Timothy (31 page)

As I walked, I remembered the first time I'd run in Taylor Hudson in here—searching for his medal.

What is the significance of the medal? Sentimentality?
I wondered, sitting down on the couch. But Taylor didn't exactly strike me as the sentimental type—he'd left the country for a year the day after his lifelong friend went missing.

Carlo said Timothy had been buried with it—but Taylor said the funeral director had said he hadn't been. Of course, Taylor could have lied—but why? For that matter, why would Carlo have lied about burying Timothy with it?

It didn't make any sense to me, no matter how much I tried to wrap my mind around it. I looked around as I stood there. This would make a nice writing studio. The previous times I'd been in here I'd had such a strong sense of Timothy—but now that I knew the truth about him, it was just a studio. I'd want to get rid of all the furniture in here and redecorate, so that nothing of his was left behind, of course. He might not be a shadow in between Carlo and me anymore, but there was no reason for me to keep his things.

It would be a shame, though, to just throw the prints away.

I tore the packaging open and put a handful of Goldfish in my mouth. They were still fresh—which made me wonder about what kind of preservatives had been used to make them.

The storm kept raging outside, and I wished I had a book or something to read. It was cozy in the studio—and I remembered this was where Timothy always met his lovers.

This was where he'd had his orgies, where he'd indulged his darkest fantasies.

I walked over to the stack of prints and started going through them. He really had been a good photographer. There was definitely some artistic merit to the prints. Maybe I could show them to a gallery dealer, have a little show, sell them and give the money away to charity? The Gay Men's Health Crisis would certainly not turn away another donation, and making it in Timothy's name would avert any suspicion from us—well, Carlo.

I wasn't going to be a suspect.

I walked back over to the couch and stumbled, dropping the bag of goldfish. They scattered everywhere. Swearing, I started picking them up, more than a little annoyed at my clumsiness. I reached under the coach to make sure none had gone under there—and my hand touched something cold and metal.

I pulled it out and stared at a round gold medal with blood crusted on it. There was a broken gold chain still running through the loop, and the chain itself was also crusted with blood.

I turned it over, and I saw what was engraved on the back.

Timothy I will always love you you deserve this Taylor.

That was the significance of the medal, then. That's all it was—a talisman of their friendship.

I dropped it into the pocket of my robe just as the door flew open again. Startled, I turned to see Taylor Hudson standing in the door.

Lightning temporarily blinded me, and the roar of thunder that followed was almost deafening. “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “And shut the damned door!”

Taylor smiled as he closed his umbrella, shutting the door behind him. His bare legs were wet, and his smile chilled me. It was predatory, and made me uncomfortable. I remembered him pushing himself on me last night when we were in here. He was bigger and stronger than I—what would have happened had Carlo not shown up when he did?

No one knows I'm out here, alone with him
, I thought, and struggled to keep my rising fear under control. I couldn't let him see that I was afraid or even the slightest bit nervous to be alone with him.

“I told you why I come here.” He set the umbrella against the wall and crossed his arms. “I'm looking for my medal.”

“In a storm like this?” I replied sharply, sitting back down on the sofa. “And you aren't welcome here, as you well know.”

He shrugged and smiled at me, and I felt my nerves tingling. “I don't think of this cottage as Carlo's, so what he wants doesn't matter to me. This was Timothy's place, and I was always welcome here. I'll come here whenever I damned well please.”

“Timothy's dead,” I reminded him. “And you're trespassing. I could have you arrested.”

“You wouldn't do that.” He stepped closer to me, the predatory smile getting bigger. I took a step backward. “I feel close to him here. Would you and Carlo begrudge me that? We were friends our whole lives. Surely you can't mind me coming here to commune with my dear old friend.”

I took another step backward. “You were more than friends. You were one of his lovers, weren't you?”

He stopped walking toward me and shook his head. “So Carlo finally told you? I didn't think he ever would.” Taylor laughed. “Carlo was always such a fool. Timothy and I laughed at him when we were in bed together, you know. Timothy slipped away from Carlo the night of their wedding to be with me—and how we laughed at him!” He started walking toward me again, and I backed up some more, well aware the studio was very small and I was going to run out of room soon…I bit my lower lip as he kept talking. “But the moment Timothy walked through the front doors of Spindrift, he wanted it, you know. When Carlo turned out to be gay—and a complete fool—it was almost like it was meant to be. Timothy made up his mind that very night that he was going to have Carlo and everything Carlo owned.”

“You really need to leave,” I replied, unable to keep the quiver out of my voice.

“I thought once Carlo knew the truth about the man he married, that would be the end of it all,” he went on. “But Timothy had thought of everything. He was really far too clever for his own good. I couldn't believe he managed to have his cake and eat it too—but I always told him he had to be careful—it was a dangerous game he was playing, and if he wasn't careful he could end up dead. Which he did, of course.”

“You lied to me, you weren't out of the country when Timothy died.”

He made a face. “And now they've found Timothy's actual body.” He laughed again. “I knew he hadn't drowned. He couldn't have drowned, he was too good a swimmer—didn't I tell you that? I knew he had to have been murdered, and I was right, wasn't I? Carlo killed him, didn't he?”

“Don't be absurd.” My voice rose. I laughed hollowly, the medal burning a hole in my pocket. I couldn't give it to him—not with the blood caked on it. I didn't know if it was evidence that could work against Carlo in court—but I was not going to let Taylor have it. Or the police, either, for that matter. “People like Carlo don't kill people. They
hire
people to do it for them,” I went on. “Rich people don't dirty their hands that way. You should know that.”

One of his eyebrows arched upward. “So you're saying Carlo had him killed?”

“That's not what I said,” I replied. “And even if he had, it wasn't like Timothy didn't deserve to be killed.” I backed up again and felt the counter of the kitchenette against my back. I was suddenly very aware I was nude beneath the robe, and I was alone in the studio during a storm with a bigger, stronger man who'd already tried to force himself on me once.

Lightning stuck so close the entire room went white, and the power in the studio went out as the thunder rolled—and it seemed to go on forever.

There was a flash as Taylor struck a match and lit a candle. His face—in the candlelight his eyes looked scary, like I was his prey and he was stalking me.

Give him the medal, that'll distract him and maybe you can make a break for it.

He walked closer to me. “I can see what Carlo sees in you.” His smile broadened as he moved toward me, the flickering light from the candle reflecting in his eyes.

“Stay away from me,” I warned, but my voice sounded frightened to me. “Stay away!”

“Carlo took Timothy away,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “First, he took him away from me by marrying him, and then he took him away permanently by killing him, and you know it's the truth even if you won't admit it to yourself. I may never be able to prove it, but we both know it's the truth, don't we?” He moved closer to me, and I kept backing up. “And no one knows either one of us is here, do they?” He laughed, and it was a horrible sound that sent a chill down my spine. “I could kill you and get clean away in this storm—they'd never know I was ever even here. And then Carlo would know how horrible it is to lose someone you love, to have them taken away from you suddenly and unexpectedly, to suffer and be lonely for the rest of your life.”

“I said, stay away from me.” I reached behind me onto the counter of the kitchenette. I fumbled for something—anything—I could use to defend myself with if it came down to that—and I suspected it was going to, very soon.

He was almost right on top of me. I could smell his cologne, feel the heat from his skin as he grabbed me and pushed his face against mine. I twisted my head from side to side but he was too strong for me, and finally he pushed his lips against mine.

“Stop,” I gasped out.

He laughed. “Don't you know I always get what I want? And I want to defile you.”

My hand closed on a knife handle, and I brought it around and shoved it up into him, under his rib cage.

He gurgled and stepped back in shock, just as the lights came back on.

Blood was gushing out of him, and the knife handle. I felt nauseous and sick, and he went down with a gurgle.

I was covered with blood—the robe, my legs, my arms.

I screamed.

The door to the studio opened, and Carlo stared at me first, and then down at Taylor. He crossed the room. “Are you all right?” he asked, starting to take me in his arms, but I pushed him back.

“He—he was trying to—” I gasped out. “Don't touch me—covered…blood…don't…”

“Help…me…” Taylor said in a wheezing croak.

As we stood there watching the light in Taylor's eyes went out, and with a heavy sigh, he died.

I stared at Carlo. “Oh my God, I killed him.”

He kissed me. “Are you all right?”

“I killed him.”

“I'm going to call my lawyer, and the sheriff,” he said. “Go sit on the couch and wrap yourself up in that blanket—you're going into shock.”

I did as he instructed, and felt the medal in my pocket.

I was a killer.

I don't know how long I sat there in the studio, waiting for Carlo to come back. The storm had passed, and the sun had come back out.

Everything was weird, I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. Nothing seemed real, nothing seemed right—it was like I was walking around in a strange dreamlike state. Once we were back at Spindrift, Carlo sat me down in his office and sent Juana for coffee. The lawyer—Seth Pennington—showed up in casual clothing and asked me a lot of questions. I answered them as honestly as I could—I had been walking back from the house next door when the storm broke, and I took shelter in the studio. When he was finished with me, all he said was, “When the sheriff questions you, just answer what he asks—don't give him any more information.”

I just nodded in response, still numb and in shock.

I've killed someone.

The strong, hot coffee Juana had brought me was taking some of the chill out of my body. I was still naked underneath the bloody robe, but Seth wouldn't allow me to get cleaned up or change. “The sheriff needs to see you just as you are,” he'd responded when I asked if I could put some clothes on. Seth took some pictures of me, and the dried blood on my arms, legs, and the robe—and was especially interested in the bruises Taylor had left on my upper arms when he'd grabbed me. There were four of them on each arm, the size of fingertips. When he was finished, he smiled reassuringly at me. “It's clearly a case of self-defense,” he said, patting me on the head—which made me feel like a pet of some sort. “But I'll be here with you, and whenever he asks you a question, don't answer until you see me nod, okay?”

“Okay.”

Carlo's doctor also showed up at some point before the sheriff—and checked me out thoroughly. I answered his questions while he shone a penlight into my eyes and checked my reflexes. “You seem to be handling this relatively well,” he said, leaving a packet of pills on the coffee table. He wrote out a couple of prescriptions, which he handed to Juana with instructions to get them filled.

“What are those for?” I asked, gesturing toward the pills on the table.

“Sleeping pills, and some for anxiety. The white ones are for sleep, the blues one for anxiety. I also wrote out some prescriptions for the same medications—that's what I gave your housekeeper. You're certain you feel okay?”

I nodded. I didn't really feel okay—I certainly didn't feel normal, whatever that was. I just felt numb, and empty, like this was all happening to someone else, not to me. It felt sometimes like I was watching myself, watching these people hover around me and asking me questions before going off into little groups and whispering about me.

At one point I went to the bathroom, and once I'd shut the door behind me I dropped the medal into the tank and put the lid back on.
Better not to have it on me
, I thought, and went back into the office and sat down on the couch.

I sat there in Carlo's office, drinking hot coffee and hoping that I'd eventually get warmed up. I was wrapped in the same blanket I'd used at the studio.

And when Sheriff Tate came in to talk to me, I was ready.

He looked stressed, and I couldn't blame him. I' m sure there was never much crime in the Hamptons, let alone murder—and in the course of one day a murder that was over a year old dropped into his lap, and a few hours later a fresh one came along—both involving the same family. He sat down across from me, and I smiled weakly at him. “Hello, Sheriff Tate,” I said in a very small, weak voice. Carlo was standing behind the chair where Seth took a seat, and was smiling at me encouragingly. “I don't suppose you imagined you'd be back up here again today.”