The pleasant music and surroundings—the soft laughter and beautifully dressed guests—reminded Quinn of Alicia and how much she’d have enjoyed such an event, but she felt edgy and out of place. With a glass of sparkling water in hand, she ambled toward a back entrance to the house and slipped inside, ducking into a short hall that led to the kitchen, its main work area out of sight. She could hear the rush of the caterers, the clatter of dishes, pots and silverware. She cut through a corner of the kitchen and down another hall, ending up in a sun-filled living room of soft yellows and blues, the furniture surprisingly informal. Two sofas faced each other, with chairs on either end and a tufted leather ottoman forming the main seating area. Along the walls were side tables, an antique grandfather clock, large-scale oil paintings and tall, immaculate windows that looked out across the lawn toward the water.
To her left was a dining room, more formal, quiet now. Quinn drifted toward a door in the right corner of the room. Another hall. She saw an open doorway just into the hall, another one farther down, and a graceful staircase. She wondered what she was doing, sneaking around Oliver Crawford’s bayside house.
Suddenly, Oliver himself was standing in the doorway, inches from her. “Quinn!” He smiled. “I thought I heard someone. Come—join me. I just had a call I had to take.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your guests.”
“And I don’t want to keep you from your spying.” With a chuckle, he stood back from the door and motioned her inside. “I can’t say I blame you. It’s a boring party.”
“No, it’s lovely—”
“‘Lovely’ is another way to say ‘boring.’”
She stepped past him into the library, all dark leather and wood, with framed black-and-white photographs on the walls. A stuffed owl stared at her from a shelf of vintage books.
“The original owner of the house was an amateur bird-watcher,” Crawford said behind her. “He left a number of stuffed birds here, but, fortunately, far more watercolors, many of which he painted himself.”
“Any good?”
“Not particularly, but I enjoy them nonetheless. They have an honesty and simplicity that I can appreciate.” He stood in front of a window overlooking a white lilac. “You and Gerry just got here, didn’t you?”
“Yes—but we didn’t come together.”
“No, of course not.”
Quinn heard the wry tone in his voice. “It’s funny how rumors get started, isn’t it? People get an idea in their heads, and suddenly they start thinking it’s reality. For instance, what was your real relationship with Alicia Miller?” she asked candidly.
“So, you’ve obviously heard rumors.” He dropped onto a leather club chair and crossed his legs, swinging one foot as he stared out the open window, the sounds of his party faint, the smell of the lilac in the air. “Alicia and I were friends. I was very fond of her. She was like a little sister to me. We got to know each other over the past month.”
“You weren’t having an affair?”
He didn’t seem surprised or offended by the question. “I won’t say it didn’t cross my mind, especially at first. But, no, we were not having an affair. Since my kidnap and rescue, the thought of romance, frankly, hasn’t appealed to me. I could feel normal around her. I like to think she could feel normal around me.” He sighed heavily, but his expression didn’t change. “But I couldn’t save her.”
“You knew she was troubled?”
“Yes. Yes, I knew.”
Quinn heard footsteps in the hall and turned, just as Huck materialized in the doorway. His gaze fell on her, his jaw set hard. He shifted his attention to his boss. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford. None of us saw her come inside.”
He held up a hand. “It’s not a problem, Mr. Boone. Quinn and I are friends. Go ahead, Quinn. You can continue. I have nothing to hide from you or anyone else. As I told the FBI and local police, Alicia’s moodiness started shortly before her death. She’d been unhappy for a while, of course, but the irrational talk—the kind of behavior you reported she exhibited when she came to you in Washington—” He paused as if in pain. “Let’s just say she went downhill very fast.”
“I think I know why,” Quinn said, avoiding Huck’s eye. “Alicia had a very bad reaction to an antidepressant back in college. My neighbor here in Yorkville is a retired nurse. She’s pretty sure she recognized the symptoms.”
“Why would she take a medication when she’d already had a bad reaction to it? What doctor would prescribe that if he knew her history?”
“I’m not sure a doctor gave it to her. I told the FBI.”
“Special Agent Kowalski?”
“I suggested they check their blood sample for antidepressants, in particular SSRIs.”
“SSRI?”
“It stands for selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor.” She smiled faintly. “I wrote it down. SSRIs are the most commonly prescribed antidepressants. According to Maura, my neighbor, tricyclics are more likely to be lethal in overdose, but SSRIs can produce a temporary increase in anxiety. Most of the time it’s mild and goes away after a few days. In rare cases, the anxiety and agitation can be very severe and frightening.”
“As with Alicia.” Crawford sat forward, intent on what Quinn was saying. “This is all news to me.”
“I’m not a doctor, and neither is Maura—she emphasized that to me. Most people do well on antidepressants and don’t have this kind of severe, unpleasant reaction. Depression is a treatable illness.”
“Alicia’s bad reaction in college was to some kind of SSRI?”
Quinn nodded. Huck hadn’t made a sound in the doorway. “I don’t know which one,” she said. “Alicia told me that she had reacted very badly and refused to touch any kind of antidepressant. If depressed, she would try alternative therapies. Psychoanalysis, exercise, meditation—but not medication. She was adamant about it.”
“Then you’re suggesting she didn’t know what she was taking.”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Quinn said.
“Who else knew about her reaction? Presumably her doctor, and her family—any other friends, colleagues? Besides yourself, that is.”
Quinn shifted in her chair. “I did not provide Alicia with any kind of medication, with or without her knowledge. Not even a vitamin. I don’t know anyone who would.”
“No, of course not.” He exhaled, adding simply, “I miss her.”
“Do you know anything about the car that picked her up in Washington?”
“It wasn’t me.”
“One of your security people?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Quinn noticed his pained look. “I don’t mean to sound as if I’m interrogating you. I understand you’d visit her at the cottage—”
“Mr. Crawford,” Huck interrupted, “I can take Miss Harlowe out of here.”
He shook his head. “No, no. It’s all right. Quinn’s been through a terrible ordeal herself, losing a friend.” Crawford got to his feet, and took a few steps, as if he just needed to move. He had a lost quality about him. “I walked through the marsh to your cottage, without security. You’d think I wouldn’t risk it, given my recent history. But Yorkville’s so small—and I’ve been coming here for years. I couldn’t imagine anything bad happening here. Maybe it’s me. My fault she died, that is. I’m bad luck.”
Quinn let her shawl fall off her shoulders. “Did she think of you as a brother?”
“She’d never say. She wasn’t one to open herself up to that kind of emotion. She protected herself, hated to be vulnerable.” He stopped pacing, looked at Quinn. “You believe we were having an affair, don’t you?”
“Oh, God—Oliver!” Sharon Riccardi burst past Huck into the library, her bare arms red with mosquito bites from last night’s trip through the marsh. If she was embarrassed over her behavior, she gave no indication. “I am so sorry. Boone, why didn’t you get her out of here?”
“I asked her to stay,” Crawford said. “It’s all righ
t, Sharon. Quinn and I have been having a nice chat.”
“It’s not all right.” Hands on hips, Sharon swung around to face Quinn. “You were invited here today because we believed you needed a break after what happened to your friend—we all needed a break and some closure. We assumed you’d act appropriately, not sneak around in private areas.”
Quinn thought Huck might say something in her defense, but he didn’t. “One thing just led to another,” she said.
Sharon Riccardi wasn’t mollified. “You need to bury your friend and leave the rest of us in peace. Oliver, you trust me to make difficult decisions, and I’m making one now. It’s time Miss Harlowe went home.”
Joe Riccardi appeared in the doorway and stood next to Huck, who still hadn’t moved or said anything. “What’s going on?”
Sharon stiffened. “Miss Harlowe is leaving.”
“I’ll see to it she gets home.” Huck calmly inserted himself between the Riccardis and Quinn and took her by the elbow. She felt the tickle of shawl fringe on her arm and remembered last night.
“I can find my own way out,” she said quickly.
Shaking her head, Sharon addressed Huck. “Take her back to her cottage in her car. That way we know she gets there safely. I’ll send Glover for you.”
Oliver Crawford rose, sweeping Quinn’s shawl up from where it had dragged on the floor. “I hope our discussion eases your mind.”
“It doesn’t, really, but thanks for your time.”
Keeping one hand on her elbow, Huck ushered Quinn past a dumbfounded, almost ashen Joe Riccardi. She wondered if he’d take the hit for her sneaking into the house, and felt a pang of regret. Just because he was married to ice-cold Sharon didn’t mean he’d escape her ire.
Huck picked up the pace as they walked back out to the kitchen. “Hey,” Quinn said, “I’m in high heels.”
“You’re keeping up just fine.”
He took her through the side door that she’d used to get in, skirting the edge of the party. But Gerard Lattimore waved from the shade of an oak. “Quinn! There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” He walked over to her, but glanced at Huck, saw his tension and frowned. “What’s going on?”
“I’m getting the boot,” Quinn said.
“Why?”
“Poking my nose where I shouldn’t.”
Huck loosened his grip on her arm. “I’m escorting Miss Harlowe back to her cottage.”
“I got caught talking to Oliver Crawford in the library,” Quinn explained, not exactly mortified over getting tossed from Breakwater. “Big sin.”
Gerard’s mouth twitched with humor. “Well, perhaps I can redeem you.”
“It’s okay. Really. I just wanted to see the place.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quinn’s leaving,” Huck said.
Gerard frowned at him. “I was hoping she and I would have a chance to talk.”
Quinn knew he would only grill her about what he hadn’t told her, and she’d lost any desire to stay. “I promised my grandfather I’d visit him on my way back to Washington,” she said. “I should get going.”
“Honestly,” Gerard said, “I can intervene and explain to Ollie that you’re like a wandering two-year-old—”
Quinn grinned at him. “Oh, that’s a big help.”
Huck straightened, everything about him on edge. “I need to get a move on.”
When they reached her car, he stood by the passenger door until she was inside, then shut it. If he’d had a dead bolt, he’d probably have used it to lock her in. He went around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
Quinn sat back in her seat. “You Breakwater guys need more to do if you’re getting all excited about me sneaking in through Crawford’s kitchen.”
“Crawford was exposed,” Huck said. “The Riccardis will regard your little escapade as a major security breach.”
“I should have knocked him on the head with a vase, just to give you all a rush.” She snapped her seat belt into place. “Relax. It all worked out.”
“Not by their standards.”
“Look, go on, go back to work. I’ll drive myself to my cottage. Kowalski’s probably sitting on my front porch waiting for me.”
Huck ignored her and started the engine.
“I did tell him about the rumor of an affair and the SSRIs first.”
“How good of you.”
“I’d have told you, but you were parking cars.”
He shot her a look. “Quinn, this isn’t a damn game.”
“I know that.” She spoke softly, just managing to maintain her composure. “At night—I wake up seeing the gulls at Alicia’s body.”
He gripped the wheel of her Saab. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you have a right to be angry, and concerned. I came out here on impulse.” She looked out the window at the beautiful setting. “This place is a viper pit.”
“That’s where guys like me get sent.”
“Steve Eisenhardt stole notes out of one of my research notebooks. Nothing that would compromise your work.” She continued to stare out the window as Huck backed out of her parking space. “My neighbors think Alicia and Oliver Crawford were having an affair, but he says they weren’t. Their relationship was platonic. He could talk to her. Then there’s the possible SSRI reaction—”
“That’s why you need to step back.”
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
He didn’t respond. They drove to her cottage in silence, and when he pulled into her driveway, he turned off the ignition. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“If one of your guys is coming for you, I don’t see that you have much of a choice.”
“You’ve pissed off too many people this afternoon.”
“I’ve never been thrown out of a party. I’ve never been thrown out of anything.” She opened up her door and smiled over at him. “It’s not as humiliating as I thought it’d be.”
But he didn’t smile back. Instead, he got out of the car and walked behind her to her side door.
“You know, it’s occurred to me—how do I know for sure you’re who you say you are?” She gave him a cool look that was entirely fabricated. “What if this is a case of the wolf guarding the henhouse?”
He stepped in close to her. “If something goes wrong, sweet pea, you’d better hope I’m a wolf.”
Her mouth went dry. As she unlocked the door, Quinn noticed her hands were trembling. And not from fear, she realized, or even embarrassment over her removal from the Crawford party. From awareness. Pure, physical, sexual awareness.
Huck slipped his arms around her middle and turned her to him, gently, any irritation with her gone now. “You and I have unfinished business.” He kissed her deeply, romantically, and whispered with a hint of a smile, “Get your butt back to D.C., Harlowe.”
“Or I’ll have a marshal on my tail?”
“You’re on Diego’s radar screen as it is. Showing up at Breakwater today and getting tossed out just caused you to be a brighter blip.”
“What does kissing you do?”
He gave her a sudden grin. “Let’s hope Diego didn’t see that part.”
“Kowalski—”
“The FBI’s on your case too. Lucky you.”
A black SUV pulled alongside her cottage, Vern Glover in the driver’s seat. Huck winked at her. “See you, sweet pea. Be good.”
But Quinn noticed the seriousness that had returned to his eyes, and by the time the SUV was out of sight, she was still on her doorstep, shivering, and, for the first time, afraid for him.
35
G erard paced along the stone patio agitated beyond all reason in the forty-five minutes since Quinn had left. The party was winding down quickly. People seemed reassured, even excited, about Breakwater Security, as if somehow having it in Yorkville made them safer. Perhaps, he thought, it did, but he had always been skeptical about Ollie’s new venture.
A sudden surge of loneliness caught him by surprise
. He didn’t like attending social functions alone, but he’d never considered bringing a date to Yorkville. He didn’t know why. Quinn? He shook off the thought, as if temptation’s long reach had struck out and knocked him for a loop. He needed to resist. Quinn Harlowe had nothing to offer him or his career, except a fascinating pedigree and the most beautiful hazel eyes.
He swore under his breath at his own calculated thinking, but he had to do something to cut through his fears.
He finished another glass of champagne. He hadn’t seen Ollie at all, perhaps just as well. In his current mood, Gerard didn’t trust himself not to go over the line and say more than he should, accuse his longtime friend of playing him for a fool, accuse him of going overboard since his kidnapping.
Best to get the hell out of here.
He would let the FBI find Eisenhardt and talk to him.
Getting rid of his champagne glass, Gerard looked around for someone to drive him back to his boat. He’d collapse and sleep late, cleanse his thoughts, then hire himself an attorney, on the slim chance that Steve hadn’t exaggerated or lied altogether. His warning had shaken Gerard more than he’d realized at first. It brushed too close to his life, his ambitions. As callous as that sounded, what else did he have? He would be irresponsible not to protect his interests.
“You look as if you’re about to run screaming back to D.C.”
Gerard turned, smiling, in spite of his mood, at his longtime friend. “Ollie. I was beginning to wonder if you’d given up on your own party and gone for a walk on the beach.”
“What passes for a beach out here.” He gave a short, awkward laugh, then turned to face the bay, glistening in the afternoon sun. “I never should have had this open house. It was a bad idea.”
“Your guests all seemed to enjoy themselves. I got the impression that being able to actually see what you’re doing here won most of them over.”
Breakwater Page 23
