Dearly Beloved (32 page)

“Miss Towne?” Jasper says it loudly, as though he’s repeating it.

She blinks. “Yes?”

“I asked if you’d like me to fix you something for lunch? I realize that with the weather so horrid, you won’t be able to leave the inn.”

You won’t be able to leave the inn.

The words send a shudder through her.

“I’m . . . it’s okay; I’m not hungry,” Jennie tells him. “Thank you anyway.”

“Are you sure? There’s no telling how long this weather will last, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“I’m sure, thanks. I had just come downstairs to see if you had heard anything from Liza yet. I just knocked on her door again, and there’s no reply.”

“Oh?” He looks surprised . . . or does he? “That’s strange. I haven’t seen her all morning.”

“Maybe she’s having that meeting with D.M. Yates, the author she was supposed to meet,” Jennie suggests, and waits for his reaction, just to see . . .

“Yates?” He shrugs. “As I told you earlier, I really have no idea where she is.”

“Mmm. Well, if you do sec her, will you have her come and find me?”

“Of course.”

Jennie turns back toward the stairs, hoping he doesn’t sense how nervous she is. She can feel his eyes on her as she walks back up toward the landing.

S
herm Crandall sits at his desk in the police station, still trying to get through his detective novel and nibbling on half a ham hero that’s left over from yesterday afternoon.

It isn’t very good, but he’s so hungry he’ll eat anything at this point. He’d stored the sandwich in the tiny dorm-sized refrigerator behind his desk, and the bread has, unfortunately, absorbed the strong food-smells from two weeks’ worth of leftovers.

Sherm isn’t exactly vigilant about getting rid of things, either here or at home. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the fridge at home still contains stuff from before Carly left.

He takes another bite of the sandwich and wrinkles his nose, then washes it down with a swing of Pepsi from the can on his desk.

The door opens just as he’s swallowing, and he glances up expectantly, hoping to see Pat.

But it’s Ned Hartigan who steps into the room and pulls the door closed behind him. His normally ruddy complexion is redder than ever from the biting wind and snow, and he shakes white flakes out of his whiter hair before saying, “Hi, Sherm.”

“Hey there, Ned.” He sets the sandwich down and stands, brushing the crumbs off his uniform pants. “What’s going on?”

“Not much. Just wondering if we’re going to evacuate. Pat Gerkin was by last night and told Shirley he’d let us know.”

“So far, we’re okay. I’m keeping a close eye on things, though.”

“Well, I figured I’d better check in with you in person since the phones are down.”

Sherm looks at him in surprise, echoing, “The phones are down?”

“Yep, went out a little while ago. Shirley was on with Myra Tallman when the line went dead on her.”

“Great.” Sherm reaches for the phone on his desk and picks it up. No dial tone. “I’ve been waiting for Pat to check in with me. . . . Maybe that’s why I haven’t heard from him. You haven’t seen him today, have you?”

“Not since early last night, around supper time. Why?”

“I’m just a little worried, is all,” Sherm tells Ned, rubbing his chin. “I sent him out to the old Gilbrooke place to make sure there was no one staying there, and he was supposed to come back here right afterward. Never showed, and I don’t think he was home all night, either.”

Ned’s normally twinkly eyes look concerned. “You don’t think something’s happened to him?”

“Naw.” Sherm tries to sound upbeat. “He’s probably just over visiting one of his friends or something.”

“Probably. So, you don’t know if there was anyone out at the Gilbrooke place?”

“Didn’t look that way. At least, no one answered my knock. I did see some footprints that were blown over by the time I got there. They were probably Pat’s.”

Ned nods.

“You know, I bumped into someone as I was pulling out of the lane onto Salt Marsh Road,” Sherm goes on. “A tourist. The guy was lost, trying to find his way back to the Bramble Rose Inn. There was something familiar about him, but I’m pretty sure I never met him before. I never forget a name, and he said his was LaCroix.”

“LaCroix?” Ned repeats thoughtfully. “Wasn’t that the name of the woman that young Gilbrooke kid was supposed to marry a few years back?”

“Was it?”

“I’m pretty sure. The reason I remember is that we get the
New York Times
in on Sundays; and in the winter when business is slow, Shirley likes to read it. She always looks at the wedding announcements—you know, women like that kind of thing. Reads every darn word, and I can’t understand why she cares. ‘Shirley,’ I tell her, ‘why do you care? These people are strangers.’ And she says, ‘But they’re so interesting.’ And then one day, she runs across a familiar name— Gilbrooke. What a coincidence, huh? And I remember her saying something about the kid being engaged to someone named LaCroix.”

Sherm is frowning. “Are you sure about that name?”

“I’m positive. Shirley commented on it, because she has a cousin who married a woman named LaCrosse right around the same time, and I remember her saying, ‘Isn’t that funny, Ned? LaCroix and LaCrosse—they’re almost just the same.’ ”

“And you’re sure it was the Gilbrooke kid who was marrying this woman?”

“Positive. That’s what caught Shirley’s eye. She dated poor old Andrew Gilbrooke back when he used to spend summers here on the island you know. Told me the guy was so afraid of women that he could barely work up the nerve to kiss her. That was when I was serving overseas, you know? I’ll tell you, it seems like only yesterday . . .”

Sherm nods, tuning Ned out and thinking back to his encounter with the man in the black sedan. There was something odd about him—something that’s been bothering Sherm, though he hasn’t been able to put his finger on it. It isn’t just that the guy seems familiar. . . .

No, more than that, he seemed edgy. He didn’t look Sherm in the eye when they spoke. And the way he’d given his name—it was almost as though he were making it up on the spot.

Abruptly, Sherm says, “If you’ll excuse me, Ned, I have to go out and check on something.”

He realizes, from the expression on Ned’s face, that he must have interrupted him, and he quickly says, “Sorry. But something just occurred to me and I need to check it out.”

“What’s that, Sherm?”

“I just want to go over to the inn where that LaCroix fella was staying. We had a missing person’s report about a young woman who’s a guest there over the weekend and he did seem a little nervous when I talked to him, now that I think of it.”

“A missing person’s report? Not that sweet young girl from Boston?”

“No, she’s from Connecticut. You didn’t meet her, did you? Name’s Sandy Cavelli?”

“Tall, thin, blond hair?”

“No. The description her brother gave me says she’s on the short side and overweight, with brown hair.”

“Didn’t see anyone who looks like that.”

“Who’s the tall, thin blonde? You say she’s from Boston?”

“No, the one from Boston has dark hair, too, and the prettiest eyes you ever saw. Light purple, like Liz Taylor’s.”

Trying to mask his impatience, Sherm asks again, “So who’s the blonde?”

“I don’t know, but she’s staying at the Bramble Rose, too. She was rude to Shirley when she came in for coffee, and she gave me hell because I don’t carry black silk stockings. Wanted
real
stockings, the kind you wear with a garter belt. I said, ‘What do you think this is, Filene’s?’ And she was real snippy with me. If you ask me, she—”

Sherm cuts him off because if you let Ned get started, he’ll talk all day. “I really have to get on over to that inn now, Ned. But you tell Shirley I said hello, will you?”

“I sure will. Say, you haven’t heard anything from Carly, have you?”

“Nope,” he says shortly, grabbing his key ring from the desk and shoving it into his pocket.

“Too bad.”

“Yep.”

The trouble with living on an island as small as this one is that everyone knows everyone else’s business. Which really helps when Sherm is conducting an investigation, but irks him when it comes to his own private life.

“Listen, Ned,” he says, grabbing his storm coat and walking with the other man toward the door, “do me a favor. If you see Pat around anywhere, let me know.”

“Will do.”

“You opening the store today?”

“In this weather?” Ned shakes his head. “I’m going home and build a fire in the old woodstove. Put my feet up, listen to some Benny Goodman. If you want to swing by later, Shirley’s making her chowder for Sunday dinner. I know it’s probably been awhile since you had some good home-cooking.”

“Yeah, it has,” Sherm says, glancing down at the discarded sandwich and trying not to let the wistful note creep into his voice.

Carly used to make chowder on Sundays, too, creamy and rich, with succulent bits of shellfish and potato. Chowder or a big pot of beef stew or spaghetti sauce . . .

Together, he and Ned step out into the blustery world of swirling snow.

“See you, Sherm,” Ned calls, lifting a hand. “You swing by later if you’re hungry.”

“Maybe I will,” Sherm calls back, watching Ned with envy as he goes trudging off toward the cozy old captain’s house he shares with Shirley.

Feeling lonelier than ever, he gets into his car to drive over to the Bramble Rose Inn.

S
omeone has glued Liza’s eyelids shut.

At least, that’s what it feels like. She can’t seem to lift them.

Dazed she wonders where she is, why her body feels battered and raw . . .

Then, as consciousness overtakes her again, she remembers, with a start, what happened.

She was in the back seat of the car . . .

And the driver was watching her in the mirror with that sinister smile . . .

And she’d thrown herself out onto the road.

That was the last thing she knew before now.

Please, God, let me be in the hospital,
she prays fervently and, concentrating with all her might, forces her eyes to open.

For a moment, everything is blurry . . . and white.

Am I in heaven?

No, because there can’t be pain in heaven, and I’m in agony.

She blinks and tries to focus again, but still, all she can see is filmy white.

Biting down on her inner lip to keep from crying out, she lifts her head slightly . . . and realizes that something is draped over her face. Some kind of white netting . . .

And she seems to be wearing white, too—a hospital gown?

No . . .

Numb with horror, Liza stares down at herself through the mask of illusion veiling that covers her eyes.

It’s not a hospital gown; it’s a wedding gown.

Someone has dressed her in a wedding gown!

Liza opens her mouth to scream, then clamps it shut again as a face appears, hovering a few feet above her.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” a masculine voice says, and chuckles. “I’m so glad you’re back among the living . . . although, it’s a pity it won’t be a permanent stay.”

It’s the chauffeur from the car, Liza realizes, only he’s changed his clothes, too. His face is rimmed by a white collar and a black bow tie. . . . Good Lord, is the man really wearing a tuxedo?

Nothing makes sense. It’s like some grotesque dream—

Liza groans as she feels him lifting her shoulders, then forcing her to sit up. She squeezes her eyes closed for a moment to fight the anguish that wracks her body, then opens them to see that she’s in a vast, empty room.

Empty, that is, of people, except for the nut case in the tux.

But there appear to be rows and rows of chairs . . .

And flowers everywhere, red roses . . .

And—oh, God—there’s a white-satin runner stretching ahead in front of Liza.

“Get up,” barks the chauffeur’s voice from somewhere above. “We’re already late getting started.”

“Started with what?” she murmurs, feeling her body sway. It’s so tempting to let herself sink back down to the floor again, to give in to the gauzy darkness that keeps trying to edge its way back to her.

“Started with what? The wedding, of course! What did you think?” His voice floats above her somewhere.

“Do you like the dress?” he goes on. “I had it made especially for you—remembered that you’re a perfect size five. I should remember. . . . I bought you so many lovely clothes. Do you remember?”

She’s vaguely aware of being lifted further. “Stand, damn it. Stand up. I can’t just hang around here and hold you, you know.”

It’s as if some other part of Liza takes over, and her aching legs automatically lock into place so that she finds herself standing on her own.

Still, she can’t grasp what’s going on.

Suddenly, she hears the sound of music playing. It fills her ears, some old love song that seems faintly familiar . . .

What the hell is going on, here?

She turns her head and sees him beside her, his face only inches from hers.

“What are you doing? And—who
are
you?” she whispers, searching her memory for his face and coming up with a blank.

He looks pleased. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“No, I . . .” Her voice trails off as she feels herself swaying, about to go down. But somehow, she manages to fight the impulse, wins another few moments—she hopes—of consciousness.

“It’s me,” he announces gleefully, his face twisted into a distorted grin. “Stephen!”

“Stephen?” she repeats fuzzily, trying to remember.

“Stephen Gilbrooke,” he elaborates.

“Stephen Gilbrooke . . .”

He waits.

She searches her memory desperately.

Stephen Gilbrooke?

There have been so many men. No way she can remember all of them, the ones she used and then casually discarded like used Kleenex . . .

Oh, why hadn’t she been more careful? Why hadn’t she realized that it would catch up to her someday?

“Stephen Gilbrooke,” he says again, this time more harshly. “You do remember me, Liza . . .”