Left for Dead (33 page)

Claire told herself not to worry. Tim was right outside. Or was he? How could she be sure he was all right? What if she’d been waving to someone else a few minutes ago?

What if, what if…

Claire sat up in bed again.

“Mom?”

She gasped, then stared at Tiffany, standing in the bedroom doorway. “What? What is it, honey?”

In her flannel nightgown, Tiffany fingered her hair as she inched into the room. “I can’t sleep,” she whimpered. “Can I get into bed with you?”

Claire let out a little laugh. “Of course, sweetheart.” She pulled back the covers on Harlan’s side of the bed.

Tiffany crawled in, then snuggled up next to her. “Where did Dad go?” she asked.

“He didn’t go anywhere, honey,” Claire said, stoking her hair. “He’s just down in his workroom. No reason to fret. Everything’s fine…”

Claire thought if she kept saying it, she might believe it.

The digital clock on the dashboard of Ron and Linda Castle’s SUV read 1:22
A.M
. The radio was tuned to an Easy Listening Station. Sitting at the wheel, Linda sang “Evergreen” along with Barbra Streisand. She was slightly off-key, and quite drunk.

They were parked in the lot by the Anacortes Marina. Ron and Linda’s boat,
The Lovely Linda,
was moored at the dock. They kept their SUV parked in the lot for use on the mainland. This was the vehicle Linda claimed to have taken for the drive down to Seattle with Claire.

They had a spot near the edge of the parking lot. Beyond the SUV’s windshield, they had a beautiful view of the dark, choppy water, and all the boats gently rocking along the pier. Black clouds passed over the moon.

“‘Like a rose…’”
Linda sang. Then she forgot the rest of the words, and started humming. She’d gotten dolled up for this clandestine meeting. She’d taken off her windbreaker, so he could admire the purple silk blouse, unbuttoned just enough. The color went well with her frosted, light brown hair, and the garnet earrings she wore.

He handed her the pint of Jim Beam, and she drank from the bottle. She scowled at the gloves covering his hands, then laughed. “When did you put those on?” she asked,

“Just now,” he answered.

“Ye gods, why?”

He smiled. “Fingerprints.”

She laughed again. “What did you give me earlier? I feel so—giddy.”

He reached over and switched off the radio. “Just a Valium—to take the chill off.”

“You naughty boy,” she purred.

“You’ve known for a while now that I can be very naughty.”

“Well, I’m no tattle-tale. I haven’t breathed a word to anybody about your—artistic side.” She giggled for a moment, then seemed to consider what she was saying. Her smile waning, Linda bit her lip. She took another swig from the Jim Beam bottle.

“Still you relish holding it over me,” he said. “You’ve kept me under your thumb with that bit of knowledge.”

“I’ll keep you under my thumb—and fingers.” Linda giggled. She placed her hand on his thigh, and slowly inched her way toward his crotch. “Is this okay? Or are you still worried about fingerprints?”

Gently, he turned her hand over. “Here,” he said, setting a gun into her open palm.

She laughed. “Ye gods, where did you get that?”

“From
The Lovely Linda.
It’s yours, the one you keep on the galley shelf behind the Ritz crackers.” Gingerly, he guided her finger along the trigger. “Careful. The safety’s not on.”

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, still giggling.

“I’m making this look like a suicide,” he said.

She didn’t resist as he guided the gun in her hand. He moved it up toward her face. “Close your eyes, Linda,” he whispered. “And open your mouth a little.”

She stopped laughing, and numbly gazed at him. “Why?”

“I want to kiss you,” he said. “C’mon…”

Her eyes closed, Linda tipped her head back slightly.

He kissed her on the mouth, then pulled back.

Her lips were still parted, wanting more.

He guided the gun barrel into her mouth.

Linda opened her eyes. Gazing at him in horror, she tried to recoil and scream. Linda started to struggle, but she was too late.

With his finger over hers, he squeezed the trigger.

Claire waited at the end of the driveway with Tiffany. The school bus was due any minute.

She’d thrown a trench coat over her sweater and jeans. On the radio this morning, the local station advised islanders and coastal residents to brace themselves tonight for severe wind and rain storms, possible flooding and power outages. The skies above looked gray and slightly ominous, but that wasn’t unusual for seven-forty on a November morning.

Tim had moved the car across the street. Claire gave him a little wave. Smiling, he waved back.

“Mom, who’s that man?” Tiffany asked.

“He came over last night with Uncle Walt, remember?”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s a policeman,” Claire said. “He’s just watching over us, making sure we’re all right—kind of like a guardian angel.”

Claire squatted to adjusted the collar on Tiffany’s jacket. “Promise you’ll be a good girl at Andrea’s house tonight.”

Tiffany wore her backpack. It was pink and almost as big as she was. She had an afterschool meeting with the first grade Christmas pageant committee, and one of the mothers had volunteered to take them out to dinner, then host a sleepover.

“Are you gonna be home when I get back tomorrow?” Tiffany asked, with a worried pout.

“Of course, sweetie,” Claire whispered. “What’s wrong?”

Before Tiffany answered, Claire realized why her stepdaughter seemed worried. The last time Tiffany had slept over at a friend’s house, her stepmother and stepbrother had disappeared. It was one of the only things Claire could remember about that day: Tiffany had been at a sleepover.

The school bus drove up the cul de sac. Claire kissed Tiffany on the cheek. “Listen, it’s supposed to storm tonight. If you get scared or homesick or anything, call and we’ll come pick you up. Okey-doke?”

Tiffany nodded. “Okey-doke.”

The bus pulled up to the end of the driveway, and the door opened with a whoosh.

Claire straightened up, then stroked her stepdaughter’s hair. “Have fun tonight,” she said. “And I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Okey-doke,” Tiffany said again. “Bye, Mom.” Then she stepped on the bus. The door closed after her.

Claire watched the bus maneuver the turnaround at the end of the block, then pass by again. She waved to Tiffany in the window, and wondered if she really would be around to see her tomorrow.

In her discussion with Tim last night, she’d said Harlan wouldn’t let any harm come to her—as long as Tiffany was around. Well, now Tiffany would be gone for the next thirty-four hours.

Claire shivered. It was colder than she thought. She gazed across the street at Tim’s car. She couldn’t quite see him, because of a reflection on the window. She started toward the car.

“Claire?”

She swiveled around.

Harlan stood on the front stoop, the door was open behind him. “C’mon in, sweetheart,” he called. “I need to talk to you.”

She could see Tim looking back at her now. She waved at him, very matter-of-fact, nothing furtive or flirty about it.

With a sigh, she turned and headed up to the walkway.

Harlan wore a blue shirt, khaki pants, and an ugly tie Linda had given him. He pushed the door open wider for Claire. “I don’t know how we’ll work this out today,” he grumbled, stepping inside after her.

“I just got off the phone with Ron,” Harlan continued, following her into the kitchen. “He’s not sure when Linda can make it over. She took the boat to the mainland last night. Another emergency with her mother. Anyway, she’s not back yet. I don’t want to leave you alone here, but I have a meeting at ten-thirty, and I can’t miss it.”

Claire started making Harlan his breakfast. “Well, just go,” she said, cracking a couple of eggs. “It’s not like I’m here alone. Officer Sullivan is right outside. In fact, honey, I think it would be nice—decent of us—if we invited him in to use our bathroom and maybe have some breakfast.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him,” Harlan said, pouring himself a second cup of coffee.

“Why not?” Claire said. She set the egg-soaked bread on the frying pan. “He’s a cop. The reason he’s here on the island is to look after me. So let him do his job. And in the meantime, would it kill you to be nice to him? The poor guy has been sitting out in that car all night—just to protect me. The least we could do is offer him a warm breakfast.”

Harlan had a third cup of coffee as he watched Tim, seated at their breakfast table, eating French Toast.

If Harlan had had his way, Tim would have been allowed to use the powder room for three minutes before being exiled to his car with a cup of coffee and a sweet roll to go. But Claire had insisted they let Tim take a shower in Tiffany’s bathroom. She’d even found a disposable razor and a fresh bar of soap for him.

Harlan had reluctantly agreed to leave her under Tim’s watchful eye, but he’d insisted on Tim staying outside the house.

“I’d feel better if you didn’t go out today, sweetheart,” he told Claire.

She stood at the kitchen sink. “Well, I thought I’d go to town for some candles and batteries in case the storm knocks out the power.”

“We have enough emergency supplies on hand. I’d rather you stay put.”

“Tell it to Dr. Moorehead. I have a five-thirty appointment.”

“I can drive you, Mrs. Shaw,” Tim piped up.

Harlan frowned at him over his coffee cup, then glanced at Claire. “I might be home early, then I can take you. I’ll call and let you know.”

Tim seemed to rush through his breakfast during the uncomfortable silence that followed. Claire reached over and switched on the radio to the twenty-four-hour news station. At least someone was talking.

But no one seemed to be listening—until the newscaster mentioned the name Rembrandt:

Claire reached over and switched off the radio. Tim had stopped eating.

Harlan cleared his throat. “It looks like the guy we’re worried about is otherwise occupied.” He turned to Tim. “If you’re finished, I’d like a little time alone with my wife before I go off to work. And I’d appreciate it if you stayed outside in your car today—unless there’s an emergency.”

“Of course, Mr. Shaw,” Tim said, getting to his feet. He took his plate and handed it over the counter to Claire. “Thank you for the good food.”

Harlan walked him to the door.

Claire stayed in the kitchen, washing the breakfast dishes. “That was kind of rude,” she muttered, when Harlan returned to the pantry. “He’s doing us a huge favor, and you’re treating him like crap.”

“I don’t want him in this house while I’m not here,” he said.

“Why, for God’s sakes?” Claire asked. “Do you think he’ll abscond with the silverware or something?”

“You know damn well why,” Harlan replied. He took a last gulp of coffee, then handed the mug to her. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Claire. Do you think I’m blind? Think I don’t notice? I’ve seen the way you look back at him too.”

Claire just shook her head.

The telephone rang.

Frowning, Harlan sighed, then reached for the receiver. “Yeah? Hello?”

As she finished up the dishes, Claire watched him muttering into the phone. He turned his back to her.

She didn’t know what to say to him about Tim and her.
Nothing happened?
That wasn’t quite true. She’d kissed Tim last night. And she couldn’t deny that she had feelings for him. Obviously she’d done a poor job concealing them.

For a moment, she thought about turning the tables on Harlan and asking what he’d been doing in his workroom until four-thirty this morning. She’d pretended to be asleep when he’d crept into the bedroom. Then he’d crawled under the covers with her and Tiffany. No one had said a thing about it this morning.

Claire stared at him as she dried off her hands.

Harlan hung up the phone. “That was Fred Maybon,” he announced. “He needs a ride to the plant. He’s stranded. Some joker slashed his car tires last night.”

Claire followed Harlan to the front hall closet. He pulled out his jacket, then put it on. “Make some calls,” he said. “See if one of the girls can come over today. Meanwhile, I don’t want him in this house. Am I clear on that?”

Claire nodded. “Yes, but you have the wrong idea about—”

“We’ll discuss it later tonight,” he said, cutting her off. Harlan opened the door, then glanced back at her. “Why don’t you try calling Linda in an hour or so?” he suggested. “She should be back from the mainland soon. I’m sure she’ll be happy to come over and keep you company.”

Claire just nodded again.

He stepped outside, then shut the door.

Danielle had a bone to pick with the owner of that damn black Jetta.

Danielle was twenty-two, and a parking attendant at the Anacortes Marina U-Park lot. The owner of the black Jetta kept parking there without a permit or payment. Sometimes, the son of a bitch left envelopes or a lousy
photocopy
of a parking ticket on his windshield, hoping to throw her off. But Danielle wasn’t stupid. She kept track of the cars she’d already ticketed.

This morning, Mr. Black Jetta was parked a bit out of the way, facing the water at the edge of the lot, space number 163. Big surprise, there wasn’t any money in the U-Park slot for space 163.

Danielle put her Starbucks latte down on the hood of the black Jetta while writing out the ticket. She stuck the ticket under his windshield, closed her book, then picked up her latte again. She’d left a ring.
Good.

She noticed a burgundy SUV in spot 159. Danielle was pretty sure they had a permit. Still, she stepped closer to the SUV until she saw the permit tag hanging from the rearview mirror. She also saw something splattered on the windshield. It was on the inside of the car. It looked like blood.

Danielle took another step toward the SUV. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. The latte container slipped out of her hand, and splashed on the pavement at her feet.

A woman sat in the car, behind the wheel. She was slumped against the door. Her eyes were open, and her light brown hair was matted with blood.

It looked like half her head had been blown off.

When Harlan Shaw backed out of his driveway, his Saab pulled up alongside Tim’s car. Tim nodded and smiled at him through the window. In response, Harlan Shaw glared back and gave him a quick nod. Then he shifted gears and took off down the cul de sac.

If looks could kill,
Tim thought. He pulled out Al’s cell phone and dialed Sheriff Klauser for an update.

“‘All’s Quiet on the Logan Cabin Front,’”
the sheriff said. “In fact, I’m taking Troy off the stake out. He’s pretty fed up, and I don’t like having a man out of commission. He can still check the place every few hours.”

Tim figured the sheriff was right. Whoever had secretly occupied that cabin knew enough not to come back.

The sheriff also had some other news. A detective with the state police had telephoned. He’d be arriving on Deception tomorrow morning with an investigating team to make inquiries into the poisoning death of Al Sparling.

“I know you’ll want to talk with them,” Sheriff Klauser said. “Maybe they can track down that ‘Ronnie’ gal who was posing as a waitress at Fork In The Road.”

“Let’s hope,” Tim said. “Have you gotten any follow-up on the Bellingham woman, the one Rembrandt abducted yesterday?”

“Nothing yet. But I’ll give you a shout the minute I hear anything.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

After Tim hung up with the Sheriff Klauser, he phoned Dr. Moorehead.

“I’m sorry, Tim,” Linus Moorehead told him. “I spent five hours digging and digging last night and hardly made a dent in my files. This is going to take longer than I expected.”

“Have you come up with anything yet? Any potential candidates?”

“No, not really,” the doctor replied. “Listen, why don’t I call you later tonight? Is that cell phone number still good?”

“Yes, thanks, Dr. Moorehead,” he said.

He switched off the cell phone, then muttered to himself, “Shit.”

Tim turned and saw Claire trotting up the walkway. She looped around the front of his car to the passenger door. He quickly cleared off the seat, transferring the magazines, candy bar wrappers, and his green folder with Rembrandt-related information to the backseat. Then he unlocked the door.

Claire climbed inside the car. She smelled nice, part fresh air, part perfume. “Well, wasn’t that was a real cheery breakfast?” she said, a little out of breath.

Tim worked up a smile. “Your husband hates my guts, doesn’t he?”

Claire nodded. “Pretty much. He knows how I feel about you.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded again.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered.

Claire sighed. “Listen, I don’t think we have much time before Harlan gets on the horn and sends one of his buddies’ wives over to keep me company. Remember yesterday, I told you about Silverwater Creek? Amy Herrmann said her brother and Brian never left the island, they probably got ‘as far as Silverwater Creek.’ I need to see what’s out there. Could you take me, Tim? Now? I know the way.”

The Silverwater Creek campsite was only twenty minutes away by car—a few miles on Evergreen drive, then a long, winding trek on a narrow road through the forest. Tim kept checking his rearview mirror to make sure no one was following them.

For the last mile, the road became a one-lane gravel drive with a few turnouts so cars going in opposite directions could get by each other. The forest was so dark and thick that Tim switched on his headlights. The last mile seemed interminable.

“I was here at night,” Claire said, numbly. A fist clenched to her mouth, she stared out the window. “There were other cars.”