She was silent for a moment. She didn’t move, but it didn’t matter. The fury she was feeling seemed to emanate from her like heat waves off black pavement.
“She was…a free spirit. But I know she was with you again and now she’s missing. Someone knows something. If it’s anyone, it has to be you. You talked to her, and she talked to you.”
“Yes, she talked to me. And I talked to her.”
“So talk to me.”
He slid his glasses down his nose for a moment, studying her. “She talked to me nicely,” he said.
“This isn’t a social call.”
“Right. So leave me alone.”
“Since you don’t seem to want to talk to me, I’ll have to see to it that you talk to the police.”
“Fine. The police are usually polite and courteous.” He pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and folded his arms over his chest.
She was still staring down at him. He sighed and looked up at her impatiently.
“So what is it now? I can’t help you. Can’t you leave me alone anyway? See something you like? Hey, kid, have you changed, too? Just like Sheila? Do you want to…catch up on old times?”
Her composure was amazing. She took her time answering him.
“Do I see something I like? No, not at all. In fact, I’m amazed by how much I see I dislike.”
“Well, then, you have changed, honey. So…you’re not into the muscle-bound beach type anymore, huh?”
“I’m just not into assholes like you. Available? You must be joking.”
He looked up at her blandly. “Is that all?”
“All? No, not quite.”
She spoke softly, and, with an economy of motion, she twisted her wrist. The fruity drink fell over his chest like a rain of sticky slime. He almost jumped up to grab her. Instinct again.
He managed to keep his place on the lounge chair. It was important that she keep thinking of him as an asshole.
Strange, he hadn’t seen her in years. But still…she was a Keys kid from way back. Joe’s little sister.
No, Kelsey was a hell of a lot more than that, he reminded himself. But any fleeting memory of what might have been an inescapable bond in the past was quickly doused by the lethal trauma of the present.
Even more than he had feared when he first saw her, he realized that she was trouble. Real trouble.
And he sure as hell didn’t want her…
Dear God, he didn’t want her going the route Sheila had gone.
Still staring down at him, she shook her head with revulsion. “An asshole and a drunk,” she said. “You’re covered in liquor and you don’t even move.”
“I imagine it’s good booze. I’ll just lick myself all over,” he said. “Want to help?”
With one last look of disgust, she turned on her perfect little sandal-heels and started to walk away.
“Kelsey!”
Despite himself, he got to his feet, every muscle in his body quickening with tension.
“Go to the cops, Kelsey, then get the hell out of the Keys, do you hear? Go back to your hot job and your condo on the bay. Do you understand?”
She paused for a moment, then told him what he could do with himself.
“Whatever you want, Kelsey. But I mean it. Tell the cops anything you think they ought to know. Then go home.”
“This is my home—as much as it’s yours.”
“The hell it is. Your home now is a cute little condo in a ritzy section of Miami, with a gate and a security guard. Now go away.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” she asked. She didn’t expect an answer, but he gave her one anyway.
“I’m the man telling you that you don’t belong here anymore,” he said. Especially not running around asking questions about Sheila.
“Like I said, Dane. This is my home just as much as it’s yours. And I will find Sheila.”
She started walking away again, taking a circuitous route past the tables. He was tempted to go after her, shake her, tell her to get her nose out of the entire thing. FedEx her back to Miami.
Except that he would wind up getting arrested if he tried that. He was certain that if he so much as put a hand on her, she would call the cops for sure.
So he watched as she walked away through the back door of the Sea Shanty. He had to convince her to go back to Miami and get her the hell out of this. How, he wasn’t sure yet.
But he would. He swore to himself with a vengeance that he would get her out of here if it was the last thing he did.
When she was gone, he clenched his teeth and shook his head, suddenly glad the beer hadn’t kicked in. He walked down the sand-and shrub-covered path to the small spit of salt beach off the back of the Sea Shanty and just kept going until he was immersed. It was the quickest way he could think of to remove the drink she’d spilled on him. And the cool water was good for his head.
He’d wanted to behave completely normally after what had happened. But Kelsey arriving like a cyclone had changed all that.
Now the police were about to get involved, and sooner or later they would find Sheila Warren.
Jesus.
He had to find her first.
Kelsey walked into the right side of the duplex just off US1 in absolute disgust. She threw her purse across the small living room, watched as it landed in a wicker chair, then indulged in a moment’s delicious relief as the air-conditioning surrounded her. Sea breezes be damned. It was hot as hell outside.
Pausing by the door for a moment, she let out a breath of aggravation.
“Well, that went well,” she said, murmuring wryly aloud to herself. Her fault, maybe. Okay, her fault definitely. She could have started out with a, Hi, Dane, how are you? Wow, it’s been ages….
But he had looked like such a beach bum lying there. And Nate, the owner of the Sea Shanty who she was actually married to for a very brief time when they were young, had said he had been drinking all afternoon. And that he’d been seeing Sheila. That they had argued. And that Dane had been strange ever since he’d moved back down from St. Augustine. That he’d taken on a case up there and someone had died strangely and…Nate hadn’t really known all the particulars because Dane hadn’t wanted to talk about them. So something not great had happened, and he’d come home to drink himself to death. Sheila had told her, too, that Dane had been strange. Like a guy ready to throw his life away.
When they were kids, Dane had been like the Rock of Gibraltar. He and Joe had been the leaders of the pack. Even when she had wanted to run away from life and—more than anything in the world—from Dane, she had wanted things to go well for him. It had been upsetting to hear that he had fallen into being little more than a beach bum, with no care for the world, no ambition, no concern for anyone at all—even old friends.
Sheila had been concerned about him.
But it seemed that Dane didn’t give a damn about her.
Kelsey kicked off her shoes and walked into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door, thanking God that she’d taken the time that morning to do a little shopping for herself. Juice, soda, beer and wine. She had a choice.
The heat she’d come from made her opt for a beer. She hesitated, her fingers curling around a bottle, remembering that she’d found Dane swilling the stuff. She moved her hand, choosing a bottle of cranberry-raspberry cocktail instead. No. She wanted a beer, and the fact that Dane had turned into a slug who drank the stuff lying on a lounge chair in the shade shouldn’t keep her from what she wanted.
Why the hell had he made her so mad? Right from the get-go. Okay, she’d been disturbed from the minute she’d talked to Nate, maybe unreasonably angry with Dane before she’d even headed out to speak to him. Why?
Uh-uh, she argued with herself. She wasn’t going to delve into the psychiatry of that one. She hadn’t seen him in years. And still, today…damn, she’d blown it, that was all. She’d meant to talk to him, get information. Everyone knew he’d been seeing Sheila again. Maybe they hadn’t become
a twosome, the way they had been when they were young, but apparently they’d still been close. Even Larry Miller, another friend from the early days who she worked with and Sheila’s ex, had apparently known that, because he’d mentioned something about Sheila saying she was seeing Dane again when Kelsey had told him she was heading to Key Largo for her vacation, to spend time with Sheila.
Nate had told her that Dane and Sheila argued the last time he’d seen her. Cindy Greeley, one of her and Sheila’s best friends growing up, had told her the same.
She pulled out the Michelob, twisted off the cap, took a long swig and looked around the kitchen. “Sheila…am I crazy? Are you just being a careless and inconsiderate bitch, the way everyone seems to think? Where the hell are you?”
The air conditioner hummed in reply. No answer there. In the quiet of the early evening, the sound seemed absurdly loud.
She walked to the rear of the living room and opened the glass doors to the patio at the back of the duplex, separated by a small privacy wall from the neighboring side. Beyond stretched the standard-size pool that belonged to both occupants, surrounded by flowering plants and shrubs. The entire yard was surrounded by a rustic wood privacy fence. The backyard was beautiful and peaceful, the high point of the duplex. And actually, on the patio, she could feel a sweet, salt-touched breeze. She was startled to feel suddenly that it was good to be home. And it was still her home, no matter what anyone said—especially Dane.
Not that she had gone so very far. Her section of Miami was only an hour to an hour and a half away, depending on traffic. But life there seemed as different as night and day, even if the temperatures in both places were almost identical and the same flowers bloomed. A short walk from this duplex could bring her to the Atlantic, and she could look straight out from her condo patio and see the waters of Biscayne Bay, heading into the Atlantic, as well. And still, this was so different. She had felt it today at the Sea Shanty, the small-town warmth, the laid-back ease, even with the place crawling with tourists and the main objective among most of the populace being to make money off those tourists. There were other people, as well, retirees, Northerners sick of the snow, and weekenders who had fallen in love with their weekends and made Key Largo their home. She’d always wanted to see more of the world, and she’d gotten to see a lot of it now. Maybe that was why it seemed so good to feel as if she had really come home.
Once upon a time, home had been the pretty white-painted wooden house south on US1 on the ocean side of the island. No more. Her parents had sold the place years ago. They didn’t come back here anymore. In fact, the house no longer existed; it had been torn down to make way for the tennis courts for one of the new hotels. It had bothered her deeply when she’d started driving around today, so much so that she wished she had told her parents she wanted the house when they offered it to her before moving to Orlando.
Too late now.
Like them, at the time she had just wanted to get out of Key Largo.
She knew, of course, that when she’d left, she’d been running away. There had been far too much of Joe here then, and she had needed a new environment. Time could do good things. Now she liked it because there was still a lot of Joe here. Just as she had liked seeing Nate at the Sea Shanty, feeling the sun and the breeze at the Tiki hut bar, knowing that a short walk in bare feet would bring her to the little patch of private beach.
The Sea Shanty was like a bastion of memory. Nate’s dad had run it when they were kids. Now the place was Nate’s. And when she walked in, she really had felt that sense of coming home, of memory, nostalgia and mostly good things. She had felt a sense of poignant pleasure, being there. But then she had spoken with Nate and mentioned how worried she was about Sheila. Nate had started talking, and then she had seen Dane Whitelaw, plastered and vegetating in the sun, sunglasses in place, beer at his side, the picture of total inertia.
Dane Whitelaw, of all people.
Wasting his life. She’d seen it so many times. People who used this little corner of Eden to escape all responsibility, to drown themselves in beer and couch potato themselves into early graves.
And he was lying, to boot. He had seen Sheila, talked to her…done a lot more than talked, by his own admission. Why not? They’d been off and on for years. The worst of it was that he should care, be concerned. Even Larry, whom Sheila had hurt, had been concerned, insisting that she call him if she needed anything, if Sheila needed anything, if there was anything he could do…Sheila wouldn’t even need to see him. If she needed money, he would be happy to help her out. Nate had been concerned, too, shaking his head and telling her that they all worried about Sheila, but hell, what could they do? She was a grown-up.
Nate had told her, too, that Sheila often made dates with her friends—lunch, dinner, drinks, coffee, breakfast, whatever—and forgot to appear. She always had an apology, of course. Even so, Nate had seemed concerned, even as he tried to tell Kelsey that she shouldn’t be. He hadn’t seen Sheila in a week, and she never stayed away from the Sea Shanty that long.
Only Dane seemed indifferent. Crude. It appeared that he had come home just to drink himself into oblivion, and he didn’t give a damn about Sheila or anything else.
And, of course, there was that last page in Sheila’s diary, which she had found beneath the pillow on Sheila’s bed. At first she had shoved the book back under the pillow, surprised that Sheila had kept a diary, then determined that a diary was private and she had no right to read it. But when Sheila hadn’t appeared, she had skimmed through, and then gone to the last page.
Have to see Dane tonight. Tell him I’m afraid.
Private or not, she was going to read every page in the diary. Maybe she should have mentioned it to the police.
No. Not yet, anyway. Not until she knew what was in it herself. She wasn’t airing Sheila’s life to anyone, unless it became absolutely necessary.
There was a knock at the door. For a moment she clenched her teeth, wondering if Dane had decided to follow her back from the Sea Shanty. A man wouldn’t need to be a P.I. to find out where she was staying.
And he undoubtedly knew the way to Sheila’s place.
She marched barefoot to the front door, grateful that the owners of the duplex had done away with the old-time jalousie and put in solid wood doors. She looked through the peephole. Cindy Greeley, now her official next-door neighbor in the duplex where she herself was an unofficial guest, was standing on the porch with a tray of something in her hands.
Kelsey opened the door.
“Did you find out anything?” Cindy asked her.
Kelsey stepped back, letting Cindy enter. Even in her bare feet, she was almost a head taller than the other woman, five-nine compared with Cindy’s petite five-two. The smaller woman was compact, with sun-bleached hair, huge blue eyes and a tiny frame. She looked as if she should be heading off to high school, but she’d always had a terrific head on her shoulders, had made it nicely through college, and now owned eighteen T-shirt and shell shops throughout the Keys that might one day make her rich.
“Did I find out anything?” Kelsey said, her tone both musing and slightly bitter. “Nope. Nothing.”
“I told you,” Cindy said.
“Well, wait a minute. Maybe not exactly ‘nothing.’ I did find out that everyone saw Sheila arguing with Dane, but no one knows where she is now. Except, of course, I’m sure someone is lying. Want to come in and have something to drink?”
Cindy gave her a quizzical look for a moment. “Kind of early for you, isn’t it? You’re the kid who never had anything to drink during the day. And I thought you just came from the Sea Shanty?”
“It’s after five. Isn’t that cocktail hour?”
“Yeah, I guess. Sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was. Daylight Saving Time, you know. Seems it stays light so late. But hey, I told you to try one of those Wind-Runners over there. That should have knocked you for a loop. Didn’t you get one?”
“I ordered one. But I didn’t drink it
.”
“Why not? They’re delicious.”
“It spilled,” Kelsey said. “Are you coming in?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. I just made quiche. Thought you might like some.”
“Good, you supply the food, I’ve got the beer.”
They walked on into the kitchen together. “I went down to the sheriff’s department. Sergeant Hansen let me fill out a missing persons report, though he wasn’t real thrilled about it. He didn’t seem to think there was anything odd about Sheila being gone for a week. Usually all you need is forty-eight hours. Here, your remains could be mummified and everyone still thinks you’ll show up when you feel like it.”
“Kelsey, that’s not true. It’s just that…”
“That what?”
“Sheila was living…a certain lifestyle,” Cindy said.
“Still, a missing persons report is important,” Kelsey told Cindy. She looked pointedly at her friend. “And it’s something no one else thought to do.”
“Kelsey,” Cindy said, taking a seat on one of the three bar stools at the kitchen counter, “I’m not sure what to say to make you feel better. You’ve got to realize, Sheila is always going off and not telling anyone.”
“I’m worried because she was supposed to meet me. Here. We made plans. I took my vacation time.”
Cindy shrugged, accepting a bottle of Michelob. “Kelsey, you haven’t seen a lot of Sheila in the last few years.”
“I haven’t seen her at all for at least two years,” Kelsey said.
Cindy spoke slowly. “So you just have to realize—you don’t really know her anymore.”
Kelsey shrugged, feeling the guilt that had plagued her lately over that very fact.
They’d all been friends, growing up. Slightly different in age, but friends because they were islanders, and the area had been pretty darn small back when they’d been kids. She was the youngest, Cindy was one year her senior, Sheila and Nate were the same age, two years older than Cindy. Of their little group, her brother, Joe, had been the oldest—with Dane Whitelaw just one month younger. Then there was Larry, who had been about the same age as Dane and Joe, but he had been a weekender, so he hadn’t really been in the same tight-knit group. Sometimes there had been other kids in the group, as well, guys like Jorge Marti, and even Izzy Garcia.