The Vision (12 page)

day for errands.”

Marshall groaned, rubbing his bald head, a sure sign that he was irritated. “Maybe this

was a mistake. Maybe we should be out on the water.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be listening to another one of Sheridan’s speeches?” Alex asked,

grinning. “About ships. And how they break apart in the water. As if we’re all two-year-

olds.”

“If you were going to steal a mannequin and put it on Genevieve’s porch, you all are like

two-year-olds!” Marshall chastised.

“Hey, we didn’t do it!” Victor protested.

“Thor, think we should still head out? Sheridan canceled when he saw all the cop cars out

there, but we could still dive,” Marshall said.

“No!” Alex protested. “You can’t give people a day off, then haul them back to work,” he

argued.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Marshall agreed glumly.

“We’ll be fine starting up again Monday,” he said. “I guess.”

“Monday,” Thor said, and left them. He strode to his own cottage, certain Genevieve had

yet to leave hers. He couldn’t shower and change and keep his eye on her cottage at the

same time, but at least he could clean up quickly.

Hell. He was following her. Becoming obsessed. Why?

At the moment, he told himself, it was because she had behaved so strangely when Jack

had connected the woman she had seen in the water with the corpse on the shore, which

certainly seemed to have vindicated her.

Dressed, he stood in his living room, looking out the window.

Hell, he wasn’t just following her. He was becoming a damned stalker.

She came out of her cottage wearing a pale yellow halter dress that complemented the

golden color of her skin and the rich, radiant darkness of her hair. She set off on foot,

heading out of the resort.

He paused, gritting his teeth, then went after her.

One by one, the others had drifted away. Frowning, Victor noticed that only Bethany

stayed. But then, it wasn’t usual for Genevieve to walk off without waiting to see if

anyone had a plan or wanted to join in on whatever her plan might have been.

This was one weird day, he thought.

At last he got up and headed for his own cottage.

He strode in and paused, startled that the floor just inside the entry seemed to be wet. The watery trail led around the half wall to the bedroom area. He followed it.

Staring at the bed, he nearly let out a scream. He stopped himself in time.

There was a soaking-wet mannequin lying across his bed.

Sightless blue painted eyes stared up at him. A scraggly blond wig was soaked and

askew. Plastic arms were lifted up toward him, as if pleading for his help.

What the hell…?

Victor felt a strange sense of panic. If he were caught with this thing in his

cottage…when there had been a real dead woman on the shore…shit!

He had to get rid of the damned thing, and fast.

How? How the hell was he going to do that with no one seeing him?

He wondered how the hell someone had gotten it into his cottage in the first place.

Who had brought it?

And why?

She was heading south on Duval Street.

Since Genevieve seemed to be distracted, it wasn’t difficult to follow her. She greeted

some of the shopkeepers she passed but didn’t pause to look at anything. At the La

Concha Hotel, she ducked into the Starbucks. He held back, leaning against the building.

“It’s haunted,” a woman said, huge sun hat atop her head, dark glasses in place, tour book

in her hands. “Herb, it’s haunted. It’s the tallest building in town. People have jumped

from the roof.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s haunted. Can we check in?” Herb asked. He was leading two large

suitcases by their straps and wore a heavy backpack. He grimaced at Thor. Looked like a

nice guy.

“Oh, Herb, I’m sorry,” his wife said, and Herb shrugged, still looking amused. The two

looked as if they’d been together forever. Happily. Nice thought.

He gave Herb a thumbs-up sign, and Herb grinned and moved on.

Genevieve reappeared with a paper cup of coffee. She started south again. He followed.

Just a few blocks farther along the road, she made a sharp turn. He followed. The street

was lined with old houses, all handsomely kept. A few advertised rooms for rent, or had

signs announcing that they were bed-and-breakfasts. One dared to proclaim, “Best

breakfast in Key West.” Genevieve went past, then turned up a walk. Three steps led to a

handsome porch and a door that boasted a beautiful cut-glass window in the upper half.

She pulled a key chain from her pocket, opened the door, then let it swing closed behind

her.

He stood on the street and surveyed the house, slowly walking closer. It was a striking

Classical Revival mansion. It was two stories, with an arched attic, and had wraparound

porches on both the first and second floors. There was Victorian gingerbread on the rails,

and it looked as if Genevieve lovingly tended the place—the paint was fresh, the lawn

mowed, and there wasn’t a flaw in sight. As he stood there, he was surprised to see the

door fly open again.

She walked out on the porch, hands on her hips as she glared at him. Great. He wasn’t

just a stalker. He was a stalker who had been caught.

“Were you just going to stare at the place, or did you want to come in?” she demanded.

“Well…”

“I know. You were just on a walking tour of Key West, right?” she said dryly.

He shook his head. “No. I followed you.”

“Why?”

“I was worried.”

She lifted her hands. “Why? I’m not crazy. There was a body in the water.”

“I was just worried,” he said, and added honestly, “because of your reaction.”

“We’re all human, and that kind of thing is…horrible. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been on

a hundred search-and-recovery missions, or that we’ve all seen a human body turned into

such a grisly mess before. It’s still horrible.”

“Yes, of course. It just seemed…as if you were disturbed beyond…never mind. You’re

right. It was a tragic discovery.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Do you want to see the house?

Though I didn’t take you for the kind who’d know much about architecture or old

buildings.”

He smiled, following the path to the house. “Sorry, you’re wrong. I like history. And this

house has got to be one of the oldest in Key West.”

“Definitely not the oldest—the oldest house is a museum now. The Wreckers Museum.

This house was built in 1858. My great-great-whatever-grandfather built it. He was a

wrecker.” She grinned. “He almost lost the house and everything else when the Civil War

rolled around. Fort Taylor stayed in Union hands, but most of the people were

Confederate sympathizers. Grandpa Wallace decided he could best serve his country as a

blockade runner. At the end, he was caught by a friend—a Yankee, stationed at Fort

Zachary Taylor. Luckily his friend was a bit of an entrepreneur, as well. The two split the

proceeds, my grandfather didn’t hang, and I still have the house today.”

He looked around the parlor area. The house had the typical southern breezeway—a hall

that went straight from the front door to the back, allowing for the air to circulate and

cool the rooms. The entry and parlor took up the front portion of the place; there was a

Duncan Phyfe sofa beneath the window, a spinet piano, and upholstered chairs on a knit

rug before the fire. A staircase to the left of the hall led up to the second story.

“Down here,” she said, starting down the hall, “is the library—once upon a time an

office, when Gramps was in the wrecking business. And the kitchen. Originally it was a

downstairs bedroom, and the kitchen was outside. The kitchen burned down in the late

1800s. But there’s still an outhouse back there. My grandmother had that made into a

birdhouse,” she told him.

She was chatting nervously, he thought. Smoothly, charmingly—but nervously.

“A rude comment here,” he said, going along, “but this place must be worth a fortune in

today’s market.”

“It is,” she agreed.

“Aren’t you glad I didn’t agree to let you use it as collateral in a bet?” he queried.

Her lashes fell; a grin twitched on her lips. “You know I really won that bet,” she told him lightly. “And I’ve been on The Seeker now. That boat must be worth a fortune, too.”

She turned, heading back for the stairway. “There are four rooms upstairs, and an attic.

There are definitely bigger places on the island. Have you been to Artist House? It’s an

absolutely gorgeous bed-and-breakfast now. Once Robert, our very weird Key West doll,

lived there. He took the blame for all the bad things that happened to his owner and now

he takes the blame for all the bad things that happen in Key West. He’s in the East

Martobello museum now, ruining the tourists’ film.”

They had come to the top of the stairs. “My office,” she said, pushing open a door that

had been ajar. White eyelet drapes shaded the windows, and even her computer desk was

antique. There were pictures on the walls, many of them. He didn’t need to be told which

pictures were of a young Genevieve with her parents. The older Wallaces had been tall,

as well; her mother had been the one with the full head of rich auburn hair.

“Hey, that’s Jack,” he said, eyeing a group of children with snorkel equipment standing

around an older man.

“Yes, that’s Jack. About fifteen years ago. He was great. The PTA liked to hire him for

special field trips. We believed he was really a pirate. He loved to tell stories.”

Thor walked closer to another of the pictures on the wall. It was Genevieve and the group

from Deep Down Salvage. Marshall, bald head shielded by a straw hat, was in the center.

Bethany and Alex were on one side of him, Genevieve and Victor were on the other.

Genevieve had an arm around Marshall, while Victor had an arm across her shoulders.

They looked like a happy, close-knit group, which it certainly seemed they were.

Except….

Did it look like Victor was just a very good friend? Or was he a bit too possessive?

And what about Alex? Being from Key Largo made him an outsider. Was he really just

the good old boy he pretended to be?

And why the hell was he suddenly wondering about all this? Because a body had been

discovered on the beach, he answered himself.

“That’s actually my favorite piece in the house,” Genevieve said, pointing to a very old

brocade daybed. “My grandmother called it a ‘fainting couch.’ She taught me all these

things about the way young ladies behaved. She was actually the toughest thing I’ve

come across in all my life.” She started out of the room.

“I’ve turned this room into a media center. Being technically challenged, I’m very proud

of it,” she told him.

He poked his head in. She had huge speakers and a great stereo system, a wide-screen

television, a DVD player and comfortable furniture. Shelves held hundreds of books,

magazines, DVDs and CDs.

“Great place,” he told her.

“What’s your place like in Jacksonville?” she asked him. “Don’t tell me. Ultramodern.

Every convenience.”

“No. I think my house actually has a few years on yours. But, sadly, I’ve never taken the time to fix it up the way you have yours.”

“You bought an old house?”

“I meant to fix it up. I’m just never there enough. I probably shouldn’t have bought the

place. The historic board would probably like to do me in.”

She smiled vaguely and started back down the stairs. He followed. She turned at the foot

of the stairs and started along the hall, then on out to the backyard. Though not heavily

planted, there were flowers here and there. It was simple and attractive.

She pointed to a raised bed that sported a riot of bougainvillea. “When I was digging to

create that little stand, I dug up bones,” she told him.

“Oh?”

She turned and looked at him. “Very old bones. I called all the right government

agencies. Forensic anthropologists came out. They decided that the bones were Calusa

Indian, a tribe that disappeared hundreds of years ago. No one was terribly surprised.

When the Spaniards first came, there were bones everywhere.”

“Right. Cayo Hueso. Island of Bones,” he said. Her eyes seemed troubled still, and her

tone, when she spoke, was strange. She didn’t seem to mind he was there. In fact, she

seemed almost grateful for his presence.

Not because it was him specifically. It was as if, although she had chosen to leave the

group, she didn’t really want to be alone.

“You’re getting at something,” he told her. “I’m just not sure what. Feel free to spit it out anytime,” he said, wondering if he had spoken with the right tone.

Apparently he hadn’t. Either that, or she simply didn’t intend to divulge what was really

bothering her.

“Don’t be silly. Do you want some coffee?” she asked.

He laughed. “I had enough coffee standing around at the tiki bar to last until I’m old and

gray.”

“Soda, beer, anything else?”

He hesitated slightly. “How about I take you to lunch?”

She cocked her head, as if thinking, then determining lunch just might fit into her plan.

“I’ll take you.”

“You’re kind of touchy about that meal thing. It doesn’t have to be a date. Don’t forget, I

can put in for expenses.”

She shook her head. “I just want to choose the place.”

“Choose away.”

“All right. Thanks.”