by Lisa Jackson
That would be Willa St. Clair she thought, as watched the horizon, anxious to see what she’d gotten herself into. The rent had been supercheap. The apartment was described as furnished but basic. Not that beggars could be choosers. She was desperate, and that had meant taking desperate measures.
The sun dipped into the Gulf, turning the water’s surface gold and silhouetting the islands ahead and behind her. Willa wondered how much farther it was to Cape Diablo and was about to ask when she felt the boat slow.
She looked up and caught a glimpse of red tile roof. A moment later the house came into view. Instantly she wanted to paint it. A haunting Spanish villa set among the palms.
With relief she saw a pier and beyond it an old two-story boathouse, thankful she would soon be off the rough water and on solid ground again.
Gator eased the boat, stepping out to tie off before he offered her a hand.
The boat wobbled wildly as she climbed out on the pier, making Gator chuckle again. She shot him a warning look, then turned her gaze to the villa.
It was truly breathtaking. Or at least it had been before it had fallen into disrepair. The Spanish-style structure now seemed to be battling back the vegetation growing up around it. Vines grew out of cracks or holes in the walls. Others climbed up the sides, hiding entire sections of the structure.
Palm trees swayed in the breeze and through an archway she could see what appeared to be a courtyard and possibly a swimming pool.
This had been the right decision, she thought, staring at the villa. It gave her the strangest feeling. Almost as if she was supposed to have come here. As if she had been born to paint it. Silly, but she felt as if the house had a story it needed told. That there was much more here than just crumbling walls.
Movement caught her eye. She looked upward and glimpsed someone watching her from a third-floor window.
“You change your mind?” Gator asked from behind her.
She turned to see that he’d put her suitcases on the dock and was sitting in his boat, obviously anxious to leave. Apparently this was as far as he went with her suitcases and box. So much for chivalry.
She turned to look at the villa again. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”
He grunted.
She’d rented the apartment sight unseen through a phone number she’d called. Her rent had been paid via mail. So she wasn’t surprised there was no one to meet her. She’d been told that the caretaker lived in the boathouse near the pier but that he might not be around. If there was an emergency or any problems, he was the man to see. Her rent money would be picked up each month when a supply boat came. She was told to talk to a man named Bull to order what she needed since there was no phone on the island. No electricity other than a generator. And cell phones didn’t work from the island.
She’d wanted to disappear to someplace isolated—well, she had.
“Last chance,” Gator said.
She shook her head.
He shrugged and glanced toward the Gulf of Mexico where the sun had sunk into the sea. “Then I’ll shove off.” He looked past her toward the house and seemed hesitant to leave her here—just as he’d been to bring her to the island in the first place. He’d tried to talk her out of it, asking if she knew anything about Cape Diablo.
“Why would you want to go out there?” he’d asked, pinning her with narrowed brown eyes. “Only people who are running from something or searching for it go out there. Few find what they’re looking for. Usually just the opposite. Most wish they hadn’t looked. Why do you think it is called Cape Diablo?”
“What are you telling me? That the island is haunted?” Her graphic artist friend had told her the island had an interesting history but hadn’t elaborated.
“More like cursed.”
Willa had anxiously looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see Landry.
“Running from something, huh?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m trying to get away from my ex-boyfriend, if you must know.” She’d touched the bruise on her cheek that she’d gotten when the safe house the cops had put her in had been attacked.
Gator had given her a slow knowing nod, reached for the cash she’d offered him and hadn’t tried to talk her out of it.
But clearly he hadn’t wanted to bring her out here. Nor did he seem to want to leave her here. She thought about asking him why as he paused, then started the outboard.
“Send word by a fisherman or anyone heading to the mainland and I’ll come get you,” he said, his gaze softening. “Even if it’s in the middle of the night.”
Why would she want to leave in the middle of the night? His look said it wouldn’t be long before she couldn’t wait to get out off the island.
He touched the brim of his cap and turned the bow back the way they’d come. At least she thought it was the way they’d come.
She picked up the suitcases from the pier and started toward the villa, figuring she would come back for the box with her paints and art supplies. She couldn’t help but wonder what Gator would have said if he knew the truth.
That she was the only witness to the cold-blooded murder of a police officer named Zeke Hartung.
Make that missing witness.
The story, complete with sensational headlines, had been splashed across every South Florida paper followed quickly she didn’t doubt by the attack at the safe house and the death of two more officers.
As she looked up at the villa, she wondered if there was any place safe enough or far away from civilization to elude Landry Jones. If it wasn’t Cape Diablo, then no place existed.
The sound of the boat’s motor died off into the distance. She looked back once but the boat had already disappeared from sight. All she could see were mangrove islands on one horizon and the endless Gulf of Mexico on the other.
She couldn’t remember ever feeling so isolated, so alone—not even in the middle of South Dakota, miles from the nearest town. Surely all the people looking for her would have a hard time finding her. But she didn’t delude herself. She wouldn’t be safe until Landry Jones was behind bars.
Willa stopped in front of the villa. She could hear the waves lapping at the dock and the wind whispering in the palms, but also the faint sound of music.
She looked up again to see an elderly woman through the sheer curtains. The woman wore a white gown and appeared to be waltzing to the music with an invisible partner.
“Hello.”
Willa jumped at the sound of the male voice next to her, making her drop one of the suitcases.
“Here let me take that.” He stepped around her and picked up the suitcase and reached for the second one. “I thought I heard a boat.”
She could only stare at him, her heart thundering in her chest. She’d been told there were four apartments in the villa, all vacant when she’d inquired.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said. He appeared to be in his early thirties, blond, blue-eyed and tan—her original idea of what Florida men should all look like. “What’s your apartment number?”
“Three.”
“Then you’re right up there.” He pointed through an arch. She could see a wrought iron railing, a blood-red riot of bougainvillea flowers climbing the wall behind it and a weathered door with a 3 painted crudely on it.
He took the other suitcase from her and carrying both, headed through the archway into a tiled courtyard. She started to turn back to retrieve the box with her painting supplies from the dock. “I’ll get that for you,” he said.
Still a little unsteady after the boat ride, she decided to let him and followed him through the archway, seeing that she was right—there was a pool. Unfortunately it was dark and murky, apparently abandoned years ago but never drained.
“I’m Odell Grady,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s my apartment over there.” He motioned across the pool to what had once been the pool house, she guessed.
“How many tenants are there?”
> “Just you and me right now. Unless you count the old gal up there.” He motioned to a third-floor tower section of the villa where she’d seen the woman dancing. “She’s grandfathered in, so to speak.”
He stopped partway up the stairs and turned to look back at her. “You were warned about her, weren’t you?”
She hadn’t been warned about anything except the isolation and no one to meet her at the dock, but she wasn’t worried about some elderly woman who waltzed with a phantom lover. Odell was another story altogether.
“If you like peace and quiet, you definitely came to the right place,” he said as he scaled the stairs. “That’s why I came here. How about you?” He’d reached the landing and stopped next to one of the doors to turn to look back at her.
“Peace and quiet,” she agreed as she topped the stairs. She wondered if it would be possible to get either with Odell Grady around.
He nodded, openly studying her. He had put down the suitcases just outside the door and held out his hand.
It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for the key to open her door.
“Thank you. I can take it from here.”
He seemed to hesitate, then looked embarrassed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to come on so strong. This place gets to you after a while. I hadn’t realized what it would be like, not talking to another human being.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Too long obviously. I’ve been talking your ear off, sorry.” He stepped back, giving her space. “I’ll get your other package.” He turned and trotted down the stairs.
She opened the apartment door but didn’t enter, instead watching him, worrying.
Odell returned with the box. “It’s pretty heavy. Want me to set it inside?”
“Thank you.” She let him enter but stayed outside until he’d put the box down and came back out.
He must have seen how uncomfortable she was having him in her apartment. Actually being pretty much alone on the island with him—since she doubted the elderly woman upstairs would be much help if she needed it.
“So, welcome to Cape Diablo,” Odell said, dusting off his hands on his shorts. He met her gaze. He didn’t look dangerous, but then she’d thought the same thing of Landry Jones, hadn’t she.
“If you need anything, I’ll be right down there pounding on my manual typewriter. I’m a writer,” he said walking backward a few steps. “Fiction.”
She relaxed a little and felt guilty for the rude way she’d reacted to his kindness.
“How about you?”
“You mean what I do for a living?” she asked, giving herself time to come up with an answer. “I’ve been a waitress, a barmaid, a receptionist, a grocery clerk. Right now I’m just taking a break to figure out what I want to do.”
“Been there,” he said. “You’re still young. You’ll figure it out.” He cocked his head at her. “You look like an…artist to me.” He must have seen her shocked expression because he laughed. “No, I’m not psychic. The box lid came open and I saw all your art supplies.”
The box had come open? Not with the amount of tape she’d used. “It’s just a hobby.”
“Yeah, that’s how my writing is. I just hope to turn it into something more,” he said, and looked toward the Gulf. “This would be a great place to paint.” He turned back to her. “I’d love to see your work.”
“I don’t let anyone see it,” she said too quickly. “It’s just…embarrassing at this point.”
He laughed. “Probably the same reason I don’t let anyone read my work.” Another song drifted on the breeze. He glanced toward the third floor where the elderly woman was dancing again. “If you weren’t crazy when you came here, you will be.”
“I’m sorry. How long did you say you’ve been here?”
“Just since this afternoon, but long enough to go stir-crazy, although not as crazy as some people.” He made a face and cocked his head toward the tower, making a circle with his finger next to his temple.
Since this afternoon? So he’d arrived only a little earlier than she had. She felt a chill at the thought that someone had found out where she was going and Odell had been sent to wait for her.
“Thank you again for your help.”
He smiled and nodded. “My pleasure.”
Almost apologetically she turned away from him. She picked up her suitcases and stepped inside the apartment. As she started to close the door, he called from the stairs, “Hey, I never caught your name.”
“Will—Willie.” It was out before she could call it back. She was tired and just wanted to be left alone and she hadn’t thought before she’d spoken or she would have given him the name she’d planned to use. Too late for that.
“Short for something?” he asked turning on the stairs.
She was forced back out on the balcony to keep from yelling her answer. “Actually, it’s a nickname. My real name is Cara Wilson. My friends started calling me Willie and it stuck.”
“Cara,” he said. “That’s a pretty name. But Willie suits you.”
She smiled nervously and gave him a nod as she stepped back into her apartment and closed the door, leaning against it, feeling like a fool.
She concluded Odell was more lonely than anything else. Nosy and lonely. Unless she was wrong about him—the way she’d been wrong about Landry Jones. To think she had almost gotten in the car with Landry.
She shivered at the memory, her gaze skittering over the rooms where she’d be living until Landry was caught. The apartment wasn’t bad. If you liked living in a monastery. The walls had once been painted white, the ceilings were cracked and ten feet high at least. The temperature was nice and cool, though, so that meant the walls were thick.
That was a plus and the place was furnished. Kinda.
Not that any of that mattered. She would be safe here. At least she prayed that was true.
Dragging her suitcases into the bedroom, she was excited to see the wonderful light coming in through the window. She felt a sense of relief. She would be able to paint in here. In fact, she couldn’t wait to get started.
She dragged the box in. As she started to open it, she noticed that the tape was open on one corner and the flap turned back. She ran her finger along the edge of the tape. It had been cut.
CHAPTER FOUR
Willa’s heart began to pound a little harder. Someone had cut the tape to look inside the box. Odell? Was it possible he had a knife in the pocket of his shorts? A lot of men in South Dakota carried pocket knives. But in Florida?
Or could it have been someone else? The box had been on the dock unattended for some time while Odell had brought her suitcases up to her room. But who else was there?
She glanced toward the third floor. The music had stopped again. She recalled it stopping before, a break between songs before she saw the elderly woman dancing once again. Was it possible the woman had gone down to the dock to look in Willa’s belongings?
What harm could a curious old woman do anyway? Willa liked that theory better than thinking Odell had purposely cut the tape to see what was in the box. The man was nosy, but whoever had cut the box was looking for something. Looking for her?
But if whoever had looked in the box was here to kill her, then that person already knew she painted. And not even her changed appearance would fool him.
She tried to put the incident out of her mind as she unloaded her painting supplies and set up an easel by the window.
Painting relaxed her, let her escape for a while from the reality of her life, the reality that Landry Jones was still out there on the loose and she was the only witness to the murder.
Until the police captured him, she wasn’t safe. Even when he was caught, she wasn’t sure she would feel safe, possibly ever again.
She stacked up all of her art supplies on the top of the chest of drawers, hoping they would last until she got to leave here. Eventually she would run out of rent money and be forced to leave and get a job.
S
he moved to the window by the bed and peered out. Through the palms she could see the Gulf of Mexico. It looked endless. How odd not to be able to see land on the horizon. Just water as far as the eye could see. No wonder early man feared sailing to the edge and falling off.
Turning back to the room, she considered making the bed and taking a nap. She’d been running on fear for so long, she felt drained. She needed her life back. All she had to do, she told herself, was stay alive until Landry was caught.
She stared at the empty canvas on her easel. She had to paint. It had been days since she’d gotten the opportunity. She itched to pick up a brush.
Painting had always been her survival. When her father was killed in a tractor accident. When her first love married someone else. When her mother remarried and sold the farm, hacking away the roots that had held Willa in South Dakota.
Willa hurried to catch the last of the day’s light coming in through the palms. She never knew what she was going to paint until she had a brush in her hand and the white empty canvas in front of her.
To her, painting was exploration. A voyage to an unknown part of herself. Her work was a combination of what she saw and what she didn’t. It was a feeling captured like a thought out of thin air.
She set up her paints and went to work, the evening light fading until she was forced to turn on a lamp. It wasn’t until then that she really looked at what she’d been working on—and felt a start.
What had begun as an old building along a narrow street had turned into the street where she’d witnessed the murder. A thin slice of pale light at the back illuminated what could have been a bundle of old rags but what she knew was a body slumped against a stucco wall, the dark BMW sitting at the curb.
She stepped back from the canvas. She’d been so lost in the physical joy of painting, she hadn’t even realized that she’d been reliving the murder.
