Alastair visibly relaxed. “Okay. That went a lot easier than I was hoping. I’m actually going to interview Tucker Martell again, see if he remembers anything. Even something minute might make all the difference.”
“Mind if I go along?” Nash asked.
“Of course not. You’ll stay here, Jonas?”
“Yeah.”
“Us, too,” James said. He shared a quick glance at his wife and she nodded her acquiescence.
“We can play cards,” Holly quipped. “We haven’t done that in a long time.”
Annie smiled. “Game night. Delia will love that.”
“All right,” Alastair said. “We’ll be back.”
Nash leaned over and gave Charlotte a quick peck on the lips. Then he glanced at Jonas. “Take care of her.”
“Always.”
* * * *
“I have to admit,” Alastair murmured to Nash as he drove toward the swim club. “My money is leaning toward Tucker.”
“Why’s that?”
Alastair sighed. “He was one of the first to find Brandy, as well as the first on the scene with Charlotte.”
Both knew the significance of that.
“You think he’s the one,” Nash stated.
“I’ve always thought he was the one,” Alastair murmured.
“But why? What’s his motive?”
“That I don’t know. Maybe he’s batshit crazy.”
Nash grimaced over Alastair’s theory. “I don’t think Charlotte will believe you.”
“No, I know she won’t. Tucker’s always been her knight in shining armor. They were sweethearts the last few months of high school. She put him on this pedestal that I couldn’t touch but—”
“A cop’s instinct is never wrong,” Nash murmured. “What was she like? After the incident. Were you there?”
“Holly and I had just gotten married. I was a field agent stationed in LA. Hadn’t earned my chops to be HS Director yet despite the name. Holly was in college. We got the call that Charlotte had nearly drowned and when we arrived at the swim club she was wrapped up in a medic blanket, cradled in Annie’s arms.”
“Did you start an investigation?”
“No. The Santa Monica police were there and they informed us it had been an accidental drowning, that Charlotte had admitted she’d gotten a cramp and had slipped under the water.”
“But you didn’t believe it?”
Alastair shook his head. “Charlotte was an amazing swimmer, and she was damn smart. No way would she swim herself into such a situation. I went to talk with Tucker, but something seemed a little off.”
“Off, how?”
“He just…kept staring at her. It put me on edge.”
Alastair pulled into the underground parking garage attached to the swim club and shut of the engine. They rode the elevator to the lobby, the same one that they had stood in only a short time ago, when the ghost of a girl had exploded a light over their heads. Nash looked up and saw that it had already been replaced.
“Hello, Alastair,” came a quiet voice to their right. Both men turned.
Nash quickly sized Tucker Martell up in a single glance. Probably not much taller than five foot ten, with an ordinary frame neither too muscular nor too weak. Brown hair receding to give him a long forehead and deep-set brown eyes that emphasized his heavy brow.
“Hello, Tucker,” Alastair greeted, shaking his hand. “This is my partner, Agent Nash McKnight. Thanks for taking the time to talk to us.”
“Of course.” Tucker shook his head. “Not only has this been horrible for the Hamlet family, but it’s also been bad for business, if I may say in a cold, cynical way.”
“This hasn’t been the first time someone has drowned in your pool,” Nash replied.
Tucker frowned at him. “Excuse me?”
“Charlotte Perth.”
“Oh. But that was an accident. My father and I have forbidden swimmers without lifeguards on duty.”
“And yet Brandy Hamlet was by herself.”
The younger man regarded Nash with cool disdain. “This sounds like an interrogation.”
“That’s probably because it is.”
Tucker smiled, although it didn’t hold the look of amusement. “You know, I’ve met men like you before.”
“Oh? Suave and debonair?”
“Pompous.”
Nash pretended to wince. “Ouch.”
“You think men like me don’t matter, that we’re insignificant. A tiny fish in the ocean. But you always underestimate how large a size we can grow.”
“Do you like fishing?” Nash asked, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me, do you read, Mr. Martell?”
Tucker blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Have you ever read Moby-Dick? I thought your fishing line was quite interesting.”
The brackets around Tucker’s mouth tightened. Nash thought that mighty interesting. “I think I read it in high school,” he answered. “But wasn’t that book about hunting a whale?”
Nash shrugged. “Fishing is fishing, isn’t it?”
Tucker deliberately turned to look at Alastair who, up till now, had watched the interplay between the two. “I had specifically instructed a lifeguard to be on duty whenever she swam, and I’d been assured he would be, which obviously, I was lied to. The police know all of this.”
“Who was this lifeguard?” Alastair asked.
“Someone hired by the Hamlets. I think he was Brandy’s coach.”
“Do you usually allow non-employees to act as lifeguards?” Nash inquired. “And swim alone once the place is shut down?”
Tucker took a deep breath and Nash could see the other man had reached a high stage of agitation. When he answered, however, his gaze stayed on Alastair. “The Hamlets often rented a few hours every night, after the public had left. The club has the only Olympic-size pool on this side of LA. Brandy had a key to get in, because it was a common arrangement and not the first this club has allowed.”
“But that wasn’t a common arrangement with Charlotte. She snuck in, I believe.”
Tucker looked between them. “Why do you keep bringing up Charlotte?”
Alastair shot a look at Nash. Nash raised his brow but Alastair changed the subject.
“Just trying to make a comparison. Two girls swimming alone and both have…accidents.”
Tucker’s eyes narrowed. “Are you making an accusation?”
“If I go investigating your background am I going to find any other such accidents?” Nash asked softly. He made sure to keep focused on Tucker’s reaction, but if he’d been hoping for something revealing on the man’s face, he came away disappointed.
“How dare you come in here accusing me of, of something,” Tucker said, anger coating his words. “Please leave.”
“All right, Tucker,” Alastair said smoothly. “Thanks for talking with us.”
Tucker didn’t say anything else. He turned and abruptly walked away.
* * * *
As they drove out of the parking garage, Nash shook his head. “I don’t like him. Something’s off.”
“See what I mean? He says all the right words but there’s a hint of insincerity about them.”
“Let’s head to the Hamlets’ to see if what he said holds up.”
They pulled in front of the house they had visited just the other day. Alastair led the way up to the door and Nash eyed the mailbox that was starting to overfill. Alastair knocked and the waited. Mr. Hamlet opened the door, glaring at them.
“What do you want?”
He did not invite them in.
“We would like to ask you about that night, Mr. Hamlet. We just finished talking to Tucker Martell and he informs us that Brandy and a lifeguard you hired usually swam at night.”
“We’ve already talked to the police,” Mr. Hamlet said, a snarl on his lips.
“I’m sorry to rehash that night but we need to be certain of the facts.”
“Our lifeguard was Brian Laramine. He had called
us up that night and canceled because of a friend’s son’s bar mitzvah. We didn’t know Brandy had gone swimming anyway until later. I went to round her up and when I couldn’t reach her, I called Tucker.”
“You and Tucker were first on the scene, correct?” Nash asked.
Mr. Hamlet nodded. “Tucker was first. I met him there. Now, is that all you want?”
“Yes,” Alastair said softly. “Thank you for your time. I know it’s not easy to rehash—”
Mr. Hamlet closed the door in their faces.
“So, Tucker was first on the scene? That’s interesting.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Alastair murmured as he turned and headed back to his car.
“Did this Brian Laramine’s alibi check out?”
“Yeah, according to the police report. I was hoping that Hamlet would have revealed more, but looks like he’s not too happy with us.”
“So what next?”
“Let’s go back to Headquarters and go over everything once more, see if there’s a reference to Moby-Dick we missed the first time around.”
Chapter Twelve
Somehow, when she’d thought of being confined to the house, she hadn’t pictured it quite so…confining. Sure, she had television, although she’d never been one for watching shows. And she also had books. But really, how long could one person sit and just, well, read?
Her family did their best to keep her amused. The nights Delia was home she had Charlotte be her taste tester, which was always fun for the first hour or so, until the sugar rush had her bouncing off the wall. Kira had even come over to play cards, but since she counted cards Charlotte always lost, which made the game not so fun. And Holly brought out the board games from the attic in an attempt to revisit their youth, but all the games had missing pieces so that ended up being a bust.
At night, she slept in her bed with Jonas and Nash taking turns sleeping on the couch downstairs. It was frustrating and utterly ridiculous but she hadn’t the courage to announce she’d stay in their hotel room. Somehow, even though James and Annie were modern people, a kid just didn’t tell her parents she was going to spend the night with two men.
“Why don’t we go swimming?” Delia asked as they all sat around the evening of the third day. They’d just finished a round of the card game Thirty-One.
Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t swim anymore. I haven’t for twelve years.”
“Since the…accident?” Delia asked softly.
“I used to call it my accident but I suppose that’s a misnomer,” Charlotte replied with a wry grin.
“I don’t understand you,” Kira said, a touch of annoyance threading through her voice. “You used to eat, breathe, and shit swimming.”
“Language, Kira,” her father admonished.
“Sorry,” Kira said but from her tone she was anything but sorry. “Holly and Delia got to miss it all but for my entire childhood it was always about us going to Charlotte’s next meet, or next practice, or God forbid I wanted to do something that deviated from Charlotte’s swim schedule!”
Kira’s outburst quieted the table.
Charlotte felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. She stared at Kira as if her sister had suddenly sprouted two heads. “I’m sorry, Kira,” she managed to mutter. “I didn’t know that’s how you felt.”
Kira’s mouth flattened into a straight line of annoyance. “Hardly matters now, I suppose. But Dad built that deck for you, you know. Everything was always done for you.”
“Kira,” their dad warned again.
“Is that how you saw me, Kira?” Charlotte demanded. “As a problem?”
“There you go again, being all melodramatic. Me, me, me. Charlotte Perth’s anthem.” Kira glared at her.
A growing suspicion took root in Charlotte’s mind, an insidious thought that refused to be yanked up and destroyed. “Did you do it?”
“Do what?”
Charlotte shook her head. She suddenly didn’t want to know anything. “Never mind.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Excuse me.”
She walked away from the table, leaving her family staring after her. Jonas rose from the sofa but she held out her hand. She needed to be alone. To think. Her sister couldn’t have possibly hurt her. It was too horrible to contemplate! And besides, didn’t she remember that it had been a man’s hand that held her under?
But Kira had always had a legion of boys following her around in school. Any one of them could have helped Kira out if she’d asked them. What if it had been Kira who’d wanted to Charlotte to go away, to disappear? Did Kira hate her or had she hated her enough to do something like that?
Once in her room, Charlotte began to pace. Could the two drowning incidents be completely non-related? Could Kira have scared her and then someone else hurt Brandy? It seemed a little farfetched, a little too coincidental and she didn’t really believe in coincidence. Still, she had to quiet the little hiss in her brain that kept picturing Kira as her would-be killer. But how could she get peace of mind?
Kira had always kept a diary. More than once Charlotte had picked the easy lock and read her sister’s deepest thoughts and then teased her about it just to torment her. Did she write something down, something that hinted if she could have dreamed up hurting Charlotte? Abruptly, Charlotte charged out of her bed to the attic access near her parents’ bedroom. She pulled it down and let the ladder fall before scurrying up it into the dark, stifling air. She turned on the light and looked around at the various boxes.
Four daughters and forty years sure did manage to almost completely fill up the spacious attic. Charlotte saw Christmas boxes as well as other holiday decorations, a sewing machine under plastic, discarded tools, books, one box labeled bills, and of course, the girls’ names on various containers. All except Delia, who still lived at home. The only box that had her name on it was old art she did in elementary school.
Charlotte started sifting, moving the boxes around until she had all of Kira’s together. She went through them, searching for her sister’s stash of diaries and writings. She hit paydirt in the third box she opened and sat down to quickly read through the two diaries she found.
A few minutes later, she tossed the diaries aside. All they had were the immature ramblings about boys. Kira had mentioned her a few times. It was just like she’d said. She had raged whenever she’d been forced to give up a date or shopping time with friends because of Charlotte’s swim schedule.
The rest of the box held mostly junk, just the scribblings of a teenage girl. There were even the essays she’d had to write as a senior…a graduation that Charlotte had not attended.
And suddenly, Charlotte remembered her senior year of high school. She’d been required to read four books and write reports on them for Mrs. Sturben’s English Literature class. Each student could pick from a provided list, and Moby-Dick had been on it. She hadn’t read it, opting for books that had romantic themes. Her picks had been Wuthering Heights, which had been dreadful, Great Expectations, which had been boring, Ivanhoe, which had been confusing, and The Canterbury Tales, which had been written in Old English so therefore completely indecipherable. She’d relied on watching the films and CliffsNotes to get her through to graduation and she managed to pull a B out of the class, which had been a miracle.
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. No, she hadn’t ever read Moby-Dick, but she did have a one degree separation from the book. Hurriedly, she tossed everything back in the box and closed it before jumping up to rush out of the attic.
“Jonas!” she called as she all but ran downstairs. She absently noted that Kira was gone.
“What is it?” he asked as he jumped from the sofa. She saw his hand automatically go for his gun that wasn’t there.
“I remembered something, something about Moby-Dick,” she told him.
“What is it?”
As she told him about the list in her senior English Lit class, she couldn’t help but remember Kira’s papers. She hadn’t writ
ten about Moby-Dick. It gave her a little peace of mind. “It may be a long shot, I realize, but what are the odds?”
“A very long, long shot, indeed,” he said. “Did everyone have to do these reports?”
“The people in Mrs. Sturben’s class did, but I don’t know about the other English Lit classes.”
He took a deep breath. “Interesting but thousands of people have read that book. I don’t know if remembering it was a high school project is the link we’re searching for.”
“I could get my yearbook—”
“There’s a theory that Nash and Alastair have come up with. It involves Tucker Martell.”
Shocked, she took a step back. “It’s not Tucker.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know? He had opportunity.”
“Opportunity is not motive. Come on, why would he have tried to kill me, only to bring me back?”
“Guilt, maybe? Remorse for his first kill?”
Charlotte shook her head. “First kill? No, not Tucker.”
“Why not Tucker? Our list of suspects is very small—”
“Anyone could have jumped that fence!”
“Once, maybe. But twice? Tucker moved back just last year.”
“So he, what, waited a whole year to strike again? That doesn’t make sense.”
His jaw hardened and bent his head to look directly at her. “You know what doesn’t make sense? Waiting twelve years to report that someone almost killed you! If that doesn’t scream lack of accountability, I don’t know what does!”
She paled and took a step back. “That was mean.”
“Stop being so obtuse!” he practically yelled at her. “You’re always the one who points out the obvious, so start thinking like a detective instead of a girl with a past crush!”
“But I am just a girl with a past crush,” she whispered. “I’m not a detective. And that was mean.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
Tears gathered in her eyes but she refused to let them fall. “Are you staying the night?”
He blinked, clearly taken aback at the abrupt change of topic. “No. It’s Nash’s turn.”
Breathless [McKnight, Perth & Daire 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 11
