“Shoot,” Deputy Bobby said. (But the four-letter version.)
The tension in his voice broke through the cloud of my thoughts, and I followed his gaze. On the sleepy street that never had any traffic, a sheriff’s office cruiser had just pulled up in front of the house.
“Come on,” Deputy Bobby said.
I grabbed my folder.
“Dash—”
“No,” I said. “No.”
Frustration twisted Deputy Bobby’s features, but he nodded and took me by the arm. I wanted to tell him I didn’t need it, but the truth was, it was nice; my whole body felt strangely bloodless, and I had the impression that if Deputy Bobby let go of me, I’d just puddle to the floor.
He hustled me down the length of the house. As we cut through the kitchen toward the back door, a heavy knock came from the front of the house. Deputy Bobby said a few choice words under his breath, but he didn’t slow down. He threw the deadbolt back, opened the door, and shoved me ahead of him out onto the deck. The day still had that perilous half-light, and the hedges, the dune grass, even the ocean all looked cast in lead. The smell of salt water and the stiff breeze helped, though; my head cleared a little, and I felt like I was waking up.
Deputy Bobby was stripping off his disposable gloves. He shoved them into my front pocket, turned me by the shoulders, and said, “Down to the beach, then run. There are stairs that lead back up to the street by the Jeep. Get out of here and go home.”
“But—”
“Go!”
He shoved me, and I either had to stumble into a jog or fall flat on my face. I stopped at the steep flight of stairs that led down to the beach, and Deputy Bobby made a furious gesture. I managed a few of the steps and looked back again. Deputy Bobby was facing the house now, hands out and open at his sides, in a voice meant to carry, he called, “I’m back here. It’s just me.”
That galvanized me into movement, and I ran.
Chapter 7
I wasn’t really sure how I made it home. It must have been a fugue state; I remembered bits and pieces of my flight down the stairs—missing steps, catching myself on an old iron rail pitted with rust—and then struggling up the beach, the sand sucking at my steps. I had a vague impression of reaching the Jeep. Of that sense of enervation—as though something vital had been drained out of me, and what had been left behind was marshmallow fluff. And after that, nothing—a big blank until I found myself in the relative darkness of the coach house, still clutching that stupid folder, my face puffy and hot as I listened to the sound of my shallow, rapid breaths in the stillness.
I dragged myself in through the back door. The servants’ dining room was warm, and it smelled like freshly baked bread and hot oil and onions that had been cooked just right. I made it to the table, dropped into a seat, and couldn’t go any farther.
The sound of my arrival must have been loud enough to reach the kitchen because a moment later, Indira emerged. She was dressed in a wine-colored blouse and patterned trousers, and she looked a hundred percent put together the way she always did, and her witch-white streak of hair stood out like a blaze. Emotions flitted across her face in succession before, in a surprisingly controlled voice, she asked, “Are you all right? What happened?”
I told her.
Indira was silent as she stared at the photos. Then she closed the folder and looked into the middle distance, her expression blank—and terrible in its blankness.
“We went swimming—” I began.
“I know.” She pushed the folder toward me. “I thought this might happen.”
“You thought this might happen?”
Something in my voice must have roused her because she lifted her eyes to focus on me again. “Not with you, Dash. That’s not what I meant. I thought this might happen—to me, actually. Something like this. I’m old enough to know that people are eager to believe the worst. When Keme started spending more time here, I knew it could be a problem. It was a problem, in fact. Vivienne didn’t want him around. But then Vivienne left, and you and Keme got along so well—”
I snorted.
A smile lit up Indira’s face, and she continued, “And I hoped—well, I didn’t even hope. I let myself stop thinking about it.”
Now that she reminded me, I remembered how, when I had first come to Hemlock House, she’d been quick to explain the situation with Keme. Because, just like she’d said, I’d been quick to assume the worst.
“I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I’m happy he’s dead. Blackmail is an ugly, sordid thing.” She hesitated. “Had he contacted you? Did you know what he wanted?”
“That’s the weird thing. He did talk to me about buying Hemlock House, but it’s not like—I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like he made a serious offer and I rejected it outright.”
Indira made a small sound of acknowledgement. “But he might have been laying the groundwork for it. And if his plan was to force you to sell, probably at significantly less than what the property is worth, then it seems likely he’s done this before. You said there were other files.”
“I know. I guess that’s the next step.” I frowned, trying to wrap my head around the investigation. “If this were a mystery novel, you know what would happen? It would all have to do with Halloween. Or it would look like it all had to do with Halloween. Like, the wrong person would be killed because they were wearing a costume. Or the killer would switch costumes. Or they’d dress the body up in a costume like Weekend at Bernie’s. But it’s not any of those things. We know who was at that party. And we know plenty of them didn’t like him.”
“They disliked him enough to kill him?” Indira asked.
“It’s hard to say. Maybe. Jen, the woman who runs the surf camp, argued with him about his plans for the camp, and she was seriously angry. You saw Nate Hampton attack him at the beach, and he was skulking around the party.” The image of Damian’s face floated into view. Reluctantly, I added, “There was a guy there, one of the surfers. I caught a glimpse of him when he was looking at Gerry, and he was definitely feeling…ragey. And those are just the ones I know. There are probably more—I mean, he didn’t seem like a lovable guy.”
“Clearly.”
“The problem, though, is that the only thing we have is motive. That’s the only way to approach this. Opportunity is out—we already know these people were at the party, and in the chaos after the fight, anybody could have snuck off and followed Gerry. And in terms of means—well, it doesn’t take anything special to shove somebody off a cliff.”
“Which leaves the blackmail,” Indira said in a thoughtful voice.
“Until we get something more solid. What I’d really like is a connection—something that puts someone out on that cliff with Gerry. Since I don’t think we’re going to get that, I’d settle for a lie. A nice, big whopper that tells me someone has something to hide.” I scratched one eyebrow. “This would be a pain in the patoot to write, you know. Unless you conveniently dropped some evidence later in the book, you’d basically have to engineer a confession.”
Indira nodded, but that thoughtful look hadn’t left her face. In that same thoughtful voice, she asked, “Dash, are you sure it’ll be all right? With you and Keme, I mean.”
I nodded. “Since Gerry’s dead, I don’t think we have much to worry about. It still—well, it freaked me out, I guess. That’s every gay guy’s nightmare.” I tried to inject some good humor into my voice as I added, “The truancy, on the other hand, is definitely a problem. Keme’s not going to graduate if he keeps this up.”
Some of the strain in her face eased. “You try talking to him about it. I say one word, and he bites my head off. He disappeared for two days last time, and it’s getting too cold for him to be sleeping in the timber yard.”
