"I'm suggesting you used her and left her there to die," Meg said, hurling the words at him like sharpened knives.
"Excuse me — why would I do that?" he asked, unflinching.
"That, I can't answer," Meg admitted. "I don't understand that kind of obsession, that kind of evil."
"A dramatic view of a dramatic day," he said, moving closer to her.
"I have your letter," she blurted, stepping back.
He said astutely, "It mustn't be much good to you."
"It's told me everything I need to know about you." She reached inside her pocket and gripped the knife that lay there. "It's told me you're the lowest form of life."
Even in the dull light of the overhead bulb, she could see that she'd gone too far: his eyes glazed over with hard-edged fury.
He's old, she told herself. He's old. I can take him. But she stepped back and around to the other side of the dollhouse, so that their positions were reversed: he was at the open side now, and she was in front. She looked down at the nursemaid doll with a quick, silent plea for help.
Camplin leaned on the edge of the table and glared over the rooftop at her. "Listen to me, you little — young lady. I've been extremely patient up until now. What you've said to me here is reprehensible — but it's not actionable. I warn you, though, if you keep running around town asking leading questions and impugning my name, then I'm going to make sure you and your family are stripped of everything you own and left naked and whimpering in the streets. Do you understand me?"
God, she despised him! "I'm not afraid of you," she snapped, clutching her knife.
"I don't think I'm getting through to you," he said, almost bemused by the fact. He reached into the dollhouse and brought out the hostess doll in her green-velvet dress. "There's more than one way," he said with a smile that was dreadfully unemotional, "to break someone."
He took the doll by the shoulders and with his right hand yanked the legs from the torso, then tossed the savaged pieces back into the dining room.
Shaking with fear and outrage, Meg said, "You'll pay for that! You bastard, you'll pay!"
His eyes narrowed with a look of withering confidence. "It looks like I won't be buying your little toy after all," he remarked, flicking his middle finger against the tiny windvane and sending it into a wild spin. "Some of it is in pieces."
Breathless with fury, she said, "I'd sooner sell to the devil!"
He smiled again, and then he turned and walked out. She watched him until he was swallowed up by the Down East fog — a murkier, darker fog than anywhere else in the world.
Meg's pursuit of justice for her grandmother had run hot and cold ever since her second visit with Orel Tremblay. But now it was running at a white-hot clip. Camplin would pay. One way or another, Meg was going to make sure of it. Her mind was in a turmoil as she weighed and balanced strategy and fallout.
One thing she knew: with his deep pockets and sterling reputation, Gordon Camplin would be tough to bring down. Going after his good name would be expensive and futile; her family would end up naked in the street.
No; there was another, simpler way to get revenge.
But it was too late to begin tonight. She went around to the open side of the dollhouse, to gather up the broken doll pieces and take them back to the Inn Between. The tiny dining room was a mess. She thought of the earlier ransacking that someone had given the place and realized, suddenly, that it couldn't have been Gordon Camplin; clearly he hadn't seen the dollhouse since 1947.
So it must have been Joyce Fells, after all — crazy Joyce. Well, that was one mystery solved. Meg was grateful for it. In any case, neither Joyce's antics nor her threats to sue bothered Meg a whit. To her, Joyce was nothing more than a colorful footnote in the ongoing saga of the dollhouse.
Meg began righting all the tiny dishes and goblets and then, weary of it, decided to leave it for the next day. She straightened out and stretched, and her eye fell on the tiny knotted floral rug in the sitting room between the master bedroom and the mistress's. It was badly scorched: the fringe was gone, and the pattern of pale and dark pink cabbage roses was almost unrecognizable. Probably the damage had been done when the wiring surged or shorted or did whatever it did when Gordon Camplin was there.
Probably.
****
Twelve hours later, Meg was sitting with Dorothea Camplin in the bright and sunny country kitchen of Tea Kettle Cottage, presenting her case for blackmailing the woman's ex-husband.
Meg hadn't called to warn Mrs. Camplin that she was coming, which she knew showed dreadful manners, but she didn't want to risk not being admitted. So she'd taken a chance, and the Cuban gardener had brought her directly to Mrs. Camplin, who was in her rose garden "doing battle," as she said, "with millions of aphids."
"This is where live-and-let-live gardening gets you, Manuel," the elderly woman said to her gardener in disgust. "We're going to have to make up a brew to control these nasties, or there'll be no roses for Meg to photograph!"
Meg explained that she was there for another reason, and Mrs. Camplin, sensing the gravity in her manner, asked Meg in for coffee.
As she stirred heavy cream into the coffee Mrs. Camplin had served in charming Quimper pottery, Meg said, "You were very understanding on the phone the other night. Yes, I am curious about Eagle's Nest and my grandmother's stay there. But it's not ordinary curiosity. Let me tell you why."
Dressed in baggy pants and a man's dark green T-shirt, Dorothea Camplin looked more like a bag lady than a wealthy socialite as she leaned forward with gossipy eagerness to hear what Meg had to say.
Surely she knew her husband was a beast, Meg thought as she looked into the elderly woman's keen blue eyes. She might have been taken in by his looks, money, and smooth manner, but she did dump him eventually. That gave Meg the confidence to go on.
"It's terrible to bring up the past," she began. "But the past is too terrible not to bring up. Mrs. Camplin, I ... I don't know why you left your husband so many years ago— no, wait. Please. I have to go on. People say he was a compulsive gambler; maybe he still is. But he was also desperately obsessed with my grandmother, and I have proof of it, in a letter from him."
Mrs. Camplin looked absolutely dumbfounded by Meg's speech. "For God's sake, child. Why are you telling me this now?" She didn't seem angry so much as amazed, a hopeful sign.
"I know. You think it's water under the bridge. Only it's not, Mrs. Camplin. If no harm had come from Gordon Camplin's obsession, then that would be one thing. But he threatened my grandmother, and he went at least part of the way to fulfilling that threat in front of a witness, and it seems obvious, at least to me, that" — Meg lowered her voice — "that my grandmother died because of him," she concluded, staring at the cheerful French cup that she was cradling between her hands.
"My God," the elderly woman whispered, utterly shocked. "Do you have any idea what you're saying?"
Meg nodded silently. No doubt she was about to be booted out the door and down the garden path; but she hung tight, trusting that Mrs. Camplin's sense of fairness would prevail. Meg was entitled to a hearing. And cash for her family, because they were victims, too.
Dorothea Camplin traced the outline of the blue diamond pattern on the yellow tablecloth, in deep, musing silence. At length she looked at Meg with an expression that was one part Solomon, two parts Supreme Court Justice. "All right," she said softly. "I'll listen to what you have to say."
Relieved and elated that the woman had decided to hear her out, Meg told her everything she knew: from Orel Tremblay's story to her discovery of the letter in the secret compartment of the dollhouse. During the whole time, she was careful not to mention Tom's name. Why tell anyone that the law was informed but helpless?
When she was finished, Mrs. Camplin said nothing for a long time. She was shaking her head, but her face said it all: I thought as much.
"What can we do?" she asked sorrowfully. "It was so long ago. I don't think he could be — what is it? Indic
ted? I don't think that would happen."
"I agree with you," Meg said grimly. "But he should be made to pay. I'm not asking him for blackmail money; not really. I'm willing to sign a note for a loan. With a little interest," she added with Yankee reluctance.
"You must be joking! He would never lend it to you!"
"He would if he thought I was going to raise a stink." Meg bounced a fist off the edge of the table, making the little pottery cup jump in its saucer. "I can play hardball too!"
"Oh, I don't think so," Mrs. Camplin said gravely. "Not with him. In any case, where do I fit in?" she added, wondering.
"He won't listen to me, not after last night. And there's no way I can bear to look at him — not after last night," Meg said with brutal honesty. "But you're still on speaking terms; you still move in the same set. You could convince him that he wouldn't want his name dragged through the mud and ruined."
A look of reluctance crossed the old woman's face. "It's my name, too, Meg, whether I like it or not."
This was true. "Oh, but no one is going to confuse the both of you!" Meg said quickly. "Mrs. Camplin, I have to do something; our income's been cut totally off. We need the money now!"
"I know you do, but ..." The matron sat back in her cane-seated chair, which creaked under her weight. "I have to think about this. Maybe there's another way. Maybe I can manage to ... well, we'll just have to see. Come back tomorrow to photograph the garden," she ordered.
She stood up, signaling an end to the visit. "Come after lunch, say one thirty; I'll have Manuel leave the gates open. That way you won't have to stand there yelling 'yoo-hoo' for half an hour again," she said with a wry smile.
"And don't worry," she added, squeezing Meg's hand. "It's always darkest before the dawn."
Chapter 24
Bobby Beaufort was mounting his Harley — big, black, and full of chrome — when Wyler pulled into the parking lot of the hospital. Wyler got out of his rented Cutlass; the two men exchanged wordless looks. With a James Dean sneer, Beaufort kick-started his motorcycle and revved it into a thunderous roar loud enough to wake the dead.
Not to mention the near dead, Wyler thought with a surge of sympathy for the suffering patients inside. Jerk.
Wyler walked through the lobby, stepped into the elevator, and punched 2. His bags were packed, his tickets booked; in two days he'd be on his way home. But it was inconceivable to him that he could leave Meg without seeing her one last time, so after this first and last visit to Allie, he planned to take on the older sister herself.
How ironic that the only way to see Margaret Mary Atwells Hazard, the woman he cared for more than anyone else in the world, was to force himself physically into her presence. He'd tried the phone, he'd tried proximity. The only thing left was to storm the damn inn and force her to see him.
He got off the elevator and went down the hall, then stopped outside the room number he was given at the front desk. Why he'd come to see Allie, he wasn't sure. He had this wild idea to seek her blessing before proceeding to sack the inn. Besides that, he wished simply to say he was sorry.
Her door was partly open. He knocked twice. "Hey," he said quietly, coming into the room and taking the chair beside her bed.
She was sitting most of the way up, dressed in a white cotton thing with super-wide sleeves, obviously to fit over the cast on her arm. She showed little bruising. Her shaved head was wrapped in bandages, highlighting the superb structure of her face.
She smiled a slow, sad smile, and he knew at once it wasn't an act. Allie Atwells had left her spoiled-darling routine behind forever.
"I'm surprised to see you here," she said in a voice that had no surprise in it at all.
"I'm leaving the day after tomorrow," was all he could think to say.
"Ah. She won't go with you, then?" Allie asked quietly. "I didn't think she would."
"I haven't asked her yet," he said. "That's next."
"She's going to say no," said Allie without triumph.
"We'll see."
Allie bit her lower lip and said, "That time in the cabin? It meant she loved you more than she loved me. And I accept that — now. Meg risked everything for you. She risked me. If you don't make her say yes, then what's happened between Meg and me becomes pointless."
He smiled ironically. "You understand that she won't see me because of what happened between the two of you."
"Ignore that. It has nothing to do with how you feel."
"You'd like me to —?"
"Hit her over the head if you have to. You won't hurt her," Allie added wryly. "She's more hardheaded than I am."
"She's not like that."
Allie sat up straight, then looked him in the eye and said, "Look, Hamlet, this is not an affair of honor anymore; it's an affair of the heart. Stop analyzing, will you? Stop being a cop."
She was right. Absolutely right. Wyler grinned, feeling suddenly more lighthearted than he'd felt so far.
He took her hand the way an older brother might and said warmly, "I'm glad you two are making up."
Allie's violet eyes went dark; she shook her head. "Nothing's changed between Meg and me, Tom. It can't possibly."
"What? For God's sake —"
He was about to ask why not, when the door to the room suddenly slammed the rest of the way open with hurricane force. Tom turned on his heel, reaching automatically for a gun he wasn't carrying, and found himself face-to-face with Bobby Beaufort's jealous fury.
"You son of a bitch!" Bobby growled. "One's not enough for you —"
Bobby swung, and Allie screamed, and Tom ended up defending himself with a little more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary, considering they were in a hospital. A passing male aide broke up the fracas, and the head nurse, who knew Bobby, let them leave without actually carrying out her threat to have them both arrested.
"Twenty-six, and what a mess," she said in scathing tones to Beaufort as he skulked past her. "As for you," she said to Wyler, "you should be ashamed. Now get out, both of you."
She slammed the emergency exit door closed, leaving both of them in a face-to-face standoff in the parking lot.
"You son of a bitch," Bobby repeated.
"Cool it, ace."
Wyler thought about leveling Beaufort then and there, but somehow he wasn't in the mood any longer. He stuck out his hand impulsively and said, "Look, pal, you've got it all wrong. I'm in love with her sister. With Meg."
Bobby glanced at the outstretched hand, then resumed his staredown. "Yeah, right," he said suspiciously. "So why're you leading Allie on?"
"I'm not. Trust me: she couldn't care less. Look, let me buy you a beer," Wyler suggested, inviting the man to a ritual almost as old as the peace pipe. "We can talk about it if you want."
Bobby snorted, which Wyler took as a yes. Forgoing the handshake, he said, "I'll meet you at Sully's," which he knew was where the locals hung out.
Bobby got on his bike and Wyler followed, wondering why he'd let himself get detoured from the business of storming the Inn Between. A wisenheimer voice inside was telling him that he was afraid that Meg might say no — and just as afraid that she might say yes.
Was he ready for another shot at a relationship? Up until a couple of weeks ago he'd have said absolutely, positively not. He'd tried playing that game once, and had come away from it with too many broken bones to want to rush back in. As far as he was concerned, marriage was strictly a spectator sport. If it weren't for his son ... if it weren't for Mike ... well, at least there was Mike. Thank God for him.
But starting all over?
It was that damn Fourth of July picnic; that was what began it all. All those damn happy families ... kids, babies, homemade food ... badminton and blueberry pie... . Naturally a single guy was going to feel sorry for himself. Since his divorce he'd avoided picnics like the plague. This one had blindsided him. He should've seen it coming, should've been on his guard against baby powder and barbecue grills. But he'd left himself wide open to the experie
nce, from the chickadees to the day sail, and now the day was burned indelibly into his memory.
He wanted another Fourth of July just like that one.
Would she leave Bar Harbor for Chicago? He wasn't sure. God knew he could produce enough picnics and families for her to go to. The area detective division was a particularly close-knit group. But the families weren't his own families. And they sure weren't hers.
One thing, though: the two of them were almost mystically compatible in bed.
With Lydia the sex had been great, then good, then fair — and then, of course, nonexistent. But great or fair, there'd always been these little ... adjustments. Move it here, move it there, higher, lower, faster, slower, whatever. Always. But with Meg everything just happened: pure and spontaneous, full of joy and mind-boggling eroticism. He knew just where she wanted to be, and she knew what to do with him. He wanted another night with her just like that one.
Last but not least, there was Allie. He couldn't begin to guess what the sisters were going to do to mend their rift, but one thing seemed certain: he was no longer a factor. He could hang upside down like a bat from Allie's ceiling, and she probably wouldn't notice him. He felt humbled but intensely relieved.
Would Meg leave Bar Harbor for Chicago? He wished he knew.
****
Bobby was halfway through his first beer by the time Tom slipped onto the plastic-covered stool alongside him. The place was your basic hole-in-the-wall eatery on the side of the road, with no neighbors and plenty of parking. Inside it was dark and generic and smelled of stale beer and half-finished cigarettes. It reminded him of the division's hangout in Chicago, and that reminded him of the last big case they'd cracked, and that got him to thinking about serial killers in general. He was sorry, suddenly, that he'd come.
He ordered a double scotch.
"So," he said to Bobby as he slid a couple of bills across the varnished bar at the bartender, "are you having any better luck with Allie than I am with Meg?"
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