Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie

by Marianne Stillings

  Fernando was in his kush position in the bottom of the boat and seemed intent on ignoring him as much as possible, which was fine with him, if having a relationship with the beast meant being slimed whenever the damned thing got pissed.

  Max swung the bow toward open water, the distant lights of Heyworth Island weakly penetrating the fog like stars through smoke. Keeping an eye on the twin lights that marked the entrance to the cove, he throttled forward, sending the runabout churning through the choppy waves.

  Evie sat next to Fernando, idly letting her fingers sift through the animal’s soft fleece. He wondered if she was thinking about him, about them. He knew that he was having a hard time thinking about anything else.

  The wind blew steadily from the north, but that didn’t explain why the back of his neck began to itch. A feeling of uneasiness poked at his gut. Something wasn’t right.

  “Evie?” he shouted over the sound of the motor. The mixed scents of salty water and fuel exhaust swirled around them. “You doing okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she yelled. “Anxious to get back.”

  In twenty more minutes they’d be on the island. Things were going smoothly. So why did he have a feeling low in his belly that something was about to happen?

  That’s when he heard it. An engine. Nearby. Coming toward them.

  “Evie!” he shouted. “Can you see a boat?”

  She half stood and looked around. “I hear it, but I don’t see anything.”

  Behind them Port Henry’s waterfront twinkled in the dark like a string of tangled Christmas lights. In front of him the silhouette of Heyworth Island was dim, blending into the night like spilled ink on a black carpet. Around them all was mist and shadows.

  “Evie!” he yelled above a sudden blast of wind, the noise of the engine, the thundering of his own heart. “Can llamas swim?”

  “I—I don’t know!”

  He reached down and yanked open the storage bin, grabbed a life jacket and shoved it into her hands. “Put this on,” he ordered. “Now!”

  Their running lights were on. They could be seen, even through the fog. Anybody heading toward them would adjust their course.

  The wind shifted direction and he heard the engine again, louder now, closer. He could take evasive action, but what if that turned him right into the oncoming boat?

  Pressing the horn, he blasted it in rapid succession, warning the approaching vessel to veer away.

  The throb of the engine grew louder, its roar just a few feet to starboard.

  Blasting the horn again, Max yelled to Evie, “Hang on!”

  And it was on them.

  He jumped back as the blade of the bow pierced the runabout, slicing it in half.

  Wood screamed and shattered, water exploding around him, sucking him down, covering him in a massive backwash.

  He tried to call her name, but his mouth filled with cold seawater and he choked and went under. When he surfaced, the boat was disappearing to port, into the mist. Not stopping, not even slowing down.

  Max smashed at the water with his hands, trying to grasp something large enough to hang onto. Finally, a piece of the runabout was within reach. As he grabbed it he yelled, “Evie!” He took another breath. “Evie! Answer me!”

  His heart pounded, his eyes stung, his throat tightened.

  “Evie!” Her name was a harsh rasp on his lips. His lungs felt like they were on fire. Yet he called her name, and called it again, called it until he couldn’t draw another breath.

  The wind whipped across the water, teasing the rolling waves into hands that slapped his face and tried to force him under.

  But he didn’t go under. Instead, he found his breath and called her name again as he thrust himself forward through dark waves. His clothes weighed a ton, threatening to drag him under, to drag him to his death, but he kept his arms moving

  in the hope he might accidentally come upon her. All around him, he could see debris, vague shapes rolling and bobbing in the black water.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed before he heard the sound of a horn. Across the peaks of water, a light, steady and bright, moved toward him. Over the thrashing of the wind, he heard the sound of an engine. But would the boat see him, or would it too run him down?

  Or had whoever it was come back to finish the job?

  A shaft of light reached out, illuminating the wreckage of the runabout. Shards of wood, a floating seat cushion, part of the stern.

  But no Evie.

  The oncoming boat slowed and he heard a man shouting.

  “Over here!” Max lifted an arm and waved just as the light touched his fingertips. In minutes the boat slid close to him and a rope ladder uncurled over the side, splashing into the heaving water.

  As Max clambered up the ladder, he shouted, “Turn the beam back onto the water! Turn it back!” Twisting on the rungs, he yelled, “Evie!”

  “Dave!” the stranger yelled to someone behind him. “Get that light out on the water. And radio the Harbor Patrol!”

  Behind the man, Dave moved the light across the surface of the water, and for the next hour the three men searched for Evie. When the Harbor Patrol arrived, more lights flooded the area, but much of the debris had already been scattered by the wind and the storm waves.

  Max considered it a positive sign that no bodies floated amidst the debris. No llama. No woman. It wasn’t a whole lot of hope, but it was better than nothing.

  The tide was going out. The storm waves could have carried her a mile out to sea by now.

  They searched all night. At daybreak, when the wind had calmed and the sea flattened, Max wiped the veil of mist from the lenses of his binoculars and continued scanning the horizon. The empty horizon.

  Chapter 15

  Dear Diary:

  Today I found out that Mayhew Manor used to be called Heyworth’s Folly, but that Thomas changed the name when he inheritted it and wrote mystery stories. All of the bedrooms are named after famous detectives in books, like Hercueles Parrot and Miss Marble or somebody. Edmunds told me that there are secret passageways in the house, too, but I haven't found any yet. They sure are hidden! I am going to look like crazy around the manor to find them. I know I’ll find at least one! That may be scary if I find one though, because I bet they’re all filled with spider webs and skeltons!

  Evangeline—age 11

  The Harbor Patrol was very sorry, but the young woman—if she had even survived the impact,

  which was doubtful—couldn’t have had much debris to hang on to. Fully clothed in a tumultuous sea, an outgoing tide, not to mention the llama… well, ugly as it was, with each passing hour and no sign of Evie Randall, the truth simply had to be faced.

  In all likelihood, they said, her body would be found within the next few days on one of the many islands dotting the sound. They would continue to search, of course. But, hell, if she’d caught a good current, she might just end up on Vancouver Island. Canadian turf. And wouldn’t that be a nightmare of paperwork.

  As a police officer, Max understood where they were coming from. He didn’t like it, but he got it.

  As a man, it tore him to shreds.

  It was Wednesday afternoon, and still no sign of Evie. His head pounded from stress and lack of sleep, but no amount of urging from the authorities or anyone at Mayhem could get him to take more than a short break to eat or grab some coffee.

  He hadn’t shaved since Monday morning and had only taken time to eat to keep his strength up. He looked like shit and didn’t care. Only Edmunds looked as bad, if not worse.

  Max wouldn’t have thought the old guy had it in him, but Edmunds proved a strong and tenacious partner. He appeared decidedly unbutlerish in damp jeans and a sweatshirt, his gray hair uncombed, his face haggard. His eyes were bloodshot, and deep circles under them made it look as though he’d gone a nasty three rounds, and lost.

  Since the boat was being refueled, Max poured another mug of coffee and meandered over to the kitchen window, letting his
tired mind have its way. He gazed through the glass and thought of his mother. Had she stood musing out this window in her short stay at Mayhem? She’d only lived a few months after coming here. Had she found solace in the tall trees and quiet of the place?

  Reaching into his pocket, he found the coin she’d given him and gripped it tightly in his hand.

  Another sip of coffee. Regrets. Yeah, he had ’em, in spades. Maybe he shouldn’t have listened to his father, shouldn’t have let his parents’ divorce cleave his relationship with his mother. He hadn’t seen it back then, but he saw it now. He’d been a fool—a young, headstrong, know-it-all fool.

  Turning his back to the window, he let the buttery sunshine warm his shoulders, but his thoughts remained as dark and cold as the sea that encircled the island.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Maxfield,” his mother had said the day before her marriage to Heyworth. “It’s just going to be a small civil ceremony. I do wish you’d come.”

  He’d been nearly nineteen, filled with the self-righteous arrogance of youth and the pernicious delusions his father had poisoned his brain with since he’d been a kid. At that age, his world had been black and white and right and wrong—all absolutes, no shades of gray, no subtleties, and no room for forgiveness or compassion.

  “I wouldn’t breathe the same air as that son of a bitch,” he’d snapped, and saw the hurt in his mother’s eyes. But she hadn’t argued with him.

  “Perhaps when you’re older,” she’d said softly. “When you know a little more of the world and men and women, you’ll forgive yourself for what you just said.” She paused for a moment, lowering her eyes. “You idolize your father, Maxfield, and there’s nothing wrong with that. He is a good man, a very good man. But idolizing him as you have, it’s been difficult for you to see that he and I… well, the way he has treated me over the years has put some stress on our relationship.”

  “What are you talking about?” he’d ranted. “He takes care of you, doesn’t he? Pays for everything? Nice house, good cars. He’s never cheated on you, never raised a hand to you!”

  She bit her lip and continued to avoid eye contact with him. “I can only tell you my side, Maxfield. If you want to know your father’s side, you’ll have to ask him, though I doubt he’ll be honest with you. Now, before you go off half cocked,” she rushed on, forestalling another accusation on his part, “I had already planned on leaving your father. Thomas simply gave me a reason to speed up the process. These last few years have taken a lot out of me, and I’m tired, Maxfield. I’m very tired. Thomas lives on an island. It’s peaceful, and I need that. He understands me in a way your father… well, never mind. It sounds too clichéd, even to my ears. Even though it’s the truth.”

  She had looked at him meaningfully, but at the time, he’d missed it. His anger and selfishness blocked her real message, and he missed it completely.

  “But what about Frankie and me and Dad?” he’d spat out. “What’s going to happen to us?”

  He realized now just how childish that had sounded, but his mother hadn’t chastised him for it. Instead, she smiled wearily and said, “It’s no use discussing it further, Maxfield. What happens to you is up to you. I am hoping that, someday, you’ll meet someone, and she will be unlike any other. She’ll be special, and you’ll see it. You’ll know you can be happy with her. But because of your father’s influence and your own stubbornness, I don’t think it will happen for you for a long time yet, but it will. Eventually, when your father’s poison has worn off…”

  He’d simply glared at her.

  “That’s my fault, I suppose.” She’d set her teacup on the table and folded her hands in front of her. “I should have left him years ago, taken you and Francine with me, rather than let his attitudes become your own.”

  Looking into his eyes, she said, “You don’t respect women, Maxfield. Oh, you’re not mean. You would never hurt a woman or mistreat her, but you’ve learned from your father that women are interchangeable, like auto parts or ink cartridges. Use one up, change it for another. Someday, dear, you’ll discover women are not ink cartridges. And when you do, I hope you’ll think back to this moment and remember my hopes for you. And remember, too, how much I loved you.”

  He’d stormed out, and she married Thomas Heyworth, and eight months later she died.

  And she’d been right. Close to sixteen years had passed, and he came to realize just how right she’d been.

  …you’ll meet someone, and she will be unlike any other.

  “Evie.” Closing his eyes, he whispered, “Where are you? Come back to me.”

  With his fingers wrapped around his mug of coffee, he wandered through the manor, letting the kinks out, while Nate and Edmunds finished refueling Heyworth’s yacht. As he entered the library, Lorna raised her head and looked at him with hope in her worried eyes. But it faded when she realized he had no news.

  Madame Grovda sat in a large chair near the fireplace, her eyes closed, her hands crossed over her ample belly.

  Setting his coffee on one of the mahogany tables, he walked over to her. “Can you find her?” he demanded.

  Keeping her eyes closed, she whispered, “Poor man. Poor, poor man—”

  “Can you find her?” he repeated. “If you can, now would be a real good time.”

  She shook her head, setting her earrings swinging. “I have tried, but nothing.” Her eyes still closed, she put a hand to her throat. “I see the water, black, deep, and hear the screams of the wind—”

  “I don’t need a weather report,” he barked. “I need Evie!”

  “Pozbalujsta. Please. Have the patience.”

  He rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m… sorry.”

  “I feel sand,” she murmured. “Hard sand, so? Yes? Under my fingers. But she is, eh, lost. Very lost. Tired, hungry…”

  “Lost? Like on an island? Can you tell which one?” His anxious heart began to build speed, his throat went dry.

  Madame Grovda shook her head as deep furrows lined her brow. “Nyet.” Her round face flushed, her eyes moistened. “That is all that comes to me.”

  He nodded. “We’re going back out in a few minutes. We’ll be gone until dark, unless we find—” Behind him there was a sound. The library door had slowly creaked open. Lorna made a choking noise and Madame Grovda squealed. Max turned…

  In the middle of the doorway stood an exhausted-looking, sand-encrusted, wet, bedraggled Evie Randall, and a giant sand flea with fuzzy banana ears.

  “Guess what?” she rasped. “Llamas can swim.”

  Before she could move, he was there, his arms around her, pulling her into the room, into his embrace. She let her body go limp against him and tried not to think about the first emotion that had struck her when she’d seen him standing there.

  He was unshaven and his hair was a mess. If she hadn’t felt like a battered piece of driftwood, she would have thought he looked ruggedly hot.

  “Oh, God, Evie,” he muttered against her hair. “Thank God. I thought I’d lost you. I thought…”

  He shoved her to an arm’s length and his eyes raked her, head to toe. “How did you… where have you… are you all right?” His voice cracked over the words as though he was having trouble containing his emotions.

  She looked up into his hazel eyes and placed her trembling fingers on his cheek. “You made it,” she whispered, fighting the sharp pain she felt in her throat. “I knew you would.”

  He led her to the nearest chair, sat her down, and sent Lorna scurrying to the kitchen for some water. Madame Grovda patted her hand, asking if there was anything she could do.

  Max kneeled at her feet, touching her face, her arms, her thighs, her shoulders. “Are you positive you’re all right? You’re a real mess.”

  “Well,” she sighed wearily, “I would have taken a bath on the boat but I preferred to wash up on shore.”

  He laughed at that, showing his straight white teeth. He really did have a s
tunning smile and sexy laugh, and she was grateful to be able to witness both again.

  Lorna returned with the water, then excused herself to go get Edmunds and Dabney.

  “Do they know who did it?” Evie asked, clutching the water tumbler between her hands. It was déjà vu all over again.

  He shook his head. “We’ll talk about that later. First, we need to take you to the hospital.”

  “No!” she choked, then let her body relax into the chair. “No hospital. I didn’t drown and I’m not injured. Just bone-tired and filthy and hungry. But I’ll tell you, these life-threatening mishaps are really beginning to piss me off.”

  Max grinned at her as if she’d just told the world’s cutest story. God, it was good to see his face. She couldn’t stop staring at him. She liked everything about the way he looked… and more. “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday,” he said.

  “Wednesday. That means we only have ten days left to find the other clues.”

  “We’ll worry about that after you’ve had some rest.”

  Turning her head, she saw Fernando kushed down in the middle of the library. “Would somebody please bring some water for my llama?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Max assured her as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “I need to notify the Harbor Patrol that you’ve been found.”

  “Actually, I found myself.”

  He grinned again. “Actually, you did, Scout.” While Max called and then went to get water, Madame Grovda inched nearer.

  “I am so pleased, so pleased,” she all but sobbed. Before Evie could reassure the psychic she was fine, the library doors burst open again.

  “Evangeline?”

  Edmunds. Pale as snow, looking a hundred years old, he rushed through the doors and into the room, his eyes wide with obvious exhaustion and relief.

  Kneeling at her feet, he leaned forward and gathered her into his arms in a hard embrace.

  “Thank God,” he choked, his spent voice barely audible. “Oh, my child. My dear, dear child. How frightened we were when we couldn’t find you.”