Safe Harbor

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  She scowled. "That's right. So tell me, why don't you all just go home?"

  Yep. It was getting down and dirty at the Ritz. Sam decided to back away smiling before the two of them ended up in a food fight. Abandoning his half-eaten crab salad, he glanced at his watch, feigned surprise, and stood up. "Time and tide wait for no man," he said lightly, "and neither does the Vineyard Express."

  He laid his napkin neatly on her prettily arranged table. "Thanks for going to all the trouble. As it turns out, I won't be coming back to the apartment."

  "You must be psychic," she said in a deadly tone.

  He took the hit and turned to leave, then turned around again. She wasn't expecting it; he saw her unguarded look of baffled dismay and pretended not to notice. He was behaving like an ass, but he didn't see what he could do about it.

  "Look ... Holly ... this has nothing to do with who you are or what I am. I have a lead, okay? A lead that might take me to Eden. That's why I came to the island, that's why I'm leaving it. To find Eden. It's as simple as that."

  "You don't have to explain," she said, gathering her dignity around her like a mailed cloak. "You have a boat to catch. I hope you find her."

  "If I don't, I may be back," he said with an apologetic smile.

  "Then I hope you find her."

  Surprising, how soft words could pierce like a hail of bullets. He sighed and said, "I'm sorry, Holly. No kidding."

  "Good-bye, Sam."

  He took the key from his pocket, laid it on the table, and left.

  ****

  Holly's hand trembled as she reached for the phone and punched in her mother's number on the speed dial. It rang six times before Charlotte Anderson said hello in a desultory voice.

  "Mom? Can I come over later?" Holly asked plaintively. "We have to talk."

  Chapter 10

  Boston in August was definitely not the Vineyard in August. Brutally hot pavement sent spirals of heat around Sam as he walked the length of fashionable Newbury Street, dotted with upscale galleries tucked discreetly between high-end salons and clothing shops. Almost at once he was able to eliminate the two galleries whose ads he had hunted down in the Sunday Boston Globe. No one claimed to have heard from Eden, and Sam believed them.

  Undaunted, he continued to canvas the street of shops, until he stumbled into The Hungary I, a small gallery below street level that specialized in East European art.

  At the end of a long wall hung with dozens of obviously mass-produced religious icons, he discovered a wild-haired man in an ill-fitting suit and with a desperately eager smile on his face. The gallery would be closing in a week, the obese shopkeeper told Sam in fractured English, so this was, absolutely, last chance. Half price! For two, take off extra twenty percent!

  Sam had to decline a series of increasingly final offers before he got the chance to put forward his own agenda: Had anyone in the last several weeks offered to sell an engraving by Durer?

  The dealer thrust out a huge lower lip and pondered. "Durer? You want Durer?"

  Sam nodded, unsure whether the guy was getting his implication.

  "Tell you where you go: Ironic Curtain, on Huntington Avenue. You know where is Huntington? Other way from Copley Square. My cousin—Stefan Koloman—he will help you." He winked and added, "Say Lajos sent you, okay?"

  ****

  The Ironic Curtain sat squeezed between a plumber's supply house and a mechanic's garage in a marginal stretch of Huntington Avenue. The cousins were as different as their galleries. Stefan Koloman was thin and dour and eyed Sam suspiciously as he approached in the dark, dingy shop, stacked three and four deep with framed and unframed paintings.

  The first words out of his mouth after Sam introduced himself were, "Yeah? What about the Durer?"

  Sam said, "I'm trying to locate the engraving, and I understand that a woman named Eden Walker was trying to shop it to you."

  Then he waited.

  The dealer eased onto a high wood stool. "You lookin' for her?"

  "Right now I'm more interested in the engraving," Sam said, which was true enough.

  "What's your connection to her?"

  "None worth mentioning." True as well.

  Stefan took a pack of smokes from the pocket of his polo shirt and shook a cigarette free. He tapped it against the box, stuck it in his mouth, lit it, inhaled deeply.

  He said through a stream of smoke, "Tell you what; I'm looking for her, too."

  "Why is that?"

  "She screwed me," he said, flicking an ash into a cheap glass tray. "I got real scrod."

  He allowed himself an ironic grin, and Sam saw that he had a gold tooth. "You wouldn't be the first," he said.

  Stefan grunted and took another drag. He studied the shine on his loafers. After another long pause he looked up. "I found her a buyer for the Durer. A collector of German art. A rich fanatic, the kind who have to have it, no questions asked. But the bitch cut me out of the sale."

  "She went around you?"

  "Yeah. She took the name off my Rolodex, maybe, when I went out to the front of the shop."

  Sam grimaced sympathetically. "Would you be willing to tell me the buyer's name?"

  Stefan's laugh was low and sneering. "You joking? It'd be the last thing I ever did. No one messes with this guy. What about her?" he added. "She's not still on that island?"

  "The V—?" Sam thought better of naming the island in question and settled for saying, "Long gone."

  "Bitch. I could kill her. I will kill her," he said calmly, as if he expected Sam to relay the message.

  Sam said, just as calmly, "I wouldn't go off the deep end just yet." He propped one of his cards against the stub-filled tray. "If you change your mind about naming the buyer, I'll make sure you recover a fee. Think about it."

  Stefan snorted and flicked an ash into the tray; some of it settled on Sam's card. "Find her for me, I'll pay you."

  He took a deep, deep drag and was still grinning malevolently when Sam walked out.

  ****

  So where the hell do I go from here?

  Sam slugged beer to wash down a heart-killer Reuben as he sat alone in a dark Boston pub and considered his options. He was vain enough to feel pleased that he'd tracked down Eden and the engraving as far as he had. But it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Eden had won not only the round, but clearly the match.

  She had stolen the engraving from an elderly, naive couple who had dutifully kept possession of it a secret for decades. She had sold the painting to some rich maniac who was never going to admit to having bought it. She had swindled a dealer out of his commission in the bargain, and since the dealer was a crook, it was safe to assume that he wouldn't be suing her anytime soon. The original owner, good old Uncle Henry, was dead and buried, and so was the attorney who had handled his will.

  It was a situation tailor-made for Eden, who would've considered it just slightly more challenging than taking candy from a baby and then pushing the buggy off a cliff.

  Eden, Eden ... where have you gone?

  Why, off on a yacht, to play with a rich man.

  And the loot? That could be anywhere, from a bank in the Caymans to a pocket in her shorts, having been bartered for the moment into uncut diamonds. She'd done it all before.

  Maybe it was the sauerkraut in his Reuben sandwich that was to blame: out of nowhere, Sam experienced a vivid flashback to an afternoon seven years earlier, an afternoon that had knocked his heart into a black, sticky bog where it remained still.

  He and Eden had been living in Westport; they'd been married for less than a year. Sam had returned home from a four-day trip aboard a fishing trawler, where he'd been documenting the abysmal decline of the cod industry. He was tired, salty, dirty, and reasonably drunk after hitting a waterfront bar with some of the crew. When he pulled up to his rented house, he found a squad car parked in front of it.

  Forget the fishermen; it was the cops in that squad car who'd truly lifted the scales from Sam's eyes. He l
earned from them that his wife—his gorgeous, vivacious, sexy, smart, kind-hearted wife—had fleeced an old woman of her life's savings, which the woman had foolishly invested in diamonds that she kept hidden in a can of Gold's Foot Powder. Diamonds in Gold's. Eden had probably got a kick out of that.

  Eden had been a great one for volunteering her company to shut-ins. Sam, naive jerk that he was, used to marvel that someone with so many talents could spend long afternoons sitting on dusty sofas in dimly lit parlors, listening to sad and lonely widows repeating their memories.

  And widowers, too, of course. Statistically speaking, there were fewer of those, but Eden had been available to all. She gave unstintingly of her time, her charm, and God only knew what else. Sam used to marvel at it, and he loved her the more for it. Until the cops came that afternoon.

  After they left, he found the note—in the drawer next to her birth control pills.

  I love you, Sam. Please believe that. I'll never love anyone else. I can't stay on to explain; I wish I could. Just know that I love you. Someday we'll meet again.

  But not soon. He couldn't find her, and neither could the investigators he'd hired.

  Somewhere in his heart of hearts, Sam blamed himself. If he had done a better job of being married to her... if he had given her wealth enough so that she hadn't felt obliged to go out and shake every tree for more... if he had—who knows?—satisfied her on some level that went deeper than sex, deeper than commitment, deeper than emotion itself. Then maybe she wouldn't be the way she was, and he wouldn't be panting three steps behind her the way he was.

  Steadman, you self-centered bastard. You really think that you could've changed Eden?

  The answer to that was still yes.

  From some peripheral nook in his brain he had a sudden image of Holly Anderson in a pale green sundress, bent over double in stitches over his arrogance. Her good-humored laughter was infectious. Alone at the bar, he found himself joining in with a snort of self-mockery.

  The bartender took Sam's grunt as a signal to top off his lager. Sam nodded his thanks, willing and wishing to be carried away on a soft wave of melancholy. He was feeling hollow and empty, and he wasn't sure how to fill the void. For now, beer would have to do.

  Chapter 11

  Under a setting sun, Holly and her mother sat in Adirondack chairs on the upper deck, sipping strong rum punches and murmuring melancholy phrases about the frailty of men.

  "Look at the harbor. Isn't it lovely tonight?" Charlotte mused. She added with a sigh, "Your father and I bought the house for this view. I always assumed that we would die here. Now I guess I'll be doing that on my own."

  Weary of her mother's mood, Holly said, "Oh, Mom, nobody's dying."

  Charlotte rubbed her elbow. "Lately, everything hurts," she insisted. "I'm getting old. No wonder he left me."

  "No, he's getting old, and that's why he left you."

  Smiling gratefully, Charlotte said, "Ivy called last night. She's so preoccupied," she added.

  "Don't tell me she's not coming," Holly said, offended in advance by her sister's selfishness. "House or no house ..."

  Her mother gave her a look more sharp than confused. "Is that what she told you, that she can't come? And you resent it, is that it?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Because you're afraid that you're going to be the one who ends up the caregiver in the family—aren't you," her mother said.

  It was true. "No!"

  "Holly, you're a wonderful daughter but a terrible liar. Don't worry, honey: I would check myself into a nursing home before I'd move in with you."

  "But I'd never let you," Holly said, realizing it for the first time. She smiled and added, "We can be sad and single together."

  "You'll never have to worry about being single. What about Sam? You sound as if you have a number-one crush on the man."

  "Oh—Sam," Holly said, dismissing him. "I'd never elevate the feeling I have for him to the level of crush. He's just a thorn in my side, that's all. It's hard not to think about a thorn in your side. Trust me, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, between us."

  Her mother was about to reply to that when she interrupted herself. "That's a car arriving!" She jumped up from her Adirondack chair—with amazing alacrity for an old woman in pain—and peered expectantly over the balustrade.

  "Hell. It's Marjory Betson," she whispered, stepping back quickly. "Hide."

  "Mom. What if she's seen you?"

  "Oh, all right," Charlotte muttered. She yelled down, "Yoohoo! Marjory—up here."

  Below them, the island gossip stood with her head bent back, an eager expression on her face. "Charlotte! I have hideous news!"

  Holly's mother gasped and said, "Oh, no—about what?"

  "Eric!"

  ****

  They ran down to let her inside and then listened to news more stupefying than drink could ever be: Eden Walker had gone missing, and an all-day search by the Coast Guard had so far failed to recover her body.

  "Body! What do you mean, body?" asked Charlotte, clearly in shock.

  Marjory Betson—blond, tall, tanned and fit—crossed her legs and leaned forward from the waist for emphasis as she said, "Supposedly Eden was sailboarding while the Vixen lay anchored in Lackeys Bay. That in itself was unusual, don't you think?" she added. "Boats never anchor there. The wind was from the southwest as usual and—oh, but you're not that fond of sailing, are you, so perhaps you wouldn't know. But take my word for it: the roll there would be just awful on a weak stomach like yours. And uncomfortable for anyone. I can't imagine why Eric would anchor there. Except that they'd be alone, I suppose."

  "What about Eden? Tell us about Eden," said Holly, cutting impatiently through the woman's innuendo.

  "I'm getting to that, dear. After a while when Eden didn't return, Eric supposedly got into his inflatable and searched for her. He became alarmed—apparently—after he couldn't find her, and he called the Coast Guard. They sent out one of their big inflatables to search the area, and that's when they found the bloody windsurfer washed up on a beach."

  "Bloody windsurfer—?"

  "Oh-h-h, yes," said Marjory through pruned lips. "They found blood, long strands of hair, and a silver wrist bangle caught in the rigging." She let that sink in for effect while she sipped her Evian.

  The three women were seated in the tile-floored conservatory, surrounded by towering houseplants and tender exotics. The room, a favorite, also happened to be the one farthest from Eric Anderson's ransacked study. While her mother waited in horror to hear what Marjory had to say, Holly jumped up and switched on more lamps. She wanted to ward off what she knew was going to be a long, black night.

  Marjory set her icy glass carefully on a stone coaster and then continued. "After the beached windsurfer was reported, the Coast Guard sent out one of their utility boats, and then a helicopter," she explained. "How odd that you never heard anything about it all day. The Coast Guard even put out an Urgent Marine Broadcast."

  Holly remembered Billy's tip of the wings in salute to the Coast Guard chopper that they passed on their way back to Vineyard Haven. The seaplane must have been flying right over the search area.

  Holly said, "I can see how you might have heard the broadcast, Mrs. Betson; you practically live aboard your boat. But how did you know about the blood and the hair and all the rest of it? They don't go into that kind of detail in the broadcast, surely?"

  Marjory Betson was making an effort not to be smug. "I know about the Coast Guard involvement because my niece is married to a petty officer. As for the police involvement—"

  "The police?" asked Charlotte in a voice too high. "What have the police got to do with an accidental drowning?"

  "Was it an accidental drowning?" asked Marjory. "That's what they're trying to find out."

  God, the woman was insufferable. Holly wanted to grab her by her Ralph Lauren collar and toss her out of the house, but she felt as spellbound as her mother, and just as filled with dread.
>
  "How did you find out that the police are involved?"

  It was exactly the question that Marjory Betson had been waiting for them to ask. Her lips flattened in victory. Her look became serene. "They questioned me."

  "You! About what?"

  "They were poking around the marina a little while ago. Since the Vixen's slip is next to ours, and since Mark and I spend every minute we can together aboard our MarMar—naturally the police turned to us. They were very polite about it, but you could see that they had an agenda."

  "What kind of agenda?" Charlotte asked, her voice faint.

  Marjory locked her hands across her tanned, bony knee and stared at the bronze-and-glass table in front of her wicker chair. "At least, I think it was an agenda. I could be wrong, of course. But the questions went along the lines of, 'Did you see them together? Were they very demonstrative?' You set the drift. Through it all, they kept coming back to ask things like, 'Did you ever witness an argument between them? Did Eden Walker seem to have a volatile temper? Did Eric Anderson?' That sort of thing."

  She took another sip of her water, as if she'd been on the witness stand too long. "I had to tell the truth, of course. There was that terrible argument we saw when they were anchored nearby that one time, although I—"

  "What argument? You never said anything about an argument. You told me that they were all over one another in the cockpit," Charlotte said angrily. "Those were your exact words."

  "And they were—but that was later, after the argument. I told the police how completely out of character both displays of emotion were for Eric. We all know how quiet and discreet he is—or was, up until all this horrible business started."

  Holly sat in rigid silence through the insinuating monologue. She saw that her mother was melting in place, like a flickering candle about to go out. She had to do something, so she stood up abruptly and said, "It was so kind of you to bring us up to speed. It would have been awful not to have lost sleep over this."

  "Well, yes, that's exactly what I—oh! Oh, my, I've gone and done the wrong thing, haven't I?"