by Karen Harper
“Damn,” he said aloud as he pedaled onto the airport grounds and headed toward the terminal to begin his day shift. “I shouldn’t have. But everyone else had seen the site. I should’ve just gone home.”
And Julia wasn’t the only one in a bad mood. He’d love to have Claire back, Lexi too, of course. But with an investigation, he’d have to tread carefully, work on that lead to Vern Kirkpatrick being guilty, stinking cigar and all. Not that he’d seen what happened to Julia once she went down the stairs. He’d looked at the rock and left, but would the sheriff believe that? If Nick and Claire, even Heck and the others, had to testify, they’d say he was coming on to Julia and she’d snubbed him. At least he didn’t think anyone had seen him at her house. Who knew if her father was already gone then and poor Bronco was already lying out cold on the floor.
He blinked back tears and cursed again, wishing he could just fly off into the wild blue yonder. Poor Julia had evidently done that.
* * *
About an hour after the sheriff left in a rush, Nick answered the knock on the front door. His wounded leg was feeling better but his heart wasn’t. Jeremy Archer, the sheriff’s son, stood there. No pizza this time, but an envelope in his hand. The kid’s bike was leaning against a front porch pillar.
“Your dad was here but he left,” Nick told him. “Do you need to see him?”
“A message came for him, but it’s to be passed on to you too, Officer McCallum said,” the boy explained, fidgeting as he stepped inside. “That’s the kind I have to deliver if the deputies are busy like they are today with Mrs. Collister’s death and all. I guess I’m like one of those old-time delivery boys on a bike, like in The Sound of Music, which my mom makes us watch every year, but the kid delivering in the movie ended up being a Nazi spy.”
“Well, I hope you’re not a Nazi or a spy,” Nick said. “Thanks for the message. Wait a sec, and I’ll get you a tip.”
“No, that’s okay. Not for police business. I asked Dad once what the messages were for, ’cause I used to take them to Mrs. Collister too, but he said it was enough to know it’s not to pick up something from the grocery store and it’s not the latest of his fantasy-football bets on the Detroit Lions.”
Nick really liked this kid—had liked the island before yesterday—but he was nervous about what was in this envelope. If things like this had come for Julia, it must be WITSEC news.
After Jeremy left, he saw Claire had come downstairs and was standing on the lowest step, just watching him. He knew he’d been acting like a jerk when she needed his strength and understanding, but it had really rocked him to see her with Jace and Lexi, all on Jace’s bed, so—so cozy and close.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked as she came closer.
“Sure. I just don’t want any more bad news.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. He craned around and kissed that hand. As they stepped into the den together, he opened the envelope with his finger. They didn’t sit but stood, both leaning a shoulder against the wall while he unfolded the single piece of paper.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Not really. Are you?”
“Nick, I’m sorry about last night, but I was glad to find Lexi with her ‘uncle Seth.’ Before you came in, she mentioned that she wanted Lily back. Then in our bed when we went to sleep, I had another of those narcoleptic dreams I dread, that Lily was the one screaming from the rooftop and she looked just like Lexi. In the nightmare, I went up to stop her and—and I fell.”
He tugged her to him, held her hard, and her arms went tight around him. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Guess we don’t need Freud for that interpretation. But we need to go up there when it’s windy and see if we can stop that, buffer it or something. No ghost for sure, but it leads to bad thinking. And I know, despite how Jace and I don’t get along sometimes, we can trust him. Not that I really trust his feelings for you.”
“Nick, that’s over. Only Lexi holds us together. At least last night you didn’t lose sleep over it. I might have been awake instead of conking out for once, but you slept like a rock.”
“I’d like to be a rock in all this—for you, for everyone. But I—”
He set her back gently, turned toward the window and opened the paper to read it in good light. In a hushed voice he told her, “It’s from Rob Patterson but in FBI-speak. He’s flying in day after tomorrow.”
Claire came closer. Without a sound, she mouthed the words You mean it doesn’t use his name?
“The person we’ll meet with is Pat Robart, my supposed literary agent from New York City. So not only am I writing the great American novel but I now have an agent.”
Nick scanned more of the page. “He’ll let us know where we can have a meeting with him about the deadline for my novel. He says he hopes our mutual friend rests in peace. Rob Patterson, aka Pat Robart, has always known what to do.”
“I don’t want to leave here. I can’t bear to move again right now. And despite what happened to Julia, I—I like it here, at least until we can go home free and clear.”
“Yeah. And if Pat Robart knows what to do, that puts him way ahead of me right now,” he said and his voice broke. “Like you, my gut instinct is to jump into this investigation of Julia’s death with both feet. It’s a classic example of what I founded South Shores to do—and it brings back my father’s supposed suicide when I know Ames killed him.”
They stood there, not speaking again, but holding each other tight.
22
Jace knew one thing he could do to help work his way out of a potentially explosive situation over Julia’s death. Vern Kirkpatrick had given him the perfect way to keep an eye on his plans to either pay for or pirate away her father’s extensive and, no doubt, expensive Gene Autry collection.
With Julia out of the way, Kirkpatrick’s door to ownership of all that was much more wide open. The guy had to be an obvious person of interest in her death. It was, of course, still possible the coroner would rule accidental death or even suicide.
So two days after Julia’s death, Jace zoned in on Vern Kirkpatrick. He put his bike in the rack near the Grand Hotel ice cream shop, then walked around to the lobby entrance. He talked his way past the woman collecting money for self-guided tours and asked the man at the hotel desk to call Vern Kirkpatrick’s room and tell him a man was here to see him in the lobby about a job offer he’d made.
“Your name, sir?”
“Seth Randal. Tell him the airport worker.”
Jace paced, then realized he looked too nervous, so he sat on a floral-patterned sofa with his ankle crossed over his other knee. The best defense was a good offense, he thought. Absolutely, this guy would be one of the top picks to have harmed Julia to get her out of his way. The other, sadly, would be her ex-husband.
That made him think of Claire again. However revved up he got over her and Nick in bed together right down the hall from him at night, however much it irked him to be cast as Lexi’s uncle, he’d never hurt Claire. Too many good memories among the bad, though he’d been a jerk to not think of that before he went nuts and demanded a divorce. He’d never quite learned to control his impulses, at least when it came to women.
He had thought the hotel would look emptier, more ready to shut down soon, right after Halloween. But it seemed busy, mostly women but some men too. People were all over, and he’d seen more than one of those handsome, dark maroon Grand Hotel carriages letting people out in front.
Oh, that’s right. He’d heard at the airport that there would be a big shindig the last weekend in October. He’d just passed a poster about it on the way in and had hardly paid attention to it. People were flocking in by ferry and a few by air, so he’d probably bring in some private planes when he went to work this afternoon. The convention was all about that old romantic flick, Somewhere in Time, that starred C
hristopher Reeve, the guy who used to play Superman. A tragedy that he’d fallen off a horse, been paralyzed and died young and then his wife had died soon after of some disease, leaving behind their loved ones.
He shuddered at that thought and tried to focus his mind back on Kirkpatrick looking guilty of Julia’s death. The only other plan the guy might have had was to get rid of Hunter Logan himself, so had he gone to their house to argue or cajole the old guy and left his cigar smoke behind in the air? Maybe he’d knocked Bronco out and left him for dead, wanting to make it look like old man Logan did it. Bronco was a big guy, so that took some nerve. What would happen if Bronco got his memory back about all that?
Jace smelled Kirkpatrick’s smoky approach before he saw or heard him. He hadn’t come from the elevator but from down the hall. Jace stood to greet him but they didn’t shake hands. And, yes, Kirkpatrick had a cigar cupped in his hand. It looked as if he’d been hiding it. Surely, there were “no smoking” rules around here, but this guy had already told him he didn’t play by the rules.
“Good to hear you changed your mind, Randal,” the man said.
“Please use my first name in case you ever try to contact me, because I’m living right now with my brother, Jack Randal.”
“Point is, you changed your mind.”
“I don’t usually moonlight, but they don’t pay me much at the airport, and two of us split the duties, so I’m part-time.”
“Bet there aren’t a lot of job options on this little island, especially with winter coming. Let’s sit over here,” he said and moved toward two high-backed chairs facing each other over a small table in the corner. Once they were seated, Kirkpatrick added, “So, I assume you heard about the death of Hunter Logan’s daughter.”
“Word travels fast here. But I didn’t put things together until someone mentioned his great Western collection.”
“And, gotta admit, word’s out around here I want to buy that. But tragic, his daughter’s death. Now I’ll have to deal with Julia Collister’s daughter because the old man has dementia.”
Jace disliked this guy more than ever but he had to pretend to be slime, to cozy up to him for cash. Did he imply the tragedy was having to deal with Liz now or did he think that was a break?
“So you still want me available in case you do get that stuff and need it packed quickly and quietly to fly it out of here? I’ll bet more than just his family would be upset to see that stuff go to Vegas. You still have that business card you showed me and took back?”
He put his cigar in a china dish on the end table and dug into his inside coat pocket to produce a card. As Jace skimmed it, Kirkpatrick retrieved the unsmoked half of his cigar butt and placed it in the tooled leather case again.
“Those babies are precious, huh?” Jace asked. He’d been trying to tone down the way he usually talked to sound rough.
“The best. I always go for the best, so I’m glad you’re working for me, my man. Here, on the back of this other card, write down your phone number. How’s fifty bucks an hour and some perks I’ll mention later—like a trip to a really great place to meet some really friendly girls?”
Jace had the urge to hit the guy, but he managed to nod and smile, before looking down to write his phone number on the card. He hoped any call this bastard made to him would be when others weren’t around. He was damn lucky they even had phones and wouldn’t have if Julia hadn’t died and Rob Patterson wasn’t in charge now. He didn’t intend to tell him or anyone that he was spying on a suspect for Julia’s murder, not until the time was ripe. Kirkpatrick was quite a talker, so maybe he’d make a misstep and hang himself by then.
“Yeah,” the man said, “these aren’t just stogies or any cigars. Cuban. Cohibas, sell for around sixty bucks apiece if you don’t have connections. It’s the private brand rolled for Fidel Castro, they say.”
Jace felt a chill slide up his spine as he handed the card with his phone number back. His earlier suspicion that this guy had Cuban ties, however circumstantial so far, would freak out Gina—and Nick.
Kirkpatrick went on, “They say they have a grassy taste with touches of cocoa and coffee. Old man Logan was citing some cowboy rule to me that a cowboy must keep himself clean in personal habits, so I told him I would give up cigars, but no way.”
“So you’ve met him and not just his daughter?”
“With difficulty. Well, enough chitchat for now. If I call you at night, no problem?”
“That’s fine. It’s going to snow soon, you know, but I’ll have access to a snowmobile,” Jace said, realizing he still hadn’t gone over with the others how to drive one of those. But, hell, he could control a 747, so how hard would a snowmobile be? Things were falling together here already. Kirkpatrick had no doubt been at Julia’s house and had words with her. He could have followed her to Arch Rock somehow.
“Good man,” Kirkpatrick said and bounced a fist off Jace’s shoulder. “This place closes in a couple of days, you know. It’s crawling with movie buffs right now and more on the way. I was lucky to get a room. Can’t wait to get out of here and back to the desert. You know, play your cards right and maybe I can take you along for the ride out of here.”
Jace almost cringed when he shook the man’s hand. Actually, he was planning to take this man for a ride, one way or the other.
* * *
Two days after Julia’s death, Nick, Claire and Lexi hired a carriage and took a large potted plant, brownies and pecan rolls to Liz at her house—and some apples for Scout. Last night the sheriff had returned to finish taking Claire’s statement and left them with a warning not to get involved further than they were. But neither of them considered taking gifts to someone who was bereaved getting involved the way he meant.
“I wish the sheriff would have told us what he got out of Michael Collister, since he finally found him,” Claire told Nick as they got down from the carriage. Lexi ran ahead, straight for the stable, and they followed, toting their gifts.
“Sorry to say this, but hands off this case, remember,” Nick warned.
“Right. Like you aren’t thinking about it day and ni—Well, we both finally slept from exhaustion last night.”
“I gather from what Sheriff Archer didn’t say that Julia’s ex had an alibi for when Julia fell. Maybe Rob—I mean, Pat Robart—will know. Damn, everyone who really knows who we are has phony names. We’re living double lives, but at least, after escaping Cuba and Clayton Ames, we have our lives.”
“As if Rob will tell us anything. If he thinks ignorance is bliss, he’s crazy. I don’t care what WITSEC rules are. I’d rather go with those cowboy rules Mr. Logan goes by. Rob will probably be on the sheriff’s side for us to steer clear when this is something I could help with and you too. It’s exactly what you founded South Shores for.”
“Oh, hi, Miss Liz!” Lexi called out when she reached the stable’s open door. “Can I help you? They said so!” the child went on, pointing at Claire and Nick as Liz, in jeans and a muddy-looking flannel shirt and with straw in her hair, came to the stable door to greet them.
“I’m trying to fill in for my mother—here at least,” Liz said. “But, of course, I can’t.” She burst into tears.
Claire hardly knew this young woman but she quickly put the planter she carried down, stepped closer and put an arm around Liz’s shaking shoulders. She had covered her face with her muddy hands.
“Everyone’s so nice, but she’s gone.” Her words came out muffled. “I have to hire a live-in caregiver to get Granddad back from a friend’s house where they’re keeping him more or less under house arrest, my dad’s a wreck, and I am too...”
Claire steered her to sit on a bale of hay while Nick put the food packages he carried down, then took Lexi to Scout’s stall.
“Of course, you’re grieving,” Claire said in her best soothing voice when she felt like dissolv
ing in sobs too. “Your mother’s loss is a terrible tragedy, but she would want you to go on, for yourself and for her. She went on when her mother died, and you will too.”
Liz lowered her hands from her smeared, dirty face. “But now I have all Granddad’s rental property as well as him to oversee. And my hopes to move my shop... Sorry to have a meltdown in front of you, but I’ve been trying to hold myself together with the police and all. I swear they think I have a motive, but I’d never, ever hurt her, however much we argued sometimes. Oh, I don’t mean to be dumping this on you.”
“It’s fine. It’s why we came today, to comfort and support you. Flowers and food are one thing, but—though I realize we don’t know each other well—I lost my mother fairly young too and had mixed feelings about her.”
“Like, misery loves company?”
“Like to have a friend, be a friend.”
Liz nodded, and when she tried to wipe her eyes on her dirty shirttail, Claire dug a tissue out of her purse and offered it.
“Your little girl—was it Megan?” When Liz talked, she sounded stuffed up now, like she was in a barrel.
“Meggie, yes.”
“I’m sure she’s upset too—about riding lessons and all. I’ll have to get someone to help out here with the horses. It’s just not my thing—I can’t be my mother. And we can’t get her body back from the mainland for a few days, though I’ll plan the funeral with Dad’s help—maybe with his money too since Mom’s bank account is frozen right now. I’ve got corset orders to fill, even for Halloween, and that’s soon, and what am I going to do about publicity at the Somewhere in Time conference this weekend?”
“You’re part of that? What publicity?”
“I paid a lot for postcards advertising my corset creations to be handed out to attenders before their evening meal Saturday. A lot of them love costumes from the corset eras. They’ll be all dressed up and in a great mood. Wade Buxton—you met him at my shop—was going to help me pass them out. But Mother’s last wish—I mean, the last thing she said to me the morning she died... I didn’t know it was her last—was to stay away from him. So I’ll honor that. I already told him when he came here to please just stay away, though he wasn’t too happy about that.”
