Читать книгу Suspicion - Janice Macdonald - Страница 11

“YOU LOOK A LITTLE TIRED tonight, sweetheart,” Ava’s fiancé, Ed Wynn, told her as they dined on trout amadine at the Catalina Yacht Club. “Are you feeling under the weather?”

“No, Ed.” She smiled brightly. “I’m fine. Fine, fine, fine.” A week now since she’d first seen the cottage and her father was still holding out. A week of alternating nights at Ingrid’s and the Bay View. But she was fine. Fine, peachy-keen, Jim Dandy fine. Tomorrow, she decided, she would spend the entire day without using the word.

Ed did not seem reassured. “Are you taking the multi-vitamins I bought you?”

“Religiously. I just have a bunch of things to do. In fact, maybe we could make this an early night.”

“Absolutely.” He helped her on with her coat and they waved and smiled to all the people they knew who were also dining at the yacht club. “I’m concerned about you,” he said as they walked out into the night. “What you need is a little TLC. A back rub, a warm fire. A little brandy.”

She felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t told Ed about the cottage yet. Either he’d be disappointed that she wanted to move into a place of her own, instead of into his luxurious home, or recognize how much she wanted the place and offer to intervene with Sam. Both prospects filled her with a dull sense of resignation. Ed was a truly good man, she was always telling herself—and then she’d wonder why she was always telling herself.

“It sounds wonderful,” she told him, “but I think I need an early night.”

“Suit yourself,” he said amiably. “By the way, I meant to ask you. What do you think of the new Argonaut editor? You’ve met him, I assume.”

“A couple of times.” She willed herself not to blush at the mention of Scott Campbell’s name. Since the last embarrassing interlude at the park, she’d taken an alternative route into town to avoid walking past the newspaper office. “I doubt he’ll last long.”

“My thoughts exactly. I met him at the Conservancy board meeting yesterday. A mainlander with an attitude.” He reached to adjust the coat she’d thrown over her shoulders. “Will your father be home, do you think?”

“I don’t know.” She stopped walking. “I’m not staying there tonight, Ed. I’ve been staying at the Bay View for the last few days.”

His brow furrowed. “What on earth for?”

“It’s just temporary…”

“How does your father feel about that?”

Her shoulders tensed under his arm. “It’s my decision. I was going to wait until I knew for sure before I told you, but I want to buy my grandmother’s cottage. My dad still owns it and…we’re just working out the details.” She could see Ed gearing up for a discussion and she cut it short. “Look, I really am tired. Thanks for dinner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“WHAT TIME DID DAD SAY he’d be here?” Ingrid asked Ava the next day over a plate of chili fries at the Beehive. “Just so I can leave before he arrives.”

“Noon,” Ava said. “Which means one at the earliest.”

They were sitting in the Beehive’s window booth, which everyone on Catalina knew was Dr. Sam’s unofficial consulting room. Three or four days a week, he dispensed medical advice, scribbled prescriptions and offered up political opinion and social commentary over the luncheon special. It didn’t seem that long ago, Ava reflected, since the days when Diana would send her or Ingrid down to the Beehive to remind their father he had patients in his real office. “I guess I should be glad he’s not sitting in a bar somewhere,” Diana used to say, “but just once in a while, couldn’t he even pretend to be conventional?”

“All right, girls. More tea?” Shirley, the Beehive owner, poured from a plastic pitcher, molded to look like cut glass. “Your dad joining you?”

“Supposed to be,” Ava said.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Ingrid said.

Shirley stuck a pen into her henna-red beehive and fixed Ingrid with a look. “When you going back to medical school?”

“Never.”

“You’re breaking your father’s heart. All those plans he had for you. Going into practice together…”

“Those were his plans.” Ingrid dipped a French fry in the chili and bit into it. “I’m happy with my life.”

With a shake of her head at Ingrid, Shirley addressed Ava. “How you doin’ hon?”

Ava smiled brightly. “Fine. Terrific.”

She watched Shirley make her way to the row of chrome and red-vinyl stools that lined the counter, stopping at the end stool to whisper in the ear of a gray-haired woman whose face took on the rapt look of someone receiving juicy gossip. Shirley and the Beehive were inextricably linked. Years ago Shirley had been a HeeHaw Honey. Black-and-white photos of her on the HeeHaw set, in pigtails and gingham, her front tooth blacked out, hung on the wall above the cash register.

“So what’s going on with the cottage?” Ingrid asked.

“Same old, same old. Dad’s going to let me have it, but first he has to do his thing with it. I’m about ready to say to hell with it.”

“Which is why I won’t play his game.” Ingrid shook her head. “I’d love to use some of my trust fund to buy the stables, but I’d burn the whole place down before I asked Dad about it.” With her fork, she poked at the diced onion on the chili. “Do you ever think how weird it is that no one ever picks up on the difference between the lovable, eccentric Dr. Sam and the stubborn, contentious—”

“Dogmatic,” Ava said. She’d heard Ingrid ask the question a dozen times. “Don’t forget dogmatic.”

“I’m serious. No one has any idea what he’s really like.”

Ava leaned her head back against the booth. She didn’t feel like talking about Sam. In truth, he was somewhere between both versions.

“I mean nothing’s changed for him since Mom died,” Ingrid said. “Nothing about her being gone stops him from chopping wood up at the camp, or seeing patients, or tearing around in the Jeep, or doing whatever he damn well feels like doing. Sometimes I want to tap him on the shoulder and ask if he’s aware Mom’s not around anymore.”

“Tomorrow’s her birthday,” Ava said. Would have been. Referring to Diana in the past tense was something she hadn’t quite mastered. She drank some water, set the glass down.

“Hey.” Ingrid tapped a French fry against Ava’s hand. “Where are you?”

“Right here. I’m fine,” she said when Ingrid kept peering at her. “I was just thinking about the birthday cake we made her last year.”

“Coconut,” Ingrid said.

“No, lemon. We squeezed fresh lemon into the frosting. You don’t remember that?”

“I remember coconut,” Ingrid said. “And I remember she had a headache.”

“She always got a headache when we had birthdays and celebrations,” Ava said. “Like when Rob and I got engaged. Mom wanted that big party and I just knew she’d get a migraine.”

Ingrid laughed. “I even remember filling a plastic bag with ice to take in to her. Uh-oh,” she suddenly said. “Did Mr. L.A. Times just walk in?”

“Did he?” Ava ducked her head. “I don’t want to talk to him. Pretend you didn’t see him.”

“He’s with some girl. Oh, my God, you should see her hair. It’s orange, bright orange. And she’s wearing army boots.”

Ava picked up the menu and raised her eyes just long enough to see Scott smile at the orange-haired girl. She returned to the menu, the image of him burned into her brain. Neat, preppy, controlled. Khakis and a greenish-gray polo shirt. He probably looked neat, preppy and controlled in bed stark naked.

“Not that I give a damn,” she told Ingrid. “But the Tangerine Temptress doesn’t exactly seem like his type.” She downed a glass of water, ate the last French fry and glanced at her watch. “Look’s like Dad flaked out. Maybe what I should really do is take the next boat back to the mainland and start a new life.”

“Before you do,” Ingrid said, “be sure to ask Dad about Mom’s diaries. I want to see them.”

ON THE EVENING OF Ava Lynsky’s exhibit, Scott stood with Carolyn in a corner of the gallery watching guests in summery clothes chat and mill about while juggling glasses of white wine and paper plates. The music wafting softly over the subdued buzz of talk and laughter was classical—Chopin maybe, but he wouldn’t bet money on it. Spring flowers in straw baskets and raffia-tied mason jars bloomed on every surface, including a white-covered buffet table at the end of the room.

He hadn’t seen Ava since their conversation in the park and would have forgotten about the event altogether if the waitress at the Beehive hadn’t mentioned it when he stopped in for breakfast that morning. He hadn’t seen Sam Lynsky, either, or heard anything more about the book. He’d told Ellie the trip to Spain was a no-go. She’d told him she hated him.

“I don’t know about you,” Carolyn whispered now, “but I feel about as conspicuous as a stripper in church.”

“You wanted to come.”

“Yeah, well, there was nothing on TV.”

He shot her a glance. Mark had returned to L.A. and Carolyn was decked out in full club-scene regalia. Ring in her left nostril, short flouncy black skirt, bomber jacket, black fishnet stockings and combat boots. She’d also furnished his ensemble for the evening: a shirt the approximate color of cow dung, khaki-olive according to Carolyn, and some pants that made him feel like a gangster from a 1920s movie, but that, Carolyn assured him, looked “very West Side.”

Possibly not the appropriate sartorial note for a Catalina soirée, but assimilation didn’t happen overnight.

Carolyn tapped a black-painted finger against her arm. “I swear to God, if that old bag in the pink muumuu gives me one more look, I’m going to go over and rip that damn flowerpot thing off her head.”

“Ignore her. She’s—” Scott hesitated, already anticipating his sister’s reaction “—president of the Catalina Chow Chatters,” he said sotto voce. Carolyn’s predictable hoot drew a few glances in their direction and he shot her a warning look. “Keep it down. She’ll think we’re laughing at her.”

“Hey, I am laughing at her. This whole scene’s hilarious, I swear to God.” Her usual expression of terminal ennui, an essential club-scene accessory was gone, in its place a broad grin. “Catalina Chow Chatters. What the hell is that all about?”

“They meet once a week to chat about their chows,” he said, straight-faced. “She has two chows, Charley and Charmaine.” He elbowed Carolyn in the ribs. “Behave yourself. I did a story on her last week. She was quite…charming.”

“Oh, God, Scott.” Carolyn shook her head. “Please don’t tell me they serve chow mein.”

“Chocolate-chip cupcakes.” He felt himself losing the battle not to grin. “Okay, knock it off. Everybody is looking at us.”

“The hell with them,” Carolyn said. “You know what? I was never a huge fan of your ex-wife, but she was right about one thing. You were crazy to give up your job at the Times. I mean seriously, how long can you get up every morning and write this kind of garbage? You’re going to go stark-raving nuts.”

“Well, it’s not all like that. There are…meatier stories.”

“Name one.”

He thought of Diana Lynsky. “I can’t.”

“I give it six months.”

“We’ll see.”

Carolyn went off to browse the buffet table and he went off to browse Ava Lynsky’s artwork, two dozen or so tile installations, hung at eye-level and illuminated by recessed ceiling lights: several views of Avalon Harbor, white yachts and blue water; an elaborate dwelling with a cone-shaped roof, nestled into a green hillside—the caption beneath it read The Holly Hill House; renderings of brown seals on white rocks, smiling kids in yellow kayaks, a shaggy-headed buffalo traipsing through long grass.

“Did you know there were buffalo on Catalina?” he asked Carolyn when they’d returned to their corner, Carolyn with a yellow paper plate of deviled eggs and small open-face sandwiches.

“Buffalo?” With her teeth, she removed an olive from whipped golden yolk, swallowed it and shrugged. “I can’t honestly say I’ve stayed awake nights wondering.”

“I didn’t know until last week.” Scott took one of the sandwiches, paper-thin cucumber slices artistically aligned with strips of red pepper. “Someone from the Conservancy called the paper to suggest I do a piece about the buffalo. I thought it was a joke.”

“Speaking of meatier stories,” Carolyn said.

Scott ignored her. “Years ago some Hollywood types doing a film about Zane Grey brought over fourteen of them. Now the offspring roam through the interior, doing…whatever buffaloes do.”

“So did you write about them?”

“Not yet. Too many other hot stories going on. The garden club’s electing a new president tomorrow.” He let a moment pass. “Daisy Summers, I kid you not.”

“Like I said, I give you six months. Maybe three.”

Scott said nothing. He’d just spotted Ava again, talking now to the president of the Catalina Island Improvement Association, a woman he’d been introduced to his first day here and who had immediately listed the articles she wanted to see in the Argonaut. At that moment he’d had his first serious doubt about leaving L.A. He watched Ava. Her white sundress seemed to gleam against her tanned arms and shoulders.

“So is that the artist?” Carolyn asked. “The one with the black curls?”

“Yep.”

Carolyn smiled. “Ah.”

Scott shot her a look, “Ah, what?”

Carolyn kept smiling. “Just, ah.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I just figured out the real reason we’re hanging out with a bunch of yahoos drinking cheap wine and chowing down on egg salad.”

“The real reason we’re here,” Scott said, still watching Ava Lynsky and wondering whether the tall geek with the crewcut in whose ear she was whispering was the fiancé, “is…” The geek had just whirled Ava around and was lifting the hair off the back off her neck, fiddling with something back there and causing Scott to lose his train of thought.

“Quit drooling,” Carolyn said.

“Don’t be absurd,” Scott said.

“Actually, I think she’s kind of witchy-looking,” Carolyn said.

“Exotic,” Scott said.

“If you’re going to go put the make on her, do it now,” Carolyn said. “I’m getting bored.”

“I’m not going to put the make on her,” Scott said. “I just need to talk to her.”

“Whatever,” Carolyn said.

Scott shot her another look, composed his features as he headed over to talk to Ava Lynsky, who was listening to the island-improvement woman but watching him as he moved through the crowd. He tried not to notice that his pulse had sped up.

“MY GOODNESS,” AVA SMILED at Scott. “A representative from the fourth estate. This must be a bigger occasion than I thought.”

“You summoned me,” he reminded her. “I’d be remiss in my duties if I neglected to cover Avalon’s cultural scene. Particularly one as glittering as this.”

“That is so kind of you,” Ava said. “I can’t tell you how flattered I am.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said.

“You’ve taken a look around?” she asked. “Tried some of our delicious refreshments?”

“Made an absolute pig of myself,” he said. “Everything’s…divine.”

Jerk, Ava thought, and turned to the president of the Catalina Island Improvement Association who had been shooting glances like Ping-Pong balls between herself and Scott. “You’ve met Scott Campbell, haven’t you? Aren’t you just thrilled to have a former L.A. Times reporter over here in Avalon covering our little goings-on?”

“Yes, well—” Doris gave him a measured look “—we’ll see. I’m sure you’ll find no shortage of exciting things to write about,” she said with a frosty smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a little plate of goodies for my husband. He’s over there just salivating for some of those scrumptious-looking Swedish meatballs.”

Ava watched Doris head for the buffet table and wished Scott Campbell would just go away. She’d spotted him as soon as he walked into the gallery—all urban and hip with his orange-haired girlfriend—and tried to ignore him. Tried unsuccessfully to ignore him. What really irritated her was the way the two of them had just kept to themselves, off in the corner, whispering and laughing as though they found the whole scene quaint and amusing.

“Well—” she tried to remember where she’d left her wineglass “—are you finding plenty to write about?”

“Still finding my way around. Meeting people, that sort of thing. I met your sister a few days ago. And your father was kind enough to give me a tour of the island.”

“How nice.” Reminded of her father, whose latest delaying tactic was the cottage’s leaking roof, Ava felt her cordial mask slip. Her head was aching, and while she hadn’t expected Ingrid to show up for the reception, she was a little hurt that her father hadn’t put in an appearance. She felt surly, tired and not in the mood for social chitchat.

“We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he said, “and I wanted to suggest we start over.”

“But you’re on the trail of a story, right? Driven, dogged, persistent. That’s the way reporters are, isn’t it? Not that I’ve had a lot of experience with hard-bitten reporters, of course, here in my sunny island paradise.”

“Look, could we knock this off?”

“Knock what off?”

“Come on.” He nodded toward the bar, where glasses of white and red wine were arranged in little rows. “Let me get you a drink.”

“I have one.” She glanced around. “Somewhere.”

“Have another one.”

“No, thank you. One glass is my limit.”

“Talk to me while I have one.”

“Talk to you about what?”

“Anything.”

“Look.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I really can’t think of anything I want to say to you. But thank you so much for attending my humble little event. I didn’t prepare any press kits, but if you’d like one, I can pull something together.” She touched his arm. “And now I really need to go and mingle.”

An hour later Ava checked in for another night at the Bay View. She was still annoyed at Sam and his newest delaying tactic. It was late April and the island probably wouldn’t see rain again till November at the earliest. She’d figured out his strategy. If he inconvenienced her enough, she’d give up and return home. The strategy would fail; she could hold out for as long as he could. When hotel living got too expensive, there was always Ingrid’s couch and the campground at Two Harbors on the other side of the island. She ignored the curious glance from the clerk at the front desk—a weekend busboy at Camp Breatheasy—signed the register and went up to her room.

The following morning she was eating breakfast in the hotel dining room when Scott Campbell walked in. A decent night’s sleep, coffee and a well-made omelet could do wonders for the disposition, and feeling slightly embarrassed by her churlish behavior the night before, she smiled at him. He came over to her table.

“Okay, I’m here,” he said, “because the hotel manager gives me a deal on breakfast.” He nodded in the direction of the Argonaut office, a few yards down the street. “It’s convenient and a whole lot better than what I would make for myself.”

“Which would be?”

He grinned. “What would I make for breakfast? Nothing that required cooking, I can assure you of that.”

“If you’d like to join me…” Divorced, definitely. Used to a wife cooking for him. Orange-haired girlfriend was his first foray into dating. He’d learn to become more discriminating. “By the way, I apologize for my…bratty behavior last night. And while I’m dishing out apologies, I might as well add one for that little scene in the park.”

“Forget it,” he said. “I just figured that was the way princesses behaved. Not having had a whole lot of experience with them myself.”

“Can we drop the princess stuff?”

“The p-word will never pass my lips again.”

She smiled, but suddenly felt very conscious of the two of them sitting across the table from each other. Outside the window, boats were moored in the harbor. Early-morning sunlight glinted off the water, and the small square of beach was filling with towels and umbrellas. It occurred to her that anyone seeing them sitting here might assume they’d spent the night together.

“So what brought you to Catalina?” she asked. “And don’t say the boat—it’s an old joke.”

“Your father asked me the same thing.” He glanced around for a waiter, then looked at Ava. “Hold on a second, I’ll go tell Benjamin I’m here. I eat the same thing every day.”

Ava drank some coffee and watched Scott as he went off to look for the hotel manager. Cute, definitely cute. Ed’s face swam into view and she felt a stab of guilt. Just looking. No harm in that, right?

“So where were we?” Scott asked after the waiter had set down a plate of scrambled eggs and ham. “You were telling me about your work.”

She’d been stirring creamer into her coffee and she glanced up at him. “No, we weren’t, but it’s sweet of you pretend you’re interested.”

“Let’s cut this stuff out, okay? I am interested. I just don’t know very much about—”

“Tiles.” She smiled. “I lead an art tour every week from the Casino. I discuss some of the tile installations around town. It’s quite informative. You should come by.”

“I’ll do that,” he said.

“So why are you here in Catalina?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Escape from reality.”

“Meaning?”

Obviously uncomfortable, he frowned down at his coffee. “It’s kind of hard to explain. I was at the Times for twelve years, nearly thirteen, and I guess I’d grown pretty cynical. Not a whole lot of illusions anymore. I didn’t think much could shock me.” He looked up, met her eyes for a moment. “This probably isn’t very good breakfast conversation.”

Ava glanced around at the almost empty dining room. It was still early for most tourists. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“A horrible crime happened in the house right next door to mine. An elderly widow—my daughter thought of her as her grandmother—was raped and murdered in her bedroom. Ellie was devastated, of course. After that, she had all kinds of behavior problems.”

“Is she here with you now?”

“Well, it didn’t quite turn out that way. I thought it would be a good thing to move her to a different environment, but my wife disagreed. And since she’s a whole lot closer to Ellie than I am…no one’s fault but my own. I’m here and she’s not.” He paused. “I haven’t given up, though. Ultimately I hope Ellie will decide to come over.”

“You like it here?”

He smiled. “What’s not to like? I’d been covering crime and living in traffic. Now I write about fishing tournaments and swim in the ocean every day.” He buttered a slice of toast. “It’s more than that, though. I guess the joy seemed to go out of life. I couldn’t shake my depression. I could work, but there was this insidious gloom. I started to feel that I’d never be happy again or have any reason to hope.”

Ava had stopped eating as he spoke. She’d almost stopped breathing. She understood so completely what he’d described that she felt herself almost gaping. She drank some water, pushed her plate aside. When she looked up, he was watching her. “It’s sounds trite to say I know what you mean,” she said. “But I do.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I imagine you do.”

“It always seemed like we led this magical existence. My mother used to say how fortunate we were. Telling us we were the luckiest people alive to be living here in all this beauty.”

“You thought so, too?”

“Absolutely. One year for Christmas, she’d had one of those glass balls—you know the kind you turn over to make the snow fall?—specially made with four tiny figures inside. Ava and Ingrid and Diana and Sam. All palm trees and sunshine and sparkle. After her accident I felt as if the island had…betrayed me. It’s so beautiful, but it’s as though something dark and horrible is lurking beneath the surface and…” Embarrassed, she stopped. “I’m sorry. I hate people who can’t wait to plunge in with their own stories.”