Dead By Dusk (25 page)

It was a quiet night. It was Sunday, and in Southern Italy, Sunday still meant a day of rest for most people. Besides, tomorrow was Maria Britto's funeral, and many of the local populace would be attending it.

Grant walked into the club café, but the theater was, of course, closed for the night, and it was empty. He walked around anyway, where so much activity happened, feeling the strangeness of such a place when it was dark, actors and audience gone.

He walked out on the beach, but still found no sign of Clay and Liz. He realized that he didn't know if Liz was in a cottage or if she had a room in the actual resort building, but he did know where Clay's cottage was. Not sure of just what he was going to say to the man, he still walked to his door and banged on it, then rang the bell.

There was no answer.

He didn't have a key to Stephanie's cottage since he only entered it with her and hadn't thought to suggest that she give him one.

She probably would have refused.

Still, a few words in the Italian language that was coming more and more naturally to him as the days passed helped to secure him a second key to the cottage from the young man working the front desk.

He went into Stephanie's room, not certain at first what he was doing there.

Then, he knew.

Trying not to disturb her belongings, he searched through them until he found the resumés that she had on the cast. He was fairly certain that Reggie had done the hiring, and sent the resumés on to Stephanie so she would know who she was working with. It didn't seem plausible that she would have had enough time to advertise the positions and then sift through the applicants before coming over here.

He found them in a canvas shoulder bag she brought to rehearsals. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he scanned them with a practiced eye.

Suzette . . . she'd spent some time studying with a school of mime in Paris, and she'd worked various clubs in both Europe and America. Lena . . . her letter of introduction made note of her Italian background. Drew's letter began with the fact that he knew absolutely no Italian, but would be delighted to learn. Doug's was similar . . . Gema's was extensive and somewhat boastful. And then . . . there was Clay Barton's. It was a very normal resumé. Educated at Tulane . . . worked in a number of New Orleans clubs . . . a stint in New York, and a few gigs in London.

There was no mention of his knowledge of Italian.

He scanned the resumé again, replaced it in Stephanie's bag, and headed out, anxious to reach his own cottage.

As he neared his doorway, he stopped.

There was something lying there, right on the mat before the front door.

He came in a little closer, then stood dead still.

It was the lower half of an arm. A human arm. The flesh was mottled and gray . . . the fingers were contorted. They seemed to be reaching out.

For him. The hand pointed toward his door.

The flesh on the arm was withered . . . as if the human being to whom it had once belonged had been dead for a fair amount of time. And yet . . . yet there was flesh to it.

For a moment, he was still, frozen with the shock. Then he thought that someone had wanted him to find the arm, and to feel this horror.

Was it a warning? Or a taunt?

He came closer, bending down, and determined that it had belonged to a woman—and that it was not so old that it might have come from the excavations or the dig.

He was not about to touch it and leave any imprint on it.

He turned around sharply and headed back to the resort, hoping that Merc or Franco would be sitting in the restaurant, and if they weren't, he'd have the young man at the registration desk call the police.

He felt ill.

He was suddenly certain that he had found the missing Gema Harris.

Part of her, at least.

 

 

Stephanie had almost dozed in a chair when Drew burst into Doug's room, obviously in a high state of agitation.

He glanced at Doug where he lay on the bed, and then at Suzette, who was sleeping in the plush, convertible chair-bed on the far side of the room. He motioned to Stephanie to follow him out.

Curious, she did so.

In the dimly lit hospital hallway, he cleared his throat.

“You know that stuff I told you about dreams?”

“About Gema?”

“Yeah, yeah. And we were talking about how Suzette had thought that she'd seen her, and maybe she was coming around, and she had some flu, and we were all getting it from her?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was wrong. Dead wrong. No pun intended,” he said, and laughed dryly.

“Drew, you're not making any sense.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He hesitated, inhaling deeply. “I don't think Suzette saw Gema, and I sure as hell don't think she was ever standing at my door. Nor could she have had any wild nights with Doug.”

“Why not?”

He inhaled again.

“Grant just called the hospital. There was an arm in his doorway.”

“You're really not making sense! An arm?”

“An arm—just an arm. A human arm. The police came and picked it up, and there were no real identifying features on it, but . . . they think it might be Gema's.”

Ice became an eddy in the pit of Stephanie's stomach. She shook her head in denial. “They found a human arm in front of Grant's door?”

“Yes. Grant found it.”

Grant. Again.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Maybe someone is playing a cruel joke on him. Maybe it came from the dig.”

Doug shook his head emphatically.

“No. It's not an
old
arm. Not that kind of old. There was . . . there was flesh. But apparently, the flesh . . . well, I don't know anything about forensics, but the person has been dead a while.
A week at least!”

A dull pain hit her. She hadn't met Gema. The woman hadn't been a favorite in this group. But that didn't matter. There was another woman dead.

“Maybe . . . it's not Gema's arm,” she said hopefully.

“Well, from what Grant said, so far the coroner hasn't had much to say. But it appears to have belonged to a young woman, somewhere between twenty and thirty.”

“Still,” Stephanie said desperately, “maybe it's not Gema's arm.”

“Tomorrow they'll try fingerprints, but if Gema didn't have them on file anywhere, they may not know. I'll get down to the morgue with the coroner and . . . and look, and see if there's something that I can identify, but . . . we may never know for certain. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Well, unless the rest of the body appears,” Drew said miserably.

 

 

The police and the coroner had come and gone. They had been as puzzled and shocked as Grant himself.

Arturo, too, had come, wringing his hands, tremendously distressed. He was now gone as well.

Grant had patiently answered questions posed to him by the police on his own, and through Arturo.

He also assured the local officers that he wasn't planning on leaving the area. He had gotten a little information from them, and he called the hospital to talk to Drew, anxious that he know about the discovery before they all returned—perhaps heedlessly, believing that there wasn't any danger in the area other than forest “animals.” He told Drew both the assumptions being made—that the arm, yes, could have easily belonged to Gema—and the fact that they couldn't be certain, not yet.

Hours had passed since he had first returned. With all the commotion that the arrival of the police had brought, he still hadn't seen Clay Barton, though Drew had informed him that Liz had gone back to the hospital.

Stephanie was still there as well. They were all sticking together, taking turns stretching and walking around the lobby, and sitting quietly in Doug's room.

Hanging up from Drew, Grant paused.

With the arm bagged and taken away, the police finished with their questioning for the evening, and, his call made to insure that the others knew about the discovery and were still together, he was free to return to his own cottage.

He did so.

Hurrying to the bedroom, he connected to the Internet. And he began to look up names, actors, actresses, and resumés.

 

 

When Stephanie went in for her last stint with Doug, she was glad to see that he was breathing normally.

Lena was excited. They had almost lost him. He had flat-lined for a few seconds while she and Suzette had been gone, and there had been all kinds of feverish activity in the hospital. They had brought Doug back.

And minutes later, he had opened his eyes. He had talked to them all.

It had been like a miracle—he had even asked for dinner.

Stephanie glanced at the peacefully sleeping Doug. She smiled, then looked anxiously back at Drew.

“Did he remember what happened? Anything at all?” she asked.

“Nope, nothing,” Drew said.

According to Doug, he'd just come in from the beach, showered, and lain down on his bed for a nap.

That was it. All that he could recall. He'd had dreams . . . seemed he was always having dreams, but nothing he could remember.

Apparently, they had decided not to tell him about the arm left on Drew's doorstep. Stephanie decided that they'd been right. He had just managed to squeak by . . . he had nearly died. There was no reason to tell him things that would be deeply upsetting.

He remained in a restful sleep while Stephanie sat vigil, sitting by his side on the bed while Suzette curled into the chair again. He was wearing a standard white hospital gown. Looking down at him, Stephanie frowned.

He was wearing a medallion around his neck as well. She frowned, certain that she hadn't seen it on him earlier.

She reached out to touch it.

It was a silver cross. Bigger, heavier, but similar to the one she was now wearing.

As she fingered the cross, she realized there was a peculiar odor in the air as well.

It was a hospital. Hospitals always smelled a little funky.

No . . . it wasn't that kind of odor.

“Garlic,” Suzette said suddenly, causing her to jump.

She looked at Suzette, who shrugged.

“I think it's me,” she said apologetically. “I ate more than you did. A lot, I guess.”

Stephanie smiled. “I don't remember Doug having this cross.”

Suzette rose, walking across the room to her and reaching down to touch and study the piece as well. “Looks a lot like yours.”

“But, did he have it before?”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, I haven't seen the crazy old man in the hospital, so he didn't bring it.”

“Maybe we just never noticed Doug wearing it before,” Suzette suggested. “Who knows? Maybe he shopped at the old man's place one day.”

“Maybe. Odd, though. I think someone just put it on him.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, I guess something like that should be a choice,” Suzette said. “Should we . . . take it off of him?”

“I don't think so,” Stephanie murmured. She shrugged.

“I'm wearing mine. And . . . I think Doug is Christian.”

“He could be an atheist, for all I know. The discussion never came up between us. But I don't think that he's Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu, or Moslem, so . . . I guess it's all right to leave it. No, we should definitely leave it. It may actually be his, and we just don't know it.”

“I think you're right . . . besides, he might have gotten it from someone who just wants to be nice and probably thinks it's a very good thing,” Stephanie murmured.

Suzette nodded. “They're gorgeous. I'd like one. Maybe I'll find the old guy's place and buy one tomorrow myself.” She shivered fiercely. “May not help, but can't hurt. Stephanie, do you think that the arm Grant found . . . that it did belong to Gema?”

“I have no idea,” Stephanie said honestly.

“So scary!” Suzette said.

Stephanie reached back and unhooked her cross, offering it to Suzette. “Here, take this.”

“I can't!”

“Why not?”

“The old fellow gave it to you.”

“I know, but you take this one. I'll go and buy one from him tomorrow. I'll take someone with me—someone who really speaks Italian. I want to know what he was trying to say to me.”

“I think he was just talking crazy.”

“
He
was talking crazy!” Stephanie exclaimed. “Right. A girl is found buried—but they decide she was killed by animals. Then her mother lops her head off when she's lying in her coffin. We all dream—weird things. Then Grant finds a human arm on his porch. And the old fellow is talking crazy? Hmm. I think I want to know what he was saying.”

Suzette nodded miserably. She strode across the room, then glanced at her watch. “It's five. Think it will be okay if we go soon?”

“Yes,” Stephanie said.

“It's okay if you go right now,” Drew said from the doorway. “I'm going to hang out a while longer. Arturo just sent Giovanni with a car from the resort to pick you girls up. Go back and get some sleep. I'll stay until after he wakes up for real, has some breakfast, and talks me into believing it's okay if I leave.”

“I should stay,” Stephanie murmured.

“No. You look like hell. If you all go, I'll sleep in the chair. I'll be fine. Then, when I'm totally crashed tomorrow, you guys can take over.”

Doug tossed on the bed and flopped over, restlessly clawing at his neck.

“What's he doing now?” Drew wondered worriedly.

“Think he's . . . allergic to metal?” Suzette suggested.

Drew frowned, looking at the cross. “Is this his?”

“We don't know—I don't remember seeing it on him, either,” Stephanie said.

“Maybe one of the nurses is praying for him . . . and thought he needed it,” Suzette said. “You know how some people feel about actors—especially comedians. Maybe she—or he—thought he needed all the help he could get.”