by Debra Webb
Her hand drifted down to her thigh. No man would want a woman so grossly marked. She traced the thick ridges of healed flesh. Chase surely had noticed the limp. Her inability to walk long distances or to jog had forced her to attempt to stay in good physical condition by other means, but she hadn’t been very successful. Her body had lost its look of youth and firmness.
Chase was muscular. His body was no doubt perfect. A startling jolt shook her at the thought of him naked. Her breath caught sharply at the intensity of it. Her hand went to her throat, trailed down to her breasts, which were stinging with their own urgent need.
Perhaps her breasts were her one saving grace. Fairly large and still reasonably firm. She pulled her hand away. Why did she even bother worrying about such nonsense? She could never let him get close. She knew that with absolute certainty. To torture herself with such foolish notions was ridiculous.
Abruptly, Livvy sat up and listened.
Goose bumps rushed over her skin in spite of the warm water.
What the hell…?
Music. She could hear music.
She pushed herself out of the water, using the safety bar for assistance.
Quickly dabbing off her wet skin, she tried to make out where the sound was coming from…what the melody was. She hadn’t turned on the light in the bathroom since she’d lit the candles. Had the power blinked off and then on? Sometimes the television came on of its own accord when that happened. A radio maybe?
She slipped on her robe, cinched the belt tight at her waist and padded into her bedroom. The music was a little louder now.
She opened the door and eased out into the upstairs hall.
Classical music.
Mozart.
Fear froze in Livvy’s veins.
She recognized the piece.
James’s favorite.
Livvy didn’t know how long she stood there, paralyzed with terror. She had to move. Had to determine the source of the music.
Had to run, another part of her brain urged.
She hurried to the staircase. Hesitated there, staring through the consuming darkness below. She flipped the wall switch. The entry hall flooded with light.
The music seemed to be coming from the parlor.
“Just a coincidence,” she murmured. The radio probably came on from the power surge. Just happened to be playing that song.
Couldn’t be anything else.
She choked out a sound that was supposed to be a laugh.
Any second now the deejay would break into the music and announce the current time or an update on the weather.
Calm down.
Calm down and go to the parlor.
Turn off the radio.
Everything is fine.
Livvy descended the stairs cautiously. With each step she reminded herself that it had to be a coincidence. A joke played by fate to shake her.
She reached the parlor doorway. Felt along the wall for the switch. Table lamps around the room lit instantly, chasing away the darkness. Air she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding rushed past her lips in a surge of relief.
Okay, it’s okay.
The crescendo of the music rose higher and higher as she moved determinedly toward the built-in bookcases where her CD player/radio combination sat on one of the many shelves.
She licked her lips and reached toward the power button.
Her hand halted midway to her destination. A frown wrinkled her brow.
It wasn’t the radio.
The CD player.
Her entire body went numb with renewed fear as she pressed the stop button, then eject. The tray holding the CD slid outward. Her fingers closed around the shiny disc and lifted it out of the tray.
A collection of Mozart.
The disc fell to the floor.
Livvy stared down at it.
Not possible.
She’d given away all of his belongings. She’d kept nothing. Not even a single photograph.
A blast of cold air whipped down the entry hall. The sound of breaking glass jerked her from terror’s grip long enough to prod her in that direction.
The flowers lay on the floor. The elegant vase she kept on the side table shattered, pieces lying around like glittering slivers of ice. She must have overfilled it with the long-stemmed arrangement. Left it off balance, she reasoned.
The wind lifted the hem of her robe, making her shiver.
As if time had lapsed into slow motion, Livvy turned toward the front door. It stood wide open. Wind and rain blasted into the house.
Another sound rose above that of the wind.
Livvy’s gaze swung toward the corridor waiting to be renovated. Weeping. Loud…forlorn. Her heart launched into her throat.
“No.” The single word squeezed out of her on a sob of anguish.
Livvy bolted for the door. She grabbed her keys from the hook on the wall as she passed and ran out of the house.
The wind pushed against her. The rain blinded her but she didn’t stop. Kept going. Had to reach her car. A stab of pain pierced her thigh. She cried out and her legs buckled and she went down in a tangled heap in the damp grass.
Get up! Get up!
She struggled to her feet. Scrambled forward. Not far now, she told herself.
Reaching her car, her fingers curled on the driver’s side door latch…jerked. Nothing. It was locked. She swore…fumbled…finally succeeded in pressing the unlock button on the remote in her hand.
She flung the door open and lunged behind the steering wheel. She shoved the key into the ignition. Hurry! A voice deep in her brain kept screaming at her to hurry. Her heart pounded so hard she could hardly breathe. Her fingers trembled so violently she had to squeeze them together a moment before she could summon the strength to turn the ignition.
The engine started on the first try. Thank God! Thank God! She threw the car into reverse and stomped on the accelerator. The sudden backward motion propelled her forward, almost slamming her forehead against the steering wheel.
Struggling for control, she moved the gearshift into drive and took off in the direction of town. “Get hold of yourself,” she muttered. She would be in town in no time. All she had to do was to calm down and keep the vehicle out of the ditch.
The engine stalled. She pounded the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. “No!” She patted the accelerator but the engine died. “Damn it.” She twisted the ignition over and over but it wouldn’t start.
“What the—?”
Her gaze settled on the fuel gauge.
Empty.
But she’d filled it up just two days ago. Hadn’t driven anywhere since. She remembered distinctly…
The grit and determination she’d used to force her damaged body to relearn how to walk suddenly solidified. The terror twisting inside her abruptly vanished, fury took its place.
Livvy shoved the car door open and climbed out into the driving rain. She stared back at the inn with its ominous turrets jutting skyward.
This was her home. By God, no one was going to drive her out of it. And that was exactly what was happening here.
She marched back to the house, each step ratcheting up her outrage another notch. Whoever was doing this wasn’t going to get away with it. He—or she—had to be a coward to do this kind of thing without showing his face.
She was not a coward. She refused to be a victim again. Not ever again.
Livvy stalked into the entry hall and slammed the door behind her.
She leaned against it for a moment and listened. The storm outside still howled, the rain pelted down insistently. But inside, it was as quiet as a tomb.
The idea that some coward had done this to her and then scampered away to hide only made her more furious.
She skirted the broken glass and went in search of the necessary implements to clean up the mess.
With the glass and flowers in the trash and the water mopped up, she went through every single room in the house, upstairs and down.
&
nbsp; She even opened the off-limits room. She didn’t go inside, but she did scrutinize the exterior doors from her position across the room. They were locked. With that room secured once more, she headed back to the parlor. She retrieved the CD and studied it a moment.
She didn’t use the CD player often. Couldn’t even remember when she had played it last. One of her guests over the summer could have left this CD in the player. If the electricity blinked as she’d suspected, the CD player could have turned on as a result of the ensuing power surge.
Livvy laughed wryly, stared down at her damp robe. She was an idiot. Had let her imagination get the better of her.
This house was old. It wasn’t impossible that she’d believed she’d closed and locked the front door securely, but actually hadn’t pushed it into place quite hard enough. The wind could have done the rest. As far as the weeping went, she didn’t know quite what to make of that, but if it was a ghost, she wasn’t afraid of ghosts. It was people who killed people.
She trudged into the kitchen, tossed the CD into the trash and put the kettle on. She could definitely use a cup of hot tea to soothe her seriously frayed nerves. More brandy was out of the question. The liquor may very well have fueled her imagination.
While the water heated she would dry off again and drag on some soft flannel pajamas. She intended to relax tonight, one way or another.
She started for the door but hesitated. Damn. She hadn’t gone shopping this week with all the excitement—if one could call murder exciting. Was she out of tea? This morning she hadn’t seen anything but coffee in the cupboard. When there were no guests at the inn, she didn’t bother with inventory and stocking so meticulously.
No point in heating the water if she didn’t have any tea. Annoyed that she might not be able to savor her favorite blend, she tromped over to the cupboard.
She swung open the doors and her breath evaporated in her lungs.
A large tin of imported tea stared back at her.
Livvy swallowed hard. Assam Indian tea.
Had Edna decided to take the shopping upon herself since Livvy hadn’t gotten around to it?
But Livvy hated Assam tea. It wouldn’t have been on her list. She didn’t even stock it for her guests. It had to be special ordered…had Edna or Clara ordered it?
No…no…that couldn’t be right.
Her hand shaking, she reached for the canister. She lifted it from the cupboard and her heart bucked mercilessly. Another can sat behind that one. Then another.
This wasn’t right. She hated Assam tea.
James had loved it. He had insisted that Americans didn’t know good tea. Livvy remembered the first time she’d placed his special order and gotten the wrong blend…she flinched at the recollection of the explosion of rage he’d showered on her.
This just couldn’t be…
No one else knew about before…about what she’d been through. Who would order James’s tea?
Livvy stood in the middle of her kitchen…suddenly afraid to move. Afraid to scream.
Impossible. No one knew. No one.
It had to be him…
CHAPTER SIX
CHASE WAITED in the darkness.
Eight p.m.
Benton Fraley entered the office, switching on the light as he closed the door behind him.
He blinked, seemingly startled when he noticed Chase sitting there.
“What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark, son?” he asked cautiously. Suspicion narrowed his keen gaze.
Chase tapped the two folders lying on the edge of Shirley’s desk. “Tell me what’s going on. Now.” He wanted to shake his uncle until he told him everything. A new wave of anguish washed over Chase when he thought of what Olivia Hamilton had lived through with her demented husband. He’d wondered about her slight limp…had speculated on her skittishness in his presence.
Now he knew. She’d been abused in the strongest sense of the word. Dear God. The medical reports indicated numerous past fractures that had healed without treatment. The plunge down a staircase had almost taken her life. She’d finally admitted to her doctor and friends that her husband had pushed her. But the psychological report had been the most horrifying of all. Repeated mental abuse to the point she now feared anything that reminded her of that life.
She’d come here, no doubt seeking a fresh start far away from her past, and look at what she’d inadvertently stumbled into. The unfairness of it made his chest constrict all over again. No one should have to suffer the way Olivia had.
The chief glanced at the files. “There are things you don’t know, Chase.”
Fury obliterated all other emotion in a flash. “Like what? That you didn’t even bother interviewing Beverly Bellamy’s friends and family, other than the parents? Or that forensics wasn’t scheduled to come back like you said?” He surged to his feet. “Why all the lies? I don’t understand.”
His uncle met his gaze, his blue eyes, the mark of the Fraleys, incredibly calm in light of Chase’s accusations. “Sit down and I’ll tell you everything.”
“You’ll tell me everything anyway,” Chase snapped, his hands at his waist, impatience pounding through his veins. Someone had murdered Beverly Bellamy. Olivia could be in danger, as well. He would have the truth.
“I’ve just spent the last two hours interviewing Edna Bradley.”
The statement took Chase aback. Olivia’s housekeeper? “For what purpose?”
The chief sighed wearily and dropped into a chair as if too exhausted to stand a moment longer. “I’ve been watching the inn. I knew something wasn’t right.” His gaze bore determinedly into Chase’s. “As soon as I had spoken to Beverly’s parents and ensured there were no skeletons rattling around in the girl’s closet, I felt certain the motivation revolved around the inn. So I’ve been doing a good bit of surveillance. Ralph Cook appeared to be coming and going at rather odd hours, not his usual eight-to-five shift.”
Chase shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re trying to lay this at Ralph Cook’s door. He wouldn’t—”
“You’re wrong, Chase,” his uncle interrupted. “Edna told me she’d noticed Olivia as well as Ralph behaving oddly, in particular after I openly accused him of the vandalism. So, I followed him home this evening at five-thirty.”
A new kind of anxiety mushroomed inside Chase. “Then why didn’t you bring him in?”
The chief shook his head. “Because he gave me the slip. That’s why I went to Edna, to see if she had noticed anything. She was my only other hope of getting to the truth.”
Chase flung his arms outward in disbelief. “You really think that Ralph killed Beverly?”
The chief reached into his interior coat pocket and withdrew a plastic bag. He placed it on the desk. Chase didn’t have to pick it up to know what it contained. The jeweled sheath that belonged with the letter opener…the murder weapon in the Bellamy case.
“Oddly enough,” the chief went on, “when I got to Edna’s, she was just about to call me. When she did the laundry at the inn this afternoon she changed some linens and found this—” he tapped the plastic bag “—in Olivia Hamilton’s bedroom, hidden beneath the mattress.”
The reality of what he was suggesting slammed into Chase like water breaking on the rocks. “You can’t be serious.”
The chief nodded. “Edna also told me that she’d seen Ralph and Ms. Hamilton engaged in what looked like intense conversations or confrontations—always out of her earshot. She got the impression Ralph was questioning the orders he’d been given. Don’t get me wrong here,” his uncle asserted, “Edna thinks highly of Olivia, but when I pushed, she admitted that she was afraid the woman might be bordering on a breakdown of some sort. Real jumpy, acting kind of funny about everything, and too quiet…withdrawn.”
Stunned, Chase could scarcely voice what he knew his uncle to be saying. “You think Olivia either orchestrated or carried out this murder? For what purpose? To torture herself?” The ferocity of the emotions soaring through
him now tilted his equilibrium, making him feel unsteady on his feet. This was insane.
“I believe she’s mentally unstable. That perhaps she even killed her husband.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was self-defense, who knows? She came all the way out here for a fresh start and things started to go wrong. The only thing she knew to do was to take desperate measures. I told you, Chase, that she was a desperate woman. Desperate people do desperate things. Who’s to say she isn’t as crazy as a loon?”
He tapped one of the files Chase held. “Didn’t you read that research I did on serial killers? Most of them were abused in one way or another as children. I think Olivia Hamilton’s abusive husband may have pushed her over the edge.”
Chase had read the research all right and it didn’t add up to anything in his opinion. His uncle was clearly grasping at straws. Chase wasn’t listening to any more of this. He grabbed his keys. “If you think you can prove it,” he challenged, “arrest her. Personally, I think she might be the one in danger. Whoever did this may not be finished yet.”
The chief lunged to his feet. “Are you implying that someone on this island would be capable of murder just to shut that place down?” His own fury roared in every word.
“You accused Ralph Cook. Why not?”
The chief stabbed a finger at Chase’s chest. “I accused him of being caught up in the woman’s spell. I didn’t say anything about him committing the murder.”
“You’re wrong,” Chase growled.
“No,” his uncle snapped. “You are. You’re allowing your obsession with the woman to color your judgment, just like your daddy did.”
Chase put his face close to his uncle’s. “Maybe I am, but I’ll take my chances. What you’re suggesting is crazy. She’d be stupid to do something like this even if she were capable. That inn is her livelihood, why would she jeopardize that?”
“Maybe for the publicity,” Chief Fraley offered unrepentantly, then shrugged. “Maybe because she just can’t help herself. Whatever the case, I’m putting out an APB on Cook,” he went on. “And then I’m going for a search warrant on the inn. Fair warning—after that, I plan to arrest her.”
