I peered in the driver’s mirror on the back of the Malibu’s visor, applied lipstick, tucked in strands that had strayed from my ponytail, which was fastened at the nape of my neck with a bow that matched one of the multiple shades of turquoise in my skirt. I called Mom for directions to Scott’s houseboat, took another look in the mirror.
Okay, so I didn’t just need help, I was desperate. I removed the turquoise bow and shook out my hair. Long straight strands of black fell almost to my waist. Gwyn Halliday, Gypsy. Or Spanish dancer. Off to work her magic on a sick, surly, emaciated, impossible male whose only meaningful exchanges with her in twenty years were a tirade about not shooting wild pigs on Yarnell land and implications that a septugenarian was having sex with a man fifteen to twenty years younger. Great, just great.
If only a bit of magic from Crystal’s ball had rubbed off on me . . .
Chapter 15
Mom’s directions were vague—she hadn’t actually seen it herself, but Sherry had included meticulous instructions in the rental file. I dutifully scribbled each twist and turn in the little notebook I always carried in case a design idea struck while I was out and about.
The first part was easy enough—over the drawbridge to Needle Key. The long, narrow island began on the north side of the Golden Beach jetties and extended six miles farther north toward Sarasota, with a narrow bay and the Intracoastal Waterway on one side, the Gulf of Mexico on the other. There were only two bridges to the key, each about a mile in from the northern and southern tips. I crossed the south drawbridge and turned left toward the jetties, traveling Needle Key’s sole road, a narrow band of asphalt, edged in sand.
According to the experts, the whole concept of barrier islands is to protect the mainland from storms. But Florida’s central Gulfcoast had been spared high-cat hurricanes for so many years—until Charlie—that the keys along the coastline had become prime real estate, a mecca for the seriously wealthy, particularly those who craved privacy. Scattered among the startlingly elaborate mansions clinging to sandy soil between the narrow road and coastal setback regulations were a few homes built as far back as the fifties, their owners refusing to give up their bit of paradise to the next towering McMansion.
“Look for an old Florida ranch,” Mom had said, “on the left, almost to the end of key. Tucked back behind a lot of trees and bushes. Right after that, there’s a sandy trail just wide enough for a car. The houseboat’s on the bay side, of course, not the Gulf. Supposedly, the trail leads to a parking area, and then you have to follow a foot path down to the dock.”
I missed it the first time and had to drive another hundred yards to the public park that was on the opposite side of the jetties from the marina and Scott’s Sea Tow. I paused for a moment, enjoying the stunning view and pondering for the umpteenth time how the restaurant, the imposing boats, and South Jetty Park could be so close, but require a seven-mile drive to get from one to the other.
I circled the park and came back on the same side of the road as the alleged driveway leading to Chad’s houseboat. Fortunately, there was no one behind me and I was able to creep at a snail’s pace, keeping my eyes peeled for a sandy trail into the ubiquitous Florida greenery. There! I hung a right and was instantly surrounded by jungle. At this point Needle Key was about as wide as the length of a football field, so the clearing that passed for a parking space came up fast. I don’t know what I expected Chad to drive, but it wasn’t a Ford station wagon that was old a decade ago. A loaner from the ranch, I guessed. Yet Chad Yarnell could buy any vehicle he wanted . . .
But all he wants at the moment is to be left alone.
Undoubtedly my inner voice was right, but that wasn’t going to keep me from following the overgrown path that led toward the bay. I needed help, I told myself as I got out of the car. And, besides, I’d never caught more than a glimpse of the sleek fiberglass houseboats anchored near the Yacht Club. And Mom said this one was wood, more house than boat.
Which didn’t account for my pulse suddenly revving up to take-off speed. Great. Just when I needed to be cool and professional, it was teen crush time again. And far more misguided now than then.
I tucked in my chin, fixed a determined scowl on my face and plunged into the jungle.
After ten or twelve feet of barely visible footpath, the sand under my shoes changed to a wooden boardwalk. Mangroves formed an impenetrable barricade around me, their octopus-like roots rising out of the shallow edge of the bay on either side, their shiny green leaves hiding any view of the bay. The boardwalk made a slight jog to the left . . . and there it was. A houseboat, constructed of wood, painted battleship gray, and at least twice the size of any houseboat I’d ever seen. Obviously never intended for navigation, its shape was rectangular, towering two stories high, with a deck on top. Not sleek, not pretty, but a true floating house.
The last section of the boardwalk, with wooden railings on both sides, stretched over open water. A sign attached to one of the end posts stated in large black letters: PRIVATE, NO TRESPASSING. At the end of the boardwalk nearest the boat was a flexible ramp that could move up and down with the tide. At the top of the ramp, a gate. I sighed. Even if I ignored the sign, I bet the gate was locked.
I hadn’t driven all this way to turn tail now. I followed the boardwalk over water so shallow I could see the shell-flecked muddy bottom and walked up the steeply angled gangplank (it was high tide). I tried the gate, it didn’t budge. Beyond the gate was a short step-down onto a broad patio deck, most of it roofed over by a balcony jutting out from the houseboat’s second-story. Sliding glass doors provided access from the patio deck to the inside.
Would Chad let me in? There was only one way to find out.
I hauled out my best nautical language. “Ahoy, the boat!” I called. “Anybody home?” With his wheels parked fifty feet away, Chad had better not ignore me.
He did. I tried again. “Chad, it’s Gwyn Halliday. You know, Laura Wallace. I need to talk to you.” Silence. “Chad, I know you’re in there. Come on, have a heart. I really need to talk to you.”
One of the sliding glass doors slammed open. A rumpled Chad, with tousled hair and a new beard growing, leaned against the door’s aluminum frame, scowling. “I’m busy,” he snapped. “Go away.”
Busy drinking was my guess, but instinct dictated I hang in there, try to keep the conversation going. “Chad, please, I need your help.” Grovel, grovel.
“Help, huh?” He favored me with an openly salacious inspection from head to toe. “What payment did you have in mind?”
I winced as my right hand gripped the gate hard enough to imprint my skin. Miserable excuse of a man. I was not going to run, I was going to stick this out. “The satisfaction of helping someone who needs you,” I said, “someone old and fragile and about to make what could be a lethal mistake.”
“What part of ‘Private, No Trespassing’ don’t you understand, Miz . . . Whatever?”
I closed my eyes, biting my inner lip, not even trying to look indifferent to Chad’s rebuff. How could I have been so certain I could get through to him? Just because he’d been the stuff of my dreams for so many years didn’t mean he’d given me so much as a single thought. I was nothing but the little brat who had sighed over his every move.
Another childhood dream moving from squashed flat to bitter end.
Steady, Gwyn, steady. I gathered the remnants of my pride and managed not to bolt down the ramp. I turned and trod down the gangplank and along the boardwalk with a confident swagger that would have done a runway model proud. But when the mangroves closed around me, my whole body sagged into dejection, and I followed the path back to my car through a sheen of tears. I slumped into the driver’s seat of the Malibu and just sat there, feeling sorry for myself. And, yes, sorry for Chad too. Only Yarnell money seemed to be keeping him from a cardboard box on Skid Row.
Tap, tap. I was, of course, blowing my nose when Chad loomed outside, rapping his knuckles on my window. Hastily, I wiped my eyes and scr
ubbed at the drops running down my cheeks.
“Come on, Gwyn, open up.” Chad was bent double, peering in my window.
Fine. I’d revealed my vulnerability, and now there was no way out. The windows wouldn’t work because I hadn’t started the engine. If I tried to open the door, I’d probably knock him flat, as he was in no condition to move with the agility of Chad Yarnell, quarterback.
I turned the key in the ignition, heard him shout, “Laurie!” Guess he thought I was about to drive away. I indulged in a tiny moment of satisfaction before I punched auto-rolldown and met his glowering look face to face. The smell of liquor wafted in. Ah, well . . . at least he wasn’t so drunk he’d fallen off the boardwalk into the mangroves.
“You’re talking about the old lady, right?”
“She says she’s marrying Marshall Johnson, and he’s just got to be a con artist. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, hell.” Ten seconds of silence, presumably while his sodden brain processed what I’d said. Then, surprisingly, Chad muttered something unintelligible and opened my door. “Come on back, tell me about it.” He strode off down the path, staggering only slightly, leaving me to trail behind.
Beggars can’t be choosers. Right. I swallowed my pride and followed.
Chad, poised impatiently on the aft deck, motioned me through the sliding glass doors. Considering his earlier payment suggestion, I probably should have been more cautious. But curiosity won hands down over common sense. I walked right in.
A “wow” moment. Although the effect was marred by two bottles of scotch, one of them lying on its side, and the permeating odor of liquor, someone had decorated the spacious living area in bright colors, contrasting sharply with the houseboat’s gray outside walls. A sofa, comfortable chairs, a built-in dining table with bench seats along two walls. A large flat-screen TV—
“Take a look around,” Chad said. “No sense trying to talk to a woman when her eyes are bugging out. Go on, do the whole tour. Galley area’s just behind, complete with dishwasher and stacked washer-dryer. “And my bedroom,” he added with an exaggerated leer, “is just beyond that.”
Blast the man, he was testing me. And the worst part was, I couldn’t tell if he was just being ornery or if he was trying to find out just how far I’d go to get his help.
Chad nodded toward the spiral stairs in one corner. “Second floor has a couple of guest rooms, sundeck on the roof above. Great view. You can see the whole harbor, count the boats as they go by.”
Ah-hah! Great opening. Chad Yarnell was bored. Already.
I did the whole tour, stalling for time. As I’d seen from below, the second storey guestroom had its own balcony hanging out over the patio deck and the sliding glass doors. One more flight up—and, yes, the view from the sundeck was breathtaking, all of Golden Beach’s busy harbor laid out like a prize panoramic photo. A twinge of envy hit me. I was a very private person and Chad’s choice of home appealed to me.
No more stalling. I wound my way down two flights of spiral stairs to find Chad sprawled full-length on the couch, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He waved a vague salute. “Pour yourself one,” he drawled. “Glasses in the galley.”
Chad’s idea of hospitality, or was he hoping I’d drink myself into his bed?
You’re here, he’s listening. Leave speculation out of it.
Good advice. I found a glass, added ice and water, then returned to the living area, where I poured a good dollop of scotch into the mix. One less drink for Chad, I reasoned.
Other than that, my mind was blank. I’d had hours to prepare what I wanted to say to Chad, yet absolutely nothing scintillating had come to mind, then or now. I’d have to play it by ear. I sank into one of the comfortable chairs, upholstered in a sturdy marine blue twill with red piping and wondered, with growing panic, what I was doing here.
The January afternoon was fading into gray—no glorious sunset tonight. No rosy glow to lighten the moment, help me worm my way through his armor of indifference.
“Great houseboat,” I offered. “A perfect place to get away from it all. There are times when I’d like to do the same.”
“Unh.” That might have been “thanks” or just Chad swallowing the wrong way.
I decided to treat him as if he were stone cold sober. Mom had brought me up on “Honey catches more flies than vinegar,” and I knew it to be true. So . . .
“Chad, it’s not just Letty. A whole slew of problems have cropped up—and, yes, I know I should probably mind my own business, but I can’t.”
“Get on with it.” A growl. Not friendly.
“Letty’s the biggest problem,” I returned hastily. “She’s about to marry Marshall Johnson, the man you saw leaving her condo, and I’m pretty sure he’s a con artist. I mean, he might even kill her, once he gets her money. And Crystal—you remember my assistant, right? The one who reads auras. Well, we’re Letty’s friends and we’re stumped. We just don’t know what to do.”
Silence. Chad took several swallows from his drink while I made my pitch but never looked my way.
“I thought . . . well, since you’re not really doing anything at the moment . . . and rumor says you have some experience in this sort of thing, maybe you might be willing—”
“What sort of thing?”
“I don’t know,” I said, groping for words, “but there’ve been rumors, ever since you disappeared after college, that you were doing something hush-hush for the government. Some kind of special service . . . I’m sorry, maybe everyone was wrong.” I trailed to a stop, suddenly embarrassed. What had I done? For all I knew, he’d been in a mental institution for the last decade or so.
Chad slammed his glass onto the coffee table so hard the empty bottle lying on its side rolled off the table and hit the rug, where it kept rolling until it fetched up against one of the sliding glass doors. Chad didn’t even look. Still lying down, eyes staring into space, he barked, “Tell me!”
I plunged into the whole tangled tale. Letty and her losses to scam artists, our fears about the Johnsons, father and son. Martin and the many people who might have wanted to kill him. Basil Janecek and his missing caregiver. I saved Scott’s possible problem for last, the words coming slowly, painfully, ending far more emotionally than planned. “Oh, God, Chad, I really need your help. Scott didn’t do it, I know he didn’t.”
Through it all, Chad never said a word. I was afraid he’d passed out and I was talking to myself. And then . . .
“Guess the town went to the dogs while I was gone.”
“Just in the last few months,” I began earnestly.
Chad held up a hand. “Spare me any more sob stories. Sounds like you should take up writing soap operas. And the worst thing is,” he added after heaving himself up to a sitting position, “you just might be right. You seem to have a nose for sleuthing, or maybe just being in the right place at the right time. And a damn sight more of an analytical brain than I ever suspected.”
Remarkably, Chad sounded completely sober. I couldn’t think of a single response. Somehow “Thank you” to such a backhanded compliment didn’t seem appropriate. “You can see why I can’t handle it all alone,” I said. “Why I really need help.”
“Dammit, woman. Except for Scott and Miss Letty, I’m not sure why you think you should ‘handle’ anything. You’re a costumer, not a cop. But I have to admit your brother’s dug himself into a sinkhole, and Miss Letty is headed right after him. And, yes, you’re right. Those two alone are way too big for an amateur to handle.”
I almost told him about New York. I mean, I resented being called an amateur. Not every wannabe New York success could say she’d spied on her own boyfriend and put him in jail. I, too, was on a government roster somewhere.
But I didn’t. Chad and I both had pasts we preferred to keep secret. What mattered was that he was on the hook. All I had to do was reel in the line. With as much finesse as I could manage.
“So what do you suggest?” I asked, wide-eyed and ignora
nt. Laying it on thick. Sinking the hook.
“I’ll keep an eye on the Letty’s condo, see what pops. And I have contacts—no problem checking Baird’s background, his company as well as his personal assets. Who’s handling Kellerman’s estate?” When I told him, Chad nodded. “Went to school with him. I’ll take that one too. You take the women, the widow and what’s-her-name—Sherry? And have Crystal keep an eye on Miss Letty’s auras. Who knows, maybe it’s not a bunch of crap.”
“Thank you.” And I really, really meant it. Even three sheets to the wind, Chad was ten, maybe a hundred times better at this than I was.
“Gwyn.” Chad leaned forward, looking straight at me for the first time since I came on board. “Watch yourself. Asking questions about murders, even probable murders, can get dicey real fast. Believe me, even people with lots of experience can get in over their heads.”
The message was clear. He was using himself as an example. I wondered what scars he carried under his jeans and long-sleeved shirt. Probably less than he carried on his soul.
We exchanged cellphone numbers. I stood, the words I really wanted to say stuck in my throat. I settled for “This means a lot to me, Chad. Thank you.” I blew him a kiss and left, almost skipping down the boardwalk and the sandy path, the weight of Scott, Martin, and Letty no longer resting solely on my shoulders.
PTSD, Gwynie. The man’s an invalid and a drunk.
Shut up, he’s all I’ve got. And, besides, he’s the Prince Chad of my teenage dreams. He couldn’t have fallen that far.
He’s special forces, a wack-job. He kills people. Maybe he’s the ill wind that blew into town. Maybe he sits around planning how to get rid of—
Shut. Up.
Thank you very much. I shoved my inner voice into the niche with all my other secrets—my fears, my failures. My broken heart.
I had help. And if Boone Talbot didn’t like it, too bad.
Chapter 16
Death by Marriage Page 15
