Land's End

by Marta Perry

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “No, nothing. Seems like as if—” His eyes popped open again. “The notebook was one of them spiral-bound ones. There was some little bits of paper laying on the table, like somethin’ had been tore out.”

  “Before you opened the windows or after?” Trent’s question cracked like a whip.

  Whiting looked confused.

  “Did you notice the notebook and the bits of paper before the chief sent you to open the windows, or after?”

  But there Whiting’s memory failed him. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was pretty shook up—I never seen anything like that before.”

  No, he wouldn’t have. Things like that didn’t happen here.

  “Did you find out what was wrong with the space heater?”

  “Yes’m.” He looked relieved to switch to a more technical subject. “There was a leak in the pipe. The gas would build up, and they probably didn’t even know what was happening ’til they were too sleepy to do anything about it.” He moved his shoulders restlessly. “Was something like that on the mainland, four, five years ago. Three young guys at a hunting cabin—all of them gone before they could get out.”

  Perhaps Miles had realized, in those final moments when Lynette toppled over. He’d tried to get up, falling against the coffee table as the fumes took him. She swallowed hard. The image would be there forever now.

  “You’re sure there wasn’t anyone else around the island?”

  “Anybody come by boat, they’d have tied up at the dock, wouldn’t they?” He shrugged. “Well, anybody but ole Lizbet.”

  Something in her snapped to attention. “Who is Lizbet?”

  “Lizbet Jackson.” Trent supplied the name. “She’s an elderly Gullah woman with the reputation of being a healer. She’s all over the marshes in a dugout, looking for herbs.”

  “She could pull that boat of hers up on the bank most anyplace,” Whiting said. “She likes Cat Isle, says some special kind of moss grows there. But I didn’t see her that day.”

  It was someone to talk to, anyway. “Where can I find her?”

  He shrugged. “She’s got a little house, but often as not she sleeps out rough, or bunks in with some of her kin. She’s probably related to half the islanders.”

  Esther might know her, if Esther felt cooperative.

  “Anything else?” Trent’s voice grated.

  “Just one thing.” She looked at him evenly. “Did Mr. Donner’s influence close down the investigation?”

  Trent’s gaze locked with hers, but he growled at Whiting. “Answer her.”

  Whiting straightened. “No, ma’am. I guess I can see how you might think that, but we did our job. Only thing the chief did different was close out the reporters.” His lips twitched slightly. “The chief, he don’t mind seeing his picture in the papers. But not that time, he didn’t. He knew Mr. Donner didn’t want any more publicity than could be helped.”

  “That’s all, Whiting.” Trent sounded as if he’d had all he could take. “You can go now. I’ll square it with the chief if he gives you any trouble over this.”

  “Yessir. Ma’am.” Whiting retreated rapidly, thumping down the steps as if escaping.

  Trent looked at her, his expression unreadable. “You’re thinking suicide. What put that in your mind?”

  She didn’t want to hurt him, but the paper and pen had to mean something. “She was unhappy,” she said quietly. “You and Melissa both agree on that.”

  “You think I pushed her to suicide.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” But was it so hard to believe? She’d confessed her sin to Trent, and he hadn’t forgiven her.

  “Where does Miles fit in, then?” His voice was hard with anger. “Aren’t you forgetting him?”

  “No, I’m not forgetting.” She stood, facing him. They were hurting each other again, and they couldn’t seem to stop. “I don’t have the answers yet. I suppose he might, somehow, have learned what she intended and tried to stop her.”

  “That would be a nice out for you, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m not looking for an out, Trent. Just for the truth.”

  “Believe me, if Lynette intended to kill herself, she’d have wanted me to know I was to blame. She’d have left a note.”

  “Maybe she did.” She strode to the door. “Maybe you ought to ask your police chief about that.”

  She went out quickly, feeling the salt taste of tears on her face.

  By the time Sarah arrived at the clinic, she had herself more or less under control. At least on the outside she did. Inside she felt bruised and battered. Each step she took seemed to hurt someone.

  Hopefully she couldn’t do too much damage at the clinic. And if she could get some help in finding Lizbet Jackson, she’d be satisfied that she’d made one bit of progress today.

  Signing in on the board, donning a lab coat, greeting the receptionist—all the normal, routine activities helped to stabilize her. In this setting, she knew who she was and what to do. Elsewhere on the island she might be the outsider, blundering from one morass to another, but here she was at home.

  “I see you made it.” Esther’s greeting was short.

  “As you see.” She smiled, determined to be pleasant to the woman if it killed her. “Seems pretty quiet so far.”

  “You can leave if you like. Dr. Sam can handle things.”

  Her smile felt frozen. “I’ll stay. Since we have a moment, I wanted to ask you something.”

  Esther waited, unresponsive.

  “I’m looking for Lizbet Jackson. Do you know her?”

  “Lizbet.” Her brows lifted. “Why do you want to see her?”

  She could hardly say it was none of Esther’s business. “I’d like to talk with her.”

  “’Fraid I can’t help you.” She turned away, picking up a chart with an air of dismissal. “You’ll have to play Lady Bountiful to someone else.”

  She walked away, leaving Sarah staring after her.

  “You look as if someone just hit you, Sarah.”

  Dr. Sam stood behind her. It was a relief to see his welcoming smile.

  “You’re pretty close. All I did was ask Esther to help me find someone, and she bit my head off.”

  He propped an elbow on the counter. “Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help.”

  “Lizbet Jackson. Do you know her?”

  “Everybody knows her.” He grinned. “She’s our competition, treating everything from rashes to broken hearts with her herbals.”

  “You know where she lives, then.”

  “She’s got a little house behind the Old Ebenezer Church graveyard. You have to walk right through the cemetery to reach it. Trouble is, she claims she doesn’t like sleeping under a roof. Drives her relatives crazy by disappearing into the woods for days at a time.”

  That didn’t sound promising. “Maybe I could find the house and leave her a note.”

  He shook his head. “You know what the Gullah community is like—closed to outsiders unless you’re brought in by someone. Esther wouldn’t help?”

  “No.” Esther definitely wouldn’t.

  “Let me think. Maybe I can find someone who knows her.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it. It seems everyone I want to talk to is elusive—Lizbet, Guy O’Hara—”

  “Guy O’Hara?” He blinked. “I might not be much help with Lizbet, but I know where Guy O’Hara is.”

  She blinked, startled. “You do?”

  “He’s back in Exam Room 3, sleeping off a roaring drunk.”

  Guy, here. The reason startled her. “Does he do that often? He was a friend of Miles, and I never saw him drinking.”

  Sam shrugged. “He’s gotten a lot worse in the past year. Donner fired him, shortly after—well, after you left the island. He’s not sober much of the time, I can tell you that.”

  She glanced down the hallway. “Do you think he’s sobered up enough that I can talk to him?”

  “Let’s find out.” Sam
shoved away from the counter and led the way down the hall. “Can’t hurt to try.”

  But when he opened the exam room door, they were greeted by noisy snores. Sam advanced on the figure curled up on the cot and shook his shoulder.

  “O’Hara, wake up. Somebody’s here to see you.”

  Guy opened one eye to peer blearily at them. He didn’t show any sign of knowing her, and she wouldn’t have recognized him if she’d run into him. The trim, cheerful man she’d known was lost in unhealthy blubber and unshaved cheeks.

  “Guy.” She raised her voice. “I’m Sarah Wainwright. Miles’s wife. Remember me?”

  He pushed himself up on one elbow. “Miles? Sure, I know Miles. My best buddy.” He slumped back down again.

  Sam shook his head. “Give him another hour or two to get the worst of the alcohol out of his system.” He grimaced. “He’ll just go out and get tanked up again as soon as he can.”

  Pity twisted her heart. “Has anyone tried to help him?”

  “We sober him up, try to talk him into rehab or AA. He makes all the promises, but he never keeps them.” Sam shrugged. “I’m not giving up on him, Sarah. You know AA saved my life, and I’m at a meeting every day. But like the old saying goes, nobody can help him if he doesn’t want to be helped.”

  “I know.” She patted Sam’s hand. “It’s good of you to keep trying.” As a veteran of that particular war, Sam could reach Guy if anyone could.

  “Miles.” Guy turned over, mumbling something she couldn’t hear. “Always wanted to be a hero,” he said, voice slurring. “Find out who was doing Donner wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah shook him, but Guy just began to snore again.

  “You won’t get any sense out of him now.” Sam gave her a curious look. “Give it a try at the end of your shift.”

  “I guess you’re right.” With a last look at the snoring figure, she followed Sam back out into the hallway.

  The clinic’s doors had opened for the day, and she was suddenly booked solid with one patient after another. It was good to be back in harness, forgetting everything that haunted her. She barely had time to take a breath until her shift was up. She finally went to Exam Room 3 to check on Guy.

  The room was empty. Guy was gone and no one, it seemed, had any idea when he’d left or where he’d gone.

  TEN

  Sarah was still struggling with frustration after dinner that night. Fortunately there had been enough people around the table to let her to pursue her troubled thoughts in private.

  She’d had Guy in her clinic, and he’d slipped through her fingers. The clinic didn’t have an address for him—he’d been evicted from his apartment. His rapid deterioration in just one year was hard to accept. She’d checked at the bar, but the friendly bartender claimed Guy didn’t come in anymore.

  Now the meal was over. People began to scatter. She lingered in the hallway, longing to retire to her room, but not wanting to be impolite. The few things Guy had said weren’t helpful—just references to Miles’s friendship and to the actions that had brought Miles to Trent’s attention.

  The implication, both from Guy and from Dr. Sam, had been that Trent fired Guy because he’d been Miles’s friend. Given the depth of Trent’s bitterness, that seemed entirely possible.

  Tinkling notes from the piano intruded on her thoughts. A big-band tune from the forties, played with a light touch. Not Melissa, certainly, so it must be Derek. Trent had gone off to his study with Robert Butler, and Melissa had wandered outside. Maybe this was her chance to talk with Derek privately.

  He sat at the grand piano that still bore Lynette’s stamp. A multicolored silk scarf was draped across its polished surface, and a crystal bowl filled with pink roses sat on the scarf. Everyone knew pink roses had been her favorite. Did Trent keep them there as a tribute to his wife? A separate small pain pierced her heart.

  “Hi.” The soft notes broke off when Derek spotted her. “How’s it going?”

  “Don’t stop playing.” She leaned against the piano, her back to the flowers. Still, their aroma taunted her. “I love those sentimental songs.”

  His fingers moved over the keys. “That means you’re a romantic at heart.”

  She didn’t reply to that, and after a moment Derek seemed to lose himself in the music. The casual observer would have said that he and Trent didn’t look alike. Derek’s hair was light brown where Trent’s was dark—Derek’s expression had a light touch of charm that was totally lacking in Trent’s. Only a faint resemblance around the eyes identified their relationship.

  Derek glanced up, smiling. “What are you worrying about, sweet Sarah?” he said.

  Derek had a compliment for every woman he met. Still, the friendly tone encouraged her.

  “Not worrying. Frustrated might be a better term.”

  “You’re not finding what you’re looking for, then.”

  “I suppose Trent told you all about it.”

  He shrugged. “Trent doesn’t tell anyone everything, but I do know you’re here to find out about Miles and Lynette.”

  The casual way he coupled the names pricked her. “Do you believe it was true that they were having an affair?”

  The soft notes segued almost imperceptibly into a love song. “Not before it happened, no. Afterward—” He shrugged eloquently “—what else could I think, given the way Trent acted?”

  She leaned forward, her palm pressing against the smooth lacquer. “But you were around them a lot. You didn’t ever notice any attraction between them?”

  “No. But they’d have been careful.”

  It was all so amorphous. How did one prove a negative?

  He hit a dissonant chord. “I did see that Lynette was unhappy. Still, she was like that—on top of the world one day, down in the depths the next. Artistic temperament.”

  She glanced at his fingers on the keys. “You’re a musician. Do you claim that, too?”

  “I’m not a musician the way Lynette was.” For the first time, emotion sounded in Derek’s light voice. “She could have been at the top, if she hadn’t thrown it away to marry Trent.”

  She considered that. Could anyone, however talented, ever get to the top of any field without total commitment? She doubted it, but it didn’t seem wise to say so to Derek.

  “Did she wish she’d made another choice?”

  He shrugged. “She was unhappy sometimes. That’s all I know. Now her daughter is the unhappy one.”

  “And Trent?”

  He tilted his head, considering. “I’d have said his feeling is more anger. Bitterness. Well, you’ve seen him.”

  “Yes.” Pain clutched her heart.

  “Poor Sarah.” His fingers touched sad chords. “You want to heal the whole world, don’t you? You can’t heal Trent.”

  “Nor anyone else, it seems.” Her mind flickered to Guy, lost in an alcoholic fog. “I saw Guy O’Hara today.”

  He played a few notes of a drinking song. “Was he sober?”

  “No.” Her fingers clenched, brushing the silk fringe.

  “He seldom is, they say.”

  “I wanted to ask him some questions, but he walked out of the clinic. Have you talked to him lately?”

  He shook his head. “He wouldn’t talk to me. He’s still angry at Trent for firing him.”

  She thought again of what Dr. Sam had said—that shortly after Miles’s death, Trent had fired Guy. “Did Trent fire Guy because he was Miles’s friend?”

  “You said it, I didn’t.” He gave her a serious look. “I’d help you if I could, Sarah, but my loyalty has to be to Trent.”

  There it was again. Everyone’s loyalty was to Trent, it seemed. “I know he’s your brother—”

  “Half brother. Same mother, different fathers.”

  “Half brother. It’s surely not disloyal to him if you talk to me. You knew Lynette, you knew Miles, you know all about the business.”

  “Where does the business come into it?”

  “Nowhere, I
suppose. But Guy was rambling something about Miles wanting to be a hero in Trent’s eyes.”

  “Oh, that. He used to tease Miles that Trent thought he was a hero because he uncovered that trouble at the Atlanta office. Miles was valuable to Trent, but I never understood exactly what he did.” Derek gave her that charming smile. “Everyone knows that my title at Donner Enterprises is just an excuse for Trent to support me. That’s all I can tell you.”

  That was all he was willing to tell her, and it led exactly nowhere, like everything else she’d tried.

  Trent came down the stairs from the loft and paused, letting Robert go ahead of him. Derek and Sarah were at the piano, heads together like a pair of conspirators.

  He wasn’t worried about anything Derek might say. His brother might not always have good judgment, but he was loyal.

  Frowning, he went the rest of the way down, noting the faint alteration in Sarah’s expression when she saw him. Wariness.

  Fair enough. That was what he felt for her. They both had reason to know how much they could hurt each other.

  As if aware of his gaze on her, Sarah moved away from the piano. She drifted toward Robert Butler, engaging him in a low-voiced conversation.

  Trent had some faint hope that letting her talk with Bobby Whiting would satisfy her need to know. Clearly it hadn’t. He approached them.

  “…if you could put me in touch with Lizbet Jackson.”

  Robert, caught off guard, clearly didn’t know how to answer. He glanced at Trent, raising an eyebrow.

  “You may as well help her, Robert. She’ll only get into trouble trying to find the woman on her own if you don’t.”

  Sarah shot him an annoyed glance, but she didn’t speak, probably because she didn’t want him to withdraw the permission.

  Robert nodded. “I’ll try to set up a meeting for you with Lizbet, but I’m not sure how much good it will do.”

  “Because she’d have come forward by this time if she knew anything?” Sarah asked.

  “Actually, I was thinking that she might not cooperate. Lizbet lives by rules of her own that other people don’t always understand. Still, I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah clasped his hand.