Terrible Tide (14 page)

“Because of the way she keeps her shop. And she couldn’t dress like that by accident. I’d say Claudine could be a success anywhere, yet here she sticks.”

“Some sort of neurotic fixation, would you say?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, but from what Annie Blodgett tells me, I expect she’s entitled to one.”

Since most of the Jugtowners must know it already, Holly saw no harm in giving Geoffrey a quick rundown of what she’d learned about the Parletts.

“Interesting,” he said, not sounding very interested. “But quite frankly, I’d rather hear more about you. I wish there were a place around here I could invite you for a drink. My housekeeper would be shocked if I asked you to the house, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t drink anyway,” Holly told him. “It’s fattening and bad for the complexion. Besides, I’ve just had a gallon or so of antibiotic pumped into me.”

“Oh, so that’s why you came down? To see the doctor?”

“Yes, one of my cuts was acting up.”

“You’ve been doing too much at Cliff House, no doubt. You’d better take it easy. Have you something for the pain?”

“He gave me a prescription.”

“Oh, should we have stopped at the drugstore?”

“I got it filled before I went to Claudine’s.” Holly yawned. “Sorry, penicillin always makes me drowsy.”

“You’ll sleep well tonight, then.”

“Like a rock, I expect. There’s Fan. She’ll be surprised to see me with you.”

Fan was out in the yard, pouring more oil into her truck. There was a greasy puddle under it already. Was there another vehicle in Jugtown that leaked oil fast enough to leave the sort of stain Holly and Sam Neill had found on the ledge? Had Sam been asking himself the same question? Holly was relieved she didn’t have to face him beside those telltale blobs.

“What are you doing here?” was Fan’s amiable greeting. She’d switched moods fast enough. Were she and Roger having a fight? Rather, had Fan been fighting with Roger? She did lash out at him sometimes. Roger never bothered to reply, but stalked off to his workshop leaving her to simmer down into her accustomed mold of uncritical worship.

“I came because you said you’d like to visit.” Holly felt none too sweet herself, getting this brush-off in front of Geoffrey Cawne.

“I don’t have time now. Roger wants me to—do an errand for him.”

Cawne stepped gracefully into the breach. “Then why don’t I take Holly on out to Cliff House? I do have to keep on her good side, you know, or risk losing my—what is it? My prop girl.”

That joggled Holly’s memory about the scrapbook. This might be the only chance she’d have to get a look at it “Would you mind terribly if I ran into the house for a minute? I’d like to pick up a few things from my room.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll stroll over and check on that antique lathe, if Howe doesn’t mind being disturbed.”

“Why should he?” said Fan. “He doesn’t care how much he disturbs everybody else.” But she waited to add that till Cawne was out of earshot. “Come on, Holly, I’ll get the stuff for you. You’d better not climb the stairs. What do you want?”

“What I’d really like is a quick peek at your scrapbook.”

“For Pete’s sake, why?”

Holly shrugged. “Getting antique-minded, I guess. Mainly, I want to show Geoffrey how smart I am.”

“Huh! Men don’t want smart women, they want willing slaves. Besides, it’s not here. I—uh—took it to Saint John to have another copy made, that I’m going to put in a safe-deposit box. What if we should have a fire or something?”

That wasn’t a very good lie. Fan would never have left her precious book in strange hands. And why should she? She’d mentioned taking Mrs. Brown’s notes to one of those instant Xerox places in the city. They could have reproduced the whole book in about ten minutes. Considering that she’d practically been following Holly around with the thing a week ago, why was she acting so coy all of a sudden?

Holly knew better than to ask. Besides, she mustn’t keep Geoffrey waiting. All she could say was, “That’s a good idea, Fan,” and grab some clean pajamas she didn’t particularly need to take with her.

By the time they were on the road to Cliff House, Holly felt too tired for small talk. She leaned her head back against the rich leather upholstery and closed her eyes. After a while, Cawne said, “Mrs. Blodgett won’t expect you to work this weekend, I trust?”

“Oh no. Annie’s a natural-born mother hen. I’m only afraid she’ll try to feed me porridge.”

“Good Lord, not that! Tell her Dr. Cawne prescribed tea and toast and plenty of bed rest. And don’t forget to take your medication. We want you in shape for another photography session Monday, God and Earl Stoodley willing.”

Holly smiled but didn’t answer. When they got to Cliff House, she had just about strength enough left to thank him, then stumble up to Cousin Edith’s room and collapse on the bed.

She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep when Annie bent over her. “You coming down to supper, dearie, or would you like something on a tray?”

“Ungh? Oh, I’ll come. Where’s Bert?”

“Down by the stove claiming his belly’s touching his backbone. Don’t you fret about Bert, dearie. Take your time.”

Holly freshened up a little, then picked her way down to the kitchen favoring her bad leg. A more peculiar smell than usual was emanating from the hired man’s direction.

“Bert,” she demanded, “what on earth are you drinking? Gin and molasses? Oh, I know, rum.”

“Ayuh. Claudine sent up a jar for a change. Want a snort?”

“I wouldn’t touch it if you paid me.”

Annie had her share, though, while Holly fixed herself a salad of lettuce and tomatoes. That and canned baked beans made an adequate meal. There was greasy fried bacon, too, but she skipped that. For dessert, Bert and Annie had another taste of Claudine’s rum, then they both went to sleep in their chairs. Holly stretched out on the cot in the corner with one of those library books she hadn’t yet got around to reading but hadn’t turned more than five pages before she herself fell asleep.

She woke stiff and cramped, and no wonder. According to the kitchen clock it was well past midnight. She’d been sleeping almost six hours. Bert and Annie were still in their chairs, too. Holly shook Annie’s shoulder gently, but the housekeeper only grunted and kept on snoring.

Now what? She couldn’t possibly budge either of these dead weights. She mustn’t even try, for fear of putting more strain on her bad leg. She settled for shoving another stick of wood into the stove and getting a couple of afghans to tuck the two up as best she could. This probably wasn’t the first time they’d slept off a Saturday night party here by the stove.

She might as well go to bed herself, Holly supposed, but she didn’t feel sleepy now. Besides, the fuggy odors of bacon fat, wood smoke, and Bert were making her queasy. What she needed was a breath of fresh air. Late as it was, Holly wrapped Annie’s old black shawl around her and stepped outside.

The air was warmer than she’d expected, soft and misty and tasting of salt. Were they in for a rainstorm? There wasn’t a star to be seen, but she could make out her way across the yard to the stone wall that marked its boundary. To venture beyond that point would be foolhardy. One false step could send her rolling down the hillside to the cliff. If the tide happened to be on the make, she’d drown before anybody knew she’d fallen.

Holly sat down on a low stone with another for a backrest. It was good to be alone for a change. Or was she? Were those footsteps she heard coming along the terrace?

Quickly Holly hugged her body into a tight ball and pulled the shawl around her, head and all. Could this be Annie’s ghost? It wasn’t Bert or Annie, anyway. The steps were too quick and firm, too far apart. It must be somebody tall and vigorous, somebody she was in no shape to tangle with.

Her sore leg began to ache from being squeezed so tight against her body. She felt suffocated inside her cocoon of wool; still she didn’t dare move. The prowler was close to her now, maybe wondering if that odd bulge was really another rock, maybe debating whether this was a safe time to enter Cliff House.

Oh, God! She’d left the kitchen door on the latch and those two old people asleep inside. All he had to do was turn the knob and—why did it have to be a he? Plenty of women had firm, long-legged strides. She did herself, when her legs were working right. Fan wasn’t tall, but she thundered along like a charging bison. Claudine Parlett was no pigmy, and what about the mysterious Mrs. Brown?

The temptation to raise her head and take a peek was almost harder to endure than the agony in her leg. Yet she stayed motionless until, mercifully, the footsteps began to move away. She could hear a rattle of pebbles as the intruder climbed over the wall only a few feet from where she crouched, and headed down over the hill.

She moved now, because she had to. If she didn’t ease the pressure on that cut, she’d surely scream from the pain and betray herself. Inch by inch, keeping the shawl over her head for camouflage, Holly rolled over on her knees, raised her eyes above the wall, and looked through the meshes of the crocheted wool.

Yes, there he was, almost certainly a man and a big one, not trying to hide himself because he wouldn’t think anybody was looking. He appeared to be concentrating on something out in the bay, but what? Holly couldn’t see anything except that tiny speck of phosphorescence that marked Ellis Parlett’s phony lobster trap.

All of a sudden, the buoy began to jerk. Something must be jiggling the line to which it was tied, but why? Could a fish be interested in a big old chest of drawers?

Drawers! Holly almost made the serious mistake of gasping aloud. Now she knew why Ellis Parlett anchored his fake antiques in such an unlikely place. Now she knew why somebody had rowed out there last night in the dark and gone through that apparently senseless performance of hauling up the dresser and letting it down again. He’d been putting something in the drawers. Now a scuba diver was down in that inky, treacherous water taking it out.

Crazy? Not really. All up and down the Atlantic coast, smugglers had been plying their illegal trade ever since the first royal revenue inspector set foot on New World shores. The international boundary line wasn’t all that far from here. No matter how efficient the Coast Guard might be, how could they possibly cover all the shore, all the time? Even in daylight such a task would be impossible. How much less apt would anyone be to spot a diver in a black wetsuit swimming out there in the dark?

The buoy wasn’t jerking any more. The diver must have got what he wanted and be heading—where? Back to shore, most likely. Or so the watcher on the hill must be thinking. Holly could make him out moving slowly downward, feeling ahead for any twig or stone that might betray him. He couldn’t be meeting the diver, she thought. He must think a second person was waiting below, and was spying to find out who it could be.

At least it wouldn’t be anybody in a leaky old truck on the ledge, not tonight. That makeshift road would be under twenty feet of water about now. There’d be a boat hidden under the overhang of the cliff, Holly thought, but not necessarily a boatman. The diver could have left one there himself, tied to a rock or hauled into one of those caves Sam Neill had pointed out to her.

After the tide had made its phenomenal inward surge, it didn’t suddenly suck itself backward but receded gradually like any other tide. The boatman could row quite a way under the shelter of the cliff, then hide his boat somewhere else and make a dash for a waiting car, or else meet a yacht anchored well away from Parlett’s Point and be hauled aboard.

But why such an elaborate setup? Diving at night in a place like this must be risky even for a professional. Why not just row out and pull up the chest as that other person had done?

Because there was always the chance some camper, or a pair of lovers, or a wakeful woman at Cliff House might see you doing it. Holly had a feeling this was no amateur prank, but a well-organized professional operation. That meant the stakes would be high enough to make the danger worthwhile.

Maybe that person in the rowboat last night hadn’t been part of it, but some local who’d got to wondering about Ellis Parlett’s so-called lobster traps and come to take a look out of curiosity. That would explain the watcher on the hill. He’d found something and was now trying to find out who’d come after it.

And maybe he wasn’t just an idle onlooker but a rival smuggler. She’d be crazy to stay out here another second. He’d be coming back this way, most likely. Bending low and keeping the shawl over her like a tent, Holly made a beeline for the kitchen. The temptation to slam the back door behind her was great, but she managed somehow to ease it shut and thrust home the bolt without making a sound.

Bert lay sprawled on the iron cot now with the afghan wadded around his neck, but Annie was gone. She must have roused herself and put herself decently to bed. Good. Holly kicked her sodden slippers under the stove and padded barefoot through the now familiar dark house. She’d be inviting trouble if she showed a light and let that person out there know the household was stirring.

Annie’s door was wide open tonight. The old woman lay on her bed fully clothed, emitting muffled snorts. Holly managed to get her cardigan and housedress off and bundle the covers over her. Then she went back to her own room. From there she could see the jug in the water and the wall behind which she’d lurked. Thank goodness she’d come in when she did. The night prowler was back on the terrace, standing in almost the identical spot where she’d done her impersonation of a rock.

Could the man possibly be as tall as he looked in that gray mist? Why not? There were plenty of long-boned males in the area, men like Sam Neill and her own brother Roger. Earl Stoodley was a big man, too, but fatter than this one. At least Geoffrey Cawne was out of the running. He’d be too short. It couldn’t be Sam either, come to think of it, because Sam was down in Saint John with his sick mother.

Or was he? Bert’s saying Sam had gone didn’t mean he’d stayed. Bert wouldn’t know. He must have been up here working on Claudine’s jar half the afternoon, judging from the state he was in now. The longer Holly watched, the more she got the uncomfortable feeling this could be Sam. He had the sure, vigorous way of moving. He knew the terrain. But why should Sam be putting on this cloak-and-dagger act?