by Marta Perry
Phone in her lap, Sarah sat against the bed, shivering a little. She’d have to turn the air conditioning down, but she didn’t intend to move from this spot until Jonathan called back.
She lifted the receiver almost before it stopped ringing, feeling as if she already knew what she’d hear.
“I should have told you.” Jonathan sounded rueful. “The security guard made his rounds by the guesthouse just about the time you called. Said he saw the lights go off, but didn’t think anything about it. He didn’t spot another soul anywhere.”
“I feel like an idiot. I’m so sorry I disturbed you.”
“Not at all. You try and get a good night’s sleep, okay?”
That seemed highly unlikely, but she agreed.
Once he’d hung up, Sarah crossed to the window and pulled the drapes closed with a violent jerk on the cord. She felt irritated, embarrassed and more than a little foolish. It would be amazing if she got to sleep before dawn.
Sarah struggled to get her eyes open, aware of sunlight beyond the cream drapes. She fumbled for the bedside clock. Nearly nine, and she’d planned to get an early start today. At least she’d slept, and last night’s alarm was a half-forgotten dream.
Once she’d showered and dressed, Sarah looked up the telephone number for the Donner house in her small personal directory. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring at the phone. If she called, how likely was it that Trent would answer?
If anyone else answered, she could simply ask for Derek, without giving her name. She punched in the number quickly, before she could change her mind.
“Donner.”
Sarah stopped breathing. Okay, she definitely didn’t want to talk to Trent this morning.
“Is anyone there?” The words snapped, tinged with irritation.
Carefully, holding her breath as if he might identify her by the slightest exhalation, Sarah hung up.
Well, that little exercise showed that she was in no better shape to deal with Trent than she had been yesterday. She’d try again later. It must be possible to get through to Derek without Trent knowing about it. The man was powerful, not omniscient.
She walked to the main house through air so wet it felt like a sauna. May on the island was like August in Boston.
French doors fronted on the patio, and Jonathan sat with coffee and a newspaper in a sunny breakfast room beyond them. He sprang to his feet when she opened the door.
“Good morning.” He laid aside the paper and pulled out a chair. “Sit down and have some breakfast with me.”
She slid into a chair. A smiling maid appeared, setting a wedge of melon in front of her and pouring coffee.
“You look better today.” Jonathan sounded as satisfied as if he were personally responsible.
“I’m sorry about calling you last night. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
Jonathan waved her concern away. “Not at all. You did the right thing.” He held up a section of newspaper. “Do you like to hide behind the paper at breakfast, or would you rather talk?”
“Actually, I’d like to talk.” He had been frustratingly circumspect the previous night. Maybe if he understood what she was after, he’d feel differently. “About why I’m here.”
He put the paper down on the glass tabletop, folding it neatly, not looking at her. “Forgive me for saying so, but this seems like the last place in the world you’d want to be.”
“In some ways, it is.” Sarah frowned down at the scrambled eggs that had appeared in front of her. “A year ago, I never expected to come back.”
“Anyone would feel that way.”
“So you can’t help wondering why I’m here.” She couldn’t quite manage a smile.
“Only if you want to tell me.”
She didn’t, but she had to if she were to get his help. “I finally realized I couldn’t accept what happened and move on. The truth is, I don’t believe it.” Sarah dropped the spoon to the saucer, its tiny clatter accenting her words. “I don’t believe my husband was having an affair with Lynette Donner.”
“Maybe it’s easier for you to feel that.” Jonathan’s voice was very gentle. “You loved him.”
“You’re very sweet and tactful, Jonathan.” But she’d rather have honesty than tact. “It isn’t that I think our marriage was so perfect, Miles couldn’t fall for someone else.”
“Then what?” He didn’t look at her, and she sensed his discomfort.
“Miles. The kind of person Miles was. Honest, honorable. All those boring, typically New England virtues.”
Puritan, Trent had said. There was nothing wrong with that.
“Even the most honorable man might succumb to attraction.”
“Miles wouldn’t betray his marriage vows. And he wouldn’t betray his friendship and respect for Trent.”
“Anyone can make a mistake.”
Her lips tightened. “You sound like Trent. He thinks anyone capable of betrayal. I don’t.”
Finally his eyes met hers. “So you’ve come back to do what?”
“To find out,” she said promptly. “If I’m wrong, I have to know that. If I’m right, then Miles had some other reason for being at the Cat Isle cottage that day. I intend to find out what it was.”
“How, I wonder, are you going to do that?”
She took a deep breath. “I thought you might help me.”
For a moment, his expression froze. Then, quite suddenly, he laughed. “Honey, no wonder Trent’s trying to get rid of you. With you set to go prying, he’s afraid he won’t be able to keep things locked up anymore.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Power. The most blatant use of power I’ve ever seen.” He chuckled. “Didn’t you wonder why the papers didn’t have a field day with that story?”
“I thought they did.” Even the Boston papers had run it.
“Not like they could have. Trent gave out his version of the story and then he stonewalled those reporters. So did the local police. He called in every favor anybody in the state owed him to keep a lid on the story. Tragic accident—that was the verdict at the inquest and only a few scandal rags dared to print anything else. The story died for lack of fuel to feed it.”
“People still talked. They must have. Not even Trent could control that.”
Jonathan shrugged, lifting his coffee cup. “I suppose so, but for the most part, the islanders rallied around. No one wanted Melissa reading about her mother’s affair in the paper.” He stopped, reddening slightly.
In other words, he believed Miles and Lynette were lovers. “Hurting Melissa is the last thing I’d do. She’s already been hurt enough. But I’ve got to know the truth.”
“And just what part did you see me playing in this?”
Something about his expression encouraged her. “I thought you might run a little interference for me. I tried to reach Derek this morning, but Trent answered the phone.”
“And you don’t want him to know for fear he’d forbid Derek to speak to you.” Jonathan shrugged. “That might not stop Derek, but I agree it’ll be easier if Trent doesn’t know. Okay, I’ll try. Anything else?” He looked as if he fervently hoped not.
“I need to talk to Guy O’Hara. He was Miles’s closest friend here. I can do that myself.” Sarah swallowed. This was the hard part. “But I need you to take me over to Cat Isle in your boat.”
“Cat Isle.” Jonathan’s eyes filled with dismay. “Sarah, are you sure you want to go over there? Wouldn’t it be better to…Well, not give yourself so graphic a picture? It’s not as if there’s going to be evidence of anything at this late date.”
Of a romantic tryst. That was what he meant. “Maybe it does seem a little morbid, but I’ve never been there.” She’d only read about it, in one of the stories Trent hadn’t been able to quash. “I can rent a boat at the marina, but people will talk.”
He shoved his chair back. She could see the “no” forming on his lips.
“You don’t have to rent a b
oat. Jonathan will take you.”
She hadn’t heard Adriana come in. She stood at the mahogany sideboard, pouring a cup of coffee, elegant in white pants and a white silk shirt.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jonathan didn’t look particularly happy with his wife’s intervention.
“Why don’t you want to go there?” Adriana turned, balancing the cup between her fingers.
“It’s not that I don’t want to go.” Jonathan’s face tightened. “I just think it’ll be needlessly hard on Sarah.”
“On the contrary.” Adriana sounded oddly satisfied. “We ought to help Sarah. It’s time the truth came out.”
Sarah held her breath. Jonathan stared at his wife a moment longer. Finally he nodded.
“We’ll have to go on the tide. Meet me at the boat dock around three.”
“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.
Jonathan gave her a rueful smile. “Don’t thank me. I’m not doing anything good for you. And I hope I’m not going to live to regret it.”
“I’d like to speak to Chief Gifford, please. My name is Sarah Wainwright.”
The officer behind the gray metal desk looked barely old enough to be out of high school. He nodded, and Sarah thought she saw a faint flush behind the freckles on his cheeks.
“Yes, ma’am…I mean, Doctor.” He lurched from the chair, banging his foot on the metal wastebasket, and flushed a deeper red. “I’ll tell Chief Gifford you’re here.”
Sarah looked after him. His name plate said R. Whiting, and the name seemed vaguely familiar in a way the face didn’t. She frowned. She was letting her mind ramble, when what she needed to do was concentrate on Chief Gifford.
Him she remembered…a short, cocky, bantam of a man with a barrel chest, given to florid gestures. He could tell her details no one else could about the investigation. If he would.
“Dr. Wainwright!” Gifford bounded across the office to shake her hand. “This is a surprise. What are you doing back here?”
The surprise seemed a little overdone. Surely he’d heard by now she was back. “I have a few things to clear up here.” Leave it vague, and she might get more out of him, although Trent would have spoken to him by now. “If I might have a few minutes?”
“Of course, of course.” He gestured expansively toward his office. “As much time as you like.” He glanced briefly at Whiting. “Bobby, you get that filing done yet?”
“I’m on it, Chief.” His eyes were on Sarah, almost as if he wanted to say something to her. “Right away.”
“See you do.” Gifford ushered her to the straight-backed visitor’s chair in his office. He closed the door and then bounced back into his own seat, which creaked in protest. “These young fellas think police work’s like what they see on the TV. Got no idea somebody actually has to do the filing.” Shrewd hazel eyes, belying his good-ole-boy manner, zeroed in on her face. “Now then, what can I do for you?”
“You may remember I left St. James very soon after my husband’s death last year.” She’d prepared the opening. Where the conversation went after that was up to him. Or possibly to Trent. “I never found out what your investigation showed.”
“Now, ma’am, you don’t want to go making yourself unhappy by raking all that up again, do you?” His pale eyes were so opaque she couldn’t tell whether that was concern or a warning. She might get farther by interpreting it in a positive light.
“I appreciate your concern, Chief Gifford, but I want to know. I do have that right, don’t I?”
Gifford leaned back and the chair protested. “I surely don’t object to talking to you about it, but I don’t want you to get all upset.”
Sarah managed a tight smile. “I think enough time has passed that I can talk about it, and there’s so much I don’t know. I don’t even know who found them. I was off the island that day, and didn’t know anything was wrong until I got back.”
The police car had been waiting when she drove across the bridge, coming home from a shift at the hospital, prepared to work another four hours at the clinic as a volunteer. The officers had flagged her down, told her there’d been an accident, taken her to her fledgling clinic, where one of the volunteer retired physicians she’d recruited had been on duty.
The officer mentioned Cat Isle, but it wasn’t until she’d burst into the room and seen Trent’s ravaged face across the two white stretchers that she realized Miles hadn’t been alone.
“Well, that’s not much of a mystery,” the chief said. “Mr. Donner called us when his wife wasn’t back to get ready for some dinner party. One of the boats was missing, so we divvied up the places she might have gone. Whiting and I drew Cat Isle. We found the two boats, then we checked the cottage and found them.”
That was why Whiting’s name seemed familiar. She must have heard it at the time.
“It was too late when you got there?” She tried to say the words without letting her mind touch on what they’d found. She’d treated carbon monoxide victims. She knew too much.
Gifford nodded. “Whole place was filled with gas.”
“From a space heater. I remember.”
“Probably never would have been enough concentration of gas in a place like that, except that Mr. and Mrs. Donner had remodeled it. Made it tight enough to use all year long—and tight enough to hold the gas.” He shook his head sadly.
It had been a cloudy, wet day, she remembered, with a sharp wind blowing and a tropical storm threatening. “It seems odd they’d go there on a day like that.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I reckon they had to take what opportunities they could get. With you away…”
Of course that was what he’d think. She swallowed hard. “What were they doing when the gas overcame them?”
Gifford looked a bit scandalized, but he answered. “Miz Donner, she lay toppled over on the sofa, like she was asleep. Wainwright lay on the floor. The medical examiner said it looked like he’d hit his head on the coffee table when he fell. Could be he knocked himself out before he knew what was happening.”
She hadn’t known that, and she should have.
“What about Mrs. Donner? Did she have any injuries?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Looked like she just drifted off.”
There was another question she had to ask. “Everyone assumes my husband met Mrs. Wainwright there because they were lovers. Did you find any evidence of that?”
Now he really did look shocked. “No, ma’am. This office never said any such thing. Fatal accident, that’s all we said.”
“Yes, I know.” She tried to read Gifford’s expression. “So you didn’t really conduct an investigation into what they were doing there.”
Gifford’s chair teetered for an instant and then came down squarely, and his relaxed pose vanished. “We investigated. Miz Donner come in one of the Land’s End boats. You husband rented a fifteen-footer from Clawson down at the marina. There was no evidence of any foul play. Mr. Donner said he’d mentioned to them that he’d like their opinion on expanding the cottage. He figured that was why they’d gone there.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying we didn’t do our duty?”
“I’m concerned that the investigation was closed so quickly. I know Mr. Donner’s an important person—”
Gifford’s hand came down on his desk with a thump. “That’s got nothing to do with what happens here in this office, and I don’t take kindly to you suggesting otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t dream of saying that.” But it was what she thought.
He wasn’t mollified. “I’ve tried to answer your questions as best I can. Nobody tried to hide anything about the way your husband and Miz Donner died. We just tried to protect the living as best we could.”
And you should be grateful, his tone implied.
“I wasn’t suggesting any laxity on your part, Chief Gifford.” Not at the moment, anyway.
“I’ve told you everything I can.” Gifford stood up. “Now, if you’ll excu
se me, I’ve got work to do.”
Sarah rose, too. “I’d like to talk to Officer Whiting.”
Gifford swelled alarmingly, his neck turning a rich maroon. “Whiting doesn’t speak for this department. I do. He has nothing to say to you.”
He stalked to the door and threw it open. “If I were you, ma’am, I’d go back up north before St. James brings you more trouble.” His lips moved in what might have been meant for a smile. “The Sea Islands can be dangerous places for people who don’t belong here.”
The small boat nosed away from the dock cautiously. Hitting the channel, deep now because of the high tide, Jonathan accelerated. The roar of the motor and the wind rushing through her hair made conversation impossible, and Sarah was grateful.
Jonathan, face drawn tight with distaste, clearly thought this a bad idea. Maybe it was, but that didn’t change her mind. It was ridiculous to assume she’d ever stop imagining what the place looked like. She might as well know.
A dolphin lifted from the water in a perfect silver arc, and her breath caught in her throat. She’d nearly forgotten the unexpected moments of sheer beauty the island provided. Sunlight was warm on her shoulders, accentuating the golden haze that gleamed from sand and sea oats. No wonder these were called the Golden Isles.
Jonathan throttled back and pointed. For hundreds of years oyster shells had washed up into a barrier ridge, separating the sound and the salt marshes. Along the ridge, fifty or more brown pelicans sunned themselves. Startled by the boat, they took off, skimming the breakers and squawking their dislike.
It took only minutes to reach their destination. Cat Isle was hardly big enough to be called an island—a few acres of tangled vines, hoary old live oaks draped funereally in Spanish moss, scraggly pines. As far as Sarah knew, Trent’s cottage was the only building of any sort.
Jonathan idled up to the crumbling dock. The weathered gray boards were adorned with moss.
“Does Trent own the whole island?”
He nodded, tossing a line over an upright. “Bought it from me, as a matter of fact. We never came here much, but it’s easier access from Land’s End—you can take a kayak down the creek when the tide is right.”
