by B. J Daniels
She took a breath. “Trevor was supposed to pick me up for the party at six-thirty,” she began. “We were going as Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara.” Jill told them how she’d gone alone to the Foresters at seven-thirty, waited for him in a room off the far wing until she’d seen the man she believed to be Trevor dressed as Rhett Butler duck into the lake cottage at eight-fifteen. She’d just looked at her watch—that was why she remembered the time. “It was just before the electricity went out.”
Duncan nodded. “A transformer blew on that side of the lake about then. The man you saw, he had on a mask?”
She nodded and realized she’d only gotten a glimpse as he’d gone into the cottage. Just an impression of Rhett Butler.
“So you went down to the cottage in a downpour to see him?” Samuelson asked. “Why not wait until the storm let up? Or he came up to the party?”
“I wanted to speak with Trevor alone first.”
Samuelson raised an eyebrow. “About what? I see you aren’t wearing your engagement ring.”
“The truth is, I had planned to break off our engagement,” she admitted, wondering if they’d already found her engagement ring in the cottage. She assumed they’d already talked with Heddy and Alistair. Had Heddy told the deputies how upset Jill had been? That she’d planned to break the engagement?
“Why break up?” Samuelson asked, eyeing her closely.
She shook her head, not knowing where to begin. “I had hardly seen Trevor lately, and I just felt that we shouldn’t be getting married.”
“You said had planned to break off your engagement. Did something change your mind?” Duncan asked.
“Actually, Trevor did—at first. Or at least the man I thought was Trevor.” She could see the deputies’ skepticism. She hurriedly told them how the electricity had gone out, how in the darkness the man she thought was Trevor had grabbed her, kissed her, seduced her—all without a word spoken between them.
She dropped her gaze to her hands, clasped in her lap, for a moment, the shame and humiliation almost getting the better of her as she thought of what she’d done with a stranger. She had opened herself up to him. At the time she’d thought it was the darkness that had let her put all her inhibitions aside and make love as she’d never made love before—completely.
When she looked up, she saw they didn’t believe a word she’d said. “It’s true! I can prove it. Someone saw us together. A woman.” She groaned silently, mortified to have to tell them.
“What woman?” Duncan asked.
Jill looked at him and realized she didn’t have a clue who the woman was. Reluctantly she explained how it seemed Trevor had planned to meet, not her, but the other Scarlett in the cottage. “The woman saw us, became angry and left.”
“I thought it was dark inside the cottage?” Samuelson said.
“It was, but there was a flash of lightning as she opened the door,” Jill said.
“You didn’t see the man in this flash of lightning?” he asked incredulously.
She shook her head, remembering how he’d spooned her against him, the gentle way he’d nuzzled the nape of her neck, his breath on her bare, hot skin… “I was facing the door and he was…behind me.”
“What did you do after this woman interrupted the two of you?” Duncan asked.
“I realized Trevor—” she heard her voice break “—I mean, the man I thought was Trevor…had just made love to the wrong woman. I hurriedly dressed, threw the engagement ring at him and left.”
“You never saw his face?” Duncan asked.
She shook her head.
“You must have been furious,” Samuelson said.
“I was hurt.” She dropped her gaze, remembering the depth of that hurt because of what they had just shared.
“Did you tell anyone about this?” Duncan asked.
“No. I left by the side yard. I was upset. I certainly didn’t want to talk about it.” She saw the way they were both looking at her and added, “I think the woman’s name might be Rachel, but you’ll have to catch her tonight before she gets on a plane for Brazil.”
Samuelson raised a brow. “Why would you think that?”
Jill told them about almost being run off the road by her own red Saturn and how she’d followed it, thinking at first that Trevor was driving the car, since he was the one who’d borrowed it the last time she saw him.
“The front door was open. Someone was in the bedroom, rummaging around, using a flashlight,” she continued. She told them how the person had come flying out, hit her and left in her car. “I caught a whiff of the same perfume I had smelled when the woman opened the door to the cottage.”
“So you think it was the same woman,” Duncan said.
“Was she still wearing her costume?” Samuelson asked.
Now that Jill thought about it… “No. She must have had a change of clothing with her.” Maybe her traveling wedding suit since, if she was Rachel, she and Trevor were headed for a justice of the peace and a plane, it seemed. “If you’ve been to his condo, you know that Trevor was running away tonight with a woman named Rachel.” Their poker faces told her nothing.
“We’ll try to find your car,” Duncan offered. “And this woman.” His tone implied, If she exists.
“Thank you.”
Samuelson was shaking his head. “Come on, Ms. Lawson, how could you have made love with a man and not realized he wasn’t your fiancé?”
Her face flamed with embarrassment. “Trevor and I had only been…intimate once.” She thought of the differences, not just in the lovemaking but in the man’s body. She’d believed it was because Trevor had been doing manual labor for the past few months. He was so much more muscular. Stronger. More…forceful. He’d lost some weight and was leaner—just like when she’d seen him recently. And he’d promised her that tonight would be different. Oh, and it had been, she thought, fiddling nervously with the silver charm bracelet at her wrist.
“Heddy Forester says when she saw you at about seven-forty-five, you were very upset with Trevor,” Samuelson said. “She says she thought you left right after that. You have keys to the Foresters’ boats, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“In a ski boat, it takes how long—ten, fifteen minutes?—to get down the lake to the island,” he asked.
She stared at him. “Trevor was killed on the island?” What was he saying? That she would have had plenty of time to get to the island, kill Trevor and return to the party—and the cottage. “I told you—”
“Yes, you told us,” Samuelson interrupted. “You were in the cottage. Then how do you explain the fact that Heddy Forester saw you get out of a boat at the dock just a little before nine-thirty?”
“It wasn’t me. It must have been the woman I told you about, the one who was also dressed as Scarlett O’Hara.”
It was clear Samuelson didn’t believe her.
“Was there anything about her you can remember other than the costume?” Duncan asked.
“All I saw was her silhouette in the doorway. But I think I’d recognize her voice if I heard it again.” A strident, high-pitched voice.
Duncan shifted in his chair. “When was the last time you were on Inspiration Island?”
“I’ve never been on the island. Trevor didn’t want me seeing it until everything was finished. He said he didn’t allow anyone but crews on the island during construction, not even investors, if he could help it.” She realized how stupid she’d been. Trevor had probably used the island as a place to spend time with the other Scarlett. Not that Jill cared to go out there, given the island’s history. Maybe that was why she’d never pushed the subject.
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm Trevor Forester?” Duncan asked.
She shook her head. “I would have said Trevor had no enemies. But I realized tonight that I didn’t know Trevor at all.”
“I think that will be enough for now.” Duncan turned off the tape recorder. Both deputies pushed to their feet. “
We’ll check out your story, Ms. Lawson. You might want to have someone take a look at that cut on your forehead.”
“It’s fine.” She told herself there was no reason to worry about anything. The man she was with in the cottage would come forward once he heard about the murder. Also the other Scarlett. Once the deputies found her car…
“When you search the cottage, you’ll find my engagement ring I threw at the man as I was leaving.” She cringed as she remembered what else she’d left behind. “You’ll also find some black silk…underthings of mine that I didn’t take the time to collect.” She was mortified that her risqué panties and bra would now be…evidence in a murder investigation. Her face burned. “All of which prove I’m telling the truth.”
Duncan looked sympathetic, but doubtful. “They prove you were in the cottage. Not that you were with anyone. We’ll get back to you. Please don’t leave town.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere,” she snapped. “I have a bakery to run. I also have no reason to leave. I want to know who killed Trevor as much as you do. More so, since you seem to think I’m a suspect.”
“If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” Deputy Duncan handed her his card.
She watched them both leave, feeling heartsick. The events of the night seemed surreal, a bad dream. Trevor murdered? Herself a suspect? A chill skittered over her skin. Was it possible that she’d found the passion she’d always longed for—in the arms of a total stranger?
MACKENZIE COOPER left the Foresters’ and walked down the road in the pouring rain to his pickup. He’d had to park a half mile back up the lane because of all the cars. Those cars were gone now, and when he turned to look back, he saw something that sent his heart pounding. The sheriff’s car was parked near the rear entrance of the house.
Getting into his Chevy truck, the camper on the back, he drove north down the narrow, winding lake road toward Bandit’s Bay Marina, where he kept his houseboat. What had happened to cause the sheriff to go up to the house? He had a feeling he didn’t want to know.
At the Beach Bar at the end of the pier at the marina, he ordered a beer. “What’s all the excitement?” he asked the bartender.
“Trevor Forester was murdered tonight,” the bartender said.
Mac felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Trevor was dead and Mac had just slept with his fiancée. Talk about bad karma.
He drank his beer, hardly tasting it, and listened to some of the locals talking about how Forester’s boat was found floating about a half mile off Inspiration Island. A fisherman found Trevor lying in a pool of blood in the bottom of the boat. He’d been shot twice in the heart.
Murder was rare enough in this part of Montana. The last one was back in 1997 when some guy was killed on Hawk Island. What made this murder more tantalizing was that the victim was a local and that he was developing Inspiration Island, an island the men at the bar said should have been left alone. They hinted that the island was haunted, which was a good reason not to develop it.
Mac didn’t buy into any of that mumbo jumbo. What interested him was that the locals hadn’t liked Trevor. Partially because of the resentment they harbored for him and the Forester family money. Partially because Trevor was a jackass who also hadn’t been paying his bills of late.
Mac sipped his beer, unable to shake the anxiety he’d felt the moment he’d seen the sheriff’s car at the Foresters’ lake house. It was just a matter of time before the sheriff found out about Trevor’s call to Mac.
“I think someone’s trying to kill me,” Trevor had said on the phone yesterday, sounding scared. “I heard you’re a private investigator. I need you to find out who it is before it’s too late.”
It had been Trevor’s plan for them to meet at the party to discuss the job. Trevor had sent Mac a costume: Rhett Butler. They were to meet at the lake cottage at eight-fifteen tonight. Trevor would be arriving by boat.
Except Trevor never made it. Another boat pulled up. And Mac had recognized the man’s voice as he came onto shore with a woman on his arm. Nathaniel Pierce. He and Mac had gone to university together. Mac had forgotten that Pierce had bought a place up this way.
He’d been watching Pierce from the window when the cottage door opened and the woman came in. The last thing Mac wanted to do was see Pierce, so Mac had kissed the woman to keep her quiet.
According to the discussion at the bar, Trevor’s fiancée was a woman named Jill Lawson. While locals had little regard for Trevor, they had nothing but praise for Jill, although, like Mac, they couldn’t understand what she saw in Trevor Forester. Jill owned a bakery in town called The Best Buns in Town.
A name that had more than a little truth to it, he thought. According to the locals at the bar, Jill was a hard worker, a fine-looking, intelligent young woman who baked the best cinnamon rolls in four states, not just in town.
If the locals knew about Trevor’s other woman, they weren’t talking. Mac listened to everyone speculate on who might have killed Trevor. It was clear no one had a clue. Mac finished his beer and walked down the dock to his boat, thinking of Jill Lawson. Worrying about her and wondering how she was going to take the murder of her fiancé, given what had happened tonight.
His houseboat was basically a box on pontoons, containing just the basics for living. He had it docked at the farthest slip at the end of an older section of the marina. The cheap seats.
The boat wasn’t much, but it was home. It had a flat roof, with a railing around both the bottom and top decks, a retractable diving board and a slide that he’d used more for escape in the past than for swimming.
He entered the houseboat cabin without a key—he never bothered to keep the place locked—and was instantly aware that someone was inside waiting for him. He heard the telltale squeak of his favorite chair, but he’d also developed a sixth sense for unwelcome company. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Drawing his weapon from his ankle holster, he moved soundlessly through to the living area at the center of the cabin. He aimed the gun at the person sitting in the dark in his chair and turned on a light.
“I do like a cautious man,” Nathaniel Pierce said as he looked up from the recliner where he was lounging, a bottle of Mac’s beer in his hand.
“Pierce,” Mac said.
The man was tanned, his body lean, his hair blond, his eyes blue, and even dressed down in jeans, a polo shirt and deck shoes, Nathaniel Pierce reeked of money. Old money.
Mac put the weapon away, walked to the small kitchen, pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge and twisted off the cap, pretty sure he was going to need a drink.
It wasn’t every day he came home to find Nathaniel Pierce sitting in his living room in the dark waiting for him. Mac thanked his lucky stars for that. He and Pierce had been roommates at university—actually at several Ivy League universities, which they attended during a troubled period in both of their lives. They hadn’t been friends for years.
Finding Pierce here made him nervous—and wary. “Slumming?” Mac asked.
Pierce laughed with only mild amusement.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that Trevor Forester was murdered tonight,” Pierce said.
So much for small talk. “Trevor Forester?”
Pierce smiled. “I saw your truck at the party, but I never did see you.”
Mac took a sip of his beer, wondering what Pierce was doing here. More importantly, what his interest in Forester was, or in himself, for that matter. “You hanging out with people like the Foresters?” Pierce had always been an old-money snob. Sure, the Foresters had money, but it was new and not nearly as much as the Pierces’. It was like the difference between a hot dog and beluga caviar.
“It’s a small community,” Pierce said in answer.
Not that small.
“I’m curious what you were doing there.” Pierce took a swig of beer and smiled as if enjoying the taste. Not likely.
“I had an invitation.” Mac put his feet up
on the coffee table and downed half his beer, telling himself he was nothing like the man sitting in his recliner. True, they looked alike and were both thirty-six. At six-four, Pierce was a couple of inches taller, carried a little more weight and his hair was blonder, his eyes bluer.
And they came from the same backgrounds. Mac had tried to overcome his. He’d chosen the worst possible career and lived on his houseboat on one lake or another or in the camper on the back of his truck. He kept a small office in Whitefish, Montana, where his sister lived, and he checked in every week or so, taking only the jobs that interested him.
He drank beer, dressed in old blue jeans, ragged T-shirts and Mexican sandals. Most days he was as close to happy as he could get, all things considered.
Clearly Pierce found all of that amusing, as if he thought Mac tried too hard to disguise who he was. A rich kid from old money. Just not as rich as Pierce.
Nathaniel Pierce loved being rich and flaunted it—when he wasn’t slumming, like tonight. He believed it was the privileged’s duty to acquire more wealth.
Mac, on the other hand, liked working for a living. He didn’t require much. What he did require was a purpose in life. He thrived on challenging himself, both mentally and physically. That was why he’d gotten into private investigation.
“What is it you really want, Pierce?” he asked, deciding to cut to the chase.
“I told you, I want to know your interest in the Foresters. I wasn’t aware you even knew them.”
Mac smiled as he got to his feet. “It’s late. I’m tired. I’ve had a big night.”
Pierce didn’t move. “I have a job for you, Mac.”
“I already have a job.”
His old friend lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll pay you double what you’re getting from your current client.”
Mac smiled at that. His current client was dead. “You know waving money at me is a waste of time.”
Pierce nodded, smiled and slowly pushed himself to his feet. “I do know that about you, Mac.” He said it as if he found that to be a flaw in Mac’s character. “Why don’t you come out to my ranch, say in the morning about nine? I have a little place down the lake where I raise a few buffalo.”
