Taking a deep breath, wondering why I never made a last will and testament, I looked and...
Nothing.
No sign of Beagban and not a single tourist behind the magazine, unusual as it was a lovely view. Only a few yards away the tough long grass took over, growing in both the marsh and sand where the land dropped off. And just beyond that was the river. Today it matched the sky, blue for blue.
I skirted around back tucked tight up against the wall. Half of me expected Beagban to walk around the corner at any minute, another half was worried I had already missed him. Perhaps he’d gone back to his truck. The thought was as irritating as it was relieving. But no, I heard a wisp of conversation carried on the wind.
I instantly recognized Beagban’s gravelly baritone, but the other voice took a moment to place. And when I did I knew this risky trip had been worth it—provided I didn’t get caught.
I didn’t stop creeping closer until I could hear clearly. Raina Thompson’s severe chilly voice seemed to ring off the stone. “—instructed to take things from here, you’re to do nothing.”
“Hurst wouldn’t keep me here if he didn’t want me to do something,” Beagban challenged.
“And who do you think gave me these orders?” Raina rebuked. “To Lars you’re a tool and nothing more.” I felt her signature contempt rising. “And not much use at that,” she taunted. “What’s happened to your arm?” It sounded like she knew exactly what had happened to his arm.
“I can manage just fine without the arm,” Beagban ground out.
She scoffed. “Don’t bother threatening me unless you’re willing to go against Lars.” She paused, sure in the knowledge that he was not.
I had no such confidence. On the contrary, I could feel Beagban’s anger growing and knew from experience that there was nothing Beagban despised more than a situation out of his control. Being mocked by a woman didn’t help, it only chafed his pride. But all he said was, “I’ll find the book.”
“No,” Raina said with strident sharpness. “I’ll find the book. You just stay out of the way.”
Beagban might have mumbled something, but I couldn’t make it out. I’d already moved away, sensing the conversation had reached its peak. It had actually reached its finish. I knew because when I walked out from behind the magazine I could see Raina Thompson’s imperious figure moving stiffly for the parking lot, and behind her Beagban stalked like the murderer he was.
I waited for them to go, and then I waited some more. I knew what I had to do next, and honestly, it was as daunting a task as following Beagban had been. I had to call Francesca. I needed a ride.
Chapter 37
Based on Francesca’s emotions, I made a simple diagnosis: she didn’t know how to forgive me. The fact that I needed to be forgiven at all was somewhat irksome, as I still maintained that I was innocent of all accusations and wrongdoing. All right, I didn’t really put in a good word for her with Reed. I’d done just the opposite. But it was for her own good. Unfortunately I couldn’t tell her that.
In fact, I couldn’t tell her much of anything just then because she was studiously ignoring me, and doing a bang-up job at that. She gripped the wheel with two clenched fists, posture rigid, while staring straight ahead. Her body language proclaimed loud and clear that I was to leave her alone, that we were not friends. But her emotions betrayed her.
After phoning from inside the visitor center, I had waited, wondering if she would come. She’d given no clear response, choosing to hang up on me instead. But she had come, and she’d missed me too. I could feel it, but I could also feel something separating us, a rotting cavity in our relationship. I wasn’t sure how to breach it, and as I said, Francesca wasn’t prepared to try.
The thing about our friendship was, it was somewhat skewed. Francesca tended to take initiative. It was she who first approached me when I’d started working at the Crowne, asking if I’d like to go out shopping with her. I had declined on principle, wondering why the Megan Fox look-alike from behind the front desk had deigned to notice me. But she only got trickier after that.
It started with some subtle coaxing. She’d wheedle me into lending her things, sometimes stopping by my house unexpectedly to drop them off. I got used to her, assuming she was presumptuous, the type that infringed on everyone. But a huntress by nature, Francesca could feel my weakening resolve and began to press me, trying to get me to join in on errands and other activities. Before I knew it I was picking out nail polish, going to see chick-flicks, and even swapping clothes. Only then did I realize that Francesca did not open up to everyone, and that her enthusiastic befriending extended only to me.
During my second summer on St. Simons, Francesca had convinced me to go to the beach. Gritty hot sand squelching beneath my sandals, the sun roasting my complexion to cancer, not to mention the plethora of townies and tourists that congregated along the shore, each brimming full with emotion—none of those things enticed me. But somehow she convinced me, connived me, to go. And I’d lost my bracelet.
One of my many sisters had braided me a wrist cuff of soft leather. It wasn’t like she was my favorite sister or that the present had a special, sentimental meaning. I’d simply worn it for so long that I had grown attached. But then it had slipped off while I was walking along the beach that day. It had felt like losing my last link with home.
I’d been disappointed but resigned that it was gone forever. Francesca had not. She told me to stay with our towels while she wandered back the way we came, asking and searching for my cheapo jewelry. She had even managed to recruit a few people (good-looking men) to the cause. They’d quit tossing around their football to help. And together they’d found it snagged on the tall grass along the wood plank walkway. It’d been no worse for wear.
Had the situation been reversed, I would have sympathized with Francesca’s loss, commiserating at the ill luck, but I would never have gone after the bracelet. She was not only the better friend, but the friend with all the initiative.
Francesca was the leader, not me. So how in the hell were things going to get fixed between us if she wouldn’t even try?
The silence stretched on. I gave a few vague directions to my car, purposefully avoiding the fact that it was parked behind her mother’s home.
More silence. I caught myself daydreaming of all the tragic accidents that might befall me. My car wrapped around a tree, Francesca rushing to the hospital, delivering hiccupped apologies through copious tears at my bedside. I may have even imagined the untimely death of one of my beloved siblings, but only so I could fantasize over how shitty she’d feel for being mad at me then.
Guiltily, I cleared my throat, preparing to make another attempt at conversation so as to avoid my heathen thoughts. “Lovely weather, don’t you think?”
Francesca turned her head just long enough to glare, but again, her emotions belied her attitude. She was interested in whatever I said, tense and attentive throughout the whole drive. But there was also a self-imposed constraint keeping her quiet. Her pride at work.
It was just a matter of pushing the right buttons. “You haven’t asked how I got separated from my car.” I paused for a moment, though I hardly expected her to reply. “Someone gave me a ride, it was unexpected, and I suppose I wasn’t really thinking when I went along.”
Her feelings had sharpened. She was curious, and it didn’t take my empathic abilities to know it.
“Aren’t you going to ask whose car it was? Or maybe you want to know if it was Reed’s car?” I suggested.
“Why would I want to know that?” I ignored the hostile tone and took the comment for what it was—a subtle prompt to continue.
“I can’t think of a good reason, but then I’m not the one who loses all rationale when it comes to Reed Wallace.”
She wanted to retaliate, but instead favored me with another fierce look before punishing us both with more silence.
??
?Oh. You’re not going to say anything,” I said, dryly adding, “how surprising.”
“Where do I go now?” she bit out harshly.
No point in avoiding it any longer. “To your mother’s,” I admitted.
“What!”
“To your mother’s!” I shouted back.
“What were you doing at my mother’s house!”
“Watch the road!” I screamed.
Francesca jerked to face the road as she veered back into the right lane. “Did you two talk about me?” Her voice was shaking with scarcely contained anger, but I felt its full force.
There was no trace of emotion in my own voice when I answered, “Not everything is about you,” avoiding the question.
“It doesn’t matter! My mother’s house is off limits when we’re fighting.” She felt embarrassed and betrayed that we’d been talking together. I almost felt bad.
We were in town now, the roads clogged with traffic. “Slow down,” I warned.
“Slow down? I can’t wait to get you out of my car!” She didn’t mean it, but it still hurt. I remained quiet, not wanting to make things worse. Perhaps I shouldn’t have pushed so hard to get her talking, it certainly felt like a mistake in hindsight.
Francesca turned down the narrow alley that ran behind her mother’s house. My little Chevy stood out like an eyesore, two shades green too many. She jerked the car into park before demanding that I get out.
I opened the door, setting one foot on the asphalt. But I stopped to ask, “So when are you going to start being my friend again?”
The anger was gone, but she wouldn’t meet my eye. She said, “When you’re done being such a bitch.”
“It never bothered you before,” I replied, shutting the passenger door before hurrying to my car.
* * *
“What do you mean by strolling in here more than two hours late?” Ben bellowed.
I shut the office door behind me, glancing at the clock we kept above the counter. Damn, he wasn’t exaggerating. “Ben,” I said in placating tones, “you know I would never stroll anywhere.”
He flapped a hand at me disgustedly. “One day you’re going to piss off the wrong person, Adelaide.”
I already had. His name was Beagban. But I didn’t contradict Ben. It made him feel better to predict my doom, helped to release all that pent up frustration and worry.
Shuffling things around, Ben prepared to leave. I heard him mutter about missing his swimming lessons. I had a growing suspicion that when he said swimming lessons, what he really meant was water aerobics. And if one didn’t know how hung up he’d always been about Mary, one might think he’d enrolled just to hit on his fellow students, elderly women with joint problems.
He said something else, but I was only half listening. The office was distracting me, reminding me of the night before last when in the damp early hours my séance had been interrupted by a murderer, and his attempt to kill me interrupted by a ghost. Where my hero was hiding, I had no idea. The last time I saw him was that morning as he exploded all over my kitchen.
My life had become dangerous, but what I found distressing was the absurdity of it all.
Ben was snapping his fingers under my nose. “Did you hear me?”
I pretended that, yes, I had heard, though I’d only just noticed him standing by the door ready to go.
“I said,” he thundered gruffly, “that Missy’s been complaining about a can of ravioli, says you went into her cabinet and moved it.”
Lately I’d been counting mundane routines, like my job at Sterling’s, as something of a blessing. The routines kept me busy, giving me structure and a sense of normality. But being hassled over a can of ravioli was something I could do without. “I didn’t eat it,” I said flatly, “only moved it.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the ravioli. But that’s the last time I listen to Missy complain. Next time I’m sending her to you,” Ben threatened. “We’ll see how you like dealing with her.”
“Fine,” I agreed, pulling back the curtains and opening the blinds.
Ben left without another word, slamming the door behind him. Stephen would be getting out of school soon and I wanted to call Reed before he arrived. I stashed my purse and sat down to dial.
Trying to contact a multimillionaire was next to impossible, even if you knew the direct line to his vacation abode. Eventually I hung up, swallowed my pride, and redialed. This time I said, “Tell him it’s his girlfriend calling.” They put me right through.
“Reed Wallace.”
He must have more than one girlfriend. Why else would he answer the phone so impersonally? Obviously he wasn’t sure which one was on the line. I forwent calling him a dick, instead saying, “Hello, Reed.”
“Ah, Adelaide,” he said sounding pleased. “I thought it might be you.”
“Sure you did,” I said, disillusioned.
“You’re right,” Reed admitted, remembering it was hard to bullshit me, even by phone. “I’m surprised to hear from you so soon after our last conversation. I thought it would take longer to earn my forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness is irrelevant. I’d still dislike you anyway.”
“Was there something you needed?” Reed asked, sounding harried.
Needling the imperturbable and ever-composed Reed Wallace was something of a thrill. I took a moment to savor it before putting plainly, “Raina Thompson works for Lars Hurst. I overheard her conversing with Beagban, she’s after the book.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You’re obviously not surprised,” I said, interpreting his silence.
“I had her checked out,” he admitted. “The magazine she claims to be doing a story for hasn’t heard of her.”
Feeling frustrated, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Evidently amused, “Why would I do that?”
“Because she’s staying at Sterling’s! Probably spying on me,” I complained into the phone.
“Not anymore. I had her moved to the Crowne.”
I was insulted on Sterling’s behalf. It was an old motel, but by no means shady. “You’re a real bastard,” I told Reed.
“Do I need to point out the incongruity?”
No, he really didn’t. I’d managed to blame Reed for both her being and not being at Sterling’s. “Let me guess...” I said, ignoring the fact that he had a point. “You’ll take care of it.” I meant Raina Thompson in general.
He understood, simply saying, “Yes.”
The continued use of that phrase was detrimental to his health. If he said it again I might kill him.
Reed broke the prolonged silence. “I am curious to know how you managed to overhear another such conversation. It would appear you have a knack for eavesdropping.”
“I recognized Beagban’s truck and hid in the back while he was on his way to meet Raina, that’s all,” I said, leaving out a great many details.
“That’s all?” Reed echoed. “Tailing after a murderer seemed like a good idea, did it?” He actually sounded angry.
“Well no, not really,” I admitted. “But I was being proactive. You should give it a try sometime.”
The accusation hung, as did the silence.
Then, “Adelaide, how do you know what kind of vehicle Beagban drives?”
Like the trip to Fort Frederica, I hadn’t told Reed about Beagban’s latest attack, and I was reluctant to do so. How could I relate the tale without including Smith? Besides, I didn’t entirely trust Reed’s solutions. Vaguely I responded, “He stopped by Sterling’s a few nights ago.”
“What! Why didn’t you use the ring I gave you?”
“I wasn’t able to.”
“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”
“No,” I said smiling. “I took care of it.”
Chapter 38
It started to rain later that night. It wasn’t abrupt like a torrential downpour, which lasted only long e
nough to make the earth feel bathed and clean. This rain was a steady drizzle, continuing for hours and blanketing the air with oppressive moisture.
I’d run to and from my car, but it had made little difference. By the time I got home my clothes were plastered to my body, hair glued in place, damp and sticky all over.
It was a fitting start to the perfectly dreadful thing that followed. I should have taken the rain for an omen. After all, hadn’t it been raining the day Beagban attacked me at Sterling’s? It was easy to notice such patterns after the fact, hindsight and all that. But at the time I was only concerned with getting dry and little else.
I ran inside and kicked off my shoes, shedding wet garments as I trudged toward the loft. I dried my hair with the first piece of clothing to cross my path and shrugged on the nearest nightgown, an overlarge T-shirt that hung to my knees. Remembering I had to go back outside, I wriggled into a pair of long johns and grabbed the rain jacket from my closet. I was out the back door in no time, squelching through clumps of soggy, limp grass.
Trying to weave my way through the shrubbery and climb over the fence was more challenging than usual. The branches shivered as I walked, shedding cold droplets to land on the back of my neck while wet leaves slapped at my bare ankles. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I’d invested too much interest in Lucas. Why the hell was I forcing myself on a man that clearly didn’t want to see me? I had no good answer. I should probably turn around. But I wouldn’t, I couldn’t.
Aside from being soaked through, my note was just as I had left it on his back door. I stared at it for a minute, but decided even that wasn’t enough proof of his absence. I knocked on both doors, miserably watching his darkened windows.
A sort of hopelessness settled over me, a feeling I knew intimately. This was how it had been for years after the accident, especially before I knew what was wrong with me. The chaos of my existence had felt like a living hell. How do you get control of your life when at any given moment you might break into tears or burst out laughing? You don’t, not really. You just get good at pretending.