinking about it—very successful.

  But second, and most important: it cleansed and purified the place for her. Eve Harris. His love. His light. His reason for being.

  A few more days and he would be ready.

  Her life was about to change. She just didn’t know it yet.

  Five

  EVE LOCKED THE door of her apartment, which was situated above their café, and started lugging her gigantic suitcase down the back stairs. It was her third and final hurrah, for which she was grateful. She was sweating pretty hard by the time she got to the bottom. She stopped for a moment, shook her aching arms out, then headed toward her car, taking full advantage of the suitcase’s built-in wheels.

  It had taken Eve longer than she’d anticipated to pack. Yes, she was only going to be staying at Luke and Maggie’s, which was a minuscule nine-minute drive away. And yes, her only company was going to be a large, shaggy wolfhound who wouldn’t care what she was wearing.

  But for Eve, well, she didn’t have the resources to go to some tropical isle. House-sitting for Luke and Maggie was her vacation, and she wanted to make the most of it. She wanted to snuggle in and be cozy. One thing led to another, and before she knew it she had amassed a huge pile of stuff in the middle of her living room. She needed painting clothes, but also comfy lounging-around-the-house clothes, hiking boots and socks, a hat in case of sun—since she tended to burn—underwear, bras. And a vacation wasn’t a vacation without her favorite flannel pajamas from high school. The fabric had worn through in several places. There was a gaping hole under the right arm, and the left elbow was only a few fraying strands of fabric. The fabric at the shoulder was also quite threadbare; a tiny zigzag tear was threatening further action. The pajama top was missing a couple of buttons. Yes, her favorite pajamas were really ratty-looking. Normally, she wouldn’t be caught dead in them, but since it was just ol’ Samson-the-dawg for company, the pajamas were coming. She also needed a couple of sweaters, a raincoat, and so her to-bring stash grew and grew.

  Those were the clothes. Then came the necessities. She managed to whittle the stack of eighteen books down to a more reasonable armload of five, but it had been hard since she really wanted to read all of them. She’d dragged her easel out of her painting room, and it was now waiting in her trunk, along with a large cardboard box jammed full of stuff: her palette; a couple of cleaning jars in case of absentminded breakage; her paint box with copious tubes of paint, both full and half-used; rags. She’d also packed a can of turpentine, as well as OMS, linseed oil, charcoal pencils, and a couple of sketchbooks. There was absolutely no possible minimizing there. When she was painting she didn’t want to have to stop the flow because she’d been stingy with the supplies she’d brought.

  Her suitcase wasn’t rolling smoothly. She scowled down at it. One wheel was stuck. Great, she thought. Just what I need, another expenditure. Money was pretty tight right now. If she could just find a way to sell a few of her paintings, it might take the pressure off. She’d taken out a huge loan to pay for her share of the building and the start-up costs for the Intrepid Café. The food side was doing well. Their customer base was growing by leaps and bounds, but people didn’t seem to realize that the art adorning the walls was there to be purchased, too. Not a single painting had sold, even with her dropping the prices twice.

  Sometimes, while lying in bed at night, Eve felt the weight of her debt like a large concrete slab on her chest, threatening to crush her.

  It was different for Maggie.

  Her sister had been Great-Aunt Clare’s sole beneficiary. It raised eyebrows that she’d left her money to only one of her nieces, but Eve knew why. Great-Aunt Clare had been trapped in a heartbreaking situation of her own making. Gifting her worldly goods to Maggie was her way to try to make amends.

  Her sister had used the inheritance to start her first business, Comfort Homes, with Brett, her two-timing weasel of a fiancé.

  Eve knew she should feel terrible that he’d been murdered last spring by his crazy stalker girlfriend, but whenever she thought about how badly Brett had treated her little sister, the danger he’d put her in, and how he’d screwed around on Maggie and dumped her on the eve of their wedding, how he’d inadvertently played a part in Great-Aunt Clare’s death, the vengeful part of Eve was glad he was dead.

  Maybe that made her a bad person.

  Whatever.

  Thankfully, those dark times were behind them. They were living on Solace Island now. Maggie had sold Comfort Homes to fund her portion of the Intrepid expenses, and Eve secured a loan and a mortgage.

  The payments were stressing Eve big-time. Gobbling every spare cent she managed to scrape together. But she’d never let Maggie know. Maggie was her little sister. She’d always looked up to Eve as if she had the answers to everything. Those were their roles in life. Eve was the ideas person, the go-getter, the passionate, creative artist. Maggie was the follower, the shy homebody. Eve had spent a good portion of her life trying to protect her sister and help her fulfill her dreams. She wasn’t about to burst her little sister’s bubble and let her know how panicked she sometimes felt about the fiscal burden she’d taken on.

  “Yoo-hoo,” a voice trilled.

  Eve jerked her gaze from her suitcase wheel with a start. How long had she been standing there daydreaming?

  One of their customers was making her way across the small parking area behind their building. Her diamond and gold tennis bracelets jangled as she double-waved both hands in the air. Oh shoot. What is her name? Eve rummaged around her blank brain. This is not good. She comes in almost daily.

  The woman was moving surprisingly fast given her petite size and heft, huffing slightly, her chest leading the way like the prow of a ship.

  “Eve,” the woman said, coming to a stop beside her, her cheeks flushed. “Thank goodness. I am so glad I caught you! I had ordered one of Maggie’s chocolate cakes with the broiled pecan topping and my silly husband forgot to pick it up yesterday when he dropped by. It must have slipped his mind. Poor man. I guess he’s becoming forgetful in his dotage.” The woman attempted a smile, but Eve could see strain and a lingering sorrow behind it. She is quite pretty, Eve thought. Interesting that I’ve never noticed before. Always been too busy, racing from one customer to the next. How old is she? Hard to tell. Late fifties, perhaps. Lovely skin, good bone structure, delicate hands. Must have been stunning when she was younger.

  “We have a houseload of company arriving on the four o’clock ferry,” the woman continued. “I know you are closed today, but I was hoping to catch you before you headed out. I’m praying that you haven’t sold the cake to someone else.”

  Suddenly the woman’s name dropped into Eve’s brain like a ripe plum falling off a tree. Irene. Irene Dawson.

  “Well, Mrs. Dawson,” Eve said, making a point
to use the woman’s name to try to cement it into her consciousness.

  “Irene,” Mrs. Dawson said, leaning in and giving Eve’s arm a little pat, as if she were conferring a great secret. “You can call me Irene, dear.”

  “Irene,” Eve acknowledged with a nod of her head. “You might be in luck. We stored your cake in the back kitchen fridge, so unless Maggie decided to sell it at the close, your cake should still be there. Just give me a second to load this up and . . .” Eve opened the door of the ancient blue Prius her mom had sold to her cheap. She wrestled her suitcase onto the backseat while Irene circled around, a friendly little fat-chested pigeon sending helping gestures and noises into the air.

  Once the suitcase was safely stowed, Eve unlocked the back door of the café. She didn’t bother with the light switch. There was enough daylight coming through the frosted window by the sink. A faint smell of burned oatmeal cookies still lingered. Eve had done a trial run with some of the cookie dough, figuring she could bring the cookies with her to nosh on. Unfortunately, she had misread the temperature for the oven. The cookies were beyond salvaging. Black burned blobs that were raw in the middle.

  It did not bode well for the upcoming week.

  Eve sighed. “I’ll be right back,” she said, heading into the kitchen.

  “Oooh,” Irene Dawson cooed, tripping after her. “How fascinating to get a chance to see behind the scenes, where the magic takes place.” She seemed so pleased to be back there that Eve didn’t bother pointing out that she hadn’t actually invited the woman to come inside. Had said quite clearly, I’ll be right back. Ah well, Eve thought with a shrug. At least the place is presentable. Unlike her apartment upstairs. After Eve’s packing spree was finished, the place was in a bit of disarray. But Eve wouldn’t think about that. She would deal with her messy apartment after her vacation was over.

  “My goodness, look at that fridge,” Irene said. “It’s enormous. I didn’t know they made refrigerators with three doors! That would be so handy to have at Christmastime. I could store all the leftovers and still have room to spare.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Eve murmured politely, reaching for the handle closest to the swinging doors. She was pretty sure she had seen the cake on the top shelf.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Dawson exclaimed, slapping a hand on the refrigerator door and the other hand to her chest. “I almost forgot. Did you hear the news?” Her eyes went wide.

  “No. What?” Eve asked, because really, she couldn’t do much else. Mrs. Dawson had now turned to face her, and the woman’s backside was resting firmly against the fridge door.

  Mrs. Dawson’s lips pursed, her gaze darting around the darkened room as if perhaps someone might be lurking in the shadows. Then she leaned in. “There’s been a . . . murder,” she said, her breathy whisper seeming loud, almost harsh in Eve’s ears.

  “Are you sure?” Eve asked, inexplicably shaken.

  Mrs. Dawson nodded vehemently. “They found human remains in Spraggs Creek, caught on one of the pilings of the walking bridge.”

  “Oh,” Eve said, suddenly wishing she had taken the time to turn on the light. “Well, maybe it was an accident. Someone was drunk, slipped and fell, hit their head.”

  “I’m afraid not. We are close friends with the chief of police, Henry Lorne. He was over for dinner last night. Apparently, it was one hundred percent foul play. The body was charred beyond recognition. They were able to remove a good portion of the jaw intact and are sending it to the city in the hopes that a forensic dentist will be able to identify the victim.”

  “Well,” Eve said, feeling rather nauseous. “That’s good. I hope they are able to unravel the mystery. Now, if you could excuse me, I’ll just . . .” Eve closed her hand around the refrigerator handle and gave it a gentle tug.

  “Oh goodness,” Mrs. Dawson said, stepping away from the fridge door. “I’m sorry. I was standing right in your way.”

  “No worries,” Eve said, grateful to have a little breathing space. The woman had dosed herself rather liberally with Yves Saint Laurent’s Opium perfume, an odd choice for someone who dressed in pastel flower tones.

  Eve swung the fridge door open, the refreshing cool air from the interior momentarily soothing her. “Ah. Here it is.” She slid the cake off the top rack. “You’re in luck.”

  She boxed up the dessert, made change for Mrs. Dawson, and then ushered her out the door. She watched the woman cross the small parking lot, step out onto the sidewalk, and disappear around the side of the building, feeling grateful Mrs. Dawson had gone. Grateful for the sunshine and the light breeze and the normalness of the sounds of lives being lived all around her.

  Six

  AFTER RHYS SLEPT for a solid twenty-four hours, the headache had finally lifted. The dailies had come back clear, so Rhys was free to go. Unfortunately, the address of his beloved 1920s Spanish hacienda off Stone Canyon Road had gotten out the day before he’d left for location. The damn place had been swarming with paparazzi and overzealous fans. He was having a wall built around the perimeter of the property, but until it was completed it would be madness to return home.

  “The offer of your guest room still open?” Rhys asked, his cell phone on speaker so he could multitask—pack and talk.

  “Sure.” Just hearing his friend’s voice made him feel more relaxed. “When were you thinking?”

  “Well”—he yanked the hand towel off the bedside clock and checked the time—“it’ll be another half hour to pack and check out of the hotel. I’m thinking I’ll be up in the air in an hour fifteen, hour and a half.”

  “So you’re thinking sooner rather than later?” Rhys could hear the dry humor in Luke’s voice.

  “Yeah,” he replied rather sheepishly, even though this was their relationship. They’d show up on each other’s doorstep all the time.

  He’d first met Luke Benson five years ago while doing research for his Blake Trenton role in the movie Stung. The film had catapulted him from star to superstar and had spun off a very lucrative franchise for both him and the studio. To prepare for the part, he’d trailed Luke on the job for the month prior to shooting. Trained with him, ate with him, even joined him a few times undercover as a security operative. The studio would have shit a brick if they had found out, not to mention the insurance company. A bond between the two men had been formed, and they’d become fast friends. “If it’s not a bother,” he said, dumping the contents of a dresser drawer into his open suitcase. “I’d arrive tomorrow morning, if it’s convenient. Construction’s going on at my house, so I am looking for a quiet, secluded place to crash ’til it’s done.” He replaced the empty drawer and removed the next one down, tipped that upside down over his suitcase. A dime rolled across the carpet.

  Luke laughed. “Solace Island has that in spades. You’re welcome to the house. I won’t be here when you arrive.”

  “Not a problem at all. The solitude will do me good—what are you laughing at?”

  “Nothing,” Luke said, still chuckling. “Have an odd sense of humor is all. Still got your key? The security code?”

  “Yep. Both are in the floor safe at home. I’ll touch down in LA, pick the key and code up. Swing by Malibu to say hi to my mom. Grab dinner with my agent and head out.”

  “You know the drill. Help yourself to any of the foodstuffs in the house. My wife’s an amazing cook. She keeps the freezer stocked, so you won’t have to go out if you don’t want to.”

  “That’s right. You got married. Congratulations. Sorry the studio wouldn’t let me fly out for the wedding. If you’d given me a little notice, I could have worked it into my contract—”

  “No worries, Rhys. You were here in spirit. By the way, Maggs and I love the sculpture you sent.”

  “Look forward to meeting her in person. Must be something special to have nailed you down.” He emptied the last drawer into the suitcase. “And thanks, Luke. Really apprec
iate it.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Hey, Luke, if you could not mention to anyone that I’ll be there?”

  “Absolutely, buddy. Not a word shall pass my lips.”

  He disconnected the call, but not before Rhys heard another snort of laughter. Must be happy, he thought with a faint flash of envy. The guy laughed more in that one call than the entire time I’ve known him.

  Seven

  ON THE DRIVE over Eve made the executive decision not to mention the burned cookies or the local murder to Maggie and Luke. They’d just worry. Might cancel their trip. Besides, they were both probably one-offs. A single burned batch of cookies did not a disaster make, and the murderer had probably already put thousands of miles between himself and the scene of the crime. Or the murder could have been a domestic dispute gone wrong. Who knew? The one thing Eve was certain of, Maggie would not enjoy her holiday if she was worried.

  “Now, you are sure you’re going to be okay?” Maggie asked, fluttering around her.

  “Absolutely,” Eve said. “I’ll feed the dog, let him out at regular intervals, take him for a long walk once a day—”

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve arranged for Ethelwyn and Lavina to swing by on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays and take Samson with them on their daily hike.”

  “That’s fantastic! I was a little concerned about leaving Dorothy to helm the Intrepid while I raced back to pee him.”

  Maggie laughed. “You might come back to the café and find she’d attached a disco ball to the ceiling fan and set up a DJ in the corner.”

  “Don’t even,” Eve said with a grin. “You send the thought out into the universe, chances are she’ll pluck it out of the air and do just that.”

  “You know how to set and disengage the alarm system?”

  “Yes,” Eve replied. “You showed me a million times. Not that I’m going to need it here on Solace Island.” Her thoughts suddenly flashed to the image of a jaw being removed from a charred corpse, but she stuffed it down and continued as if the image had never occurred. “When I lived in Brooklyn, an alarm system would have been nice, but here?”