Blood In The Sand: Betrayal, lies, romance and murder. (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

by Kelly Clayton

  “Where the hell have you been? Why don’t you return my calls?”

  If I did that, I’d have you screeching in stereo, he thought. He tried to be the better man, but his temper was roused. “The day you kicked me out and filed for divorce was the day when what I do, or where I’ve been, ceased being any of your business.”

  “Don’t give me that. If you’d only sign the fucking papers, I’d never need to contact you ever again.” She was shouting now, and her voice trailed off. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I don’t want to be this person, Jack, I really don’t, but you drive me to it—I swear you do.”

  “Look, I forgot. I’m up to my eyes in work with two suspicious deaths and another one today.”

  “Three? Are they connected?” She was quieter now, all discord gone.

  Le Claire had a surge of memory—of the two of them lounging side by side on the sofa, dinner eaten and the kitchen tidied, as they sipped coffees and talked about their day and brought each other up to speed on how they’d spent their time apart. He wondered if they’d stopped talking. If that was what had started their problems, or had it been the death knell? He spoke on impulse. “Why don’t you come inside for a bit? To be honest, I could do with someone to talk to.”

  He saw her hesitate for a moment.

  “Sure, but I can’t stay long.”

  ◆◆◆

  They walked towards the garages. On one side of the rectangular block, a set of white-painted wooden stairs ran to the first floor. The bottom of the building was concrete and steel, but the first floor was covered in planks of weathered wood beaten to silver by the elements. Sasha followed Le Claire as he climbed the stairs. At the top, he unlocked the door and gestured for her to go in.

  “I see the place hasn’t changed much.”

  Le Claire looked around. Light flooded into the long rectangular space from the picture windows. At one end lay a small galley-style kitchen area, separated from the living space by a marble-topped, waist-high dining counter, bar stools tucked neatly underneath.

  “I just updated a few pieces.”

  The furniture was the same—an old squashed sofa and armchair, although the bright red cushions and throws were new. The low wooden coffee table, scarred from propped-up boots, was still piled high with books and magazines. There was also a small shower room, and a quiet bedroom tucked at the back. He saw Sasha glance at the closed bedroom before she quickly looked away. That was the one place in which they’d spent most of their time when they were first seeing each other.

  Le Claire grimaced. Neither of them needed that memory. “So I’m back where I started out.” He took a bottle of ice-cold white wine from the small fridge and poured two glasses—one small, the other much larger. He felt he needed it, though whether from the strains of the day or from Sasha’s presence, he wasn’t entirely sure.

  They sat down, carefully apart, Sasha on the armchair opposite the sofa where he sat.

  She took a small sip of the wine and looked at him over the rim of her glass. Her gaze was direct. “Jack, how are you? About London, I mean?”

  His hand shook a little at her unexpected words, coming so soon after the nightmare returned, and some of the ice-cold wine spilt onto his palm. He carefully wiped the drips on his trousers, not making eye contact with Sasha. They hadn’t had this conversation in a long time, and he wasn’t going to have it tonight. His voice was abrupt and dismissive. “I try not to think about it too much, especially when I’m in the middle of a murder enquiry.”

  Sasha looked as if she was going to pursue her questioning, but her next words brought them back to the present. “I am so shocked. I can’t believe there’s been another murder. You didn’t answer before—are they connected?”

  “I don’t know, love. I just don’t know.”

  “Who was killed? Can you tell me?”

  He sighed. “As it’s apparently all over Facebook, I don’t see why not. It was a local estate agent, Emma Layzell. She—”

  Le Claire stopped speaking as a shocked gasp escaped from Sasha and the colour drained from her face. “Em? Oh, God, no.”

  “You knew her? I didn’t know you knew her. You’ve never spoken about her.”

  “It was before I met you. She was Emma Blair then. We were kids in our late teens. How did she die?”

  “We’re not releasing that at the moment, so I can’t say. Sorry.”

  Sasha let out a long shaky breath. “Is it connected? Is Emma’s death connected to the other two?”

  Le Claire sighed. She’d always been a dab hand at putting two and two together.

  “Not that I can see for sure at the moment; there are no apparent links. I don’t even know if she knew Kate Avery or Harriet Bellingham.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but she certainly knew Sam Avery.”

  Le Claire’s eyes sharpened as they focused on her words. “What do you mean?”

  Sasha shook her head quickly. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that. I just remembered that Emma dated Sam for a while. Well, maybe a few weeks. But I only heard about that from another friend. I didn’t really know Emma anymore by that time. I guess our friendship ran its course. We lost touch after she got married.”

  “Was she a bit of a wild girl?” He needed to poke and prod around in the crevices of the victim’s life to find out who she really was, no matter how intrusive.

  At her sharp look, Le Claire sighed. She thought he was judgmental. He knew he was merely inquisitive. Another bone of discontent between them.

  “No. She wasn’t some tart. Well, not then at any rate. She only had a couple of boyfriends when I knew her. We then drifted apart and lost touch. She married. I met you. That’s all history now. Anyway, if anything, she was more about the dream rather than reality. She was always mooning after someone or other.”

  “In what way?”

  “She just had a few major crushes on people, pretty intense crushes. I mean, she was nuts, absolutely nuts, about James Grayling.”

  The name rang a bell with Le Claire, although he couldn’t place where from.

  “One summer, we trailed a path from the Gunsite Beach to the bars in town, just so Em could accidentally bump into him.”

  Le Claire felt himself soften towards Sasha. This was the first time in a long time that they were just talking, not arguing. “So he wasn’t interested?”

  “I guess he may have been at another time, but he had some family issues. Some unknown relative turned up out of the blue. He went off the rails a bit and stopped hanging about with the usual crowd. Anyway, I hear he’s done okay for himself, so he must’ve got sorted out.”

  Le Claire was amazed. He’d forgotten Sasha’s ability to drag bits and pieces of information from her memory. “How do you collect all this stuff?”

  “Because I pay attention to what is happening to me, around me, and not just the police file on the desk.”

  And that, he knew, was the root of their problems.

  Sasha set down her barely touched glass of wine. “I better be going.” She reached the door, turning around as she opened it. A whisper of regret clouded her eyes. “Jack, sign the papers, love. This is torture, and I need to move on.”

  ◆◆◆

  Sam sat slightly apart from the stag party. As soon as they had arrived in St Malo, they had dumped their bags at the hotel. He hadn’t joined the others in their liquid breakfast; it was all a bit too early for that. But several hours later, after a good lunch, he sat nursing a beer as raucous laughter floated around and past him. Lost in his thoughts, he realised he had to force himself to be part of the group, to join in. It wasn’t easy. He’d thought his troubles might seem farther away with some physical distance, that he could let it all just slip away for a while.

  As he gazed out to the sea, the voices around him seemed to dull to a distant hum as his thoughts clamoured to be heard.

  Time was rushing past, and he felt out of control. This was the most challenging situation he had
ever had to face. He had to tie everything up soon, but—and this made him feel the clammy clutch of cold sweat—he didn’t entirely know how this would all end. But end it would. Time—and fate—was rushing towards him. He had to take what opportunities came his way, even if he had to help them on a bit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Grace opened the door, a welcome for James in her wobbly smile. He held a bulging bag of what she presumed was takeaway, and two bottles of red wine dangled precariously from one hand.

  She reached out. “Here. Let me help.” Taking the bottles, Grace led the way upstairs. “I hope these aren’t both for us?”

  “Well, it’s a good wine, so if we don’t drink it, promise me you won’t let Sam have any, and you’ll keep it to yourself.”

  At Grace’s sharp glance, he held up a hand in mock surrender. “Hey, only kidding. Honest.”

  Grace led the way into the kitchen and set the two bottles on the counter. James stood behind her, one arm snaking past and reaching around her as he placed the takeaway bag beside the wine. For a moment—just a moment—James pressed against her, and Grace couldn’t exactly tell if it was an accident or deliberate. But she thought it was on purpose and felt a sense of unease. She tensed, and he quickly moved away, his voice breaking the silence. “Show me where the glasses and bottle opener are, and I’ll get us going.”

  Grace smiled. She must have imagined it, and no wonder she was on edge, believing what wasn’t there—she’d had a hell of a time recently. She pointed towards the table in front of the open glass doors that led to the balcony. The table was set for two, complete with wine glasses and a fancy bottle opener.

  Grace busied herself, laying out the food. She stood back, looked at the table and grimaced. Her mother would have a fit at seeing the foil containers sitting in full view. But surprisingly, Grace found she really didn’t give a damn. She turned to James and smiled. “Sorry, this is all a bit casual, but it is takeout food.”

  James held two glasses filled with dark red wine and passed one to Grace. “Perfect. The fun of a takeaway is just serving straight from the cartons. The table looks lovely. You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”

  Silence reigned, broken only by murmurs of appreciation. Grace sighed. “Thanks, James. It’s really kind of you to do this tonight.”

  “It’s my pleasure. You’ve had a tough time recently. I just can’t get my head around the fact that you knew this girl—Emma Layzell, you said?”

  “Yes. I mean, I obviously didn’t know her very well, but I had lunch with her only yesterday. And just like that, she is gone.” Grace shivered and took a sip of her wine. “I just feel a bit shaky. Sorry.”

  James shook his head, a concerned look on his face. “There is nothing to apologise for. I just want to make sure you are okay, especially being here on your own with Sam in France.”

  “You’ve been a really great support. Thank you. I just can’t get Emma out of my head.”

  “I hate to bring the subject up, but surely the police don’t think this girl’s death has anything to do with what happened to your great-aunts?”

  Grace shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. They didn’t say as much, but I got the impression that they were trying to see if there was a connection.

  “This must be a nightmare for you.”

  “That is what it feels like. First, Kate, then Harriet. I meant to ask you, what happened with Ray Perkins on Thursday night? Was he okay?”

  “Oh, that. I herded him into the bar and bought him a double. The steam had gone out of him, and he headed home after a bit.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Not really. He used to come into my restaurants with Harriet. I was just coming over to say hello to you, but Ray got there first. He’s a bit rough around the edges, but I’ve never seen him act that way before. He is a drinker, though.”

  “I guess grief drives us in different ways. I think he really cared for Harriet.”

  James’s look was assessing as he changed the subject. “You don’t have anyone pining away for you in the States?”

  “Well, I thought I had. Turns out my fiancé was too busy having an affair with my assistant. I only found out by accident when I arrived in Jersey.”

  “Ouch, that’s tough.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Grace sighed as she pushed back from the table. “I believe I’ve eaten more than enough.

  “Me too. Ah, we appear to have polished the bottle off. Shall I open the other one?”

  Grace was in no mood for restraint. “Sure, why not? I’ll just clear the table.”

  They worked quietly together. With swift and economic movements, Grace disposed of the leftover food, rinsed the crockery and cutlery and loaded the dishwasher. There was a loud pop as James drew the cork on the second bottle and poured them each a fresh glass.

  “Let’s sit on the sofa; it’s more comfortable.”

  They sat, one on each end of the sofa. Grace tucked her legs under her, and James relaxed back into the soft cushions. He sipped his wine and said, “So tell me, who is Grace Howard?”

  “Oh, that’s a tough one. I’m a lawyer—or I was as I’ve quit my job due to the scummy ex-fiancé and the bitch of an assistant. So I guess I’m an unemployed lawyer. I live in an apartment in New York and spend the weekends at my parents’ place by the beach. I don’t have any real hobbies as I spent most of my time working. And my social life centred around Carter and my parents. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t know who Grace Howard is. Maybe now I’ll have the time to find out.”

  “I wish you luck with that. Personally, I’ve never wanted to look too closely at myself.” James’s wink took any deep emotion from the words.

  “So who is James Grayling, then?”

  “I’m not very interesting. My dad died when I was young, and my mother passed away a few years back.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you have siblings?”

  “No, my parents didn’t have any other children.”

  “I certainly know what it’s like to be an only child. My mother can be a little intense sometimes, and that’s saying the least of it. And your mother, were you close?”

  A shadow flitted across his eyes, dimming them for just a second. “For a long time, we were all each other had. It got a little rough once my dad was gone. But let’s not dwell on that tonight. Are you going to stay on the island for a while?”

  “I have to stay for the next three months to see out the terms of Kate’s will.”

  She answered the question in James’s eyes. “Kate’s will stipulated that if Sam and I didn’t stay in the house, together, for three months, then the house was to be demolished, the gardens razed and the land sold to developers.”

  “Isn’t that rather controlling? I mean, just to try and throw you and Sam together.”

  Grace’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh, no. That wasn’t her plan at all. No, what Kate wanted was for either Sam or I to make our permanent home at Rocque View.”

  “And is that in the cards?”

  “It’s a beautiful place, and I’m sure I’d be enjoying it more under different circumstances. But I’m really staying to honour Kate’s wishes and to see her murderer, and Harriet’s, get their due. It’s surreal to even be talking about this.” She crossed her arms tight across her chest to ward off an icy shiver that chilled her to the core. “I’ll stay here to see this through, all of it. Then I’ll decide where to go and what to do. But I won’t be going home for a while. I may just travel around.”

  James raised his glass in a toast. “To Grace Howard, the intrepid traveller. I envy you.”

  “Really? You don’t seem the type to envy anyone. I mean, you’ve pretty much got it all.” She silently enumerated: good looks, fit body, successful business...

  “It’s the freedom. And, forgive me, but you seem a little more relaxed than when I first met you.”

  “Ah, the uptightness would have been learned at my mother’s knee. I do feel
freer here, less controlled.” Grace grimaced as she had a moment of clarity and realised the wine was loosening her tongue. She really had drunk too much.

  “And Sam, where does he fit into all this?”

  Grace felt the hot, fiery blush race across her cheeks. “Sam? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Really? Come on, Grace. I’ve noticed how he looks at you. I’ve also experienced his aggressive, protective stance whenever I’m around.”

  She was lost for words. Did he mean that Sam felt something for her and that Sam saw James as a threat, a rival? Surely not? She wasn’t sure if James was trying to discredit Sam or promote himself.

  “Sam and I are just sharing this house, waiting to find out who killed Kate and Harriet,” and, she silently added, perhaps Emma, “and see out the three months. Sam will either take on Rocque View, or it’ll be sold. Either way, we’ll go our separate ways.”

  “Think what you will, Grace, but I think Sam looks at you as much more than a temporary housemate.”

  “I think you’re turning it into too much of a romantic situation. It’s real life, not a movie.”

  “So you don’t think rom-coms are reality? What movies do you like?” The conversation turned and twisted around likes and dislikes, and Grace suddenly realised this felt like a date, and she was enjoying herself.

  James picked up the bottle to pour them more wine and grimaced as a trickle of wine dropped into Grace’s glass. “Whoa. I guess I’d better go. Looks like I’ve outstayed my welcome.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s been a pleasure,” Grace said and realised she meant it. “You’ve certainly taken my mind off what’s been going on.” Or was that the wine she’d drunk? whispered the devil on her shoulder. For she had a horrible feeling that she’d drunk more of the two bottles of wine than James had. She’d have to blame it on the stress.