ShadowsintheMist (23 page)

Grant cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Suzie, I’m
afraid the police will want to speak to you. I understand you were supposed to
be meeting Giles?”

I looked at him dumbly. “The police?”

He nodded. “I’m sure it’s just routine but you’re the one
who found him and there’s always the possibility of foul play.”

“Foul play?” I knew I sounded like a parrot but my brain
seemed to be working in slow motion.

Grant crushed out his cigarette. “There’ll have to be an
autopsy, of course but drowning will probably be the cause of death. Still,
there was the gash on his head…”

This time I stiffened with surprise. “What gash?”

He frowned. “Surely you saw it? It was pretty severe. But we
don’t know if it happened before or after death.”

Alicia began to sob more loudly. My eyes clouded as thoughts
tumbled randomly. Of course, Giles’ death was no accident! He’d planned to tell
me something—something that frightened him, something he’d overheard—perhaps
something that might identify Leo’s murderer.

Whoever it was must’ve known Giles was meeting with me and…
But who could’ve known? There was only one person who might possibly have
overheard our conversation. My throat constricted and I pushed back my chair so
abruptly I almost upset it. My head was spinning. I must get away before anyone
read the primitive fear in my eyes.

Grant was saying something but I didn’t listen. I bolted
from the room, ran down the hall and back up the stairs to my room. I slammed
the door shut and turned the lock. My heart was thumping wildly—stark reality
enveloping me. Whoever murdered my father murdered Giles as well and I knew it
couldn’t possibly be some faceless stranger. It had to be someone close—someone
who knew the workings of Beacon, someone who had access to our intimate lives.

I remembered Grant’s furtive look when he’d approached us on
the beach last night, as if he was looking for someone else. Had he overheard
us? I thought of Rudy Coleman casually gutting the dead rabbit and his macabre
sense of righteousness. I thought of David, moved to passionate outbursts of
jealousy and barely controlled rage over Grant’s callous accusations. Anyone
could have followed me to the beach and hidden among the dunes. Voices carried
so well in the open air.

I hugged my arms around myself and sat on the edge of the
bed, racking my brain for some clue as to what Giles might have wanted to tell
me. Failing at this, I tried to concentrate on what might have happened that
fateful morning.

I’d agreed to meet him at seven. By the time I arrived on
the beach, though, it was close to seven twenty-five. His body wasn’t on the
beach when I first went to Spindrift. On the way back, when I found him, he was
wearing a wetsuit, so he’d obviously decided to get his swim in before I came.
Since there was no evidence he brought a change of clothing with him, it was
safe to assume he intended to have time to return home to change before our
scheduled meeting.

That meant he died sometime before seven. Tidal currents
being what they are, it probably took some time for the body to wash ashore.
Someone who knew his habits must’ve waited for him, brutally struck him over
the head—just as they struck my father with the iron poker—and left him dead in
the water.

But, no. The beach was empty when I arrived. His body must’ve
washed up on shore sometime during my first visit to Spindrift. Perhaps he
struck his head on something while swimming? It seemed impossible. There were
no rocks near that section of the beach and the idea of another swimmer
overpowering him mid-water and battering him didn’t seem plausible. Then I
remembered the speedboat. It was tied to the pier as if abandoned in a hurry.

I rubbed a hand over my face. It all fit. Someone used the
speedboat to run him down. It had to be an act of desperation because anyone
could have witnessed such an attack. Whoever it was, counted on the early hour
and the cold to deter unwelcome spectators.

There was no point now pretending there was no danger.
Whoever was guilty of these murders was obviously close enough to Giles to know
his schedule and have access to the keys for the boathouse, the powerboat and
Beacon itself. Leo was struck with the poker taken from beside the fireplace in
the parlor. This meant the attacker came from inside the house. This same
person killed Giles to silence him.

Could I be sure they knew he was silenced before sharing his
secret with me? If not, I’d most certainly be next in line!

I shuddered. There was no doubt in my mind, now, the shots
at the river were meant for me. But what possible reason would someone have for
murdering me? Either they hoped to gain something from my death, or I was
dealing with a maniac who killed for pleasure and needed no real motives. This
was the most frightening scenario of all—that someone close to me, someone I’d
known most of my life, someone I trusted, could kill simply for the sake of
killing. I longed to go to David. He was the only one who could make me feel
safe—the only person I felt I could share my fears with. But now wasn’t the
time. Not when his own tragedy was so new.

I thought of Darla LaTrobe. I didn’t like the idea of her
hovering over David when he was so hurt and vulnerable. I must trust he cared
for me enough not to be so easily swayed. I seriously doubted Darla’s shabby
overtures would have any effect on him but I still wished she’d go back to
wherever she came from.

I needed a friend and my thoughts automatically turned to
Jenny. It was a couple of days since I’d visited the hospital. There, at least,
I could feel safe. Impulsively, I donned my raincoat and crept down the back
stairs. I didn’t want to meet anyone and have to explain where I was going.
There was no one in the house I dared trust.

* * * * *

The sky was leaden. The rain had abated to a soft drizzle,
seemingly content to linger. I gained the sanctuary of my car and turned on the
engine, waiting only momentarily for the wipers to clear the windshield and the
blower to disperse the fog. Backing the car around, I glanced nervously toward
the windows across the front of the house.

Was that Grant peering out at me? I didn’t wait to find out
but drove off, relieved once I reached the open road.

I took my time driving into town. The rolling acres of
mottled trees were muted by the mist. Leaves, stripped from their branches,
littered the road, the combination of the frost and rain too much for their
frail lifeholds. Nature’s quiet, unhurried dealing of death seemed to amplify
the violence that took my father and now Giles. It frightened me most of all to
think how easily a life could be ripped from existence at the whim of a maniac.

Jenny was propped up in bed and seemed better, though she
was still hooked up to an intravenous drip and a heart monitor. She looked
gaunt and tired but was pleased to see me and smiled weakly.

“Are you up to a visitor?” I asked tentatively.

She nodded. “They’ve just given me another needleful of
something but I refuse to give in. It seems all they want me to do around here
is sleep!”

I smiled and sat down on a chair near the bed. She turned
her head on the pillow and her brow knitted as she studied my face.

“Something’s happened,” she said.

I looked down at my hands. It was useless trying to hide it.
I nodded dully, knowing I shouldn’t burden her with bad news. She waited
patiently, her eyelids heavy but her gaze fixed and curious.

“It’s Giles Lancaster, Jenny. He’s…dead.”

She drew a sharp breath and her hand tightened on the edge
of the blanket.

“My God,” she breathed. “How? When?”

“This morning. I went down to the beach to meet him. We were
supposed to go jogging together. I found him there. He must have…have drowned.”

Stupidly, I began to sob, resting my head on my arms on the
edge of the bed. Jenny lifted a hand and placed it on my hair comfortingly.

“Mad,” she murmured. “Must be mad!”

“What?” I sniffed. But her eyes were closed, the drug
undoubtedly stronger than her will to fight it. I groped in my purse for a
tissue and wiped my nose and face, then placed her limp hand across her chest
and stood up to go. As if waging one final struggle to avoid sleep, she rolled
her head slightly and her lips moved. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked
up blearily, her hand groped the air, beckoning me.

“What is it, Jenny?” I asked, concerned.

“Grant,” she said. “Must find Grant.” Her voice was thick
and her lids wouldn’t stay open. “Suzanna, he knows…”

There was no more. Her eyes shut and her lips, though still
parted, were mute, her breathing deep and regular. I adjusted the blankets and
left, puzzling over her words and chilled by their possible meaning.

There was no point in waiting for the police to come to me.
I drove to the station and asked to speak to Sergeant Davison. He was naturally
anxious to see me and led me into his private office, diplomatically not
mentioning the telltale signs of tears puffing my eyes. This evidently wasn’t a
part of the job he enjoyed.

He pulled out a chair for me and retreated to the safety of
his own on the opposite side of the desk. He produced a form of some kind from
a drawer and scribbled something at the top, then, with finger poised over the
button on a cassette recorder, asked if I’d mind if he taped the interview. I
shook my head in resignation.

Most of his questions were predictable. How long had I known
Dr. Lancaster? Were we on friendly terms? When did I last seen him alive? How
often did he visit Beacon? Was I aware of his habit of having an early morning
swim? Wasn’t it unusual to continue these swims when it was so cold?

I answered absently, battling with myself over my own
suspicions. After some minutes he paused, switched off the machine and leaned
back in his chair.

He gazed at me curiously. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs.
Fenton?”

I shook my head but relaxed a bit as he set aside formality.
“If I’m not mistaken, you have your own theories about this accident,” he said.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear them.”

“Why?” I asked suspiciously. “The last time I gave you my
opinions, you weren’t exactly encouraging.”

He made a wry grimace and fiddled with the papers in front
of him. “Suzanna—may I call you Suzanna?—a lot has happened since we spoke
last. I believe you have a right to know some of what’s going on, especially
after the unfortunate episode at the river. By the way, how is Miss Hampton?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

He nodded. “It was unfortunate I couldn’t be more candid
with you at the hospital. I’m sorry if I’ve seemed…uh…less than helpful but my
hands have been tied.”

I eyed him in silence, wondering what devious trickery he
was up to this time. Something in his world-weary brown eyes, however, told me
that he was making an effort at sincerity.

“Before I tell you anything,” he said, “I must have your
word you won’t share this with anyone.”

I nodded.

“Well, then…there’s an official federal investigation being
conducted into your father’s death. I wasn’t at liberty to share this
information with you before and if they find out I’m telling you now, they
could very well have my badge. Your father was a powerful man. As you probably
know, even the slightest hint his death might be anything but accidental could
start a landslide of unwanted press coverage that’d slow things down
considerably. However, I believe you have the right to know and I’m counting on
you to understand the need for discretion.”

Slowly, my mind processed this information and I thought
back to my conversation with Grant in the car by the lake. I looked up
hopefully. “Is Grant…uh…Mr. Fenton, helping with this investigation?”

Davison frowned. “I really can’t give you all the details,
only what you’ve probably already guessed. We’re dealing with a very
intelligent person, or persons, who could very well have access to Beacon. And
since we’ve been able to rule you out as suspect, it’s been suggested I speak
to you and try to convince you to remove yourself from the area until the
investigation is completed.”

I gazed at him dumbly. “You want me to go away?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He cleared his throat. “I think it must be apparent there’s
an element of risk involved if you choose to remain here.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know? And why just me?
Sergeant Davison, do you have any idea who killed my father? Because, if you do…”

He held up a hand. “No, no—and please, call me Bill. I
really don’t. I’m not even supposed to be working on the case, though I can
tell you I’m not at all happy about it. The FBI contacts me through official
channels and tells me very little, only what they want me to know. But since
they bothered to suggest to me that you should leave the area for your own
safety, I can only assume they have good reason.”

I sighed. “Well, it seems we’re both in the dark. I don’t
suppose there’s any reason for me to ask for the name of someone I can contact
at the FBI?”

He smiled. “Sure, I could give you a name or two but you
know you’d only get the runaround.”

I nodded wryly, experienced with bureaucratic double-talk.

“I won’t go,” I said.

He didn’t seem surprised. His face was a picture of weary
resignation. “I won’t waste my time trying to coax you. It’s obvious your mind
is made up. At least, I can say I warned you and urge you to be extra careful.
I’m sure what happened to Miss Hampton has made it clear to you we’re not
dealing with a rational human being.”

“Those shots were meant for me, weren’t they?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve recovered two of the
bullets but forensics hasn’t been able to come up with any leads. If you want
my personal opinion, I’d have to say yes. You must keep in mind, however, there’s
no proof anyone was actually firing at you. It’s still possible someone was out
hunting and wasn’t even aware you and Miss Hampton were in the area.”