“My sister,” Catherine scoffed. “Always my sister. Why do people always believe her? Well, she’s lying again. She tried to kill me, and all I’m doing is protecting myself. Ask Padraig. He knows what a conniving little bitch she is. That’s why he’s on my side. That’s why he’s helping me.”
“Helping you?” Jesus, was that what Padraig was doing? Helping Catherine get even with her sister? “Catherine, where are they? What’s the name of that boat.”
She turned away and went back to her desk. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. You’ll see. Padraig will tell you that I’m right. It’s Jennifer who did all this. She hired the photographer. She …” She stammered to a confused end, then she picked up one of the papers on her desk and began reading it as if nothing had happened. She was back to work, as always. Everything was normal.
Peter flew through the door to her outer office. He ordered one secretary to get the airline on the phone. “Find out where they took Jennifer yesterday and how long it will take them to get me there.” He wheeled to face another of the young women. “I need you to go through all Catherine’s correspondence for the past month. Find anything on a boat-charter company someplace in Maine. Get it to me on my cell phone, or on the plane if I’m in the air.” Then he added, “And call for a doctor. Tell them that Catherine has been taken ill.”
He rushed into the hallway, nearly knocking over a mail boy, and ran to Jennifer’s office. Jennifer’s secretary jumped up, frightened, as he confronted her. “Did Jennifer have any correspondence about a boat in Maine? Anything about a charter or a vacation trip? A number where she can be reached?” He was pounding the questions so furiously that the girl wilted back against the wall, her hands to her mouth. Peter got a hold of himself. In a calmer tone, he apologized and asked her to sit down. Then he called the other secretaries to her desk and went through his questions carefully. “Someone must remember something,” he said to all of them. “We have to find her.”
“Okay, you’re dead in the water,” Jennifer called from the foredeck. Padraig hit the anchor-release button on the console. Like magic, the anchor dropped from the pulpit and plunged into the water, dragging the rattling chain behind it. A gauge counted the length of anchor chain that was being let out. “About seven times the depth of the water,” Mike had told him. “Then pull in just enough to make sure she’s set, and let it back out again.”
Jennifer watched the proceedings from the pulpit. In her days of racing with Peter, they had anchored often. But it had always been a hand operation by the crew members at the bow. She had never seen it done automatically by an amateur on the flying bridge.
Padraig studied the depth indicator, and when enough chain was out, he engaged the anchor windlass. Then he waited as the boat moved away, powered by the wind and the tide. It drifted for several minutes until the chain finally stiffened. The sea began running by as the boat held still.
“By George, we’ve done it,” he called down to Jennifer.
“Are you sure?” she called back.
“Of course not. But we’ll keep taking bearings, and if we’re still here by nightfall, we can call it a success.”
They worked together, attaching the hoist to the dinghy and then putting the inflatable over the side. Padraig scampered down the ladder and stepped tenderly across. He started the outboard, ran a circle around Maineman, and then headed over to Pennobquit’s stony beach. He had promised to reconnoiter the island before he brought Jennifer ashore.
“What could be over there?” she had asked, dismissing his caution as unnecessary.
“Cannibals,” he answered seriously. “They might let me go, but they could never resist a tasty dish like you.”
She watched him secure the dinghy, wave back to her, and then disappear into the brush. Jennifer was mildly disappointed. She had come for a serious discussion. She had no interest in requalifying as a Camp Fire girl.
He returned in less than an hour, bubbling with enthusiasm. There were campgrounds with lean-tos and stone fireplaces. There was a captured pond on the other side, shallow so that it probably heated a bit in the sun. And the view from the cliff edge was spectacular.
“Could you rustle us up a bit of lunch?” he asked. “I think the microwave is self-explanatory. And maybe a nip of Scotch.” Then he went to his cabin to put on dry clothes. The spray in the dinghy had soaked through his trousers.
Jennifer quickly selected a packaged quiche from the cabinets in the galley. In the ice chest, she found the makings of a salad, and the liquor cabinet yielded a fifth of Padraig’s favorite malt. Then she started through the drawers, looking for the silverware and serving utensils. It was in the first drawer that she saw the folder with the charter contract. She almost had the drawer closed when she spotted the name hand-lettered on the folder: Catherine Pegan.
She glanced around quickly. Padraig was still down a level in his forward cabin, the door shut. She could hear him humming as he dressed. She opened the folder. There was a list of provisions signed for by Padraig. She dug deeper and found the contract, signed by the broker in one place. The signature next to it was Catherine’s, a flourish Jennifer had seen thousands of times in her adult life. And then, pinned to the contract, was a copy of the check. It was Catherine’s check, again with her signature. Jennifer pushed the papers back into the drawer and eased it closed. Quickly, she located the silverware and had the place settings in her hand when Padraig came up to the galley.
“Quiche?” he said, picking up the package. “Real men—”
“You stocked it,” she interrupted. She took a knife and began preparing the salad.
Padraig read the directions and popped the paper tray into the microwave. Then he was back to his description of the wonders of Pennobquit. He was making it sound as inviting as Capri.
Jennifer was nodding, smiling when it was called for, and frowning when Padraig seemed concerned. But she wasn’t listening. While he ate, drank, and held court, she was facing up to the reality that she had found in the drawer.
This wasn’t just Padraig’s idea. It was Catherine’s as well. She had arranged the boat, picked the location, and paid the cost. Yet she claimed that Padraig had turned on her just as he had on Jennifer. It was never love. It was always the money, she had charged. She would stay with him in Leprechaun Productions just long enough to get her money back. Then, according to Catherine, she would cut the lying bastard off at the legs.
Then why had she made the arrangements and paid the costs out of her personal account? What was she hoping to gain?
And Padraig had insisted that there had never been anything between Catherine and him. He had simply let himself be seduced by his desperation for money. Now, if Jennifer believed him, he was truly repentant.
Then why was he sharing his personal life with Catherine and letting her finance his reconciliation?
The trip was a lie, and she was the one being lied to. But why? What were the two of them scheming?
Once again it was Peter’s warning that she remembered. As of this moment, Padraig was her husband and heir to a good part of her fortune. And then she understood. She was all alone with the one person who had the most to gain by her death. And he had lied to her and conspired with her sister to get her here.
Jennifer was suddenly certain that she was about to have another accident.
“West Trenton, Maine,” the pilot said while Peter was stepping aboard. “It’s a small strip right at the causeway to Mount Desert Island. We had to look it up ourselves.”
“And from there?” Peter asked.
The pilot shrugged. “Someone picked her up in a car. No one told me where they were going. I’m supposed to go back for her on Sunday night.”
So that’s where they had to be. Someplace close to Mount Desert Island. Otherwise why pick such an obscure airport.
They had found the charter-company arrangements in Catherine’s desktop folder. The secretary who called had given Peter a company name and an address
in Camden. Then she had called back to tell him they had found the check entered in her checkbook. Peter had called and spoken to the rental agent. “Yes sir, Padraig O’Connell himself. I tell you, my girl nearly wet her pants. Handsome fella! Gave me his autograph.”
He described the boat and gave Peter its radio call letters. Then he remembered that a charter captain had taken O’Connell to Blue Hill. “Guess that’s where he was setting out from. But I have no idea where he was headed.”
“Some obscure island off the coast,” Peter told him.
“Not much help theyuh. Has to be a couple of thousand of those.”
Then Jennifer’s office telephoned with nothing to report. She had left no record of her arrangements, nor any way that she could be reached. All they knew was that she was due back on Monday.
Peter had contacted the Coast Guard but had found an unsympathetic day officer. “Mister, we’re not in the business of tracking down girlfriends. If the yacht is in trouble, we’ll go get it. Or if there’s a crime reported. But we don’t have the right to butt into a private party.” Peter was then kicked up the chain of command. “I have good reason to believe that a woman aboard that boat is in great danger,” he explained. The officer responded that it sounded like a police matter. “If the police call us for assistance, we’ll cast off in a minute. But without a boat in physical danger, and no federal crime in progress—”
Peter had begged. Of course he would contact the police. But there was no time to lose. Something in his voice rang true, because the officer promised unofficially to have his patrol flights look for the trawler in the vicinity of Mount Desert Island. “But,” he warned, “it’s a big area with lots of coves. And most of the boats up here are workboats. So I can’t promise we’ll find her.”
Peter tried to relax but found himself pinned to the edge of the seat. He recognized the cape off to his right, and Boston bathed in the light from the sun that was settling in the west. It would be dark by the time he found the spot where Jennifer had boarded the Maineman, and there was little chance of finding the boat at night. But at least he could get into position and enlist the help that he needed. Then he would be ready to go out and find her. He had stood in a doorway once and watched a friend die in a burning building. But not this time! This time he was going to rush into the fire.
Padraig had wanted to motor over to the island, but Jennifer had used every excuse. She had been slow clearing up their simple lunch. Then she had pleaded weariness from her trip and gone to her cabin for a nap. This time she had used the lock, and had settled into the bed with two pillows so that her head was up and her eyes fixed on the door. There was no chance of her sleeping, but she needed to get away from his continuous chatter so she could think. Padraig had maneuvered her to a place where no one could save her. If she was going to make it through the next two days, she would have to do it on her own.
When she came back up to the saloon, Padraig was on deck, looking patiently across at Pennobquit Island. Instead of joining him, Jennifer made a point of busying herself in the galley, pretending to be enthusiastic over the evening meal. He came in, hoping to hurry her along so they could still get over to the island before dark. The pots and dishes were chattering in her hands, and nothing she said sounded natural.
“Jennifer, darlin’, you seem distraught. Dinner is no problem. I don’t give a damn what we eat.”
“I want things nice,” she lied, and then she dropped a plate of vegetables on the deck. The plate bounced and rolled, leaving a trail of zucchini slices. She bent to pick them up, then jumped when his hand came down on top of hers.
“What is it?” he asked. She thought he seemed suspicious rather than concerned.
“We came out here to see if we had a future, not to explore an island,” she snapped at him.
He stayed on his knees, helping her clean up the mess. “Whatever you want,” he assured her. “We can take a glass of wine up to the flybridge. And we can talk until the sun comes up. The island will still be there tomorrow.”
But his expression had changed. His eyes were narrower, and the signature smile had disappeared from his lips. The nervous chatter was gone. He was talking softly and trying to sound reassuring.
He knows, Jennifer thought. He knows that I’ve found out why he brought me here. At that moment it seemed that her best chance to make it through the night was to convince him that she had no suspicions whatsoever.
They climbed up to the flybridge with a bottle of wine and glasses and watched the sky redden to the west. Jennifer used the moment to press her first question: Had he ever really loved her?
He swore that he had. “Not at first, of course. No, at first it was strictly a matter of money. You had it and I needed it.”
“Just money?” she asked as though it were a dirty word.
“Oh, it’s never just money. Not for me, anyway. With me it was my life. Things were falling apart on me, darlin’, and I was frightened out of my wits.”
He explained the miserable ending of his career that was staring him in the face. He was middle-aged, playing the role of a youthful hero, and there were these young Turks snapping at his ass. “Kids just out of film school and illiterate punks who had decided that they were actors. There wasn’t one of them who could play the butler in a high school play. And they were all sitting around in their black shirts, smoking their dope, and talking about bringing in one of their studs to replace me. So, the future looked bleak, Jennie, darlin’. There was nothing left for me. Maybe doing a few walk-ons or playing some pathetic fool in a television series. No, it wasn’t just money that I needed. I needed to save my life.”
He admitted that their first meeting hadn’t been as romantic as he had often painted it. It had been no accident when he walked in on her at the trade show. Letting her drive through the mountains had been the most frightening experience of his life. The car he had given her had been no money down. “All I made was the first payment. We were two months behind when the damn thing went over the cliff.” And his exit from the hotel in Cannes had been carefully staged. He had lurked behind a pillar while the desk clerk explained his departure, and then he had paraded his entourage across the lobby, knowing she would see him.
“What a fool,” Jennifer derided herself. “I should have known.”
“Now, don’t be thinking that way,” he consoled her. “Theater is about making people see what isn’t there and believe what isn’t true. And I’m damn good at my craft.”
She asked him about her auto accident, and he took on a brooding expression while he weighed his answer. “Hardest thing I ever did,” he finally admitted. “You see, by then I was truly taken by you. I had already called the whole thing off once, and I damn near called it off again.”
That had been his plan right from the beginning. Marry her, then arrange for her to have an accident. He had made the arrangements in his best French, paying half the cost in cash up front and promising the rest after the accident. It had been all set up for Ireland. But when the time came, he couldn’t go through with it. For the first time since his adolescence, he had truly fallen in love. “There were mornings, darlin’, when I’d just lie in bed and watch you sleep, hoping you’d wake up so I’d be there when you first opened your eyes.”
But then the real cost of launching Leprechaun had become apparent. Her checking account wouldn’t even come close. He needed total access to limitless funding. “That was the moment of truth. Was I going to remain an important man in the movie business? Or was I going to settle down with a lovely young girl and enjoy my newfound bliss? It wasn’t an easy choice. But I just couldn’t stop being Padraig O’Connell the famous actor.” He shook his head slowly. “It was the wrong choice, of course. But I’d probably make the same decision over again. Fame is an opiate. Not many of us can kick the habit.”
“So then it was you.”
He nodded slowly. “My needing the car was just an alibi. I called the garage and told them I’d be using it so it wou
ld look like I was the one who was supposed to go over the cliff. But I want you to know that when you walked out of that room, I was on my feet and after you. I got downstairs just in time to see you spin out onto the street. Another few seconds and I would have stopped you. And then, when I saw you in that hospital, pale, dead, with those hoses keeping you breathing, I was horrified. I knew I had destroyed the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me.”
Jennifer had heard enough truth for one night. Peter had been right when he blamed Padraig for cutting the brakes. And she had been right in thinking of herself as the ugly duckling. The only thing that Padraig had seen in her was money. They watched the sun set, and then each of them found a private place, Jennifer on the sofa in the saloon and Padraig outside, pacing the deck in the darkness.
She tried to look at ease, sitting with her legs drawn up and turning through the pages of a magazine. But her thoughts were racing. He had confessed that he was after her money and had talked freely about attempted murder. Unburdening himself of his guilt, perhaps, but in the process sticking his neck in a noose. She realized that the only reason he had spoken so candidly was that he knew it would never matter. She was the only one he was telling, and she would never tell anyone else: more proof that she wasn’t going to make it back.
She had to get away. But how? She couldn’t coax him ashore and then escape in the trawler. Padraig had the ignition key in his pocket. She could swim to Pennobquit. But it would be only a matter of time before he found her. You could stand on one end of the island and see the other. So it had to be the inflatable dinghy.
It wasn’t a certain escape. She wasn’t sure she knew how to operate the boat, although an outboard couldn’t be too complicated. She had no idea how much fuel it carried or how far it would take her. But she could head back up the bay as far as the boat would go and swim to whatever land was nearest to her. Without the dinghy, Padraig wouldn’t be able to get ashore and would have no way to find her.
Good Sister, The Page 27
