Land's End (3 page)

He tilted his head back against cool leather, letting the music soothe his frazzled nerves. He'd done what he had to, all along the line. And if he spent sleepless nights raging at God over this betrayal—well, that was no one's business but his.

Sarah thought there was another answer, but she was wrong. He'd accepted that, and she'd be better off if she did, too. Her face formed in his mind—the clear green eyes that weighed and assessed everything, the determined set to her mouth, that stubborn chin. Sarah wouldn't give up easily.

That conviction ruffled his thoughts. He'd gotten her off
the island. Word would get around that it wasn't wise to talk with her, even if she came back. She hadn't been here long enough to make many friends who'd help her—only the people she'd recruited to help at the fledgling clinic.

Derek had been as close to her as anyone. Maybe Trent had best close that gap.

He shoved back the chair and went down the flight of stairs from the loft to the living room. His half brother played with his eyes shut, lost in the music. With his features relaxed, he had a strong resemblance to their mother—the same curly brown hair and full lips. Music had been a bond between him and Lynette, one Trent had never shared.

“Derek.” He leaned against the piano. It was a piece of furniture, nothing else. He could stand here without remembering the hours Lynette had spent playing it.

Derek played a final chord and then glanced at him, eyes curious. “What's up?”

“Did you hear that Sarah Wainwright was on the island?”

Derek whistled softly. “No. Why would she come back?”

“She has some crazy idea that Miles and Lynette couldn't have been involved.” He hated the words. They tasted of betrayal. “She wanted my help to prove it.”

Derek played a random chord or two. “You told her no.”

“Of course I told her no.” Irritation edged his voice. He shouldn't have to explain that to Derek. “What did you think? That I'd welcome her and jump right into an investigation?”

“Guess not, when you put it that way. Still, you've got to feel sorry for the woman. She must be hurting.”

“Poking into the past isn't going to heal that hurt.” He ought to know. “I'm doing her a favor by shutting her down before she starts.”

“She probably doesn't see it that way.”

“Maybe not, but she doesn't have a choice.”

“From what I remember about Sarah, I'd say she isn't one to take no for an answer. Where is she staying?”

“Gone.” He clipped the word. “She was at the inn.”

Derek filled in the rest. “You sent her packing.”

“Yes.” She'd be gone by now. He ignored the faint trace of regret at the thought.

“Well, I guess that's taken care of, then.” Derek lifted his brows, his brown eyes questioning. “Isn't it?”

“You knew her as well as anyone. She might contact you.”

“And you want me to do what?”

“That should be obvious.” He suppressed a flicker of irritation. “Close her down.”

“Kind of rude, don't you think?” Derek's long-fingered hands moved on the keys, picking out something harsh and dissonant.

“You can pretty it up any way you want.” His voice was equally harsh. “Just don't tell her anything to encourage her.”

“You're the boss.”

He frowned at Derek's flippant tone. But Derek, no matter how he felt, would cooperate.

A step sounded on the tile floor, and he turned to see Farrell, the driver-cum-body-guard, standing just inside the door, his heavy face impassive.

“Well?” He'd left the man at the inn to confirm that Sarah went on her way.

“Thought you'd want to know.”

“Know what?” The only thing he wanted to hear was that Sarah had left the island.

“Doc Wainwright. She left the inn, but she didn't head for the mainland. She moved into the guesthouse at the Lees'.”

Derek played something ominous and threatening, like a storm coming up at sea.

“Stop it,” Trent snapped at him.

Derek lifted his hands from the keys. “It sounds as if Sarah didn't do what you expected. How enterprising of her.”

“She will.” His jaw tightened, and he turned toward Farrell. “That's all. You can go.”

She would. No matter how enterprising she was, Sarah wouldn't find any answers here. He'd see to that.

 

Sarah rubbed the back of her neck as she turned into the drive at the Lees' seaside villa. “Tara with hot tubs,” some local wag had called it. Jonathan stopped in front of the pillared portico, she stopped behind and he then came and slid into the front seat of her car.

He pointed. “Just go round the end of the house.”

Oleander branches, thick with blossoms, brushed the car as Sarah pulled up to the guesthouse. The architect had given up on antebellum design here—the cottage was a typical Low Country beach house. Its wide windows had shutters that could be closed against a storm. Between it and the main house, a turquoise swimming pool glowed with underwater lights.

Jonathan heaved her bags from the car. “You feel free to use the pool anytime you want. That's what it's there for.”

Sarah followed as he unlocked the front door and switched on lights.

“I'll just put these in the master bedroom. You make yourself at home. You ought to find everything ready.”

Sarah dropped her shoulder bag on a glass-topped coffee table. Pale cream walls, pale beige Berber carpeting, glass everywhere. The bright cushions on the white wicker furniture were the only splash of color, other than the seascapes on the walls. A living room with dining area, tiny kitchen, two bed
rooms, two baths…This little retreat for extra guests was more than comfortable.

Sarah glanced out toward the pool, remembering how it had looked a year ago at Adriana's party. Twinkling white lights had festooned the trees. Everywhere there had been flowers, music, laughter, the clink of china. All of island society had been there. The heavy scent of magnolias in an isolated corner of the garden filled her mind.

No. She wasn't going to remember.

Jonathan came back, handing her the key. “Come up to breakfast anytime you like.” His black eyes warmed with sympathy. “Honey, you look plain exhausted. Tomorrow we'll talk about your problem with Trent. Okay?”

Sarah nodded, her throat tightening at his kindness. “I'll do that. Jonathan, I can't thank you enough…”

“Don't.” Something she couldn't read moved in his eyes. “I'm not sure we're doing you a favor.” He kissed her cheek lightly. “Good night.”

 

Jonathan's advice was good, but Sarah wasn't sure how to follow it. Once ready for bed, she couldn't settle. She turned down the peach spread on the king-size bed, fluffed the pillows, switched on the bedside lamp. Still she felt restless, uneasy, physically and emotionally exhausted but unable to rest.

Finally she wandered into the kitchen, switching on the light. The tea canister was stocked with herbals, so she filled a mug and popped it in the microwave.

A dose of chamomile tea, to be taken at bedtime
. Her grandmother used to recite the line from Peter Rabbit whenever Sarah, visiting her at the big house on Beacon Hill, struggled to get to sleep.

Something rattled over the soft hum of the microwave.
Sarah paused, spoon in hand. What was it? Something inside the cottage, or out? She listened.

Somewhere an owl called. Beyond the owl she could just make out the muffled murmur of the surf. The main house was between her and the ocean, but that must be what she'd heard.

When she and Miles first arrived on St. James, she'd wake up sometimes, tense, listening, and then realize that it was the quiet that had wakened her.

The water boiled. Sarah added the tea bag and a little sugar. When she lifted the mug to her lips, the aroma of the chamomile teased her nose, reminding her of home. Reminding her how far away, how alien, this place was.

Nonsense. Only tiredness made her think that. In the morning, her prospects would look better. She'd have to reassess her plans. She'd hoped that Trent would be, if not happy to see her, at least cooperative.

He must have had some reason for accepting so readily the idea that Lynette and Miles were lovers. Had there been something Lynette said or did that convinced him she was having an affair? If so, he clearly didn't intend to tell her.

On to Plan B. She'd talk to Adriana to get the local gossip.

Then there was Trent's half brother. Derek had always been kind, and always less afraid, less in awe, of Trent than everyone else. The difficult part might be getting to him without letting Trent know it, but she'd manage.

And she had to see the police reports. Her parents were right; she'd run away too quickly. She hadn't the faintest idea how thorough the investigation had been. Surely there were other people she could talk to, other avenues she could explore.

Sarah put the mug down, realizing she'd been standing there, staring blankly at the black rectangle of the window.
Thinking about what she had to do wasn't making her more relaxed, it was making her tenser.

The sound again. Sarah froze. That hadn't been the distant rumble of the surf. That gentle rattle…she knew what it was. Something, perhaps an unwary step, had rattled the crushed shell that surrounded the guest house. The hairs lifted along her arms as if a chill wind had blown into the room.

Animal? Human? No one should be outside the guesthouse with the elaborate security Jonathan had installed. It must be an animal. She was letting stress fuel her imagination.

She switched off the light, ears straining. Nothing. Darkness pressed against the window glass, seeming as palpable as a hand, but there was nothing else. She was being ridiculous.

A footstep. Just outside the window a step fell on the tabby walk. Something, maybe a hand, maybe a sleeve, brushed the wall inches away from her.

S
tifling a gasp, Sarah slipped away from the window. No one should be out there. If Jonathan had returned, he'd knock on the door. She moved, step by careful step, out of the kitchen, trying to think where the telephone was. Maybe she was overreacting, but she'd rather be safe than sorry.

Her pulse jolted. She hadn't noticed whether Jonathan had locked the door when he'd left.

Please, Lord. I'm probably being ridiculous, but be with me.

Heart thudding in time with the prayer, she started across the darkened living room. Maybe there was no reason to fear, but she'd still make sure the door was locked before whoever was outside could reach it. She strained for the faintest sound that would tell her where that person was.

Shadows distorted the furniture. There'd been a glass-topped coffee table, hadn't there, somewhere between the kitchen and the entrance?

Her shin cracked against the table, and her breath caught at the pain. All right. A few feet more to the door. Arms outreached, she touched a panel just as she heard the telltale crunch of shells outside. Her fingertips brushed a dangling chain. She caught it, snapped it into place.

She stood for a moment, hand on the door, listening. Noth
ing. The pounding of her heart slowed. She was locked in. Now find the phone, call the main house.

Back across the living room, bumping into the table once more. The phone must be in the master bedroom. Why didn't she remember?

She paused in the door to the bedroom. Naturally she'd left the light on here, and the drapes were open. The lamp was on the bedside table.

And there sat the telephone, also on the bedside table. She had no choice but to cross the room, in full view of anyone standing outside, to reach the phone.

Quickly, before she could think too much, she raced to the table, snapped off the light and sank to the floor in blessed darkness, pulling the telephone down with her. The lighted receiver listed the house code. She punched the button.

“Hello? Sarah?” Thank goodness Jonathan picked up.

Now that she heard his voice, she felt foolish.

“I heard someone outside the guesthouse just now. Should there be someone in the grounds?”

“Sugar, I should have told you a security patrol checks the grounds during the night.” His voice was warmly reassuring. “We're pretty safe here on the island, but you never know. It must have been one of the guards, but let me check. I'll call you right back.”

Phone in her lap, Sarah sat against the bed, shivering a little. She'd have to turn the air conditioning down, but she didn't intend to move from this spot until Jonathan called back.

She lifted the receiver almost before it stopped ringing, feeling as if she already knew what she'd hear.

“I should have told you.” Jonathan sounded rueful. “The security guard made his rounds by the guesthouse just about the
time you called. Said he saw the lights go off, but didn't think anything about it. He didn't spot another soul anywhere.”

“I feel like an idiot. I'm so sorry I disturbed you.”

“Not at all. You try and get a good night's sleep, okay?”

That seemed highly unlikely, but she agreed.

Once he'd hung up, Sarah crossed to the window and pulled the drapes closed with a violent jerk on the cord. She felt irritated, embarrassed and more than a little foolish. It would be amazing if she got to sleep before dawn.

 

Sarah struggled to get her eyes open, aware of sunlight beyond the cream drapes. She fumbled for the bedside clock. Nearly nine, and she'd planned to get an early start today. At least she'd slept, and last night's alarm was a half-forgotten dream.

Once she'd showered and dressed, Sarah looked up the telephone number for the Donner house in her small personal directory. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring at the phone. If she called, how likely was it that Trent would answer?

If anyone else answered, she could simply ask for Derek, without giving her name. She punched in the number quickly, before she could change her mind.

“Donner.”

Sarah stopped breathing. Okay, she definitely didn't want to talk to Trent this morning.

“Is anyone there?” The words snapped, tinged with irritation.

Carefully, holding her breath as if he might identify her by the slightest exhalation, Sarah hung up.

Well, that little exercise showed that she was in no better shape to deal with Trent than she had been yesterday. She'd try again later. It must be possible to get through to Derek without Trent knowing about it. The man was powerful, not omniscient.

She walked to the main house through air so wet it felt like a sauna. May on the island was like August in Boston.

French doors fronted on the patio, and Jonathan sat with coffee and a newspaper in a sunny breakfast room beyond them. He sprang to his feet when she opened the door.

“Good morning.” He laid aside the paper and pulled out a chair. “Sit down and have some breakfast with me.”

She slid into a chair. A smiling maid appeared, setting a wedge of melon in front of her and pouring coffee.

“You look better today.” Jonathan sounded as satisfied as if he were personally responsible.

“I'm sorry about calling you last night. I shouldn't have bothered you.”

Jonathan waved her concern away. “Not at all. You did the right thing.” He held up a section of newspaper. “Do you like to hide behind the paper at breakfast, or would you rather talk?”

“Actually, I'd like to talk.” He had been frustratingly circumspect the previous night. Maybe if he understood what she was after, he'd feel differently. “About why I'm here.”

He put the paper down on the glass tabletop, folding it neatly, not looking at her. “Forgive me for saying so, but this seems like the last place in the world you'd want to be.”

“In some ways, it is.” Sarah frowned down at the scrambled eggs that had appeared in front of her. “A year ago, I never expected to come back.”

“Anyone would feel that way.”

“So you can't help wondering why I'm here.” She couldn't quite manage a smile.

“Only if you want to tell me.”

She didn't, but she had to if she were to get his help. “I finally realized I couldn't accept what happened and move on.
The truth is, I don't believe it.” Sarah dropped the spoon to the saucer, its tiny clatter accenting her words. “I don't believe my husband was having an affair with Lynette Donner.”

“Maybe it's easier for you to feel that.” Jonathan's voice was very gentle. “You loved him.”

“You're very sweet and tactful, Jonathan.” But she'd rather have honesty than tact. “It isn't that I think our marriage was so perfect, Miles couldn't fall for someone else.”

“Then what?” He didn't look at her, and she sensed his discomfort.

“Miles. The kind of person Miles was. Honest, honorable. All those boring, typically New England virtues.”

Puritan
, Trent had said. There was nothing wrong with that.

“Even the most honorable man might succumb to attraction.”

“Miles wouldn't betray his marriage vows. And he wouldn't betray his friendship and respect for Trent.”

“Anyone can make a mistake.”

Her lips tightened. “You sound like Trent. He thinks anyone capable of betrayal. I don't.”

Finally his eyes met hers. “So you've come back to do what?”

“To find out,” she said promptly. “If I'm wrong, I have to know that. If I'm right, then Miles had some other reason for being at the Cat Isle cottage that day. I intend to find out what it was.”

“How, I wonder, are you going to do that?”

She took a deep breath. “I thought you might help me.”

For a moment, his expression froze. Then, quite suddenly, he laughed. “Honey, no wonder Trent's trying to get rid of you. With you set to go prying, he's afraid he won't be able to keep things locked up anymore.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Power. The most blatant use of power I've ever seen.” He chuckled. “Didn't you wonder why the papers didn't have a field day with that story?”

“I thought they did.” Even the Boston papers had run it.

“Not like they could have. Trent gave out his version of the story and then he stonewalled those reporters. So did the local police. He called in every favor anybody in the state owed him to keep a lid on the story. Tragic accident—that was the verdict at the inquest and only a few scandal rags dared to print anything else. The story died for lack of fuel to feed it.”

“People still talked. They must have. Not even Trent could control that.”

Jonathan shrugged, lifting his coffee cup. “I suppose so, but for the most part, the islanders rallied around. No one wanted Melissa reading about her mother's affair in the paper.” He stopped, reddening slightly.

In other words, he believed Miles and Lynette were lovers. “Hurting Melissa is the last thing I'd do. She's already been hurt enough. But I've got to know the truth.”

“And just what part did you see me playing in this?”

Something about his expression encouraged her. “I thought you might run a little interference for me. I tried to reach Derek this morning, but Trent answered the phone.”

“And you don't want him to know for fear he'd forbid Derek to speak to you.” Jonathan shrugged. “That might not stop Derek, but I agree it'll be easier if Trent doesn't know. Okay, I'll try. Anything else?” He looked as if he fervently hoped not.

“I need to talk to Guy O'Hara. He was Miles's closest friend here. I can do that myself.” Sarah swallowed. This was the hard part. “But I need you to take me over to Cat Isle in your boat.”

“Cat Isle.” Jonathan's eyes filled with dismay. “Sarah, are you sure you want to go over there? Wouldn't it be better to…
Well, not give yourself so graphic a picture? It's not as if there's going to be evidence of anything at this late date.”

Of a romantic tryst. That was what he meant. “Maybe it does seem a little morbid, but I've never been there.” She'd only read about it, in one of the stories Trent hadn't been able to quash. “I can rent a boat at the marina, but people will talk.”

He shoved his chair back. She could see the “no” forming on his lips.

“You don't have to rent a boat. Jonathan will take you.”

She hadn't heard Adriana come in. She stood at the mahogany sideboard, pouring a cup of coffee, elegant in white pants and a white silk shirt.

“I don't think that's a good idea.” Jonathan didn't look particularly happy with his wife's intervention.

“Why don't you want to go there?” Adriana turned, balancing the cup between her fingers.

“It's not that I don't want to go.” Jonathan's face tightened. “I just think it'll be needlessly hard on Sarah.”

“On the contrary.” Adriana sounded oddly satisfied. “We ought to help Sarah. It's time the truth came out.”

Sarah held her breath. Jonathan stared at his wife a moment longer. Finally he nodded.

“We'll have to go on the tide. Meet me at the boat dock around three.”

“Thank you.” She wasn't sure what else to say.

Jonathan gave her a rueful smile. “Don't thank me. I'm not doing anything good for you. And I hope I'm not going to live to regret it.”

 

“I'd like to speak to Chief Gifford, please. My name is Sarah Wainwright.”

The officer behind the gray metal desk looked barely old
enough to be out of high school. He nodded, and Sarah thought she saw a faint flush behind the freckles on his cheeks.

“Yes, ma'am…I mean, Doctor.” He lurched from the chair, banging his foot on the metal wastebasket, and flushed a deeper red. “I'll tell Chief Gifford you're here.”

Sarah looked after him. His name plate said R. Whiting, and the name seemed vaguely familiar in a way the face didn't. She frowned. She was letting her mind ramble, when what she needed to do was concentrate on Chief Gifford.

Him she remembered…a short, cocky, bantam of a man with a barrel chest, given to florid gestures. He could tell her details no one else could about the investigation. If he would.

“Dr. Wainwright!” Gifford bounded across the office to shake her hand. “This is a surprise. What are you doing back here?”

The surprise seemed a little overdone. Surely he'd heard by now she was back. “I have a few things to clear up here.” Leave it vague, and she might get more out of him, although Trent would have spoken to him by now. “If I might have a few minutes?”

“Of course, of course.” He gestured expansively toward his office. “As much time as you like.” He glanced briefly at Whiting. “Bobby, you get that filing done yet?”