by Louise Clark
He turned away from the view. “I’ll meet you in the sitting room.”
Tamara nodded. “I won’t be a minute.”
They both retreated to their rooms. Quinn locked the French doors that led to the deck. He reached the sitting room first and had to wait while Tamara prepped for their walk around the grounds. What, he thought, was she doing? It was a hot summer day. The weather was perfect. She didn’t need to dress for their dinner yet. They’d be coming back before then.
When she emerged, she’d changed from the jeans and long-sleeved, light cotton shirt she’d traveled in to a pair of tailored slacks and a dressier blouse. Her sandals were leather and had a wedge heel. Quinn blinked. He wondered exactly where the walk was going to take them.
Not down to the beach and not far from their elegant cottage, he soon discovered. The grounds were extensive, with manicured paths that wound through stands of salal, huckleberry, and salmonberry, interspersed with open views of beach and ocean. They passed other guests who were dressed as Tamara was, and who seemed to be enjoying the atmosphere of upscale, manicured wilderness.
“I’ll explore the beach tomorrow,” Tamara was saying, “but I’m not sure I’ll go into the water.” She smiled. “I think I’d rather do one of the walks in the national park.”
Quinn had been to Long Beach many times, so he was familiar with the hiking opportunities. He smiled at her, “Highly recommended. The whole area is beautiful. No matter which one we do, you’ll be amazed by the way nature copes with the wind and salt off the ocean.”
She smiled back. “I’m sure I will.”
They found a bench positioned to exploit the wonderful view of Long Beach, and sat down. Christy and Sledge had gone down to the smaller beach to the north, so there was nothing to distract Quinn from Tamara and what she was saying.
“Christy and Sledge were talking about the murder when they left.”
So she’d heard, as he had. “Yes.”
She stared out into the distance, a frown between her eyes. “Why do they do that?”
She knew why. Christy had made it very clear the night they all went to dinner together. “The sooner they figure out who the killer is, the sooner Patterson’s brother-in-law will be cleared.”
She turned her head to look at him. She was wearing sunglasses, but Quinn could feel the directness of her gaze on him. “You agree with them, don’t you?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yeah. I want to know who the killer is, too.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated. A sudden wariness overtook him. The purpose of this walk and this conversation wasn’t just to relax and enjoy a little time together. Tamara had a plan.
She nodded.
The plan, he suspected, was to find out where she stood. Assumptions had been made, by Tamara, by Christy, by his father—assumptions he hadn’t challenged or confirmed. It was time to go on the record, but in his own way.
“For Christy, it’s an emotional thing. She respects Patterson and she understands the trauma that being under suspicion can create. Sledge? For him it’s a game. He’s along for the ride.”
Tamara laughed. “I think you’re right there.”
“For me? It’s the same thing as working on a big story. You dig up a fact here, pull a thread in an interview there, until all the bits and pieces you’ve discovered come together into a whole that explains what happened and why. Someone killed Shane Higginson and I don’t think it was Adam Farnsworth.”
She tilted her head. “I think it’s more than that. I think it’s the excitement of the chase. Solving the mystery gives you an internal rush.”
“Maybe,” he said. He hadn’t thought of it that way before, but she was probably right. When the pieces of the puzzle came together he always felt a profound satisfaction, an inner sense he’d nailed the combination of motive, means, and opportunity.
She looked back out to the beach vista. “I don’t care, you know. About Detective Patterson, or the game, or your big story. I don’t think private citizens should get involved in solving murders.” She laughed shortly. “Sounds stupid, I know, since I probably wouldn’t be sitting here if you and your Christy hadn’t got involved in finding Fred Jarvis’s killer. But…” She stopped, pursed her lips, drew a breath, then began again. “I believe in the rule of law and I trust our society to adhere to it. Inspector Woodgate seems to be a good man. I expect he’ll figure out who killed Shane Higginson eventually.”
“It doesn’t always happen,” Quinn said.
She shrugged. “I didn’t know Shane Higginson until after his death. The more I hear about him, the less I’m interested in him.”
Quinn laughed. “He’s not particularly likable, but that’s not the point.”
She turned back to him and smiled affectionately. “No, for you it isn’t. That’s what first attracted me to you, you know. That demand for truth, the determination to dig beneath the surface to find it, no matter what it is.”
She laughed when he raised his brows as a flush heated his cheeks. Then she looked out at the beach again. “When the rebels held me I needed something to cling to. Memories of people I loved, places I cared about. Hope… I didn’t have a lot of hope I’d ever leave the that camp, but still, I needed something to keep going.” She glanced at him, then away. “I used you. I made you into my hero, my knight in shining armor, whose determined digging for the truth would one day lead you to me.”
“But I didn’t dig. I thought you were dead,” he said with real regret. If he’d known she was alive he would’ve moved heaven and earth to free her. That he hadn’t continued to be a sore point, even though he knew it hadn’t been his fault.
“Yes. Still, I didn’t know that and it was your face and your voice in my mind that kept me grounded. Then I came to Vancouver and found you again. I realized you were very different from the image I’d made of you.”
He smiled faintly. “Not as perfect?”
She thought about that. “Perfect is the wrong word. It’s more, I think, that your goals don’t match mine.”
“Tracking down murderers,” he said with a laugh. He was beginning to think that her understanding of where their relationship was headed mirrored his own. That made what he had to tell her easier.
She laughed too. “Yeah.” She tilted her head and looked over at him. “In Africa, you thought I was adventurous and probably wild and reckless with it, all because I’d chosen to use my medical degree working in war zones.”
He smiled faintly. “It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.”
“No.” She looked away, out at that perfect, peaceful scene before them. “But it was a wrong one. My father—my real father, the man who raised me—taught me that reaching out and helping others was important. That’s all I was doing, reaching out to those who needed my skills.”
It was an answer and a non-answer. “You could have chosen more settled areas to work in.”
“I could have, but I didn’t.” She pursed her lips, clearly unwilling to say anything more on the subject.
“I thought I was in love with you in Africa,” he said.
“Thought, past tense. Looking back, yes, I can see that.” Her mouth lifted in a half-smile. “You’re not in love with me anymore.”
“I like you. You’ve been through a lot and come out the other side better than anyone could have expected, but…”
“But?” Her laugh was more of a sigh. “The big ‘but’ that changes everything.”
“I’ve got feelings for someone else.”
“Christy.”
“Yes.”
She sighed for real this time. “There must be something reckless in Christy that draws you, but I can’t see it. She lives such a perfectly boring soccer mom life.”
Quinn thought about Christy wrestling with her husband’s murderer and facing down the killer of Tamara’s natural father. Tamara had no idea how far off the mark she was. “You could say that.”
She stood. “C
an we be friends?”
He rose as well. “Of course.”
“Good. Let’s finish our walk, then go dress for dinner. I’m starting to get hungry.”
Chapter 18
In Christy’s opinion, the time away at Long Beach had been surprisingly harmonious, possibly because they tacitly agreed not to talk about the murder while they were all together.
That didn’t mean she and Sledge didn’t discuss motive every now and then, and she had a conversation with Quinn about the difficulty of finding time to arrange a murder when you were camping with the wife and kids.
They both agreed that made it unlikely Adam was the killer.
All in all, she had a lot to think about as Sledge guided the car along the up-and-down, twist-and-turn mountain highway that was the only link between the central Island and the wild west side. Except her mind wasn’t on the murder. Instead, she thought about the beauty of the rocky peaks they passed and of the pristine golden sand beaches they’d played on yesterday and this morning, the way Sledge teased her and Quinn looked at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.
She was still puzzling about that when they passed the campground gates. A few minutes later, they were coming up on their campsite and the first thing Christy noticed was an agitated Heather Farnsworth emerging from it. She was dressed in a bathing suit and cover up, and carrying towels and a beach bag. Her two kids and Noelle trailed along behind. The only one who looked pleased by the situation was Noelle, who was holding Hayley Farnsworth’s hand as they went.
“That’s interesting,” Christy said, from her place in the backseat beside Tamara.
Quinn, now riding shotgun, murmured, “It certainly is.”
Tamara leaned forward. “Why? What’s up?”
“Everyone is dressed for the beach, but the kids are looking over their shoulders and Heather seems worried,” Christy said.
As she noticed the Honda, Heather stepped out of the way and ensured the kids were standing back. Sledge pulled into the campsite and killed the engine.
“Mommy!” Noelle shouted as Christy emerged. “Mrs. Farnsworth is taking us down to the beach. Aunt Ellen says it’s okay.”
“If it’s all right with Mrs. Farnsworth and Aunt Ellen, I’m fine with it.” Christy glanced at Heather for confirmation that she was also okay with Noelle joining her two.
Heather smiled, but the expression was strained and didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m glad Noelle can come.” She hesitated, then said, “You kids get started. I want to speak to Mrs. Jamieson for a minute.”
Dylan looked like he wanted to stay and listen, but Noelle, still holding Haley’s hand, skipped ahead. Haley went with her, and after a moment of indecision, Dylan followed.
Heather watched them for a minute, then she said in a low voice, “The police are at our campsite. There’s been another murder and this time they’re questioning Greg. Billie didn’t want the kids to see their uncle in that situation so she asked me to take them down to the beach. They know something is going on, so I thought if Noelle came along she’d distract them. I hope you don’t mind?”
Christy shook her head. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
Before Heather could reply, Tamara said, “Why don’t I take the kids down? I’m sure you’d rather stay here and see what’s going on.”
While Christy and Tamara spoke to Heather, Quinn had gone to talk to Ellen and Trevor. They were stationed near to the greenbelt, not far from Roy, who crouched behind a salal bush much closer to the Farnsworth double. Sledge leaned on the roof of the car, listening to the conversation with Heather.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, after Tamara made her offer. He grinned at Heather. “I’ll bring the Frisbee. Dylan and I can toss it around.”
His calm indifference to the traumas occurring at her site must have reassured Heather, because she seemed to deflate as the tension eased out of her. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
After they’d both murmured confirmation, she took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Then thank you.”
As Tamara ducked into her tent to change into a bathing suit, Heather hurried over to the kids, who were almost at the path to the beach, borne along by Noelle who was leading the way with her usual exuberance. They saw Heather speak to Dylan, who nodded, then Heather waved and trotted along the road toward her campsite.
Emerging from her tent in record time, Tamara said, “I’d better go.” She rushed off, leaving Sledge to change, then organize beach toys and towels.
Christy went over to join the others by the greenbelt. “Do you know what’s going on?”
Ellen said, “Not a lot,” in a low voice.
Quinn nodded toward his father. “The cat’s in the trees. He’s scouting out the situation and Dad is trying to eavesdrop.”
At the sound of Quinn’s voice, Roy looked back, then abandoned his post to join them. “Earlier today Norman Laing’s body was found at the bottom of the cliffs at Loyal Scotsman’s Bay, the ones behind the info building. Initially, his death was classed as an accident, but the inspector has just had confirmation that drugs were found in his system. They’re now treating his death as suspicious.”
Christy frowned. “That’s odd. Heather said the cop was here to question Greg Farnsworth. I thought Laing was Adam’s professional rival, not Greg’s.”
Chris! Get over here. We’re needed.
The urgency in Frank’s voice made them all exchange worried looks.
“What?” Quinn said. “The cat’s talking again, isn’t he?”
Roy nodded in a distracted way. “I must have missed something important.” He rushed back to his bush and took up his position again, but it was only a minute before he returned. “Looks like the cop thinks Greg did it. Greg says he didn’t. The cop isn’t listening. I think he plans to arrest Greg.”
Ellen wrapped her arms around her chest and hunched her shoulders. “If Greg is innocent, we have to help. I wouldn’t want anyone to have to endure a false arrest.”
Trevor slid his arm around her waist and pulled her into a hug. “We’ll help. Don’t worry. It’s okay.” He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. Ellen shuddered.
Christy took a moment to wonder what Sledge would think about the apparent deepening of his father’s relationship with Ellen, and decide that it was a good thing that Sledge was now on his way to the beach. She glanced at Quinn, then Roy, before she said in a low voice, “Frank! Give me a reason to go over there.”
On it, babe. There was a rustling, then a loud crack as if dead twigs had been broken when someone stepped on them.
The forest equivalent of Stormy’s thundering paws when he was upset about something, Christy assumed. “Stormy!” she called in a high singsong voice. “Where are you? Stormy?” She headed for the gap in the undergrowth that led to the Farnsworth campsite.
When she emerged from the trees she saw Stormy gallop across the campsite, then make a flying leap onto the picnic table. “Stormy,” she said, pitching her voice into a chiding tone. “Time to come home.”
Inspector Woodgate, who had been talking when she barged into the scene, fell silent. Christy looked around, wide-eyed, as if suddenly aware she was intruding. She saw expressions of strain on all the faces, except those of the police. “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize… I… um. I just came to get my cat. I’ll… uh… go now.” She headed for the table, giving Patterson time to react, if she did really need help as Frank thought she did.
The inspector said curtly, “Please do.”
Patterson stared at Christy for a moment, then slowly blinked. “No, stay, Christy, if you don’t mind.” She looked over at the cop. “I’d like someone who’s not family to witness what’s happening.”
Woodgate colored. “I can assure you this is all by the book.”
“Sure, I’ll stay,” Christy said. The inspector shot her an annoyed look. Christy patted the cat and smiled at Woodgate.
He turned back to Greg. “Y
ou claim you were with your family all morning.”
“We left the campground at eleven. We were taking the kids to the mini golf course in town.”
The inspector gestured to the blue, cloudless sky. “Why mini golf? Why not go to the beach? The weather’s perfect.”
“We did go to the beach, for a while. Then we went to mini golf.”
“The kids love the beach, but they get bored,” Heather said. “We like to keep them busy with other activities.”
The cop frowned at her. He clearly didn’t like her interrupting his questioning.
Patterson said, “What’s this all about, Inspector? My husband was with his family all day. We can all vouch for him.” She paused, deliberately, Christy thought, then added, “This sounds like a fishing expedition.”
Woodgate narrowed his eyes at her needling, but he said evenly, “It’s not, Ms. Patterson. We have proof your husband was at the scene of the crime within the victim’s estimated time of death.”
“What?” Greg’s expression showed he was shocked. “That can’t be.”
Woodgate nodded. “Our information is solid. There can be no doubt. You were there.”
“I wasn’t!”
“Greg!” Patterson snapped. He looked over at her, bewildered. “Don’t say anything more until we get you a lawyer.”
“But I’m innocent. I didn’t do anything. I was playing mini golf. You were there!”
Patterson nodded. “Yes, I was. And I’ll prove that the charge against you is trumped up. But until then I need you to tell the inspector you want a lawyer and until you have one you aren’t going to answer any more questions.”
“Where will we get a lawyer out here?”
“Greg!”
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay.” He turned to the inspector. “I want a lawyer and I won’t talk until I get one.” He turned back to his wife, his brows raised. “Satisfied?”
Patterson nodded and a little of her tension eased.
“I’m sure Trevor would be willing to help,” Christy said, drawing all eyes onto her. “He’s just on the other side of the green space. Shall I call him?”
