“He’s at least six inches shorter than I am.”
“These,” she says, pointing at paw prints, “must belong to your dog, the one who got hurt last night. How’s he doing, by the way?”
“I haven’t seen Hemingway yet this morning, but the vet assures us that he’ll fully recover.”
“By the size of these prints, he must be huge,” Toni muses.
“He is,” Mick says, smiling. “He’s an Irish Wolfhound.”
“I’m familiar with that breed. I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with a dog that size.”
“This slide or drag mark that goes to the edge is in keeping with a human body. And look, there are paw marks on each side, like the dog was standing over the person,” Toni says.
“If he was,” Mick counters, “it was to protect Cynthia. Hemingway’s only aggressive when he’s defending himself or someone else.”
“It’s hard to tell in the mud,” Toni continues, “but this area is darker.” She points. “It seems like it could be blood. And look at all of the glass shards. From what’s left of this neck, I’d say they’re from a wine bottle.”
Slipping on a pair of thin latex gloves before bagging the broken glass, she continues, “I’ll send these to the lab to see if they can lift any prints, even a partial might help. I’m going to collect some of this mud too. After all the rain I doubt they can test this potential blood for DNA, but it’s worth a shot. It might not all be from Ms. Winters. From the looks of the scene, your dog may have done some serious damage to Mr. Hughes.”
“Thanks, Toni,” Mick says. “If it’s blood, it’s probably Cynthia’s. Dr. Zimmerman said that her femoral artery had been nicked. She said that if it had been severed, she’d have bled out right here on the bluff.”
“Can you think of any reason why Mr. Hughes would want to hurt Ms. Winters?”
“No, none. The guy arrived with what seems like a chip on his shoulder, and he likes his liquor. We have a well-stocked bar in the main house, yet he went to town and bought an additional stash. In fact, when Niall gave him a lift, he popped open a flask in the car. Niall made him walk the rest of the way. If he’s angry about that, he’d be pissed at us, not Cynthia.”
Joe says, “There hasn’t been a mudslide here in a long time, but to be safe, let’s not all walk to the edge. I’ll take a look over the side to see if Mr. Hughes is down there.”
Peering over, Joe lets out a long, low whistle. “Man, that’s a long way down. I can’t imagine anyone surviving that fall.” Shaking his head, he continues, “We’ll send a diving team to see if they can locate his body. It may have already gone out with the tide.”
Finished with the unpleasant task at hand, a haggard-looking Niall stands back and presses both hands to his arched back.
Before he can suggest to Libby that they open the outer mudroom door to let Hemingway outside, she opens the Dutch door adjoining the kitchen.
Smiling at a pathetic-looking Hemingway, she says, “Oh dear, you do look like a cone—”
But before she can finish the sentence, he dashes past her, knocking into the doorframe on his way. With a reduced line of sight, Hemingway bumps blindly into chairs, the kitchen island, and the refrigerator door before bounding into The Ink Well.
“Come back here,” Niall roars, as he and Libby make their way, hoping to trap him in that room.
A thundering crash announces that Hemingway just toppled the oak stand holding the retreat’s journal.
Barreling back the way he’d come, the Elizabethan collar acts like a cowcatcher on the front of a train, clearing everything in its way.
Libby and Niall press their backs to the wall as Hemingway shoots past them.
“Quick Niall, open the front door before he destroys anything else.”
Hand flying to her chest, Fran yelps, stopping mid-stride on the outside steps as Hemingway bolts past her.
“We’re so sorry. We didn’t know you were there,” Niall apologizes to the stunned woman.
“I came to find out if there’s any news about Cynthia,” she says.
“The vet told us to put the Elizabethan collar on that hairy mongrel first thing this morning. Then we were going to call the hospital, but all hell broke loose,” Niall says.
“Please come in and join us for breakfast,” Libby invites. “I’ll call now.”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
After putting his apron on, Niall starts pulling items from the refrigerator.
Fran watches as he removes eggs, tomatoes, yellow peppers, mushrooms, a block of cheese, bacon, and sour cream.
“My stomach just growled. What are you making?” Fran asks.
“I call it ‘The Farmer’s Daughter.’” He smiles. “It’s Libby’s favorite. She loves avocados, so I finish it off with thick slices on top.”
“Did I hear my name?” Libby asks, stepping back into the kitchen from the phone call.
“Yes. Niall says he’s making ‘The Farmer’s Daughter,’” Fran replies.
“That’s my favorite,” Libby says with a smile.
“That’s just what he was saying. What’s the news on Cynthia? Is she okay?”
“She is. In fact, they’re releasing her this afternoon. I think it would be nice if we all went in the van to pick her up. After I clean up the mess in The Ink Well, I’ll head over to Austen cottage to see if Emma wants to join us.”
Hemingway smells the delicious scent through the kitchen windows. Never one to pass up food, he barks at the mudroom door.
Pulling the lower half of the Dutch door closed behind her so he can’t get into the kitchen, Libby lets Hemingway in. His paws are mud-caked, as is the bottom edge of the Elizabethan collar.
“I’m sorry, big guy, but the sooner your wounds heal, the sooner we can take that awful contraption off your head. If we remove it now, you’ll just lick the salve off your stitches.”
Laying down on his mat, Hemingway lets out a resigned harrumph and does his best to prop his head on top of his massive front paws.
While snipping bits of fresh parsley onto dollops of sour cream, Niall clears his throat and asks, “Ladies, do you really think Cynthia would want all of us there to pick her up?”
“Yes. Absolutely!” they say in unison. And with that, two battle-ready women launch into the merits of having all of them along.
A smart man, Niall knows to choose his battles. Clearly, this isn’t one he’d win.
“I’m stuffed. Thank you for such a lovely breakfast. It was delicious,” Fran says. “What time should I meet you at the van?”
“Cynthia’s going to be released after the doctor makes her one o’clock rounds. They suggested I call again before coming to make sure Dr. Zimmerman doesn’t change her mind for any reason. I’ll call the hospital at one-thirty, then ring you at Dickens cottage after I’ve confirmed her release.”
“That sounds great,” Fran says, patting her stomach. “In the meantime, I’m well-fueled and will write until you call.”
Libby turns to Niall. “If you clean the kitchen, I’ll take care of The Ink Well. Deal?”
“Deal.” Niall smiles.
It’s not nearly as bad as it could be, Libby thinks. A couple of furniture pillows are tossed from overstuffed chairs, and a few books are knocked off the shelves. The crash they’d heard was from Hemingway knocking over an oak stand as he bulldozed his way through.
Once righted, Libby picks up the Pines & Quill journal and lays it flat, open to the most recent page. She smiles when she notices a fresh entry, delighted that one of this month’s guests has written something.
Grabbing a pair of cheaters from the fireplace mantle, she reads the tight, precise script. Look in the mirror and what do you see? An eerie reflection that looks like me. It was signed, Andrew Berndt.
Foreboding wipes the smile off her face as if she’d been slapped. Heart-pounding alarm raises the hairs on the nape of her neck.
Libby recognizes the name from the newscasts and newspapers she
’d watched and pored over after Mick’s accident. Andrew Berndt is one of the ringleaders who was arrested in conjunction with the drug heist on the night of Sam’s slaying. He was found hanging in his prison cell.
The other ringleader, his fraternal twin, is still at large.
CHAPTER 20
“In order to see a book through to the end, you have to have discipline, so carve out time every day—no excuses. When you get ready to write your novel, outline it first. There’s nothing worse than getting halfway through and realizing you’ve painted yourself in a plot corner.”
—JANET EVANOVICH
Mick is halfway to Pines & Quill when Libby’s ringtone jangles in his jeans pocket.
“Hey sis, I’m just heading back from talking with the police team on the bluffs. I’m going to swing by Austen to see Emma—”
“Mick, come straight to the main house. It’s urgent.”
Not pausing to question the dread in his sister’s voice, he bolts.
As she looks toward the mouth of the cave, Emma sees that day has just been born. With still-young light, she can just make out the shadowy shape of her wheelchair.
Nodding toward it, she asks Jason, “May I?”
It takes him a moment, but he finally responds. “Hmmm. I was thinking no, but since you asked so nicely, yes you may. I use positive reinforcement for training dogs. The look of astonishment when you inflict pain after a reward is extremely satisfying.”
Sickened, Emma keeps her tongue in check and drags herself across the guano-covered, rock-strewn ground.
Reaching the wheelchair, she assesses it carefully, sets it to rights, locks the wheels in place, and begins the difficult task of pulling herself up and into the seat.
Hearing soft applause, she turns to see Jason’s eyes locked on hers.
“Brava,” he says, feigning interest in her accomplishment. “You seem to have quite the upper-body strength.” Tapping his temple with his index finger, he says, “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“It depends on what it is. Try me.”
“Earlier you said you were going fishing and that you’re going to use me as bait. I don’t understand what you’re trying to catch or why. Will you please explain?”
Libby and Niall are waiting for Mick when he arrives through the mudroom.
Passing Hemingway, he heads straight into the kitchen. His sister and brother-in-law appear to be okay, so he asks, “What’s so urgent?”
Libby says, “I didn’t want to contaminate any possible evidence, so I put the Pines & Quill journal down once I’d read the most recent entry. I left it open to that page so you can read it without picking it up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Follow me. I don’t know what it means either,” Libby says. “But whatever it is, it isn’t good.”
When Mick bends over the oak stand and starts reading, Libby and Niall both watch the color drain from his face.
“Ms. Winters, you had quite an extraordinary evening,” Dr. Zimmerman smiles as she reaches out her hand.
Extending her hand to meet the doctor’s, Cynthia smiles. “Please call me Cynthia. Everything’s still a bit fuzzy. Can you help refresh my memory of what happened?”
“I don’t have all of the details, but from what Sean McPherson tells me, you were attacked by someone on the bluff over the bay. You’re fortunate that whoever did this to you only nicked your femoral artery. That was bad enough. If it had been severed, you would have bled out and died.”
The pieces in Cynthia’s memory start fitting together. And while she still doesn’t have the full picture, she remembers that Hemingway saved her from Jason, and that a storm-driven gust of wind toppled him over the side of the cliff.
“Did they find his body?” she asks the doctor.
Wrinkling her brows in question, “Whose body?” Dr. Zimmerman asks.
“The last thing I remember is that a blast of wind slapped Jason Hughes over the side of the cliff.”
“That’s interesting,” Dr. Zimmerman says. “There were no reported fatalities last night. I’d like to take a few of your vitals while we talk. Is that okay with you?”
“That’s fine. When will I be released?”
“I’m determining that right now,” Dr. Zimmerman says, smiling. “Libby MacCullough called and wants to know the same thing. Since you’re staying at Pines & Quill, you must be a writer,” she says, continuing her examination. “Please hold your head still and follow this pen light with your eyes.”
“Yes,” Cynthia answers. “I’m here working on a book.”
“Now breathe deeply. That’s it.” A moment passes. “Again.” Dr. Zimmerman takes gentle hold of Cynthia’s wrist. Her thumb, where it rests on Cynthia’s skin, is warm and soft. When she’s satisfied, she takes a chart from the table and writes something. The doctor’s cursive is precise and unexpectedly neat.
“Tell me about it. I’d like to hear.” And while Cynthia gives her a thumbnail sketch of the book, Dr. Zimmerman finishes her examination.
“I’ll dismiss you today if you will make, and keep,”—she emphasizes the word “keep” with a pointed look—“a promise.”
“I’m sure that I can. What is it?”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, but not enough for a transfusion. In other words, because your body’s remaking blood, you have to rest. And by rest, I mean you need to remain still.”
“Yes, I’ll—”
“I’m not quite finished. You also have an impressive number of stitches on the inside of your upper thigh. They, too, need to rest.”
Waiting to make sure the doctor has finished, Cynthia says, “Yes, I promise that I’ll rest.”
“Then I’ll go call the MacCulloughs and let them know they can pick you up this afternoon. In the meantime, please lie still and get some rest.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome. I hope we don’t meet again under these circumstances.”
A deep quiet settles over the room. Cynthia rests her eyes and tries to reconstruct the events of last night. In her mind’s eye, she sees herself being wheeled down a long corridor, and remembers ceiling lights flashing rhythmically through closed eyelids.
Mesmerized, she slips into sleep again.
“Niall, call the police and get them back out here. Let them know that Chris, Herb, Joe, and Toni are familiar with the case and we’d like one of them,” Mick says before leaving.
Fifteen years his senior, Libby stays on Mick’s heels as they run over the smooth walkway—fueled by fear—to Austen cottage.
Not bothering to knock, Mick pushes the door activation button. “The deadbolt’s been thrown,” he says over his shoulder to Libby as he rounds the corner of the cottage.
“Emma,” he shouts, sliding the glass door open. “Emma!”
Libby’s right behind him.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mick says, while his eyes drink everything in, looking for clues. “It doesn’t look like there’s been a struggle.”
“I can’t imagine where she’s gone, or why she’d throw the deadbolt and use the sliding glass door to leave,” Libby says.
“I don’t think she would have,” Mick answers, his voice laced with steel. “Please go back to the house and wait for the police. I’m going to my cabin, and then I’m going to Thoreau.”
“Why are you going to your cabin?”
“To get my gun. Call me when the police arrive.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’m putting my cell on vibrate so it’s silent when you call. I don’t want a ring to alert anyone of my presence.”
“Oh, my God, Mick. Be careful.”
From the tone of his people’s voices and the way they’re pacing the buttery pine floorboards in the kitchen, Hemingway knows that something is wrong.
He can smell their fear from the mudroom.
Alert to possible danger, Mick’s adrenalin sp
ikes as he loads and holsters his Glock 22, the same type of service weapon he’d been issued when hired by the SFPD. Once a cop, always a cop, he thinks. And though the clip holster is meant for ultimate concealment inside his waistband, he doesn’t give a damn about that right now.
Stashing another magazine with fifteen rounds in his back pocket, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves and storms toward Thoreau.
The moist cave wall feels cool to his back as Jason positions himself so he can keep an eye on Emma and the mouth of the cave. Though the light is dim, he can see Emma take in his every move. I don’t give a damn. I have the upper hand.
As he holds his right arm across his chest, fingers resting on his left shoulder, his other hand taps an empty bottle of Jack Daniels on top of his thigh. Now and then he raises it to his nose and inhales deeply, relishing the fumes. “So you’d like me to explain why I’m using you as bait. Is that right?” Jason sneers.
“Yes,” she answers evenly, with no trace of emotion in her voice.
“It doesn’t really matter what you know because you’re going to be dead shortly, and I’m the one who’s going to kill you.”
Jason feels excitement tingle throughout his body. Just saying the words brings an explosion of pleasure.
“You’re the ideal bait because I’ve seen how Lover Boy looks at you.” His lips twist in a sneer. “Once he realizes that you’re gone, he’s going to come looking for you, and I’m going to derive a great deal of pleasure watching him crumple as I slit your throat. You’ll be the second person I kill that he cares for.”
“Who was the first?” Emma asks.
“His name was Sam. Poor, unfortunate bastard. He was McPherson’s partner.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A little slow on the uptake, aren’t you?”
Shaking his head in derision, Jason continues. “Five years ago, my brother and I orchestrated a heist involving well over ten million dollars in heroin. The problem was, the goods were in the SFPD evidence lockup. But we had someone on the inside helping us—a dirty cop. Stay wary,” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, “for treachery walks among you.”
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