As Zack strode out the front door, he slid a half-smirk Gregory's way, as if being allowed to play errand boy for Abby was some great honour Gregory could only dream of. Art student, my ass. The kid looked as if he should be riding the waves, not painting them. Not that Gregory cared. If Abby wanted to play teacher with California 's Picasso, she was welcome to him. He only hoped the kid wouldn't cause trouble later.
'I sold the new Martin's Point oil,' Abby said, laying the canvas on the counter. 'Got the asking price, too. A couple from Chicago. Once they heard the exchange rate, they didn't care to dicker.'
'Good, good. I just stopped by to make sure everything was OK before I left for my meeting.'
'You'll be staying for the weekend, I assume.'
Being little more than an hour from Halifax, there was no need for him to stay the weekend, and they both knew it, just as they knew that he usually stayed, and why he usually stayed. Yet Abby asked as casually as she'd ask whether he'd take Highway 3 or 103, a matter of no interest to her either way. The thread of anger that rippled through him surprised him, as it always did, and, in surprising him, only angered him more.
'Yes, I'll be staying the weekend. With a friend.'
He hated himself for tacking that on the end, hated himself for studying her reaction, and hated her even more for not giving one.
'Don't forget we're having dinner at the Greenways' on Sunday,' she said. 'Eight o'clock.'
'I'll be there.'
She nodded, then disappeared into the back room. He stifled the urge to call out a goodbye, turned on his heel and left.
'You've reached the voice-mail of Gregory Keith-'
Abby sighed and hung up.
'Still no answer?' Zack asked as he flipped the gallery 'OPEN' sign to 'CLOSED'.
'He must have turned off his cell. Maybe he's still in a meeting.'
Zack cast a pointed look into the darkening night. 'Uh-huh.'
'Sometimes his meetings run late,' she offered lamely. 'I'll try once more from home, then call Mr Strom back and tell him we're still considering his offer.'
She turned off the main lights as Zack locked the front door. He followed her into the studio, and trailed out the back door after her.
'Go,' Gregory hissed.
Deanna lurched from behind the bushes as Abby parked at the top of the long drive. Gregory had to squint to see her. For a half-mile in either direction, the only lights were the security floods beaming on to the renovated farmhouse.
Abby climbed from her car. She started to lock it, then stopped, seeing Deanna stumbling up the drive-way, her clothes torn and bloodstained. From this distance Gregory couldn't see his wife's expression, but he could imagine it. Eyes wide, mouth dropping open, a whispered 'oh'.
Abby jogged down the driveway towards Deanna. Smatterings of their conversation drifted to him.
'-accident – help-'
Abby gestured at the house. '-911 -?' She didn't have a cellphone, hated them.
Deanna grabbed Abby's arm, her voice shrill with panic. '-son – trapped – please-'
Then Abby did what Gregory knew she'd do. She followed Deanna. When Deanna stumbled, Abby grabbed her arm and draped it around her shoulders, supporting the injured woman. Very heroic. Also very stupid, because, when she reached the shadows of the cedar hedge, all Deanna had to do was trip Abby then throw her weight on top of her, and Abby went down. Deanna shoved a chloroform-soaked cloth over Abby's mouth and nose, and she stayed down.
Deanna turned towards Gregory's hiding spot, but he didn't step out. Not yet. First, he was making damned sure Abby was out cold. If anything went wrong, Deanna's face would be the only one she remembered seeing. He motioned for Deanna to slap Abby. She did. When Abby didn't move, Deanna slapped her again, the sound cracking through the silence.
'I think that's enough, my dear,' Gregory said, stepping from the bushes.
He tossed Deanna the rope and watched her tie Abby up. Then he took over.
Deanna slapped Abby again, the sound echoing the rhythmic smack of the waves against the boat hull. Gregory shifted, fighting the growing worm of pique in his gut. She wasn't waking up. What if she didn't? He'd have to go through with it, of course, killing her, but he'd really hoped she'd be awake. He wanted her to see who wielded the knife, to regain the power she'd sucked from him over the years.
Gregory grabbed the knife.
'I'll wake her-'
Deanna snatched it from his hand. 'No, let me.'
Deanna lowered the knife tip to Abby's cheek and pressed it against her pale skin. A single drop of blood welled up. Abby's eyes flew open. Gregory reached for the knife, but Abby bucked suddenly, startling them both, and the knife clattered to the deck. Abby jerked against her bonds, wriggling wildly. Deanna dived to hold her down. In the struggle, Deanna's foot knocked the knife across the deck.
'Don't!' Gregory said. 'She's tied. She's not going anywhere.'
Deanna nodded and pulled back from Abby. She looked around, gaze going to the knife by the cabin door.
'I'll get that,' Deanna said.
As she pushed to her feet, Gregory took her place, and loomed over his terrified wife.
'Ah, now she's afraid,' he said, smiling down at her. 'Smart girl. Don't worry. This won't hurt a bit.' He grinned. 'It'll hurt a lot.'
'Gregory?' Deanna said behind him.
His lips tightened at the interruption. He turned to her. 'What?'
'Yesterday you asked if I was looking forward to this. I said I wasn't.' She bit her lip, looking sheepish. 'Well, I just wanted to let you know, I lied. We are looking forward to this.'
'Good. Now-' He stopped. 'We -?'
Deanna smiled. Her gaze moved over his shoulder.
'Yes,' she said. 'We.'
He turned, following her gaze. Behind him, Abby sat up, tugging the rope from her wrists.
'Wha-?' he began.
Something cracked against the side of his head. He stumbled and managed to turn just enough to see Deanna raise the fire extinguisher again. She swung it.
Abby and Deanna stood at the side of the boat, watching Gregory's body sink into the inky water. A late-night fog was rolling in, a dense grey blanket barely pierced by the distant lighthouse beam.
'You're sure he won't wash up on shore?' Deanna asked, nibbling her thumbnail.
'Which way is the tide going, hon?' Abby asked gently.
'Out. Right. You said that. I forgot. Sorry.'
'That's OK. You did a good job.'
Good, but not perfect, Abby thought as she bent to wipe a smear of blood from the deck. She'd have to treat that later. If the first blow had succeeded, there wouldn't be any blood. It took a second hit to the head to induce bleeding. But Deanna hadn't known that and Abby hadn't thought to mention it and, really, it wasn't as if Abby would have changed her mind when the first blow failed.
She stood to see Deanna frowning as she squinted overboard, trying to see Gregory's body through the fog.
'It's OK, hon,' Abby said. 'He's definitely heading out to sea and will be for a few hours yet. Even if he does eventually wash up on shore, it won't be near here.'
'But they'll identify him, won't they?'
'Yes. But then what? He wasn't shot. He wasn't stabbed. He hit his head and drowned. Happens all the time. Even if they suspect something, it can't be linked to us. We were careful.'
'You're right,' Deanna said, forcing a small smile. 'You're always right.'
Abby walked to Deanna, smiling. 'Not always. I married that bastard, didn't I?'
She put her arms around Deanna's neck and leaned in. Their lips met. Deanna's parted, hesitant at first, as always, as if unsure, maybe still a little shocked at herself. A minister's daughter in spite of everything, Abby thought. She kept the kiss gentle and tentative, their lips barely touching. After a moment, Deanna tried to pull Abby closer, but she held back, teasing Deanna with modest kisses.