'Wanna play hide and seek?' she asked.
She wrapped the bracelet round her index finger and waggled it closer to her crotch. Gregory stopped fussing with his tie and watched. Before the bracelet disappeared, he grabbed her hand.
'Uh-uh,' he said. 'Tempting, but no. I've heard of giving your wife a gift smelling of another woman's perfume, but that would go a bit far.'
'Like she'd notice.' Deanna flipped on to her stomach. 'Probably doesn't even know what it smells like. The only time Abby lets her hand drift south of her belly button is when she's wiping her twat, and she'd probably avoid that if she could.'
'That, my dear, sounds remarkably like jealousy.'
'No, my dear, it sounds remarkably like impatience.'
He shrugged on his jacket. 'These things take time. Every detail must be planned to perfection.'
'Don't pull that shit on me, babe. You aren't dragging your heels plotting how to get away with it. You have that figured out. Now you're just trying to decide how you want to do it. You're in no rush to get to the reality, 'cause you're too busy enjoying the fantasy.'
He grinned. 'This is true. Shooting versus stabbing versus strangulation. It's a big decision. I only get to do it once, sadly.'
'At this rate, you'll never get around to doing it at all.'
'How about Friday?'
Deanna popped up her head, then narrowed her eyes. 'Ha-ha.'
'I'm quite serious.' Gregory patted his pockets, and pulled out his car keys. 'Does Friday work for you?'
She nodded, eyes still wary.
'It's a date, then,' he said. 'I'll see you tomorrow and we'll talk. I'm thinking stabbing. Messier, but more painful. Abby deserves the best.'
He smiled, blew her a kiss and disappeared out the door.
Deanna sat up and looked out of the window. The cottage Gregory had rented for her was perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. When she cast her gaze out across the water, it looked mirror-smooth, with brightly coloured yachts and sailboats bobbing about like children's toys. Cotton-candy clouds drifted across the aquamarine sky. Farther down the shore, a freshly painted red-and-white lighthouse gleamed like a peppermint stick. It was a picture so perfect that if you painted it, no one would believe it was taken from life. Yet if she looked down, straight down, she found herself staring into a maelstrom of mud and garbage. All the trash those distant boats tossed overboard wound up here, at the bottom of the cliff, where beer cans and empty sunscreen bottles swirled in whirlpools crested with dirty foam.
Be not deceived, for as ye sow, so shall ye reap. The Bible quote came so fast it brought a chill, and she shivered, yanking down the window shade.
For as ye sow, so shall ye reap. How deeply the lessons of youth burrow into the brain. She could still see her father in the pulpit, his lips forming those words. The lessons of youth, driven in with the help of a liberally wielded belt.
At fifteen, Deanna had run from those lessons, run all the way to Toronto, and found the hell her father prophesied for her. At seventeen, she mistook Satan for saviour, becoming a wealthy businessman's toy in return for promises of gold rings and happily ever after. After two years, he discarded her like a used condom.
Before he could pass her apartment to his next toy, she'd broken in, intent on taking everything she could carry. Then she'd found the photos he'd taken of them together. And they'd given her an idea. For as ye sow, so shall ye reap. There had to be consequences. A price to be paid . . . but not by her.
It had been laughably easy. Of course, she hadn't asked for much. She'd been naive, having no idea how much those photos were worth to someone who valued his family-man reputation above all. But, with practice, she'd learned. For ten years now, she'd made her living having affairs with wealthy married men, then demanding money to keep her mouth shut.
Now, finally, that had all come to an end. One last mortal sin, and she'd be free.
Deanna opened the drawer of her bedside table and reached inside. Beneath the pile of lingerie was a post-card of the French Riviera. She didn't pull it out, just ran her fingers over its glossy surface. She closed her eyes and remembered when they'd bought it. She'd seen it in the display rack and pulled it out, waving it like a flag.
'Here! This is where I want to go.'
An indulgent smile. 'Then that's where we'll go.'
He'd said Friday. Did he mean it? Could she book the tickets now? She stroked the postcard. No, not yet. Give it another couple of days. Make sure he meant it this time.
'How retro,' Abby said, waving her wrist above the plate of mussels.
She snaked her hand over her head and wriggled in her seat like a belly dancer, her laughter tinkling chime for chime with the bracelet. The tiny dock-turned-patio held only a half-dozen tables, but every male eye at every one of those tables slid an appreciative look Abby's way, and an envious one at Gregory. He snorted under his breath. Fools.
He stabbed through his chowder, looking for something edible.
'It's so cute,' Abby said. 'Did you pick it up in London?'
'You could say that. So, you like it?'
'Love it.' She fingered the charms. 'Which one's for me?'
All of them.'
'No, silly, I mean: which charm did you buy for me? That's the tradition, you know. If you give someone a charm bracelet, you have to buy them the first charm, something meaningful.'
Like hell. He wasn't about to waste money on another trinket. Not when it'd be lying on the ocean floor by the weekend. He peered at the charms. A key, a train, a saxophone . . .
'The lighthouse,' he said. 'I bought you the light-house.'
'Oh?' she said, nose wrinkling as she examined the charm. 'That's . . . interesting. Why'd you pick that?'
He waved his hand at the ocean. 'Because it made me think of here. Your favourite restaurant.'
'But the lighthouse isn't—' She leaned as far back in her chair as she could. 'Well, I guess maybe you could see it from here. On a clear day. If you squint hard enough. Well, it's the thought that counts, and I do love it here. The lights over the water. The smell of the ocean. Heaven.'
Heaven. Right. They lived in a town with two four-star restaurants, and Abby's idea of heaven was a wharf-side dive where the specialties were beer, beer, and mussels soaked in beer. At least in town he could hope to see someone, make a contact that would lead to a sale. But none of the summer people came here. Only locals, and no local bought a thousand dollar painting of the Atlantic Ocean when they could see it through their kitchen window.
The screen door leading to the patio creaked open. Out of habit, he looked, half hoping it might be one of the American celebrities who summered in town. He caught a flash of sun-streaked blond hair and a male face hidden by the shadows of the overhang.
The man scanned the patio, then stepped back fast. The door squeaked shut. Gregory's eyes shot to Abby as her gaze swivelled back to the harbour.
'Was that Zack?' he asked.
'Hmmm?' Her bright blue eyes turned to meet his, as studiously vacant as ever.
Gregory's jaw tightened. 'Zack. Your summer intern. Was that him?'
'Where, hon?'
Gregory bit off a reply. This wasn't the time to start sounding like a jealous husband, not now, when all it would take was one such comment passed from Abby to a friend to give him motive for murder. If Abby wanted to cheat on him, she'd had plenty of opportunity to do so before now. As lousy as their marriage was, Abby was satisfied with it. She was satisfied with him. And why not? She had not only a wealthy, handsome husband, but a husband who owned a successful art gallery, where every pathetic seascape she daubed on to canvas found a prominent place on the walls. The perfect catch for a pretty, young art student of mediocre talent.
The moment he'd laid eyes on Abigail Landry at a Montreal art show, he thought be had found his perfect catch. A beautiful, lauded young painter, the ideal showpiece artist for his new Nova Scotia seaside gallery, and the ideal showpiece wife for him. The trouble had started three months afte
r the wedding, when she'd refused to paint a custom-ordered portrait of a Schnauzer wearing sunglasses. He'd lost his temper and smacked her. She'd said nothing, just gone into her studio and started the dog's portrait. Then the next day she'd waltzed in on a private meeting with two of his best clients, her black eye on full display, smiling sweetly and asking if anyone wanted iced tea, leaving him stammering to explain.
Before long, divorce was out of the question. Her silly seascapes accounted for seventy per cent of the gallery's income. Then, two years ago, when the stock market plunge had wiped out his finances, she'd glided to his rescue with her own well-invested nest egg, offered as sweetly and as easily as the iced tea. So he was trapped.
'But not for long,' he murmured.
Another vacant-eyed 'Hmmm?'
He smiled and patted her hand. 'Nothing, my dear. I'm glad you like the bracelet.'
Wednesday, August 12
Abby lifted the crimson-coated brush, in her mind seeing the paint move from the bristles to the canvas. No, not quite right. She lowered the brush and studied the picture. The red would be too harsh. Too expected. She needed something more surprising there. She laid the brush aside. Tomorrow she'd be better able to concentrate on finding the right shade. Tonight . . . She smiled. Well, tonight she had other things on her mind.
She moved the painting to the locked room in the back, then picked up the canvas propped against the wall and placed it on the now-vacant easel. She looked at the half-finished seascape. No room for surprises there. Blue sea, blue sky, white and grey rocks. Assembly-line art. This was what her talent was reduced to, putting her name on schlock while her true work was shipped out of the country and sold under a false name so Gregory didn't find out. Seascapes made money. Money made Gregory happy. So Abby painted seascapes, seascapes, and more seascapes, with the occasional crumbling barn thrown in for variety.
She glanced at the clock. Soon, very soon.
She lifted the brush to clean it, then stopped, and stared at the painting. As if of its own accord, her hand moved to the canvas and the bristles streaked red across the surf. Too much red. She daubed the tip in the white and brushed it lightly through the red, thinning and spreading it until it became a pink clot on the wave. The surf tinted with blood. A small smile played on Abby's lips. Then she took a fresh brush and blotted out the red with indigo.
As she painted, a blob of blue fell on her arm. She swiped at it absently, then stopped, seeing the blue swirl against her pale skin. It looked like a Maori tattoo. She dabbed her finger in the paint and accentuated the resemblance. There. Cheaper than henna, less permanent than ink. As she laughed, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the room and grinned.
Any minute now she'd hear the key turn in the back lock. And then . . . A rush of heat started in her belly and plunged down. She looked at her reflection again, gaze dropping to the twin dots pressing hard against the front of her sundress. She rolled her shoulders and sighed as the fabric brushed her nipples. Still looking in the mirror, she unzipped her dress and let it fall. She grinned at her reflection. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Her eyes went to the blue tattoo on her forearm. An unexpected burst of colour. She turned to the easel, lifted the paint brush and grazed it lightly across one hardened nipple. She sighed, then tickled the brush hairs around the aureole of her other nipple.
Another dip of paint, ochre this time. She stroked lines down her torso, shivering at the cool touch of the paint against her skin. Next the red, on her stomach, drawing lazy circles and zigzags. She parted her legs, lowered the brush and swirled it across her inner thigh. As she painted lower, she let the end of the brush dart between her legs, prodding like an uncertain lover's finger, hesitant yet eager. Each time it made contact, she caught her breath and glanced at her expression in the mirror. She forced herself to finish her work, painting the other thigh to match the first, letting the brush tip probe her only when it came in contact naturally. Then, when she finished, she took the brush and turned it around, so her hand wielded the plastic tip instead of the paint-soaked bristle. She spread her legs and used the tip to tickle the hard nub within.
The back door clicked open. Abby grinned and lifted the brush, painting one last stroke of red from her crotch to her breasts. A bustle of motion in the doorway, silence, then a sharp intake of breath.
Abby looked up, and flourished a hand at her painted body.
'What do you think?' she said. 'A work of art?'
'A masterpiece.'
Friday, August 14
Gregory switched the cellphone to his other ear and took his keys from the ignition.
'Yes, that's right, a room on the west side. Not the east side. There was construction on the east side last time and it kept me up all night.' He paused. 'Good. Hold on, there's more. I want extra towels. Your house-cleaning staff never leave enough towels.'
The hotel clerk assured him everything would meet his satisfaction. It wouldn't, though. Gregory would make sure of that. He'd find something to pester them about at the front desk, raise a little fuss, just enough so that when the police asked the clerk whether she remembered Gregory, she'd roll her eyes and say 'Oh, yes, I remember him'.
Once he'd finished here, he'd stop by Deanna's cottage and make sure everything was ready. He chuckled. Deanna was ready, that was certain. Ready, willing and chomping at the bit. She wanted to be free of Abby almost as much as he did. Last night when he'd gone by to finalize the plans, he'd barely made it through the door before she'd pounced and given him a taste of what life would be like post-Abby. He felt himself harden at the memory. A remarkable woman, Deanna was. He only hoped everything went well tonight. It would be a shame to lose her.
Last night she'd suggested – not for the first time – that she join him at the hotel, so she could corroborate his alibi. He'd gently reminded her that this wasn't a wise idea. When the police dug into his personal life, he knew they'd find he had a history of infidelity, but there was no sense doing their homework for them. Or so he'd told Deanna. The truth was that Gregory didn't want anyone seeing them together tonight. Better to leave her behind . . . in close proximity to his about-to-be-murdered wife.
Not that he had any intention of offering up Deanna as a scapegoat. But, well, if things went bad, it always helped to have a plan B. Deanna had bought the weapons and the tools, so it would be easy enough to steer the police in her direction. If the need arose, he had a speech all prepared, the heart-rending confession of an unfaithful husband who had realized he still loved his wife and told his mistress it was over, then made the tragic mistake of leaving on a business trip to Halifax that same day, never dreaming his scorned lover might wreak her revenge while he was gone. He'd practised his lines in front of the mirror until he could choke up on cue.
He pushed open the door to the gallery. A muted laugh tinkled out, followed by a deep chuckle that grated down Gregory's spine. He paused, holding the door half shut so the greeting bell wouldn't alert Abby and Zack. The murmur of their voices floated out from the back room. Zack laughed again. Gregory eased the door open, trying to slide in before it opened wide enough to set off the bell. He was halfway through when it chimed.
The voices in the back room stopped suddenly. Zack peeked around the corner, saw who it was, then said something to Abby, too low for Gregory to hear. The intern backed out of the studio.
'Ab? I'll grab coffee on my way back, OK?'
Abby appeared from the back room, carrying a wrapped canvas, and beamed a smile at Zack. 'Perfect. Thanks.'
As Zack strode out the front door, he slid a half-smirk Gregory's way, as if being allowed to play errand boy for Abby was some great honour Gregory could only dream of. Art student, my ass. The kid looked as if he should be riding the waves, not painting them. Not that Gregory cared. If Abby wanted to play teacher with California's Picasso, she was welcome to him. He only hoped the kid wouldn't cause trouble later.
'I sold the new Martin's Point oil,' Abby said, laying t
he canvas on the counter. 'Got the asking price, too. A couple from Chicago. Once they heard the exchange rate, they didn't care to dicker.'
'Good, good. I just stopped by to make sure everything was OK before I left for my meeting.'
'You'll be staying for the weekend, I assume.'
Being little more than an hour from Halifax, there was no need for him to stay the weekend, and they both knew it, just as they knew that he usually stayed, and why he usually stayed. Yet Abby asked as casually as she'd ask whether he'd take Highway 3 or 103, a matter of no interest to her either way. The thread of anger that rippled through him surprised him, as it always did, and, in surprising him, only angered him more.
'Yes, I'll be staying the weekend. With a friend.'
He hated himself for tacking that on the end, hated himself for studying her reaction, and hated her even more for not giving one.
'Don't forget we're having dinner at the Greenways' on Sunday,' she said. 'Eight o'clock.'
'I'll be there.'
She nodded, then disappeared into the back room. He stifled the urge to call out a goodbye, turned on his heel and left.
'You've reached the voice-mail of Gregory Keith—'
Abby sighed and hung up.
'Still no answer?' Zack asked as he flipped the gallery 'OPEN' sign to 'CLOSED'.
'He must have turned off his cell. Maybe he's still in a meeting.'
Zack cast a pointed look into the darkening night. 'Uh-huh.'
'Sometimes his meetings run late,' she offered lamely. 'I'll try once more from home, then call Mr Strom back and tell him we're still considering his offer.'
She turned off the main lights as Zack locked the front door. He followed her into the studio, and trailed out the back door after her.
'Go,' Gregory hissed.
Deanna lurched from behind the bushes as Abby parked at the top of the long drive. Gregory had to squint to see her. For a half-mile in either direction, the only lights were the security floods beaming on to the renovated farmhouse.