Gone with the Twins

by Kylie Logan

  Like my criticism was raindrops, he shook his shoulders. “That’s Riva. She says we have to tell our story. She says we have to get the word out. You know, so people can understand what we went through. So they pay more attention when people go missing.”

  If it was true, I had to give the Twins credit.

  But I wasn’t convinced.

  “You could do that and give yourself some peace. You could work behind the scenes with missing persons organizations.”

  When he shook his head, his golden hair glittered in the light of the candle that flickered between us and cast angular shadows against his high cheekbones. “I don’t think so. We’ve got a platform. We’ve got a presence. People listen to us.”

  “They’d listen to you just as well if you were back in Malibu.”

  It was his turn to smile a knowing smile. “You’d love to get rid of us, wouldn’t you? Then you wouldn’t have any competition.”

  And my turn to be miffed. “I’m not the only B and B on the island,” I reminded him. “I’ve got plenty of competition. I have had since the day I moved here. It’s never discouraged me. There’s plenty of room for all of us.”

  “But no one’s ever given you the kind of run for your money we have. No one else has done a B and B here on the island as well as we have.” As if he had to remind himself, he glanced around the dining room. “Or with as much panache.”

  “I’ll give you credit for that.” I lifted my champagne flute in a silent toast. “You’ve been clever with your marketing.”

  “And the gala on Saturday will seal the deal. You know”—he leaned forward—“our offer was genuine, and generous. Things will only get worse for your business after this weekend.”

  “I thought we were here to talk about the highboy.”

  “You’re right.” He gave up with good grace, but when I put down my glass and he refilled it again, I didn’t take another sip. “The highboy . . .” As if he were doing the math in his head and it wasn’t an easy process, he made a face. “Fifty thousand ought to do it.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “You remember what I said about not being a country bumpkin, right? I could buy two eighteenth-century highboys for that price. So if you’re done wasting my time . . .” I pushed back my chair and made to stand up.

  “Don’t go!”

  I don’t know what surprised me more, the sincerity in Quentin’s voice or the fact that he reached across the table and put a hand on my arm.

  I shook off his hold and my gaze shifted over his shoulder to the highboy. “You’re willing to negotiate?”

  He groaned. “I’m willing to admit the truth.”

  I settled down in my chair. “You mean—”

  “I mean that I didn’t want you to come over here tonight to talk about the highboy.”

  “But you said—”

  “Yeah, I did, and maybe Riva will have a moment of weakness and you can buy it one of these days. Don’t tell her I told you so but she doesn’t have much of an attention span. She’ll lose interest in the highboy just like she loses interest in everything else: men and cars and homes and clothes. She’ll find something else she likes better, something flashier and more expensive, and she’ll get rid of the highboy. It might take a while, but I guarantee you it will happen sooner or later. The highboy isn’t the reason I asked you to stop over. I talked Riva into calling you and inviting you here so I could tell you that I’m fascinated. There. You got it out of me!”

  Only I was pretty sure I hadn’t.

  “Fascinated by . . . ?”

  Again he leaned forward and put a hand on my arm. “Fascinated by you, of course.”

  His look was soulful. His eyes were searching. His aftershave . . . well, I didn’t need to put a name to it to know it was pricey. So yeah, it was the wrong time to laugh. “You’re telling me that you’re attracted to me?”

  He stood just long enough to scoot his chair around to my side of the table so that we were sitting side by side. “I know it’s not how women like to be romanced. I mean, I know most women like to take things slow and easy, to get to know a guy before—”

  “Before what?”

  I was glad he skirted the question. “I just wanted you to know that ever since we came to the island, ever since I met you, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “That’s funny, because every time I see you, you’re staring at Kate Wilder.”

  “Well, sure.” He had the good sense to blush, and I wondered how he called up the color on demand. “Kate is a beautiful woman and any guy would stare. But she’s pretty much an ice queen, isn’t she? She’s got that whole stand-back vibe going on. You . . . you’ve got fire and passion and good looks and intelligence. You’re far more interesting.”

  “And you . . .” I leaned forward just a tad so that I could trade him look for look. “You don’t know a thing about me, so you can’t even begin to know how interesting I might or might not be, and you certainly don’t know anything about my fire and passion.” This time when I scraped my chair back, I stood. “I think you’ve been cooped up on this island too long. You need to get back to Hollywood.”

  “I do.” Quentin stood, too, but lucky for him, he had the sense to keep his distance. I didn’t want to show off the skills I’d learned in a series of self-defense classes. As Levi had once learned when he followed me down a dark street and I didn’t know it was him, I could manage a decent right hook to the nose when the situation called for it. “But don’t you get it? I can’t leave.”

  I marched to the door. “There’s a ferry,” I reminded him. “There’s an airport. Heck, with the money you’re making on your movie, you could buy a boat, sail back to the mainland and leave the boat at the dock in Sandusky, and never look back.”

  “But that wouldn’t work!” I heard his voice—a little whiny now—right behind me, but I never turned back to him, not until we got out to the lobby, where those middle-aged ladies were gathered in a knot discussing dinner options and gasped at the sight of him.

  They were the only reason Quentin kept his voice down. “Don’t you get it?” he asked. “Don’t you see why I can’t leave? Why I can never leave? Because Riva gets what she wants, and Riva wants to stay here. If I left, I’d just be me. And that would never work. No one would pay any attention. We wouldn’t be the Twins anymore.”

  • • •

  The evening wasn’t a total waste.

  It was good for a few laughs, a few sips of nice champagne, and the fact that I’d learned what I’d set out to learn—that the Twins were behind the rumors about me so they could ruin me financially and scoop the inn out from under me.

  And then there was the highboy.

  Was Quentin telling the truth? Might Riva someday want to sell it?

  I didn’t know but if she ever did, I knew I’d be first in line, checkbook in hand.

  As long as she didn’t expect me to pay fifty thousand dollars for it.

  As for Quentin’s lame come-on . . .

  The very idea that he was attracted to me was preposterous and obviously aimed at softening me up so the Twins could make another offer. It wouldn’t work, but thinking about it sure made me smile. Oh, not because I was interested, but because it was pretty darned funny.

  I was still grinning when I pulled into the yard and saw that the extension ladder Levi had stored behind my garage had been moved. That could only mean that Chuck from the hardware store had stopped by and taken a look at that loose slate shingle on the roof. He might not have been able to fix it, seeing as it was already evening by the time I left the house and he’d come by, but the fact that the ladder hadn’t been put away proved he’d be back to finish the job.

  Considering how the rest of the week had gone—what with Vivien’s murder, the rumors about me, and Chandra acting like she’d lost her mind—things were actually looking up. />
  16

  The next day was Friday, and despite the fact that I was dangerous/felonious/recently infested, I actually had three couples show up at the door and ask if I had open rooms. Maybe they hadn’t heard the rumors. Maybe they had and they were made of sterner stuff than the folks who believed such baloney without proof.

  Or maybe, with Tara packed to the gills and the other inns on the island doing a brisk business because of the gala, they simply had no choice.

  Ask me if I cared.

  I welcomed them, told them tea would be served at four, and, once I got them settled (they were thrilled with the rooms, by the way, and announced they couldn’t have found a prettier place to stay), got down to some serious work. After all, I had a murder to solve.

  I started at the most logical place with the most logical suspect.

  No, that wasn’t Chandra. It was, in fact, Zane Donahue, the man with hatred in his heart and buckets of water at the ready in case he ever wanted to ambush his nemesis.

  “Buckets of water.”

  I was sitting at the breakfast counter in the kitchen finishing the last of the turkey and avocado sandwich I’d made for lunch, and, thinking, I tapped my fingers against the counter.

  What was it about the incident at the memorial service that tickled something in my brain?

  I thought some more, got nowhere, and gave up with a sound that was more of a huff than a sigh.

  That’s when I called Kate.

  She was in a meeting, her administrative assistant told me, but due to finish in another thirty minutes or so.

  I didn’t wait for an invitation. I knew Kate well enough to know I didn’t need one. I got in my car and went over to Wilder Winery.

  It is never a hardship to stop in at the winery. For one thing, I could chat with Kate, and hopefully, talking through the investigation would shake loose some nugget of wisdom that would lead us in the right direction. For another . . . well, I am always eager to try any new wines Wilder produces, and while I was at it, I knew I’d order a case to have around for when friends dropped in. I remembered that back in the day when we were talking and not fighting, Levi had complimented Kate’s old vine Zinfandel, and, hoping I’d have a chance to share a bottle of it with him one of these evenings soon, I reminded myself to include it in my order.

  It was Friday.

  It was June.

  I knew that, like every place else on the island, the winery was bound to be a zoo.

  Only I never expected anything like this.

  I slowed at the entrance to the parking lot, which was packed to the gills and blocked by a string of yellow tape, and when the young man stationed there waved me over to the empty field on the far side of the property, I waved to let him know I got the message. There in an empty field that bordered the vineyard, I found a place to park along with a few dozen other outliers. Since the weather was gorgeous, I refused the offer of a golf cart ride from a youngster wearing a Wilder T-shirt whose job it was to ferry people back and forth and so keep them un-footsore and happy enough to taste and buy.

  I preferred to walk. It gave me time to think, and besides, the setting was perfect. From what I’d been told by Luella, Chandra, and Kate, who had all spent their entire lives on the island, the winery had stood on this same spot since the late 1800s. At the time, it had been a monstrosity of an Old World building, complete with timbers and stucco and a gigantic cuckoo clock in a tower above the main door.

  That had all changed just as Kate took over operation of the winery from her parents, who retired to Florida. An electrical fire leveled the place, but never one to be deterred, Kate rebuilt with her usual determination. Not to mention her good taste.

  These days, Wilder Winery was housed in a building that reminded me of a charming slate blue farmhouse, complete with gables and enough white trim that, no matter the weather, it always looked cheery and welcoming. There was a peaked roof above the entryway and huge planters on either side of it that, this time of year, held red geraniums, purple stock, and marigolds in every shade of yellow, gold, and orange.

  I stepped into the wide, open entryway and waved to Donna, the woman who managed (and did it very well) the gift shop, Wilder Ware, a little store that had a growing reputation for featuring the work of the finest artists on the island, along with an array of wine-themed merchandise. From there I stopped to say hello to Matt, who was behind the tasting bar and knee-deep in people waiting to be served.

  “Ms. Wilder swung through here a minute ago and told me to keep an eye out for you,” he called out to me. “She’s in the fermenting room. You can go right on in.”

  The fermenting room was right off the tasting area, and I pushed through the door and stepped from the polished hardwood floor that guests saw to the cement floor here where the real work was done. This was where the newly fermented grape juice was stored in rows of gigantic stainless steel tanks, and I saw Kate across the room talking to Bud Granger, who supervised the area. I waited until they were done with business, and when they were, Kate came over and looped an arm through mine.

  “I’ll have some coffee brought up to my office,” she said, and led the way.

  Like the rest of the winery, Kate’s private office was orderly and nicely designed. But my favorite part of it wasn’t the plush carpeting, the sleek furniture, or the state-of-the-art computer equipment that kept sales statistics and production schedules right at Kate’s fingertips. It was the wide window that looked out over the Wilder vineyards and the old-fashioned oil lamp that Kate put near the window every time she was in the office, just as her great-grandmother, Carrie Wilder, had always done when she was in the winery. In fact, the old oil lamp had figured into our investigation of a murder the autumn before, and seeing it filled me with renewed hope.

  I’d solved a murder then, and I could do it now, I reminded myself.

  “So what’s up?” When Martha, Kate’s assistant, came in with a tray with two cups of coffee on it, we thanked her, and Kate handed me a cup, then plunked down behind her desk.

  I sipped and smiled my appreciation. “I was thinking about Estelle’s memorial service,” I told her. “I know it was only a little over a week ago, but—”

  “Feels like a thousand years, doesn’t it?” Kate’s phone rang. She checked the caller ID and ignored the call. “Call me crazy”—she gave me time to do just that, even though she knew I never would—“but I think I know what you’re up to. You must be investigating. So what does the memorial service—”

  “Have to do with Vivien’s murder?” I set my coffee on her desk. “I wish I knew. I just can’t get it out of my head. And thinking about the memorial service makes me think about Zane Donahue.”

  “Aha!” Kate’s eyes lit with excitement. “I figured you’d come around to him eventually. You’ve talked to the man?”

  “And found out nothing very useful,” I admitted. “But that’s not what I’m wondering about. I’m wondering about that stunt he pulled at the memorial service. What do you remember about it?”

  She pursed her lips, but it didn’t take her long to think. “We were outside waiting for Vivien to slap cement on the stone with Estelle’s name on it and Zane showed up out of nowhere and then . . . whoosh!” She fluttered her fingers to simulate the splashing of the water. “What a stupid thing for the man to do on such a solemn occasion. You think he could have at least waited until Vivien was leaving and ambushed her out on the sidewalk.”

  “Yeah. You’d think.” I considered this for a moment before I asked Kate, “Where do you suppose he got that bucket of water?”

  She leaned forward, the better to peer at me across the desk. “Hello! Water? We are on an island, Bea.”

  “We are, but . . .” I thought back to the event and to the aftermath and how I’d gone home and showered to get the smell of chlorine out of my hair. “There’s no swimming pool at the yach
t club,” I reminded her.

  “And that water—”

  “Definitely chlorinated.”

  “So how . . .”

  “I just realized it, and it’s got me stumped,” I admitted. “If there was chlorine in the water, that means Zane had to bring that water from somewhere. But why would he leave, fill a bucket of water from a swimming pool, then come back with it? Of course, the whole thing with swimming pool water might have been a message. You know, because he wasn’t able to build his swimming pool thanks to Vivien. But still, it all seems pretty silly.”

  “Yeah, leaving and coming back with a bucket of water does seem nuts. But not as nuts as if he were actually carrying around the bucket of water in his car with him,” Kate said. “You know, just waiting for the right time to waylay Vivien.”

  She was right, and I told her so. “It just strikes me as odd, and odd makes me wonder. What else do we know about Zane and Vivien?”

  “You mean aside from the fact that they hated each other?”

  “That’s a given,” I said, then realized that maybe it wasn’t. “Do we know that for a fact?” I asked Kate and myself. “Or is just what we’ve heard?”

  “Well, we saw him dump the bucket of water on her.”

  This was true; I nodded.

  “And we know they’ve taken each other to court umpteen times.”

  Another fact there was no denying.

  “The rest—”

  “Is kind of like the rumors that have been spreading around town about me,” I pointed out. “And like those stories about me, I would hope people wouldn’t just accept what they hear as gospel truth.”

  “People have seen them fighting.”

  Yes, but had someone walked into Levi’s bar the afternoon I confessed who I was and he told me who he really was, they would have seen us fighting, too. Or at least they would have seen me assault him with the business end of a wet mop. “Maybe we can’t always believe what we see,” I told Kate and hopped out of my chair.