The overall impression was one of confident virility. He did not appear cheerful in the least, yet there was nothing weak or neurotic or depressive about him. His eyes, his posture, the very energy around him radiated vigor, vitality—life.
A firm hand touched my back, very firm. And rather brazen, I thought with mild irritation. The fingers were boldly splayed, sending heat through my clothing and into my skin. Jack pressed me toward a wooden chair across from the battered desk.
“Take a load off,” he said, finally removing the brazen hand. With it went the heat.
I sat down—then yelped. I lifted my leg, wondering what in the world I’d sat on. The quick motion threw up my skirt, which was considerably longer than the skirts I was used to wearing. The material was deep red and of high quality—inside, it was lined with crimson silk. To my surprise, under the lush material my legs were encased in dark nylon stockings. On my feet I saw four-inch heels and wondered vaguely how I had managed to cross the room. The stab of pain, I discovered, was the result of sitting on a twisted metal garter—something I had never worn in my life!
As I hastily adjusted my silky lingerie, I couldn’t help but reveal my naked thighs. When I looked up again, Jack Shepard was staring at me, his expression so open and raw, it gave me a moment’s shock. The man hadn’t bothered in the least to mask his interest. Clearly, he had no sense of propriety.
“Thanks, baby,” he said as he unbuttoned his jacket, holding my gaze. “A flash of gam always brightens a Joe’s afternoon.”
He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, a worn leather office antique—at least to my eyes. His white cotton shirt outlined a solid physique. Belying my earlier opinion about the fraud of the double-breasted jacket, the shoulders revealed actually were ridiculously broad; the waist, in truth, trim and narrow; and the dark shoulder holster, strapped tightly against his form, made the muscles even more impossible to miss.
I wouldn’t have expected such a slab of man to move around the room with grace. But he circled the heavy desk with the ease of a predator, his gaze continuously summing me up.
Finally he stopped directly in front of my chair and leaned against the block of battered wood behind him. A five o’clock shadow, a shade darker than his sandy-brown hair, dusted his square jaw. His tie was blue and frayed at the tips. I followed his hand as it reached down and lifted a spotted shot glass.
“Fill her up?” he asked, tapping the glass with one finger.
“Pardon me?”
“Would you like a drink? Scotch is all the hooch this bar is serving.”
“Scotch will be fine,” I replied, surprising myself.
A moment later, Jack placed a glass of amber liquid in my hand.
Jack poured another drink and swirled the glass. Then he leaned against the desk again. An eyebrow rose expectantly.
Stalling for time, I took a sip. The alcohol burned my throat.
“You ready to spill?” he asked while I sputtered.
I nodded, feeling like a suspect under the lamps.
“Tell me what they said. The marks I had you tail.”
“It was hard to hear everything. A lot of the words were muffled. But I overheard enough to make me certain they’re having an affair.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. That much was obvious from the way they treated each other in your store. I know feuding lovers when I see them—or ex-lovers.”
“Okay, here’s something you don’t know. I’m pretty sure I heard Kenneth Franken confess to killing Timothy Brennan.”
“Oh, you did? Did you? And you actually heard the words ‘I killed Brennan’ come out of the guy’s mouth?”
“Well, no. Not exactly.” I shifted uneasily. The long skirt annoyed me, so I pulled it up and crossed my legs. Jack’s gaze shifted from my face down to my knees, then slowly up again.
“Well, what ‘exactly’ did you hear?”
“Shelby asked Ken if he was sorry he did it. Ken said he wasn’t and that he’d do it again. And finally Shelby said it was all over and done with anyway—and now Ken could divorce Deirdre and have a life with her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you see, it sure sounds like Ken was the one who might have killed Brennan. He didn’t say how or anything, but you seem to think that syringe played a role. Maybe he stuck Brennan with poison somehow.”
“Don’t you think Brennan would have noticed something like a needle going into him?”
“Oh, right . . . maybe Ken simply pretended that he’d accidentally poked Brennan with a pair of scissors or a sharp pencil. Then maybe he gave the syringe to Shelby, who hid it in the women’s room for him—and Shelby had Josh retrieve it.”
“Except Josh had to search the women’s room, didn’t he? If he’d been sent to retrieve it, wouldn’t he know where it was?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.”
“And what’s Kenneth’s motive for killing Brennan? What does he gain?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t like Brennan, though. He called him a bastard. Maybe he just disliked him enough to kill him.”
“Doesn’t fit. The man has too much to lose to risk a murder rap when he could have just told the old jerk to go to hell.”
I slumped in my seat. “I guess I don’t know what to make of it all, then.”
Jack’s eyes studied me some more. I put my hand to my throat, partially to hide my deep cleavage, where his gaze had decided to settle.
“Eavesdropping’s a funny thing, doll, your marks talking about washing the green and you think he’s talking about laundering money, when all along he’s making a salad.”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you hear anything else? Think, now.”
“Kenneth said something about how ‘thank you’ just wasn’t in Timothy Brennan’s vocabulary. And that Brennan ‘stood in the way.’ ”
“The way of what?” asked Jack.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“What do you think he meant, then?”
“How should I know?”
Jack narrowed his eyes and finished off his drink in a single gulp. “You’ve got to listen to more than words in this business, doll. You’ve got to listen to what’s under them.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ken was bitter because Tim had been ungrateful for something Ken did for him,” said Jack. “That means Ken did something big for Tim—so big that he was still boiling about it, even with the old man lying on an M.E.’s slab. Think. What could Ken have done for Brennan that was so big, so important that it would still be sticking in his craw?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
Jack got up from the desk and strode to the window, his back to me. “To hell with you. You’re not even trying.”
“I am so! I tailed them, didn’t I? I almost got run down by a truck, for heaven’s sake!”
Jack wheeled. “Then you weren’t paying attention. And that’s your problem, doll face, you want to stick your head in the ground, avoid confrontation, run and hide from any jerk who challenges you. You want to keep thinking the world is some play-fair sandbox. But you’d better open your eyes, sweetheart, or next time that truck’s going to leave tread marks on your face. Then where will that little tyke of yours be—left without a mother or a father?!”
His words came so fast and furious that I broke down. Tears rolled over my cheeks. I lifted my hand to brush them away and noticed the deep red nail enamel on the tips of my perfectly manicured fingers—a color I’d never worn in my life. More lost and confused, my sobbing intensified.
“Turn off the faucet, doll,” Jack said gently, coming to my side. “I hate it when dames cry.”
My sobs lessened. “That’s better,” he said. “I only wanted to wise you up. Toughen your hide. You’re a sitting duck otherwise, and I’d hate to think . . .”
“What?” I said with a sniffle.
“I don’t know . . . I’d hate to think of
someone serving you up with orange sauce.”
I laughed. A spotless handkerchief was stuffed into my palm, and I swiped at my eyes, leaving streaks of black mascara on the fresh white cloth.
“I’ll be happy to stay on the case,” he said. “My fee is—”
“I know,” I replied, “twenty bucks a day, plus expenses.”
There was a long silence. Jack’s single finger lifted my chin. I stared into his slate-gray eyes, swallowed hard. I felt his hand caress my cheek, his body lean toward me . . . but I’m a married woman, I thought . . . I can’t do this. . . .
I may have felt frozen, torn. But Jack didn’t. His rough hands gripped my upper arms and lifted me, pulling my lips to his without the slightest hesitation. My mind went blank. There were no thoughts left. Just feeling. Just his hardness and my softness, the vivid sensual impression of his body . . . the sweet weight of it . . . as it pressed into mine. . . .
“PEN? PENELOPE, DEAR! Time for church!”
My eyes slowly opened.
The dream was over. I was in bed, the heaviness of Brennan’s open book pressing against my chest.
“Did you hear me, dear?!” called my aunt from the hallway. “Coffee’s on. Rise and shine!”
CHAPTER 16
Revelations
This pool of fire is the second death.
Book of Revelation, chapter 20
THE LATE MORNING sun nearly blinded me as I emerged from the gloomy interior of the First Presbyterian Church of Quindicott. Aunt Sadie’s conversation with Gertie Butler—concerning the upcoming church bazaar—didn’t look as though it would be ending anytime soon, so I was grateful when Fiona Finch rushed up to me at the top of the flagstone steps, where the wind was whipping strands of my copper hair into one big tangle.
“I have to show you something—at the inn,” Fiona whispered, one hand on her blue hat, its wide brim fluttering and flapping.
A small, brown-haired sixty year old, Fiona was the sort of wrenlike person one might easily overlook, except for her piercing dark eyes and flamboyant bird pins. Today’s was a black-capped chickadee, floating in the ruffles of her sky-blue blouse. She had at least two hundred of these molded feathered friends, and once a week she dragged her husband, Barney, around to every yard sale within miles on her never-ending quest for more.
Although few would ever guess it, Fiona was also an avid true crime enthusiast, her most recent purchase from our store being an out-of-print hardcover edition of James Reston Jr.’s Our Father Who Art in Hell, the story of how Jim Jones led one thousand members of his People’s Temple cult into killing themselves with poison-laced Kool-Aid.
Along with her husband, Fiona ran the town’s only hotel—many believed for the sole purpose of listening in on her guests’ private conversations. And with Deirdre, Kenneth, Shelby, and Josh all staying at Finch’s Inn, I was pretty sure Fiona had some dirt to dish.
I had an hour to spare before the bookstore opened and I was more than a little curious. So when Fiona approached, of course I touched Aunt Sadie’s arm and said, “Something’s up. I’m going with Fiona.”
“Not without me, you’re not,” Sadie replied, and we took off.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I steered my aunt quickly past young Rev. Waterman. I didn’t know what Sadie might have said to him, if given the chance, but I doubted it would have been charitable.
During today’s service the reverend had made a general announcement after his sermon: “The church parking lot is not to be used as a solution to the business district’s parking problems. Given that this terrible problem was started by an unfortunate event at one of the town’s businesses, I’d appreciate the owners of that particular business seeing to it that the cars of their customers stay out of the church lot.”
Rev. Waterman’s ice-blue eyes were staring directly at me and Sadie while he delivered his postsermon sermon. Other members of the congregation nervously peeked in our direction—with the exception of the Knitters for Charity Club, who openly glared—just to make sure we got the message.
Loud and clear, ladies!
(Apparently the Knitters had arrived at the church for their Saturday afternoon meeting to find the lot completely full. They were ready to kill—and a dozen pissed-off Presbyterian matrons armed with knitting needles can be as dangerous as your average weapon of mass destruction.)
By the time the service ended, I wanted to run for cover. Sadie, of course, was loaded for bear. Naturally, I was grateful to Fiona Finch for the distraction.
Despite my earlier misgivings, I was glad Spencer wasn’t with us today. Before I left for church, he was chauffeured to his cousin’s birthday party in Newport.
I knew from past experience that such an event would include a catered lunch; a series of children’s games organized and run by the McClure nannies; a hired magician; live music; a rented carousel; hot air balloon rides; three flavors of cake; and, once twilight descended, twenty minutes of fireworks that culminated in the birthday boy’s name written in lights across the sky.
I frankly wasn’t thrilled about Spencer going anywhere near his father’s family, but he wanted to go, and I really did feel guilty saying no. I still didn’t like the McClures. And I didn’t trust them. But they were Spencer’s relatives, and he had a right to see his cousins and spend a day playing with children his own age.
The weather was glorious, too. Except for the whistling wind, all evidence of last night’s storm was gone. The sun felt warm and pleasant as we strolled along Cranberry Street. Families and couples were drifting toward the common, already taking up benches for the free concert this afternoon in the band shell.
I’d heard some honking in the direction of the empty old Embry lot. The reason why would be apparent within the hour, but at that moment I was walking swiftly in the other direction, and my mind was elsewhere.
“What’s going on?” I asked Fiona.
Fiona shushed me. “Not yet,” she said with a hiss, her eyes darting suspiciously. “The wrong people might overhear us.”
So we continued our journey in silence until we heard a man calling: “Stop! Wait!”
We turned to find our fortysomething mailman, Seymour Tarnish, running toward us, gesturing wildly. By the time he got to our side, Seymour could hardly speak.
“I . . . was looking . . . for you.” His round face was flushed and covered with a sheen of perspiration. Bending at his thick waist, he leaned on his knees, gasping for air.
I was more than a little intrigued to discover what had gotten slow-moving Seymour excited enough to gallop like Seabiscuit down Cranberry Street.
“Simmer down, Seymour,” Aunt Sadie insisted. “You look like you’re having a heart attack.”
“We have to . . . get to . . . a television,” Seymour wheezed between gulps of air. “Pronto!”
“What’s this about?” Fiona demanded. She displayed little patience for Seymour’s antics—especially when they threatened to steal her own gossipy thunder.
“Rather not try . . . to explain,” Seymour replied, mop-ping the sweat from his receding hairline with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, “you . . . have to see for yourselves.”
“We can use the television in the common room,” Fiona said.
“Can you make it, Seymour?” Aunt Sadie asked.
“I’m fine,” Seymour said between gasps.
SITUATED AT THE end of a drive lined with hundred-year-old weeping willows, Finch’s Inn was a classic Queen Anne-style Victorian era mansion. And, as Fiona liked to point out, the Queen Anne style itself made its debut just next door, in Newport (the William Watts Sherman House circa 1874).
Four floors of rooms boasted breathtaking views of Quindicott Pond, a good-sized body of salt water fed by a narrow, streamlike inlet that raced in and out with the tides from the Atlantic shoreline miles away.
A nature trail, one of the favorites of birders in the region, circled the pond and stretched into the backwoods, following the inlet for about eight mile
s. The inn rented bicycles for the trail and rowboats for the pond, which was usually pretty well stocked with fish.
Although Fiona and her husband, Barney, had not yet found the resources to fulfill their dream of opening a gourmet restaurant, they ran a respectable inn with thirteen guest rooms, all boasting fireplaces and decorated with their own unique character.
The four of us climbed the six long steps and thundered across the wide, wraparound wooden porch, which sat upon a sturdy gray fieldstone foundation. Fiona and Barney had even repainted the place in its original, dark, rich, high Victorian colors: reddish-brown on the clapboards of the main body, and a combination of olive green and old gold on the moldings and the spindlelike ornaments that served as a porch railing.
Brick chimneys, bay windows, steep shingle-covered gables, and a corner turret completed the picture—and a pretty picture it was. I just loved the place.
“You know how to find the common room,” Fiona said as we walked through the stained-glass front door, the grand oak staircase greeting us like a solemn butler. “I’ll fetch the things I wanted to show you,” she tossed to me.
As Fiona headed for the carved mahogany reception desk just off the entryway, Sadie and Seymour rushed along the hall and into the great parlor, which occupied most of the left side of the mansion. I followed more leisurely, soaking up the turn-of-the-century touches: the striped gold wallpaper, dark wood moldings, and the required Victorian clutter, from colorful vases and dried flowers to various glass-fronted collector’s cabinets of tiny porcelain birds.
Then I came upon the portraits. Two large rectangular renderings in dark wood frames, surrounded by five oval-shaped gilt-edged miniatures. All of the oil paintings depicted the same woman—the enigmatic “Harriet,” the Finch Inn’s version of Beatrice, the solitary painter who’d occupied Newport’s Cliffside Inn at the turn of the century and left a thousand self-portraits upon her death.
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