Dead By Dusk (7 page)

Stephanie started across from the cottages to the rear doors to the main resort, followed by the other two. Behind her, they argued about Gema.

She had no idea what to think herself, but since the woman had apparently spoken to anyone who would listen about giving up her gig before she even started it, maybe it shouldn't be such a surprise.

Or a worry.

She walked across the lobby, slightly ahead of the other two, irritated at feeling the hint of a headache coming on. What the hell. A drink would kill or cure her.

She walked through the scattered tables where, it seemed, the locals had already found a place to relax and gather. A few people looked at her, some with curiosity, and some with smiles and acknowledgments. She smiled back, and headed around the curve of the bar.

And stopped short.

Arturo was there, waiting as he had suggested.

He wasn't alone.

There was a dignified, scholarly looking gentleman with gray hair and a beard, at his one side.

And at his other side . . .

Grant.

He looked up just as she stopped. His eyes, so deep a blue they were like the ocean at night, were wary. They offered both a rueful apology, and fuck-you-if-you-don't-like-it amusement.

“Ah, gentlemen!” Arturo said, noticing that the men's eyes had strayed, and their attention had wandered from the conversation. “You must meet Stephanie Cahill. Stephanie is here to direct our first venture into entertainment. Carlo Ponti, Miss Cahill—Stephanie, Dr. Carlo Ponti. And this! A fellow American, Stephanie, here to work the dig. Mr. Grant Peterson. Mr. Peterson, Miss Cahill!”

Carlo Ponti offered her a pleasant appreciation with a kiss on the hand and a sparkle in his eyes.

Grant didn't leave his chair.

“It's a small world, Arturo. Stephanie and I are old friends. Very good friends, as a matter of fact. Steph . . .”

Then he rose at last, coming toward her. He kissed her on both cheeks.

And they seemed to burn, as if she had been brushed by the most searing fire, a blaze that burned brighter than the sun.

“Well, hello!” Suzette said, inching her way between Stephanie and Grant. “Suzette Croix, hi. We saw you working last night—we were stuck after the rock slide—but you never made it back to the camp. I'm part of the comedy improv group.”

“How do you do,” Grant said politely. “This is Dr. Carlo Ponti.”

“Hello, Suzette!” Carlo Ponti said, his voice full of the flattery that Italian men seemed so capable of giving, a very simple and pleasant appreciation that was usually lovely. “We almost met before. You were out at the dig.”

“Yes, yes! And this is Lena Miro–who was with me,” Suzette said quickly.

“
Il piacere è mio
,” Lena murmured, which caused Carlo Ponti to ask about her Italian, and the two went into a conversation in the language, which left Carlo appearing very pleased.

“So! You two worked together!” Suzette said, taking Grant's arm and looking from one of them to the other.

“Grant owns the club in Chicago where I worked,” Stephanie said. To her own ears, her words sounded stiff and forced. But she must have been speaking fairly normally, because Suzette didn't seem to notice a strained tone.

“Really! Imagine that! Did you know you would both be here? Well, actually, how could you not—”

“We didn't,” Stephanie said sharply. Too sharply.

Grant's eyes were very cold. “We didn't. Stephanie had left the club when she accepted this offer, I believe. And I knew nothing about the club here when I signed up to volunteer at the dig.”

“Wow! Small world, huh?”

“Way too small, isn't it?” Grant murmured.

“Hey!” Drew said, coming up behind Stephanie and placing an arm casually on her shoulders. “Hi,” he said to Grant, aware that the women were grouped around him, and he was obviously someone they had met who was interesting. “Drew Cunningham.”

“Grant Peterson.”

Doug was behind Drew; introductions went around again, with both men meeting Carlo Ponti as well.

“We should get a big table, huh?” Drew said. “Arturo—you still buying?”

“Tonight, yes!” Arturo called back to him, grinning. “After tonight—no! Then the bar must begin to make money, not spend it.”

“Let's push a couple of smaller tables together, huh?” Drew said. “We can all get acquainted. And Arturo, Carlo—thank the good Lord you're among us! This is Italy, and we're surrounded by Americans!”

“Americans are good friends to have,” Arturo assured him.

“Yes, but when we go to dinner, you can actually read the menu.”

“It's in English as well as Italian,” Arturo reminded him.

“But it's more fun when it's in Italian and we have to figure it out,” Drew assured him. “Come on, everyone have a seat—this is great!”

Apparently, everyone but Stephanie thought that it was just great. Suzette, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that there might have been anything other than a working relationship between Grant and Stephanie, had somewhat latched on to Grant, for which Stephanie realized she actually blessed her. Grant was drawn to the other side of the table. Doug was to her left, and a free chair wound up at her right.

“We need the extra chair?” Arturo asked.

“Clay is coming in right behind us,” Doug said.

“That's right—Clay isn't here. Strange, I thought he was headed here before Suzette, Lena, and I started over,” Stephanie said.

“Ran into him outside the cottage. He was giving it a good go-round,” Drew explained.

“One of our cast has disappeared,” Lena explained.

“Disappeared?” Carlo Ponti said, intrigued.

“Skedaddled, as we say in the West,” Drew drawled.

“You're from Boston,” Doug reminded him.

“She's gone, however you want to say it,” Lena explained.

“Should you call the police?” Grant suggested.

“Well, I think the laws in Italy are pretty much the same as they are in the States,” Drew said pragmatically. “She packed up and left. Apparently, this corner of Italy wasn't exciting enough for her.”

“She'd been talking about taking off for Rome, and we're assuming that's what she did—since all her belongings are gone,” Suzette said.

“Dr. Ponti, your profession is digging for clues, isn't it?” Doug asked.

“Ah, but I'm a detective of ancient artifacts,” Ponti said. “I dig in the ground for objects and people who are there—and stay there. The past rarely moves around on one.”

“There's Clay, coming now,” Doug noted.

Stephanie turned to see that Clay was coming across the room to join them. He was staring intently at Carlo and Grant as he came to the chair by her side.

Arturo performed the introductions. Grant and Carlo stood to shake hands with Clay, then the three men sat down. Stephanie wasn't sure why, but it seemed that a new electricity had come to the table.

The men were wary of one another. She wondered why, or if it was just an instinctive alpha-type male thing going on between Grant and Clay. They spoke politely enough to one another, and yet there was something there, a strange, underlying hostility.

“Just curious,” Grant said, “but if you all knew that the woman was unhappy here, and she mentioned leaving, why are you so worried?”

“We're not
so
worried,” Stephanie said. “Just concerned.”

“But you think you're going to find a clue to her disappearance by searching her empty room . . . or bungalow, wherever she was living?” Grant said.

Stephanie turned to Arturo. “Maybe we should call the police.”

He sighed. “The ‘police' are sitting on the other side of the café.”

“Really?” Stephanie said, turning.

At a table in the opposite corner a handsome young Italian man with very dark hair and eyes was sitting with an older, slightly graying, broad-shouldered fellow.

“Come. I'll introduce you,” Arturo said.

Stephanie stood, following Arturo.

The two men rose the minute they saw her coming with Arturo. They greeted one another warmly with a quick exchange in Italian, then Stephanie was introduced to Franco Mercurio the elder, and his son, Franco Mercurio the younger. The elder was called Merc, and the younger, Franco.

As they spoke, Stephanie felt the warm sensation of someone behind her; then a hand fell on her shoulder.

It was Clay Barton.

He had come to be supportive, she assumed. He introduced himself with ease, explained that one of their number had left quite abruptly, and that they would appreciate it if the officers would look into the situation.

They agreed immediately.

“If you wouldn't mind. We've trampled through the bungalow, I'm afraid,” Stephanie said. “But we did discover that Gema's clothing was gone, as well as all her personal effects. We didn't really mean to disturb you right now, but . . .”

“
Signorina
, we will be happy to look into it immediately,” Merc said, and at his side, his handsome young son and pro-tégé nodded as well.

“The drinks will not go away,” he said. “Arturo?”

“I'll come with you—I have the passkey,” Arturo said.

The three walked back through the lobby.

“Feel better?” Clay said.

“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, stepping slightly away from him to study him. His presence, she realized, made her feel good at that moment. He was strikingly—almost hypnotically—good-looking. Grant, she was certain, was watching them. She didn't particularly feel the need to create an atmosphere of jealousy; rather, she felt the need to protect herself from the feelings she had for Grant. When he had touched her earlier, she had wanted to forget everything. Even the fact that she'd almost questioned his sanity. And had, beyond a doubt, questioned the reality of his passion for her, when in his dream world, it was a name other than hers that came to his lips.

“They will do what is necessary,” Clay said.

“Yes.” His eyes were gold, or red. Or perhaps they changed color. Hazel eyes did that, of course.

She had never really seen such strange colors, though.

But when he looked at her the way he did, he created a feeling of well-being in her.

“Shall we return to the table?” he suggested.

“Ah, yes.”

“You are all right, aren't you?”

“Of course!”

“It is surprising to run into someone you don't expect to see in a foreign country.”

“Yes.” She said the word casually, and yet, she had the feeling that he knew exactly what her relationship with Grant had been, and that he meant to be there, a total bastion of support for her.

“Ah, yes, surprising. Well . . . certainly, we can sit.”

They returned to the table. He pulled out her chair for her. He didn't touch her as they sat, but he rested his hand and arm on the back rail of her chair.

“Everything taken care of?” Carlo Ponti asked.

“Yes, well, the Merc and Franco are looking at the bungalow now,” Stephanie said. “Perhaps there's nothing for them to find, and it's most logical that Gema just went on to Rome, but at least the police are aware that she is not here.”

“Good. We can move on, then!” Drew said cheerfully.

“So—we've been discussing our illustrious, and not always so illustrious, careers. My last gig was a comedy club in Vegas—not a bad gig, really. It was fun, too. But I accepted this offer because it was a chance to spend some real time being paid in a foreign country—instead of having to stay. And to me, it's heaven, and I hope we wow our audiences. The beach here is glorious. And the view of the mountains,
magnifico!
”

“I came because my background, as you all know, is Italian,” Lena said. “And Drew, you're right. The scenery here is beyond beautiful.”

“Thank you!” Carlo said.

“You're from here?” Suzette asked.

“Bari, originally—close enough!” Carlo said. “My offices are in Rome these days, but I will always love the countryside.”

“So, Clay, you've been working comedy or improv as well? Straight theater? Film?” Grant asked.

He had leaned back in his chair. It was a macho pose, Stephanie thought. Not posed, but it was a way of sitting that spoke of confidence—and determination. He also seemed to be on the offensive. As if he were looking for something to be wrong with Clay Barton.

“I was working at a venue in Scotland,” Clay said.

“Where, exactly?” Grant persisted.

“Outside Edinburgh,” Clay told him.

“Did the place have a name?” Grant asked politely enough.

“The group is called ‘Ye Olde Time Players,' ” Clay said, keeping his voice just as level. Again, the electricity around the table seemed thick.

“I've heard of them!” Suzette said enthusiastically. “I was working in Paris last month, and some of the folks from England had been up to see your group. They said the shows were wonderful.”

“They play of politics and Shakespeare,” Clay explained. “And you?” he asked Grant.

“I own the Park Street Playhouse in Chicago,” Grant said.

“How interesting. And yet you're here—not as an actor, but as an
archeologist
?”

“Amateur. An avid student of the past,” Grant said. Again, he spoke pleasantly. But Stephanie knew him. He'd found the question irritating. Maybe he knew how ridiculous his presence here seemed. “Stephanie used to work for me.”

“I see. So now she has her own club and cast to direct,” Clay mused. “And you . . . followed her here?”

“Pure coincidence,” Grant said.

“Oh, I don't believe in pure coincidence!” Lena said. “Fate is just too strange, don't you think?” Lena was guileless with her words, and smile.

No one replied to her because Arturo bustled back to the table then. “Well, that is that. Merc and Franco have gone over the bungalow, and they are left with the same conclusion—our Gema has simply called it quits with us. So . . . it's nearly eight. Not so late, but you wish to start your rehearsals in the morning, so I understand. We can move into the dining room?”