A lie, he thought, another damned lie. The chance of his ever being anywhere near her side were just about nil.
She walked slowly away from the door, stumbled against a small end table, and sat down heavily on the sofa. It was chintz with pale-blue and cream flowers.
She was rubbing her hands together, just like Lady Macbeth, she thought. She raised her face. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be dumb. Now, would you like to try to sleep or talk a while?"
She'd already told him too much. He was probably reconsidering his comment that she was the sanest person he knew. And he wanted to know why she'd been in that place? God, she couldn't bear that.
Thinking about it was too much. She couldn't imagine talking about it. If she did, he'd know she was paranoid, delusional.
"I'm not crazy," she said, staring at him, knowing he was in the shadows and so was she, and neither of them could read the other's expression.
"Well, I just might be. I still haven't found out what happened to Harve and Marge Jensen, and you know what? I'm not all that interested anymore. Now, I called a friend at the FBI. No, don't look like you're going to dive for the door again. He's a very good friend, and I just got some information from him." Lies mixed with truth. It was his business, his lies having to be better than the bad guy's lies.
"What's his name?"
"Dillon Savich. He told me that the FBI is looking high and low for you, but no sign as yet. He said they're convinced you saw something the night of your father's murder, that you probably saw the person who killed him, that it was probably your mother, and you ran to protect her. If it wasn't your mother, then it was someone else, or you.
"Your dad wasn't a nice man, Sally. Turns out he was being investigated by the FBI for selling weapons to terrorist countries on our No Way List, like Iraq and Iran. In any case, they're convinced you know something." He didn't ask her if it was true. He just sat there on the other end of that chintz sofa with its feminine pale-blue and cream flowers and waited.
"How do you know this Dillon Savich?"
He realized then that she might be scared half out of her mind, but she wasn't stupid. He'd managed to say everything that needed to be said without blowing his cover. But she hadn't responded. She still didn't trust him, and he admired her for that.
“We went to Princeton together in the mid-eighties. He always wanted to be an agent, always. We've kept in touch. He's good at his job. I trust him."
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"It's difficult to believe he just spilled all this out to you."
Quinlan shrugged. "He's frustrated. They all are. They want you, and you're gone without a trace. He was probably praying that I knew something and would tell him if he whetted my appetite."
"I didn't know about my father being a traitor. But on the other hand, I'm not surprised. I guess I've known for a very long time that he was capable of just about anything. ''
She was sitting very quietly, looking toward the door every couple of seconds but not saying anything.
She looked exhausted, her hair was ratty, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek from her jump and a huge grass stain on the leg of her blue jeans. He wished she'd tell him what she was thinking. He wished she'd just come clean and tell him everything.
Then, he thought, it might be a good idea to take her to dinner.
He laughed. He was the crazy one. He liked her. He hadn't wanted to. He'd only wanted to see her as the main piece to his puzzle, the linchpin that would bring it all together.
"Did you tell this Dillon Savich anything?"
"I told him I wouldn't go out with his sister-in-law again. She's always popping bubble gum in her mouth."
She blinked at him, then smiled-a small, tight smile, but it was a smile.
He rose and offered her his hand. "You're exhausted. Go to bed. We can deal with this in the morning.
The bathroom's through there. It's a treat, all marble and a water-saver toilet in pale pink. Take a nice long shower, it'll help bring down the swelling in your ankle. Thelma even provides those fluffy white bathrobes."
He had let her off the hook, even though he guessed he could have gotten more out of her if he'd tried even a little bit. But she was near the edge, and not just with that damned phone call.
Who the hell was the dead woman they'd found being pulled in and out by the tide at the base of the cliff?
8
THEY WERE EATING breakfast the next morning, alone in the large dining room. The woman who'd checked in the day before wasn't down yet, nor was Thelma Nettro.
Martha had said as she took their order, "Thelma sometimes likes to watch the early talk shows in bed.
She also writes in that diary of hers. Goodness, she's kept a diary for as long as I can remember."
"What does she write in it?" Sally asked.
Martha shrugged. "I guess just the little things that happen every day. What else would she write?''
"Eat," Quinlan told Sally when Martha placed a plate stacked with blueberry pancakes in front of her. He watched her butter them, then pour Martha's homemade syrup over the top. She took one bite, chewed it slowly, then carefully laid her fork on the edge of the plate.
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Her fork was still there when Sheriff David Mountebank walked in, Martha at his heels offering him food and coffee. He took one look at Sally's pancakes and Quin-lan's English muffin with strawberry jam and said yes to everything.
They made room for him. He looked at them closely, not saying anything, just looking from one to the other. Finally he said, "You're a fast worker, Mr. Quinlan."
"I beg your pardon?"
“You and Ms. Brandon are already involved? Sleeping together?"
"It's a long story, Sheriff," Quinlan said, then laughed, hoping it would make Sally realize how silly it was.
"I think you're a damned pig, Sheriff," Sally said pleasantly. "I hope the pancakes give you stomach cramps."
"All right, so I'm a jerk. But what the hell are you doing here? Amabel Perdy called my office real early and told me you'd disappeared. She was frantic. Incidentally, your hair sure grew back fast."
No black wig. Face him down, she thought, just face him down. She said, "I was going to call her after breakfast. It's only seven in the morning. I didn't want to wake her. Actually, I'm surprised Martha didn't call her to tell her I was here."
"Martha must have assumed that Amabel already knew where you were. Now what's going on here?"
"What did her aunt tell you, Sheriff?"
David Mountebank recognized technique when he saw it. He didn't like to have it used on him, but for the moment, he knew he should play along. For a simple PI this man was very good.
"She just said you'd gotten an obscene phone call last night and panicked. She thought you must have run away. She was worried because you don't have a car or any money."
"That's right, Sheriff. I'm sorry she worried you all for nothing."
Quinlan said, "I rescued the damsel, Sheriff, and let her sleep-alone-in my bed. She liked the tower room. She ignored me. Have you found out anything about the murdered woman?"
"Yes, her name was Laura Strather. She lived in the subdivision with her husband and three kids. They thought she was visiting her sister up in Portland. That's why no missing person report was filed on her.
The question is, Why was she being held a prisoner over here in The Cove and who the hell killed her?"
“Have your people checked all the houses across from Amabel Perdy's cottage?"
The sheriff nodded. “Depressing, Quinlan, depressing. No one knows a thing. No one heard a thing-not a TV, not a telephone, not a car backfiring, not a woman screaming. Not on either night. Not a bloody thing." He looked over at Sally, but couldn't speak until Martha delivered his pancakes.