Left for Dead (17 page)

“Okay, I promise.”

“Ever since Claire Shaw was found, things at the Castles’ house have only gotten worse. Much worse.”

Tim stared at her. “Do you—have any idea why that is?”

Yolanda shook her head. “You’re the police detective, Maybe you can find out. Like I say, just don’t quote me.” She smiled and started rolling up the window. “Good luck, officer.”

Then she said something in Spanish to Virgilio, and the pickup began to pull away. Tim watched the truck go down the hill, then disappear around a curve.

“What’s the last thing you remember before waking up in the hospital?”

“Oh, God, the doctors asked me that same question so many times, and it never worked. I’m sorry. I can’t remember the ‘jumping off point.’” Claire shook her head at Dr. Moorehead.

They sat across from each other in his office, which was above a florist just off Main Street. Dr. Linus Moorehead, psychiatrist, had his diplomas displayed—along with a couple of Monet prints—on the sea-foam green walls. There was a fake ficus tree behind his desk, and another by the file cabinet. He’d given Claire a choice where to sit: the cream-colored sofa or one of the two tan club chairs facing each other. She’d chosen a club chair.

The doctors at the hospital had recommended these sessions, and Harlan had scheduled this one before she’d even come home. Linus Moorehead was the only psychiatrist and therapist on the island. Claire had never gone to Dr. Moorehead before. But for a while, at Harlan’s urging, they’d sent Brian to him.

Brian had gone to him three times before begging his mother, “Please don’t make me go back to that dork. I promise I’ll never get into trouble again.”

Apparently, in their last session, Dr. Moorehead had given Brian a homework assignment. He’d wanted him to buy a poster board and tape, then cut words and photos from some old magazines. “He wants me to make a collage of my life,” Brian had complained. “How bogus is that?”

Moorehead reported to Harlan and Claire that Brian had been
“guarded, hostile, and uncooperative.”
The psychiatrist hadn’t had much luck with Derek Herrmann either, and the Herrmanns had sent their son to him for three months.

Claire figured Dr. Moorehead wasn’t very adept with teenage boys. She’d hoped he would fare better with her, and he wouldn’t make her do any collages.

Moorehead certainly had an edge with women. He was in his late thirties, with wavy, sand-colored hair and a goatee. He had a penchant for turtlenecks and tweed jackets, which made him look like a sexy English professor or author.

Sitting across from Claire, he studied her with a slightly pained look. “So you have no memory whatsoever of that time?” he asked. “No fragments or images that you can recall?”

Claire sighed. “One memory keeps coming back to me. I’m with Linda Castle in the front seat of this car, and someone is coming at us from outside. He has a gun. I’m terrified, and Linda’s nervous too. She tells me to pray. That’s all I can remember.”

“Did you talk about this with Linda?”

Claire nodded. “She said it never happened, and I must have dreamt it. But I don’t believe her.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s the one memory I have, the one real thing that I can hold onto. Everything else seems—manufactured. Linda and Harlan are filling in the blanks, and I don’t believe them.”

“I’ll ask you again, Claire,” he said, leaning forward. “Why? What have they done to deserve your mistrust? Is there an incident or time when Linda Castle hasn’t been a loyal friend to you? Hasn’t Harlan been a good husband?”

Sighing, Claire squirmed in the chair. “I can’t explain it. But they’re like strangers to me now. I feel so lonely and lost here without my son. I miss him. Believe it or not, I almost wish I were back in the hospital. I made a couple of friends there, another patient, a woman named Tess, and this nurse, Sherita. I could really talk to them. I miss them very much.”

“Is there anyone here on the island you feel close to?” he asked.

Claire shrugged. “My stepdaughter, Tiffany.”

“I mean, someone you can talk with, someone you can trust.”

“There’s one person—maybe,” Claire replied, glancing down at the tan carpet. She couldn’t look at Dr. Moorehead. She didn’t want to tell him about Tim Sullivan. She wasn’t totally certain she could even rely on the young cop. She’d asked for his help based on a hunch—and a little hope—that he was a decent guy. If he couldn’t help her, she’d be all alone.

“Can you tell me about this person, Claire?” the psychiatrist asked.

She bit her lip, then shook her head.

“Why not?” he asked.

Claire crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

There weren’t many flowers blooming in the cool of November, but the Platt Gardens Plaza had plenty of interesting plants and trees. Tim was pretty certain Linda Castle had selected the gnome statues, old-fashioned park benches, and bird baths situated just off the brick path winding through the gardens.

He saw a young woman coming out of the greenhouse, and asked where he might find Linda Castle. She pointed to someone kneeling in front of some neatly trimmed hedges. A spade in her gloved hand, the woman had a box of tulip bulbs at her side. She wore a sailor hat with the brim turned down, jeans and a lavender pullover that had
‘HOE, HOE, HOE!’
written on the back.

“Mrs. Castle?” Tim said, approaching her from behind.

“Yes?” she replied, not look up from her work.

“I’m Tim Sullivan. I’m a policeman—from Seattle.” He had his wallet out to show her his badge, but she didn’t turn around.

Linda hesitated for a moment. Then she went back to digging with the spade. “Are you one of the officers they sent over here as insurance—or extra protection, or whatever?”

“Yes, I’m here for whatever,” Tim said, putting away his wallet. “I stopped by your house, and ran into your cleaning woman, Yolanda. She said you might be here.”

“Tim Sullivan,”
she mused aloud. “Aren’t you the young officer Mr. Shaw had some words with not too long ago? You must be a glutton for punishment to come around here.”

Linda finally glanced up over her shoulder to smirk at him. She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her glove.

“That incident with Mr. Shaw was just a misunderstanding,” Tim explained, squatting so he was at her eye-level. “It’s all cleared up now.”

“Well, isn’t that nice?” she said, turning away and going back to her gardening.

“Speaking of misunderstandings,” Tim continued. “There are some things I don’t quite understand about your Seattle shopping trip with Mrs. Shaw two weeks ago. I was hoping you could help out with a detail or two.”

Linda sighed. “I’ve already been through this with you people—ad nauseam—last week. I can’t believe you want me to go over it again.”

“Well, this is kind of off the record,” Tim said. “We already have the facts. What I’m really after here is your perspective, your honest opinion.”

She stopped digging, and gave him a dubious look. “My opinion?”

Nodding, he smiled. “For starters, I was wondering what you really think of Claire’s son, Brian.”

“He’s an obnoxious brat, a delinquent,” she replied. “Is that honest enough for you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Tim said, numbly staring at her.

“Do you know what he and that worthless friend of his, Derek Herrmann, did one night this summer? Those little bastards broke in here, and stole my French gnome…” She pointed to a figurine with her spade. “In its place, those two bastards planted a toilet. Yes, a toilet! They desecrated this beautiful park. And do you know where the police finally found my gnome?”

Trying to keep a straight face, Tim shook his head.

“In the men’s room at Lyle’s Stop and Sip Gas Station, that’s where. I suppose they thought it was very funny.”

“Wow, that—that’s really awful,” Tim managed to say. “I guess you must be glad Derek’s off in Europe now. He left rather suddenly, didn’t he?”

“Suddenly, but not soon enough.” Linda said, turning toward the garden again.

“And now Brian’s gone too. I guess your gnomes are safe for a while.”

“Is that all you wanted to ask me about, Officer Sullivan?” she asked.

“No, I wanted your opinion on something else too. I really appreciate your honesty so far, Mrs. Castle. Do you—” He hesitated. “Do you think Claire Shaw is a good mother?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him for a moment. “I suppose Claire has tried her best with Brian.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little odd that she’d go out of town on a shopping spree the day after her only son has run away from home?”

Linda’s eyes narrowed at him.

“I can’t imagine her going away like that,” Tim said. “If she was really and truly worried about him, wouldn’t she have stayed home?”

“Claire didn’t want to take the trip,” Linda answered, an edge in her tone. “That’s in my statement to the police. I persuaded Claire to go, and I don’t feel too good about it, considering what happened to her while we were in Seattle.”

Linda tossed the spade in the box of tulip bulbs. “I feel partially responsible for what happened. And I get sick when I think about it too much—or talk about it.”

She straightened up and faced him. “How’s that for ‘honest’?” she asked coolly. “Now, do you have any other questions?”

“Not so much a question as an observation,” he said carefully.

Linda pulled at the Velcro on the back of her knee pads, and took them off. “Go on, I’m listening.”

“You’ll probably see it on the news tonight. They found another victim of the Rembrandt murders. Her name was Terrianne Langley. I submitted a Missing Persons report to my superior about Terrianne last week. They estimate she was abducted around the same time you lost Claire Shaw in the department store.”

Linda took off her gardening gloves. “I’m sorry to hear about this—Terrianne person. But I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”

“Terrianne was married,” Tim continued. “She was meeting a boyfriend—also married—at the Westhill Towers in Seattle two Saturdays ago. To keep her husband in the dark, Terrianne had a cover story worked out with her best friend…”

Linda was shaking her head. “I still don’t see how any of this—”

“The cover story was,” Tim talked over her, “that Terrianne was joining her friend in Seattle for the weekend, and they were going shopping. Doesn’t that strike you as an odd coincidence? The best friend’s cover story is almost identical to yours.”

She gave him a wary sidelong glance. “You’re right, officer. It’s an odd coincidence. I don’t know this Terrianne woman, and I don’t know her friend. Our stories may be somewhat similar, but there’s one major difference. The other story was a lie. My story really happened. It’s the truth.”

Tim didn’t say anything, but he smiled and shook his head at her.

“I’m really not sure what you’re insinuating,” Linda said. “In any event, this conversation is over, Officer Sullivan. I don’t want to be
off the record
with you any more.” She tossed her gloves and knee pads into the tulip bulb box, then scooped it up.
“For the record,
now I realize how you rubbed Harlan the wrong way. And I totally agree with Harlan’s first impression of you. I’ll be sure to tell him so. My husband and I are having dinner with Harlan and Claire tonight. In fact, you can bet I’ll tell them about this entire conversation.”

She swiveled around and started to walk away.

“Even the part where you called Claire’s missing son an obnoxious brat and a bastard?” Tim said to her back.

It was a stupid thing to say, but he needed to get at least one dig in. Tim figured it was his last shot. Within the next twenty-four hours, Linda Castle’s and Harlan Shaw’s complaints would reach the powers that be in Seattle

As he left the Platt Gardens Plaza. Tim figured he hadn’t done a damn thing to help Claire Shaw.

All he’d done was insure for himself a one-way passage off the island.

Tim doodled a cartoon character on his paper place mat. He pretended to listen to Al, seated across from him. Al was chiding him for “almost blowing it” during their visit to the Shaws’ house the previous day.

Apparently, Al hadn’t gotten a call yet about Tim’s disastrous discussion with Linda Castle at the Platt Gardens. Tim figured this was his last day on Deception, and this breakfast, his last meal here.

The morning rush had already quelled at the Fork In The Road Diner. Except for a view of the water from one side of the restaurant, the atmosphere—like the food—was a small step above Denny’s quality. The Fork In the Road was named for its location, where Main Street merged with Harbor View Lane. For years, the island’s Parks, Roads, and Utilities Committee had turned a blind eye, allowing the restaurant to keep a yellow eight-foot-long fork painted on Main Street, directly in front of the sixties-chic, glass and white-brick, oblong structure.

Tim and Al shared a booth and sipped their coffee. They had just ordered their breakfast.

“You have to learn how to handle people,” Al was saying. “You need to use finesse with them. You can’t just go in there, half-cocked—like you did yesterday. What you said made the whole task force look bad. Hell, if I hadn’t stayed on and chatted it up with Harlan and his missus, they’d probably have your ass transferred back to the mainland by now. You owe me one.”

Tim just kept doodling and nodding tiredly. He hadn’t told Al about the phone call from Claire Shaw—and his follow-up talks with Dottie Herrmann and Linda Castle. He assumed Claire probably didn’t want the older cop in on it. After all, when she’d telephoned him at the hotel asking for help, Al had been sitting in her living room. If she wanted Al involved, she would have told him herself.

Al probably would have dismissed her as paranoid and a bit hysterical. Tim imagined pleading Claire’s case to Mr. Warm-Beer-Cold-Women, and it seemed pointless.

“Are you listening to me?” Al asked.

“Yes, Al,” Tim said, raising his coffee cup. “I’ll try to have more finesse—like you.”

Their waitress, Roseann, came to the booth and set their breakfast plates on the table. Al got pancakes and a side of sausage. She placed an order of toast in front of Tim, along with his milk and a bowl of Rice Krispies.

“Excuse me, I didn’t order any toast,” Tim told her.

“That’s the cinnamon toast,” Roseann said. “My treat.” She smiled at Tim, then patted him on the shoulder. Roseann was in her midforties, and lanky, with short, light-brown hair and cat-eye glasses.

“Well, thanks a lot,” Tim said.

“How come I didn’t get a freebee?” Al piped up.

“Because you’re not as cute as he is, ace,” Roseann answered. “Enjoy, officers.” She started to turn away.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Al said. “What makes you think we’re cops?”

Rolling her eyes at him, Roseann leaned against the table. “It’s a small island. Word gets around. You guys are from Seattle and you’re staying at The Whale Watcher down the street. You’re here because Claire Shaw was abducted and shot by that Rembrandt character. I guess you guys are worried he might come after her again. And I don’t mind telling you, the idea of him prowling around this island gives me a the heebie-jeebies. I for one am locking my doors and sleeping with a baseball bat by my bed tonight.” She tapped the table top a couple of times. “Anyway, eat up. Your breakfast is getting cold.” She sauntered away from the table.

“Well, how do you like that?” Al muttered. Then he started wolfing down his pancakes.

Tim was having his second wedge of cinnamon toast when Roseann returned to the table to refill their coffees.

“So—does everybody on the island know about Claire Shaw and Rembrandt?” Tim whispered.

Roseann’s mouth twisted up while she pondered his question. “I’d say about twenty-five percent know. By the weekend, it ought to be more like fifty.”

“Do you have a minute?” Tim asked. “Or are you really busy?”

“Actually, it’s kind of dead,” she said. “How can I help you, handsome?”

Tim smiled. “Thanks. You seem to know a lot. What’s the general consensus on Claire’s son, Brian? I hear he ran away the day before she was abducted.”

Roseann nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard that too.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Well, he’s run away before.” Roseann put the coffeepot down on their table. “He’s had some brushes with the sheriff too. But I never had any trouble with Brian. He’s always been a sweetie pie to me. A good tipper too.”

“What about his friend, Derek Herrmann?” Tim asked. He ignored Al, who was glaring at him.

“Derek?” She let out an abrupt laugh. “Oh, talk about screwed up. Whenever he stepped into the joint, I used to lock up the cash register. But I’ll tell you something about that kid. As much as he’s rubbed me the wrong way, I’ve always kind of felt sorry for him.”

“Are you gonna eat?” Al asked, his mouth full.

“In a minute,” Tim said distractedly. He didn’t take his eyes off Roseann. “Do you really think Derek went on a backpacking trip through Europe? It was pretty sudden, wasn’t it?”

Roseann shrugged. “Well, that’s the story we got. I guess you’re right though. It came out of nowhere. Suddenly, he was gone. No one wants to question it, I guess. Would be like looking a gift horse in the mouth. I know Sheriff Klauser’s grateful for the break.”

“I gather that,” Tim said. “I spoke with Linda Castle yesterday. I don’t think she’s going to miss him either—or Brian for that matter.”

Roseann cracked a smile. “Oh, you spoke with Linda, huh?”

Tim nodded. “She seems very involved in a lot of things with the community. How long has she lived here?”

“Oh, Linda, Harlan, and Walt Binns all go way back. They grew up on this island, then went to college at Western. It’s always been up for grabs which one of the two Linda thought she’d end up marrying. For my money, I think she always had it bad for Walt Binns. Have you met him yet?”

“No, not yet,” Tim answered.

Hunched over his breakfast, Al wasn’t paying attention.

“Nice guy,” Roseann said. She glanced around the restaurant for a second, then turned to Tim again. “Anyway, from the get-go, neither one of those guys was ever interested in Linda—except maybe to pal around with. In fact, when they were seniors, both Harlan and Walt fell for Angela Leffert. She ended up marrying Harlan. Two months later, Walt got hitched to her best friend, Tracy.” Roseann shook her head. “I don’t think Linda ever forgave Walt for that. It was like a one-two punch in old Linda’s bread basket, losing them both to other women. Then she suddenly hooked up with Ron Castle, her consolation prize.” Roseann let out a little laugh. “Old Linda went right from Park Place and Boardwalk to Baltic Avenue—without passing Go. But I guess she got some bucks out of the deal.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah, I saw their house.”

“Not a shabby setup, huh? Not that you’d guess Ron was loaded, no siree, not around here. You know how some people figure a tip by doubling the tax? Ron figures the tip by taking all the paper money from his change and leaving the coins. Talk about cheap. Yet he’s this big wheel around here with the Guardians.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Tim said. “What are they?”

“Oh, sort of a do-good organization for the community. They throw pancake breakfasts, art fairs, picnics, that kind of thing. Walt and Harlan are involved too. It’s strictly stag. But Linda always manages to keep her hand in it. She likes to think of herself as
The Guardians’ Angel.
I’ve heard her use that on more than one occasion.” Roseann made a sour face. “Cute, huh?”

“I gather you’re not one of Linda’s biggest fans,” Tim said.

Roseann sighed. “Actually, I kind of feel sorry for her. I think the happiest time in her life was after Harlan and Walt’s wives were killed in a car wreck together. She had the boys all to herself again—for a while. Then Harlan met Claire.”

Roseann smiled at Al. “How are you doing there, partner? Let me heat up that coffee.” She topped off his cup.

His mouth full, he grumbled, “Thank you.”

“What about Walt?” Tim asked. “Did he ever remarry?”

“No. The rumor is that he’s carrying on with this woman in Victoria,” Roseann’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A married lady. But little Linda still has her hooks in old Walt. She tries to run his life. He doesn’t seem to mind. When Linda gets to be too much for him, he sails off someplace, usually Victoria Island.”

Suddenly, Roseann seemed distracted by something at the front of the restaurant. She grabbed the coffeepot off the table. “Oh, crap, I’m getting the stink-eye from my boss. Gotta go. Eat the rest of your toast before it gets cold.”

Tim glanced over his shoulder. A pale, paunchy, balding man with a mustache stood at the register. He was scowling at Roseann as she approached him. Then for a moment, he directed his hostile gaze at Tim.

“What the hell was that all about?” Al murmured.

Tim turned forward, then poured milk over his Rice Krispies. “I heard some rumors yesterday,” he said. “I was just wondering if they were true. How are your pancakes?”

Al was staring toward the front of the restaurant. “Shit, he’s really chewing her out.”

Tim looked back at the register again. Roseann’s boss was growling something under his breath at her. He stabbed his finger at the air, almost poking her in the chest.

“This is what I mean about you going off half-cocked,” he heard Al whispering. “You ask a lot of questions that are none of your business, and you’re gonna piss people off, hotshot.”

“…and your BIG MOUTH!”
the manager said, his voice suddenly raised.

“Oh, pound sand up your ass, Wayne!” Roseann retorted. She retreated to the kitchen with the coffeepot.

Tim turned toward Al once more. He started eating his cereal.

“See? Look what you started,” Al whispered.

Tim ate his breakfast. He didn’t say anything. He glanced over at the manager, who stared back at him.

The pale man with the mustache muttered something. Tim couldn’t hear it across the restaurant, but he could read the manager’s lips.

The man had looked at Tim and said,
“Son of a bitch.”

“I’ll meet you here in an hour, sweetheart,” Harlan said.

“Thanks, honey.” Claire kissed him on the cheek. She opened the passenger door and climbed outside. She waved to him, then stepped into the foyer. Halfway up the stairs to Linus Moorehead’s office, she stopped.

Claire had no intention of going up there.

She’d lied to Harlan about having an appointment today. Her session with Moorehead wasn’t for another couple of days.

Claire listened to the car pulling away, then she crept down the stairs. Peeking out the window in the door, she didn’t see Harlan’s Saab. Still, she decided to wait another minute and make sure he was really gone.

She needed this hour away from him. Last night, they’d gone out to dinner with Tiffany, and Ron and Linda. Marrazo’s Villa was a family Italian restaurant and steakhouse with red-and-white checkered tablecloths, and candles in old Chianti bottles as centerpieces.

She usually liked Marrazo’s, but didn’t have a good time last night. Over her minestrone soup, Linda told Harlan: “I met up with your favorite cop. You know, that arrogant son-of-a-so-and-so you had a brush with last week? He came around the Gardens while I was working there, and he started asking me all these prying, personal questions.” She turned to Claire. “Mostly about you, Claire, and
what happened.”

“Honey, little ears…” Her husband, Ron, whispered, with a look at Tiffany.

Linda frowned at him. “I know. Don’t nudge me. I didn’t say a thing. Anyway, in addition to being incompetent, this cop was rude to me.”

“I’m sure he was just doing his job,” Claire piped up. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

But when they returned home, Claire couldn’t wait to talk about it. While Harlan settled in front of the TV downstairs, she tucked her stepdaughter in bed. Then she crept into their bedroom, picked up the phone on the nightstand, and dialed.

“Good evening, Whale Watcher Inn,” the hotel operator answered.

“Yes—” Claire fell silent. She stared back at Harlan in the bedroom doorway. She hung up the phone.

“Who were you calling?” he asked.

“My friend from the hospital, Tess.”

Nodding, Harlan began to unbutton his shirt. “The kimono woman with that red mark on her face.” Staring at her, he cocked his head to one side and rubbed his hairy chest. “Why’d you hang up so quickly?”

“Oh, it was just going to be girl talk,” Claire said, a little nervously. She remembered that look from Harlan. She could always tell when he wanted to make love.

Claire managed a coy smile. “But I can always call her later.”

Tossing his shirt on the floor, Harlan moved toward her. He caressed the side of her neck with his fingertips, then leaned in and kissed her.

Claire wrapped her arms around him. He smelled of musk and Cool Water, and his skin felt warm. For a man with such a hairy chest, his back was smooth and flawless. She’d always liked Harlan’s body. He was rubbing his pelvis against her, and she felt him growing hard.

Claire kissed him deeply. His whiskers scratched at her face.

Holding onto him, she felt a rush of excitement, but a panic overwhelmed her at the same time.

When he began to unbutton her blouse, Claire pulled away. Her friend, Tess, had her mark. And now she had her own. At the hospital, they’d told Claire that she no longer needed to put a bandage over her chest wound. But they’d recommended applying an antibacterial ointment to the area. The scarred piece of flesh only looked worse with the greasy salve over it.

She didn’t want Harlan to see. She wore a T-shirt while they made love. She tried to ignore the television set downstairs, and the loud laugh track of some comedy show. When he was inside her, she remembered the only one-night-stand she’d ever had. It had been a year after Charlie’s death. She remembered wanting the guy to hurry up and leave so she could relax and breathe right again.

Harlan was her husband, but he felt like a stranger. And this stranger wasn’t going away.