Sunshine Beach (16 page)

Still he said nothing. She couldn't seem to slow the skittering. Or regulate her breathing, which had gone kind of shallow.

“It just seemed so odd that they were locked away like that in such a strange place. Renée had no knowledge of their existence. They're from Germany. During the war.” Nikki swallowed. “Kyra had the idea that they might somehow provide some kind of clue to what happened to Ilse.”

The distance between them echoed heavily in the silence. His loss was a weight pressing down on her chest. She stopped and stood with her feet in the water trying to catch her breath.

“All right,” he said finally. “If someone will scan and send them, I'll take a look.”

“Thank you,” she said, her oxygen-deprived brain grasping
for something, anything to say. But before she could so much as stutter good-bye she realized that the silence had changed. Joe had already disconnected. Fighting back tears, she stood in the water, her eyes pinned on the sunlight that glimmered so brightly on the surface, and did the same.

Nikki and Maddie sat on Maddie's bedroom balcony sipping coffee and staring out over the pass where seagulls soared in the pale morning sky and pelicans dive-bombed for breakfast.

“How did you not kill him before you divorced him?” Nikki asked, scanning Bella Flora's pool area where Steve Singer's dropped towels and abandoned flip-flops littered the deck. His bathing trunks had been slung over chair backs and left “drying” for days.

“It never occurred to me,” Maddie said. “I was in love with him and we were busy building a family and a life. It was a simple division of labor, though I don't remember really discussing it. Steve made a living and I . . .”

“Did everything else?” Nikki guessed.

“No, of course not. Steve coached Andrew in baseball and he helped chaperone some of his Boy Scout camping trips. And . . .” Maddie's voice trailed off as she apparently tried to come up with other areas that had fallen under her then-husband's purview. “I was lucky to be able stay home with Kyra and Andrew—to be there for them. Steve worked hard to make that possible. And I know it was good for the kids.”

“And Steve.”

Maddie shrugged. “It was good for all of us. We raised two great children. I think we were . . . happy.”

Steve came out of the pool house in pajama bottoms and an ancient T-shirt, something Nikki now recognized as his sleeping attire. Without looking to see who might be around, he yawned and stretched contentedly. Within moments his hand had dropped and he was scratching his balls, something he did with alarming frequency. “He seems quite attached to . . . some of his attachments.”

Maddie, who could and did blush at the drop of a hat, just laughed. “And Joe's not?”

“Not in such an obvious way,” Nikki said almost primly. “And I'm betting William isn't, either.”

“I lived with Steve for a quarter of a century and our son for twenty of that. Personally, I think all men have a ‘special relationship' with their anatomy. But I'm guessing they feel freer to demonstrate that attachment over time. Will and I are still in the ‘honeymoon phase' where touching each other is way more interesting and compelling.” Maddie blushed slightly and Nikki wished she were, in fact, still in a “honeymoon phase” with Joe. Or any sort of phase. At the moment she missed him so much she might even have agreed to go on a honeymoon with him. If only she hadn't forced him to give up on her. Regret and guilt sliced through her.

“You aren't going to feed him again, are you?” Nikki asked as they watched Steve amble toward the house. Once you fed a stray they never left.

“I'm not going to cook especially for him, no,” Maddie said as Steve disappeared through Bella Flora's back door. “But if I'm putting breakfast on the table, which I am, I'm not going to tell him he can't have any.” She smiled and stood. “Speaking of which, I think it's time to get things under way.”

“Geema!” Nikki watched Dustin's face light up when his grandmother entered the kitchen and felt the oddest tug.
Steve Singer looked pretty happy to see her, too, or maybe he was just hungry. “Can Dustbin have Mench boast?”

“Absolutely!” Maddie beamed at her grandson. “Do you want to help?”

Within moments Maddie had whisked eggs and milk in a big bowl, heated up fry pans and a griddle, and was helping Dustin, who stood on a chair beside her, to dip the pieces of bread into the egg mixture. Syrup was put in the microwave to warm. Kyra set the table while Nikki set out cartons of milk and orange juice, her stomach turning over at the smells that filled the kitchen.

A boat horn beeped outside and she spied Chase, Avery, and the boys in Chase's boat,
Hard Case
, just off the seawall. “Ahoy there, mateys!” Avery's voice boomed through a foghorn. “Be right there!” The boat putted toward the dock next door at the Cottage Inn.

The stack of French toast grew. More places were set. Steve watched all the activity with a smile on his face but didn't seem at all compelled to move. Or help.

A cell phone rang. Maddie looked up. “Oh. That's mine.” Her hands were covered in egg mixture and Dustin leaned against her as he “cookited.” “Can somebody grab that?” Maddie called over her shoulder.

Although Maddie's cell phone sat near Steve, Nikki half expected him to ignore it and Maddie's request. He surprised her by picking it up and raising it to his ear. “Singer Bait and Tackle,” he answered gaily.

He sat smiling and, apparently, listening before he replied. “Right. And I've got a limo standing by outside to run me over to the gym.” He put down the phone. “Some joker who said she was with Aquarian Records, Mad. Wanted to talk to you about being picked up in a private plane.” He snorted in amusement. “Back in my day prank calls were simpler. ‘Is your refrigerator running? Better go catch it!'” He shook his head, oblivious to the fact that no one was laughing.

“Dad!” Kyra said. “Aquarian is Will Hightower's label. And what's so funny about a private plane?”

“Don't be silly,” Steve said. “Why would anyone . . .”

“Want to send a plane for
me
?” Maddie wiped her hands on a dishtowel, ceded her spot at the stove to Kyra, and moved toward the table to snatch up the phone. If he'd been smart, Nikki thought, Steve would already be ducking and apologizing. But then if he'd really been smart, he would still be married to Maddie. Nikki's stomach churned at the thought of how easily bad choices could be made. And how hard they could be to rectify. An urge to call Joe and tell him how much she missed him surged through her. She fought it back. Because it no longer mattered how much she loved him or wanted him in her life. Not until she could turn that love into commitment. Her appetite fled as she watched Maddie turn and leave the kitchen, a mix of hurt and anger suffusing her face.

Maddie stomped up the stairs, strode through her bedroom, and stepped back onto the balcony. She was still trying to shed her irritation as she hit redial and raised her cell phone to her ear.

“Ms. Singer?” The young woman's voice was polite and respectful. Unlike some people she knew.

“Yes,” Maddie said. “I'm so sorry that . . .” What? Her ex-husband couldn't imagine that William Hightower found her attractive? That he might actually want a plane sent for her? “I couldn't get to the phone.”

“No problem,” the perky young woman replied. “Mr. Hightower asked me to organize transportation for you to the concert. The plane will pick up Mrs. Baynard in Palm Beach and then stop at Albert Whitted Airport for you and any guests you'd like to bring.”

“That sounds . . .” Once again Steve's dismissive view of her rose. She pushed it back. “. . . great. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she said quite formally. “I'll email you the details as soon as everything's set up along with my contact information. If there's anything at all that you need or would like to know, please don't hesitate to contact me.”

From her vantage point on the balcony, Maddie could see Chase and his sons tying up the boat. Avery jumped out, then retrieved Jeff's walker while his grandsons helped him up out of the boat and onto the dock.

Hitting speed dial, she waited for only one ring before Will picked up.

“Good morning, Maddie.”

The upbeat greeting, his obvious pleasure at hearing her voice were balms to the soul. And her ego. When she was with him, the glow in his eyes and the ease she felt in his company convinced her that she was not imagining their connection. But when they were apart the doubts began to nibble away at that certainty. Could she really blame Steve for his disbelief when she herself couldn't quite believe she was in a relationship with William Hightower?

“Mad?”

“Sorry,” she said. “It's kind of intense here at the moment. Steve showed up unexpectedly a few days ago to visit Kyra and Dustin. The Hardins just arrived for breakfast and to take everyone out on the boat. And, the renovation project is on but there are a lot of moving parts that still need to be pinned down.” She realized she was running on about herself and stopped.

“Sounds like you need to take a deep breath and try to relax,” he said. “But I know what you're saying. We're rehearsing almost nonstop down here. I can't believe how fast everything's ramping up. The concert in Raleigh-Durham is part of a trial run in smaller venues. A soft opening. And they'll be recording a few of the new songs live.”

“Yes,” she said, remembering why she'd ostensibly called. “I heard from Aquarian. Thanks for asking them to make arrangements to get me and Bitsy up there.”

“They keep asking what I want. The list is small. You're at the top.”

“Right above making somebody pick out all the orange M&M's?” she teased, but his words went a long way toward banishing what lingered of Steve's dismissal.

“I don't really care about the riders and perks,” Will said. “I'm writing again, Maddie. Really writing. I feel kind of like some old wine bottle that somebody finally managed to get a cork out of. The stuff's practically pouring out of me.” He paused. “I'm sure there's something completely wrong about an alcoholic using wine analogies, but that's what it feels like.”

“So how are you staying so calm?” she asked as she heard the sounds of conversation and the scraping of chairs down on the loggia. Someone had apparently figured out that the group was too large for the kitchen table and the day too beautiful to eat in the dining room.

“You would be appalled at how many laps I'm swimming,” Will said. “Plus I'm out on the flats as much as possible. And I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, but I sat in on one of the yoga classes the residents take and, well, I look awkward as hell but it is kind of peaceful. Did you know there's a fish pose?”

Maddie smiled at the image of the former rock icon who'd once stared down from a poster on her bedroom wall all folded up on a yoga mat. “Well, that's right up your alley, isn't it?”

“Yeah, turns out half the movements in fly casting belong in a yoga class.”

Maddie laughed. “So you mean if I take up yoga I'll be a better fly fisherman?”

“Possibly,” he said.

“You don't have to spare my feelings,” she said. “We both know I catch way more bushes and bottom than fish.”

“True.” She could hear the amusement in his voice. Could practically feel the warmth emanating from him.

From beneath the balcony someone called her name.
Dustin raced out to a spot on the pool deck and waved his arms. “Beckfest, Geema!”

“I'm going to have to go,” she said.

“Enjoy yourself, Maddie-fan. I'll see you in North Carolina soon. I can't wait to get you in my arms. And show you in person how grateful I am to you for loosening that cork.”

“See you then.” Maddie ended the call and shoved her phone in her shorts pocket. As she took the stairs down to join the others her step was light, her spirits lighter. She, Madeline Singer, was at the top of William Hightower's “list.” A very real part of his life. Steve Singer could take his opinions about her and everything else and lump it. Better yet, he could stick them where the sun didn't shine.

Nikki stood on the seawall smiling and waving as
Hard Case
passed on its way into the Gulf. Chase stood behind the wheel of the boat, which bulged with bodies, life, and good humor. She'd claimed a headache and errands she couldn't put off, but in truth she hadn't had the energy or the stomach for the trip up the coast toward Clearwater.

Making her way inside, she breathed in the quiet, enjoying the novelty of being alone. It was the first weekend in June and the windows were open to catch the morning breeze. By afternoon air conditioning would be necessary.

Too lazy to climb the stairs to her bedroom, she stretched out on the salon sofa, her head propped on a pillow, her hands folded on her stomach. She'd planned to email Bitsy Baynard about the concert plans and confirm her sponsorship details, but it seemed far too much effort. Ignoring the laptop she'd left on the coffee table, she yawned and settled into the sofa with her cell phone clutched in one hand. Joe had been in Tampa for a meeting yesterday and would be at the hotel on Monday morning to talk to Renée and Annelise after the cold case unit had gone back through the family apartment.
She'd been clutching her cell phone in a death grip all weekend. Just in case, which was the most specific thought she'd allowed herself. But it hadn't rung once and didn't seem inclined to ring now. And she definitely hadn't passed up the boat ride in case he came into town early. When dreamland beckoned she accepted the invitation.

She leapt awake sometime later to the ding of an incoming text, then pawed frantically in the loose cushions for her phone. When she finally located it, her heart was pounding. But the text wasn't from Joe. She blinked, trying to understand what she was seeing. The phone number wasn't one she recognized, but as she looked at the message she realized it could only have been sent by her felonious brother. Who currently resided at Butner Federal Correctional Complex in North Carolina. Where he no doubt worshiped at the feet of the even better known Ponzi perpetrator incarcerated there, Bernie Madoff.

She sat up and peered down at the screen. Malcolm had tried to communicate in the past through the prison-regulated email system—she'd agreed to be on his “approved list” for visits and communication partly because she'd felt it might be helpful to Joe and partly because, while she had no desire to speak to or see him, they were each other's only living relatives. But this was not an email. It was a text. Which meant it hadn't come through the monitored TRULINCS system, but from a cell phone. Which prisoners were not allowed to possess but which Joe had told her were routinely smuggled in.

She knew it was from Malcolm because it read,
Need to cu, bs
(which had once stood for “big sister” but might now just be “bullshit”).
Ready to share. Only u.

Her stomach twisted into a knot of anger and fear. Bile rose in her throat. She shivered with revulsion, but could not deny the flicker of curiosity. She felt like Little Red Riding Hood standing at the edge of the forest watching the Big Bad Wolf smile and crook his finger.

“Are you okay?” Renée Franklin asked her younger sister as they arrived at the family apartment just before noon on Monday.

Annelise nodded, though she didn't look any more certain than Renée felt. John had come earlier that morning to open up the apartment for the cold case unit. Joe Giraldi and Officer James Jackson stood outside waiting for them.

Officer Jackson appeared to be somewhere in his midthirties. He was tall and broad shouldered with friendly hazel-colored eyes and a ready smile. He moved with the grace of a former athlete and had a comfortable air of command about him.

“It's nice to see you both,” Officer Jackson said. “My father sent his regards. And he told me to be sure and apologize for all the times your paper ended up in the bushes.” He smiled and offered his hand. “I was glad that Agent Giraldi contacted me. After I heard from him I tracked down the case files and took a look.”

“The files still exist?” Annelise clung to the young man's hand. She'd begun practically vibrating at her first sight of Officer Jackson and hadn't yet stopped.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And have you found new clues? Fingerprints? Blood spatter that couldn't be detected back then? Trace evidence that will finally tell us what happened to my mother?” The forensic jargon absorbed in marathon viewings of
Forensic Files
,
Cold Case
, and the variously located CSI programs rolled off Annelise's tongue with practiced ease. Renée could hardly bear to see the desperate hope on her face.

“As I'm sure Special Agent Giraldi told you, heat and humidity are the enemy of most trace evidence,” the officer said. “And it has been more than fifty years.”

“But . . .” Annelise's face began to deflate.

Joe remained silent, allowing the young law enforcement officer to take the lead.

“But that doesn't mean we don't have anything to go on,” Officer Jackson said. “My team went through the apartment thoroughly this morning. Plus there are articles of clothing and household items in evidence that we can test in ways we couldn't then. We can also take another, better look at the fingerprints that were lifted at the time, then run them through computer databases that didn't exist in the early fifties. And I've got all of the original detective's notes and records of all the interviews that were conducted.”

“Detective Anderson?” Annelise sniffed. “He never even looked for another suspect besides my mother.” Her voice had taken on the childish tone that came on when she was agitated.

“In fairness, there were no other leads,” Officer Jackson said. “And the man was thorough. He canvassed and did a large number of interviews. There are reams of handwritten notes I'm still working through and lots of follow-up. But the reality is that then, the same as now, a random killer is far less likely than a close family member.”

“No!” Annelise stomped her foot, once again retreating into childish anger.

“The fact that she was never found . . .” Jackson said.

“. . . only proves that something happened to her,” Annelise insisted, her voice growing shriller. “She never would have left me. And she didn't even take anything with her.”

Renée put an arm around her sister's shoulders.

Joe Giraldi, who had stood silent until now, stepped forward. “I have complete confidence that Officer Jackson will do everything possible to try to put this to rest. He's going to keep me in the loop and I will keep my promise to contribute whatever I can. But most cold cases are solved through new witnesses who step forward or old witnesses remembering something new.”

“That's right,” the young officer said. “Agent Giraldi told me that you saw someone that night. And I did see a mention of that in the notes. I thought we might go in together and have you share what you remember.”

Annelise's face shone with eagerness. Renée felt only dread. Neither of them had set foot inside since their grandmother had taken them in to pack their things. At that time the door to the bedroom where her father had died had been closed.

She tightened her arm around her sister's shoulders but was not sure for whose benefit, Annelise's or hers. Renée's legs wobbled as they walked into the cottage together.

The windows had been opened but the closed-up smell had not yet dissipated. A slight chemical tang from whatever tests might have been done that morning mingled unpleasantly with the predominant smells of age and mildew. Underneath it all, long-forgotten scents teased at her memory. Her eyes went to the small dinette where the four of them had eaten, and her nostrils quivered with the remembered smells of Ilse's Himmel und Erde, which her father had said translated into “heaven and earth,” and was a concoction of potatoes and apples with onion and bacon. On special Sunday mornings her stepmother had served apple pancakes, called Apfelpfannkuchen. After the scarcity of food in Germany during the war, Ilse had sometimes been reduced to tears by the plenty that existed in her new home.

Ilse had been shy and skittish, prone to jumping at sudden movements and loud noises. Her English had been broken and sometimes hard to follow, but cooking even in the cottage's tiny kitchenette had set her to humming and smiling.

Annelise reached for Renée's hand and she grasped it. Renée had been only three when her mother died, even younger than Annelise had been when she'd lost hers. Her memories of her own mother were sparse but Ilse had been young, more like a much older sister than a mother. She'd been standoffish in the
beginning, very timid and almost childlike. Her father had treated Ilse as gently as he'd treated Renée and Annelise. He said it was her sweetness that had first drawn him, but he'd also said that Ilse was far braver and stronger than she appeared. Or else she and her mother would not have survived the war.

There had been some who had muttered at David Handleman bringing home a German gentile when so many Jewish girls had suffered so much greater privation and the extermination of their entire families. Nana had been the first to warm to her new daughter-in-law and to say that the heart wants what it wants not what it's supposed to want.

Jackson and Giraldi talked quietly in the corner, leaving them to walk about on their own. The living area was dusty and grimy. Cushions were shredded. Curtains were limp and tattered. Cobwebs hung from the corners and not much air made it through the window screens, which were plugged with sand and grit.

Hands clasped, Renée and Annelise walked into the bedroom they'd shared. The twin beds had been stripped, and the mattresses sagged yellow with age. The nightstand between them was covered in dust; the lamp by which they'd read looked stark without its shade. They'd each had a dresser and a desk on the opposite wall. The closet they'd shared was empty but for a few ancient wire hangers. The Frank Sinatra poster Renée had tacked to the wall above her desk hung in shreds.

Today, children eight years apart would never have shared a bedroom. But spaces had been different then, and so were expectations. The day Annelise was born, Ilse had placed the little pink bundle in Renée's arms and told her that Annelise belonged to her, too. She had taken the words to heart.

She drew a finger over a dusty bookshelf. Annelise opened the nightstand drawer between their beds and pulled out an impossibly small pink
Alice in Wonderland
watch. “I always wondered what happened to this.” Her voice caught as she slipped it into her pocket.

“Are you okay?” Renée asked Annelise.

“Are you?” her sister asked, and despite the sheen of tears there was a rare clarity in her eyes.

She'd gone to such lengths to blot out her memories of the Sunshine Hotel and everything that had happened there. She had never wanted to set foot in this cottage again. But now that she was here . . . murmurs of the past reached her. She cocked her head, listening.

“They're not here,” Annelise whispered. “I thought they might be, but they're not.”

Renée shivered. Because she felt her father and stepmother everywhere. Felt as if they were both calling out to her. Trying to tell her something.

Back in the living area, Officer Jackson and Joe stood waiting for them.

“Right there,” Annelise said, pointing to the bookcase behind them. “That's where the man was standing.” Her brow furrowed. “But his clothes . . . they were all wrong. Nobody at the beach in the summer would have worn what he was wearing.”

Officer Jackson scribbled something on a folder. “Did you hear him speak? Did he say anything to you?”

Annelise closed her eyes in concentration. When she opened them she shook her head. “No.”

“Officer Jackson agrees that a session with a sketch artist might produce something,” Joe said to Annelise. “Would you be willing to try?”

“Oh, yes,” Annelise breathed.

Joe raised an eyebrow at Renée. “Would you?”

“Oh, but I don't . . . I didn't . . .” She stopped mid-protest. What reason could there be now not to try to find out whatever they could?

Slowly, she and Annelise moved toward the other bedroom. It was Annelise who led her through the doorway. Renée's eyes went immediately to the place where she'd found
their father lying in a pool of blood that had seeped out of the back of his head. His eyes open and lifeless. The bedroom a mess. She closed her eyes against the image and heard muffled voices. Her father and Ilse.

“What is it?” Joe asked her quietly when they'd rejoined them in the living area.

“Nothing,” Renée said, suppressing another shiver. But even she could hear how uncertain she sounded. “I . . .” She shook her head. “It's not easy coming back.”

John was waiting for her outside, his eyes worried. Dropping Annelise's hand, Renée waited for her husband to reach her and take her in his arms. But even as his warm solidness wrapped around her, she was thinking about the night her father died. She'd always said she hadn't heard anything. That she'd slept soundly and only known something was wrong when she'd found her father's body. She looked up to see Annelise watching her and another shiver of apprehension crept up her spine. What if that wasn't really the way it had happened? What if she and not Annelise was the one who'd been hiding from the truth all these years?