Summer in Eclipse Bay (6 page)

“Thank you so much for coming all the way out here to look at the paintings. We certainly appreciate it.”

“Happy to be of service,” Octavia said. “Where's A.Z.?”

“Right here,” Arizona boomed through the screen door. “You met Photon, here?”

“Yes, of course.” Octavia nodded at the tall man in the long, flowing robes who stood behind Arizona. “Good evening, Photon.”

“May the light of the future brighten your night, Miss Brightwell.” Photon inclined his gleaming, shaved head in Nick's direction. “Light and peace, Mr. Harte.”

“Thanks,” Nick said. “Same to you, Photon.”

Another resident eccentric, Nick thought. Photon was the leader of the New Age crowd that operated the Incandescent Body bakery. The group styled itself the Heralds of Future History. Their philosophy was a little vague, but their baking skills were outstanding. The incredible muffins, pastries, and cornbread produced at the bakery had gone a long way toward quelling local concerns that Eclipse Bay had been invaded by a cult.

“Come on inside.” Arizona thrust open the screen door. “Got the paintings lined up here in the living room.”

“We had to clear out two pickup loads of junk to make space to display them,” Virgil said dryly.

Nick grinned. “There goes the inheritance, huh?”

“Let's put it this way,” Virgil said. “It was nice of Thurgarton to think of us, but it's starting to look like being the beneficiaries of his will is more trouble than it's worth. The furniture is in such bad shape it isn't even worth the effort of putting on a yard sale. Other than the paintings, everything else is just junk. Personally, I'm not holding my breath that the pictures are worth much, either.”

Nick ushered Octavia ahead of him into the cramped, dark living room. She came to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, my,” she said. “This is really quite amazing.”

“That's one word for it.” Nick stopped just behind her and whistled softly at the sight of the truly monumental clutter. “The term
firetrap
also comes to mind.”

Faded magazines and yellowed newspapers spilled from the tops of row upon row of cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling. Old suitcases were heaped in a corner. One of them was open, revealing a tangle of old clothes. The surface of the desk near the window was buried beneath piles of file folders and three-ring binders stuffed with notebook paper.

In addition to the desk and its accompanying chair, the only other furnishings in the room were a recliner and a reading lamp.

Octavia gave Virgil, Arizona, and Photon a quick, laughing smile. “And to think that this is all yours now.”

Virgil chuckled softly. “You know, this is the first time anyone was thoughtful enough to remember me in his will.”

“The property is worth something,” Nick said, trying to be optimistic.

“Something,” Photon agreed, “but not a lot. No view of the water. The house, itself, is a tear-down. The plumbing is in bad shape and the wiring is decades out of code.”

Nick was mildly surprised by Photon's assured assessment of the house and land value. For the first time he wondered what the man had done before he became the leader of the Heralds of Future History. Everyone had a past.

“Hold on, here,” Arizona said. “There's more to this than meets the eye. Only one reason Thurgarton would have left us in his will, and that's because he knew we were the only ones he could trust. He must have been working on something mighty big there at the end.”

Nick exchanged a knowing glance with Octavia and Virgil. He was pretty sure they were both thinking the same thing he was thinking. Here we go with the ever popular, never dull Snow conspiracy theories.

Virgil cleared his throat. “A.Z. has concluded that Thurgarton stumbled onto a secret operation at the Eclipse Bay Policy Studies Institute.” He motioned with one hand to indicate the piles of papers that surrounded them. “She believes that he collected all of this in an attempt to unravel the conspiracy.”

“Most of this is just camouflage, of course,” Arizona explained. “Thurgarton probably figured that if he piled enough out-of-date newspapers and magazines around the place, folks would write him off as a crackpot. They wouldn't realize that he had hidden the results of his investigation here.”

“Camouflage?” Octavia picked up an ancient, tattered copy of
Playboy
and studied the bouncy-looking woman on the cover with grave interest. “That certainly explains some of these magazines. And it definitely beats the old line about just reading them for the articles.”

“I resent that remark,” Nick said. “In our younger days, my friends and I learned a lot from those magazines.”

She gave him an arch look. “I don't think I'll ask you to tell me exactly what it was you learned.”

“Examining all of these papers and magazines is gonna take some time, unfortunately,” Arizona continued, ignoring the byplay. “Not like we aren't already plenty busy with Project Log Book, eh, Photon?”

“The light of future history will show us the way to accomplish all that must be done in due course,” Photon said.

He was out of his real estate assessor's role and back into his fathomless serenity mode, Nick noticed.

He looked at Arizona. “What's Project Log Book?”

“Photon and I talked it over and we decided that the only safe way to ensure that none of the data in my logs gets destroyed by the operatives up at the institute is to put it all online,” Arizona said.

“I thought you didn't trust computers,” Nick said.

“I don't like 'em and that's a fact. But we've got to move with the times. Got to take advantage of technology if we're going to stay ahead of the bad guys. The Heralds are building a Web site and they're inputting the contents of my logs and journals as we speak. This is all real hush-hush, naturally, but I trust you and Octavia here to keep your mouths closed. And of course Virgil will keep it to himself.”

“I won't tell a soul,” Virgil promised.

“Loose lips sink ships,” Octavia said solemnly.

Arizona nodded. “That's for damn sure.”

“You've been keeping those logs and journals for years, A.Z.,” Nick said. “You must have hundreds of them.”

“The Heralds are working around the clock in shifts on the computer that we set up in my War Room. Logistics haven't been easy, I can tell you. Got to keep things running as usual at the bakery while we put the data online so we don't arouse suspicion. Don't want anyone up at the institute to come nosing around before we're ready to go live with the Web site.”

“We expect to have Project Log Book completed by the end of the summer,” Photon said.

“And now you've got to sort through all of this junk in addition to putting together a Web site project and operating the bakery.” Nick shook his head at the enormousness of the task. “Don't envy you this job.”

“We'll get it done,” Arizona assured him with her customary can-do attitude. “No choice. Future of the country depends on making sure that the facts in my logs are available to the concerned citizens of this nation. The Internet is the only way to go.”

“Uh, where are the pictures you wanted me to examine?” Octavia asked politely.

“Behind that row of boxes,” Virgil said.

He led the way, forging a path through the maze of cartons and papers to the far side of the living room. Nick and Octavia followed him.

Four paintings in old, wooden frames were propped against the wall. In the gloom, Nick could see that the first three were landscapes. The fourth looked as if it had been splashed with a lot of dark paint.

Virgil switched on the reading lamp behind the recliner and aimed the beam at the paintings. “I suspect they're all worthless, but I wanted an expert opinion before we dumped them into the yard sale pile.”

Nick watched Octavia's face as she studied the paintings. She had the same expression of rapt attention that she'd had when she looked at Carson's pictures. She was taking this seriously, he thought. Given that two of the people who had asked for her opinion were conspiracy freaks and the third ran an adult bookstore, it was going above and beyond the call of duty to show such respect.

She walked slowly past all four paintings and stopped in front of the one that looked as if it had been painted with a brush that had been dipped in chaos. She looked at it for a long time.

Then she crouched in front of it, heedless of the fact that the change of position caused her long, pale skirts to sweep across the dusty floorboards. She gazed intently at what looked like a scribble in the right-hand corner.

“Hmm,” she said.

Everyone went very still. Nick was amused. He could feel the sudden tension that had leaped to life in the room.

“Does anyone know where or how Thurgarton got this picture?” Octavia asked, never taking her attention away from the painting.

Virgil shook his head. “We found it with the others in a closet. No way to tell how he came by it. Why?”

“I hesitate to say anything at this point because I don't want anyone to get too excited.”

“Too late,” Nick said. “We're excited. Is this thing valuable?”

Arizona frowned. “Looks like the artist dumped the contents of several tubes of paint on the canvas and smeared them around.”

Virgil smiled. “That's mid-twentieth-century art for you.”

Photon contemplated the abstract painting with a considering air. “The longer one looks at it, the deeper it appears. It is clearly an exploration of the absence of light.”

Nick looked at him. “You think?”

“Yes.” Photon inclined his gleaming head. “It is a statement of man's craving for light and his simultaneous fear of its power.”

Octavia rose slowly to her feet and turned around to face the others.

“I agree with you, Photon,” she said quietly. “And if we're right, it may be the work of Thomas Upsall. The signature certainly fits. He always signed his work in a very distinctive manner. And his technique was also quite unique. A very time-consuming method that required layer upon layer of paint.”

“Wow,” Nick said. “A genuine Thomas Upsall. Who would have believed it? Wait until this news hits the art world.”

She gave him a reproving frown. “Very funny. Obviously you don't recognize the artist.”

“Nope, can't say that I do.”

“Me, either.” Arizona looked hopeful. “This Thomas Upsall, was he famous or anything?”

“He produced most of his paintings in the nineteen-fifties,” Octavia said. “His pictures were not very popular at the time, but in the past few years they have become extremely collectible. There isn't a lot of his work around because he destroyed a great quantity of it during the last year of his life. He died in the mid-eighties, alone and forgotten.”

“What do you think this thing's worth?” Arizona asked.

Octavia looked at the painting over her shoulder. “If, and I stress the word
if,
it is a genuine Upsall, it could easily fetch a couple hundred thousand at auction. Maybe two hundred and fifty.”

They all stared at her.

Virgil exhaled deeply. “A couple hundred thousand
dollars
?”

“Yes. The market for Upsall's work is hot at the moment and getting hotter.” Octavia gave them all a warning look and held up one hand. “But to be on the safe side, I'd like to get a second opinion from a colleague of mine who specializes in mid-twentieth-century abstract art. She works in a museum in Seattle. Unfortunately, she's on vacation until next week.”

“Think we can get her to take a look at the picture when she returns?” Arizona asked.

“Yes, for a fee,” Octavia said. “She consults. She may even want to purchase it for her museum.”

“That brings up the question of what to do with it until we can get your colleague here to examine it,” Virgil said. “Now that we know it's worth two hundred grand or more, I don't like the idea of leaving it here.”

“I could take it home with me,” Arizona replied. “My security is top of the line. But the spies up at the institute keep a round-the-clock watch on me. If they see me take something from this place into my house, they might get curious. Don't want to draw any attention right now while we're at such a critical point in Project Log Book.”

“I've got a security system for the paintings in my gallery,” Octavia said slowly. “I suppose I could store the Upsall in my back room for a week.”

“Good idea,” Virgil agreed. “It should be fine in your back room. Not like Eclipse Bay is home to a lot of sophisticated art thieves.”

Photon smiled benignly. “You illuminate us with the radiant light of your kindness.”

The row of shops that lined the street across from the pier was dark and silent at this hour. The last rays of the summer sun were veiled behind the thickening layer of clouds. Whitecaps danced on the slate-gray waters of the bay.

Nick parked in the small lot. When he climbed out from behind the wheel, a snapping breeze tugged at his windbreaker.
Storm on the way,
he thought. Summer squalls were not unusual for this time of year here on the coast.

Octavia was already out of the passenger seat. The bouncy wind whipped her hair into a froth and caused her long, full skirts to billow around her legs. She laughed a little as she grabbed a handful of her skirts to keep them from blowing up around her thighs. Her eyes were bright. He got the feeling that she was savoring the raw energy of the approaching storm. Maybe she tapped into it for her fairy magic or something. Seemed logical.

“We'd better hurry,” she said. “The rain will hit any minute.”

“Right.”

With an effort he wrenched his attention away from her flying hair and skirts and opened the rear door of the BMW. He reached inside and hoisted the painting. Octavia had wrapped the picture in old newspapers before leaving Thurgarton's cabin.

Carrying the painting under one arm, he walked with her to the door of Bright Visions.

“You really think this thing is worth a quarter million?” he asked.

“Between you and me? Yes. But we'll all feel more secure once we've had a second opinion.”

She continued to struggle with her skirts with one hand while she withdrew her keys from her shoulder bag. She opened the front door and stepped quickly into the darkened interior of the shop to punch in the code that deactivated the alarm system. Then she flipped some switches to turn on the lights.

“Who'd have believed that old Thurgarton would have possessed a valuable work of art?” He carried the painting into the shop. “He was no collector. You saw how he lived. How the heck do you suppose he got hold of it?”

“I haven't got a clue.” She led the way across the showroom to the long counter. “As I told you, there isn't a lot of Upsall's work around. It's amazing to think that one of his pictures has been sitting out here on the coast all these years.”

“Who says we're not a bunch of real sophisticated art lovers here in Eclipse Bay?”

“Certainly not me.” She opened the back room and turned on more lights. “You can put it there with that stack of paintings leaning against the far wall.”

He surveyed the crowded back room. Rows of paintings were stacked five and six deep against every wall. Empty frames of all shapes and sizes were propped in the corner. The workbench was littered with tools and matting materials.

“No offense,” he said dryly, setting down the painting, “but this place looks almost as cluttered as Thurgarton's cabin.”

“Gallery back rooms always look like this.”

He straightened. “The finding of a previously unknown Upsall should make for an interesting story in some of the art magazines.”

She smiled. “I can see the headline now.
Conspiracy Buff, New Age Cult Leader and Porn Shop Proprietor Inherit Lost Upsall.
”

“Be interesting to see what they do with the money.” He walked back to where she stood in the doorway. “Well, so much for tonight's thrilling adventure in the world of art. Are you ready for dinner? I'd take you to Dreamscape, but Carson is there and we wouldn't be able to talk in peace. How about the Crab Trap? It's not as good as Rafe's place, but it's not bad.”

“You do realize that if we dine in any of the local restaurants, there will be a lot of talk tomorrow?”

“So what? Hartes are used to being talked about in this town.”

“I know.”

Belatedly it occurred to him that she was not accustomed to being the subject of local gossip. “Look, if this is a problem, we can go back to my place. I've got plenty of food in the house. Comes with having a growing boy around. I'm not saying that it will be what anyone would call gourmet, but—”

She cleared her throat. “I bought fresh asparagus and some salmon fillets this afternoon.”

Fresh asparagus and salmon were not generally purchased on a whim. He considered the possibilities.

“You planned to invite me back to your place?” he asked finally.

“To be honest, it struck me that it would be more comfortable to eat there rather than in front of an audience composed of a lot of the good and extremely curious people of Eclipse Bay.”

He smiled slowly. “Fresh asparagus and salmon sound great.”

The atmosphere was making him very uneasy, but for the life of him, he could not figure out what was wrong. On the surface, everything was perfect.

Dinner had gone smoothly. He had taken charge of the salmon while Octavia had dealt with the asparagus and sliced some crusty bread. They had sipped from two glasses of chardonnay while they worked together in her snug, cozy kitchen. They had talked easily, for all the world as comfortable as two people who had prepared a meal together countless times.

It was almost as if they had already become lovers, he thought. A deep sense of intimacy enveloped them and it was starting to worry him. This was a far different sensation than he had known with other women in the past. It was not the pleasant, superficial sexual awareness he had experienced on previous, similar occasions. He did not understand the prowling tension that was starting to leave claw marks on his insides.

Maybe this had not been one of his better ideas. Then again, looking back, he was pretty sure he'd never had much choice. If you went hunting fairy queens, you took a few risks.

He stood at the sink in her gleaming, white-tiled kitchen and washed the pan that had been used to steam the asparagus. Nearby, Octavia, a striped towel draped over her left shoulder, went up on her tiptoes to stack dishes in a cupboard. When she raised her arms overhead, her breasts moved beneath the thin fabric of her blouse.

Damn. He was staring. Annoyed, he concentrated on rinsing the pan.

She closed the cupboard door and reached for the coffeepot. “Black, right? No cream or sugar?”

“Right.”

She poured coffee into two cups and led the way into the living room. He dried his hands, slung the damp towel over a rack, and followed her, unable to take his eyes off the mesmerizing sway of her hips.

What the hell was wrong with this picture? he wondered. This was exactly how it was supposed to look, precisely how he had hoped it would look at this point.

She curled up in a corner of the sofa, one leg tucked under the curve of her thigh, mug gracefully cupped in her hands. The fire he had built earlier crackled on the hearth.

She smiled at him and he immediately felt every nerve and muscle in his body shift from Yellow Alert status to Code Red. An almost irresistible urge swept over him to pick her up off the sofa, carry her into the shadowy room at the end of the hall, and put her down on a bed. He flexed one hand deliberately to regain control.

It had been like this all evening, as though he were walking the edge of a cliff in a violent storm. One false step and he would go over into very deep water. It didn't help that outside the rain and the wind had struck land with a vengeance some forty minutes ago.

He crossed the living room to the stone fireplace, picked up an iron poker, and prodded the fire. The blaze didn't need prodding, but it gave him something to do with his hands.

“I've enjoyed your books,” she said. “I've got all four in the series.”

“I noticed.” He put aside the poker, straightened, and glanced at the bookshelf where his novels were arranged between two heavy green glass bookends. “We authors tend to pick up on little details like that.”

The bookends looked expensive, he thought. Dolphins playing in the surf. One-of-a-kind pieces of art glass, not cheap, utilitarian bookends picked up at a rummage sale.

There were other quietly expensive touches in the cottage. An exotically patterned carpet done in shades of muted greens and gold covered most of the hardwood floor in front of the dark-green sofa. The coffee table was a heavy sheet of green glass that rippled and flowed like a wave of clear lava. A couple of framed abstract paintings hung on the walls.

Not the kind of furnishings you expected in a weekend or summer house, he thought. He had the feeling that she had deliberately set out to make a home here. And now she was planning to depart for good.

“Tell me,” she said, “was it difficult to make the decision to leave Harte Investments when you decided to write full time?”

“Making the decision was easy.” He sat down on the sofa and reached for his coffee mug. “Getting out of the family business was a little more difficult.”

“I'll bet it was. You were the firstborn and from all accounts you showed a talent for investments.”

He shrugged. “I'm a Harte.”

She gave him a fleeting smile. “There must have been a lot of pressure on you to take over the helm after your father retired.”

“My parents were very understanding and supportive.” He took a swallow of coffee and slowly lowered the mug. “But Sullivan went off like Mount Saint Helens.”

“I believe it. Harte Investments was your grandfather's creation. Everyone around here knows what he went through to recover and build a new company after Aunt Claudia—” She broke off. “After Harte-Madison went under.”

He wrapped both hands around the mug. “Dad tried to shield me from the worst of the blast but no one could have suppressed that explosion. Sullivan and I went a few rounds before he finally realized that I wasn't going to back down and change my mind.”

“It must have been a difficult time.”

“Yeah.” He took another sip of coffee. “But we got through it.”

“It's a tribute to the strength of your family bonds.”

“Uh-huh.” He did not want to talk any more about that time in his life. It was tied up too closely with Amelia's death. He glanced around the room. “Looks like you planned to stay here for a while.”

She raised one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “Plans change.”

He couldn't think of anything to say to that so he tried another topic. “Heard you've been seeing Jeremy Seaton.”

“We've had dinner together a couple of times.” She sipped her coffee.

He looked at her. “Mind if I ask if there's anything serious in that direction?”

She pursed her lips and tilted her head slightly. Thinking. “I would describe my relationship with Jeremy as friendly.”

“Friendly.” What the hell did
friendly
mean?

“Jeremy and I have a lot of interests in common.”

He nodded once. “The art thing. Jeremy paints.”

She gave him polite concern. “Is there a problem here?”

“You tell me.” He put his mug down with great care. “Is Jeremy going to have a problem with you and me having dinner tonight?”

“I doubt it.” She looked surprised by the question. “But if he says anything, I'll explain the situation to him.”

“How, exactly, do you intend to explain it?”

“I'll tell him that we're just friends. He'll understand.”

“Just friends,” he repeated neutrally.

“What else?” She put down her own mug and looked pointedly at the clock. “Good heavens, it's getting late, isn't it? I have to go into the gallery early tomorrow to frame some of the children's pictures, and I'm sure you're anxious to pick up Carson.”

“Kicking me out?”

“It's been a long day,” she said by way of an apology and got to her feet.

“Sure.” He rose slowly, taking his time.

She handed him his black windbreaker and opened the door for him. Smiling all the while. Friendly.

He went outside onto the front porch. The squall was dying fast, leaving behind crisp, still-damp air.

“Drive carefully,” she said.

“I'll do that.”

He pulled on his jacket but did not bother to fasten it. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood looking out into the night. He could hear the distant rumble of waves crashing against the bottom of the bluffs behind the cottage.

He turned slowly back to Octavia.

In the porch light, her hair glowed the color of the flames on the hearth inside. He could feel the magic that swirled around her.

He'd had enough. He knew now what was wrong with this picture.

“Something you should understand before we go any further here,” he said.

“What's that?”

He took two steps back across the porch, closing the distance between them. He kept his hands in the pockets of his jacket, not trusting himself to touch her.

“Whatever else this turns out to be,” he said evenly, “it isn't about being just friends.”