Double Dog Dare (The Raine Stockton Dog Mystery Series)

by Ball, Donna

  Miles said, “Did you search the caves?”

  “Not then. When I got to the boat, I ditched my gear and did a shallow dive with my light, hoping she’d seen the boat light and was swimming toward me.” He gave another brief shake of his head. “Of course, time was out. I must have known that, but you have to try. I went back up and sounded the claxon for help. I got new tanks and went back down. There were a couple of other boats out that night, eventually somebody came. But we never found her.”

  Miles’s face was very somber, and I knew that, as someone who had actually been beneath the water, he was living the horror of that night in his mind. I mentally retracted whatever wish I might have expressed to learn to scuba dive. And I literally could not imagine the desperation of the moment when a man had to choose to leave his wife behind or die.

  Miles said, “Why did you only have one regulator?”

  “I sent my equipment in for repair when I was down last month. Hadn’t had a chance to pick it up. I was using a spare.” He was quiet for a moment. “She was a good diver. That was the one thing we had in common. You never expect something like this to happen. I still don’t understand how it did. Was it my fault she died? I don’t know. Maybe there was something I could have done. But I know I didn’t kill her.”

  Miles said, “Did the police ask about life insurance?”

  Alex gave him a look that was half admiring, half resentful. “They did. And they were disappointed. Her policy contained a hazardous activities exclusion. So does mine. Scuba diving, as you know, is a named hazardous activity. The policy won’t pay a cent.”

  And there went the last possible motive. Unless…

  Miles had the same thought, but asked the question with a good deal less tact that I would have. I was beginning to see the advantage of having him around. He said, “Did Rachelle ask you for a divorce?”

  Alex looked so startled I couldn’t believe he was acting. “What? Who told you that?”

  I glanced at Miles. “Your sister mentioned it. She said they had lunch before she left to come here.”

  Alex frowned a little. “Really? Why would they do that?”

  I said, “I thought they were close.”

  “Were they?” He shrugged. “Maybe. I guess they might have worked together once or twice. I think Susan introduced her to some people—her understudy, I think, and maybe a director.” Something must have shown on my face, or Miles’s, because he added defensively, “Okay, so I didn’t keep up with every little detail of her life. But the girl was crazy about me. This whole trip was her idea. Jeez, that’s all I need, for the press to get hold of a rumor about divorce.”

  Because if it could be proven that Rachelle had been about to divorce him, taking all of her money plus half of his business, that might be a motive for murder. Maybe.

  I said, “Speaking of the press, aren’t you worried that coming out like this for drinks only a couple of days after your wife died will make you look bad?” I could remember more than one case where a spouse, or even the parent of a missing child, had been convicted by the press long before trial simply because he or she had failed to grieve properly.

  He darted a hard glance at me. “No,” he said flatly. “I’m a free man. And an innocent one. I’ll do what I damn well please.”

  He was so going down. For a moment I actually felt a little sorry for him.

  “That’s why,” he went on, and tossed back the last of his scotch, “I’ve decided to beat the blood-sucking bastards at their own game. I’ve called a press conference for exactly…” he glanced at his watch, “fifteen minutes from now on the harbor side deck to clear this thing up once and for all. I won’t be held hostage in my own home, and I refuse to live my life under a cloud of speculation. I can’t stop people from making up their own stories, but I can at least get the truth out there.” He smiled thinly. “You’re welcome to attend, of course. In fact, you might have saved yourself some time by skipping the drinks and watching it on television.”

  “Gutsy move,” Miles said .

  “Actually, it was Susan’s idea,” he said. He glanced at his glass as though hoping it might magically refill itself. “I guess she’s good for something.”

  There was a slight tightening of the corners of his lips, but Miles said nothing. His silence was more condemning than any words could have been, as I had had the opportunity to discover on more than one occasion. And it didn’t take Alex more than a few seconds to catch on.

  “All right,” he said brusquely. “I know she asked you stand bail for me. It was her idea, not mine. You got what you came for, I told you everything I know. Do it, don’t do it. I’ve got plenty of other friends.” He waved the waitress over. “I have to get out there. We’ll have a game of golf next time I’m out your way. Put this on my tab, sweetheart,” he told the waitress, then looked at me as he stood. “Nice to meet you, Raine. You seem like a sweet girl. Probably too good for this SOB.” The way he said it was supposed to be joking, but there was absolutely no mirth in his eyes. “Take care.” He nodded to Miles. “Miles.”

  I watched him cross the room with a mixture of astonishment and distaste. I looked back at Miles. “I feel like I need a shower,” I said.

  “You and me, too, sweetheart.” The fact that he made no attempt to turn that into a double entendre only proved how distracted he was. “So, what did you think?”

  “Oh, I think he’s going to jail,” I assured him, “as soon as the police can scrape together some kind of motive.”

  “I think so, too. I’m also going to offer bail.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Relax. There’s no way in hell a judge is going to set bail, and this way I get to look like a hero.”

  To whom? I wondered. Alex, or Susan?

  “But first,” Miles added, “I’m going to start looking for a new security company. It’s just a little too much of a coincidence to me that there’ve been over two dozen break-ins in the past two years in properties that he manages. Either he’s not very good at what he does or—”

  “He’s not screening those ex-con employees of his very well,” I supplied thoughtfully.

  “That one’s got my vote. Either way, now that he’s in the spotlight it won’t be long before other big clients start noticing the coincidence, if they haven’t already. I give that company six months.”

  “So even if he doesn’t go to jail, he’s screwed.”

  “Barring a huge influx of cash and a few years to rebuild, yes. Want to go to the press conference, or have you had enough?”

  I thought about it for only a moment. “I’ve had enough and I want to go.”

  His expression was wry. “Not that I’m surprised, but do you mind if I ask why?”

  “I’m protecting your investment. If Mr. Barry by any chance manages to come off as more sincere in his public statement than he did to us, he might actually get bail. In which case you might want to reconsider your ambitions to be a hero.”

  He regarded me with a touch of amused resignation in his eyes and a small shake of his head. “Well, at least you had twenty-four hours of vacation.” He laid a bill on the table and stood up, extending his hand to me. “Shall we go?”

  So much, I supposed, for my vow to be normal for a week. I felt a little bad about that, and as we left the building for the brilliant sunshine of the wide deck that encircled the building, I slipped my arm around Miles’s waist and gave him a squeeze, pressing my head against his shoulder. “That was hot, by the way,” I said.

  He lifted a quizzical eyebrow, pulling out his sunglasses. “The way I over-tipped?”

  “The way you interrogated the suspect. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “In my line of work it’s called ‘reading the table’. And you’d be amazed at the things I have in me.”

  “So I’m beginning to suspect.”

  As we came around the corner we found the deck blocked off by orange cones, beyond which black electrical cords snaked toward
a lectern upon which several microphones had been mounted. I recognized the logos of a couple of US entertainment news organizations on those microphones, and the green lawn below the deck was populated with almost a dozen reporters and camera men.

  “Rachelle Denison must have been more famous than I realized,” I murmured as we went down the steps toward the lawn. “There are a lot of reporters from the States.”

  “If you were a reporter in Arkansas or Detroit with a chance to cover a story in St. Bart’s, would you turn it down?”

  “Good point.”

  We found a place at the edge of the collection of reporters, but close to the deck. I could see Alex Barry, looking appropriately somber, talking quietly to his sister. I don’t know why I was surprised to find her there. She was wearing a simple summer suit with her hair pulled back, and in contrast to the distress she had displayed this morning, she looked calm and in control. Looking up, she noticed Miles, and her face softened a little as she acknowledged him. He nodded back to her. There was nothing more to it than that, but it made me uneasy. There were other people on the deck with them, one of whom Miles identified as Jeff Lennox, an attorney, and a couple of others who, from their stance on either side of the door, I suspected were security guards. And standing somewhat to the side, not a part of Alex’s entourage but clearly interested in it, was a small neat man in a suit that I immediately identified as a policeman. I have an instinct for them.

  Alex Barry glanced at his watch, stepped to the lectern, leaned forward into the microphone bank, and said, “Thank you all for coming. I’m Alex Barry. I’d like to make a brief statement, and then I’ll take your questions. I want to be as forthcoming with you as I can, so I’ll tell you everything I know. And thank you in advance for your patience and understanding during this very difficult time.”

  He was a completely different man than the one who had so cavalierly tossed back scotch while relating his story only a few moments ago. I glanced at Miles and saw one corner of his lips curve faintly upward in contempt.

  Alex went on, “On Friday night, my wife went for a dive off the Pain du Sucre reef. It was one of our favorite places, and we dived it many times before. Rachelle was an excellent diver, and the reef is considered safe for all divers. For reasons we haven’t yet determined, Rachelle used up the air in her tanks sooner than anticipated, and we were forced to surface early. Even though I tried to share my tanks with her, she became disoriented and panicky, and started swimming away from the boat. I tried to rescue her but had to surface when I, too, ran low on air.” A dramatic pause, and then he continued in a broken voice. “I never saw Rachelle again.”

  A murmur and shuffle went through the crowd on the lawn as reporters began to formulate their questions, but Alex’s attention was distracted by a stirring behind him. The glass doors from the Harbor Club opened and he turned, a flicker of outrage crossing his face at the indignity of the intrusion. Susan turned as well, staring, and her hand fluttered to her throat.

  Someone beside me said, “Holy crap.”

  A woman in a big white hat and sunglasses wearing a white gauzy sundress walked out onto the deck. I was close enough to hear her say to an astonished Alex, “Until now, darling.”

  She had a thick mane of rich auburn hair, which fell loose around her shoulders as she took off her hat. She walked deliberately to the lectern and stood beside Alex. She removed her sunglasses. A gasp went through the crowd.

  She stood there for a moment, letting them all get a good look, and then she leaned toward the crowd. Her voice was low and rich, her smile strained and apologetic. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “I am so terribly sorry for all the fuss. But as you can plainly see, and at the risk of sounding like a dreadful cliché—I’m afraid the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

  “Jesus and Mary,” breathed the reporter next to me. “That’s Rachelle Denison.”

  ~*~

  SEVEN

  The crowd erupted around us. “Miss Denison!” “ Miss Denison!” “What happened out there?” “Where have you been the past forty-eight hours?” “Was this all part of the publicity for your new film?” “Miss Denison! ”

  They surged toward the deck, cameras clicking, wires trailing, everyone shouting at once. It was hard to know where to look. The two men I’d assumed to be security guards proved my assumption correct by rushing in front of Rachelle Denison and spreading their arms to keep the crowd at bay. She sounded a little frantic as she said into the microphone, “Please, please I’ll answer your questions if you’ll just give me a moment!” The lawyer stepped up and said something into her ear. And Alex Barry just stood there, white faced, staring.

  Susan came forward and I lost sight of what was going on for a minute while someone pushed in front of me and lifted a camera high overhead. When I was able to see again, the two security guards were hurrying Rachelle toward the glass doors behind them, and the lawyer had hold of Alex’s arm, urging him to follow. Susan stood in front of the podium, holding up her hands for quiet. She didn’t get it.

  “Please!” Susan called. “Please!”

  “Miss Denison!”

  “Turn this way!’

  “One more shot!”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “Did you expect this? What is your reaction?”

  Susan said loudly, “Gentlemen! Ladies! This is a shock for the family, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Please give us a moment. I promise we’ll have something for you as soon as we can.”

  Somebody shouted, “My deadline is five o’clock!”

  Someone else demanded, “Who are you?”

  Susan, wisely in my opinion, chose to make her escape and turned to follow her brother through the glass doors. The other man, the one I had guessed to be a policeman, followed.

  Miles turned to me. “Well,” he said with a shrug, “I guess that’s that. Shall we go?”

  I could see my reflection in his sunglasses, and the astonishment on my face would have been comical in other circumstances. My jaw actually dropped. “Are you kidding?”

  “Yes.” He put his arm around my shoulders and swept me through the crowd, up the steps, and through the glass door just before it closed behind the policeman. “Friend of the family,” he identified himself briefly when it looked as though the policeman might object, and jerked off his sunglasses. “Susan, what the hell?”

  We were in a small meeting room typical of such rooms everywhere—beige curtains and walls, a conference table with dark wooden chairs pushed up against a wall, a cart with AV equipment in a corner—and it was almost as chaotic in here as it had been outside. I pushed my sunglasses up into my hair and glanced around while Miles bore down on his ex-wife. Rachelle Denison, who, now that I saw her in person, did look vaguely familiar, was in intense conversation with the lawyer and her husband, all of them talking at once so that it was impossible to catch anything clearly. I heard words like. “Thought you were dead!” and “How can you”— and “If you’ll just give me a chance—”

  Susan’s voice caught my attention. “Miles, I’m so glad you’re here!” I turned that way in time to see her grasp Miles’s hands in a way that seemed both desperate and intimate, and when she touched him the annoyance left his face. “I don’t —can’t believe this! Rachelle, oh my God, it’s really you!”

  Susan left Miles to push her way between her brother and the lawyer, and she grasped Rachelle by the shoulders, staring at her for just an instant. Then she whispered, “Oh my God!” and Rachelle started to cry the kind of tears that are mixed with joy and so did Susan, and they embraced. Maybe it was just me, but I thought it was a little odd her husband hadn’t done the same thing the moment he saw her.

  I murmured out loud, mostly to myself. “She certainly does look healthy for a woman who’s supposed to have been dead for two days.”

  The policeman who stood beside me agreed, “My thoughts exactly, mademoiselle.”

  His French accent, though not
particularly heavy, along with his pencil moustache and dapper appearance, reminded me of Inspector Poirot, which made me feel at ease with him immediately. He probably used that resemblance to his advantage a good deal, but then again how much major crime could there be on a resort island like this?

  He asked my name, and I told him, and Miles’s name too. He wrote both of them down. I added, “I’m just a guest here. I don’t really know anyone involved. But in the States we have laws against people who file false police reports.”

  His smile was tight and brief. “We are a small island with an even smaller security force, mademoiselle, and greatly dependent in our economy on the goodwill of those who visit us here. It is for the most part in the best interest of all concerned to close this case on a happy note. Now, if you will forgive me, I shall now make an attempt to do just that.”

  He left me with a small bow, which I liked, and approached Rachelle and Susan, who were wiping each other’s tears between exclamations of joy and relief. Alex was just staring at them with an expression on his face that we in the mountains called “poleaxed”. I’ve never known exactly what that means, but I know what it looks like.

  The policeman said, “Madame Denison, my name is Inspector LeClerk. May I express how relieved we all are to see you looking so well? The island of St. Barthelemy has devoted a great many resources over the past two days to the process of recovering your mortal remains from the depth of the ocean where, we were given to believe, your life had been lost. Perhaps you would do me the kindness of explaining how you come to be standing here today?”

  Miles touched my shoulder, murmuring, “This I’ve got to hear.”

  Susan found some tissues; Rachelle dabbed at her eyes. The lawyer murmured something to her, and pulled out one of the chairs at the table for her. She sat down , and Susan took a chair beside her, holding her hand. Everyone else stood. I moved a little closer.

  Rachelle took a breath, and balled the tissue in her free hand. She said, “I’m sorry. I know everyone’s been worried. I…” There was a slight hitch in her voice, and she glanced down to compose herself. Susan squeezed her fingers bracingly, and Rachelle managed a faint smile when she looked up again. “I thought I was dead, too.”