Cloaked in Malice

by Annette Blair

  “Will you two stop talking about clothes and move your sweet tushies out to the Hummer?”

  “Who’s got a sweet tush?” I asked.

  “You both do, Ladybug. I may be yours, but I’m not blind.”

  “Why, thank you,” Paisley said.

  Nick and his Hummer got us to the Noank docks in record time, but we barely caught the Concertina.

  From a distance, the white-bearded captain seemed unnecessarily terse when he spoke to Nick then looked over at the Hummer, and I wasn’t sure if he saw us or not. Then Nick flashed his badge and the captain grudgingly replied to Nick’s questions.

  Twelve

  The trench coat is the only thing that has kept its head above water.

  —JACK LIPMAN

  That we watched the Concertina motor away confused me. I’d expected it to take us to the island.

  I elbowed Nick when he got back into the Hummer. “Why did you let him go?”

  “I had no reason to arrest him,” Nick said. “Though if I could have found one, I might have searched his boat for contraband.”

  I silently agreed with Nick’s take on the guy. “I mean, how are we getting to the island?”

  “After that attitude, I wouldn’t have gone with him if I planned to. No, I rented us a boat online early this morning.”

  “Where is our boat then?”

  “Our boat? I love it when you put us together in the possessive.”

  “You’re such a romantic for a gun-carrying thug.”

  “Barf,” Paisley mumbled. “You two need to get a room.”

  Nick winked and I chuckled.

  “Our boat is the Misty Maid and it’s right there,” Nick said. “Ours for the day anyway.” He jumped onboard, and gave us each a hand down, then he pulled a captain’s hat out of his pocket, slipped it on, cast off the lines, and started the boat.

  “You’re a handy one, being a Fed and able to captain a boat,” Paisley said.

  “We Feds need the occasional fast getaway, which means we can pilot just about any vehicle known to man. But no, I’m not a secret astronaut.”

  “He can give us a ride on a hot air balloon, though,” I quipped. “He has hidden talents, my Fed.”

  Paisley turned toward the port quarter. “What in the world is that?”

  She sounded so traumatized, I went to see. “Look, Nick, it’s a submarine.”

  Paisley sort of yipped in surprise. “A real, live submarine? In these waters? Why?”

  “It’s on a test run,” Nick said. “They’re built near here. And the only live thing about it is probably the test crew. I’m ninety-nine percent sure they’re not packing live ammo, or if they are, they’re not planning to use it.”

  “Then why is that Coast Guard speed boat following it—with a man up front pointing a freaking machine gun? Are we safe?”

  There she went, using the word “safe” again.

  “This is normal for around here,” I promised her.

  She pointed. “So what’s that for?”

  “Off the starboard quarter? That’s the Eagle, a Coast Guard cutter used as a training ship for the Coast Guard Academy. She also takes part in tall ships parades, and sometimes she’s a goodwill ambassador in foreign ports. It’s all quite normal; we just passed a government boatyard.”

  “You sure?”

  “I grew up around here. I’m sure. My neighbors work at the boatyard as pipe fitters, welders, and such. You name it.”

  Paisley crossed her arms. Not a sign of total security, but she nodded. “Okay then.”

  My phone rang and caller ID said, Werner. “Detective,” I said, picking up. “Just seeing your name on my phone inspires me to say uh-oh instead of hello. What’s up?”

  “Good news–bad news,” he said. “We found Dolly.”

  “Thank goodness. At a local bed-and-breakfast, right?”

  “No, Mad. You don’t think our Dolly would do something so simple, now do you? She’s actually in Paris.”

  “France?”

  “Well, it’s not Paris, Texas.”

  “Is she all right? Does she have amnesia or something?”

  “I talked to her and to the physician’s assistant she hired as her traveling companion,” Werner said, “and they both assured me that she’s fine. She’s royally pissed that she was picked up by the gendarmes, on my orders, and she said to tell everyone in town that she’s old enough to make her own damned decisions.”

  “Did you at least ask her why she was there?”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Madeira. Of course I asked her. She said it was none of my business, and she’ll be back when she’s back.”

  I winced. “How did Ethel take your news?”

  I thought I heard a throat-clearing chuckle at that. “She’s being sedated as we speak.”

  “No kidding. No, wait! She’s supposed to be minding my shop.”

  “Eve and her mother are doing fine. Ethel’s here at home resting. Where are you anyway?” he asked. “I hear a strange noise.”

  “Oh, somewhere in the middle of Fishers Island Sound. Nick’s playing captain. We’re having a boating picnic. Paisley’s with us.”

  “Eve’s mother said you were looking for Dolly.”

  I huffed, because I knew what was coming.

  “You’re sleuthing again, aren’t you, Madeira? I just can’t figure out what crime you think you’re investigating.”

  “Let’s just say that I’m trying to connect some dots, and Dolly’s one of them. I promise we won’t step on your jurisdiction, if it comes to that.”

  “I’m so glad you’re Nick’s problem now,” Werner said, as if to himself, and then silence.

  In my experience, a person only ever says that to convince themselves. “I miss you, too, Lytton. Talk to you soon.”

  He hung up without saying another word.

  “You’d better not miss him,” Nick mumbled.

  “I miss having a good working relationship with him.”

  “That’s okay then.”

  “I know it is. He’ll always be a friend.”

  Paisley pointed out her island, but a storm cloud had descended between us and it, and a cloud elongated and touched the water, then it sucked water up into it. “That’s a waterspout,” I said.

  Nick had trouble controlling the boat because the spout caused an unexpected whirlpool that swirled us around, as if we were working our way down a drain or something more sinister.

  “Can you get us out of this?” I asked Nick.

  “I don’t know why McCreadie didn’t warn us about this. He was listening to the weather and making notes when I got there. He knows these waters well enough, and I took the route he suggested.”

  “The Concertina captain’s name was McCreadie, then?”

  Nick gave a distracted nod.

  “We’ll be out of it in a minute, won’t we?” I asked.

  “Either that or we’ll get sucked under and eventually dashed against those rocks. I just can’t seem to pull away from it.”

  Thirteen

  Once they gain a certain level of acceptance, mass delusions can spread like wildfire. They’re contagious, as with clothes, fashions.

  —FRANCIS WHEEN

  “Go below, both of you, put on life jackets, sit on the starboard bunk, and hold on—to the boat, not each other. You need to be anchored.”

  “Do you have a plan, Nick?” I asked. “What are you going to do? Be smart but don’t be a hero.”

  “Don’t start singing. Just do as I say.”

  I turned to do as I was told. “Get us the hell out of this,” I shouted before I followed Paisley belowdecks.

  We sat real close, she and I, our backs against the headboard, such as it was, and we held separate bunk posts.

  We heard Nick gun the engine, and were surprised and jolted when he hit reverse. We got tossed against each other like scrambled eggs, to the point of making me laugh, and Paisley hiccup, a good distraction.

  Nick unexpe
ctedly whipped the boat around, a near three-sixty, so it surged forward and upward, while still getting tossed from side to side. I heard some wood split, but Nick managed to get us up and out of the trough.

  The boat flew radically forward for a minute then he slowed us to a stop. When he came to check on us, we were still sitting on the floor.

  He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, his skin tone on the gray-green side, like he wanted to be sick. “Doing that by myself is never scary. But with you on board, Mad, God help me.” He lifted me from the floor so high, I couldn’t stand on my own feet, and he kissed me.

  “Sure,” Paisley said, “don’t mind me.”

  “Sorry.” Nick set me down and backed away so I could help her up.

  “Don’t be sorry. I want what you two have, but I’m not jealous. It’s just seeing a man who cares so much for his woman. I never quite knew that existed. You might have guessed that romance novels weren’t among my learning tools, and Mam and Pap, they were more like partners who tolerated each other. Most of the time. Thanks for showing me what I’d like to have in a re-lationship.”

  Nick tipped his captain’s cap, his face more pink than green now.

  I knew that I needed to break the tension. “How long before we get there? I’m hungry.”

  Paisley’s dimple and Nick’s wink said they understood my intentions.

  “You’re always hungry, Ladybug. It’ll be another thirty minutes. You wanna break out the breakfast sandwiches?”

  “Good idea,” Paisley said. “I’ll go upstairs, or whatever that’s called on a boat, and set the table, sort of. “Take your time.”

  After she left, I stepped back into Nick’s arms. “More please.” And Nick obliged.

  By the time we went upstairs, Paisley had emptied our thermos of coffee into three covered hot cups, and set out our egg sandwiches and hash browns.

  “How did you like Detective Werner when you went to talk with him?” Nick asked Paisley. “He’s perfect for you. A bachelor, and a great guy.”

  “Well,” she said, lengthening the word. “I’d say yes in a blink, if he wasn’t so in love with Mad. No go, Nick, Werner’s hooked on your girl.”

  “I knew that. I hoped you might be his cure.”

  “Sorry,” she said, “hick or not, I want somebody who sees only me, not the girl beside me.”

  I went shoulder to shoulder with her. “And that’s what we’ll find you. What’d you think of the paramedics who showed up the other day? Either of them do it for you?”

  There came Paisley’s dimple again. “Get a clue, Mad. Half the town’s hooked on you.”

  Nick groaned. “Okay. We get it. We’ll find fresh meat for you.” He got up, started the boat, and we continued toward the small island ahead of us, the waterspout behind us completely dissipated.

  Discussing the qualities Paisley wanted in a man ate up the distance, and we were docking in no time.

  “Geez,” she said, crossing the dock, “I can’t believe I never came across the dock when I was walking on the beach. I didn’t know about this route from the house. But we’ll find it. Follow me.”

  We walked up a dirt road behind her until she stopped and we caught up to her.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She pointed to a small shack, sort of leaning to one side, boards not quite tight, about as big as a studio apartment, a small one.

  “What about it?” Nick asked.

  I remembered the vision of the old man taking off my cloak in a small shack, where I could see snow between the slats. “Do you know this place?” I asked Paisley.

  “I shouldn’t. I’ve never seen it before.” But as she said it, she pushed open the door with a hard squeal.

  “Be careful, the floor might be rotten,” Nick warned.

  Paisley went in anyway. I followed her and recognized the interior, the fireplace, the kitchen table and mismatched chairs. An old bureau, two small beds, headboards meeting in the corner. Oddly enough, still impeccably clean.

  But most prominent, in fact, though not in my vision, I noted the high side-by-side windows, their bright paisley curtains, contrasting remarkably with splashes of soft blue sky. Paisley Skye.

  If her name was, indeed, fake, this could be where she received it.

  Paisley walked slowly across the floor, testing every squeaky floorboard, as if they were sounds she made on purpose, memories like old friends. She bent to a maple bureau with wide, nautically carved drawer pulls. She stooped to the bottom drawer, opened it, and took out a man’s blue flannel shirt.

  She carefully unfolded it to reveal a small art brass trinket box. When she opened that, she sighed, pulled something out, regarded it, and turned to me. Then she dangled it by a chain, a half heart. An expensive love token. The opposite half of the heart inside the muff. This one with the name “Rose” engraved on it.

  I opened my hand and caught it, like our moves had been choreographed.

  Still without speaking, still clutching the flannel shirt, Paisley stepped out the back door and went straight to a lumpy, homemade gravestone. “Bepah.” She read the name engraved by a finger in wet cement out loud. She raised the shirt to her face, inhaled, clutched it to her heart, turned, and walked into my arms, the shirt between us.

  Her sobs about broke me. I knew that the shirt and the grave belonged to the man with the missing finger, the man who probably did protect her with his last breath. Certainly not a man she’d blocked entirely, which happened to be my last coherent thought as Madeira Cutler.

  Wearing a blue flannel shirt, I spun through decades on a fast-moving run through a forest, wood snapping and living night sounds clicking in my ears. Leaves and tree limbs slapped me in the face. Earth scents beckoned, dirt, broken foliage, the slime and call of tree frogs. I ran through a mass of lightning bugs and caught one in my throat.

  I had stopped to gag it out when I heard the barking dogs, loud, hungry, and hot on my heels.

  From a tree limb above me, something landed on my back, rolled me over, hovered with a growl of satisfaction, and held a knife to my neck. A caveman, all hair, no hygiene, with a gold tooth that glinted in the moonlight.

  What was this? Depp without makeup?

  He wrenched my wrist, raised my arm, my throbbing hand between his smile and my fear—mine, Madeira Cutler’s fear, because I knew, even if Bepah didn’t, what would happen next.

  And it began. Caveman brought his knife blade to rest at the base of the ring finger on my right hand.

  One of us screamed.

  Fourteen

  What the “Utility Suit” of England, the “Victory Suit” of America, and “Everyman’s Clothing” of Germany had in common was their economic use of fabric and simplicity of design.

  —GERDA BUXBAUM

  I came out of my trance screaming louder than I thought I could, my right ring finger still throbbing, Nick holding me tight while he soothed me uselessly, and finally kissed me to stop my screams.

  I presumed that when I started kissing him back, he knew his ploy had worked. Still, he took his time letting me go. “Are you all right?” he finally whispered, his lips an inch from mine.

  I raised my right hand, surprised there was no blood—I’d never seen it tremble like that—and saw my healthy ring finger encircled by my mother’s wedding ring. “I’m all right. Where’s Paisley? More important, where’s that shirt?”

  “She’s got it inside.”

  We found her curled in the chair I’d seen her Bepah hold her in, wearing his shirt, her own on the floor by the chair.

  “It belonged to your Bepah,” I said. “Was he your grandfather?”

  Paisley wiped her eyes with his shirttails and nodded. “Can we leave this place for now, but can we come back later? I need a break, but I’m not done here.”

  “You’ve got it,” Nick said, helping her up. “Are you all right?”

  She smoothed the shirt’s worn sleeve. “I am now.”

  “Ready to talk
?” I asked.

  “No, thanks. But I will be. First I need to sort some things in my mind.”

  Nick left the door open as he went out to the dirt road and used a pair of binoculars to look around the island. He even climbed a tree to get a better look, then he jumped down to land in front of us. “Can you find the farm from here?” he asked. “I presume you’ve seen the shack before, but not in years maybe.”

  “You’re right. I had no idea it was here when I lived on the farm, which isn’t to say that I didn’t know about it before the farm.”

  Ah, progress. I hoped.

  Less than a mile later, we saw the farm for the first time. “That’s it,” Paisley said. “That’s where I grew up.”

  Part fortress, part compound, part prison, the place did indeed have all the trappings of a farm with an old house at the center of the acreage. With two floors, an attic, and what looked to be a central chimney, it sat on a bit of a hill with a small turret at its peak.

  Structured neither of wood nor brick, the house was covered with those rippled shingles made of a pressed wood substitute from the Depression. It brought to mind the study of clothes rationing and the way make-do-outfits changed fashion history, influencing how we all dress today.

  Still, the house itself was odd. It was built like wood might not have been available, though the place was surrounded by trees. I supposed they might have been saplings back then and I guessed they needed a forest to keep the place hidden.

  Nick stepped toward the fence and Paisley screamed.

  “There’s a keypad here,” he said, taking a tiny kit from his pocket. With it, he connected some kind of stylus to the keypad, and hit a few buttons on both. We heard a zap, a click, and a set of double doors opened wide. He turned to us. “Not only are we in, Paisley, but the fence is no longer electrified.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” she said.