Sand Castles (40 page)

"I'm sure Detective Mizzner's head is spinning," Wendy said, snapping the phone shut. "He seems determined to believe that the two events are related—the thug's appearance and now Zina's."

"He's not the only one," Zack said. "I can't help thinking that the thug also discovered Jim through that AP photo that ran with the lottery story. Tell me this: has anyone ever called him 'Jimmy' since you've known him?"

"Nobody. Unless we're being snotty."

"Well, he was 'Jimmy' to Zina and me back then. And, I'm assuming, to the charmer who left those messages on your machine and then assaulted you. It bothered me when I heard it, that 'Jimmy.' It bothers me now. This guy is linked somehow to Jim's past."

She could see him think about it, then shake it off before asking her, "So what's the plan? Did Mizzner say?"

"He said that they'll alert the
Newport
police to watch for the car and to put the word out to each of the mansions that's open to the public. He'll also try alerting the local realtors. There aren't
that
many mansions to tour—but the area has dozens of realty agencies."

"They're being thorough," Zack said with approval.

"Yes, but you could tell that he had his hands full already with us, what with the searches for the thug and now Jim."

"Hey, that's what we pay taxes for," Zack quipped, trying to make her smile. When she sighed instead, he took her hand in his and said softly, "It'll be all right, Wendy. Zina is kind to all of God's creatures. She feels bad when she cuts down a sunflower."

Wendy let the warmth of his calloused hand spread over her own chilled one, infusing her with some of his confidence. "I know, Zack," she said. "I saw that for myself. It's just that there are too many people running around, too many unknowns
.
.
.."

"Call the landlady for me," he said, maybe to give Wendy something to do. He gave her the number, and this time, someone answered.

Wendy quickly handed him the phone. His voice was grim, his manner terse, as he said, "What happened, Margie? How did she get her car started?"

She saw him listen, then shake his head, then sign off with a quick good-bye and no further comment.

"My sister talked Margie into driving her over to my house, where I keep her spare key to the car," he told Wendy with a sigh of disgust. "Zina's always been spacey about losing keys and wallets," he added. "Ironic, that she had the cunning to talk Margie into driving her over there."

"Why didn't Margie call and tell you when she saw that Zina's car was gone, for God's sake?" Wendy asked, aware that this latest trauma could have been avoided if they'd had some warning.

"She was afraid to. She got in her own car again and began driving around Hopeville, looking for Zina at the few haunts she knew about. That must have been when Morgan dropped by the house and saw everyone gone. You're right," he said, exasperated. "If everyone would just stay put for five
freaking
minutes—"

Succinctly put, she thought. There was little more to say after that.

They were making their way through the compact but historic waterfront district of Warren. Briefly a whaling town, then a mill town, now a commercial shipbuilding and—naturally—antiques center, there was still nothing cutesy about the nearly four-hundred-year-old town. It might be restored, it might be authentic, but it would never be either elegant or glamorous. Wendy had always had an affection for
Warren
; relatives from the P
ortuguese side of her family
lived there.

Not so in
Bristol
, the next town on their agonizingly slow run to
Newport
. A much more beautiful town with far grander homes,
Bristol
was equally historic, and darkly so. Active in the slave trade, bombarded by the British, later abandoned by Continental soldiers and then really sacked by the British, home to a den of privateers after that:
Bristol
had always impressed Wendy as a strikingly beautiful but somehow compromised town.

They followed the shoreline through
Bristol
rather than traverse its inland road not because they were interested tourists, but because they were afraid of missing a yellow Civic that might be parked in front of some home by the water that was open to the public.

On
Hope Street
they came upon
Linden Place
, built by an infamous man and restored by his philanthropist grandson, and Zack said, "That qualifies as a mansion to
me."

He sounded hopeful, but they found no yellow Civic parked among the out-of-state cars there.

"She had to mean
Newport
," Wendy said doggedly. "They have mansions everywhere that dwarf this one."

On they rode, over the quaint
Mount
Hope
Bridge
to Aquidneck Island, home to three historic small towns, the last and most easily famous of which was
Newport
.

Zack said, "Any mansions in
Portsmouth
?"

"No, but lots of beaches."

"Beaches have cottages, some for sale."

"But not castles, Zack. Zina wrote that they were off to see
castles.
No. I'm sure we're on the right track," Wendy insisted, but her fears were at war with her instincts.

The cell phone rang again, this time, Wendy's. Odd, how the front seat of a pickup could so have the feel of a war room. She answered and was shocked to hear Jim's voice at the other end, and even more shocked that he was acting as if he really were on a business trip.

"Everything okay back there?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Okay?
Okay?
No, Jim, everything's not okay. I've been assaulted, we can't find
Tyler
, and Zina is more or less—"

She glanced at Zack, and out of concern for him, said "—in danger of losing her grip."

"Whoa, whoa, back up," Jim said. "Start at the beginning, for God's sake."

She brought him up to date on all of it and finished by saying, "I've answered your questions, now you answer mine: where the
hell
are you, you bastard?"

There was a slight pause before he said, "
Lincoln
."

"
Lincoln
?
Nebraska
?
What are you doing there?"

"Just tying up some loose ends," he said cryptically.

"I don't believe you. You're lying. As usual, you're lying," she said, frustrated beyond measure. "Wherever you are, come back here and give yourself up."

He laughed bitterly. "Oh, yeah, I'll do that. Why'd you have to go to the police, Wen? We could have worked this all out."

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "I can't talk to you, Jim. I just can't stand it anymore."

"What about
Tyler
?" he said, sounding panicky that she might hang up on him.
"
Tell me about
Tyler
."

Wendy felt a tap on her arm. Zack was pointing to an events sign nailed to a utility pole along a tacky strip of beach-related shops just outside of
Newport
.

It was electrifying:
Sand
Castle
Competition,
Easton
's Beach, June 21. Sponsored by Row to Go Sea Kayaks.

"Zack, that has to be it. She's taken him to see the sand castles, not the mansions! How could I not have thought of that? I saw an ad in the
East
Bay
section yesterday! That's it!"

"Wendy! Wendy, what're you talking about?" Jim was shouting.

"
Easton
's Beach; they must be there," she said, hardly aware that he was still on the phone and that she was talking to him as much as to Zack. "They
have
to be!"

"Number sixty-seven, fisherman's platter! Number sixty- seven, fisherman's platter!"

The voice came over a loudspeaker in the background at Jim's end—if Jim was telling the truth—in
Lincoln
,
Nebraska
.

"Yeah, right," she said contemptuously. She knew a
Rhode Island
accent when she heard one. She snapped the phone shut with one hand and tossed it back on the dashboard.

"That's
Easton
's Beach coming up, right after this light," she told Zack, pointing frantically. "See the changing houses and the pavilion? Turn in before it."

The phone rang again; they ignored it.

It was a fine beach day, but still early in the season
and cool
; the lot wasn't
completely
full. They cruised up and down it, looking for a yellow Civic. Wendy was crushed when they didn't find one.

"Wait! I forgot; there's another lot, farther to the west," she said, taking heart again. "Let's try that one."

They drove out and around the median and pulled into the second lot. Again they were disappointed.

"I don't believe it," Wendy moaned. '"They're here, I know it!"

Without a word, Zack climbed down from the truck, into the bed, and onto the roof of the cab. Wendy got out and stood on the ground, gazing in the same direction.

"I see her car," he said after a moment, probably the happiest four words that Wendy had ever heard in her life. "She's parked on the road, pretty far up the hill."

His laugh was filled with obvious relief as he said, "Leave it to my sister not to spend the big bucks to get into a lot when she can get by with a few coins in a meter."

Somehow everything else—the assault, the bigamy, the ongoing threat—seemed absolutely trivial in the face of this one truth: Zina and Tyler were on the beach, looking at sand castles.

Exploding, really, with relief, Wendy bolted across the lot and for the beach, never thinking that one of them should keep an eye on the Civic, until Zack caught up with her and said, "I'll run to the other end of the exhibit, the one closer to the car. You start at this end."

"Right," she said, and off she went while Zack raced through the parking lot, headed for the other end.

She expected to pick
Tyler
and Zina off easily—but nothing since the day they'd won the lottery had been easy. The crowds were large, and by no means all in bathing suits. Clusters of people stood around each of the incredible exhibits. Wendy had to go around and through them, trying to keep focused, trying not to look everywhere at once and end up seeing nothing.

She was amazed at the number of sand castles, considering that this exhibit wasn
't even the traditional end-of-
summer one. It was as if they'd brought in professionals from all over the country to create them: big ones, little ones; vertical and horizontal ones; drippy ones, moated ones; and one incredible creation that looked to be an entire walled medieval town.

But no Tyler, and no Zina. Devastated not to have found them, Wendy began looking around for Zack. He was a distance away: she shook her head in long, slow arcs, sending him a message of disappointment. He pointed up the hill: he was apparently going to check out the route to the car.

Wendy dropped down to the water's edge to look up and down at the swimmers: the two could be wading, she supposed. Or wandering off toward the arc of houses that ran all the way out to
Easton
's Point. They could be at the opposite, western end, walking along Cliff Walk, the spectacular pathway that lined the Gilded Age mansions that their absurdly wealthy owners liked to call "cottages" and that ordinary folk like Wendy and Zina called "castles."

They could be inside somewhere, visiting a mansion, a realty agency, a restaurant; they could be
anywhere.

"Wendy," came his breathless voice behind her. "Find them yet?"

She whirled around.

"
Jim
! Where did you come from?" she asked, and then she said, "Never mind," because she really didn't care.

"I've been in
Newport
, lying low while I figured out what to do next," he confessed.

Which made sense. Lots of crowds, lots of transients. He could stay somewhere different every night if he chose, without arousing notice. She hated him for figuring that out, for always working the angles.

"I bought a Harley," he added, which truly amazed her. Could he possibly think it mattered?

He fell in beside her. She had nothing further to say to him and continued on her way in tense silence, scanning for Zina and Ty. Jim was silent, too—until they drew abreast of the sand castles.

"Wow. These things are unbelievable!" he said with awe, pointing to the medieval city. "Doesn't it make you just want to walk up to one and
... kick it?" He was giving her that half-cocked look with that impish grin that she knew so well.