Land's End (16 page)

He jerked the wheel savagely as he turned onto the main road, and she grasped the armrest.

“Sorry.” He glanced at her, his tone moderating. “Do you know why I came here, built Land's End?”

The question startled her. “I suppose this felt like home to you, because of your grandparents.”

“That's true, but not all of it.” His thoughts engraved lines around his mouth. “A man in my position makes enemies. When Lynette was pregnant with Melissa, we lived in Atlanta. A man broke into the house one night—a crackpot convinced I'd stolen one of his ideas. If I hadn't come home when I did—”

He stopped, but he didn't need to finish the thought. Her imagination was vivid enough to do that.

“I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“I built Land's End, moved my headquarters here, where I could protect them.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and his pain reached across the space between them to clutch at her heart. “It didn't do any good, did it? I couldn't protect them, even here.”

“It's not your fault.” The words were useless. Trent couldn't stop blaming himself any more than she could.

He didn't even bother to respond to that. “If Lizbet was right, someone killed them and tried to make it look like suicide. And I was so willing to believe the worst of my wife that I bought into it, even without the note he'd planted.”

Her heart ached for him. “Anyone might think that, under the circumstances.”

“You didn't.”

No, she hadn't. “I came back to find the truth.”

“Are we ever going to know the truth—all of it?”

She had to tell him, no matter what the cost. “Yesterday I found another piece of it. I've wanted to tell you, but life keeps interfering.”

He gave a wry smile. “An understatement if ever I heard one. Well, we're alone now. What is it?”

“Melissa gave me a piece of jewelry she'd found hidden in her mother's room. She thought—she assumed—that Miles had given it to her, but of course he hadn't.”

His lips tightened. “Obviously I was wrong to think I'd protected Melissa from the gossip.”

“Robert Butler recognized the piece. He knows the artist. He knew that it was sold to Jonathan Lee.”

For an instant his face didn't change. Then he abruptly pulled off the road, into the deserted parking lot of a shuttered restaurant. “Jonathan.” He turned toward her. “You should have told me right away.”

“You weren't there. Besides—” She shook her head. She wouldn't get into the dreadful scene with Joanna that had wiped everything else from her mind. “I'm telling you now.”

“I can't believe it. There must be some other explanation. Jonathan wouldn't—”

She couldn't let him go on. “I confronted him. He admitted it. I'm sorry, Trent. He admitted that he and Lynette had an affair.” She took a deep breath. “He also said he knew you were out in the boat that day. He implied that Gifford hushed up the investigation because of you.”

He leaned toward her, very close in the confines of the car. “Is that what you believe, Sarah? That I'm a murderer?”

“If I believed that, I wouldn't be here with you, would I?” It took an effort to hold her voice steady.

His gray eyes bored into hers, as if he'd see into her soul. “But there's a shred of doubt there, isn't there?” He shook his head. “No, don't bother to answer. Anyone would doubt. You saw one of the anonymous letters that vilified Lynette. I didn't show you the ones that accuse me of murder.”

 

She wanted answers, but she was absolutely no good at confrontations. Sarah had pushed her chair as far back as it would go in the corner of Trent's study, but it wasn't far enough. The emotions that filled the room assaulted her.

Jonathan sat opposite Trent. He'd abandoned his usual casual air, sitting bolt upright, looking with distaste at the occupant of the other chair.

Chief Gifford had planted himself firmly, feet apart, elbows on his knees. His attitude suggested a bulldoglike intensity as he glared at Jonathan.

“You saying my force didn't do its proper job?” His tone was just short of a bellow.

“I just repeated what I've heard.” Jonathan drew a bit farther from him. “People talk.”

“Yes. They do.” Trent wore the expression he no doubt wore negotiating a business deal—contained, focused, sharp as a laser on Gifford. “And apparently, from what Mr. Lee says, they're saying the investigation was hushed up.”

Jonathan sliced his gaze toward Sarah, and his expression said she wouldn't be invited back to the Lee house. “I repeated what I'd heard. There's even a rumor going around that the results of the autopsies were changed.”

She felt bruised herself at this moment. The detachment she'd learned as a physician escaped her. They were talking about Miles and Lynette—two vibrant human beings who'd deserved to live, whatever their sins.

“Well, Chief?” Trent impaled the man with a look that didn't brook evasions. “Is that true?”

Gifford shifted under the impact of that gaze. “You can talk to the medical examiner yourself if you don't believe me. He found one bruise on the man's forehead, that's it. Seemed straightforward enough. The fumes overcame them before they realized what was happening.”

“So you say.” Jonathan's tone was malicious.

Sarah suddenly saw past the courtly Southern gentleman exterior to the truth. He was jealous of Trent, maybe even hated him. A shiver went through her. Did he hate enough to cast blame on Trent for something he'd done himself? Did he hate enough to kill? The sunny room seemed darker.

Gifford shoved himself to his feet, frowning at Trent. “Maybe we did rush matters a mite. But you wanted the investigation shut down, fast and quiet. You didn't want any bad press. I gave you what you wanted.”

“You're saying you cut short the investigation because you thought I wanted you to?”

She almost felt sorry for Trent. He'd never really recognized the kind of power he wielded. Now he had to face it.

“It was what you wanted,” Gifford muttered, but the way his gaze slewed from side to side suggested he was no longer sure.

“I want the truth, including a complete report from the medical examiner. Put together everything. Get it to me by tomorrow morning.”

He didn't bother to say “Or else.” People in Trent's position didn't need to threaten. Did he even realize that he was still using his power to bend the police to his will?

She leaned back, head throbbing. Trent wouldn't change. Probably he couldn't. At least now he seemed determined to get at the truth, no matter how much it hurt.

“If that's all this interesting little gathering has to offer,” Jonathan said, “I think I'll be on my way.”

“Not quite.” Trent's voice was colorless, and he didn't look at her. “I understand you saw me out in my boat that day.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “That's right. I did.”

“You didn't see me at Cat Isle.”

“Perhaps not. But you were headed in that direction.”

“I cut around by the old oyster beds and never went near Cat Isle.”

The two men eyed each other like fencers looking for an opening. Then Jonathan shrugged. “So you say. I guess we'll never know, will we?”

“We know one thing now that we didn't before. We know that you were out on the water that day. And we don't know where you went, either.”

For an instant Sarah thought Jonathan would spring on Trent. Then he spun and stalked out of the room.

S
arah sat with her Bible in her lap that evening, trying to sort out her prayers. The situation had become so complicated that she no longer knew how to pray for it.

Father, only the truth will do now, as far as I can see. No matter how it hurts.

And so far the truth certainly had done that. She smoothed her palm over the worn leather cover. Knowing about Miles and Joanna hurt, but she could come to grips with it. Worse was realizing that her marriage had been in trouble, and she hadn't known. A profound sadness swept through her.

Trent was smothering his sorrow in anger, but how long could that last? His mother had betrayed him first, in the most fundamental way. Now he faced the betrayal of both his wife and a man he'd considered a friend.

Neither Trent nor Melissa had appeared at dinnertime. When she'd asked Derek where they were, he'd shrugged. Trent had taken one of the boats out. It was what he did when he wanted to clear his head. And Melissa was closeted in her room, upset at the investigation being reopened. Derek had done his best to lighten the atmosphere, but it hadn't helped. The air had still seemed oppressive, as if a storm were about to break on them.

Someone tapped lightly on the door. Her nerves jumped, and she took the precaution of peeking out the window. Melissa, barefoot and in her pajamas. She opened the door quickly.

“Melissa, what is it? Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes.” Melissa stumbled in. “I have to talk to you.” She clutched Sarah's hands. “Please let me talk to you.”

She could imagine Trent's response. “Maybe your dad—”

“No! I can't talk to him about this.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I have to tell somebody. The police started investigating again. They might find out!”

Sarah recognized rising hysteria when she saw it. She led Melissa to the love seat and brought a quilt from the bed to wrap around her. She sat next to the child, putting her arm around her and drawing her close. Melissa's small, wiry body trembled, sparking an unexpectedly strong protective urge in Sarah.

“Okay. Just take a deep breath. You can tell me.”

Melissa's eyes widened. “You have to promise not to tell my dad. Promise!” Her voice rose.

“All right, I promise.” She smoothed her hand down Melissa's back. “It'll be okay.”

Melissa sucked in a breath that choked on a sob. “I keep thinking about it. I can't make my mind stop.”

She certainly knew how that felt. “It'll be better after you've told someone, Melissa. That's always better than carrying a trouble alone.”

“It was that day.” Melissa squeezed her eyes shut. “The day Mommy died. I didn't mean to do it.”

She was obviously blaming herself for something to do with Lynette's death—probably some small fault or argument that she'd magnified in her own mind.

“Of course not,” Sarah soothed.

“She told a lie.” Her voice trembled. “I heard her. Dad
asked where she'd been one day, and she said she'd gone shopping with me. But she hadn't. And then, that day, she was taking the boat out and I wanted to go, but she wouldn't let me. I was mad at her, and I told Dad about the time she lied.”

It took a moment to sort out. Lynette had lied about where she'd been, possibly at a time when she'd met Jonathan during their brief affair. The day Lynette and Miles died, Melissa, in a fit of childish pique, had told her father about it.

“It's okay, Melissa. I'm sure your mother understands. She wouldn't blame you for that.”

“That's not—” Melissa stopped, her tears spilling over. “I told Dad, and I could tell he was mad. He went out in the boat. And that night they said Mommy was dead.”

Sarah's heart clutched. She shouldn't touch this, but what could she do? Melissa had unloaded this secret on her, and she had to deal with it.
Please, Father, show me the way.

Maybe the only way was to bring her fear into the open. “Did that make you think your father had done something?”

“No!” The very vehemence of Melissa's reply told her that it had. “He didn't. He wouldn't.”

But she so clearly feared that her words had caused her mother's death.

“Melissa, think this through. Aren't you blaming yourself because of what those notes said?” Lizbet's words echoed in her mind—a man with evil in his heart. “They were written by someone who wanted to stir up trouble. You can't trust a person like that—someone who wouldn't even sign his name.”

Melissa took a shaky breath, and she could almost feel the child begin to hope. “Do you think so?”

Sarah hugged her. “Of course I do. You've kept this to yourself, and it's preyed on your mind.” Anger burned bright
at the person who'd done that. “You feel better now that you've told me. You'd feel even better if you told your father.”

“No!” Melissa went rigid. “And you can't. You promised.”

“I'll keep my promise.” And what would that cost her? “But I want you to promise me you'll think about telling him yourself. Pray about it. Will you do that?”

Melissa nodded. “Okay. I guess I can do that.” She took a deep breath and got up slowly. “Guess I better go back before somebody sees me.”

Sarah walked her to the door, then watched as she crossed the patio to the main house, trailing Sarah's quilt around her. She looked as if a weight was gone from her shoulders.

It had transferred to Sarah's.
I'm better equipped to carry this load than she is, Lord. But what am I to do with it? And how will Trent react when he learns I've kept this from him?

 

“Dr. Wainwright, message for you.” The clinic receptionist handed her a folded paper, and Sarah tensed as she took it. She'd been keyed up since the previous night, and not even her morning shift at the clinic had been enough to distract her.

Well, this, at least, couldn't be another of the anonymous notes, unless the perpetrator had changed his methods. She flipped it open and couldn't suppress the gasp that escaped her. She'd been wrong. It was anonymous.

But not, she'd guess, the same person. This paper was dirty and crumpled, and the words on it were printed in a nearly illegible hand.
I got that paper Lizbet had. It cost you a hunnerd bucks.

“Where did this come from?” Her sharp tone brought the receptionist swiveling to face her.

“A boy brought it.”

“What boy? When?”

She glanced at the clock. “Maybe an hour ago. I didn't know him—just a kid, running an errand, I thought.”

An errand for the person who'd stolen Lizbet's cash box and the note as well? It looked that way, although it was possible that Lynette's suicide note had passed through several hands since then. Only it wasn't a suicide note, if Lizbet's story was true.

Still, it might tell the police something, if it could be found. She frowned at the note in her hand. It set up a meeting place—two o'clock at the Cat Isle dock. Come alone.

Alone. That had all the aspects of a classic black-and-white thriller. As if she'd be foolish enough to do that.

She told herself that all the way back to Land's End, driven by the taciturn security guard. Trent had gone off the island. Back to Savannah to check with the lab there? He hadn't confided in her.

If he were here, she could tell him about this. As it was—who else could she trust? Regretfully, there was no one. She glanced at her watch as she entered the house. Nearly one-thirty now. If she were going to do this—

She could. She'd take one of the little jet boats. It would get her away quickly if there was trouble. She'd have to go alone. Whoever he was, he'd be able to see from a distance across the water. He'd know if she had someone with her.

But that cut both ways. She could see and be seen. No one would dare attack her in broad daylight. She was taking a risk, of course, but she wouldn't go anywhere near him—she'd keep a safe stretch of water between them. She'd have her cell phone as well. And if she could get her hands on that phony suicide note, they might begin to see their way out of this maze. She'd begun to feel so desperate for the truth that any risk seemed worth it.

Fifteen minutes later she shoved off from the Land's End
dock, Geneva's cautions ringing in her ears.
I'll be careful
, she'd told her, but Geneva hadn't known she needed to be cautious of more than the tide. Still, according to Lizbet, this was nothing but a sneak thief, trying to cash in on the note, probably hearing the stories that were circulating again about the deaths.

The little craft skimmed across the water. She patted the pocket where she'd stowed the money, wrapped in plastic, weighted with a stone. If he showed, she'd toss the packet to him, and he could give her the note the same way. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was the best she could come up with. She wouldn't go any closer, even if it meant losing the last chance of clearing this up.

Her sore shoulder had begun to ache by the time Cat Isle came into view. Obviously it hadn't healed quite enough for steering the jet boat, but she was almost there. She cut the motor. The dock was empty. He hadn't come.

The roar of a motor cut the still air. She turned, startled, rocking the jet boat. A speedboat, a big one, swung around the spit of land between the sound and the creek, coming fast.

For a moment she watched, bemused. Odd that he'd be heading up the creek with a boat that size when the tide was turning. He'd probably swing toward the channel. Then she saw he was turning, but not toward the channel. Toward her.

Hands fumbling on the ignition, she fought to start the motor again. The motor of the bigger boat roared, nearly deafening her. He was almost on her, he'd ram the jet boat, she couldn't get out of the way—

She dived clear just as the speed boat smashed into the little craft. The explosion of sound dazed her, and then she was under, swallowing a mouthful of saltwater, choking, struggling to find the surface.

She burst into the air, lungs burning, gasping. Where was
he? For an instant her eyes blurred with brackish water. The roar of the motor rent the sky. She was helpless, dead in the water, and he was bearing down on her again, the boat huge and white from water level, the person behind the windscreen nothing but a blur of dark clothes and dark glasses.

Help me, Father!
Muscles burning, eardrums roaring, she dived away again. She couldn't keep this up long, already she was tiring, all he had to do was wait until she floundered enough to catch her.

She surfaced, choking. He'd turned sharply, coming at her in a tight circle. He'd get her this time. She was too tired, she couldn't evade him. One agonizing impact. Then she'd be safe in her Father's arms.

And leave Miles's killer free to kill again? No! She thrust out frantically, legs reaching. Her feet hit bottom. For an instant she was too shocked to respond. Then she threw herself toward the shallows. He couldn't pursue her there—he'd run aground if he tried. She had to get a few more feet.

She stumbled, choking again as her face went under, feeling the swell rush over her head as he swept close, too close, she could almost feel the impact—

And then he was rushing away, the roar of his engine fading, vanishing as he rounded the curve out into the sound. She stood blinking, chest-deep in water, trying to focus on the boat. Useless. It looked like dozens of other white boats.

And there was the reason he'd fled. A small fishing boat putt-putted toward her.

“You okay, ma'am?” The boy who leaned out couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen, and his eyes were round with shock. “He prêt near hit you. What was he, crazy?”

“I guess so.” She clasped his strong young arm, letting him pull her into the boat. She collapsed on a seat smelling
strongly of fish. He'd gotten an odd catch today, she thought, and knew it for the beginning of hysteria. She took a long, gasping breath, then another, and lifted her face toward the sun's warmth. She was alive.

Thank You, Lord. Thank You.

A rough wool blanket surrounded her shoulders, and a worried dark face stared at her. “Sure you're okay?”

She managed a smile. “Fine, thanks to you.” And the One who sent you. “Did you recognize the boat?”

The whites of his eyes showed. “No'm. Fancy. Belongs to one o' the big houses, that for sure.”

She'd already figured that out, hadn't she? No random acts, no outsiders willing to sell a piece of evidence. Just a calculating killer who would kill again to keep his secret.

She forced herself to sit up straight. She wouldn't be tricked again. “Can you take me back to Land's End?”

“Yes'm.” He nodded toward a bit of floating orange fiberglass. “You want I should get the pieces for you?”

She couldn't quite suppress a shudder. “No. Just take me to Land's End.”