Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (15 page)

“Sorry for interrupting, but I don't know anybody here, so . . .”

“No problem.” He took a sip of beer. “You know Jordan and Tom well?”

“Jordan better. I've read some of his writing.”

“Yeah, well that's one up on me.”

“Not read anything of his?”

“Nope. He doesn't show his stuff around.”

“Not to anybody?”

“Maybe to Susanna.” Another sip. “Maybe talks to her about writing. Susanna Rossini.”

Yes! “She here tonight?”

He shook his head. “Haven't seen her for a few days, come to think.”

“She maybe somewhere else tonight?”

“Maybe home. She studies a lot.” He squinted at Noel. “Why you so interested in what Jordan's writing?”

“Hi Noel.” Kyra took his arm and earned a large smile from Spider Jester. Actually, more a huge ogle.

“Introduce me,” said Spider.

Noel did. “Glad you got here,” he said. “But we have to go.”

“So soon?” Spider, leering genteelly at Kyra's bosom.

“It's getting late.”

Spider included Noel in a widened leer. “Sure, man. Sorry I couldn't help.”

“Oh, but you have, thanks,” and Noel led Kyra to the door. Tomorrow, track down Susanna Rossini. In the car, he started the engine. “Be good to get back to the house.”

“Yes.” At last.

“Don't know why I'm so wiped. It wasn't exactly an exhausting day.”

“I'd like a nightcap.”

In the house Noel said, “I'll make you a drink if you want, but I'm going to bed.” Must've been all the wine after all the liquor.

Kyra sat. “Let's talk.”

“In the morning, okay? I'm all talked out.” He raised his eyebrows. “Even if I didn't do much of the talking.”

Kyra frowned. “What d'you mean?”

“Nothing. Just tired.” He kissed her cheek. “See you in the morning.” He headed for his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Not the evening she'd expected, not the evening she needed. Damn!

A BRIGHT AND
glorious morning even at 6:05
AM
. Sun slanted through the bedroom window. Dust particles danced between window and wall. Perfect morning for a talk. Was he up yet? She headed to the bathroom. No sounds from downstairs. Should she wake him? Ablutions first.

She dressed, black jeans and a white top, socks and sneakers. Going down the stairs, she made as much noise as seemed reasonable. Noel's bedroom door was closed. Knock? Get some coffee ready first, as loudly as possible. She had checked the fridge after Noel went to bed, knew the house was well equipped, coffee, both real and caffeine-free, cereals, frozen bread, fresh milk, butter and jams. She clanked dishes and bowls together, and turned on a radio. Not ultra loud; that'd be too obvious.

The coffee gurgled to a stop and still no movement from Noel's room. She poured a mugful, added milk, and carried it to Noel's door. Knocked. No answer. A harder knock. Nothing. She turned the knob and pushed the door inward. A slept-in bed, but no Noel. She called, “Noel?” Silence. She retreated to the living room and opened the front door. Noel's car there. Gone for a walk? She sipped from Noel's mug, now hers, returned to the kitchen and made herself cereal, toast with marmalade. She glanced at her watch. 6:48. Time passes quickly when you're having fun. When he came back, it'd be too late for their talk.

Noel appeared just before 7:15. “Glorious day! Ready for Rossini?”

“No breakfast?”

“Had a slice of toast before. Have you? We can get something after our meeting.”

His mood was high. She hoped it'd stay there.

Kyra grabbed her purse and felt the light heft of the revolver. Not that she'd need it today. Or anytime on this case. They got into the Honda and drove off, Noel right into the case. “I didn't tell you, Jordan Beck is a Morsely descendant. That's why Peter hired Triple I. Afraid an in-house investigation would be discovered in-house.”

Kyra said, “That makes sense.”

Noel mulled aloud about plagiarism. Kyra had heard it before, from him and from Peter. She stayed silent.

Past other guest houses and dorms, past some classroom buildings, around the Mansion to Orcas Boulevard and a quick left to Rossini's home, a two-storey white clapboard with open shutters painted green. Very out of place on an island off Washington State—should be in New England somewhere. In the driveway, a man, his dark hair streaked with gray, had just put a small suitcase into the back of a green SUV. Leather jacket, blue shirt, gray slacks. Noel figured him for mid-fifties. He pulled the Honda into the drive and stopped. He and Kyra got out. He called, “Professor Rossini?”

Rossini looked up, noticed them, waved and walked toward them. “Yes. How may I help you?”

“We're private investigators and we'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly, Mr. Franklin.” Turning to Kyra: “And Ms. Rachel.”

“Hey, you're good,” said Noel.

“No, I just had a call from Peter,” said Rossini, adding, “Langley. You're investigating a case of possible plagiarism.”

“We'd like to speak with Susanna. Your daughter.”

“So would I,” said Rossini. “But she's not here. Off visiting friends in Oregon.”

Kyra now: “Do you have phone numbers? Susanna's or the friends?”

“I do, but they've all gone camping. The Tillamook Forest.”

“Cell phones?”

“No signal. They're deep in the woods. They aren't reachable.”

“I see.” Damn, thought Noel. “How long will they be gone?”

Rossini waited a moment before answering. “About a week, I hope.”

Strange how the man suddenly looked uneasy. “Maybe you can help us. Do you know a student here named Jordan Beck?”

Rossini stared into the distance. “Jordan Beck,” he repeated. “The name isn't familiar.” He thought some more. “It's possible Susanna mentioned someone named Jordan. But she has so many friends.”

“You wouldn't know if she ever read anything Beck had written?”

“Written?”

“Like essays or stories.”

He thought some more. “There was a young man who's a writer that she knew. And I believe she did read some essays for somebody, yes.” He glanced from Noel to Kyra and back. “What's this about? What's it got to do with Susanna?”

“We're just trying to determine a relationship here,” said Kyra.

“Hold on,” said Rossini. “Is this about the possible plagiarism case?”

“We can't go into it, Professor.”

“Do you think Susanna has something to do with that?”

“We're just looking for a bit of information.”

All of a sudden Rossini looked deflated. As if he'd shrunk a couple of inches. He whispered, “Oh Susanna . . .”

Noel took a step toward him. “Are you okay, Professor?”

Rossini stretched his head backward and let out a sigh. “Not really.” He looked Noel in the eye. “I'm in the middle of a large research project and I'm a little tired. If you'll excuse me, I have to get to my lab.”

Noel handed him an Islands Investigations International card. “If you should hear from Susanna, would you ask her to call us?”

Rossini took the card, read it quickly, and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “Yes.”

“Thank you. And thanks for your time.” He returned to the Honda, Kyra following. He backed out and drove away.

“Where we going now?” said Kyra.

“We need breakfast. After that, you need to read some of Jordan's writing.” They drove toward Friday Harbor. Something about Rossini didn't seem right. Going to the lab . . . “Kyra, did anything about Rossini make you curious?”

“He seemed straightforward to me.”

Noel frowned. A piece that didn't fit . . .

Larry Rossini waited till the detectives' Honda drove off and the sound of its engine faded away. Why had he told them he was going to the lab? What would they care that he was on his way to Seattle to see Toni? He returned to the house and stepped inside, glancing at himself in the full-length mirror. Yes, he'd look okay for her—curling hair still all there and gray only at the temples; eyes, nose and mouth where they should be; blue dress shirt open at the collar, no belly to speak of, clean slacks, loafers. A man fit for Dr. Celeste-Antoinette deBourg.

He took a sweater off the newel post, regarded it absently as if having forgotten why he came back for it, sighed, replaced it on the post, picked up a shoulder bag, went back outside and locked the front door. He shook his head hard, the gesture of a man trying to clear out his brain. He knew he was right here beside his house because he had to be somewhere, but he was far away as well. In two places.

The first place, wherever Susanna was. He needed to believe that even if she was a captive, she was alive, she had to be. He could feel the movement of her living breath on the breeze. He'd get her back. He knew he'd want to call in to the house's message machine every hour or two, all through the night. But they hadn't contacted him again after that first call; they'd said they'd get back to him when everything had worked. Oh dear god—

The second place, the hotel. Where Toni was. The Executive Hotel Pacific. He'd checked it out on the Internet:
One of Seattle's finest boutique hotels.
He'd be in Seattle a single night, the room lights low or off. His attention would be solely on her, whatever the décor.

No, he wouldn't keep calling in; Toni wouldn't appreciate that from him. Though she did know the situation. She and the Sheriff, Marc Coltrane, knew. The only people he'd told. Marc had let Charlie know; Marc needed Charlie to find Susanna. Marc had said,
Act normal. Don't look upset. Do as they say and tell no one. We'll track her down.

Charlie understood the island. He had been Undersheriff for twenty-three years; he'd seen four elected Sheriffs, like Marc, come and go. Even Marc, well qualified, had been on the job for only three years. Each of the Sheriffs had needed Charlie. But not even Charlie had found Susanna yet. No one had found Susanna.

He sat behind the wheel of his Hyundai Veracruz and stared out the open window as if he'd never seen the end of his driveway before. He suddenly realized he'd been gazing blankly into the beyond for many seconds, perhaps even minutes. Move or you'll miss the 8:05.

He started the engine. Nothing like a ferry threat to get a man going. He shifted into first and jerked forward. No one on the road and he turned left. Once aboard the ferry, his mind could wander without the responsibility of steering a vehicle.

After Susanna had disappeared, after the dreadful phone call, he'd gone into this kind of zombie state for nearly twenty-four hours. He'd done what they told him, the carbon structures and the software algorithms to Bellingham, the post office box, no police. Only the next day, when he'd snapped out of brainlessness, did he contact the Sheriff. Too late to keep a watch on the PO box, and now how to figure a way of finding her? Marc and Charlie had wanted to bring in the FBI, but Larry forbade it—the man's threat on the phone was clear: No police or fibbies. Any kind of cop gets spotted and Susanna dies. She's released when they're certain the experiment works. If all was okay, she'd be back with him in three weeks.

A long lineup at the ferry dock. Damn, he might not get on. That'd put a crimp in the day, next ferry not till 11:00. He couldn't afford the time for this trip, but he desperately wanted to be with Toni, in fact right now. Just as she'd said she had to be with him. To lose three hours just by being late for the ferry—damn it again! Third in this line but too many lines would board before his. Usually he'd get on from around here, but . . . He killed the engine, rolled down the windows, let the cool breeze flow across the front seat. A fine morning for a drive down to Seattle. A rotten morning to sit in a ferry lineup letting time kill itself. How could he have dawdled so long with those investigators? Damn it to hell.

Okay, do like always, think the irritation away. An image, a distraction.

The best kind of mind picture, Toni deBourg herself. He closed his eyes and saw her as she was in the photograph, six by eight, that he kept in the folder in the second drawer of his dresser. Brought out only at the end of the day when no one—by which he realized again he meant Susanna; who else came into his bedroom?—would see it. He didn't need it now; his mind's eye owned the best images.

She was the most captivating woman Laurence Rossini had ever met. Nearly as tall as he in her heeled shoes, when she stood close and her rich chestnut brown hair wisped against his cheek, he could embrace miracles; the vitality she breathed into him made anything possible. Her satin-gray eyes melted the most scientific bones in his body, and when she turned them to his own, they melted his will.

She'd entered his life barely five months ago. Since their meeting, they'd been together three times: two, three and four days' worth of encounters. Tonight till tomorrow morning would be the shortest. He couldn't be away from San Juan any longer; his work needed him. Stop lying, Larry; why are you lying to yourself? Wherever Susanna might be, he knew he must be home so that if she tried to contact him—if they tried to contact him—he'd be available. He shouldn't be spending even one night in Seattle. But when Toni told him she'd be in San Francisco for a meeting, could he join her there, they'd compromised on Seattle.