by Lisa Jackson
“No—no problem,” Claire said, and followed Harley on board. She owed him that much, she supposed, as she settled into one of the seats, and he found a bottle of Dom Pérignon in the small bar.
“You can’t break up with me,” he said, as he worked the cork free and it popped loudly. Champagne bubbled over the bottle’s neck. Quickly, desperately, he poured them each a long-stemmed glass.
“Harley, don’t—”
“It’s an unwritten law.” Walking back to the cushion where she sat, and, looming over her, he held out a glass.
“A law?” Tentatively she took the drink. This was wrong. Not going well.
“Yeah. No one ever breaks up with a Taggert.” He tossed back his drink in one long swallow and promptly poured another.
“That’s not a law, it’s a pipe dream. Look, I’ve got to go.” She set her untouched glass on the bar.
“Not yet.”
“Good-bye, Harley,” she said as she stood. “I hope we can still be—”
“Don’t even say it. We’ll never be friends, Claire,” he said, his eyes brimming with tears again. He finished his drink, dropped the glass on the carpet, and took a swig from the bottle. “Lovers can never be friends.”
“I’ll see you.”
“No you won’t, Claire. If you leave this boat tonight, I swear, I’ll get so drunk I can’t see straight, then I’ll haul my ass over the rail and jump into the bay.”
“No—”
“You think I’m lying?” He sighed. “Christ, Claire, if I don’t have you, I don’t have anything.”
“That’s not true,” she said, but saw the conviction in his gaze. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
He stretched out on the bench and began drinking from the bottle. “Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Because of Kendall? Or Kane?”
She jumped, and he smiled crookedly, his hair falling over his forehead. “Didn’t think I knew, did you?”
“There’s nothing to know.”
“Ha!” Another long swig as the sailboat gently rocked in the water.
“I’ve met Kane—”
“Met him. Just met him? Come on, Claire, you can do better than that. You’ve not only met him, you’ve spent time with him and gone”—he waved wildly in the air—“riding with him on his damned motorcycle in the middle of the night.”
Her cheeks burned in silent testimony as she stood in the doorway. Guilt tore a jagged crater in her soul. “I would never have met him if you’d been faithful,” she said, though she wondered just how true that statement was. “I haven’t cheated on you, Harley. Not ever.”
“Not yet, maybe,” he said, resting the butt of the near-empty bottle on his chest, “but you’re itching to. I can see it in your eyes. Jesus! And to think I loved you.”
“Harley—”
“Go on, get out of here,” he growled, then promptly drained any remaining liquid from the bottle.
“I can’t, not if you’re going to—”
“Ah, hell, leave me alone,” he said, as if the mention of Kane had changed everything. “I’ll be fine.” His gaze was abruptly harsh and for half a second he looked like his brother. “Leave, you two-timing whore, or come back here and remind me why it is that I want you.”
Heart in her throat, she climbed up the ladder to the deck and half ran off the boat. He was drunk and angry and hateful, but she didn’t believe he meant anything he said. When he was sober . . . what? What would happen? Nothing would change. She stopped at the gate where the security guard was sitting, eyes closed, on his stool. “Would you check on berth C-13?” she asked. “The Taggert slip?”
“Yes, Harley Taggert’s inside and . . . I think he needs a ride home.”
He looked her up and down and, jangling his keys, started down the ramp. “I’ll see to him, Missy. Mr. Taggert, he would want to know that his son’s okay.”
“Yes . . . yes, he would,” she said, and walked briskly to the Jeep she’d taken from her father’s fleet. Sounds of the party still drifted up to her, and somewhere not far away a dog was barking his fool head off.
She reached into her pocket for her keys and realized that the course of her life had taken a quick, unexpected turn. For better or worse, she couldn’t say, but for the first time in months she was unfettered and free.
“Things will be fine,” she told herself as she cranked the steering wheel of the Jeep and drove under the arched neon sign of the marina. They had to be.
So what about Kane?
Her hands perspired on the wheel. He wasn’t the kind of boy a girl could depend upon. He was leaving for the army.
She couldn’t fall in love with him. Wouldn’t.
But as she drove through the forested hills leading back to her house, she knew she was lying to herself. Like it or not, she was half in love with him already.
Twenty-one
Claire stepped on the brakes, and the Jeep slid to a stop near the garage. Still shaking inside, she stared at her ringless left hand and fought tears. She’d spent the past three hours driving around in circles, avoiding the hangouts where Harley might look for her, not bothering to go home for fear he might call. He needed time to think things through and sober up. She needed space so that she could consider the new course of her life.
Since she’d left the marina, the storm that had been threatening all day had broken. Wind rushed through the branches of the trees overhead, making them pitch and dance. Rain poured from the sky, drizzling down the windshield and peppering the ground. Puddles had begun to form on the low spots in the asphalt, and the old lodge, the home she’d cherished, looked bleak and forbidding.
No one was home. Randa’s car wasn’t parked in its usual spot and Dutch was spending most of his nights in Portland, meeting with architects, lawyers, and accountants about the next phase of Stone Illahee. Dominique had gone with him this time, though Claire didn’t know why. It seemed as if her parents had less and less in common as the summer edged toward fall.
Dominique had never been one to suffer in silence. She’d complained for as long as Claire could remember about hating this “godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere.”
Tessa was probably out as well. Where or with whom, Claire couldn’t guess. She and her younger sister had never been particularly close, but this summer their relationship had become more strained. Tessa was a powder keg ready to explode. Claire was prickly, defensive of her relationship with Harley.
Except it was over. Maybe now she and Tessa would see eye to eye.
Miranda was the only person in the family who was rock-steady, the one Claire could count on.
Yanking her keys from the ignition, she pulled her collar around her neck, climbed out of the Jeep, and heard, over the gurgle of rainwater in the gutters and downspouts, the smooth hum of a powerful engine. Headlights flashed through the trees. Her heart clutched. Harley. He’d sobered up and now he was coming after her!
She couldn’t face him again.
Yet she stood transfixed, like an animal caught in headlights as the car rounded a final bend. Claire steeled herself, ready to stand firm with him and insist that their breakup was for the best. Somehow, some way she’d convince him.
Miranda’s Camaro squealed into the parking area. Claire let out her breath. The car skidded to a stop just ten feet from her.
“Get in!” Miranda yelled through the open window. Her voice was desperate. “Now!”
“Wha—?”
“Don’t argue, Claire. I don’t have time for it. Just get the hell into the damned car.” There was a frantic edge to Randa’s words, and Claire didn’t dare argue, just opened the passenger door and found Tessa slumped and shell-shocked in the front seat. She looked white as death, her eyes vacant, her teeth chattering. Miranda was just as bad. Her dark hair was mussed and wild, her clothes torn, her expression hard. Something akin to fear pulled at the corners of her mouth. She looked as if she knew someone or something evil was chasing her, and she wa
s running for her life. For Tessa’s life.
“Randa—?”
“Get in, damn it!”
Heart pounding with an unknown dread, Claire squeezed into the back. “What’s going on?”
“Close the door!” Randa ordered, and Tessa, as if she didn’t have a mind of her own, did as she was told.
Cranking the steering wheel, Miranda stepped on the gas and peeled out of the driveway. Trees, black sentinels guarding the silvery waters of the lake, sped by in a rush.
Claire’s heart hammered; her palms began to sweat. “Would someone please tell me what happened?”
“Did you see Harley tonight?” Miranda asked as the car slid around a corner and a back tire hit mud. The wheel spun crazily before gaining purchase on the slick asphalt again.
“Yes.”
“At the marina?”
“Yes, yes. What is this? Twenty questions?”
Barely slowing, Miranda turned north onto the county road that rimmed the lake. Unwittingly, she was taking Claire closer to Kane’s house, and Claire tried to quell the sense of panic that was crushing the air from her lungs. What had happened? Why did Miranda and Tessa look as if they’d just seen the apocalypse? Tessa began to sob quietly in the passenger seat.
“When did you see him?” Miranda demanded.
“Harley?” She shifted mental gears again. “I, uh, met him at ten-thirty. Why? For God’s sake, Randa, will you tell me—?”
A police car, lights flashing red, white, and blue, sped in the opposite direction. “Shit!” Miranda said and made the next turn onto a gravel side road filled with potholes.
“Miranda—”
“In a minute, okay? I just want to get us out of this mess.”
“What mess?” Claire nearly screamed, and Miranda stamped hard on the brakes. The Camaro skidded to a stop, barely missing a telephone pole. Berry vines scraped the passenger side.
“Get out of the car.” Miranda left the engine running, but killed the lights.
“What? I just got in.”
Miranda was already opening the car door, stepping into the muck, and Claire, heart thudding, followed. For the few seconds that the interior light blinked on she noticed the bloodred stains on Miranda’s skirt.
Blood? Claire’s stomach curdled. Blood? But how? Why? Her throat closed. She didn’t dare breathe. Suddenly she didn’t want to know what had happened. In an instant of clairvoyance she knew that her life and the lives of those she loved were about to be irrevocably altered. For the worse. She glanced at Tessa huddled near the door, tears running down her cheeks, streaking her mascara, her arms cradled around her knees, and realized that something evil had captured them all in its vile net.
“We don’t have a lot of time, so just listen,” Miranda said as Claire stumbled out of the car. She grabbed Claire’s shoulders in her tense fingers, gripping so tightly Claire nearly cried out. Miranda’s gaze was fierce, her jaw set, her eyes wilder than Claire had ever seen. Rain slashed from the sky, drenching Randa’s hair, dripping from her nose, running down the back of Claire’s neck. “Harley’s dead.”
“Wha—” Claire’s voice died in her throat and her knees threatened to give way, but Miranda held her fast against the fender, forcing her to stand. “What? No!”
“He died tonight at the marina.”
“Randa—”
“It’s true, Claire.”
“But—but—”
“He’s dead!”
“No—” Again her legs wobbled, and this time she slid to the ground, Miranda still holding on to her.
Miranda’s voice cracked. “I—I don’t know all the details, but he was found floating in the bay an hour or so ago.”
“No. Oh, God, no!” Claire was shaking, her insides quivering and she told herself this was all a dream—a horrid nightmare. She’d wake up soon and none of this would have happened.
“It’s true.”
“But I just saw him—” Denial was her crutch, and Claire leaned on it heavily. Miranda was lying. She had to be. But why? Maybe she just heard the facts wrong. That was it; this was a mistake, a horrible, ugly mistake. “You’re . . . you’re making this up.”
“Oh, Claire, why?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not true! It can’t be! You heard the story wrong, that’s it!”
Miranda let out a pained little cry. “I’m so sorry; I know how much you loved him.”
The words didn’t sink in, just bounced off her brain like a stone skimming across water. She shook her head. “You’re wrong, Randa. Harley’s fine. He’s just drunk.”
“He’s dead, Claire. Dead. He died a couple of hours ago, drowned in the bay.”
“No—”
Miranda shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “Listen to me, damn it!”
And then it hit her. With the force of the ocean crashing over her, pinning her underwater, making breathing impossible. She gasped, shaking her head, until Randa grabbed both sides of her face and forced her to stare into her older sister’s agonized gaze. Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, it was true!
With a keening wail to rival the wind, Claire clenched her fist and pounded it into the mud, splashing dirt and muck onto her clothes, spattering dirt onto her face. “But I was just with him less than three hours ago.”
“I know, the security guard saw you.”
“Harley, oh, please, no—” Grief and guilt clawed at her soul. If only she hadn’t agreed to meet him, or hadn’t agreed to go onto the boat with him, or left him, he might still be alive. It was her fault that he was dead. Her damned fault!
“They don’t know if it was an accident, murder, or suicide,” Randa was saying, her voice sounding distant, though she was close enough that Claire felt the warmth of her breath. “The thing is we’re all going to be questioned, especially you, since you were involved with him and were one of the last people to see him alive.”
Still wallowing in the mud, Claire was barely listening. All she knew was that Harley, precious Harley, was dead. Her spirit broke and left her. “It’s my fault,” she said.
“No, don’t even say it.” Randa, back braced against a rear tire, was holding her, cradling her in the mud, stroking her cheek as if she were a tiny child who had bumped her head.
“I broke up with him and—”
“You what?”
“I broke off the engagement. Oh, God, it’s my fault.”
“No!”
“But I . . . oh, Harley.” Claire felt as if her body had been ripped in half. She had loved Harley once, believed in him. Deep, soul-jarring sobs convulsed within her. Tears drizzled from her eyes. Guilt for somehow harming him gnawed at the corners of her conscience as Miranda held her fast, gently rocking her. “How . . . how do you know? How did you find out?” she asked, not really caring.
“I was in town and heard the news,” Miranda said, obviously avoiding the details. Claire didn’t care, was suddenly too tired to question her. “I knew you’d gone to see him but were probably back at the house, so I headed there. I found Tessa hitchhiking on one-oh-one. I picked her up and drove home to find you.”
“But why? What happened to you?” Claire asked, touching Miranda’s ripped blouse and refusing to look at the stain on her skirt. Blood. Whose? Randa’s? Harley’s? Sweet Jesus, had Randa been with Harley, had she come looking for her sister and found him dead drunk and . . . what then? No! No! No! Nothing was making any sense. If only she could turn the clock back a few hours and alter the events of the night . . .
“It’s a long story. We don’t have time,” Miranda said, and Claire’s head thudded dully. “What have you been doing since you left Harley?”
“Driving around.” Why was she so cold?
“Who saw you?”
“I don’t know. No one, probably.” Bile climbed up her throat. She was going to be sick, right here.
“You’re sure?”
“I—I don’t know.” Her teeth were chattering, her skin alive with goose bumps.
“
We can’t worry about it now, Claire, but you have to pull yourself together. Claire—?” Again Miranda shook her, but Claire threw her off and crawled to the side of the road, where water was running in a ditch and weeds slapped her in the face. Her stomach contracted, and she retched violently, over and over again until there was nothing left.
She felt Randa’s hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“No!”
“But are you with me? Can you get back into the car? We have to leave now. Claire?”
“I—I don’t know if I can.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, but the vile taste lingered in her mouth as a sense of doom captured her soul.
“Try. Now, the three of us, we’re going to make up a story very quickly. Are you with me? We have to come up with alibis—where we were when Harley died.”
“I don’t understand—”
“We all need to be able to explain where we were.”
“Why?” she asked before staring into Miranda’s eyes and suddenly understanding that not only was Harley dead, but Miranda was in trouble. Big trouble. Somehow she was involved. A hand with fingers cold as death seemed to reach for her throat and close off her windpipe.
“So this is it. We went to the drive-in up the coast and we were watching that special run they’ve got—a trio of old Clint Eastwood flicks: Hang ’Em High, Play Misty For Me, and Dirty Harry. During the second one we decided to go home and left before we saw the last. I fell asleep at the wheel and we drove off the road and into the lake.”
“What—? That’s crazy. Why?”
Miranda didn’t answer, just stared hard into her sister’s eyes. A current of understanding passed between them. “Trust me, Claire. We don’t have any choice. If Harley was murdered, and I think he was, then you’ll be a primary suspect. I was at the marina tonight, too.”
“What?”
“And Tessa.”
Miranda’s voice sounded as if it came from the far end of a tunnel, echoing and unclear, and yet enough of what she was saying was piercing Claire’s foggy brain.
“All our names will come up, and none of us has an alibi.”
