Читать книгу Suspicion - Janice Macdonald - Страница 10

“DR. SAM?” The waitress at the Beehive smiled at Scott. “No, haven’t seen him this morning. Kind of early yet. He doesn’t usually come in till later.”

Scott glanced at his watch. Lynsky had said eight-thirty, and it was now nearly nine. He ordered coffee and decided to give the doctor another fifteen minutes. The check Lynsky had given him the day before was still on his desk, but Ellie had asked him again about the school trip to Spain. When he called her tonight, it would be terrific to tell her she could go.

“Here you are.” The waitress set a cup down in front of him. “The thing with Dr. Sam is, you never know from one minute to the next what he’s going to do.” She chuckled. “Just part of the guy’s charm, I guess.”

By nine-fifteen, the doctor still hadn’t arrived, and Scott walked back to the Argonaut and began writing a piece about an upcoming fishing tournament. He’d just finished it when his phone rang.

“You can run but you can’t hide,” Mark, his former colleague from the Times said. “Listen, Carolyn and I had a big bust-up—”

“Jeez, let me alert the national media.” Scott’s younger sister, Carolyn had been dating Mark for a year, most of it marked by big bust-ups. The surprise was that they’d even gotten together in the first place. Carolyn, whose favorite color was black, was deep into the club scene. Mark, when he wasn’t chasing a story or reading a book, was writing a police-procedural novel, which he hoped to sell for enough money to allow him to leave the Times. He was an introvert; Carolyn craved excitement. They fought about everything. “So what was it this time? She got a tattoo you didn’t like?”

“Close. She’s dyed her hair orange. God, I tell you. I thought burgundy was bad. Listen, I could use a change of scenery. Feel like having a house guest for a day or so?”

MARK CAUGHT THE ten-fifteen Catalina Express from Long Beach, and Scott met him at the pier; by noon, they were eating fried fish and chips at a white plastic table on the patio of the Casino Dock Café, looking out at a scene that Ava might have painted. To their left the terra-cotta roof of the Casino; below them Avalon’s version of a traffic jam—kayaks, dinghies and fishing boats, leaving, arriving, or just tooling around.

“Well, sure, I’d rather be stuck in traffic on the Golden State Freeway, stressed out because I was late for the mayor’s press briefing.” Scott emptied the rest of a pitcher of beer into their glasses. “I mean, this is pretty damn hard to take.”

It was all impossibly picturesque. The wheeling gulls, the sparkling blue ocean and, just for a touch of color, a chugging red Harbor Patrol boat. So beautiful that, although he couldn’t drop the note of mockery when he spoke to Mark about his new life, he suspected deep down that he’d already succumbed to the island’s legendary spell. Now if he could just work things out with Ellie.

“So has your brain turned to mush yet?” Mark asked. “I mean, this is idyllic and all that, but…where’s the grit?”

“It’s everywhere,” Scott said. “Garden club chicanery. A tourist in a gorilla suit terrorizing women on the pier. Graffiti-covered golf carts outside Von’s. Lobster poaching. I tell you, I can’t keep up with it.”

“Seriously.”

Scott drank some beer, pushed his chair back from the table and thought about Sam Lynsky’s proposal. Any number of reasons could have prevented the doctor from keeping their appointment, but he was beginning to wonder if Lynsky might just have been spewing a bunch of hot air. He frowned down at the food on his plate and decided to run the whole thing past Mark.

“A few months before I came here, a woman drowned, or at least it looked like a drowning, out on the bay,” he said. “Her husband’s family is old and well connected—at one time they practically owned Catalina. The husband is a pediatrician to just about every kid on the island. Eccentric, but the town practically worships him. I’ve never heard a critical word.”

Mark grinned. “And God knows, you’ve tried to find one.”

“That’s the old me,” he said. “The new me yearns for truth, justice, beauty and goodness. Not necessarily in that order.” A joke, so he’d seem less serious about it than he really was. It came easy, the role of cynical observer. “Anyway, this is apparently a golden family. Beautiful daughters—twins. One’s a local artist. The other one manages a riding stable on the other side of the island.”

Mark’s grin broadened. “Available?”

Scott looked at him. “The artist’s engaged. I don’t know about the other one. The artist’s—” he hesitated “—a princess. High-strung, high-maintenance. Some poor guy’s locked himself into a lifetime of trouble. Kind of like Laura, only with money.”

“I take it you’ve met her.”

“Yep. And immediately got off on the wrong foot.” He shook his head, remembering. “Anyway, moving on, Lynsky and his wife had gone for a sail around the island. While Lynsky was taking a nap belowdecks, his wife apparently fell overboard.”

“And the husband didn’t hear anything?”

“He says he woke up and found her gone. There was a massive search, but the body hasn’t been found. All the usual angles were checked out. No recent insurance policies, no domestic disharmony. Nothing to suggest it was anything but an accident.”

Mark drank some beer. “And?”

“I don’t know. There’s something about Lynsky. A little too jocular when he talks about his wife, maybe. Which wouldn’t matter, except he’s asked me to write his family history.” A waitress in red shorts dropped a check on the table, smiled and sashayed off. Scott watched until she’d disappeared into the restaurant. “He’s offered me access to his wife’s papers. Diaries, letters, that sort of thing. Offered me more to write it than I made in a year at the Times, and frankly, I could use the money.”

“So…what? You’re conflicted?”

“Kind of. Maybe it’s all this.” He nodded out at the sparkling bay. “Okay, maybe I’m just perverse. Maybe there’s something about perfection I can’t deal with, but I just have this gut feeling that there’s something…ugly beneath the surface.”

His expression skeptical, Mark grabbed the check from under Scott’s credit card. “Too much time on your hands, pal. It doesn’t sound like anything to me. If no-one else sees anything suspicious about it, I wouldn’t go around turning over rocks. Take the money and do the damn book. You’re over here in paradise. Don’t screw with it.”

“DAD’S JUST DOING his power trip,” Ingrid said after she’d called Ava to find out what was happening with the cottage and learned that Sam still hadn’t decided about selling it. “What you need to do is pretend you don’t want it, then he’ll lose interest because he doesn’t have anything to hold over you.”

“I know.” Ava was sitting at the worktable in her studio, doing what she’d done every day for the past two months—putting in time without actually producing anything. Hours passed spent in blank staring. And then at night, the dreams. “I just hate playing his damn game. Why is it so hard for him to understand that the cottage might help me get myself together?”

“He understands okay. That’s the whole point. But what you need is less important to him than his power trip.”

Ava wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. It disturbed her that Ingrid could make their father sound so Machiavellian. To anyone but Ingrid she’d vigorously defend him and, even to Ingrid, her first inclination was always to rush to his defense, but Ingrid’s words were like moths nibbling away at the fabric of what she believed her life to be. Holes kept appearing. She’d patch them with denial, weave the cloth together with words and smiles until no one else could see the holes, but she knew they were there. I’m not happy, Ava. I haven’t been for some time.

“Maybe I’ll just tell him I’ve found something else.” She leafed through a book of sketches, searching for inspiration. When she looked up, Scott Campbell was standing in the doorway. “I’ve got to go,” she told Ingrid. “I’ll call you later.”

“Hi.” Scott hadn’t moved from the doorway. “I didn’t realize this was your studio. I was just walking by and I saw you working.”

“Trying to work.”

“Am I interrupting?”

“Not really.” She got up from the stool and then couldn’t think of what to do, so she sat back down again. Something about him made her feel awkward. Mostly, she suspected, because she’d always been drawn to the type. Average height and weight, a touch on the scrawny side, perhaps. Slightly bookish with his round rimless glasses and blue chambray shirt. Fine, even features. Curly dark hair. Quizzical, sardonic, probably given to brooding silences. Probably subscribed to the New York Times—delivery cost more in California, but the book supplement was worth it—preferred merlot to chardonnay, listened to NPR and thought American Beauty was a brilliant film. He really did look like Rob.

“Is it distracting working here?” he asked. “Being visible from the street?”

“I can usually block out distractions.” She glanced around the storefront studio she’d worked in for the past year. “When people see me working, they don’t just drop in.”

“I can leave.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

“Well, I know how it is to be interrupted in the middle of a thought.”

“I haven’t had a whole lot of thoughts lately.” Her face went warm. Why the hell had she said that? “About work, I mean. I’m…I’ve had other things on my mind. Actually, I’ll be moving soon. I’m buying my grandmother’s cottage and there’s a porch in the back that will make a perfect studio. I can just stumble out of bed and start working.”

“Pretty convenient,” he said.

He looked genuinely interested, as though she’d actually said something, not babbled like an idiot. She folded her arms, unfolded them. Stuck an elbow on the worktable, propped her head in her hand and tried to look bored. Better than looking flustered and awkward. Coffee. Did she have any? No. He had an athlete’s body. Not an ounce of fat. Unlike her own fleshy roll constricted now by the waistband of her jeans. Her hand was going numb.

“Anyway,” he said, “you asked yesterday if I had any questions and now I realize I do.”

“Questions?”

“About the tile-making process.” He took a notebook from his pocket, flipped the through the pages. “How do you actually make tiles?”

She glanced at him briefly, long enough to tell her that he wasn’t really here to talk about tiles. Fine, if he wasn’t going to come clean, she’d make him pay the price. “The short answer is, you mix the clay, roll it out, mold it, fire it in one of those kilns over there, dry it for a few days, then glaze it several times and fire it again,” she said. “Painting them is another process.”

“So—”

“Exactly.” She launched into a detailed explanation of paint pigments, moved on to glazes and firing techniques and anything else she could think of to throw into the monologue. When she saw his eyes begin to glass over, she began a dissertation on paint pigments. “That’s a very short and simplistic answer,” she said some twenty minutes later, “and I’m sure you must have dozens of questions.”

“What I—”

“Did I mention that the tiles are mixed with two different kinds of clay?”

“Twice.”

Only a touch embarrassed, she plowed on, anyway. “But I probably didn’t explain that it’s the glazing that gives them the really brilliant colors. Glazing and firing and more glazing and the heat’s turned up and they develop this hard brilliance.”

“My daughter would find this interesting,” he said.

“Unlike her father?”

“On the contrary.” He had his back to the shop window, a hand casually resting on the edge of her worktable. “I’ve been following your advice and checking out the installations around town. Right outside my office, there’s a tiled mural of a girl riding a whale.”

“Designed after a 1950s-era postcard made to advertise the big tuna that used to be caught in Catalina,” Ava said in the tour-guide voice she used during the weekly art walks she conducted. “Three children commissioned it to celebrate the anniversary of their mother’s birth.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“You stopped taking notes about twenty minutes ago,” she said. “And interesting is one of those words people use when they can’t think of anything else to say.”

He looked at her for a full five seconds. “Interesting.”

HOURS LATER HER FACE STILL burned every time she replayed the exchange. Screw him, she finally decided. It wasn’t as if she didn’t already have enough on her mind. Like her father still giving her the runaround on the cottage. That night, she packed an overnight bag, put Henri in her Land Rover and drove across the island to Ingrid’s. The following morning, she called Sam on her cell phone. When he continued to waffle, she left Henri at Ingrid’s, drove back to Avalon and tried to work. Thursday night she checked into the Bay View Hotel. Friday morning she ran into her father when she stopped at Von’s to pick up food for Henri.

“About the cottage, Dad,” she began.

“We’ll go and have a look at it. Don’t even know if it’s safe for you to live there. Deck’s rotting, roof leaks.”

“I told you, I’ll get it fixed.”

“I want to see it first,” he said. “Come on. Jeep’s outside. Just have a couple of things to do and we’ll go look at the place.”

Two hours later they were barreling across the interior, Sam rambling on about a species of cactus he wanted to show her. “Never seen anything like it growing here before,” he said. “You’ll be amazed. Just can’t remember exactly where I saw it.”

Eventually he gave up searching and they headed back into town. The wind pressed her back into the seat as Sam whipped the Jeep around the curve of Pebbly Beach Road. Maybe Ingrid was right. Maybe the cottage wasn’t worth the headache of dealing with Sam. Maybe she should have Lil show her the place on Marilla. Sam was driving and gesticulating and rambling on about this and that. You don’t listen to Sam, she reflected. He’s background noise.

“The purpose of this little expedition,” she reminded him, “was to see the cottage. If we’re not going to do that, just let me off in town. I’ve got Henri locked up in the studio. I need to get back to feed him.”

“Aaah.” Sam waved her protest away. “That dog’s not going to starve. Do him good to lose a few pounds, anyway. Damn.” He looked across Ava at the blue waters of the bay. “I’d like to get another Catalina marathon organized next year. No reason why it couldn’t be done again. The English Channel at its narrowest point is the same width as the Catalina Channel. Twenty-two miles. I could see reinstating the George Young Spirit of Catalina Award. He’s the guy—”

“Who swam it in 1927,” Ava interrupted. “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve told me that?”

“What was his time?”

“Fifteen hours and forty-six minutes.” She’d committed the facts to memory when she was about ten. “And in 1952 Florence Chadwick beat his time by nearly two hours. I need to get back, Dad. Forget about the cottage, okay? I’m not interested anymore—”

“Sure you are. You’ve always wanted that place. There’s a Dumpster around here somewhere.” He drove slowly, checking the side of the road. “I saw it this morning. Someone dumped a whole load of lumber. Just what I need for the deck.”

“So I can have the cottage?”

“Makes no sense, but if that’s what you want to do… Need to fix that deck, though.”

“I can buy the damn wood.”

“Why waste good money?” He brought the Jeep to a screeching halt in the middle of the street. “There it is. See the wood sticking out?”

“Dad, you can’t stop here,” Ava protested, but he was out of the car, the top half of his body already disappearing into the Dumpster. Through the sideview mirror, she could see a white van, and behind that a golf cart. Neither vehicle could move until the Jeep made way. Drivers would recognize her father’s car, though, and wait patiently, because that was Dr. Sam for you. She glanced again at the mirror—four cars behind them now. Over at the Dumpster, she could see her father’s tanned legs beneath a pair of tattered paisley Bermuda shorts. She slid over to the driver’s seat and drove the Jeep to the side of the road.

The other cars trickled past, the drivers sending jaunty waves. Through the windshield, to her left, the Bay View Hotel and, next to it, the Argonaut office, where Scott Campbell was probably sitting at his computer making condescending observations about small-town life.

Her father yelled something from the Dumpster.

Ava glanced at her watch. Five. She tipped her head back against the seat rest, closed her eyes. Her head was a giant gourdlike thing, crammed to the bursting point with…stuff. One tap and it would all come pouring out. Orange emotional goo, seeds of doubt, stringy bits of memory…

“Ava.” Her father appeared at the passenger window. “Are you deaf or something? How come you moved the car? I need you to help me haul out the wood. It’s good stuff. I’ll be able to do the whole deck and the handrail.” He started back toward the Dumpster. “Come on.”

Ava sighed and got out of the car. Somehow it always ended up being Sam’s agenda. “Five minutes, Dad, and then I’m going to walk.”

“This won’t take five minutes.” He gestured at the Dumpster. “Okay, we can do this two ways. I’ll help you climb in and you can hand the wood to me, or I’ll get in there, but you’ll have to give me a boost—”

“Dad…” Ava held her hands to her face for a moment. Her heart was hammering so hard she felt dizzy. She took a deep breath and eyed the rusty Dumpster, brimming over with mattresses and cardboard cartons. “I don’t want to go climbing in Dumpsters.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” He started shimmying up the side. “While we’re standing here yakking, we might as well unload it.” He threw a piece of wood at her. “Here, you start stacking it as I hand it to you.”

Exasperated, she took the wood, set it on the sidewalk and reached for the piece he held out to her. “It doesn’t matter what I have to do or what anyone else wants to do. It’s always your damn agenda first, isn’t it?”

“Fine.” He slid down to the sidewalk, brushed dust off his shorts. “Go feed the dog or whatever it is you have to do that’s so important. I’ll do this by myself. It didn’t seem like a whole lot to ask, but obviously I was wrong.”

“Dad…” He’d started walking toward the Jeep with an armful of wood and she grabbed his arm. “Why does it have to be this way?”

He pulled away, tossed the bundle of wood in the back of the Jeep and started back to the Dumpster. “Go. Leave.”

“No.” She stood in the middle of the sidewalk glaring at him. “Why, Dad? Why does everything always have to be so damn black and white? Why just for once, can’t you compromise?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “I don’t want to stand here debating it.”

“Dad.” She watched him climb into the Jeep and start stacking the wood. “Just talk to me. Please.”

“Leave me alone,” he said. “You sound just like your mother.”

EVEN FROM A FEW YARDS distant, Scott could see that Ava Lynsky was not happy. He’d finished his beer on the hotel patio and was heading to the Argonaut office when he glanced up the road to see a Jeep blocking traffic. He thought he recognized the Jeep and the driver. By the time he reached it, the Jeep was on the side of the road, and Ava, in an oversize white T-shirt, black leggings and running shoes, seemed close to tears.

“Can I help?” he asked.

She looked at him. “Oh, no, we’re fine.” She pushed her hair back with her hand. “Dumpster diving is a Lynsky family favorite. Promotes bonding and understanding. I could be home working, feeding my dog, anything. But no…” Her voice cracked. “Sorry.” She flashed him a bright smile. “Enthusiasm. Sometimes it just carries me away.”

“Hey, Scott,” Sam Lynsky called from the Jeep. “Just in time. All kinds of good wood in here that’s just what I need to rebuild Ava’s deck. She doesn’t want to get her clothes dirty, but—”

“Go to hell, Dad.” Hands fisted at her sides, Ava glared at Sam. “Just go to hell. I don’t need you to rebuild my deck. I don’t need you for anything.”

Scott stood rooted on the spot for a minute. Ava had stormed off down the road and Sam was back at the Dumpster for more wood. It took him less than ten minutes to help Sam, now all cheery affability, load the rest of the wood into the Jeep and inquire casually about Ava’s address. “Need to get together to talk about that book,” Lynsky said as he drove off. “Remind me the next time you see me.”

Ava hadn’t gone far. As he started back to the Argonaut office, Scott glanced over his shoulder at the small triangular park squeezed into a piece of land between the St. Catherine’s Hotel and the newspaper office. Last week he’d taken his laptop out there to write, inspired by the views of the bay just across the road. Now Ava sat on a bench there, her back to the street, shoulders hunched. He stood at the edge of the park for a moment, then walked the few yards across the grass.

“Ava.”

She turned. Her eyes were red, her lips dry and chapped. Behind her, steep cliffs brushed clear blue sky.

“Hi,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“I can leave you alone. If I’m intruding—”

“It depends,” she said. “You have this sympathetic look on your face. If that’s why you’re here, then yes, you are intruding. Sympathy is not an acceptable reason for you being here.”

“Being unsympathetic is my specialty.” He sat on the bench. “Ask my ex-wife.”

Her eyes flickered over his face as though she was assimilating this new information. “About my father,” she said after a moment. “Pay no attention to what you just saw. Contrary to how it may look, I’m not mad at him. He’s—” she spread her hands “—very determined. He doesn’t trust anybody’s work but his own. That’s what he was getting the lumber for.”

“Must keep him quite busy. Do-it-yourself projects. A medical practice. And he has an asthma camp, too, right? I think I read something about it in a back issue.”

“Camp Breatheasy. Kids from all over the country come here to participate. You should do a story on it.”

“I will.” He watched her face. “You must be quite proud of your father.”

She looked directly at him. “I am.”

He felt reproved somehow, as if she’d just told him that she knew why he’d really come over to talk to her and he’d disappointed her by showing his cards. He cast around for something to say and found it in the bench they were sitting on. A tiled inset in the back of the bench was painted with a scene of young woman playing a piano amidst a setting of vibrantly colored tropical plants. “Come and Celebrate with the Girl of Our Dreams,” the painted inscription said.

“By the way,” he told Ava. “I’m still checking out examples of hand-painted tiles. I noticed this one a few days ago.”

Ava traced a brilliant red hibiscus on the corner of the mural. “Commissioned by a man to celebrate his marriage. They came to Avalon on a visit and married a few years later at the Wrigley Memorial. She died several years ago.”

“You probably know everything there is to know about this island,” he said.

“Maybe not everything. It’s a small island, though. I’ve spent thirty-four years on it.”

“Ever lived anywhere else?”

“Nope.”

“Ever wanted to?”

“Not really. It would be like leaving a house you’ve lived in forever. Everywhere I go, there’s an association or a memory.”

“A Pollyanna Princess living on her enchanted island.”

Her expression darkened. “A cynical outsider, determined to turn over stones.”

He’d offended her again. He drew a breath. “What I meant was that even though I haven’t lived here very long, I appreciate the island’s appeal. This morning when I was walking to the office, I looked out at the water and I could see the mainland. It did seem like another world. I can imagine it would be easy to feel as though fate had blessed you somehow. Although I know your personal loss—”

“Which is really what you’re here to talk about, isn’t it?”

“Not at all.”

“Of course it is. Just like you casually dropped by the studio to talk about tile-making. Please. Okay, get your notebook out. My mother didn’t accidentally fall overboard and drown. My father pushed her. At least, I think that’s what happened. It could be suicide, of course. Or maybe she staged her disappearance—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did mean. You’re exactly like everyone else in the damn media. You sit there thinking that I’ll fall for your fake friendliness, that I’m just going to pour my heart out. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not my day for pouring.”

IF SCOTT USED too much force to open the front door, which he tended to do because it frequently stuck, it would fly open and hit an ugly green velour chair. It was a bad location for the chair, but the room was little larger than a closet and already crammed with an orange sofa. Tonight, the sofa was occupied by his sister, Carolyn, who was curled like a pretzel around Mark. They both sprung apart like characters in a sitcom when Scott burst in. Carolyn wore black combat boots and the kind of cotton housedress his mother used to wear. Her hair, shorter than his, was the approximate color of a tangerine. The last time Scott saw her it had been lime-green.

“Surprise,” she said. “I got fired.”

Scott picked up the day’s mail from the coffee table. “The surprise would be if you managed not to get fired.” Until now she’d worked—for brief periods—at vintage-clothing stores in Pasadena and Los Angeles while she majored in theater at Glendale Community College. Carolyn was twenty-four and always just on the verge of getting her act together. Sometimes Scott felt as though he had two daughters.

“Since Mark’s staying with you,” Carolyn said, “I figured I might as well be here, too. Don’t look so horrified. I can cook and clean and if you just happen to get any action, I’ll make myself scarce. ’Course, Mark has to come with me.”

Later, as they sat around the table eating the enchiladas Carolyn fixed, Scott described his exchange with Ava Lynsky. After managing to offend her yet again, he’d ambled back to the office. But he’d thought about Ava on and off for the rest of the day. He still felt mostly sympathy for the fiancé, but something about her intrigued him.

Carolyn wasn’t impressed. “If you want my opinion, she’s hiding something. No one would get that bent out of shape if everything was okay.”

“Nah.” Mark shook his head. “Sounds to me like she’s just a brat.” He looked at Scott. “Didn’t you say the daughters were princesses? That’s probably how she is with anyone who isn’t in her social class. She probably got a bunch of media calls after the mother died, and reporters are just part of the unwashed masses.”

“Okay, I’ve got it.” Carolyn leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe she killed her mother. And she’s trying to pass it off as an accident. Next she’ll off the father, then the sister. And then, ta-da, the princess collects all the money.”

Scott and Mark both grinned. Scott tossed a tortilla chip at his sister.

“Bet you,” she said. “Three hundred dollars says I’m right.”

“Three hundred dollars would pay half of what you owe me for the clunker you conned me into buying for you,” Scott said. “And then there’s the fifty-dollar phone bill I paid—”

“I’ll wash dishes.” She climbed onto Mark’s lap, put her arm around his neck. “Seriously, can’t you see it? Murder on Catalina,” she said. “Tune in tomorrow to learn who gets snuffed next.”

“Carolyn missed her calling, don’t you think?” Mark asked Scott. “She should be writing movie scripts.”