Watching Eagles Soar (32 page)

The hunter was right. Dennis' eyes were sliding toward the rifle about fifteen feet away.

“On the ground, Dennis,” she said.

“I ain't gonna hurt you, Shelly.” Dennis did a half turn toward the gun. She could sense his muscles coiled for the sprint.

“I know that. Your mother sent me up to find you.”

“Huh?” He swung toward her.

“Sit over there.” She nodded toward a large rock and held her breath. If he went to the rock, she could get between him and his rifle. “Your mother's been real worried about you.”

Dennis rolled his head around, as if he expected his mother to walk out of the trees. “She don't understand.”

“I understand. You're a deer now.”

The man handcuffed to the truck let out a loud guffaw. “What is this, Disneyland?”

Dennis looked as if his legs had started to melt beneath him. He stumbled backward, grabbed for the rock, and dropped down.

“How'd you know?” he said.

“Your mother said something about it.” Shelly moved sideways to the rifle. She picked it up, then walked over to the trees and pushed the gun into the shadows, out of sight.

Still keeping her own rifle on Dennis, she fumbled for the radio and called the sheriff.

“Damnit, Maginnis.” The sheriff's voice burst through the static. “What's going on?”

“I'm at Halfmoon,” she said. “I've got Dennis and another guy covered. They're both disarmed. Could use some backup about now.”

“Ellis and Moore are on the way. You gonna be able to hang on?”

“Looks like it.” Yes, she could hang on, she was thinking. Everything under control. She heard the sound of her own breathing—slow and regular.

She shut off the radio and smiled at Dennis.

“Tell me about Pretty,” she said.

Santorini

M
addie looked gorgeous. Standing in the narrow doorway to my suite, diamond sparkling on the hand that gripped the doorknob, silk dress as blue-green as the Aegean, and silver, high-heeled shoe tapping out my baby sister's impatience. “We mustn't keep the captain waiting, Jules,” she said, tossing out the nickname she'd come up with when we were kids, knowing it always made my blood boil.

“Julia,” I said, correcting her for the millionth time.

Maddie shrugged and headed down the corridor, leaving the door ajar. I took another look in the mirror, adjusted a piece of copper-colored hair that refused to stay in place, patted a little more powder over the freckles on my nose, and shook my head at the black, go-everywhere dress I'd packed for the elegant evening at the captain's table, which I'd predicted even before we'd booked the expensive cruise through the Greek Isles.

I'd had to do some fast talking to get Maddie to agree. “Think of the sympathy factor,” I'd told her. “Wealthy young widow grieving over the untimely, tragic death of her husband, cruising the Greek Isles in search of forgetfulness.”

“Just how do you propose we pay for the cruise?” Maddie had flashed her checkbook at me. She hadn't totaled the balance since Norton died, but I did a quick calculation in my head. About fifty-seven thousand dollars, her entire inheritance after the bank canceled the credit cards and she pawned the diamond rings, bracelets, and other jewelry that Norton had given her, and cleaned out the cash that he'd stashed in a bedroom safe. It was enough to play the role of wealthy widow for a while.

“Rich men do not take cheap cruises,” I reminded her. “How else do you expect to meet another man like Norton?”

That's when I also reminded her that we had to make certain the next so-called rich man had real money, unlike Norton, who turned out to have a bank account of three hundred thousand, about a tenth of what we'd expected, and about a million dollars' worth of debt. I was at the lawyer's office when he gave Maddie the bad news. She'd almost slid off the leather chair, and I'd had to hold on to my own armrests to keep from sliding with her. We'd had to help each other to the elevator. When we'd gotten to the house in Palos Verdes, which the bank took possession of three days later, I fixed us each a gin and tonic. Then fixed three more. Maddie had gulped hers down in between jags of crying and cursing as it dawned on her that Maddie and Julia were just as broke as when they'd been hustling drinks in the bar at Redondo Beach, gazing up at the big houses tucked into the hills in the distance, sun glinting off the windows that faced the ocean, and swearing that, damnit, there had to be a way to get up there.

Well, we figured we'd found the way. Thad Norton. All two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of fat and bluster, flashing a thick wallet around the bar, buying drinks for the surfers and the tanned, bleached-blond bimbos that crowded into the booths as soon as the sun set, and who partied until we had to sweep them out at closing. Buying drinks for everybody, that was Norton, with his big house and flashy Mercedes, bragging about how he'd made piles of money in the dot-com business, forgetting to mention how he'd lost 99 percent of it, and all the time, not taking his beady, hungry eyes off Maddie.

Maddie was different from the other bimbos in the bar. She had class. She looked like she came from somewhere, not the shithole we actually came from. Norton saw that right away. He was always saying, “What's a beautiful lady like you doing in this dump?”

Maybe Maddie had the class and the looks, but I had the brains. We made a good pair. We'd looked out for each other since we were kids. That is, I looked out for Maddie. I was the one that kept Mom's current boyfriend off her when he was drunk. Pulled her out of the way when Mom went into one of her flying rages. Convinced Maddie when we were fourteen and sixteen that we could make it on our own.

And I was the one that said,
Maddie, all you have to do is get Norton to marry you and we'll be living in his big house up in the hills
. There were a few days when even the prospect of the big house and the credit cards and shopping on Rodeo Drive and all the other stuff we thought Norton could afford didn't stop Maddie from rolling her eyes every time I brought up the subject. It wasn't until I mentioned that she would make a beautiful widow that she got the idea. A beautiful, rich widow.

I gave myself a last go-over in the mirror, wishing that I had half of Maddie's looks, then stepped into the corridor. Maddie was about to swing around the banister and start down the wide staircase, and I hurried to catch up. What an appearance she made, blond hair swept up and clipped into place with a comb that everyone would assume was banded in diamonds, the blue-green dress shimmering against the gentle swells of the Aegean as she strolled along the railing. There wasn't a man in the crowd outside the dining hall whose eyeballs weren't falling out.

Just as Captain Jelenik had run into a little eye trouble when we came aboard this morning. He'd made a beeline through the other passengers, white hat cocked forward, gold buttons about to pop off the white jacket that strained around his enormous stomach. He grabbed Maddie's hand, telling her how pleased—how very pleased—he was to meet her, holding on so long that another officer in a white uniform had finally urged her free of the captain's grasp.

“I give him fifteen minutes,” I'd told her when we got to our adjoining suites on the upper deck. I was wrong. Ten minutes later the same officer was pounding on Maddie's door with an invitation for both of us to join the captain for dinner that evening. We were off to a good start. The richest, most important passengers would be at the captain's table on the first night out.

Maddie headed toward the carved double doors to the dining room, passing through the crowd of passengers like the Queen of England, nodding and smiling, with me two steps behind, like one of the royal attendants. The doors swung open, and another officer escorted us across the dining room. The subdued lighting danced over the white tablecloths with their bouquets of pink and white flowers, and shone in the silver and white china and the tall, crystal wineglasses. The knives and forks looked heavy enough to anchor the ship.

Captain Jelenik, in white uniform with gold buttons flashing, was weaving through the tables toward us. “So pleased you could join me this evening,” he said, taking Maddie's hand again and throwing a half glance in my direction. The other officer peeled away, and the captain guided us to the knot of people standing around the large round table at the head of the dining room. I did a quick count: two balding men with their dumpy, thick-waisted wives, and a single man, at least six feet tall and handsome, with a broad forehead, hair as thick and black as the night, and dark, intense eyes, which were fastened on Maddie.

Captain Jelenik introduced us to Mr. and Mrs. Robertson, Mr. and Mrs. Shea, and, finally, to Peter Hainsworth from Philadelphia, who held Maddie's hand between his own for a long moment, saying how the captain had told him many fine things about Mrs. Thad Norton and how sorry he was to hear of her husband's death. At that, the double doors swept open and the other passengers plunged toward the tables, filling the dining hall with the buzz of voices and the scrape of footsteps on the carpet.

Maddie was seated to the captain's right, next to Peter Hainsworth, with both men vying for her attention through the hors d'oeuvres and salad, the filet mignon and pyramid of mashed potatoes, the crème brûlée and coffee that smelled as if the beans had been picked yesterday, and glass after glass of heavenly wine. I, on the other hand, was stuck between boring Mr. Robertson who went on and on about the flour mill he'd inherited from his grandfather and built into a multinational processed-food empire, while his wife nodded and grinned, and the even more boring Mr. Shea of the Shea Timber Company of northern Minnesota. Surely I had heard of the company. Who hasn't? I asked, giving the fool and his equally foolish wife my best smile, and all the time, keeping one eye on Maddie. Oh, yes. Maddie had Peter Hainsworth in the palm of her dainty, manicured hand.

* * *

“I
've met Mr. Perfect.” Maddie rushed past me and dropped onto the edge of the bed in my suite, crossed her shapely legs, and smoothed the front of the blue-green dress, which had most likely gotten mussed in saying her good-nights to Peter Hainsworth.

I closed the door and settled back into the chair at the desk. After dinner had ended and Maddie and Peter had excused themselves—Peter saying that the ship's orchestra was too good to miss on such a beautiful night—I managed to escape from the Robertsons and Sheas and even from Captain Jelenik, who'd obviously decided that he was striking out with Maddie and maybe her sister wasn't so bad. I'd headed for my laptop.

“Well, tell me all about him,” I said, hoping Maddie had learned more than I'd managed to pull up on the Internet. My search for Peter Hainsworth had produced fifteen links, which meant that the man could be any one of fifteen different people, including Realtor, guitar player, expert on eating disorders, or athlete.

“He's rich. What else do we need to know?”

“How did he get his money?”

“The old-fashioned way, Jules. He inherited it, and now all he has to do is manage it.” Maddie gave a little laugh and smoothed the blue-green silk over her lap. “Imagine having so much money that you have your own company to manage it.”

“Company name?” I turned back to the laptop and curled my fingers over the keys.

“Schiff Investments.”

“Schiff,” I said, about to ask Maddie to spell it, then laughing at the idea of my sister spelling anything. I typed in what I thought might work. The laptop went through its gyrations, text appearing and disappearing, and finally the notice: no matches found. I tried another spelling. Still nothing, so I typed in, Private Investment Company. Now I had a screen full of names, but nothing that resembled Schiff.

“So he manages his investments.” I turned to Maddie, who was leaning back on both elbows, swinging a silver high-heeled foot into the space between us. “That doesn't prove he's rich.”

“Peter comes to the Greek Isles three or four times a year,” Maddie offered. “I'd say that takes money.”

Okay, she had me there. It took money, but the question was still how much money? I could see by the stars dancing in my sister's blue eyes that if Peter Hainsworth had a bank account big enough to pay the grocery bill, it would be enough for her.

I jumped up and went to her. “Listen,” I said, slipping my arm around Maddie's shoulder. “Don't go falling for this bozo . . .”

“Bozo!” Maddie shrugged away and glared at me. “Peter's wonderful, Jules. He's handsome and smart. If he says he's rich, then he's rich. He wouldn't lie to me.”

“You've known the man for like ten minutes.”

“Long enough.” Maddie pushed herself to her feet. “Trust me, Jules. I know what I'm talking about. When we dock tomorrow morning at Mykonos, Peter insists we spend the day together.” Maddie pivoted around and started for the door.

“Wait a minute.” I went after her. “Let's say you're right and Peter Hainsworth has money to burn. If you fall for him, all our plans go out the window. Even if you get him to marry you, he'll be the one in control of his fortune.”

“Jules. Jules.” Maddie was shaking her head. “All that worrying's gonna give you a lot of wrinkles. So what if I fall for him?” Maddie flung open the door. “I figure I'll have about three great months as Mrs. Peter Hainsworth . . .” She headed into the corridor and tossed the rest of it over one shoulder: “Before I'm a widow again.”

* * *

M
addie and Peter spent all of their time together, strolling the narrow, steep alleyways of Mykonos, past the whitewashed houses gleaming in the sun, with the Aegean lapping at the beaches far below. I followed at a discreet distance, trying to fend off the Robertsons and Sheas and two or three men traveling alone, who, I suspect, had decided that the sister of Thad Norton's wealthy widow might also be floating on a sea of gold.

The next day we put in at Patmos, and the day after that, we were in Rhodes. It was always the same, following Maddie and Peter up and down the narrow streets that wound past arcades and courtyards to ancient churches and temples. Peter, handsome even in his walking shorts and open-neck shirts, and Maddie, turning everybody's head with her blond hair trailing down her back, the short shorts that showed off her long legs and slim hips, and the tight, sleeveless tee shirts. They would hold hands, then slip their arms around each other as they paused on the top of a steep hill to gaze across the sea at the dark smudge of another island rising between the water and the sky. Before returning to the ship, they would duck into a taverna where I would join them for a plate of meze and a glass of Greek wine. We'd sit on a balcony and watch the sun light up the sea like fire as it dropped below the horizon. Oh, Greece. What happy memories for a while.

In the evenings, while Maddie and Peter danced or walked along the decks, I hit the laptop and tried to confirm whatever new information Maddie had gathered. At one point, Peter let slip that he'd graduated from Princeton, the definitive proof to Maddie that he was rich. “They don't let poor people into fancy colleges,” she said, giving me one of her looks that meant, I told you so!

I searched for Peter Hainsworth and Princeton. Bingo! Class of 1990, president of half a dozen clubs as well as the drama society. The senior photograph showed a younger version of the man, smiling good looks and laughing eyes, the kind of guy everybody loved. What was not to love? I shut down the computer with the sense that maybe Maddie had hit the jackpot.

* * *

I
t was over wine one late afternoon, above the bay on Crete, that Peter turned to Maddie and said, “Tell me about your husband, sweetheart.”