Dark Water

by Sharon Sala

  Tony began slowing down as he pointed.

  “There.”

  She looked up, more than a little startled by the opulence of what was obviously just a vacation home. If he could afford a place like this, he was even more of a success than she’d imagined.

  “This is yours?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He smiled as he turned onto a graveled driveway and stopped in front of the house. For a moment he let the car idle as he stared through the windshield at the scenic beauty of what was before them. The sprawling lake house blended into the trees as if it had sprouted and grown from where it was standing. It was a two-story structure of cedar and glass that reflected the scenery around it.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Tony said, and then jumped out of the car and ran around to her door. He bent down to help her out, then teased a smile from her when he added, “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”

  Sarah was still smiling as she got out of the car, but the smile quickly died when she realized that the dark waters of Flagstaff Lake were visible through the trees.

  “You’re really on the lake, aren’t you?” she said.

  Tony saw the look on her face and knew what she was thinking.

  “There are no ghosts here, Sarah.”

  She gave him a doubtful look and then turned her attention to the house once more.

  “All my things are in my car.”

  “I’ll have someone get it and bring it here.”

  “I can’t stay here indefinitely,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She was a little startled by his intensity.

  “Well…for starters, we don’t really know each other, and I have an agenda of which you don’t approve.”

  Tony cupped her face, and for a moment Sarah thought he would kiss her. Instead, he took his thumbs and smoothed the frown lines at the corners of her mouth.

  “We knew each other once. We will know each other again. Besides, you forget what I told you about why I came. If making sure you have a place to stay while you’re here is the only way I can repay my debt to your father, then so be it.”

  Then Tony slid his hand beneath Sarah’s elbow, and she let him lead her into the house. The interior was warm and welcoming, and as they passed through the foyer she could smell the familiar scent of burning wood. As he led her into the living room, the scent intensified, because a great log was burning in a massive fireplace against the north wall. An oxblood leather sofa and two matching chairs were arranged in a casual semicircle in front of the hearth, while a bank of filled bookshelves on the opposite wall promised good reading on long, cold winter nights. Several paintings had been hung about the room, the choice of subjects eclectic. There were two Native American paintings on either side of the fireplace, another that was similar in style to a Renoir, and two Wyeth-like landscapes, haunting in their simplicity. She moved closer, her eyes widening as she saw Andrew Wyeth’s signature and realized they must be originals. She pivoted sharply, looking at Silk with distrust.

  “Your nightclub must be very successful.”

  He saw the mistrust on her face and knew they were back to square one.

  “I do all right,” he said shortly, refusing to explain himself any further. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll give you the nickel tour of the house and then show you to your room.”

  Sarah followed him, making polite remarks about the homey feel and the style of decor.

  “Thanks,” Tony said. “There’s no real rhyme or reason to it. It’s just stuff I like.”

  Sarah looked up at him then as they paused in the hallway. “Well, you have very good taste.”

  “That I’ll take as a compliment,” he said.

  Sarah sighed. “I’ve been rude.”

  He looked at the dark circles under her eyes and the slight trembling of her lower lip. The discovery of her father’s body had obviously put her through hell. The least he could do was allow her the leeway to be pissed.

  “Yeah, you have,” he said softly, then lifted a stray lock of hair from the corner of her eye and pushed it back in place.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me until you’ve tasted my cooking.”

  She laughed.

  Tony stared at the transformation in her face. He’d thought she was beautiful before, but now…hell. Her laugh should be declared lethal. Ignoring the urge to pin her against the wall and kiss the smile right off her lips, he restrained himself by remembering to play host. He cupped her elbow.

  “Your room is down here, last door on the left.”

  His grip was firm but gentle, and Sarah had to hurry to keep up with his long stride. Moments later he opened the door and then stepped aside.

  “This will be your room for as long as you need. It has its own bath and sitting room. The phone is there on the table, in case you need to make any personal calls.”

  “Thanks, but I have my own cell phone.”

  “We don’t always get a good signal up here, so if you need it, it’s there.”

  She smiled tentatively as she glanced around the room. It looked as warm and inviting as the rest of the house. Finally she turned around. It was time to make peace.

  “Silk…I mean, Tony—”

  He interrupted. “You can call me Silk.”

  “But you said no one calls—”

  “Some do,” he said. “Besides, I like the sound of it on your tongue.”

  Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He was still smooth, maybe too smooth.

  “Whatever,” she said shortly.

  He grinned, then pointed to the bed. “Why don’t you rest while I make a few calls? I’ll have your car and your clothes here within the hour and do a little damage control with the media.”

  Sarah looked startled. “What do you mean…damage control?”

  “You think they’re going to leave you alone now that they know you’re here? No way, baby. Whether you like it or not, you’re news…again.”

  “God,” Sarah muttered, and dropped onto the bed with a thump.

  “Don’t worry, Sarah, you won’t be bothered while you’re in my home.”

  “But how—”

  “Trust me,” he said.

  The tone of his voice was suddenly different. That sexy smile was gone. She could still see the angry young man he’d been, but with twenty more years of living to hone the passion and fury.

  Before she could answer, he was gone, quietly closing the door behind him. Sarah sat for a moment without moving, wondering how a life as ordinary as hers had been could get screwed up so fast. The moment she thought it, she groaned. How could she be so self-absorbed as to feel sorry for the upheaval in her life? At least she was still alive, which was more than her father could say.

  “Oh, Daddy…I’m so sorry for doubting you,” she whispered, and then rolled over on her side and curled up in a little ball. “But I’ll find out who did this to you. I promise.”

  Then she closed her eyes and sighed, intending to rest for just a moment. Within a minute, she was asleep.

  Almost an hour had passed before Tony made his way back to Sarah’s room. The door was slightly ajar as he started to knock, and then he looked past the door into the room and saw that she’d fallen asleep. Quietly he carried her bags into the room and set them down at the foot of the bed. He glanced up at her as he straightened, then frowned. He knew he should leave, but still he lingered, letting his gaze touch her in a way he dared not.

  She was nothing like the shy ten-year-old he remembered, watching him mowing her daddy’s yard when she thought he wasn’t looking. She’d been all legs and arms, with long dark hair and braces. Rarely had she smiled, and looking back on it now, he supposed it was because of the braces on her teeth. But they were gone, and that skinny little girl had certainly filled out in all the right places. As he watched, her eyebrows suddenly knitted and her lower lip trembled. When a single tear slid out from beneath her e
yelid, he looked away, knowing she would not appreciate him witnessing her weakness.

  He took a deep breath and then shook off the guilt as he picked up a quilt from a nearby chair. Shaking it loose, he covered her, resisting the urge to tuck her in. As the cover settled over her, she shifted slightly, then subconsciously snuggled beneath its weight.

  Sarah. Pretty Sarah Jane. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this uneasy, but her vow to find her father’s killer had tied his gut in knots. This little trip that he’d made was turning into something far more involved than he’d expected. Yes, he could be the congenial host and stay long enough to make sure Sarah was familiar with his home and then leave her to her own defenses. But congeniality wasn’t going to solve her problems, and he didn’t have it in him to abandon her. Thanks to a streak of chivalry he hadn’t known he possessed, he was already thinking about how to put himself between her and danger, but to do that, he had plans that needed to be changed.

  The Coffee Cup was busier than normal. Most days Sophie Thomas’s little shop was a gathering place for retirees and the occasional clerk on break from the supermarket across the street. But ever since they’d pulled Franklin Whitman’s body from the lake, customers were wall to wall. Seating was at a premium, and many wound up leaning against the walls and standing in corners, unwilling to miss even a snippet of gossip regarding the ongoing investigation. The crush of customers was making it difficult for her to serve the seated customers promptly, but she was moving as fast as her short little legs would take her.

  Sophie had moved to Marmet ten years earlier after a nasty divorce. She’d taken her settlement, purchased the building that now housed The Coffee Cup and promptly gained twenty-six pounds. Her ex liked his women slim, and since she’d dumped him, she was also getting rid of every manipulating thing he’d done to her. Now here she was, weaving her ample little butt between crowded tables, serving coffee and homemade muffins while the gossip flew fast and furious. Sophie had no preconceived opinions about the incident one way or the other. And while she was sorry that the boom in her business was because a man had been murdered, she wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She filled the tray with her last order and headed for the table in the corner, where four of Marmet society’s finest had gathered to catch up on the latest news.

  “Here you go, Moira,” Sophie said, and served Moira Blake’s double decaf latte, along with a sugar-free blueberry muffin.

  “Smells wonderful…as usual,” Moira said, and reached for a packet of artificial sweetener.

  Annabeth Harold laid a napkin in her lap as Sophie set her soft drink and coffee cake in front of her. Not only was she the oldest of the four women, but since Moira’s retirement a couple of years ago, she was the only one who still worked for a living.

  Marcia Farrell had come a long way from the station of her birth. In high school she’d been known as the girl who was an easy lay; then she’d gone away to college and come back a young widow with a child who was now grown and living in Paris. Of course no one believed she’d ever been married, but she was accepted back into the community as if she’d never left. On her twenty-fourth birthday, she claimed to have inherited a great sum of money, and from that day on, she’d used it to assure herself a place in the upper echelons of Marmet society.

  As Sophie served her, Marcia shifted her mink coat to the back of her chair and leaned away from Sophie’s tray, as if unwilling to be touched by someone in such a menial position.

  Tiny Bartlett sat directly across from her, perched on the edge of her chair as if readying for flight. Tiny’s father owned one of the largest paper mills in the area and she’d never wanted for anything—except her father’s approval. He’d wanted a son and had never forgiven her for being a girl. Out of spite and frustration, she’d married the son of the town drunk, who’d surprised them all by becoming an upstanding citizen and making her a mother three times over. But with her children away at college, Tiny always seemed to be at loose ends.

  Tiny took a sip of her herbal tea and then leaned forward so that her voice did not carry to the next table, although the action was unnecessary. The noise level in the room was already close to a dull roar. She could barely hear what her friends were saying, never mind what was being said at the next table. Nevertheless, she dived right into the favorite topic of conversation, arching her painted-on eyebrows and pursing her lips.

  “Did you hear the latest?” she asked.

  “Hear what?” Marcia asked.

  “She’s back!”

  “Who?” Moira asked.

  “Sarah Whitman.”

  Moira’s eyes widened as her expression softened. “Poor little Sarah. It’s a shame that the children must suffer the sins of the father.”

  “But what if Franklin Whitman didn’t commit the sins everyone said he committed?” Tiny asked.

  Marcia frowned. “Of course he did. Don’t be silly.”

  Moira shrugged. “He certainly didn’t lock himself in that awful box, though.”

  Marcia yanked her napkin from the table and thrust it into her lap with an angry motion. Her daddy had been with the State Police twenty years ago and one of the investigating officers. Any rumor that her daddy had been wrong didn’t go over well with her.

  “He was probably betrayed by his cohorts, but that doesn’t mean he was innocent.”

  Annabeth waved her hand across the table, as if to clear the air.

  “Stop it right now,” she demanded. “You’re ruining our lunch with this ugly talk. I don’t want to hear another word on such a distasteful subject.”

  Tiny pouted and then mumbled something beneath her breath as she picked up her fork and began crumbling her muffin.

  “What did you say?” Annabeth asked.

  Tiny was normally not one to make waves. “I said the subject is not nearly as ugly to us as it probably is to Sarah Whitman.” When no one argued, she felt compelled to add, “It wasn’t our fathers who were murdered. I just feel sorry for her is all.”

  Marcia sniffed. Annabeth frowned in disapproval. Moira smiled and patted Tiny’s hand.

  “You have a gentle heart, Tiny dear. It becomes you.”

  Tiny beamed.

  “Pass the sugar,” Marcia asked, and deftly changed the subject.

  Sarah woke abruptly. Disoriented and a little bit frightened, she bolted from the bed and started for the door, then saw her bags on the floor. Immediately she remembered where she was and how she’d come to be there, then sat back down on the side of the bed with a groan. Tunneling her fingers through her hair, she massaged the ache at the back of her neck and then looked around for her shoes. She found them on the other side of the bed, where she’d kicked them off earlier, and put them back on. Remembering the look in Tony DeMarco’s eyes made her nervous. He made her feel vulnerable in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

  She unpacked quickly and then ran a brush through her hair, thought about reapplying her makeup, and decided against it. The last thing she wanted was to give that man the idea that she was trying to impress him.

  A short while later she made her way downstairs, only to find a note on the kitchen counter telling her to help herself to a snack and that they would go out to dinner when he got back. Torn between being peeved that he’d left her alone and glad not to have to face him just yet, she took him at his word and headed for the refrigerator. After choosing a bunch of grapes and a bottle of sparkling water, she went outside. Trying to ignore the obvious presence of the lake, she chose to admire the turning leaves, instead, and as she did, she noticed the roof of a very large house across the lake. It was partially concealed by distance and trees, but one thing about it was impossible to miss: it was red.

  Wondering what sort of person would choose a house with a red roof, she popped a grape into her mouth and had started to sit down when she saw an oversize swing hanging from a tree just beyond the deck. Intrigued, she picked a second grape, then left her food on a table as she headed for th
e swing.

  A pair of squirrels scolded her from the branches above as she slid into the seat and pushed off with her toes. The immediate rush of air against the back of her head and then on her face brought back memories of her childhood. She closed her eyes as she swung to and fro, and for a time let go of the pain.

  Four

  Tony knew almost immediately when he came back into the house that Sarah was not inside. The solitude of his lake home, which had once been comforting, now just felt empty—even lonely. He went straight to the kitchen and then out to the deck, saw the grapes and bottle of water that she’d left on the table and frowned. Then he heard an odd and repetitive squeak. When he turned and saw her swinging, he relaxed.

  He walked to the edge of the deck, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the setting sun, and watched the ebb and flow of her clothing as it was pulled by the breeze. The old swing had been hanging from that particular tree when he’d bought the property. He didn’t know how many times, since he’d built this house, he had thought about removing it. Now he was glad he hadn’t. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back to the joy of childhood as the swing took her high in the air.

  “Sarah,” he said softly, trying out the sound of her name on his tongue and knowing that, with little effort, she could get very much under his skin.

  “Hey you!” he called out.

  At the sound of his voice, Sarah’s solitary reverie ended with a jerk. Dragging her feet, she brought the swing to a stop and jumped off. The feel of solid ground beneath her shoes was more than a little disconcerting when only moments before she’d been flying.

  “I didn’t see you there,” she said.

  But I saw you. “No matter. I just arrived. Are you hungry?”

  Sarah smiled. “Yes, actually, I am.”

  “Want to go out…or I could fire up the grill and put on a couple of steaks?”

  “I vote for the steaks,” Sarah said. “At this time, I’m not much in the mood for facing any more of the fine residents of Marmet.”