Eye of the Beholder (21 page)

“A guest.” The sound of rapid-fire typing on a computer keyboard echoed down the line. “Have you and Mr. Trask been acquainted long?”

“That question doesn't sound relevant, Mr. Rudd,” Alexa said coolly. “Unless you're also doing the Society column for tomorrow's edition?”

“Trask and Avalon Resorts are big news here in town. There's been some talk about an old feud.”

“Really?” Alexa infused as much innocence as she could into her tone.

“A feud that involved Dean Guthrie and Lloyd Kenyon.”

“Fascinating,” Alexa said, deliberately vague.

A large object obscured the light in the doorway of the shop. Alexa looked around and saw Trask. She clutched the phone in her left hand, stabbed a finger at it, and mouthed the word
reporter
.

Irritation narrowed his gaze. He walked toward her.

“Guthrie was said to be visibly upset by Trask's presence here in Avalon,” Rich Rudd said on the other end of the line. “Would you care to comment?”

“No.”

Trask crossed to the counter and took the phone from Alexa's fingers. “Rudd?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

“I've been ducking his calls all day.” He spoke into the phone. “This is Trask.”

Alexa heard a buzzing sound. She realized it was Rich Rudd firing questions. There was a short pause while Trask listened.

“It's personal, Rudd. Sorry, that's the only question I'm going to answer today.”

He replaced the receiver very gently.

Alexa eyed him. “What was the question?”

“He asked me if our relationship was business or personal.”

“Oh.” Alexa could not think of anything else to say on that topic.

“How was your day?” Trask asked.

“Lousy. Joanna Bell and some of the other shopkeepers here in the Plaza seem to think that dangerous metaphysical forces have been unleashed in the vicinity of Avalon. On top of that, I only sold two winged lions and a reproduction of a medieval map that showed the edge of the world. How about you?”

“The good news is that I'm not officially a suspect in Guthrie's death. The bad news is that there are some seriously disappointed people in town.”

Alexa was incensed. “There was never any question of you being a suspect.”

“That appears to be a matter of opinion in some quarters. Chief Strood, however, is currently treating Guthrie's death as an alcohol-related accident. I got the impression that he is no more eager for it to turn into a murder investigation than I am.”

“Of
course it was a drunk driving accident.” Alexa frowned. “What did you mean about the seriously disappointed people?”

“Let's just say that the story of Dean Guthrie's death would be a lot more exciting to some folks around here if there was a way to tie it to me and to those threats I made twelve years ago.”

“Fat chance.” Alexa gave a ladylike snort of disgust. At least she hoped it was ladylike. “There is no way anyone can do that. It was just a horrible coincidence.”

Trask looked thoughtful. “I'm not so sure about that.”

Alexa went cold. “Don't do that.”

“What?”

She waved a hand. “Don't start talking about negative vortices and a lack of coincidences in the universe. I can't take any more metaphysics today.”

“My theories don't have anything to do with metaphysics. But I have to admit that I'm not a big believer in coincidences.”

“Damn. I was afraid of this.” Alexa grabbed her satchel from the small closet beneath the cash register and slung it over her shoulder. She fished her keys out of her pocket. “It's closing time. Let's go.” She started toward the door.

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace where we can have a little privacy.”

Trask followed her toward the door. “Why?”

She paused to flip over the sign that hung in the window. “We need to talk.”

18
 

Trask lowered himself onto one of the rocks that rimmed the natural, spring-fed pool. The damp walls of the canyon cave loomed around him. Through the opening he could see the hot afternoon sunlight, but here inside the cavern, the hidden desert oasis was cool and serene, a shady retreat from the strong, bright sun and the stark landscape.
There is nothing so seductive as water in the desert.

An inexplicable restlessness shivered through his senses. He suppressed it with an act of will and forced himself to examine the stone cave that shielded the crystal-clear water.

This place was beautiful, fascinating, mysterious.

Wet.

He realized that he felt like an intruder here.

“It's called Harmony Spring,” Alexa said as she dropped down onto a stone on the opposite side of the rocky pool. “It's supposed to be one of the hot spots in the area. The energy vortex here is feminine, by the way.”

Trask grunted. “Didn't know vortices came in different genders.”

“Just ask any of the
locals. Energy vortices are either positive or negative, and they're either male or female.”

“Uh-huh. Come here often?”

“Sometimes.” She tossed a tiny pebble into the spring. Water rippled gently. “When I need to think. I spent a lot of time here after Mom and I first moved to Avalon.”

“Yeah?” He tried to feel amused. “I didn't think you were into that metaphysical stuff.”

“I'm not.” She tucked one leg under herself. “But I must admit that I always feel calmer and more peaceful when I leave this place. Stronger, somehow.”

Trask had a sudden memory of how she had looked when she had faced him twelve years ago, phone clutched in her hand. He recalled the big, haunted eyes filled with gutsy determination and courage. Those qualities were still there, he thought. They were a part of her.

She looked at him across the deep pool. “What did you mean earlier when you said that Guthrie's death could be connected to you and to what happened twelve years ago?”

He contemplated the depths of the spring. “At the risk of confirming your belief that I'm slipping ever deeper into my conspiracy theories, I've got to tell you that I don't buy Guthrie's death as an accident.”

She stiffened and then dropped her forehead down onto her upraised knee. “I've already had this
conversation with Joanna. Are you seriously going to tell me that you believe some malevolent force has been unleashed here in Avalon?”

“Is that what Joanna said?”

“Not exactly.” Alexa raised her head. “But I got the feeling that she views you as the eye of the storm. She thinks that if you just go away, things will return to normal.”

“Depends on your definition of normal, I guess.” He shifted position slightly, trying to shake off the disturbing sensation that had settled between his shoulders. “Look, you're the one who insisted that I confide everything in you before I acted. You want to hear my new theory or not?”

“It's not like I have a lot of choice here. Give it to me in easy sentences.”

“I don't have a lot to go on at the moment—”

“You can say that again.”

“Just a hunch.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Just a hunch, huh?”

“The kind of hunch I get when I'm in danger of getting screwed in a business negotiation,” he said deliberately. “The kind I got just before I found out my wife was going to run off with another man.”

She raised a brow. “The kind that brought you charging into Lloyd's house that night twelve years ago?”

He met her eyes. “Yeah. That kind of hunch.”

She sighed. “Okay, tell me how Guthrie's death could possibly be connected to your father's death?”

She sounded much too reasonable now. Probably trying to humor him, Trask thought.

“I'm not sure yet,” he admitted.

“Why now?
If someone wanted Guthrie dead, why wait until you returned to Avalon?”

He shrugged. “The obvious reason that springs to mind is so that if anyone got suspicious the finger of blame would point my way.”

“You're saying that someone tried to set you up?”

The doubt in her voice bothered him. He realized that it was very important that she be convinced of his new theory. Somewhere along the line she had become both partner and ally in this thing.

“Think about it. Folks around here have known for several months that I'd be coming back to Avalon to officially open the resort,” he said. “If someone wanted to get rid of Guthrie, it would have paid to wait until I was in the vicinity.”

Her brows came together in a grim, skeptical line. “It's awfully far-fetched.”

“I know there are a lot of questions to be answered. All I'm saying is that I think there may be a connection.”

“Such as?”

“All along I've had a feeling that my father's death was related to his business dealings. If I'm right, then it stands to reason that Guthrie's death might also be linked to his financial affairs.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “
Twelve-year-old
financial affairs? You're seriously suggesting that someone waited all this time to kill him because of a business deal that went bad more than a decade ago?”

“No, of course not. I'm talking about his current financial situation.”

“What are you saying?” She spread her hands. “That it
may have been a crime of opportunity? That someone just happened to want to get rid of Guthrie and decided to do it while you were in town?”

“That pretty much sums up my current working hypothesis, yeah. You've got to admit that if I hadn't had a solid alibi last night, I'd have made a handy distraction for the cops in case they started asking questions.”

“Only if the investigation didn't conclude that Guthrie's death was the result of his own drunk driving.”

“No killer, no matter how careful, can be absolutely certain that some evidence won't survive,” he said evenly. “Makes sense to have a fallback plan if you can. I was handy. Why not use me?”

“Let's try for some logic here, Trask. If someone planned to murder Guthrie and pin the crime on you, he would have made certain that you
didn't
have an alibi for last night.”

He met her eyes. “Maybe he figured that the fact that I was with you, assuming that he knew where I was, wouldn't be viewed in court as a really strong alibi.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Alexa scowled. “That he thinks I'm such a slave-to-passion that I'd lie under oath for you?”

He did not want to test that particular theory, he thought glumly. “There's another possibility.”

“What?”

“A jury could probably be convinced that I used you to give myself an alibi. You've seen enough
films to know that there are ways of tampering with cars to make them unsafe. The killer doesn't have to be anywhere near the scene of the crime.”

“But even if someone did mess with his car, what are the odds that it would have gone off the road right at Avalon Point?”

“Not that bad, when you think about it. If Guthrie got drunk, got into a car that had been sabotaged, and took Cliff Drive home, Avalon Point is as likely a place as any to go over the edge. It's the sharpest, steepest curve on that stretch of road.”

Alexa pounced. “Exactly. And Guthrie
had
been drinking. He wasn't in any condition to give that curve his full attention. There's no need to construct a conspiracy theory to explain his death.”

Trask said nothing.

Alexa made a face. “Okay, I can't talk you out of it. So, who do you think killed Guthrie?”

“Very likely the same person who had a reason for wanting my father dead twelve years ago. Webster Bell.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed.
“What?”

“You heard me.”

“This is madness.” She closed her eyes. “The only upside is that you seem to have dropped Lloyd from your list of suspects.”

“I'll admit that the likelihood of Kenyon being involved is fading rapidly.”

She opened her eyes and glared at him. “That's some comfort, I suppose. Trask, you can't go jumping to wild conclusions. This is Webster Bell you're talking about.”

“I know you think I'm going off the deep end here, but if I'm right, I may not have much choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's
possible that whoever killed Guthrie may come after me eventually.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“Because by returning to Avalon after all these years I've confirmed what has to be his deepest fear.”

Realization dawned in her eyes. “That you won't ever stop asking questions about the past?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “What are you going to do?”

“What I started out to do. Find the evidence I need to prove that someone killed Dad.”

“How?”

“By finding out who killed Guthrie.”