Jayne Ann Krentz (17 page)

“I don't have a line on Kaitlin's death,” Rafe said swiftly. “Just a couple of questions.”

“Such as?” Jed paused ever so briefly. “I hate to remind you, but this is my newspaper now.”

“I could try the public library.”

Jed's grin came and went. “Yes, you could. All right. I've stuck with the agreement.” He got to his feet. “Come on, I'll dig them out for you. Can't blame me for trying to find out if you've got an angle on that old story, can you?”

“Guess not.” Rafe shoved himself up out of the chair and turned to follow Jed through the doorway. “I'll tell you what I'm looking for, if you'll promise to keep it quiet.”

Jed raised one hand as he went down the hall. “Word of honor.”

“I want to see if whoever covered the story mentioned the fact that Kaitlin Sadler was seeing someone other than me that summer.”

Jed came to a halt in another doorway and gave Rafe a quizzical frown. “Everyone knew she was seeing other men. Hell,
you
knew it. It was no big secret that she was running around.”

“I just want to see if the names of any of the other men she dated came up in the course of the investigation.”

“Aha.” Jed's hand tightened on the edge of the doorjamb. He gave Rafe a knowing look. “You want to see if there were any other serious suspects besides yourself, don't you? What is this? You think maybe one of her other boyfriends really did push her off the cliff that night?”

“I haven't got a single thing to go on here, Jed. I'm curious, that's all. Are you going to let me see those old papers or not?”

“Sorry. Force of habit. Come on, I'll get you set up on the machine.”

A short time later Rafe found himself seated in front of a microfilm reader, scanning eight-year-old editions of the
Eclipse Bay Journal
. He paused when he came to the front-page headline that had been printed the morning after Kaitlin's death:
LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DEAD AT HIDDEN COVE
.

“That's it.” Jed hung over his shoulder, one hand gripping the back of Rafe's chair. “I didn't cover the story. I was busy writing up the piece on Thornley's reception at the institute.”

Rafe glanced at the byline. “Did you know Ben Orchardson well?”

“No one knew him well, but I learned a few things from him. He was a halfway decent reporter in his day. Worked for a couple of the big-city dailies for several years. But he had a problem with the bottle. Wound up here at the
Journal
for a while, but Ed had to let him go after a few months.”

“Is Orchardson still around?”

“Are you kidding? He was sixty-three when he covered the Sadler story. He retired and moved away just before I married Connie. Haven't heard from him since he left Eclipse Bay. I remember him saying something about heading for Mexico or maybe Costa Rica where he could live like a king on his Social Security check while he wrote the great American novel. Doubt if he ever sobered up long enough to buy a computer and go to work, though.”

Rafe read through the first story that had appeared, searching for names other than his own. The first one that leaped out was Hannah's. He paused to study the short paragraph that had covered his alibi.

The words were simple enough, but they had cost Hannah a lot at the time, Rafe reflected. He could imagine what her parents had had to say about the events of that night. But that was Hannah for you. Not a woman to stay silent when she had something to say.

Jed leaned closer. “Something I've always wondered about…?”

The story jumped to an inside page. Rafe advanced the film. “Yeah?”

“Is talking really the only thing you and Hannah Harte did that night on the beach?”

Rafe leaned back and met Jed's eyes. “Yes.”

Jed straightened quickly and took a step back. He cleared his throat. “Hey, just a reporter's natural curiosity, you understand.”

Rafe turned back to the article and continued reading.

“Whatever happened to Chief Yates?” Rafe asked as he went on to the next story. “Is he still around?”

“Didn't you know? He died of a heart attack a couple of years ago.”

“Wonder if there's any way of getting a look at his old file on the case?”

“The new chief of police is named Sean Valentine. He's a solid guy. He'll probably let you look at the old files, but I doubt that you'll find anything. Orchardson went through them thoroughly at the time. I remember him saying that with you in the clear, there was no other viable suspect. He said he was fairly sure Kaitlin's death had been an accident or suicide.”

“I don't buy suicide,” Rafe said.

Jed shrugged. “Neither do I. But I can see her having a few drinks and losing her balance on that trail.”

“But what was she doing there on the trail in the first place?”

Jed considered for a moment. “Think maybe she went there to treat herself to a couple of beers after she ditched you?”

“I don't know. She didn't have any booze in the car when she dropped me off at the Arch, I can tell you that.”

“She could have picked someone up after she left you.”

“Yeah.” Rafe studied the article on the screen. “Maybe. But Kaitlin was not a big drinker.”

Jed crouched down behind the chair and rested an elbow on the back. He eyed the screen over Rafe's shoulder. “You're serious about this, aren't you?”

“Curious, not serious.”

“There's a difference?”

“I'm not sure,” Rafe admitted. He went back to the front page of the story he had been reading. He paused when he saw a night shot of the brightly lit facade of the Eclipse Bay Policy Studies Institute. “I see Thornley's big event at the think tank that night got squeezed below the fold.”

Jed made a face. “Don't remind me. My first big story, and I lost the lead because of the Sadler piece.”

Rafe followed the reception story to an inside page and found a photo of the crowd that had attended the Thornley reception. “Looks like most of Eclipse Bay was there.”

“Everyone in town was invited, but it was understood that if you went you were expected to donate to Thornley's campaign. That limited the guests to the upwardly mobile among us, the local movers and shakers, and the hustlers who felt they had a stake in getting Thornley elected.”

Rafe smiled slightly. “Not a lot of guys like me there, I take it?”

“Not that I recall.” Jed grinned. “I was the youngest person there, and the only reason I attended was because I was covering it for the paper.”

Rafe leaned back in the chair, thinking. “What time did the reception end?”

“I don't remember precisely. It ran late because Thornley was a little long-winded in those days. And because there was plenty of free booze.”

The lights had still been on at the institute when he walked Hannah home along Bayview Drive, Rafe thought. “So, it would probably be safe to say that everyone who attended the Thornley reception that night has a reasonably solid alibi.”

Jed slanted him a speculative glance. “Yes. I could probably dig up the old guest list if you want to look at it. As the only representative of the local media at the event, I'm sure I got a copy. It might be in my files. But Kaitlin didn't move in those circles, Rafe. Why would anyone from that crowd want to kill her?”

“Good question.” Rafe thought about the oversized lingerie, the high heels, and the videos that the Willis brothers claimed to have discovered behind Kaitlin's dryer. No point in mentioning them, he thought. He had nothing hard to go on yet. “You're right. There's nothing here, Jed. Sorry I wasted your time.”

“No problem,” Jed replied. “Keep me in mind if you get any other wild hairs, okay? This is a slow news town. I wouldn't mind a big exposé on the Sadler death, especially if it involves an eight-year cover-up. Pulitzers have been won on less.”

“Don't worry,” Rafe said. “If I get any more brainstorms, you'll be the first to know.”

“It was one of the more embarrassing moments of my life.” Hannah propped her heels on the ottoman, sank deeper into the brown leather sofa, and sipped glumly on the hot green tea Pamela had given her. “I couldn't believe that I was standing there in the front hall of Dreamscape, yelling at him. I know the Willis brothers were listening to every single word. The story will be all over town by now.”

Pamela, ensconced in the big recliner on the other side of the coffee table, curled one leg under herself. She wrapped her hands around her own mug and smiled wryly. “Very un-Harte-like.”

“Very.”

“One could almost call it outrageous. For a Harte, at any rate.”

A searing vision of her black bra lying on the staircase at Dreamscape flashed before Hannah's eyes. If Pamela only knew, she thought, just how outrageous she had been in the past twenty-four hours.

“I'm glad you find it so amusing,” Hannah muttered into her tea. “I'd like to remind you that half of Dreamscape belongs to me. I had a right to scream some when I realized what he was doing.”

“Of course you did.”

“You're not taking this seriously, are you?”

Pamela raised one brow in a very knowing fashion. “I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were.”

Both shoes had dropped last night before she even got upstairs, Hannah recalled. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You're involved in a sticky situation with a Madison,” Pamela said. “So far, all you've done is yell at him in front of witnesses. That may be a big scene for a Harte, but I doubt if it even ruffled Rafe Madison's hair. The question here is, What happens next?”

Hannah swallowed more tea and submerged herself deeper into the pool of gloom. “He's proposed a partnership in an inn and restaurant.”

“A partnership?” Pamela's eyes widened behind the lenses of her glasses. “You and Rafe Madison? Oh, my.”

“It's impossible, of course.”

“Of course.”

“It would never work.”

“Never in a million years. I can't even begin to imagine what your family would say about the notion of you and Rafe opening an inn together.”

“I prefer not to think about it.”

Pamela looked as though she was attempting to suppress a smile.

“What?” Hannah demanded.

“I'll say one thing about you and Rafe Madison,” Pamela murmured. “You two don't get together often, but when you do, it's never dull.”

The sound of a vehicle in the drive saved Hannah from having to come up with a response to that observation. Two small whirlwinds, both dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and miniature running shoes, blew into the front room. They flew toward the door. A massive beast that went by the wholly inappropriate name of Kitty followed in their wake.

Kitty was the reason Winston had remained at the cottage that afternoon. Kitty did not care for Winston. Hannah was fairly certain that the feeling was reciprocated. On the one occasion when Winston and Kitty had been introduced, she had caught Winston eyeing Kitty with a peculiar gleam in his eye. It was the same gleam that he got when he chased seagulls on the beach. For her part, Kitty had hissed and growled and generally made it clear that she was not a dog lover.

“Daddy's home, Daddy's home,” the whirlwind named Rose chanted happily as she stretched both hands overhead and tried to seize the doorknob.

Mark, Rose's older brother, grabbed the knob before she could get a grip on it. “I get to show him my new maze before you make him look at your stupid drawing.”

“My drawing isn't stupid.” Rose looked at Pamela for confirmation of her artistic ability. “It isn't stupid, is it, Mom?”

“It's beautiful,” Pamela assured her. “We're going to hang it on the refrigerator with the others just as soon as you finish it.”

Rose whirled back to her brother. “Told you so, you big dummy. You don't know what you're talking about.”

Pamela gave Hannah an amused glance. “I think she takes after me. Not at all reticent about standing up for herself.”

Hannah grinned. “It's so thrilling to see the genes pass down to another generation.”

“Ever think about producing your own little bundle of Hannah genes?”

Hannah watched the two children battle over who got to open the door for Brad. A pang of deep longing twisted through her. She gazed at Mark and imagined a little boy with Rafe's eyes. For the first time she wondered if her growing restlessness this past year had something to do with her ticking biological clock.

“Funny you should ask,” she said softly. “Of course, there's one small problem. I need more than just Hannah genes to create the final product.”

The front door opened, and Brad walked into the hall. He was a fair-haired man with earnestly intelligent eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. There was a deceptively quiet, deeply thoughtful way about him that belied a quick, razor-sharp brain. He was fashionably rumpled in what passed for academic chic. His button-down shirt and khaki trousers were both wrinkled. The loud, awkwardly knotted tie, scuffed leather shoes, and bulging book bag accented the young, professorial look.

He barely had time to wave a hand toward Hannah before the two whirlwinds and Kitty descended on him.

“Daddy, wait until you see the maze I built.”

“Daddy, Daddy, I want to show you my picture.”

Brad crouched to greet his children and the family cat. There was genuine pleasure on his face.

Hannah watched the intimate little family ritual of greeting daddy and was horrified when she detected a hint of dampness on her own lashes. She blinked hurriedly and looked away. What was wrong with her today? At this rate she would soon be an emotional basket case. She had to get a grip on herself. Pamela was watching her with gathering concern.

“Are you okay?” Pamela pitched her voice below the hubbub taking place in the front hall. “Something wrong?”

“No, of course not. I'm fine.” Hannah took a long, reviving swallow of tea. “I've been a little tense since the scene with Rafe this morning, that's all. I've got to do something about the problem of Dreamscape, Pam. The situation is a mess. It has to be resolved.”

It was Brad who responded. He wandered into the living room, Rose and Mark bobbing around his legs. “From what I heard this afternoon, Rafe Madison has his own plans for Dreamscape. What's going on? Are you going to sell him your half of the house?”

“He isn't offering to buy it,” Hannah said dryly. “He's proposing a partnership.”

Brad considered that. “Maybe he can't afford to buy out your half.”

“From what I can tell, money is not a problem for Rafe,” Hannah said.

Brad met her eyes. “Then what's the issue? Pamela has told me something about the history of the Hartes and the Madisons. I got the impression that there was no love lost between the two clans.”

“I'll admit that we haven't socialized much in the past three generations.”

“Why would Rafe Madison want to get involved in a business partnership with you?” Brad asked.

“Beats me.” Hannah decided it was time to change the subject. “How's tricks with you, Brad?”

“As a matter of fact, I have some good news. I got a call from the director of the institute this morning. He offered me the joint appointment. I start the first of the month.”

“Yahoo!”
Pamela leaped off the recliner and threw her arms around Brad. “Congratulations! I knew you'd get it.”

Brad grinned at Hannah over Pamela's head. “I think I may have had a little help from my friends. Rumor has it that Perry Decatur mysteriously withdrew his objection to the appointment.”

“That little S.O.B.” Pamela made a face. “I knew he was the one who was holding up the process. He's jealous as all get-out. He's afraid you're going to show him up for the lightweight he is once you're on the faculty there. Which you will, of course. Wonder what made him back off?”

“Why don't you ask Hannah?”

Pamela swung around, a hundred questions in her eyes. “What's going on?”

“Not much,” Hannah said mildly. “Perry asked me to attend the Thornley reception last night. He wanted to impress everyone at the institute with his contacts. You get the picture.”

“Got it,” Brad said. “The Hartes are one of the most important families in town. Having a representative from the family there last night would have been a coup for Decatur.”

“As it happened,” Hannah continued, “I discovered that a former Weddings by Harte client was also scheduled to attend the reception. Perry was angling to get him to endow a research fund at the institute.”

“Tom Lydd,” Brad said.

Hannah nodded. “You are good. Something tells me you'll go far at the institute.”

“And you had a word with Lydd, I take it?”

“All I did was mention that I knew the institute's selection committee had your name under consideration for a joint appointment and that you would make a wonderful addition to the faculty. Tom Lydd took it from there.”

Brad exhaled deeply. “Decatur must have blown a gasket.”

Pamela slapped a palm across her own mouth and then exploded with laughter. “A classic Harte tactical maneuver. Your folks would be so proud of you.”

“I owe you,” Brad said to Hannah. He looked serious.

“No, you don't.” She grinned, feeling somewhat cheered for the first time since the scene at Dreamscape that morning. “Perry Decatur owed me for something that happened eight years ago. It was payback time.”

Brad shook his head. “You Hartes sure do have long memories.”

Hannah wasn't sure that he meant it as a compliment.

She drove back to the cottage later that evening after sharing dinner with the McCallister family. The meal, with all its noise and chaos, had done wonders to improve her mood, she realized.

Maybe she could finally do some clearheaded thinking tonight. She needed to put things in perspective. Not that it was easy to gain any sort of real perspective on Rafe Madison. But the good news was that she was no longer feeling as unsettled as she had for the better part of the day. She was a Harte. As Pamela had reminded her, she was supposed to be good at strategic planning and tactics. Hartes did not allow themselves to get tangled up in messy emotions when it came to business. That was a Madison characteristic.

She had to start concentrating on the business aspects of Dreamscape. She could not allow Rafe to muddy the waters again.

Something told her that would be easier said than done. Madisons were very good at muddying things, she reflected as she pulled into the driveway in front of the darkened house.

She switched off the engine, climbed out from behind the wheel, and started toward the front door with a vaguely wistful sensation. She didn't have a loving husband and a couple of lively kids waiting to greet her, but at least she had Winston.

Faithful, loyal, lovable Winston.

She put her key in the lock and waited for the muted sounds of doggy welcome. But there was no muffled scratch of toenails on hardwood, no happy whine.

The first tingle of unease shot through her. Winston was an alert dog. His hearing was almost preternatural. Surely he had caught the sound of the car in the drive.

Quickly she unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped into the hall.

“Winston?”

There was no response.

“Winston? Where are you? Here, Winston. Look, I'm sorry about Kitty. I admit that I patted her on the head a couple of times, but that was all, I swear it.”

Winston did not come trotting around the corner.

She switched on a light and walked into the kitchen. Most of the water she had left in one of the twin stainless steel bowls on the floor was untouched. The expensive chewing bone had been abandoned under the table.

Unease turned to concern that was only a little shy of panic. Something was wrong.

“Winston?”

She hurried back into the living room and started up the stairs. Perhaps he had gotten himself trapped in a bedroom or a bathroom when a door had accidentally closed. Frantically she tried to think of reasons why an inside door would suddenly swing shut. A draft? But if Winston was locked in an upstairs room, why wasn't he barking furiously to let her know where he was?

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was running. A single glance down the hall showed her that all of the doors stood wide open.

She darted from room to room, checking under beds and inside closets. There was no sign of Winston.

It occurred to her that he must have somehow gotten out of the house on his own and wandered off. It was a very un-Winston-like thing to do, but for all his canine cleverness he was still a dog and dogs were born explorers.

She went slowly back downstairs and came to a halt once more in the hall, pondering the mystery of how he might have escaped the house. The front door had been locked when she returned. That left the kitchen door and the mudroom door.