by Valery Parv
She glanced back at his vehicle. "What about your car?"
"I'll come back for it later. I'm not passing up the chance to drive this beauty."
Tara pulled a face at him. "So the appeal isn't me, it's the convertible."
He shrugged. "A man has to have priorities."
She punched his arm lightly. "I've missed you, Ryan."
He sobered. "And I, you, Taz," he replied, using her childhood nickname. Once they were settled in her rental car with Ryan at the wheel, he asked, "Do you have a husband or boyfriend joining you later?"
"None of the above. I'm still footloose and fancy free." Strange how hard it was to admit, feeling more like a confession than a declaration of independence.
"I hope you won't be lonely at Manna Cottage—that's its name," he said. "It's perched on a headland with great views, but no real neighbors."
She soon saw what he meant. The timber cottage was set high up to catch the sea views. Small windows fronted the road, and the weathered timber finishes and red corrugated iron roof blended with a grove of the soaring Manna gums that she guessed gave the cottage its name. They were the preferred food of koalas, she recalled, hoping that some of the cuddly-looking marsupials lived in the trees.
Inside, she was delighted to find that almost every room had an ocean view. Sunshine spilled through large expanses of glass at the rear and there were vertical blinds she could close if the heat became oppressive.
The open-plan living areas were painted in a pale green with chairs covered in soft grey leather, echoing the colors of the surrounding bush. She was pleased to see a covered verandah opening off the modern timber kitchen. The deck was furnished with built-in seating, and pots of impatiens added splashes of color.
"I can sit out there and read when the sea breezes aren't too cool," she said, opening doors onto it and taking the tangy air into her lungs. "I'm about to start writing a book, so the view will inspire me."
"You don't need a view for inspiration. It's inside you and always was. Remember the poems you wrote when we were kids?"
She pulled a face. "Don't remind me, they were hideous."
"They weren't. I still have some of them."
"It's a nice compliment but misplaced," she told him. "I may be able to manage nonfiction, but I doubt if my poetry will ever be collectible."
He seemed to pull himself back from his memories. "They are to me. We had some good times, didn't we, Taz?"
She nodded then asked on impulse, "Are you happy, Ryan?"
To her relief, he nodded. "Everything I want is here on the island—a beautiful woman who loves me more than I deserve, a gorgeous child, my work. You?"
She hesitated. By Ryan's standard, she was missing two out of the three ingredients for happiness. "I'm doing okay," she said lightly, hoping to convince one of them. A change of subject was called for. "You'd better tell me your address if I'm coming to dinner tomorrow."
"Right." He scribbled the details on the back of a supermarket docket and handed it to her. "Do you need a hand with your unpacking?"
She gave him a playful shove toward the door. "I've kept you from your family long enough. You still have to walk back to your car."
Ryan's grin was rueful. "Still Miss Bossy-Boots, I see." When she made a mock-threatening move toward him, he held up his hands. "I'm going, I'm going. With you and Jeanette both ordering me around, I can see I'm totally outgunned."
She was still laughing when he pulled the door shut, rammed his hands into his pockets and strode up to the road, whistling cheerfully. Meeting her childhood friend again was a good omen, she told herself, turning to the task of unloading the car. She only wished he hadn't reminded her so forcibly of the contrast between their lives.
Would it have made a difference if Zeke had accompanied her? She doubted it, finding it difficult to picture him being content for long in the island setting. Ryan had never wanted anything else, she recalled. She had teased him about it when they were children, but part of her had secretly envied his contentment.
Now wasn't the time for introspection, she told herself briskly. After a thorough check of her options, she chose a spacious bedroom that was simply furnished, with a huge picture window so she would wake up to the sight of the ocean. Timber shutters could be folded across the window at night, presumably to keep the weather out since they were hardly needed for privacy, she concluded.
The bed was large and the mattress new, still in its wrapper, requiring some wrestling to liberate it before she could make it up with the crisp bed linen she found in a cupboard off the hall. In the same cupboard she found piles of fluffy blankets, although she doubted she'd need more than one at this time of year. She looked longingly at the capacious corner spa bath in the en suite bathroom, deciding to reward herself with a dip in it after she'd finished settling in.
She was checking the kitchen cupboards to see what supplies she'd need to buy in Cowes when she was startled by the first notes of "Jingle Bells."
With a resigned sigh she reached for the phone, hoping that some work problem wasn't about to spoil her tranquility. It might also be Zeke, she thought, feeling her heart start to race. It was.
"I wanted to see how you're getting on," he said.
She was glad he couldn't see the shock on her face. Zeke never made purely social calls. "I'm fine," she assured him, pleased that her voice shook only a little. "The cottage is lovely. It's quite luxurious."
She heard Mungo yelp in the background and Zeke quieted the puppy in a low voice before he asked, "How about the neighbors?"
"There aren't any. Manna Cottage is perched on its own headland, about a fifteen-minute walk or short drive away from town."
"It sounds a bit isolated. Are you sure you're okay on your own there?"
She suppressed the urge to laugh, finding his concern novel enough to be flattering. "This isn't the city, Zeke. On the island people still leave their cars unlocked and their windows open."
"I trust you'll do no such thing. Some of the worst murders I've covered in my career were committed in idyllic rural surroundings."
"Thanks for the reassurance. I wasn't scared before."
"I didn't mean to frighten you. I only—hell, Tara, just take care, will you?"
Something in his tone nagged at her until she remembered. "You were going to talk to your private detective. Did he find out anything interesting?" Was Zeke's sudden concern for her security based on something he'd learned?
There was a short, tense silence, broken only by Mungo's soft whine of disapproval at being ignored. Then Zeke said, "I spoke to him. You're right, the flower probably was a mistake."
You don't really believe it, she thought, but didn't say it out loud. What else had the private detective uncovered? Zeke waited until he was sure he had his facts right before he revealed anything. Wise journalistic habit, she supposed, but it left her feeling uncomfortable. If he had a suspicion that something was wrong, surely he should share it with her? Even if it turned out to be a false alarm, at least she was forewarned.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" she demanded.
His hesitation fueled her suspicion. "You're imagining things. I'm sorry I mentioned security now. I guess I was thinking of the city after all. There's no danger where you are."
But there was danger elsewhere, she read between the lines. Her heart began to hammer and she gripped the phone so tightly that her knuckles whitened. Why won't you tell me the rest? she wanted to scream at him, knowing that persuading Zeke to say any more until he was ready was as difficult as pulling teeth.
She decided to try another tack. "How did the panel show go?" Keeping him talking, although it was the last thing her nerves needed, might encourage him to let something slip.
"It was a circus, but we finally got the show in the can by midnight," he said, the weariness in his voice alarming enough to undermine her wish to stay uninvolved. Could she ever do that with Zeke? She was beginning to doubt it. "The program airs tomor
row night if you want to see it," he added.
His reticence tested her patience to the limit, but she couldn't prevent the regret that washed over her from straying into her voice. "Tomorrow? Oh, I'll be out. I ran into an old friend, Ryan Marshal. He invited me to dinner tomorrow night and I haven't had time to master the cottage's video recorder yet. Can you tape the program for me, so I can see it when I get back?" It would give her an excuse to see him again, the thought intruded, making her wonder at her own motives.
A chill wind whistled down the phone in the form of his sharp breath. "It isn't important. You've heard it all in other interviews I've given. I'd better go. Mungo wants feeding before he demolishes my shoes instead. Take care of yourself."
The coldness in his voice and the suddenness with which he rang off left her feeling bemused, until she replayed her end of the conversation in her mind. She had mentioned dining with Ryan Marshal, but without adding that the party included his wife and child, she realized.
Zeke cared. The thought made the blood sing in her veins until she forced herself to think more clearly. He was a possessive man. He had regarded her as his possession until he went away. He wouldn't take kindly to another man muscling in on what he probably still thought of as his territory. It was no more than alpha male to beta male, vying for supremacy, she told herself. It didn't mean he wanted her for herself, or that there was any hope for them.
All the same, as she wrote out a list of supplies she would need to pick up from town, she felt lighter of heart than she had for days.
* * *
Chapter 11
« ^ »
For several minutes after he cut the connection, Zeke stared at the phone, ignoring the puppy worrying at his shoelaces. He knew his anger was a waste of energy. It was none of his business if Tara wanted to go out with some man she knew on Phillip Island. An old friend, she'd said. How old and how friendly?
"Did you tell her?"
Zeke snapped himself out of the reverie and shook his head at Bill Ellison, private investigator and friend since they were at university together. "I didn't see any point. She's safe where she is."
"It wouldn't hurt to let her know what we've uncovered."
"What have we uncovered?" Zeke demanded. He began to tick off points on his fingers. "A woman called Jenny Fine had a baby at the Roses hospital at a time when her sister was the senior midwife and quite possibly up to her neck in the baby-swapping scheme. The midwife delivered her sister Jenny's baby. It's against hospital rules, but it's hardly criminal. My source has promised me copies of the ward records altered by the midwife, enabling at least two babies to be switched with those who died or were ailing. But until I get the proof, our case against the midwife adds up to zilch."
"Then you don't think…"
Zeke made an impatient noise. "I've already been down the road you think you're on, and it leads nowhere. Jenny Fine had her baby DNA tested. I've seen the original record myself and the test was conclusive. It's her child. No mystery there."
Bill Ellison rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Why would she do a thing like that?"
"Like what?"
"Have her own child tested?"
"Maybe she suspected her sister was involved in something underhanded, and started to worry about whether the baby was really hers."
"If she had doubts, it would explain the test," Bill mused.
"Doubts we've well and truly laid to rest. Whatever other involvement the family had in the crime, it was their own baby the Fines took home."
"If you say so." Bill didn't look convinced.
Zeke told himself it was his friend's job to be suspicious. "I'm more interested in why you saw Jenny Fine leave another flower in the park." He hadn't wanted to worry Tara by telling her this, preferring to let her go on thinking it was a mistake for now. But it wasn't. According to Bill, the woman had deliberately placed the flower in the niche beside his son's memorial.
With an impatient sigh, Zeke disengaged Mungo from his shoelace and carried the puppy to the kitchen, setting it down on the floor. As soon as Zeke brought out a can of puppy food, Mungo began to paw the air excitedly. "Down, boy," he said absently. An almost-forgotten technique came back to him from boyhood, and he held a small piece of food above the puppy's head, forcing Mungo to sit nicely to accept it. He rubbed the pup between the ears. "That's it, sit, Mungo. Good dog."
Bill lounged against the kitchen door frame, looking fascinated. "Hey, that's a good trick. I always wanted a dog, but in my job I never know when I'll get home to feed and walk it. Can I borrow yours sometime when I'm not on a case?"
"You serious? It would be great to have somebody to mind him when I'm away."
Bill looked pleased. "Delighted, pal. I'll be his godfather."
Zeke shot him a wry look. "I don't think it works for dogs, but you're welcome to share him. Here, Mungo, meet your godfather." The puppy had his head buried in a dish almost as big as he was, and didn't look up.
Bill didn't seem put out. "Once he gets to know me, he'll come to love me."
"He's a dog, not a saint."
The investigator grinned. "He lives with you, doesn't he?"
Zeke thought immediately of Tara and growled. "It probably takes a saint." He led the way back to the living room, leaving Mungo to his meal. "I'd like you to keep an eye on the Fines," he said to Bill, picking up their discussion where he'd left off. "Now that we know the midwife spent time in a psychiatric unit, I don't like to think of her getting anywhere near me and mine."
Zeke hadn't told Bill that Tara had also given birth on the same night at the same hospital, or that the Brendan on the plaque was the son he never got the chance to know. Bill wouldn't like being kept in the dark, but Zeke couldn't bring himself to talk about the baby yet, not even to his old friend. He didn't think it would shed any more light on the story.
He was fairly sure he had worked out why Jenny Fine brought the flowers. From what Zeke had read and heard about the birth experience, although admittedly not a lot, he gathered that women were in labor a long time. Tara and Jenny probably got to know each other over several hours. Then after Tara lost the baby, the woman probably brought the flowers to show her support. It didn't completely satisfy Zeke, but with nothing else to go on, it had to do.
"You still haven't explained why you're so interested in who visits that memorial," Bill said with deceptive casualness.
Zeke wondered how far the other man had gone in working it out. "And I don't intend to," he said shortly.
The investigator shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I work better if I have all the facts. I take it if I turn up anything that—ah, relates to you, I'm to keep it to myself?"
"Share it with me verbally and I'll tell you if you're on the right track," Zeke said. "I'm sorry, Bill, this time I'm not the only one involved, okay?"
"I'll remind you of that next time you're on someone else's trail," Bill said good-naturedly.
In spite of his mood, Zeke felt a grin lift the corners of his mouth, doubtless what his friend had intended. He made a rude gesture. "Get out of here and let me get some work done."
When the other man left, Zeke opened his notebook computer but didn't switch it on. He couldn't write while his thoughts were fixed on Tara and what she was or wasn't doing with this Ryan character. Zeke knew he was jealous although the strength of the feeling alarmed him. Judging from the testosterone surging through him, if Ryan Marshal popped up right now, Zeke would probably slug him one.
Odd that he hadn't felt this way about the man Lucy paired off with after she left. The society pages had been full of it and Zeke had wished her well. But the man Tara had mentioned so casually nagged at him like a sore tooth. When you had as many relationships torn asunder in your life as I have, you learned to fight for what's yours, he told himself to justify his reaction.
So why in heaven's name was he sitting back, letting another man move in on Tara? Action was what he needed. He slammed the notebook shut and headed outside, manag
ing to catch Bill before he drove off. "Sure, I'll mind the little feller for you," he agreed, and waited while Zeke fetched the puppy and his things.
Back inside, he reached for the phone. The airline reservation number was recorded in the machine's memory, so he was through in seconds. It didn't short-circuit the recorded voice telling him how important his call was, and how soon they'd get to him, but for once, he found the delay helpful. It enabled him to plan.
* * *
Tara was on her hands and knees in the cottage garden, trying to rescue some spring bulbs that were in danger of being smothered by beds of impatiens. The owners of the cottage employed a gardener to keep the weeds down and the lawn mowed, but the small jobs were evidently ignored. She had already cleared a space around some young gladioli shoots. In another few weeks they would be spectacular.
She should probably be doing something more practical such as stocking the pantry, but had decided to postpone the shopping while she tidied the garden beds. Now it was past lunchtime. Breakfast had consisted of coffee and some fruit and cheese she'd bought on the way to the island. With the fresh sea air sharpening her appetite she was getting hungry, but it was such a glorious day that she felt more like being close to nature.
Gloves might help, too, she thought, making a mental note to buy some. She sat back on her heels, splaying her fingers and frowning at her hands. Usually perfectly manicured, today they were ingrained with dirt and there was a small scratch on her wrist from a rosebush. She'd been careful not to break a nail, but if she kept this up it was only a matter of time. Vanity wasn't the issue. Appearance was her livelihood.
"I didn't have you figured for a gardener," an all-too-familiar voice stated.
Her heart did a quick backflip and she stumbled to her feet, almost trampling the flower bed she'd so carefully tended. "Zeke, what are you doing here?"
She had a feeling she knew the answer before he said, "You invited me."
Funny, she didn't remember that part. "I remember discussing the number of bedrooms available," she said, willing herself to not color too obviously.
