Drowning Tides

  “I guess I do see. Were the stripes bright or pale green?”

  “Not sure. Nick tell you I’m color-blind? Everything looks green-yellow to me, but I can tell white. I’ll send you a pic of the scarf tomorrow. If I still have it and if we’re still here.”

  “I don’t know why I can’t let it go—Sondra’s murder. Just the fact it happened on the yacht, I guess.”

  “You not believe in ghosts, no?”

  “Not that kind. Only the kind that haunt Nick and me like Ames, and we’re working on that. I just wish I knew what kind of things to pack.”

  “Be prepared, sí?”

  “Exactly. You know, Heck, when we leave here, I’m going to miss it. Thanks for all your help to Nick and me too.”

  “Sure. Sure,” he repeated, suddenly seeming a bit embarrassed or on edge. “I think the world of Nick, and now, you do too.”

  * * *

  Claire was nervous at the law firm reception, and that wasn’t like her. Too much happening too fast. She and Nick had stood in an informal reception line at first, but darned if she could recall more than half of the twenty-some names of people she’d been introduced to right now, and she hadn’t even had much wine. How insane that they couldn’t live a normal life, enjoy this, go out to dinner with friends, take Lexi here and there, just relax.

  What had really rattled her was Nick’s information that the local private detective he’d hired just today to tail Maggie’s spy, Jesse Winslow, was waiting in his office right now to give them a report. Although Maggie had assured them she’d call Jesse off immediately, this detective—whose name Nick didn’t give her—wanted to see them, despite this party.

  Chatting with people along the way, Nick steered Claire into his office.

  Nick’s detective was dressed like a tourist heading out to dinner, slacks, golf shirt, ball cap in his hands. Nick still didn’t give the man’s name, but she was sure there was a reason for that. He’d been introducing her to everyone else this afternoon.

  “No, don’t hit the lights,” the man said when Nick reached for the switch. “I don’t want someone looking up or in here.”

  “Then let’s make this quick,” Nick told the man. “We can’t disappear from our reception, and you need to get back on this, so what’s the news? Did you lose him?”

  “No way, since he’s still tailing you. Take a look out the corner window over there, but don’t stand too close. He’s not only following you around, but I think he has some sort of cell phone receptor in that big backpack.”

  Nick swore under his breath as he looked out the window. “Is that the same guy?” Nick asked Claire as she stood slightly behind him and peeked around.

  “Looks like the one I saw Maggie talking to and the one that strolled past your house with the dog. But she gave us his name, so she must not have intended to keep him on this. Surely, he wouldn’t do it on his own. Maybe someone else spotted him and decided to use him.”

  “I think we can guess who,” Nick muttered.

  The detective said, “You want him arrested and questioned, Mr. Markwood?”

  “No, I want him followed. He might lead you back to Maggie, which I doubt, or someone else. But that backpack he has—you think he can pick up cell phone conversations?”

  “It’s why I didn’t phone you to say I’m on to him.”

  Claire said, “So, even more so now, we need to watch our own conversations,” she told Nick, gripping his upper arm.

  “Okay,” Nick told the man. “Two can play the stalking game. Keep on him.”

  “Should I come to the yacht rather than phone if I have other info?”

  Nick nodded. They shook hands, and the man slipped out.

  “But we won’t be there long,” Claire said, whispering.

  “I can’t tell even him that.” He spoke so low she could barely hear him. “I just hope my calls to Rod Patterson weren’t picked up. Plus, Jace called right before you arrived to say he’s set everything in motion, but he didn’t give details. We absolutely need to get you and Lexi out of here. I’m hoping this shindig assures anyone watching us that it’s business as usual.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her.

  “Better watch that lipstick on your mouth,” she said. “People will think we’ve been in here fooling around.”

  “Don’t I wish? Claire, before we go back out, one more thing,” he said, putting one hand on her bare shoulder and whispering in a raspy voice. “Ames’s messenger boy, Thom Van Cleve, our guest for lunch on the yacht, came here today to reinforce and remind me, now that Haze has been formally accused, to protect and praise the Youth water or else.”

  “Oh, no! He came here?”

  “Jace flew him in a while ago, and he’s dogged him too. They’re hoping to keep Jace in line and on the payroll, but being ordered around and controlled has infuriated him too. I had this office swept for listening devices after Van Cleve left, that’s how obsessed I’m getting, or I wouldn’t have let my messenger in here. But it was clean—and now we’ve got the man on the street to worry about. I’ll bet Maggie fired him and Van Cleve hired him.”

  “We’ve had nothing but trouble since we’ve been together. I wish I could say things are getting better.”

  “They will. When I get you to the safe place out in the wild blue yonder, we’ll have some time alone before I leave...” His voice trailed off.

  “I’ll kidnap you and make you stay.”

  “I’d like that. Very much,” he said and tapped the rim of his wine goblet to hers.

  “Well,” she rushed on, still whispering, “neither did I have a chance to tell you that Jace left his cell on the yacht, and Nita found it this morning, so that’s one phone that wasn’t tapped last night, or whatever they call it these days. But get this. The first thing that came up when I turned it on was an email to Jace from Van Cleve with a photo of our wedding ceremony at Nightshade with your favorite ‘uncle’ gloating in the background. Jace stopped by to pick it up when I was with Darcy. But I’m getting paranoid too. Can we trust even him?”

  “You used to go ballistic when I talked like that. We have no choice now. Yes, I think so. He loves Lexi. So how did it go with Darcy?”

  “I didn’t tell her much, but she supported me. Nick, I’m afraid for her—for them.”

  “When I get back from Ma—hell, didn’t mean to say that. Anyway, I’ll be in touch with her.”

  “We’re going to Massachusetts? Manhattan to get lost in the crowds? Marrakech in Morocco? The Mariana Islands? Jace is used to flying over water.”

  “Very funny. I love you, Claire, down to your smart, sturdy backbone. Later for more—more of everything, okay?”

  As they went back out into the buzzing reception room, he lifted his wineglass in a sort of salute as they passed the group of young, eager junior partners they had talked to earlier. They were still hanging around between the bar and the appetizer table, making up their meal for all Claire could tell. The receptionist and secretaries had their own little gathering over by the reception room windows, and she was glad they were included. She liked his secretary, Cheryl, who was the only one she’d really talked to before.

  “I think you’ve all met Claire,” he told the last group they hadn’t chatted with. Again she observed Nick switch to senior partner, assured, in charge and in control, apparently not worried or scared at all.

  The names came too fast for her again, but she’d learn them all. When times were better. When things were safe. Nick was right that they dared not cancel this tonight, or the Ames-spies of the world would smell a rat. Actually, she was starting to agree with Nick that the rat’s name was not Haze or Maggie or Fin Taylor, but Thom Van Cleve.

  34

  “I don’t want you to go into work this morning,” Claire told Nick as she got out of bed
and wrapped a terry cloth robe around her nightgown and watched him get dressed. No way was she sleeping in today. She had so much to do.

  “We have to keep up appearances.”

  “But isn’t today the day?”

  “Tonight,” he said, sitting on the bed to put his socks on. “Have yourself and Lexi packed.”

  “Packed more for the equator or the North Pole?”

  “WITSEC never tells, but it’s cool most places, even getting cooler here.”

  “But I know you know our destination. Ma—what?”

  She sat down on the bed next to him, but then crawled behind him and put her arms around his shoulders and neck, pressing her breasts into his back. He had his tie through his shirt collar in a knot, but he hadn’t pulled it tight yet. Again, she thought of Sondra, probably approached from behind by someone she knew and then strangled. She remembered that Heck had said he’d send her a picture of that murder weapon this morning. As soon as Nick was on his way, before packing for her and Lexi, she’d check her phone, or better yet, her laptop, to be sure she could see it enlarged. She’d have to let it all go then, take care of herself and her own before their departure tonight.

  Nick reached behind and pushed her back on the bed. Though he was fully dressed—well, but for one sock—he pulled her robe open and slid his hand up along her hip and ribs, ruffling her silk nightgown, nearly up to her chin. He lifted one knee between her legs.

  “You are so tempting,” he murmured as his narrowed gaze heated her. “Always were. Don’t forget you’re mine, even if we’re apart, even if Jace comes for a while—always, always, mine.”

  “Nick, I love you!”

  “Who needs breakfast with a delicious feast like this?” he said as his hands and mouth descended on her.

  * * *

  Claire was still dazed and dazzled when Nick hurried off a half hour late, but she forced herself to shower and dress before checking her laptop. Yes, an email and an attachment from Heck to download. She sat forward, staring at the screen as the picture opened. She gasped. A strange and lovely murder weapon, but that made sense. The scarf had stripes of stark white and kelly green. Claire had seen that very scarf or one like it among the other Irish items just a short walk from here.

  Colleen had told her that Sondra had often bought things at her shop, so maybe Sondra had brought it with her to the yacht and had it tied to her purse or something, despite the fact her dress was red polka-dot. Or what if someone else bought it there—the murderer.

  She’d ask Nita to pack for Lexi, let Lexi pick out some of her favorite toys—and that darned stuffed turtle Ames gave her. Though she hadn’t told Nick, she’d packed for herself last night and her single suitcase was under the bed. He’d promised they could shop or mail order other things when they arrived at their destination.

  But now, she was going to ask Colleen if Sondra had bought this scarf at her shop. And, had anyone else bought one like it? She printed out the picture to have a larger version of it, grabbed her purse and went to tell Nita where she was going.

  * * *

  Claire hurried toward the Irish shop and was a bit out of breath when she got there. Colleen’s everlasting roses were still in bright bloom. Some people called them knockout roses, but Claire had never liked the double meaning of that. Though they were sturdy, it sounded like some prizefighter had named them, some man, at least.

  When she found the screen door locked, she wasn’t surprised. Colleen seemed to be careful about that, even on quiet Goodland. She knocked. “Colleen?” she called in. “It’s Claire. I need to ask you something. Are you home?”

  This reminded her of the day she’d called for Ada and she hadn’t been there, but now she heard footsteps coming. Colleen appeared in a burst of energy.

  “I keep the screen door locked in these terrible times with people being harmed,” she said. She merely unhooked the door, but Claire saw she still wore her dangling chain of keys that opened her display cases. Colleen wore a peasant skirt, a simple white blouse and sandals.

  “So sad about Ada Cypress,” Colleen went on. “I know I have too much of the gift of gab, but do you think she was as old as the rumors say?” She opened the door and motioned Claire in, so she stepped past Colleen and looked around the shop. It looked just as she’d seen it before except plates and saucers of the Irish bone china Colleen had showed her last time were stacked on one of the glass cases, evidently waiting to be put away or on display.

  “She was older than most but didn’t look it,” Claire said, not wanting to get off on that tangent. “She would have been a good advertisement for the waters, not that they need a boost, despite what some think.”

  “Well, faith and begorra, as my grandfather used to say. You know, I dream sometimes of going big with my Irish wares, but I probably won’t. Big isn’t always better. So what can I do for you?”

  “You remember our talk about Sondra McMillan’s death?”

  “That case isn’t being opened again, is it?” she asked, wide-eyed. “Did they find who did it? One of her male conquests, I’ll bet, if not Dylan himself. You might know the man has a good Irish name, the cad. It comes from an Irish word meaning faithful or loyal. And it came out in the trial he was cheating on his wife. Ha!”

  “No, I haven’t heard the case is being reopened or about another suspect—yet. But I was wondering if you ever saw a picture of the scarf Sondra was strangled with.”

  “No. Come in, come all the way in. I not only claim the luck of the Irish, but the hospitality of the Irish, and I believe you and I can be friends, if you will only settle down here on Goodland and not stay on that yacht. But what about the scarf? Why do you mention that? Sit right there,” she insisted, motioning to the only chair in the room. “Now tell me.”

  But Claire didn’t sit. She went over to the case with the linen handkerchiefs and silk scarves under the stack of china and bent over them, catching her own reflection in the glass.

  “I’m hoping you can recall if Sondra got it here, and, more importantly, if anyone else bought one. I have a printed picture of it,” she explained, taking the photo from her purse and unfolding it.

  Colleen frowned at the picture. “I do recall,” she said and stepped away to reach over to open the back of the display case with a key. “Yes, Sondra bought one, but someone else did too—just like it. Ada. She loved the colors, nature’s colors, the colors of the holy waters, she said, and bought one just like that.”

  “Ada called the spring holy waters? That doesn’t sound like her. It sounds—well, Catholic.”

  “Why, yes, she said that. Here, look under here, in this stack. I think near the bottom is one like it. Yes, I remember Ada liked this one too, then bought the other.”

  Claire started to get that prickly feeling that something was wrong. She couldn’t reconcile Ada, who wove Spanish moss into shawls, with a silk scarf. She bent closer as Colleen picked through the slippery pile of scarves, many green and white.

  “Let’s see, where is that identical one?” Colleen muttered and pulled out the entire pile to spill them on the top of the case.

  Claire glanced down to search for the very one herself. Nick might not want to open the case again, especially if a dead woman was the strangler, but she had to have the answer. If he had to go to court unsure who really killed Mark, it might help him to know, at least, who killed poor Sondra.

  Quick as lightning, Colleen threw her long key chain over Claire’s head and yanked it tight around her neck.

  35

  Claire fought for her life. Shock. Pain. Fear. Blackness closing in, but all clear now. Colleen killed Sondra. Killed Mark too. No time now. Can’t breathe, no air.

  Her first impulse was to twist to face Colleen to get some slack. The metal key chain burned and cut into her neck. Dizzy. Blackout soon.

 
She kicked backward at her, hit only air. Going down. Going to die. Lexi! Nick!

  She grabbed the only weapon she could see, the top dinner plate, and smashed it on the display case. Glass shattered. Broken plate. Gasping for air, she swung it behind her and hit something. Cut something. Warm blood spurted.

  “Nooooo!” Colleen screamed.

  Claire shoved the plate back again. Hit nothing, but the chain loosened just a bit. She jammed her right index finger in but that felt cut too. She sucked in a ragged breath and turned to hit out at the woman. The broken plate must have cut her. Blood was pulsing from her inner wrist. The chain loosened around Claire’s neck as Colleen tried to stem the blood with her other hand.

  Dizzy, horrified, Claire kicked at her, raked her fingernails at Colleen’s distorted face. They both went to their knees, fell to the floor. Yanking the key chain from the woman’s hands, Claire gasped for air, panting like a dog. Dizzy. Very dizzy. The seawater had turned red. Was she drowning in it and couldn’t breathe?

  Holding her bleeding wrist, Colleen tried to crawl away on the floor.

  “It’s not my fault,” she screamed. “Mark only used me to get things on Fin. He was going back to Sondra! Didn’t mean to hurt him, but he said he knew I’d killed her, followed her onto the yacht and...ah! Had to shoot Mark. Too much blood!”

  Claire shook her head, trying to clear it. Still gasping for air, ignoring the fiery ring of pain around her neck, she scrambled for her purse and her phone. Nick had said be careful with phone calls, no calls.

  But she had to—had to get help for herself and this murderer she had liked, had trusted. How had she been so stupid, let Nick down? She’d felt a bond with Colleen.

  She dialed 9-1-1. Her voice wouldn’t work at first, a mere croak. She tried again, whispered for an emergency squad and the sheriff. And then, despite his warning, she called Nick.

  * * *