Dearly Beloved (12 page)

Liza pokes her head into the kitchen. It’s a large room with an old-fashioned black cookstove and double white porcelain sink. Built-in glass-paned cupboards display several different sets of dishes and glassware. A cozy nook off to one side holds a small table covered in a blue-and-white-checked cloth and surrounded by four chairs.

It occurs to Liza that this is the kind of kitchen that belongs in a quaint country farmhouse inhabited by a happy, messy family—not in this remote New England inn. It’s almost too perfect—every dish and glass in perfect order, the counter-tops and stove sparkling, the dishtowel hanging over the sink folded just so. It doesn’t look
lived
in—and neither does the rest of the inn.

No, it’s hard to believe that, even in season, the Bramble Rose is ever overrun by tourists with the accompanying noise and disorder a houseful of people would bring.

Liza’s brows knit thoughtfully as she steps back out of the kitchen and returns to the front of the house. There’s still no sign of Jasper Hammel. After a moment, she starts up the stairs.

She pauses in front of the door to her room, struck by a sudden impulse to keep snooping around.

What do you think you’re going to find?
asks a little voice inside her head.

Nothing in particular . . . I’m just curious.

Well, maybe more than curious. Maybe a little suspicious, she admits to herself. There’s just something strange about this inn, something she can’t put her finger on.

The other doors on the second floor are closed, with the exception of the one to the bathroom. Liza quickly and gingerly uses the ancient facilities, wrinkling her nose as she reaches out to pull the old-fashioned chain on the toilet. The pipes creak as she turns on the faucet in the sink, and she’s reminded of the uncomfortable shower she took in the battered clawfoot tub this morning. The water kept going cold and waning to a trickle, and she had shivered her way through, cursing D.M. Yates the whole time.

Now she hurries out of the bathroom and hesitates in the hallway, staring at the steps leading to the third floor.

There’s no reason why I shouldn’t just go up and have a look around,
she tells herself.
After all, what else is there to do?

On the third floor, she finds herself in a long hallway identical to the one below. There are several closed doors in roughly the same locations as on the second floor.

Liza tries the one that corresponds with the room she’s in, and is surprised to find that it swings open.

The room is the identical shape and size as hers, with a similar fireplace and windows in the same spots. But the decor here is drastically different: the furniture is merely functional, the bedspread and tightly drawn curtains an austere white cotton. The floors are wooden and lack the high polish and pretty area rugs of the room below, and the walls are painted a pale yellow that, Liza concedes, might glow warmly on a sunny summer afternoon, but looks drab in the gray cast of winter.

It’s clear that no one is occupying this room at the moment. The open closet door reveals empty hangers, and a musty smell permeates the air, as though it’s been a long time since the curtains were opened and the windows raised.

Liza makes her way down the hall, peeking into the other rooms, and sees that they’re similarly devoid of embellishment and are obviously deserted. In the third-floor bathroom, the small sink is dry and the white towel on the rack is precisely folded in thirds and lacks even the slightest wrinkle or smudge.

At the end of the hall, Liza reaches for the knob on the last door, assuming that it must lead to the top floor and cupola, which she’d noticed from outside the house.

Funny . . . the door won’t budge.

And it can’t be locked, because there’s no keyhole . . . Unless it’s bolted from the other side.

And if that’s the case, Liza realizes, then someone must be up there, someone who has locked himself in.

She leans forward and presses her ear against the cool wooden door. Sure enough, she hears the faint sound of classical music coming from above.

Rattling the knob, Liza calls, “Jasper?”

“What are you doing?”

Gasping, she turns to see that the little man is standing behind her in the third-floor hallway.

His voice is calm, but his eyes are narrowed and his mustache twitches nervously.

“I . . . uh, I was just looking for you,” Liza tells him, stepping back from the door and dropping her hand to her side. “I thought you might be up there.”

“I’m right here.”

“Obviously.” Liza quickly regains her composure. “Who’s upstairs?”

“Nobody. It’s used for storage.”

“I heard music coming from there,” she informs him. “And the door’s locked from the other side.”

Is it her imagination or does Jasper Hammel look panicky for a moment before a look of cool detachment settles over his features once again?

“Nonsense,” he says, stepping closer to the door and cocking his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

“But I just . . .” Liza presses up close to the door and frowns. Nothing but silence. “Well, I heard it,” she tells Jasper. “And the door’s locked.”

“It can’t be. There’s no keyhole, as you can see.”

“It’s locked from the other side.”

“That’s impossible. But I can explain why you couldn’t open it. In damp weather, some of the doors in this place stick. Very common in old houses.”

“But—”

“Anyway, I’m glad I found you, Ms. Danning, although I’m afraid it’s too late. David Yates just stopped by the inn a few minutes ago, looking for you.”

“He
what?
”

“He was sorry he missed you.”

“Why didn’t you—”

“I went up to your room, hoping you’d returned from town, but there was no reply to my knock.”

Flabbergasted, Liza simply stares at him.

“I told him you’d gone into town,” Jasper Hammel continues, “and that I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.”

“Where did he go?” Liza demands, hurrying toward the stairs. “I’ll catch up to him.”

“I have no idea. He was quite perturbed at your absence and said he’s a busy man and doesn’t have time to waste. But he did say he’ll contact you later this afternoon.”

“I don’t believe this,” Liza mutters, striding down the stairs to the second floor, Jasper Hammel dogging her heels like a nervous puppy. “At this rate, I’m never going to hook up with D.M. Yates. It’s like fate’s playing a cruel joke on me.”

“Yes, it almost does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Jasper agrees as Liza heads off to her room in a huff.

T
he man listening on the other side of the bolted attic door loosens his hold on the knife handle as he hears both sets of footsteps retreat.

He’d grabbed the knife and crept down the attic stairs when he’d heard the doorknob rattling. When he’d recognized Liza Danning’s voice calling for Jasper, he’d formulated an instant plan.

She’d been scheduled to die second, after Sandy Cavelli, but it had occurred to him that there was no reason he couldn’t switch the order on a whim. After all,
he
was the one in charge, here . . .

This time.

Yes, everything was up to him, and a feeling of power had surged through him as he clenched his sweaty fingers around the handle of the knife.

He was just about to open the attic door and clamp his hand over Liza Danning’s startled mouth when he’d heard Jasper’s voice in the hallway.

Oh, well.

Liza’s turn would come soon enough anyway.

Stealing back up the stairs, he sighs and decides to stick with the original plan.

Sandy first.

Liza second.

Laura last.

When he’d first come up with his plan, he’d considered luring them out here to the island one by one to prolong his pleasure. But then he’d thought better of it. Prolonging the pleasure would also prolong his chances of being caught.

He’d decided he’d better take care of all of them in a single weekend.

And what could be more fitting than the one before Valentine’s Day?

Come Monday, it will all be over.

Sandy, Liza, and Laura will have joined Lorraine in a place where no one will ever find them.

And
he’ll
be on the way to a place where no one will ever find him. . . .

J
ennie slips out of the inn with the blue canvas bag containing her art supplies tucked under her arm.

There . . . I made it,
she thinks as she heads around to the path leading down to the beach. She’d successfully avoided an encounter back at the inn; no one had seen her come back from town.

As she hurried down the stairs just now, she had heard Jasper’s voice humming along to classical music somewhere toward the back of the house. But he hadn’t come out to talk to her. She’s grateful for that. The little man is pleasant enough, but something about him makes her distinctly uncomfortable.

And it’s not just him. It’s this whole place. She knows Tide Island is beautiful and idyllic and quaint—and so is the Bramble Rose Inn—but Jennie doesn’t want to be here.

Maybe it would be different, she tells herself, if she weren’t here by herself. And if it were summer.

But even being here in winter wouldn’t be so bad, she thought, if she had some company. Maybe if she and Keegan had come here together . . .

No! Stop it! Keegan’s out of your life.

With a sigh she picks her way around a tangle of wet sea grass and vines, continuing toward the water.

The weather can’t seem to make up its mind. One minute it’s windy and raining furiously; the next—like right now—it’s curiously calm, though the air is still misty and the sky remains threatening.

As Jennie scoots down the last few feet of the sloped path behind the inn to reach the beach, she scans the horizon and sees that it looks dark. There’s no doubt that a storm is on the way—she can sense it.

She wonders, not for the first time since this morning, whether she should just leave—pack her things and hurry to catch the ferry to the mainland while she still can.

She’s tempted, so tempted that her legs feel jittery and she has to fight the urge to run back to the inn. She can’t get past the feeling that she’s in danger here, that something evil is lurking nearby.

But you know why you feel that way; and after three years, it’s time to get over it. You can’t spend the rest of your life being terrified of everything . . . of nothing.

Besides, if you leave, what are you going to tell Laura? She’ll want to know what you’re doing back home two days early. And she’ll talk you into going back to that psychiatrist.

Dr. Bonner.

Jennie scowls at the mere thought of the man, remembering his thoughtful, bearded face and piercing black eyes. She’d seen him several times in the months after the . . . incident. One of the social workers she’d met during the police investigation had referred her to his office, telling her he specialized in post traumatic stress disorder.

Unfortunately, Laura had been right there with her when the social worker said it, and Jennie had agreed to see Dr. Bonner at her sister’s insistence.

She’d disliked him instantly, but had returned to his office a few times because it was easier than arguing with Laura. She knew her sister was just worried about her and wanted to help; but Laura couldn’t know that it was pure torture for Jennie to talk about what had happened, that she relived the horror every second of every day in her mind, and that nothing anyone said was going to help her.

Not that Dr. Bonner had said much, anyway. Just fixed her with his level stare and told her to tell him what she was feeling.

What the hell did he think she was feeling after what she’d been through?

No, Jennie can’t bear the thought of going back to his office again, or of facing Laura’s well-meaning concern. There’s nothing to do but stay on this island for the weekend, the way she’s supposed to, and try to ignore the irrational feelings of panic that keep creeping over her.

Jennie sets her jaw resolutely, and, for the second time today, makes her way across the wet sand. She finds the wide, flat rock she’d noticed this morning and climbs onto it, carefully pulling her coat down in back to sit on it so that her jeans won’t get soaked.

There. This isn’t so bad,
she decides, looking out over the churning water again and taking a deep breath, drinking in the cold, salty air.

She reaches for her blue bag and removes her sketch pad and pencils. It’s too damp to paint, but she’s not in the mood anyway. She feels like working with charcoal, has an urge to fill page after page of creamy paper with bold, dark strokes.

Her hand poised over the sketchbook, she looks up and sees a lone gull swooping over the water. To her left, for about a mile, the beach curves out toward the horizon in a crescent shape, and through the gray mist, she can barely make out a scattering of enormous houses sitting above the rocky shoreline.

It looks just like England,
she realizes, remembering the remote seaside homes along the shore on the other side of the Atlantic. She gazes out over the ocean and thinks how strange it is that it’s still out there, hundreds of miles away—that isolated patch of beach where she had sat, sketching and feeling homesick, the day she’d met Harry.

She still remembers how startled she’d been to hear a voice behind her—a voice with an American accent, no less.

“If it’s any good, I’ll buy it,” he’d said, and she’d looked up to see a lanky, sandy-haired guy standing there grinning at her.

“Excuse me?” was all she could say in response, and he’d gestured at the sketch pad in her lap.

“Your drawing. Can I see it? If it’s good, I’ll buy it and frame it and hang it on the wall of my room. I love this spot. It reminds me of the beach back home. In fact,” and he’d held up the camera in his hand, “I was just about to take a picture of it so I can keep it with me forever.”

She’d known what he meant. There was something special about this lonely stretch of shore where the waves foamed over jutting rocks to crash against the crescent of sand. The tiny beach was only about a half-a-mile wide, separated from the rest of the coast by rocky cliffs that jutted out into the water, topped by magnificent homes.