Читать книгу One True Secret - Bethany Campbell - Страница 10

ELI DROPPED Merriman off at the hotel, grabbed his swim gear, then drove back north. He spent the afternoon at the best stretch of public beach in the Keys, Bahia Hondo.

The wind was high, the rain intermittent. The beach was deserted, which suited him fine.

His scratched feet hurt. The sand irritated them, and the salt water stung them. He didn’t care. The pain distracted him. He didn’t want to think about Emerson Roth, or her sweet-faced sister. He thought of them anyway.

Neither did he want to think about his own life, but he couldn’t stop himself. For years he’d gone from place to place, trying to solve puzzles. Some of the puzzles were unsolvable. Others were foolish, mere hoaxes or pranks to be exposed.

On occasion Eli’s work was dangerous. He had a scar on his chest from a bullet and one on his back from a machete. He’d been shadowed in Kuwait, beaten in New Delhi and drugged in Paris. He was still recovering from the caper in Yucatán, and he was not recovering swiftly. The machete wound still ached, and sometimes his fever came back.

The life of an investigative reporter was much like that of a soldier. It could be ninety-eight percent boredom and two percent terror. Sometimes he was tired of both.

His work could be disturbing as well as dangerous. If he had been hurt from time to time, he’d hurt others in return. He’d stripped them of their honor and watched the law strip them of their wealth, and sometimes their very freedom. Some of the people involved were criminals, and he didn’t mind what happened to them. But others were misled or deluded or desperate, and some were simply innocent bystanders.

There was a puzzle about the Roths, and it was a troubling one. But what was its nature and how culpable was Emerson Roth?

Sick of brooding, he waded into the churning waves. The sea was too rough to swim in comfort. He did anyway, the salt stinging the soles of his feet. Then he sat alone on the beach, throwing pebbles at the choppy waves and letting the rain pelt him.

When the rain began to pour down in earnest, he put on his street clothes in the little changing room, then limped back to his car. He hadn’t eaten, so he stopped at a rustic restaurant on Cudjo Key.

Few customers were inside, and none out at the garden tables, where the tropical trees waved their branches in the wind and flowers were beaten down by the assault of the rain.

Outside, workers fastened hurricane shutters, cutting off the view of the garden. The waitress was blond, busty, middle-aged, tanned to a crisp and friendly. She called him “hon” and said her name was Brenda.

“You here on vacation?” she asked, setting a plate of red snapper before him.

“No. I deal in art,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He switched the topic to her. “You lived here long?”

“All my life,” she laughed. “Born and bred here. Where’re you from?”

“I’m based in New York, but I travel a lot,” Eli said.

She raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. “Art dealer, huh? Lotta galleries in Key West.”

“Yup.” That was no lie, either.

Brenda looked philosophical. “Well, hope you got your work done and are headin’ home. We’re gonna have a big blow, I’m afraid.”

“It feels worse,” he said. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the car radio.

“Looks like its headin’ for Cuba. Folks’ll be evacuatin’.” Brenda nodded in the direction of the highway.

“That road out there’s gonna be mighty crowded. Ugh. Head north now, and you can get a head start.”

He shook his head. “Can’t. I got an appointment tomorrow I can’t cancel. Took too much work to get it. Local artist.”

She looked curious, so he thought he’d push further. “Nathan Roth.”

Her expression went dubious. So did her tone. “You’re talking to Nathan Roth?”

“His family, not him.” Eli did a good imitation of looking sincere and troubled. “Something may be up with him. Nobody’s seen him around for a long time.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Brenda said. “He used to be in here every weekend. This was one of his favorite places. Liked the live music. Good-natured guy. Come here with that little wife of his. She hung back, but he’d get a few beers in him, be life of the party. Then…poof.”

“Poof?”

“He stopped coming. Just like that. Poof. Like he’d vanished.”

“Why?”

She gave an elaborate shrug. “I don’t know. There are rumors.”

He frowned and made his expression more concerned. “Can you say what? The outfit I represent is worried. They’ve heard rumors, too.”

Conflict played across her face. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “People think maybe it’s his health.”

“His hearing? One thing we’ve heard is that he lost his hearing.”

“No,” she said immediately. “More serious than that.”

He looked at her as if he’d just discovered his guardian angel. He’d given this look to women many time before, and it usually worked.

He said, “That’s what we’re afraid of. You’re the first person I’ve met here who’s actually known him. What do you think happened to him?”

She tapped her forehead. “His mind going? Something like that, maybe? He was kind of forgetful the last few times I saw him. And…sometimes he was different. Once he argued that I didn’t add up his check right. But I had. He got it all wrong.”

Eli felt his chest contract, and a chill played under his skin. The woman hadn’t said it outright, but she’d hinted clearly. This was the gossip growing and spreading through the art world about Nathan Roth: something had happened to his lively and creative mind.

And his family was hiding it.

Eli stared deeply into Brenda’s mascaraed eyes. “That’s what we’ve been wondering, too.”

She shook her head sadly. “He’s getting on in years. These things happen. What is he, eighty-something?”

“Eighty-three. Tell me, what do you think of his work?”

She made a gesture of exasperation. “Look, I liked him as a guy. But his pictures were just a bunch a wiggly lines. They didn’t look like anything to me. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

“It’s okay,” Eli said. “Lots of people don’t care for modern art. It’s no crime.”

She shook her head. “I just don’t understand it, is all. Nathan’s, his was kinda pretty—the colors, the shading I guess you’d call it. But some of the stuff out there, it looks like a little kid did it. Or even a chimpanzee, for God’s sake.”

He gave her a half smile to show he understood. “You’re not the first person to think so.”

She pointed to a brightly colored ceramic fish on the wall. “That, to me, is artistic. You look at it, you know it’s a fish, right?”

“Right.” He paused. “Nathan’s granddaughter’s still putting his work on the market, you know. She says he’s still painting.”

Brenda’s face hardened. “Oh. Her.”

Her reaction pricked Eli’s interest. “Emerson Roth? You don’t like her?”

“She comes in here once or twice a month. To buy take-out for Nathan. He still likes our shrimp and scallops. I always ask her how he is, why he doesn’t come around. She just says he’s fine, then gives me the brush-off. Sometimes men try to get friendly with her. No dice. Guess she thinks she’s too high and mighty for the likes of us.”

Eli wondered. Emerson could give a fine impression of an ice princess. But was it snobbery that kept her from getting close to the locals? Or fear?

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If Nathan’s…not himself, could he really still be painting? Do you think so?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Hey, I said he painted wiggles. How hard is that? He could probably do it with his eyes closed. Oop. ’Scuze me. Those folks want to check out.”

She bustled to the cash register. He gazed after her, a sturdy, kindly woman full of common sense. Perhaps she had hit the nail on the head. Were Roth’s new works only parodies of what he’d once done, but nobody had caught the sad joke of it?

Were they the scribbles of a mind in dementia? But the dementia was a secret, and the paintings kept selling because once the man had been a genius?

Stranger things had happened in the art world. But if it was true, did it mean the paintings were worthless? And did that make Emerson Roth a first-class con artist?

He pushed his dinner away only half-eaten. He paid his bill and left Brenda a ten-dollar tip. Then he drove south toward Key West, into the darkness of the gathering storm.

MERRIMAN WANDERED alone around Duval Street. He’d bought himself a light raincoat, but hadn’t bothered with a hat.

The rain flattened his unruly hair, ran down his face. Plenty of people were in bars, forgetting their troubles or the weather reports or both. They forgot loudly. He could hear the blare of their conversation and music when he passed the open doors.

He wasn’t tempted to join them. His mind was on Claire Roth. He had a mind made for images, and hers had him enthralled and kept him haunted. Hers was more than pretty face. It was an innocent’s face.

Eli Garner couldn’t suspect her of anything…could he? Maybe the rest of the family was involved in something shady. Not Claire.

Merriman believed that he could read faces. In hers he saw something so unspoiled and guileless it almost gave him a religious experience, except she also set off the most primitive of his desires.

Had she been going to agree to see him again? Or refuse? He wanted to believe she felt what he did. Did he dare phone her? He walked faster to try to burn off his indecision.

The streets were not nearly as bustling today. They weren’t empty, but the human traffic was nothing like the throngs of yesterday.

Merriman made his way to Mallory Square, where crowds usually gathered every afternoon. They came to celebrate the sun going down and cheer when it sank beneath the rim of the ocean. Merriman had heard it was a carnivallike atmosphere, with street performers, vendors of crafts and souvenirs, popcorn stands, drinks and hundreds of tourists.

But this sunset celebration was clearly going to be a dud. The sun, hidden behind streaming clouds, was a no-show. So were many of the street performers. The flames of the fire-eater would be whipped too much by the wind. The man who suspended himself in the air from chains would have lashed back and forth like a pendulum. Dominique the Cat Man wouldn’t chance his beloved trained cats jumping through a fiery hoop—too dangerous.

The popcorn stands were battened down. The crafts tables had been folded up and carted away. Only a few acts played to small knots of people hunched against the rain. No drunken college boys would be leaping off the pier in an excess of celebration.

Then the rain began to pour more wildly. The man with the trained dogs packed up to leave; the bagpiper moaned and screeched his last and the spectators darted for the nearest shelter.

The weather was getting wild, all right, Merriman thought, and it made him nervous. He turned to slosh back down Duval to his hotel room. Now stores were shutting early, windows were being boarded up and the streets were nearly deserted.

The wind had torn loose palm branches and they swept along the street, like brooms being wielded by ghosts. Petals were flying off the flowers Claire had told him were bougainvillea. They reminded of him damp butterflies fluttering to escape.

What was this storm doing to Claire at Mandevilla? She’d said it frightened her a little. It was worse now. Would she and her family try to ride it out in the old house, or would they evacuate the way some people were talking about doing?

He had to phone her, to find out how she was. And to ask if she would see him again. He didn’t want to call from any of the bars or restaurants—they were too noisy. He made it back to the hotel and up to his room.

He was cold from the rain, so he took a hot shower, then wrapped a towel around his middle and padded to the bed. He sat down and dialed the number of Nathan Roth’s house. Eli had given it to him. He held his breath, hoping against hope that it would be Claire who answered.

CLAIRE COULD TELL that this storm had Emerson worried.

She knew because Emerson had been in the library, pulling together important paperwork and documents. She would not have done that unless she thought they might have to leave.

Now Emerson was in the kitchen, checking batteries in half a dozen different appliances and muttering to herself. When the phone rang in the living room, she called to Claire, “Get that, will you? Maybe it’s Frenchy.”

Frenchy was not a native of Key West, but his wife, LouAnn was. LouAnn had an eerie instinct about hurricanes, Frenchy claimed. He had promised to keep them informed if her hunches and vibes told her danger was coming.

Claire swallowed and picked up the phone. She’d brought the two guard dogs, Doberman pinschers, inside again. Emerson hadn’t wanted them running loose when Eli and Merriman were there. Fang, who hated storms, pressed against her knee, not wanting to leave her. Bruiser slept on the hearth rug, oblivious to the weather.

“Hello?” Claire said, expecting to hear Frenchy.

But the voice was not Frenchy’s. It was one she’d never heard on the telephone before, yet she recognized it immediately.

“Claire? Is that you, Claire?”

It was the photographer. Her heart bounded like a frightened hare. “Yes,” she breathed, her heart still trying to run away.

“This is Merriman. Are you all right out there? I was worried about you.”

She took a deep breath, eased to the living room door and shut it, so that Emerson wouldn’t overhear. “We’re fine. I—I’ve been worried about you.”

He laughed. “Me? Why?”

“We’re used to this. You’re not.”

“They say it could be headed right for us,” Merriman said.

Claire was touched. He sounded truly concerned. “They’ve said that before. And this one keeps stalling.”

“Has one ever hit? Head-on, I mean?”

“Not badly for many, many years,” she answered, echoing what Nana used to tell her. “Long before we were born.”

“I thought I heard that recently…” His voice trailed off, uncertain.

“Georges in ’98,” she admitted. “It wrecked some boats on Houseboat Row in Key West and that was sad. It did more damage to the neighboring Keys, but no fatalities, thank heaven. We’re not really all that hurricane prone. Honestly.”

She took a deep breath. She didn’t usually make speeches that long.

He didn’t sound convinced. “That’s not what I’m hearing people say.”

“People like to exaggerate,” she said. She smiled, realizing that she was reassuring him. It was a nice feeling.

“Then you’re staying put?”

Claire stole a look at the closed door and thought of Emerson’s gathering of papers and documents. But nothing had really been said yet about going.

“Probably.” Claire hesitated. “But if it bothers you, you should evacuate.”

“We’re supposed to be at your place tomorrow,” Merriman said, determination in his voice. “If you’re there, we’ll be there. I’ll be there. Will I see you?”

She felt her face burn, her stomach flutter. “I don’t know.”

His tone grew pleading. “Did your sister tell you not to? Look, I’m not the investigator on this story. I just take pictures. Would it help if I talked to her?”

Claire swallowed. “She said it was my choice. But…I don’t know if I should.”

“Yes,” he said with feeling. “You should. I know you should. I think you know it, too.”

Claire thought of him kneeling in the garden by Bunbury. She thought of the man’s tousled hair, his serious blue eyes, his forehead that furrowed so thoughtfully when he smiled. She remembered his kindness to Bunbury and his deference to her.

Claire had been pursued before, and she hadn’t liked it. The men had been arrogant or leering. Merriman was different. When he looked at her it was with a sense of wonder, as if he respected and admired her.

“I—I don’t even know your first name,” she said.

“I haven’t got one.”

“You don’t?” This revelation shook her slightly. What sort of person had only one name? She could think of only rock stars and cartoon characters.

“My first and middle names were horrible,” he admitted.

“I went to court and had them dropped. I don’t know what my parents were thinking. So I’m just plain Merriman.”

“Well…” She pondered it.

“Do I need to have a first name to see you?” He had a strange, endearing desperation in his voice. “I’ll get one.”

She smiled. “No. Merriman is fine. Don’t you even have a nickname?”

“No. But you can make up one if you’ll let me see you. Will you?”

“You’ll be too busy taking pictures. Emerson said you can look at the inside of the house tomorrow. At least, the first story.”

“Could you be the one to show it to me? Explain what I’m seeing? You were helpful with the flowers. You could do it again, inside.”

She paused. “Emerson will do it.”

Merriman persisted, but his persistence was gentle. “She’ll have her hands full with Garner. She’ll have no time for me. Would you?”

Do you want to see him again? Emerson had challenged. Suit yourself.

She did want to see him again. So much that she didn’t feel like her usual self at all. In two days he would be leaving, maybe forever. She couldn’t bear not to see him at least one more time.

“I—I’ll try,” she stammered, dazed by her own daring.

“But you can’t ask me about my family. You can’t. You have to promise.”

“I promise.” She heard a harsh rattling noise in the background. “Drat,” Merriman said. “Somebody at the door. Garner, probably. He’s been out wandering. I have to go. Claire, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

“Tomorrow,” she said, still feeling dazed. “Good night.”

She listened to the click as he hung up. Her chest felt as if it were full of winged things, struggling to be free. As she hung up the phone, she thought, What have I done?

“YOU’VE done what?” Emerson demanded when Claire told her.

“I’m going to help show Merriman around tomorrow. He phoned and asked. He was very nice about it.”

Emerson stood in the doorway to the living room, her hand on her hip. She wanted to snap that of course he acted nice; he was trying to dig up all the dirt he could.

But something in Claire’s face stopped her. A kind of radiance shone from it, and Emerson had never seen Claire’s cheeks so pink. So she didn’t zing out a sarcastic answer.

“Be careful what you say,” she muttered.

“I will, I promise. But he’s not like the other one. He’s not like Eli Garner at all. He’s…different.”

With mixed feelings, Emerson realized that Claire was actually taken by this man. Up to now Claire had never had a real boyfriend…and she was twenty-five years old!

The men who had chased Claire had frightened or repelled her. The ones she admired, she admired from afar and in silence. Over the years, the few male friends she’d had were gay. Not flamboyant sorts, but boys as sensitive and almost as shy as she was.

Yes, it was high time Claire got interested in a man. But, Emerson fumed inwardly, why this one? He might be “nice” and “polite” as Claire hoped, but his alliance with Eli Garner made him suspect.

She trained a gaze on Claire she hoped didn’t show her very real reservations about the man. “They’re only going to be here an hour, you know.”

A sly man can do a lot of damage in an hour, Emerson thought. Especially to someone like Claire.

“I know,” Claire said, with a hint of defiance. “And so does he.”

“Shall I tell Nana about this decision? Or do you want to do it yourself?.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Claire said in the same tone. “Is she upstairs?”

“Yes.” Emerson didn’t have to tell Claire not to discuss the matter in front of the Captain. Extreme weather excited him. When the wind was high, so were his emotions.

Claire started upstairs. Fang stayed pressed close to her, as if only she could protect him from the storm. Emerson sighed, shook her long hair and ran her fingers through it.

Nana’s reaction, like Emerson’s, would be mixed. For a long time Nana had been wanting Claire to mingle more. But with the enemy? Emerson knew Eli was the enemy. Merriman seemed a gentler, more head-in-the-clouds sort, but was he really trustworthy?

She gritted her teeth. If Merriman used or betrayed Claire, Emerson would kill him, just plain murder him in cold, vengeful blood.

On impulse, she snatched up the phone. She glanced up the stairs, making sure Claire was out of earshot. Then she looked at the number Eli had scribbled on his card and dialed it, stabbing the phone buttons militantly. She wanted him to know she was capable of skinning him alive and nailing his hide to the wall.

He answered on the second ring, his deep voice lazy. “Eli Garner here.”

Drat! His voice sent a quiver through her midsection. “This is Emerson Roth. I want to talk to you.”

“Ah,” he said, “I was just wanting to talk to you.”

“Me?” she asked, taken aback.

“You. And your family. I’m watching weather reports. The hurricane.”

“Oh, that.” She spoke as if the storm was trifling, although in truth it had her deeply worried.

“Yeah, that.” He said the word as snidely as she had.

“It’s getting worse, veering closer. There’s talk of an evacuation order for the Keys. It may come tonight.”

“They can’t enforce it,” Emerson said. “They call it an order, but they can’t make people with solid homes go. And storms are unpredictable—”

“Like women?”

She squared her jaw. “If the hurricane scares you, Mr. Garner, I suggest you run. Get out while the getting’s good.”

“Ah, but I have an appointment with you tomorrow. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Providing your house is still standing, of course. And you’re still in it.”

“We’ll be here,” she vowed. But we may not stay.

“You’re determined not to evacuate?”

“I don’t plan on it.” This was a lie, because she’d spent all evening planning for it. Nana and the Captain wouldn’t like it, but she considered herself responsible for them. She would do whatever she had to do to keep them safe.

“On TV,” he drawled, “it said that usually twenty-five percent of the population wouldn’t leave, no matter how bad things get. You know what that tells me?”

“That we’re a hardy breed.”

“No. It tells me that at least twenty-five percent of you people down here are certifiably crazy.”

“Probably a conservative estimate,” she shot back. “But I didn’t call you about the weather. I want to talk about your photographer.”

“Oh. Merriman.”

“Yes. Merriman. He phoned my sister tonight.”

“Isn’t she allowed to take calls? Or is there a new law— Merriman can’t make them?”

Damn you, Emerson thought, wishing she could twist the phone cord around his neck. “They’re both adults. They can talk to whom they please.”

“That’s very generous of you. This afternoon you acted more like you were her keeper than her sister. And poor Merriman. You kicked him out. But now you’ve relented? How magnanimous.”