Jayne Ann Krentz (21 page)

Hannah shivered. “Do you realize what we're saying here?”

“We're saying that Dell Sadler was right all along. Kaitlin didn't die in an accidental fall. And she sure as hell didn't jump off the Hidden Cove path. She was murdered by someone she was attempting to blackmail.”

Hannah took a breath. “We're making some huge assumptions here.”

He shrugged. “After what almost happened to you and Winston last night, I'm willing to take some very big leaps.”

“If we're right, someone murdered Kaitlin because she had possession of compromising videos.”

“The question is, who in this burg would have committed murder just to keep her quiet about an affair involving some frilly lingerie? Cross-dressing isn't that big a deal.”

“Come on, Rafe. You want possibilities? How about some desperate assistant professor at Chamberlain who might have been afraid that his chance at tenure was about to go up in smoke because of those videos? Or try a minister at a local church who would lose his congregation if his taste for ladies' underwear became public knowledge. And then there's the crowd up at the institute. Arizona Snow has always been convinced that there are some very unsavory characters up there. Maybe she's right.”

Rafe sank deeper into the leather seat. “You're right. A long list of possibilities.”

“Then there's the Willis brothers' theory that the killer was someone from out of town. Which gives us an even longer list.”

Rafe's dark brows met above his shades in a thoughtful frown. “Don't think so. Her decision to use her nuclear option, as Dell put it, was apparently an impulse. Her victim had to be someone she could reach on the spur of the moment that night. Not someone who had to be summoned from Portland or Seattle or Salem.”

“Makes sense.” Hannah pondered for a minute. “Okay, let's try this from another angle. Surely not everyone in Eclipse Bay is into ladies' lingerie. And not everyone here who is into women's underwear would commit murder to keep a blackmailer quiet.”

“Your point?”

“All we need to do is find out who fits the profile, as the cops say. Someone who is into female undies and who would also be willing to kill to get his hands on the compromising videos.”

“To do that we need to talk to someone who knows this town better than you and I do.”

“Got a name in mind?”

Rafe's mouth curved in a humorless smile. “As a matter of fact, I do. Our dinner guest tonight.”

Rafe rinsed the red radicchio leaves under running water and dropped them gently into the colander on top of the arugula and cilantro. Mentally he ran through his plans for the meal. Three carefully chosen ripe avocados sat in a bowl at the far end of the counter. He would cut them in half just before serving, spoon balsamic vinegar into the hollows and sprinkle them with some coarsely grated sea salt. The pasta would be a straightforward dish using olives and tomatoes and goat cheese.

When he finished rinsing the lettuce for the salad, he went to work on the hummus. He tossed a sizable quantity of cooked garbanzo beans into the food processor and added tahini, lemon juice, and a bit of garlic.

He snapped on the lid, flipped the switch, and thought about what Dell Sadler had said while he listened to the pleasant sound of garbanzos being pulverized.
Kaitlin had intended to use her nuclear option.

A killer who had thought himself in the clear for the past eight years might have reason to worry now that the old gossip was being dredged up and rehashed all over town. What if someone remembered something important after all this time? What if someone put two and two together in a way that hadn't been done eight years ago? What if someone had seen something that night and belatedly realized that it was a clue?

A murderer who had struck once to keep his secret might be willing to strike again.

A cold feeling closed in on Rafe. The dread that he had been holding at bay all day broke through the dam, and he was suddenly dealing with a nightmarish river. The question he had not raised with Hannah, the one that had been plaguing him for hours, could no longer be avoided.

That question was horrifyingly simple: What if Winston had not been the main target last night? Maybe the attack on the dog had never been intended as a warning. Maybe the Schnauzer had been set out on the finger as bait to lure Hannah into danger. If she had arrived home as little as half an hour later, rescuing Winston would have put her in great jeopardy. The force of the incoming tide could have swept her feet out from under her, perhaps dashed her against the rocks.

He thought about how she had taken Winston into the caves because she had sensed someone watching her from the cliff path. What if the killer had been hanging around, watching to see if his plans were going to work out as he'd intended? What if he had waited on the cliff path with the intention of making certain that Hannah and Winston never made it back from the cove alive?

What if?

Rafe switched off the food processor and removed the lid. He could not afford to take any more chances, he thought as he scooped out the fragrant hummus. Tonight he would have to take drastic steps. He would never be able to sleep if he didn't.

At six-thirty that evening, he picked up the tray of hors d'oeuvres. Winston, who had been supervising the final kitchen preparations with an expression of mingled wistfulness and lust, got to his feet.

“Here you go, mutt.” Rafe tossed him a slice of pita bread slathered in hummus. “Chef's privilege.”

Winston gnawed happily on the tidbit as he hurried after Rafe. Together they crossed the hall toward the sunroom, where Hannah and Mitchell were sharing a glass of wine and the view of evening fog moving in over the bay.

Rafe glanced at the bowl of hummus and pita toast points arranged on the tray, double-checking the visual appeal of the hors d'oeuvres. The trickle of uneasiness he felt was disconcerting. He was usually confident of his cooking. He knew he had a keen sense of how to blend flavors into intriguing combinations and a flair for presentation. He had planned this meal with great care. He knew everything was perfect. It was the first time he had ever cooked for Mitchell, and he did not want any screwups.

Mitchell's low growl stopped him just as he was about to enter the room.

“…Don't you worry. Rafe will do right by you,” Mitchell said. “I'll see to it.”

Rafe froze in the doorway. Winston stopped, too, cocking his head with an inquiring look.

“What the heck does that mean?” Hannah sounded baffled and more than a little wary. “Are you going to force him to give up his claim on this house?”

“Never could force that bullheaded boy to do anything he didn't want to do, and I'm pretty sure he won't give up Dreamscape. Seems to have his heart set on turning it into an inn and a restaurant.”

“He certainly does.” Hannah's voice was clipped.

“When a Madison's got his heart set on something,” Mitchell warned with gruff gentleness, “it isn't easy persuading him to change course.”

“That's what I've heard.”

“He's got the cash to make it happen. Made himself a bundle in the market, you know.” Mitchell sighed. “Always did have a head for business.”

“Apparently.” Hannah's tone was becoming grim.

“Barring a tsunami or an earthquake or a volcanic eruption that wipes out this section of the coast, I reckon Rafe will see his plans through.” Mitchell paused. “Thing is, he's a lot like me when it comes to going after what he wants.”

Hannah was quiet for a time. Rafe realized that his hands were clenched around the handles of the hors d'oeuvres tray. He could not seem to move through the doorway. He was waiting for something, but he was not sure what that something was.

“So what did you mean when you said you'd see to it that he would do right by me?” Hannah asked eventually.

“Lord above, woman, don't play dumb with me. There isn't any such thing as a dumb Harte, and we both know it. I'm talking about marriage, naturally.”

“Marriage!”
Hannah's voice rose to a shrill squeak. “Rafe and me?”

“Well, sure. What did you think I was talking about?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Hear me out, now, Hannah. I've been doing a lot of thinking about this, and I'm pretty sure I can swing it.”

“Pretty sure?
Pretty sure?
”

“Okay, damn sure. Pardon my language. Not quite the same thing as making him give up Dreamscape, of course. That would be a real case of hitting my head against a brick wall. But this fear of marriage that he's got, that's just a case of bad nerves.”

“Nerves,” Hannah repeated in a dazed voice.

“Right. He's convinced that Madison men have a bad time with marriage.”

“Well, you do have a history of disastrous marriages in your clan,” Hannah muttered. “And Rafe has already screwed up once.”

“Okay, so he made one little mistake.”

“Little?”

“These things happen.”

“You ought to know,” Hannah said much too sweetly. “How many times have you been married, Mr. Madison?”

“Don't go tagging Rafe with my lousy track record. I admit that for a long time after Claudia Banner took off with the assets of Harte-Madison, I didn't think real clearly when it came to women. Had a few problems.”

“That's putting it mildly, from what I understand.”

Mitchell made a rude sound. “Can't blame you for your opinion. You've been brought up to think the worst of me. I know that Sullivan has fed you a lot of wild stories over the years. What I'm trying to tell you is that Rafe and I are alike in a lot of ways but not in every way.”

“If you say so.”

“If that isn't just like a Harte,” Mitchell said heatedly. “Throw a man's mistakes back in his face and don't bother to give him a chance to put things right. You got a lot in common with your granddad, young woman.”

“I think we're straying from the point here.”

“Look, that divorce wasn't Rafe's fault. Don't hold it against him. He learned from it.”

“Uh-huh. From what I can gather, he learned that he doesn't want to get married again,” Hannah said dryly.

“Exactly what I'm trying to tell you,” Mitchell said quickly. “Like I said, I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I've figured out Rafe's problem. He's got some sort of phobia about marriage, see.”

“You've concluded that he's afraid of marriage?” Hannah's voice was oddly weak.

“Right.” Mitchell sounded pleased that she had grasped the point so readily. “The way some folks are scared of spiders or snakes.”

“A charming analogy.”

“I can sort of see how it happened,” Mitchell continued earnestly. “I got to admit I didn't set a good example for Sinclair, and things trickled on down to Rafe. But I figure I can get him past it. Figure I owe him that much, since it was me who was responsible for this phobia thing in the first place.”

“How do you intend to do that?” Hannah's voice was stronger now, infused with morbid curiosity. “Get out your shotgun and march him to the altar?”

Rafe felt as though he'd been turned into a block of solid marble.

“Is that what you want?” Mitchell asked ingenuously.

“Good grief,
no
. Of course not.”

Rafe winced. Did she have to sound so positively negative about the idea?

“It might take a little push from me,” Mitchell allowed reflectively. “When it comes to phobias, sometimes you've got to force folks to face up to 'em.”

“You just told me that force didn't work well with Rafe.”

“I'm thinking more in terms of applying a little pressure in the right spots.”

“As it happens,” Hannah said, sweet, sharp steel in every syllable, “I'm in the business of getting people married, and I can tell you that making a marriage work is hard enough when both parties go into it enthusiastically. Any marriage forged by outside pressure would be doomed before the vows even got said.”

“You're too young to be so pessimistic,” Mitchell complained.

“Mitchell, I'm sure you mean well, but the very last thing I want to do is marry a man who doesn't want to get married. Are we clear on that?”

“Now don't let Rafe's bad nerves put you off the notion,” Mitchell replied. “It's true the Madison men have a lousy track record when it comes to marriage, but the right woman could change all that.”

“Why do you want to change it?” Hannah demanded, thoroughly exasperated now. “What is this all about, anyway? Why do you want Rafe and me to get married?”

Still stuck in the doorway, Rafe waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Because it's the right thing to do,” Mitchell snapped, evidently out of patience himself. “It's the only way to stop people from talking.”

“Since when did you start worrying about local gossip?” Hannah asked.

“There's gossip and there's gossip,” Mitchell declared. “Everyone in town is saying he's carrying on with you because he wants to get his hands on the other half of this place. That's a damned lie. Reminds me of the talk that went around town the night Kaitlin Sadler died. All those rumors about how he'd seduced you just to get himself an alibi. Pure garbage.”

“They certainly were,” Hannah said quietly.

“Hell, I know that.” Mitchell's voice rang with conviction. “Rafe had nothing to do with that poor girl's death. Madison men got problems when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex, but no Madison man has ever laid a hand on a woman in anger. No man in this family would ever assault a female, by God. And no Madison would seduce an innocent girl like you to cover his own tracks, and that's a fact.”

A loud silence gripped the sunroom.

“I know that,” Hannah said quietly.

Rafe remembered to take a breath.

“I'm not saying Rafe might not have argued with Kaitlin Sadler,” Mitchell continued. “He's a Madison. He's got a temper. But if he had been with Kaitlin that night and if there had been some terrible accident, he'd have gone for help and then he'd have told the flat-out truth about what happened.”

“I know that, too,” Hannah said again. Her voice was very even. “I'm a Harte, remember? Lord knows that we're well aware that Madisons have their faults, but no one in my family has ever accused anyone in your clan of lying.”

“Damn right,” Mitchell agreed.

Rafe glanced down at the tray of hummus and pita bread points he held. Mitchell had believed him all those years ago. The old man disapproved of just about everything he'd ever done in his life, but he had never doubted Rafe's word about what had happened the night Kaitlin Sadler died.

Rafe discovered that he could move again. He walked into the sunroom and set the tray down on a table. He noticed that Hannah's cheeks were flushed. She avoided his eyes. He knew she was wondering how much of the conversation he had overheard.

“The hummus looks wonderful,” she said a little too brightly.

“Thanks.” Rafe picked up the small glass pitcher of very good, very expensive olive oil that sat on the tray. He poured a liberal stream of the rich, fruity oil over the hummus.

“What's that?” Mitchell studied the hummus with curiosity. “Some kinda bean dip?”