Marta Perry - Land's End

Now, according to Adriana, Trent had turned into a hermit, rejecting all invitations. Sarah seemed to see again the bitter lines in his face as he swung toward her at the cottage.

At the very place where Lynette and Miles had died. She could hardly be surprised that his bitterness had surfaced there. Why had he been there? Did he go often, torturing himself with memories?

There’s so much pain between us, Heavenly Father. I’d help him if I could, but it seems impossible.

She didn’t want to cause Trent more pain, but she had to know the truth.

And what if this truth is all there is, a small voice in the back of her mind inquired.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she negotiated a bend in the road, splashing through puddles left by the afternoon’s rain. Well, if all her searching only proved that what people already believed was true, somehow she’d have to learn to live with it. But not until she was sure.

Which led her to Guy O’Hara. He’d been one of the engineers on some project Trent had been pursuing. He’d been as close to a friend as Miles had made on the island in the short time they’d been there. If Miles had confided in anyone, it would have been Guy.

Lights glinted to her left, and the road, apparently giving up its forward momentum, widened into a parking lot. Already several cars and pick-ups dotted the area in front of the low cement block building. No attempt had been made to blend into the surrounding landscape—it looked like a roadhouse, and that’s what it was. Still, the lush growth of the forest made inroads on it, softening the hard blocks with tendrils of green and gray that would inexorably cover it if not cut away.

She parked and turned off the ignition. Guy had rejected her suggestion that he come to the cottage or meet her at the inn. He’d insisted on this place.

Maybe he preferred not to be seen with her where Trent would hear about it. Or maybe he knew something and wanted the security his own turf provided when he talked to her.

She got out, scoffing at her own reluctance to go inside. She’d learned to take care of herself a long time ago. She’d go inside, find Guy and get this conversation over with.

When she pulled the sagging metal door open, a blast of country music and a wave of cigarette smoke enveloped her. Holding her breath, she stepped inside. Faces turned toward her instantly, as if they all swung on the same pivot. She glanced around quickly. Guy wasn’t there.

He’d said eight, and it was that now. She’d have to wait, and she’d be less conspicuous sitting at a table than standing in the doorway like a deer in the headlights. She took one close to the door, yanked out a chair and sat down. The jukebox segued into another plaintive song of lost love, heads turned away from her again, and the bartender jerked his head in what might have been a greeting.

“Get you something, ma’am?”

“An iced tea, if you have it.”

He nodded, wiping a glass out with a towel that looked as if it had never known bleach.

He brought the filled glass to the table. She laid a bill beside it. “Has Guy O’Hara been in yet?”

He shook his head. “He comes most nights, but not yet tonight. You’re welcome to wait.” He jerked his head toward the bar. “Don’t you mind the boys. They can be a mite mouthy, but nobody acts up in my place.”

Had she been looking that apprehensive? Apparently so. She managed a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He headed back to the bar. She took a gulp of the tea and nearly choked. She’d forgotten the Southern habit of making sweet tea, laced with enough sugar to turn it into syrup. Hopefully Guy would show up before the combination of sugar and caffeine had her bouncing off the walls.

Forty-five minutes later, Guy still hadn’t shown. The room had gotten progressively more smoky, the music louder, the crowd larger. Two of the men at the bar stole glances at her and nudged each other. In a moment one of them would work up enough courage to come over, and she’d have to deal with him.

A wave of disgust went through her. If Guy intended to keep this meeting, he’d have been here by now. She shoved her chair back, dropped some change onto the scarred tabletop next to the cash and pushed back out the door, letting it clatter shut behind her.

The sweet, close aroma of the Southern night closed around her, and she took a deep breath. This had been a singularly unprofitable evening. Annoyance flickered. What was Guy playing at, making an appointment and then failing to show? Had Trent somehow anticipated this and frightened him off?

Or was there a darker answer? If Guy knew something about Lynette’s and Miles’ deaths, someone might not want him to talk to her. But that was making an assumption that someone had something to hide. Trent’s only interest seemed to be in protecting Melissa and himself from further gossip.

She wove her way through the dark shapes of cars, shells crunching under her feet. A footstep sounded behind her, and she glanced back. No one. The hair lifted on her arms. No one had come out of the tavern behind her—she’d have heard the blast of music if the door had opened. But someone was there. Someone who had halted when she had, sheltering behind one of the parked vehicles.

Heartbeat accelerating, she scurried toward her car, key out and ready. It was probably nothing, but she’d feel better when she was in her car, the doors locked. She’d—

She stopped, staring at her car. It seemed to sag listlessly. No wonder. All four of the tires had been slashed.

For a moment she stood, raging silently. Then common sense kicked in. Whoever had done this could still be nearby. The thought of that footstep sent her scrambling into the safety of the car. She couldn’t drive away, but she could lock the doors and call the police.

It took fifteen minutes by her watch for the police car to pull into the lot. In that time no one came out of or went into the tavern. She might have been alone in the world. But someone had been there. Someone who’d slashed her tires in a mute, pointed warning. Who had an interest in doing that but Trent?

She unlocked the door as the uniformed officer approached.

“Miz Wainwright?” The beam of his powerful torch swept from one tire to another. “Looks like you got yourself in some trouble here.”

She got out, facing him. He was older than the young patrolman she’d seen at the station, his face lined with resignation, as if he’d seen everything there was to see and no longer thought he could make a difference.

“Someone slashed my tires while I was inside.”

He glanced toward the tavern. “Seems like a funny place for a lady to be.”

She stiffened. His implication was clear. Her troubles were her own fault, for coming to such a place. “I was supposed to meet a friend here. I assume it’s against the law to slash my tires, no matter where I happen to park.”

“Yes, ma’am, it sure is, but I doubt I’ll be able to find out who did it. Folks who frequent Haller’s don’t confide much in the cops. Still, I’ll try.” He gestured. “Maybe you’d like to wait in the patrol car. I’ll give you a lift home, and you can have the garage come out and take care of your car.”

She didn’t have much choice. She climbed into the front seat of the patrol car, not caring to sit in back like a felon. She caught a glimpse of the interior of the bar as the officer swung the door open. The faces turned toward him didn’t look particularly welcoming.

He was back in a suspiciously short time. She rubbed her forehead. Or maybe she was the suspicious one, creating enemies where they didn’t exist. She had enough real ones that she didn’t need to invent any.

She tried to muster a smile as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Any luck?”

He shook his head, turning the ignition key. “No, ma’am. They was like the three monkeys, you know. See no evil—”

“I know,” she said shortly. He was clearly amused at his own joke. “So you didn’t find out anything.”

“Well, Joe Findley did say he saw a car pull in and then out again quick, but Joe’d been hitting the bottle pretty hard. You don’t want to pay too much attention to what old Joe says.”

She wasn’t as quick to dismiss it as he was. “Did this Joe say what the car looked like?”

He shrugged, his shoulders moving uneasily as he pulled back onto the road. “Said it was a big car. A big gray car.”

A big gray car. Like Trent’s Rolls. Had he thought of that, dismissed it so quickly because he didn’t want to tangle with Trent?

Words bubbled up, but she suppressed them. It would do no good to argue with the patrolman. The person she needed to confront about this was Trent. And that probably wouldn’t do any good, either.

By the time the patrol car swung into the driveway at the Lee house, she felt too wiped out to confront anyone about anything. With any luck, Jonathan and Adriana would never know she’d come home in a police car.

The car stopped in front of the cottage, and she slid out with a word of thanks. The cruiser rolled quickly away, leaving her alone in the still night. The cop hadn’t had to ask her where she was staying. He’d known. Probably everyone on the island knew by now. St. James was Trent’s fiefdom, and she’d best remember that.

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