Murder in Pastel (12 page)

His silence, his stillness, scared me. I whimpered; made some small sound of pain and fear. Adam knelt so that our eyes were level. There was still something I didn’t understand in his expression, but I recognized concern for me in his gaze.

“Put your arm around my neck, Kyle,” he instructed, putting his own arm around me.

I obeyed, weak and fumbling. “Where’s Brett?” I whispered. “Did you get him free? Is he okay?”

Adam’s other arm slipped beneath my knees. Giving a grunt, he lifted me up as though I were still a kid. I clutched his neck, feeling muscles move beneath his damp T-shirt, feeling his warm, sun-browned skin under my hands. I breathed in his scent: almond soap, clean sweat, and faintly, turpentine. A fragrance straight out of my childhood; instantly reassuring.

“Hang on, Kyle,” Adam muttered. “I’ll get you out of this.”

I let my head drop on his shoulder. “Sorry. Feel so…stupid.”

“Quiet.”

His exhalations fanned lightly against my face. It was a relief to let go, to leave it to Adam. My heart had slowed but it was still irregular, kicking twice, pausing too long, thudding against my side in a dizzy tattoo.

“Here we go, baby,” Adam reassured breathlessly as he climbed. “Almost there.”

Only another twenty steps to go. I wanted to apologize again for being such a wuss. Instead I closed my eyes.

The next thing clear was Adam lowering me onto the sofa in his cottage. He spread the black crocheted afghan over me. I could hear him moving around, then the sound of a drawer opening and closing. I heard him dialing the Sheriff’s Department.

“Steeple Hill. The colony. That’s right. There’s been an accident.” Adam requested paramedics, an ambulance. He spoke in a low, calm voice as though he was used to making 911 calls. Childishly comforted, I drifted.

“Kyle, don’t you have some pills or something?”

I opened my eyes. Adam was frowning down on me. “At the house.”

“Jesus, Kyle!”

“Adam, what about Brett? How badly is he hurt? You shouldn’t leave him so long.”

Adam didn’t say anything. His eyes avoided mine. Something in his silence…

I shifted against the cushions, tried to sit up. “What is it?”

Adam pushed me flat again. “Simmer down, scout.”

The cold sickness pooling in my gut had nothing to do with my own physical frailty. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Adam said slowly, “Brett is dead.”

“Dead?”
Adam said nothing. “He can’t be dead!” I started to shake. I couldn’t believe it. “He can’t be dead,” I repeated.

“Take it easy, Kyle.”

“He can’t be dead. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Adam said grimly.

I wiped at the wet spilling over my cheeks. “He can’t be,” I repeated.

Adam said, “Where are these pills of yours kept?”

“Kitchen cupboard.” At his expression, I added defensively, “I haven’t needed them in ages, Adam.”

“Okay, okay. I know. Try and rest. I’ll run next door.”

I nodded, dragged the back of my arm across my leaking eyes.

By the time Adam got back I had myself under control, although he was so kind, so concerned, I nearly lost it again.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get these down.” He helped me sit up, his fingertips brushing my mouth as he slipped the pills between my lips. He held the glass for me and I took a couple of sips of water. “Thatta, boy. Lie back. I’m going to put these cushions under your legs.”

I could have managed on my own, but I gave myself up to the unmanly pleasure of being cosseted.

* * * * *

The paramedics and the cops arrived at the same time. Adam took the cops down to the beach and the paramedics got to work on me, despite my protests that I was fine after all.

By the time Adam returned with Sheriff Rankin and his deputy in tow, I was sitting up feeling almost back to normal. Almost.

The paramedics informed Adam I had refused to go to the hospital and Adam insisted that they take me anyway. While they debated the legalities, the sheriff sat down across from me.

Rankin was a big man with a handlebar mustache and cowboy boots like a lawman out of a Zane Grey western. I remembered him from when I had my first bike stolen. My father had decreed filing a police report would be a good experience. Perhaps he had anticipated a lifetime of police involvement.

“Howdy, Kyle.”

I nodded hello. The deputy took her notebook and pencil out.

Spotting our tableau, Adam tried to intercept. “You can’t question him. He’s on his way to the hospital.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

I informed the paramedics I wouldn’t be taking an ambulance ride, that my health insurance wouldn’t cover it. These were the magic words and they began to pack up.

The sheriff inquired, “Some reason you don’t want Kyle to talk to us, Mr. MacKinnon?”

Adam’s face changed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Just wondering.” Sheriff Rankin turned to me. “You feel up to talking to us, Kyle?”

“Sure.” I gave Adam a look which meant “power down,” but which he didn’t seem to recognize. He continued to hover.

“Sure,” Sheriff Rankin agreed. “Kyle and I are old friends, right?”

“Right.” If he said so.

“Right. Let’s start at the beginning. You and the deceased, Mr. Hansen that was, were down in the cove. You were swimming? Or what?”

“We were talking.”

“Talking? On a beautiful hot day like today? What were you talking about?”

I shrugged. “Just…talk.”

His eyes were brown and unexpectedly shrewd—like a savvy old hound dog’s. “Uh huh. So you were standing where in relation to the dock?”

“We were standing in the shade. Brett was right beneath. I was a little to the side.”

“What happened then?”

“It…collapsed.”

“Like that? No warning?”

I tried to remember. “There was a kind of cracking sound and then one of the pillars gave way, and it came down. Fast.”

“But not so fast you didn’t have time to get out of the way?”

I stared at him dumbly.

“Then what happened?”

“Brett was pinned underneath. There was a section of logs—planks across his chest and thighs. He was yelling and crying. There were nails, jagged pieces of wood. I tried to lift off the planks but I couldn’t, so I tried to dig the sand out from under him. I thought I could drag him free that way.” I turned to Adam. “He—Brett—was begging me not to leave him, to help him. I didn’t think straight.”

“Was there anyone else in the cove besides yourself and Hansen?” the sheriff questioned.

“No.” I hesitated, remembering Brett checking and rechecking his watch. Had he been waiting for someone?

Observing me the sheriff said, “You sure about that?”

“I didn’t see anyone.” Someone could have waited a few yards down behind the rocks or hid on the hillside, but Rankin could figure that much out for himself.

“Uh huh. Then what happened?”

“I was afraid it would take too long to get Brett free on my own. He was worried about the tide. I was too. I told him I was going for help. He—” I stopped and rubbed my chest.

Adam bit out, “If you’re going to question him you should have a doctor present. He’s already had some kind of seizure.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly.

The sheriff didn’t say anything for a minute but clearly the more Adam intervened the worse it looked. “I appreciate that, Mr. MacKinnon. That’s why I’m permitting you to stay while I question Mr. Bari.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“I’m all right, Adam,” I repeated.

Adam folded his arms and clenched his jaw, as though physically restraining himself.

“What were you and Mr. Hansen talking about on the beach for so long?”

“My father. And it wasn’t for long. Maybe five minutes.”

“Your father? What about him?”

“Brett was curious about his disappearance. He had this theory Cosmo was murdered.”

“What?”
Adam ejaculated.

The sheriff and deputy exchanged looks but all Rankin said was, “So you left Hansen and came running up the stairs for help and bumped into Mr. MacKinnon?”

“Yes.”

“MacKinnon was coming
down
the stairs?”

I nodded.

“But you, as Mr. MacKinnon says, had some kind of heart seizure about then, isn’t that right?”

“I came up the stairs too fast.”

“Uh huh. So you explained to MacKinnon that the dock had collapsed and was crushing Mr. Hansen, and he ran down to see if he could help. About how long before Mr. MacKinnon rejoined you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Sure, sure. You weren’t feeling too swift yourself. Do you have any recollection of time? Thirty minutes? Five minutes?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t feel long.” I turned to Adam for help. He didn’t respond. He looked pale and somber.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” I faltered. “I know it’s my fault.”

“How’s that?” The sheriff raised a brow.

“I wasted too much time trying to dig him out. I should have gone for help straight off. But he begged me not to leave him. I didn’t realize—was it shock? Was he hemorrhaging internally? It
can’t
have been the tide.” I looked from one to the other. Their matching expressions dried the words in my throat. “What is it?”

Sheriff Rankin said slowly, “You don’t know, do you?” He turned to Adam. “You didn’t tell him?”

“No.”

“Know what? What are you talking about?”

“Your friend Hansen didn’t die of shock or internal injuries. Not from any dock falling on him anyway.” The sheriff said slowly, as though savoring the words, “He was murdered. Someone stove his head in with a rock.”

Chapter Nine

“A
re you sure you’re all right?” Adam asked for the twentieth time.

“It was mostly the shock, I think.”

“You look like hell,” he said roughly.

“Yeah, well,” I tried to joke, “I’m having a bad heart day.”

Brett’s body had been removed. The sheriff and company had resumed combing the beach after the tide had retreated once more. They had questioned Adam for nearly two hours. Now there was nothing left for him to do, so he insisted on driving me the few yards to my cottage.

Pulling up on the shell circle outside the garden gate, he turned off the engine. I didn’t know what to say to him. I stared at the dashboard. Brett’s Ray-Bans lay there. I felt a burning in my sinuses like I was going to sneeze. Or cry.

“I can’t face that cottage tonight,” Adam said. “Can I crash here?”

I swallowed dryly. Nodded.

The phone calls began as soon as we closed the door. First Micky. Then Joel. Then the local paper. Adam took the calls, explained I was still recovering and fielded the expressions of sympathy and curiosity about Brett.

From the leather sofa in the study I listened and wondered at how calm he sounded. Not sounded,
was
. Because he had something to focus on: me. Taking care of me. Not exactly flattering to be used as a grief substitute, but what are friends for?

After a time Adam took the phone off the hook and poked his head in the study.

“Are you hungry? You should eat something.”

“I can’t right now, but you need to eat, Adam.”

“I could use a drink.”

I joined him in the kitchen. Adam had a drink while he heated a can of tomato soup. Sitting at the table, I watched him butter a stack of saltines as meticulously as though he was applying oils in short paint technique.

The old refrigerator hummed noisily, the clock on the wall ticked slowly. Neither of us spoke.

Adam ladled out the soup and we both made a pretense of eating, in hopes of encouraging the other.

The evening had turned cold, mist rolling in from the sea and swallowing the cottages and gardens of the colony in gloom. It seemed very still. Ominously still. As though the entire world were hushed and waiting.

Following our meal, Adam laid a fire in the study. I had another dose of medication and stretched out on the sofa; Adam took the chair by the fireplace. He was drinking Courvoisier, his glass winking in the firelight. He began to talk about Brett. He said Joel had introduced them two years earlier at an exhibition in Soho. Instant simpatico. They had left the Guggenheim and walked till they found a café with a small garden in back. They sat in the garden all night, talking and drinking cheap champagne. Brett had moved into Adam’s loft before the week was out. They had never spent a night apart in two years.

I rested on the couch and listened. That was all that was required of me fortunately; I didn’t have energy for more. The meds left me feeling dull and depressed. I watched Adam’s face in the flickering shadows, watched his strong, beautiful hands, listened to his voice. A million times growing up I had pictured him like this, sitting across from me, sharing his heart. Now he was here, even spending the night, but I could have been anyone. Or no one. I could have been Adam’s own shadow moving against the wall as he lifted his glass once more. It wasn’t me he wanted, it was Brett, stiffening up in a drawer in the county morgue.

Outside the window the fog pressed against the glass, turning the night white.

“He wasn’t like that,” Adam repeated. I realized I was nearly asleep. I repositioned myself against the arm of the sofa. “Not really. He had been hurt. Some of the things that happened to him in foster homes…physical and sexual abuse…like something out of the frigging dark ages.” He wiped the heel of his hand to the corner of his eyes. I saw the wet glittering there. My heart clenched and unclenched.

Adam went on talking about Brett, not noticing when tears slipped past and trickled down his cheeks. I watched him through my lashes, losing the battle to keep my eyes open. He seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, receding into some untouchable distance…

* * * * *

When I opened my eyes again, Adam had fallen asleep in the chair. He was frowning at his dreams, his mouth slightly open. The cognac bottle was empty at his elbow. The fire had died down to gray ash. Cautiously I sat up. At some point he had thrown the Irish chain-stitch quilt over me. I stood up, wrapping it Indian style around me, and tip-toed upstairs.