Dance Upon the Air (31 page)

She intended
to tell Ripley next, if she could find her. But the minute Nell stepped outside, she was stricken with a wave of nausea that rolled thick and greasy through her belly. She staggered a little, sweat popping out on her skin. With no choice, she leaned back against the wall of the building and waited for it to pass.

When the worst of it eased, she regulated her breathing. The jitters, she told herself. Everything was going to start happening now, and happening very fast. There'd be no turning back. There would be questions, and press, and stares, murmurs even from people she'd come to know.

It was natural to be a little queasy.

She looked down at her ring again, the hopeful glint of it, and the lingering dregs of sickness passed.

She would find Ripley later, she decided. Right now she was going to buy a bottle of champagne and the makings for a good Yankee pot roast.

Evan drove off
the ferry and onto Three Sisters as Nell leaned weakly against the wall of the bookstore. He surveyed the docks, disinterested. The beach, unimpressed. Following the instructions he'd been given, he drove to High Street and pulled up in front of the Magick Inn.

A hole-in-the-wall in a town suitable for middle-class Currier and Ives buffs, he judged. He got out of the car, studied the street, just as Nell turned the corner into the market.

He walked inside, and checked in.

He'd booked a suite, but found no charm in the coffered ceilings, the lovingly preserved antiques. He detested the fussiness of such rooms, preferring the streamlined, the modern. The art, if one could call it that, ran to misty watercolors and seascapes. The mini-bar didn't hold his favored brand of mineral water.

And the view? He could see nothing but beach and water, noisy gulls and what he supposed were fishing boats run by locals.

Dissatisfied, he walked to the parlor. From there he could see the curve of the land and the sudden sharp jut of cliffs where the lighthouse stood. He noted the stone house as well and wondered what type of idiot would choose to live in such an isolated spot.

Then he found himself squinting. There seemed to be some sort of light dappling through the trees. A trick of the eye, he decided, already bored.

In any case, he had hardly come for the scenery, thank the Lord. He'd come to look for Helen or to satisfy himself that what was left of her was still at
the bottom of the Pacific. On an island this size, he was sure he could get the task done in a day.

He unpacked, meticulously hanging his clothes so that each garment was aligned precisely one inch from the next. He set out his toiletries, including his triple-milled soap. He never used the amenities offered in hotels. Even the idea of it revolted him.

And last, he set the framed photograph of his wife on the bureau. He leaned over, kissed the curved bow of her mouth through the glass.

“If you're here, darling Helen, I'll find you.”

On his way out, he made a reservation for dinner. The only meal he found acceptable to eat in a hotel room was breakfast.

He stepped out, turned left, just as Nell, with her two bags of groceries, swung around the end of the block to the right, toward home.

It was, Nell
was sure, the happiest morning of her life. The sky was silver, with sweeps and rises of rose and gold and deep red. Her lawn was carpeted with leaves that would crunch merrily underfoot and had left the trees bare and spooky. Which was perfect for an island Halloween.

She had a man sleeping in her bed who had shown his appreciation for a good pot roast in a very satisfactory way.

Muffins were baking, the wind was shivering, and she was prepared to face her demons.

She would be leaving her little cottage behind soon,
and that she would miss. But the idea of setting up housekeeping with Zack made up for it.

They would spend Christmas together, she thought. Maybe even be married by then if all the legal tangles could be unraveled.

She wanted to be married outside, in the air. It was impractical, but it was what she wanted. She would wear a long dress, of velvet. Blue velvet. And carry a spray of white flowers. The people she had come to know would all be there to bear witness.

While she daydreamed, the cat meowed piteously.

“Diego.” She bent down, stroked him. He was no kitten now but a sleek young cat. “I forgot to feed you. I'm very scattered of brain today,” she told him. “I'm in love, and I'm getting married. You'll come to live with us in our house by the sea, and make friends with Lucy.”

She got out his kibble, filling his bowl while he wound excitedly through her legs.

“A woman who talks to her cat could be considered strange.”

Nell didn't jump, which pleased both of them. Instead she rose and walked to Zack, who stood in the doorway. “He might be my familiar. But I'm told that'll be up to him. Good morning, Sheriff Todd.”

“Good morning, Ms. Channing. Can I buy a cup of coffee and a muffin?”

“Payment first.”

He came to her, wrapped her up in a long, deep kiss. “That do it?”

“Oh, yeah. Just let me give you your change.” She drew him down again, lingered over the taste of him. “I'm so happy.”

At precisely eight-thirty,
Evan sat down to a breakfast of sweetened coffee, fresh orange juice, an egg-white omelette, and two slices of whole wheat toast.

He'd already made use of the hotel health club, such as it was. He had only glanced at the pool. He disliked using public swimming pools, but had considered it until he'd seen it was already being used. A long, lean brunette was streaking through the water. As if she was in a race, he'd thought.

He'd only caught glimpses of her face as she turned it rhythmically in and out of the water in time with her strokes.

And he didn't see, as he dismissed her and walked away, her sudden loss of pace. The way she pulled up in the water as if gathering for attack. How she shoved her goggles, treading water as she looked around for what had felt like an enemy.

He'd showered in his room, dressed in a pale gray sweater and dark slacks. He glanced at his watch, ready to be annoyed if his meal should be above one minute late.

But it arrived, just as requested. He didn't chat with the waiter. He never did such foolish things. The man was paid to deliver food, not to fraternize with guests.

He enjoyed his breakfast, surprised that he could find no fault with it, as he read the morning paper and listened to the news on the parlor television.

He considered how best to do what he'd come to do. Walking through the village as he'd done yesterday, driving around the island as he planned to do
today, might not be enough. Still, it wouldn't do to ask people if they knew anyone of Helen's description. People never minded their own business, and there would be questions. Speculation. Attention.

If, by some chance, Helen was alive and here, the less attention paid to him, the better.

If she were, what would she do? She had no skills. How could she earn a living without him to provide for her? Unless, of course, she'd used her body to entice yet another man. Women were, at the center, whores.

He had to sit back and wait for the fury to pass. It was difficult to think in logical steps through anger. However justified.

He would find her, he reassured himself. If she was alive, he would find her. He would simply know. And that took him to what would be done when and if he did.

There was no question that she would have to be punished. For distressing him, for deceiving him, for attempting to break free of the promises she'd made to him. The inconvenience, the embarrassment of it all couldn't be calculated.

He would take her back to California, of course, but not right away. They would need to go somewhere quiet, somewhere private first, so he could remind her of those promises. So he could remind her who was in charge.

They would say she'd been thrown from the car. That she'd struck her head or some such thing. She'd had amnesia and had wandered away from the scene of the accident.

The press would love it, Evan decided. They would eat it up.

They would work out the details of the story once they were settled in that private, quiet place.

If none of that was possible, if she tried to refuse him, to run again, to go crying to the police as she'd done before, he would have to kill her.

He made the decision as coolly as he had decided what to have for breakfast.

Her choices were just as simple, in his opinion. Live—or die.

At the knock on his door, Evan folded the paper precisely, walked over to answer.

“Good morning, sir,” the young maid said cheerfully. “You requested housekeeping service between nine and ten.”

“That's right.” He checked his watch, noted it was nine-thirty. He had lingered over his thoughts longer than he'd planned.

“I hope you're enjoying your stay. Would you like me to start in the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

He sat with his last cup of coffee, watched a report on a fresh hot spot in Eastern Europe that couldn't have interested him less. It was too early to call the coast and see if there was anything he needed to know. But he could call New York. He had a deal cooking there, and it wouldn't hurt to stir the pot.

He went into the bedroom to retrieve his memo book and found the maid, her arms full of fresh linen, staring at the framed photograph of Helen.

“Is there a problem?”

“What?” She flushed. “No, sir. I'm sorry.”

She moved quickly to make the bed.

“You were looking at this photograph very intently. Why is that?”

“She's a lovely woman.” His voice was sending skitters up her spine. She wanted to get the suite clean and get out.

“Yes, she is. My wife, Helen. The way you looked at the photograph, I thought perhaps you might have met her at some time or other.”

“Oh, no, sir, I doubt it. It's just that she reminded me of someone.”

He had to consciously stop his teeth from grinding. “Oh?”

“She really looks a lot like Nell—except Nell doesn't have all that beautiful hair or that look of . . . I don't know, polish, I guess you'd say.”

“Really?” His blood began to sizzle, but he kept his voice mild now, almost friendly. “That's interesting. My wife would be fascinated to know there's a woman who looks that much like her.”

Nell. Helen's mother had called her Nell. A simple, inelegant name. He had always disliked it.

“Does she live on the island, this Nell?”

“Oh, sure. She's lived here since early summer, in the yellow cottage. Runs the café at the bookstore—does catering, too. Cooks like a dream. You should try the café for lunch. There's a soup-and-sandwich special every day, and you can't beat it.”

“I might do that,” he said, very softly.