McCloud's Woman (6 page)

She shook sand out of her shoe and trudged onward.

She was a city person. She’d learned the names of the
local flora and fauna to check the authenticity of the script, but she
had no idea what to expect from this jungle of exotic shrubbery smacking
her legs. She only hoped it didn’t contain snakes. Beaches didn’t have
snakes, did they? She knew how to mace a mugger, but a snake—

A wild animal shrieked from the bushes ahead, and Mara
almost jumped out of her Nikes. Panicked squawks followed shrill
shrieks, and she froze in her tracks. Behind her, Jim called out, asking
if she was all right.

“So far,” she shouted back. “What in hell is that?”

Like, he’d know. Jim was a creature of LA. They didn’t
have zoos in L.A.. In the bad old days of her youth, she’d practically
lived in New York’s Central Park Zoo for a few weeks, but she still
didn’t recognize the noise. Mara heard her driver scrambling up the hill
behind her—gun in hand, most likely. Jim liked guns.

Just as he arrived, the shriek screeched again, bushes
rustled, and a stately procession of iridescent blue-green feathers
emerged in her path.

“Peacocks!” She almost melted in relief, and gave her
driver a deprecating grin. “I don’t think I’m in danger of being pecked
to death by glorified turkeys.”

He shouldered his pistol, glared at the strutting birds, and slid back down the embankment.

“Make note to hire zookeeper instead of bodyguard,” she muttered to herself, cautiously approaching the guard birds.

The big one shrieked again and spread his tail feathers.
Had to be a male, she figured—all noise and no action. Feeling on
familiar ground, she boldly walked past him, and the bird flopped its
tail out of her path.

The sand sloped downward on this side, and she slid her
way past the remaining shrubbery, onto the wide expanse of beach her
scouts had photographed last year. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. A
natural harbor of gentle waves, deep enough for a galleon, hidden enough
for protection from weather and the pirates’ enemies. The artificial
jetty to the east could be disguised as a natural barrier easily enough.
Most viewers wouldn’t realize that South Carolina had sand and not
rocks. And even the ones who knew better would suspend disbelief when
she was through disguising it.

Okay, so her talents were more in setting than production.
That’s what she had Ian for. She was good at disguising things. Ian got
things done.

The ocean breeze wreaked havoc with the elaborate curls
Constantina had fashioned, but Mara figured she didn’t have to impress
screaming peacocks or pelicans. Pulling her camera from her shoulder
bag, she framed a few shots, catching the angle of the sun, noting the
time of day in her PDA.

The buried treasure scene would take place at night. With
the northern exposure, the camera crew shouldn’t have to filter too much
to get the right effect. They’d had to search hard to find a good beach
with that kind of exposure. She made another note to fly her director
in a day early. A lot of the trees she had counted on for shade on the
south side hadn’t survived the storm, and their graying carcasses formed
an ugly backdrop to the beach.

Sid had taught her that flunkies worried over details, but
she had control issues. This was her project, from beginning to end.
She’d chosen the book and the screenwriter, had ordered the rewrites and
conferred with the director on every page. If she had to support
herself for the first time in her life, she had to quit relying on
others.

Okay, so she was a Gemini and flip-flopped on every issue,
but that was just seeing both sides of every question. If one more
person told her she couldn’t have her cake and eat it too, she’d shove
the icing up their nose.

Rounding a jungle of fallen palms and bleached driftwood,
kicking sand and shells as she went, she stopped short at sight of a
trio racing across the beach, flying the strangest kite she’d ever
witnessed.

She squinted and decided the kite might be Sir Lancelot
with a Superman cape, but the sun was too bright and her interest was
diverted by the people trespassing on the territory she’d thought of as
her own. She’d have to hire more security for the filming. She’d thought
there was only one access road, and that the site would be clear of
curious bystanders.

The teenager spotted her first, yelling over the lapping
waves and wind to catch the attention of the other two. Hell, she’d
hoped to have a few hours to herself. Now she’d have to don the prima
donna role again, in jeans and Nikes and with her hair tumbling down.

The trio stopped running to stare as she approached. What would they do if she turned and walked away?

She didn’t do the introvert thing anymore.

“Hi, I’m Mara Simon.” Ranking the competition, Mara held
out her hand to the woman watching her warily. Average height, more
stocky than slim, auburn curls that looked hacked by kitchen scissors,
short cutoffs and midriff-baring tie-dye shirt that belonged on a
teenager. The woman was a mess but didn’t seem to care. She returned
Mara’s look with a frank, open stare.

“Cleo McCloud.” She shook Mara’s hand briefly before
gesturing at the two boys hanging out behind her. “My son, Matty, and my
good friend and neighbor, Gene Watkins. You must be the film producer
Jared told us about.”

McCloud. Jared—Tim’s brother. The names clicked in place,
and it took all Mara could do not to exclaim in incredulity. This
eccentric creature had captured Jared McCloud? Tim’s brother had been a
womanizer since birth. After earning riches and recognition as a comic-
strip artist and screenwriter, he would have had women crawling all over
him. He’d settled for a sun-burned—

Click
—another piece fell into place. Cleo’s
Hardware. Jim had bought a bag of batteries with that logo on it. Maybe
she’d better not underestimate a woman who could boldly tread on
all-male territory by running a hardware store. If this was the crazy
lady Ian had told her about, she’d like to be that kind of crazy. Far
better than the alternative.

Not wanting to contemplate varieties of insanity, Mara
offered her blinding starlet smile to the trio. “I’m happy to meet you.”
The teenager grinned in delight and puffed up his stocky chest. Cleo
crossed her arms and waited. Definitely a smart woman.

“Did Jared tell you I knew him when he was ten and bugged his big brother’s bedroom with walkie-talkies?”

A hint of a grin curved Cleo’s mouth, and Mara liked her instantly..

“He didn’t happen to mention that, no,” Cleo admitted. “Actually, he said he knew of you but had never met you.”

“Well, the name may have fooled him. We were seldom in the
same classes, and he probably only knew me as Patsy. I dropped the
diminutive from my family name for professional purposes, so I’m a Simon
now, not Simonetti. He didn’t put the two together. Besides, I knew TJ
better than Jared.”

Because TJ had the brains and Jared had the charm and the
Patsy she’d been had been terrified by charm and could only deal with
the male of the species on an intellectual level. Figures she’d end up
in an industry that survived on charm and looks. Must be payback time
from another reincarnation.

“TJ didn’t mention that, but then,” Cleo said, “he keeps a lot to himself. Katy says you’ll begin filming soon.”

Katy. Katy—the overly eager B&B proprietress. Knowing
people was everything in this business. Mara brushed a straying curl
from her eyes. “Not unless I can find a way through TJ’s roadblock back
there. Film crews require a lot of equipment that can’t be hand carried.
Got any suggestions on how to persuade him?”

Mischief twinkled in Cleo’s eyes as she considered the
problem, but she answered without a hint of humor. “I don’t think anyone
knows TJ well, but I have a suspicion it would take a bulldozer to move
him.”

“I was seriously contemplating that. Do you think the feds
would throw me in jail if I plowed up those bones? I mean, if TJ would
only declare them pirate bones, I’d not be so ticked, but he’s being
nasty about that, too.”

Cleo shrugged and watched as the boys, bored with the
conversation, ran off with the kite. “I’m avoiding confrontation these
days. If I were you, though, I’d be careful around TJ. From what I can
tell, he’s gnawing on something that doesn’t digest well. All that
ill-tempered gas is likely to explode on contact.”

Before Mara could translate any part of this, Cleo ran off
to rescue the plunging kite. Definitely not Miss Congeniality, Mara
concluded without rancor, kicking a shell on her way back to the road.
It would be nice to know someone who didn’t want or expect anything from
her. She ought to get out and meet real people more often.

Of course, if people got anymore real than TJ, she’d have
to carry a gun and start shooting. That would take care of his little
“digestion” problem.

What in hell had Cleo been talking about?

She’d have a digestion problem of her own if she couldn’t
move him out of the path of her trucks. Maybe a little media attention
would twist his arm.

“Saw it with my own eyes, right out there off the island
where you’re at now. Them German subs had their searchlights on, bold as
brass.” Wrapping both hands around the whiskey glass he was nursing,
the wiry old man spoke earnestly on his favorite topic.

TJ popped another fried clam into his mouth. He’d already
learned that Ed could talk for hours on the subject. He didn’t have to
say a word. A good bar like this one could keep a man entertained for a
long time—or at least keep him from thinking too hard.

“Whales got searchlights?” another old man at the bar
taunted. “Remember old Hickock up on Bulls Island thought he saw a
U-boat? Had the whole island up in arms, running around like chickens
with their heads off, shooting everything that moved. Turned out to be
nothing but beached whales.”

“At least them people up at Bulls patrolled like they was
supposed to,” Ed replied indignantly. “We didn’t have nobody hardly out
there. Hickock even had a radio he could talk in. What did I have? I
tell you—”

“They rode horses,” another old-timer intruded. “We didn’t
have no horses and couldn’t get them out to the island if we did.
Wasn’t no roads back in them days.”

TJ forked the last clam, wiped his fingers on a bar
napkin, and reached for his wallet. He rather enjoyed the muted argument
over old wars instead of the rabid hostility over current depredations,
but he’d heard this one a few times already. “My knowledge is limited
to bones, gentleman. I’ll leave World War Two with you. I’ll keep an eye
out for whales, though. These days, they might come knocking on my
front door.”

Laughter followed him out. They’d already hit him with
every form of joke about sea creatures on his doorstep. Apparently the
last hurricane had washed away his beach house’s front yard. Jared and
Cleo spent a lot of time pondering how to save it, but no solution had
occurred as yet. It would be a shame to lose that piece of the past, but
he didn’t know how to save houses either.

If he thought about it, his occupation was singularly
useless. Once people were dead, did it really matter how they died?
Justice wouldn’t miraculously return them to life. He should have been
something more constructive, like a doctor. Brad would have been saving
thousands of lives by now, discovering a cure for AIDS or the like.

But Brad was dead, and it was TJ’s fault.

He knew better than to go down that crooked path again,
only the warm summer night with ocean breezes rippling through the
leaves raised specters of the past. Walking under old oaks and catching
the sweet perfume of a late magnolia blossom, he could almost imagine
ghosts drifting from some of these old mansions.

Passing the gardenia bush of the B&B, he heard
laughter and music pouring from the lighted front rooms and wide porch,
and he shoved his hands into his pockets and picked up speed. Patsy was
having a party tonight. No, not Patsy, but Mara. She was definitely a
Mara these days.

He’d stopped thinking of her as Brad’s little sister a
long time ago, but she was the reason he was wandering the melancholy
alleys of his mind now.

He’d started college as a jock with no profession but
basketball in mind. Sports had provided an acceptable outlet for the
bubbling cauldron of testosterone and untapped emotion he’d been back
then. His best friend had dedicated his life to becoming a doctor. Brad
had been Keeper of the Flame, the shining light of genius who would
rescue the once-proud Simonettis from obscurity and save the world.

Brad’s death had destroyed the Simonettis as completely as
it had destroyed the car Brad had been driving. TJ’s car. He might as
well have handed Brad a loaded gun when he’d handed him the keys. If
he’d been paying attention... but he hadn’t.

TJ walked down to the waterfront and watched the yachts
and fishing boats bobbing in the water. Some days, he’d simply like to
hop aboard one and sail away.

Other days, his damned ingrained sense of responsibility demanded he get off his ass and do what had to be done.

Except doing what had to be done meant betraying still
another friend, destroying him as finally as Brad had destroyed himself,
and quite possibly taking down the colonel’s family in the same way
Brad’s death had destroyed the Simonettis.

He’d lost one good friend tragically. He wouldn’t give up
on this one yet. He would finish reading through the notebooks, and talk
with the colonel. There could have been national security reasons
involved that he didn’t understand. Martin was the army insider. McCloud
Enterprises just had government contracts. TJ didn’t know anything
about how the war crime cases were handled after he turned over the
evidence. He simply appeared at the trials when called upon.