Death in Paradise (38 page)

Billy Berryman? A killer? I couldn't believe it. I grabbed her arm and hauled her over to a bench among the potted palms. "Speak," I said. "Talk. Spit it out. Why do you think he's the one?"

She shrugged, trying to seem casual, but my reaction had frightened her. I had to remember that even though she was a great companion, she was still just a kid. "It just is, that's all. I mean, he just is. You know, Thea, I only saw him for a minute, when he came out of the elevator. But I'm sure it's the same guy. He has the same shoes on."

I'd been angling for a description so I could explain why she was wrong, since Billy hadn't even been around on Friday night. But shoes were a different matter. "Laura, lots of guys wear the same shoes."

She nodded. "But they're very fancy shoes. Come on. I'll show you." She jumped up and tugged at my arm. Right. Now we were going to go out and lurk in the night and spy on people through the windows while we pretended to catch frogs. Something she was experienced at, something new to my detective career.

Together we slunk through the garden until Laura grabbed my arm and whispered, "There." She pointed. I supposed, since we were outside and we were alone, Emily Post wasn't going to come along and strike us from the social register for our faux pas. I followed the line from her finger. She wasn't pointing at Billy. She was pointing at Jeff Pullman, who was wearing very shiny black tasseled loafers. At that moment, he looked up and saw us.

"Run!" Laura said, and scurried away. Stupid me, I ran right behind her. I didn't even pause to point out that Billy had on fancy black shoes as well.

 

 

 

Chapter 26

 

We ended up at the elevator, leaning against the wall, breathless and giggling like a pair of fools. "This is the O.J. Simpsonization of America," I said. "Now everybody goes around looking at people's shoes."

"That was fun," Laura said.

"Probably not for long. He didn't look the least bit pleased," I said. "And he's already mad at me. It's too bad he isn't the guy you saw on Friday night. I used to like him but now I wouldn't mind if he got into trouble. But he was at home in Washington, D.C., when the murder happened. He flew in the next day after the police called him."

"How do you know?" she asked, and then, "Are you okay? You don't look good."

"I saw him on the news getting off the plane." I ignored her second question. I felt like I'd just hit the wall, and was a little bit worried about making back to the room, but I didn't want to worry her.

"Oh. Right," she said. "But what if—"

"Not now, please, Laura. I'm tired."

The elevator arrived and the doors rolled open. Jolene and Shannon got off, engaged in what sounded like a good-hearted argument. "Thea Kozak," Shannon said. "I thought you were tucked up in bed with tea and toast, all wan and weak and unable to come to the banquet, and here you are wandering around the lobby, looking like a million dollars. We're on our way to the bar. You want to come have a drink with us?" She sounded like she'd had a few drinks already. She also sounded aggrieved, as if my being up and about offended her.

I only looked like a million dollars if she was thinking counterfeit money. And anyway, as my brother, Michael, used to say, "tough munchies." Sometimes "tough nuggies." I had no idea what either one meant but they sounded good. Maybe it was too bad that I wasn't adept at being a victim. It didn't mean I hadn't had a hard day. "I'm afraid I'm turning into a pumpkin," I said. "My baby-sitter here says I've got to go to bed. How did the dinner go?"

"Oh, Jolene was brilliant. And that speaker you guys got for us was dynamite. She's the best. Honestly. I have never listened to someone more inspiring," Shannon said. "She made me want to go out and change the world."

Jolene took her arm. "We're starting in the bar."

"Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow." Once again, neither of them asked how I was. Or about Rory. It bothered me. I'd looked in the mirror. I knew I looked good in the dress. But there were scratches on my face, bruises on my neck, and bandages on my hand. I was feeling rather green, and usually, when I feel green, I look green, too. I walked with a limp. And, though they couldn't see this, lots of gauze and tape on my knees. Plus big dark bruises on my psyche.

Maybe it was my own fault. It could be that I've played the tough, independent role so long and so well that everyone is convinced. Stuff rolls right off me. Bodies, threats, attempts on my life—it's all in a day's work for the professional. Smashed computers? A trashed hotel room? Mere bagatelles. Why not? A year ago, I'd believed it myself. Now I wasn't so sure. Now I felt a suspicious need for comfort. Was this the price I paid for love? For letting Andre get close to me? Open the door a crack and the whole world pours in? Admit to the occasional need and become needy?

I stepped into the elevator, which Laura had been holding impatiently, and away we went. As the doors closed, I heard Shannon say, "She didn't look one bit sick to me. Are you sure that story about the drowning is true?"

"Of course it is," Jolene said. "Didn't you see those bruises on her neck? I saw her when she got back from the hospital, and she looked terrible. She could barely stand up. And then she found her—" The rest was lost.

Laura finally looked tired. She leaned limply against the wall and her eyelids were drooping. "Wow," she said softly. "This detective stuff is hard work. Must be time to call it a day."

"You bet, kid." I knew just how she felt. As I watched her, able to allow herself to be totally, visibly tired, or joyous, or whatever the emotion was, it occurred to me that she'd been with me for a hell of a lot longer than five minutes and yet no one had come looking for her. No one, even though they regarded my company as dangerous. Which meant there really wasn't anybody looking out for her. I looked at her small figure, drooping against the wall, and debated the wisdom of warning her about the very real, though remote, possibility of danger against the risk of scaring her. I decided Laura deserved to be in the know. Better safe than sorry.

"Look, I don't want to worry you, but if I were you, I'd be careful from now on. There has been some seriously bad stuff going on around here, and you've been seen hanging around one of the intended victims. You want to stay alive, kiddo, you've got to use your noggin, eh? No more running around the hotel tonight without grown-ups."

"My mom says the hotel is very safe. That's why she lets me go where I want, but don't worry." She could barely speak between yawns. "I'm going right to bed. All that food and fun and sun and swimming. I'm done for." The door opened and she scampered out. "I'll tell my mom that you liked the present, okay?"

"Please do. It's great."

I was equally weary. I'd been running on adrenaline and false courage too long. I trudged to my door and let myself in. Carefully. Cautiously. Not wanting any surprises. I wanted a long hot bath and a dreamless sleep. I was afraid that what I'd get was memories—the shock of having my mask grabbed and flung away, of a neoprene arm around my throat and the agony of lungs desperate for air. The claustrophobic feeling of being strapped to a stretcher while I was bounced around like a piece of flotsam. The infuriatingly helpless feeling of being poked and prodded and questioned when I was too weak to answer. Hamlet had it right with those musings about the problems with sleep and the fear of dreams.

I got my things and took them into the bathroom. Turned the water on high and let the tub start to fill. Poured in a big measure of bath oil and sat on the edge of the tub, letting the soothing roar of the water drown out everything else. And then I remembered. I was supposed to call Andre. I turned off the tap and went to the phone.

I curled up on the couch and listened to the rings, imagining Andre lying there asleep in the warm darkness of our bed. It was after ten here. He'd be deep into his dreams. Sleeping on his stomach with his arm flung out. I was supposed to be tucked under that arm. When I am, I rarely dream. He's the best cure for nightmares a woman could ask for. Good for a lot of other things, too. The ringing stopped as someone fumbled with the receiver and said, "Lemieux." Brisk, authoritative, ready. A good cop, he's awake and alert while I'm still struggling to clear the cobwebs from my brain.

"Hi, handsome."

"What took you so long?"

Did he sound just a teeny bit aggrieved? "Took a while to get rid of everyone and then I was overcome by the need for a giant hamburger."

The overpowering need to eat was something he could relate to. "Eating for two, are we?"

"Well
, you've
always eaten for two. I'm just beginning. I guess. I wish I were there instead of here...."

"Me, too. I'd scoot right down to the all-night drugstore and get one of those little kits that turns, what... pink? Blue? Some baby color. And tomorrow morning... well, it's almost morning here... you could pee in a little cup and then we'd—"

"Hey," I interrupted. "How do you know so much about this? Baby names. Pregnancy tests. This is a side of you I never imagined."

"I'm a very complicated guy. Look, you know I can't stand waiting. Isn't there an all-night drugstore where you could..."

I might be confused and conflicted but this guy was ready, even eager, to jump on the parenthood train. "You stand waiting just fine, Lemieux, and you know it. Waiting is your game, remember? And I'm out here in the middle of a clump of tourist hotels, miles from town. It's late at night and I have no car."

"Call a taxi. Call the cops and get them to take you. They're supposed to be watching over you anyway."

"I hardly think it's the job of the Maui Police Department to drive me to the drugstore for a pregnancy-test kit. I'll go in the morning. Look, all we have to go on is the word of a keen-eyed pathologist, Andre. I don't want you to go getting your hopes up."

"When I think of you, I get more than my hopes up," he said. Actually, it was more like a growl. A lovely deep growl. If I'd had my head on his chest, I could have felt it rumbling through his body. I could have smelled his nice, soapy smell. The hair on his chest would have tickled my ear. Suddenly I was very lonely and much too far from home. I wanted to reach out and touch someone, not telephonically, but truly. In reality. Right now. I didn't care about finding Martina's killer. The police could have that job. And as for running the conference, someone else could do that, too. I'd done my share.

"Let George do it," I said.

"What?"

"I miss you. I'm lonely. It's scary here by myself when there are bad guys around. When we hang up, I'm going to call the airport and see how soon I can get a plane out of here. I've been gone long enough."

"That's my girl," he said.

"You bet." I'd resisted being his girl for a long time. I hadn't wanted to be anyone's girl, or woman, or anything. But I'd changed. I might still find myself humming "You Don't Own Me" from time to time, but our connection was strong. What had someone said once? That we were connected by a bungee cord and no matter how far apart we got, we'd snap right back together again. It was our fate. It didn't seem like a bad fate to me.

"Thea..." There was a long silence. I waited, listening to him breathe. Respiration at long-distance rates. It was worth every penny. "Be careful," he said finally. "Be very, very careful. Murderers are bad people. You know that."

"I know it better than most people."

There was another silence. "Not that I'm trying to tell you what to do," he said, "but maybe it would be a good idea to stay in your room with the door locked until it's time to leave for the airport." He was walking a fine line, knowing how prickly I could be about being told what to do. Some of our biggest fights had been when he wanted me to be careful and I didn't see how I could do my job and still do what he wanted. I was learning to listen better; he was learning to give advice more carefully. Patching together a relationship, stitch by stitch. In our case, those stitches were sometimes in ourselves. I could hear the worry in his voice.

"Great idea. Except most of my stuff is still in my old room."

"Right. So when you go down to pack it up, take someone with you. Better yet, take several people with you. A small army, even. Okay?"

Why argue? It seemed like good advice. "Okay."

"Call me when you have your flight schedule. I want to be at the airport to meet you."

"Yessiree," I agreed. "Someone to carry all my luggage."

"Someone who can't wait to get his hands on you is more like it."

"Someone who will have to behave in public."

"But I don't have to behave in the car."

"Whooee!" I said. "I can hardly wait. It'll make me feel like a teenager again."

"Are there things you haven't told me? I thought you were wonky and unpopular."

"I was a smart girl with a big chest. I spent four years with my arms folded protectively and my chin jutting out. But I could imagine the fun other people were having."

"Wish I'd been there."

"Me, too. We'll just have to make up for lost time when I get home."