Land's End (5 page)

Heartbeat accelerating, she scurried toward her car, key out and ready. It was probably nothing, but she'd feel better when she was in her car, the doors locked. She'd—

She stopped, staring at her car. It seemed to sag listlessly. No wonder. All four of the tires had been slashed.

For a moment she stood, raging silently. Then common sense kicked in. Whoever had done this could still be nearby. The thought of that footstep sent her scrambling into the safety of the car. She couldn't drive away, but she could lock the doors and call the police.

 

It took fifteen minutes by her watch for the police car to pull into the lot. In that time no one came out of or went into the tavern. She might have been alone in the world. But someone had been there. Someone who'd slashed her tires in a mute, pointed warning. Who had an interest in doing that but Trent?

She unlocked the door as the uniformed officer approached.

“Miz Wainwright?” The beam of his powerful torch swept from one tire to another. “Looks like you got yourself in some trouble here.”

She got out, facing him. He was older than the young patrolman she'd seen at the station, his face lined with resignation, as if he'd seen everything there was to see and no longer thought he could make a difference.

“Someone slashed my tires while I was inside.”

He glanced toward the tavern. “Seems like a funny place for a lady to be.”

She stiffened. His implication was clear. Her troubles were her own fault, for coming to such a place. “I was supposed to meet a friend here. I assume it's against the law to slash my tires, no matter where I happen to park.”

“Yes, ma'am, it sure is, but I doubt I'll be able to find out who did it. Folks who frequent Haller's don't confide much in the cops. Still, I'll try.” He gestured. “Maybe you'd like to wait in the patrol car. I'll give you a lift home, and you can have the garage come out and take care of your car.”

She didn't have much choice. She climbed into the front seat of the patrol car, not caring to sit in back like a felon. She caught a glimpse of the interior of the bar as the officer swung the door open. The faces turned toward him didn't look particularly welcoming.

He was back in a suspiciously short time. She rubbed her forehead. Or maybe she was the suspicious one, creating enemies where they didn't exist. She had enough real ones that she didn't need to invent any.

She tried to muster a smile as he climbed into the driver's seat. “Any luck?”

He shook his head, turning the ignition key. “No, ma'am. They was like the three monkeys, you know. See no evil—”

“I know,” she said shortly. He was clearly amused at his own joke. “So you didn't find out anything.”

“Well, Joe Findley did say he saw a car pull in and then out again quick, but Joe'd been hitting the bottle pretty hard. You don't want to pay too much attention to what old Joe says.”

She wasn't as quick to dismiss it as he was. “Did this Joe say what the car looked like?”

He shrugged, his shoulders moving uneasily as he pulled back onto the road. “Said it was a big car. A big gray car.”

A big gray car. Like Trent's Rolls. Had he thought of that, dismissed it so quickly because he didn't want to tangle with Trent?

Words bubbled up, but she suppressed them. It would do no good to argue with the patrolman. The person she needed
to confront about this was Trent. And that probably wouldn't do any good, either.

By the time the patrol car swung into the driveway at the Lee house, she felt too wiped out to confront anyone about anything. With any luck, Jonathan and Adriana would never know she'd come home in a police car.

The car stopped in front of the cottage, and she slid out with a word of thanks. The cruiser rolled quickly away, leaving her alone in the still night. The cop hadn't had to ask her where she was staying. He'd known. Probably everyone on the island knew by now. St. James was Trent's fiefdom, and she'd best remember that.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside, sagging with weariness. She'd have to call about the car. Switching on lights, she crossed to the bedroom. She'd call from the phone there.

Kicking off her shoes in the doorway, she took one step into the room and stopped. Her stomach clenched as if she'd been punched.

A hurricane might have swept through, ripping apart everything it passed. Clothes, makeup, everything she'd brought with her had been strewn over the furniture, ripped and crumpled. Nothing had been spared.

It took several minutes for the shock to subside enough that she could start thinking. Then she realized the desolation extended only to her things. Nothing that belonged to the Lees had been touched.

She picked up a coral cotton sweater. It had been one of her favorites. Not any longer. A jagged tear rent it nearly in half. She dropped it as if it burned her fingers. It had been cut. With a knife.

A shudder rocked her, and the room seemed to shift. A knife. Probably the same knife that had slashed her tires had
slashed her clothing, too. The sheer malevolence of the act twisted inside her. How could anyone—

Not anyone
. The sick feeling escalated to active nausea. Trent. Trent was the only one who wanted her off the island. The slashing of her tires at the tavern could have been a random act of vandalism, aimed at no one in particular. This couldn't. This was deliberate. Ugly and deliberate.

She pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to still the waves of nausea. She had to think. Had to decide what to do. Tell Jonathan?

She supposed she must, but she shrank from what would inevitably follow. He would call the police, but what could or would they do?

The doorbell jangled, and her hand dropped away from the phone. Probably Jonathan. If he'd seen the police car, he'd come to find out what was going on. She'd have to show him.

She crossed the living room quickly. Nothing had been touched here, because nothing in this room belonged to her. The intruder must have realized that.

How had he gotten in? She hadn't noticed any sign that the door had been tampered with. Obviously Jonathan's security wasn't as good as he'd thought. Either that, or someone in the Lee household was involved. No, she couldn't believe that.

Her hand closed on the knob, cool against her palm. She turned it, swung the door open.

It wasn't Jonathan. It was Trent.

For an instant all she could do was stare at him. Then fury swamped her, sweeping away the sick hopeless feeling and replacing it with bright, bracing anger. She lifted her head and glared at him.

Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “What is it, Trent? Weren't you content with destroying everything I brought to the island? Did you have to come and survey the results of your handiwork? Did you need to see for yourself?”

T
rent could only stare at Sarah. She might as well be speaking a foreign language for all the sense her statement made. He lifted an eyebrow.

“I suppose you know what you're talking about. I certainly don't.”

He'd come here prepared to offer an inducement for her to leave—he'd answer her questions, and he'd make the police turn over all the reports. He hadn't come so she could accuse him of whatever it was that had her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with anger.

Sarah planted her fists on her hips, looking as if she'd rather use them on him. “Your innocence is a bit overdone. If you think this will make me leave, you're sadly mistaken.”

He'd seen the flash of anger in her eyes before, when they'd argued about the clinic, but she'd never been quite so outspoken. Because he'd been her husband's employer then, he supposed. Now she probably felt she had nothing to lose.

She hadn't invited him in, but he stepped over the threshold anyway. Her anger was affecting him, and he couldn't have that. He needed a level head when he dealt with her.

“I repeat—I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe
you'd explain first, so I know what it is I'm supposed to have done.”

For a moment longer she glared at him. Then she whirled and headed toward the bedroom door. “This way.”

He followed, close on her heels. Reached the door, stopped, looked. And felt a wave of revulsion strong enough to rock him back on his heels.

“Sarah, I'm sorry. When did this happen?”

She didn't answer. She just looked at him.

“Oh, right, I forgot. I'm supposed to have done this, so naturally I'd know when it happened.” The anger he felt that she thought him capable of this was probably irrational. “You can't seriously believe I'd do this.”

“You'd have me kicked out of my hotel at a ridiculous hour of night, leaving me homeless, you'd have my tires slashed, but destroying my belongings is a line you wouldn't cross. Hmm, why don't I buy that?”

She might have a point, but—“What are you talking about? When were your tires slashed?”

For a moment he thought she wouldn't answer. The gaze from those green eyes was hot enough to scald.

“Tonight,” she said shortly. “An hour or so ago, while my car was parked outside Haller's Tavern.”

“What were you doing there?” He seized on the one piece of information he understood. “That's a rough crowd.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Apparently not, if someone slashed your tires.” The image that evoked was too vivid. A startlingly strong wave of protectiveness swept through him.

Ridiculous. He couldn't afford to feel protective toward Sarah, of all people. And she certainly wouldn't welcome it from him.

“I didn't need to worry about the rough crowd, did I? The trouble came from another source.”

It was a good thing she managed to irritate him with every other word. It counteracted that absurd sense that he ought to take care of her.

“I did not slash your tires.”

“You were seen.”

“What?” That punch came out of nowhere.

“Your car, anyway. The big, expensive gray Rolls. So either you did it. Or he did.” She jerked a nod, glancing past him toward the living room door that still stood open. “It's the same thing, isn't it?”

He turned. Farrell lounged in the doorway, watching them. The man wore an odd, avid expression that turned his stomach. It couldn't be true. But even as he thought the words, he realized he wasn't sure.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, propelled by…what? The need to prove her wrong? Or the fear that she was right?

“Is that true? Did you do this?” He swept a hand toward the chaos behind them in the bedroom.

Farrell straightened at his approach. “No, sir. I don't know what she's been telling you, but I wouldn't do anything like this. That'd be breaking and entering, destruction of property. I draw the line at that.”

“Do you?” His voice went soft, cold. He recognized that evasion for what it was. “You wouldn't come into the cottage, but you'd slash Dr. Wainwright's tires?” Small wonder Sarah had sneered at his attempt to separate one action from another. He felt the same way.

Farrell darted a glance from him to Sarah and back again.
“Not saying I did anything, but maybe Miz Wainwright ought to be more careful where she goes.”

Something about the snide tone went right through the control he'd thought he had. His hands shot out and grabbed the man's shirt almost before he realized what he was doing.

“
Dr.
Wainwright,” he snapped. “You refer to Dr. Wainwright in a respectful way, understand?” His grip tightened. “Now tell me the truth, before I—”

He stopped, appalled. Was he really offering the man violence? He let go. Sometimes it seemed his anger had been bubbling beneath the surface since Lynette died. This act had brought it surging out.

Farrell took a careful step back, straightening his shirt. A sulky look replaced the sneer.

“Not saying I did, but what if I had? Maybe I prowled around outside here, just to keep an eye on things. Maybe I messed with the tires. So what? The cops won't be interested.”

He could only stare at the man. Farrell had admitted it. He'd actually slashed Sarah's tires, and he stood there acting as if it were all in a day's work.

“Why?” The fury returned, full force, and he clenched his fists to keep from grabbing Farrell again. “Who told you to do such a thing?”

Farrell looked at him blankly. “You did. You wanted her gone. It was my job to make that happen. I only did what you wanted me to do.”

 

Sarah wasn't sure how to take what she was seeing. Trent's shock and anger seemed real enough, but she didn't believe for a minute that she could accept anything he said or did at face value. He was too good at hiding his feelings.

“Let me understand this.” His voice had dropped until it
was a low, even pitch, but that didn't make it any less deadly. His tone was so icy that it was a wonder Farrell didn't stiffen into a frozen block. “You heard me say I wanted Dr. Wainwright to leave the island, so you thought that gave you carte blanche to commit criminal acts to make that happen.”

Farrell moved restlessly, his gaze evading Trent's. Hardly surprising—she wouldn't want to meet those frigid eyes, either.

“I just did what I thought you wanted me to do,” he mumbled.

“Wrong on all counts, but I suppose that's what I should expect from an incompetent imbecile.”

Farrell's head snapped up at that. “Hey, I—”

“Quiet.” Trent still didn't raise his voice, but he didn't need to. His scorn could flay a person without that. “You're fired. Get out of my sight and off my island.”

“But—”

Trent extended his hand, palm up. “Give me your keys.”

“Listen, I didn't mean anything. I thought I was doing what you wanted me to do.” He glanced at her. “I'll apologize to Miz—Dr. Wainwright. But you can't fire me just like that.”

Trent moved slightly, as if he'd block the man from looking at her. “I don't tolerate criminals in my employ. The keys.” His tone left no room for argument.

Farrell stared at him for a moment longer, looking baffled. Then he yanked a ring of keys from his pocket and thrust them at Trent.

“That's not the end of this. I got rights.”

“You broke the law. Consider yourself lucky not to be under arrest.”

Trent turned away, giving the door a nudge. It shut in Farrell's face.

Sarah sucked in a breath. For a moment she'd thought
Trent would actually hit the man, his fury had been so palpable. And the way Farrell had looked…

“Maybe you should call the police,” she said. “He might—”

“I don't need the police to deal with a coward like Farrell.” Trent's gaze met hers. “But I suppose I have been a little high-handed. You certainly have every right to press charges against him. I hope you won't, for obvious reasons, but I won't stand in your way.”

But her anger had disappeared sometime in the past few minutes. All she felt now was distaste, and an urge to have this business behind her. “That would only generate publicity that neither of us wants.”

She thought there was relief in his gray eyes, but she couldn't be sure.

“I'll make restitution for your losses, of course.”

“You don't need to. It wasn't your fault.”

His eyebrows lifted. “I'm glad you accept that. Nevertheless, it's my responsibility. Farrell was in my employ. I'll take care of it.”

She was too tired to go on arguing about it. She wanted to fall into bed and sleep for ten hours straight, but she had too much to do to indulge in that luxury.

“All right. Whatever you want.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead, trying to think what to do first. “If you'll excuse me, I've got to clean up this mess.”

She expected him to leave, but instead he followed her to the bedroom. He bent to pick up a pair of slacks.

“What are you doing?”

“I said I'd take responsibility for this.”

She took the slacks from him, shaking them out. They were crumpled, but at least they'd escaped the knife. “There's
nothing you can do here.” She certainly didn't want him picking up her clothing.

“I have to help.” He stood there, looking oddly hesitant. That had to be a first, for Trent Donner not to know what to do.

“You can figure out how I'm going to explain all this to Jonathan. He was already unhappy enough with the situation.”

She picked up a sleep shirt. It had been slit from neckline to hem. A shudder ran through her. No, she definitely didn't want Trent to help. She dropped it into the wastebasket.

She glanced at Trent. He stared at the wastebasket, an odd expression on his face. He caught her watching him and produced a half smile.

“As far as Jonathan's concerned, you can just blame me.”

“It wasn't your fault. And Jonathan already hates being on the outs with you.”

“It was my fault.” His face tightened. “I should have realized what kind of man Farrell was. I should have been more careful what I said in front of him.”

“People in power have to be careful of what they wish for. Someone might try to make it come true.” She wondered if he really understood the amount of power he wielded.

“Is your car still at the tavern?” he asked abruptly.

She nodded. “It wasn't going anywhere on four flats. I'll have to call a garage.”

“I'll take care of it.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “I can do that, at least.” He stepped into the living room, and she heard the murmur of his voice, giving orders.

Trent was used to giving orders, used to having them obeyed. Doubt flickered. Could she really accept that he hadn't known what Farrell was up to?

He reappeared, pocketing the cell phone. “That's taken care of. I've been thinking about what's best for you to do.
Assuming you are still determined to stay on the island, that is?” He raised his eyebrows.

“You can assume that, yes.”

“Then I think you should move to Land's End.”

She could only stare at him. “Move to Land's End,” she repeated. Trent's compound, a combination of home and business headquarters, occupied one entire end of the island. “But—why would you want me to do that? You're the one who had me thrown out of my hotel.”

“You're not going to let me forget that, are you?” The sudden warmth of his smile took her breath away.

“No. I mean—” She tried to regroup. “Unless Jonathan decides I'm too much trouble, I'm fine here.”

He frowned. “You're not safe here. That should be evident.”

“With Farrell gone, I'm not in danger.”

His frown deepened. “Farrell didn't admit to having done this.”

“Did you think he was telling the truth?”

“I don't know.” He sounded reluctant to make the admission. “But I don't want to find out the hard way.”

“What about your daughter? How will you explain my presence?”

“We often have people staying at the house. Melissa is used to that.”

She looked down at the crumpled blouse she held. A knife had slashed it, just as a knife had slashed her tires. Surely Farrell had done both, whether he admitted it or not. If not—

If not, someone else had a reason to want to scare her off. A chill seemed to settle deep inside her. That would imply that there was more to Miles's and Lynette's deaths than she'd imagined. No, she couldn't believe that.