Deadly Gift (11 page)

An unnerving thought.

Because she couldn’t afford to let him find out the truth about her.

She rose, unwilling to contemplate the matter at that moment, and suddenly thirsty. Kat had shown her around the house and told her to help herself to anything she wanted from the kitchen at any time.

As she stepped into the hallway, the quiet of the house seemed strangely deafening. The others had all gone to sleep, or at least up to their respective rooms.

She headed over to the stove and found the kettle. It was quite a stove, she thought—even quite a kettle, a work of art in well-polished copper. She put water on to boil, then turned, suddenly aware that she was being watched.

Bridey was there. Tiny, slim, yet straight as an arrow. She had silver hair, blue eyes and a face creased with kindness and compassion. She had smiled often in life, Caer thought.

But she wasn’t smiling now, as she pointed at Caer.

“I know who you are. What I don’t know is just what you’re doing here.”

I
t was damned difficult to be in a man’s house, trying to prove or disprove the idea that said man was the target of a murderer, and that the murderer, according to the man’s daughter, was his wife.

Zach tossed and turned for a while, then gave up and got out of bed. He was beyond exhausted, and he knew he wasn’t going to be any good to anyone if he didn’t get a decent night’s rest, but he was awake—wide awake. So he rose, slipped into his robe, and padded out of his room and down the stairs in his bare feet.

He paused just outside the kitchen, aware of the murmur of voices. He held perfectly still for a moment, trying to listen in. He wasn’t actually fond of eavesdropping, but right now, anything going on in this house was of interest.

But the voices were too low for him to make out any words, though he recognized both speakers: Caer—and Bridey.

He headed in, glad he had eschewed slippers for his bare feet, even though the hardwood floors were cold where there were no throw rugs. He was almost upon the two before they saw him, though it did him no good. He heard nothing, only saw Caer putting on the kettle, while Bridey sprang to life at the sight of him and headed for a cabinet for an extra cup.

“Zach,” the old woman said with pleasure. “You’ll be joining us, then, for a spot of tea?”

“It’s just what I came down for,” he said. “Thank you.”

“We’re brewing the real stuff, nothing herbal,” Caer warned.

“Ugh. Herbal,” he said, and smiled.

The two women had been engaged in an intense conversation. Now, they were talking about tea. What the hell had he interrupted?

Bridey, little bit of a thing that she was, pulled out a chair and said, “Sit, Zach.”

“Why don’t I serve you?” he suggested.

“Because I’m still whole in mind and body, and can manage to pour tea,” she said firmly. “Now, sit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and did as he was told.

Caer measured tea into the small strainer sitting on the teapot and poured boiling water through, while Bridey set cups, sugar and milk down on the table, along with spoons and napkins. “We’ve some scones somewhere,” she muttered.

“Just tea is fine,” he said.

“You’ll have a scone,” she said.

Caer looked at him, amusement in her eyes, along with a warning that he should simply obey.

She was wearing a flannel robe. Pale blue. Her hair was a cascade of midnight waves over the soft color, and her eyes looked like sapphires in contrast to the light shade of the robe. She was wearing pajamas beneath the robe, and matching slippers. They were new, he thought, and had come from one of the upscale shops whose bags she had been carrying the other day.

She wore the ensemble well. Very well.

“Caer and I were just talking about Ireland and the old ways,” Bridey said.

“Ah,” he replied, and smiled.
Bull.
Something important had been going on between the two of them. But neither one was going to tell him now.

Divide and conquer, he decided. Tomorrow, he would talk to each of them alone.

“Aha!” Bridey said with pleasure, opening the breadbox. “Fresh-baked blueberry scones. I’ll just pop the little darlings in the microwave and they’ll be ready to eat.”

Caer brought the steeping tea to the table and flashed the old woman a smile as she said, “Warm scones. That sounds lovely, Bridey.” She gazed at Zach. “You must be exhausted. What are you doing out of bed?”

“Overtired,” he said simply.

She poured his tea. “Cream and sugar?”

“Of course. Bridey will insist.”

“It’s the best way,” Bridey agreed, popping three scones into the microwave and setting the timer.

“So what were you two saying about Ireland?” he asked, nodding his thanks to Caer as she prepared his cup and handed it to him.

He couldn’t help noticing the thick dark lashes that covered her downcast eyes.

Bridey was the one to answer. “Oh, we were just talking about the old beliefs, such things as leprechauns—and the coming of the banshee.”

“Now, Bridey, you can’t still believe in leprechauns, can you?” he asked.

“
I
do,” Caer said lightly. “And why not? Never offend one—you’ll have bad luck forever.”

“Ah,” he acknowledged dryly.

“Hmph,” Bridey said. “You might think her highness got off the plane and offended a leprechaun the minute she stepped onto Irish soil, Sean was sick so quickly.”

Evidently Bridey wasn’t fond of Amanda, either.

“Oh, come on, what could Amanda have done so quickly?” he asked.

Bridey looked around for a moment, as if she thought the walls might have ears. “She thinks that love of the old country is rot,” she said, nodding knowingly. “She cares nothing for the past.”

“But Sean loves her,” Caer reminded her.

Bridey shook her head. “My nephew was so wise for most his life. I don’t know what ever compelled him to consort with someone so…so empty-headed.”

“Now Bridey,” Zach said, “Sean’s no one’s fool, and you know it.”

“Every man is a fool when it comes to love,” Bridey said sagely, as she took the plate of scones from the microwave, set it on the table and finally took a chair herself. The aroma of the heated scones was delicious and somehow soothing.

Bridey didn’t look soothed, though. She looked restless. “And then there’s the fact that Eddie is dead,” she said quietly.

“Right now he’s just missing, Bridey,” Zach told her. There had been a curious finality in her voice, though, he thought. As if she
knew
something.

She shook her head and looked at Caer as she told him, “I know he’s dead. I’ve been seeing him in my dreams.” She looked at Zach. “You know he’s dead, too. The thing is, you have to find out why. And who did it,” she said flatly. “They have to pay.”

He reached across the table and closed his hand over hers. “I will find out what happened, Bridey,” he promised her gently.

“The same person is after Sean,” Bridey said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said carefully. “And no matter what you think of her, you can’t go around accusing Amanda unless you have some kind of evidence.”

“Well, then, you’d best start finding some, eh?” Bridey said. “And eat your scone before it cools.”

Caer was already taking a bite of hers. “This is delicious, Bridey,” she said.

Bridey looked at Caer, and it looked to Zach as if she shivered just slightly. But then she smiled, and it seemed to be sincere.

“You can take the baker out of Ireland, but never Ireland out of the baker. You can be gone forever, but you never forget the old ways, or the truths you learned as a child.”

“And glad I am of that,” Caer told her. “You keep me from being homesick.”

Bridey nodded gravely.

Something had definitely gone on between the two women, Zach thought, wondering if he would ever break through and discover what had been said before he arrived. For some reason, it seemed important.

Divide and conquer, he reminded himself.

He finished the last of the scone and his tea, and rose. “Bridey, thank you. I believe I’ll sleep like a log now.”

She flushed, pleased.

Caer had risen, as well, and was picking up the cups and plates. He couldn’t help but think that even if she wore a burlap bag, she would still be seductive. She certainly hadn’t set out to entice in her flannel pajamas and robe, but somehow…

Bad thought to linger on.

“Good night,” he said to them both.

“Good night,” Caer echoed.

“Sleep well,” Bridey told him.

His eyes seemed drawn to Caer’s. It was the color, he told himself, framed by that long raven-dark hair.

He gave himself a mental shake. In a moment, he would be imagining the physical assets beneath the flannel, and that wouldn’t be a good thing. He needed to know more about her, not find himself falling victim to her strange Irish spell.

He didn’t believe in leprechauns, pixies or banshees. And wasn’t it strange that he’d thought of himself as falling
victim
to her spell?

Bridey was most likely right, and Eddie was dead. There was a terrible logic in that conclusion. And as he’d told Kat, there seemed to be more than coincidence at work here, which meant Sean just might be next on the killer’s list. A killer who had to be found and stopped.

That
was real.

He turned without another word and went back to bed, where he slept at last, and yet, even in his sleep, he was listening.

Listening for what?

Even in dreams, he wasn’t sure.

Detective Brad Morrissey was about forty, solid and steady, blunt and, apparently, bluntly honest. He had an iron-gray crew cut, jowls and sad eyes, and though Newport, Rhode Island, wasn’t particularly known for being a hot spot of violent crime, Morrissey had the look of a man who’d been around.

“I’m telling you,” Morrissey was telling Sean now, as Zach sat nearby and listened, “we’ve tried. Coast Guard found the boat out there—she was drifting in Narragansett Bay, almost out into Rhode Island Sound, but nothing whatsoever was amiss. We checked the charter office, and Eddie Ray had left the books neat and clean. There was a notation with the passenger’s name and reservation time, and another that he’d paid cash. A single passenger, Mr. John Alden. The boat was towed in, and I inspected her with some techs from the crime lab. We dusted for prints and found dozens of them—mostly partials, and mostly, from what we’ve discovered so far, belonging to Eddie Ray, or other members of your staff and family. We’re still sifting through them, but I’m not hopeful for much. It’s winter. Whoever Mr. John Alden was, he probably wore gloves. The weather’s been pretty warm for December, but even during a mild winter, you know as well I do, it’s cold out there on the water.” Morrissey sat with his hands folded in his lap as he spoke, addressing Sean, but looking at Zach on occasion, as if seeking confirmation.

Zach knew what the police and he himself were up against. Eddie Ray had gone missing from a charter boat. Clean as the boats might be kept, there were probably prints left over from the last several excursions, and many of the prints that were there were also likely to be smudged.

“There was absolutely
no
sign of a struggle of any kind?” Zach asked.

“No, I swear. I looked the boat over myself,” Morrissey said. “Not a thing overturned, not a thing that appeared to be out of place. It was as if both Eddie and his passenger simply vanished.”

“And there’s been no sign of either one since?” Zach asked.

“No sign at all,” Morrissey replied. “We haven’t had a single call on the hotline—although it doesn’t help that we don’t know what Alden looks like or even if that’s his real name.”

Morrissey was being patient; Zach had to grant him that. He’d clearly been over all this before, but he was willing to sit through the questions again, to explain everything his department had done, no matter how many times he was asked. It was evident he was frustrated himself by the lack of progress in the case, and perhaps that made him more willing to understand incredulity and frustration in others.

He shook his head then, a flash of his frustration showing.

“Not a single sign,” he said again. “It’s like they carried a couple of cinder blocks out there, tied a rope around them and sank themselves. I’ve had police divers down there, and they haven’t found a thing, but it’s a big bay, and they could be anywhere. I wish to God I had more to tell you. I wish I had an answer. But I don’t.”

“And you’ve given up already,” Sean said, anger and bitterness in his tone.

Zach held silent. Morrissey hadn’t given up; he seemed to be the dogged kind of policeman who never gave up, but who didn’t go off in passionate rages, either. Sean, on the other hand, was emotionally involved and couldn’t keep himself from showing it, which was perfectly understandable.

“No, sir, we have not given up,” Morrissey said firmly. “We have followed every lead. The problem is, those leads dried up quickly, and so far we haven’t found any others.”

“I’ll go down and take a look at the boat, Sean,” Zach said, then turned to Morrissey. “I know the boats and the family. If there’s anything amiss, something subtle that someone else might not see, it’s just possible that I will.”

“Fine with me. Cal and his wife were out, and your daughter, too, Mr. O’Riley. They’ve taken a look around, as I’m sure you know. We don’t mind help, and we don’t mind being wrong. But don’t think that we give up easily. We don’t.”

Morrissey, with his short iron-gray hair and weary bulldog face, turned to Zach. “The boat is back at the wharf. There’s still crime tape around it, but I’ll go over with you.”

There was a tap on the door, and Sean barked, “Come in.”

Kat entered the room. “Dad, Caer says it’s time for your medicine. And that she needs to take your blood pressure.” She glanced at Morrissey with a hopeful smile.

“Sorry, nothing new. And I was just getting ready to leave,” he said.