Chill Waters (24 page)

***

Finding the door locked, Peter entered Hartley’s cabin through a window. It had seemed strange, even eerie, that Luke hadn’t come bounding over to greet him when he got out of his car. And now, inside the house, Peter felt the silence even more profoundly. The place felt abandoned, as if no one had lived here for a long time. Unless you counted the plate, fork and knife, and a mug left on the brown and white checked plastic tablecloth. Grease from the fried eggs Hartley had eaten had hardened on the plate.

Coffee dregs had congealed like tar at the bottom of his coffee mug. Evidence that Hartley hadn’t been here in a while. Peter wandered through the rooms, checked out the bathroom, thinking his old friend might have taken sick and passed out on the floor, but the cabin was quite deserted. Anyway, that wouldn’t have explained Luke’s not being around, would it. Luke would never have left Hartley’s side of his own accord.

He walked outside and looked around. The rowboat was in its place, tied to the tree. Beyond it, the bay was dark blue, silent.

Keeping its secrets.

Twenty-Nine

Early the next morning as she was applying the last brushful of paint of the remaining patch of pantry ceiling, someone knocked on the door. It was her new tenant.

“I don’t mean to disturb you, Ms. Warren, but I was just going into town and wondered if you needed anything. I’d be glad to…” His eye flicked over the brush in her hand, the scarf tied about her hair. “Ah, I thought I smelled paint.”

She’d left the kitchen window open a crack to let the fumes out. “Just trying to brighten the place up a bit. The whole house needs redoing, but I’ll get to it a little at a time. I guess that’s part of the fun of owning an old house. Or so I’ve heard,” she smiled. “It’s nice of you to ask, but no, I don’t need a thing.”

As she started to close the door, he said, “I don’t suppose you could use another hand. I mean, I’d be happy to help youpainting, paperingwhatever. Anytime.”

“Thanks. But I’ll be fine.”

“No charge of course. As I said, I’m an old hand at this sort of thing. And the physical work would be a welcome diversion from the book. Therapeutic.”

He was pressing her to accept his offer, and Rachael had to admit, it was tempting. “Well, are you sure? I mean…”

“Oh, the leg,” he said. “I manage okay.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re not capab—as a matter of fact,” she said, making her decision on the spot, “I
could
use some help, Mr. Dunn. But I couldn’t ask you to work without pay.”

“Martin, please. Mr. Dunn makes me want to turn around to see if my father is standing behind me. And you’re not asking. I’m offering. Please, Rachaelif I may call you Rachael…”

“Of course.”

“You’d be doing me a favor, Rachael.”

Martin was as adept at papering and painting as he’d said he was. “I’m lucky to have discovered him,” she told Iris the following day.

Seeing the rooms in her home brighten and come alive under a fresh coat of paint and new wallpaper gave her a sense of permanence, as the sculpting gave her a sense of purpose.

At the far end of the table, Iris’ deft hand guided the fine, forest-green dipped bristles of her brush along the lip of her newest creation, a variation on the Grecian urn. Behind her, the late afternoon sun glinted against the window. Cleo was curled up asleep on the sill. Rachael felt peaceful inside herself.

This room was becoming more and more important in her life. But it was the moment when Rachael smoothed her hands over the moist lump of clay, not yet deciding what she wanted to make of it, that was most exciting. Possibilities seemed boundless then. Other times she was reluctant to begin, intimidated by her own limitations. She had told Martin she was a dabbler, but secretly she had come to want from more from herself. Iris said she had natural ability. She wanted it to be true.

Iris looked up from her own work and smiled. “So, where’s this Martin Dowd from?”

“Dunn. Martin Dunn. I’m not sure if he said. I know he travels a lot in his work. Anyway, the arrangement seems to suit him, and it definitely suits me.”

“Well, that’s wonderful.”

“Yes. Although I’d rather his misfortune wasn’t my good luck. His girlfriend died in the car accident. He was driving. He’s still recovering from his own injuries, both physically and emotionally.”

“How tragic,” Iris said. “To lose someone you love like that.”

Rachael nodded, thinking how when she walked into the pantry this morning where he was painting the shelves, he smiled absently at her, as if his mind were elsewhere. It was not hard to guess where. If not for the accident that robbed him of the woman he loved, he would most likely be spending his labors on their own home right now instead of a stranger’s. Nonetheless, Rachael was grateful for his help.

Rachael had considered going to the police over the ‘seagull’ horror regardless of the evidence having been literally ‘washed away’, and taking Martin with her as proof that it happened. But she couldn’t very well repay his kindness by taking him away from his book, could she.

The question of ‘who’ her stalker was, however, remained unanswered. Derek and his friends had alibis. Both Peter and Iris seemed to be in Tommy Prichard’s corner, and believed in his innocence. And strangely enough, so did she. And she barely knew the boy.

But what about his father, Nate? Iris had said he was the meanest son-of-a-bitch she’d ever meet. Was it possible
he
was doing all this, that
he
killed Heather Myers? She rolled the theory around in her mind. Had the man with the small, mean eyes secretly lusted after his son’s girlfriend? Such a thing was not unheard of. Heather would certainly have been repulsed by him. Did she threaten to go to the police? To tell Tommy?

Iris had told Rachael that Nate’s wife ran away when Tommy was only seven years old, apparently so desperate to escape her husband she'd abandoned her child to a man she loathed and feared. Whatever her reasons, it was a safe bet her running off hadn’t endeared Nate Prichard to women in general. Rachael recalled his ravings that day in the parking lot of Iris’ store.

Iris’ voice broke through her thoughts. “Nate’s capable of meanness, Rachael,” she said. “Make no mistake about that. But he’s too dull-witted to be purely devious.”

Iris powers of sensory perception never ceased to amaze her.

That night Rachael was wakened by a blood-curdling howl outside her window. She sat up in the bed, heart racing. No way was she dreaming this time. “Luke?” she whispered.

She slid the piece of paper from under the phone, dialed the number Peter had written on it.

His deep voice mumbled a sleepy hello.

“It’s Rachael, Peter. I’m sorry for calling so late. “I just heard howling outside my window. It woke me. Iris told me Mr. McLeod and Luke are missing. I wondered if it might be—Luke?”

“Maybe. Could be just a coyote.” The sleepiness in his voice was gone now, replaced with the same sense of urgency that was in Rachael. “I’m on my way. Don’t open the door until I get there.”

As she replaced the receiver, the animal howled again, a mournful sound that reached out to her, and touched her heart with pity. She couldn’t wait for Peter. She had to do something. Now. Donning robe and slippers, she hurried down the stairs.

Retrieving the flashlight from the kitchen drawer, she unlocked the front door and stepped out onto the porch. Moving the flashlight in a low, slow arc, she shone its beam over the grounds, let it penetrate the darkness beyond where the porch night-light did not reach. She guided it over stump and rock and tree, and along the length of deserted road going past to her house. And toward the bay, now silvery black in the moonlight. Moving, murmuring water. Restless tonight.

Padding in slippers down the steps, the cold night air bit at her bare ankles, crept inside her robe. She drew up the collar, tightened the robe around her.

“Luke?” she called softly. It had to be Hartley McLeod’s dog she'd heard. She prayed she was right. “It’s okay, boy. Where are you?”

A soft whine issued from the crawl space under the porch. Rachael knelt down on the ground. Directing the light into the narrow well of darkness, she was suddenly peering into two amber eyes that stared warily into hers. “It’s okay, Luke,” she coaxed softly. “You can come on out now.”

But Luke refused to move. Rachael kept coaxing, trying to gain the animal’s trust. At last, he began to inch toward her on its belly. “That’s a good, boy,” she said. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Suddenly, the dog froze in its movement and let out a growl that grew from its belly. But it wasn’t Rachael he was growling at; Luke’s eyes were looking to one side of her, just over her shoulder. The hairs lifting on the back of her neck, Rachael aimed the light behind her. But she couldn’t see anyone. Luke began to whine again. She turned back to him. “What is it, Luke?”

At the sound of a car motor, relief washed through her. Seconds later Peter was kneeling beside her, calling softly to the dog.

Recognizing Peter’s voice, Luke wriggled the rest of the way out of his hiding place, tail in a listless wag. He licked Peter’s hand in friendship.

“Hey, fella? What happened to you? Where’s your master?”

Luke only whimpered. Then he gave a short bark.

“Too bad he can’t talk.”

“He can. We just don’t understand the language.” Peter checked him over for injuries, was alarmed to feel the sharp outline of Luke’s ribs beneath his hand. He gently moved his fingers over the animal’s head, feeling for any damage. When he touched a spot above his right eye, Luke jerked back, yelped in pain. “Sorry, boy.”

Taking the flashlight Rachael offered, he focused the beam on the wound. The fur around the cut was dark with dried blood, matted. “It could use a couple of stitches,” he said, “but it doesn’t look deep. You never know, though.”

“And there’s always the risk of infection,” Rachael said.

“What happened to you, Luke?” he repeated. “Where is Hartley?”

“He needs medical attention, Peter. He’s shivering. I think he’s in shock. God knows what he’s been through.”

Giving the dog a gentle pat, Peter then rose to his feet. “You’re right. I’ll get him over to Doc Stetson’s. There’s a blanket in the car. I’ll wrap him in it, help to keep in some body warmth.”

“I’ll get dressed and come with you.”

“No. You go back inside and lock the door. Try to get some rest. I’ll phone you first thing in the morning.”

Peter lifted Luke in his arms, cradling the dog as if it were a hurt child. She was moved at his gentleness. Peter Gardner was a good man. He was a man who moved easy inside his own skin. She found herself wondering what it would be like to be made love to by such a man.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Her plan was to carve out a nice, safe niche for herself, and content herself with that. As her grandmother had. As Iris did. One could live quite contently without emotional entanglements.

Yet, she could not deny her growing attraction to him.

“You sure did come to the right house, fella,” she heard him say to Luke, and it pleased her out of all proportion.

Careful girl.

A poem by Emily Dickinson came into her mind:

He fumbles at your spirit

As players at the keys

Before they drop full music on;

He stuns you by degrees…

Rachael went inside and locked the door, the image of the tall man cradling the dog in his arms, still with her. Knowing she would get no further sleep tonight, she put on water for tea. Waiting for it to boil, she said a silent prayer for Luke. And for Mr. McLeod. A kind, hard-working man who had once hung a swing for her out by the old elm tree.

Where was he? What happened to him?

Thirty

“It really does look wonderful, Martin,” Rachael said, as he was stepping down from the ladder. “You could have done this for a living.”

Painted white, the kitchen looked larger and flooded with light. She’d found some pretty country curtains with yellow polka-dot tiebacks. They worked fine with the green tile floor. A matching valance for the window over the sink completed the effect.

Other than the ceiling, which Martin painted, she did the livingroom herself. She’d chosen a gold leafy wallpaper for the wall behind the sofa, painted the other three walls in soft eggshell, carrying the color into the hallway.

There was no way she wasn’t going to pay Martin for his work, she thought, reaching into her purse.

“Actually, I did do this for a living for a while,” Martin said. “And put the checkbook away, Rachael. Please. We had a deal, remember? I’m enjoying the work. Like I saidgood therapy. It keeps my mind offother things.”

She felt a rush of compassion for this man who had suffered so much, and was now trying to rise above the tragedy. To carry on as best he could. He was an inspiration. “Are you sure, Martin?”