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“My heart bleeds.”
Merriman narrowed his eyes. “You know, for a guy who has Emerson Roth exactly where he wants, you’re in a rotten mood. You know what I think? I think you’ve got the hots for her. And you blew your chance with her—big time. Smooth, Garner.”
Merriman’s words annoyed Eli because they were true. Emerson Roth was a beautiful woman. But more than that, she had spirit, she was smart…and loyal to a fault. He didn’t want her to be guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors, but he feared she was.
He wanted her to have a reasonable, moral excuse for the games her family played. He didn’t want her to hate him. But it was too late for that. The damage was done.
Eli was relentless; it went with his job. He could go beyond relentless to ruthless when he had to, and he had been ruthless with Emerson.
She would talk to him again tomorrow because she had no choice.
And he would show her no mercy. Because he couldn’t.
THE THREE WOMEN sat in the living room. It was a large, airy room, and most days light flooded through the big windows.
But the sun was hidden in the gloom of fast-moving clouds, and rain beat against the glass. Emerson sat alone on the white couch, and Claire sat in the rattan rocker, looking atypically rebellious. Nana got up from the armchair and switched on the Tiffany lamp.
She turned to face the two young women. “So, Em, what did this detective tell the Garner man?”
“I don’t know,” Emerson admitted unhappily. “That’s why I have to talk to him again. To see how much he knows.”
Nana moved to the Queen Anne chair and sat down, looking small but regal. She twined her gnarled fingers together. “They looked at our credit card records?”
“Yes,” Emerson said bitterly. She’d warned them to be careful with credit cards. Emerson herself was careful even with checks. She paid cash whenever possible.
She cast an accusing glance at Claire. “Why did you charge our prescriptions so often? Why didn’t you think?”
Claire, clutching the arms of the rocker, kept her air of defiance. “I thought we only had to be careful about the Captain.”
“I worried for years that we’d slip up,” Emerson snapped. “I told you we couldn’t be too careful.”
Claire’s defenses wobbled. “Em, I made a mistake. I’m sorry. But my mind doesn’t work like yours. For me, it’s exhausting, watching every move I make. It’s confusing. It’s nerve-racking. It’s paralyzing.”
Nana shook her finger gently at Emerson. “She made an innocent faux pas, Em. Do not scold. It does no good to squabble.”
Emerson felt a surge of guilt for rebuking Claire. She knew that the family secrets preyed on Claire, that they gnawed at her nerves and undermined her confidence.
Claire was retiring, like Nana. Emerson took after the Captain. The Captain had been so bold it was breathtaking. But now he could no longer be bold, and his job fell to her. She was daring, she was quick-witted, and, like the Captain, she could play a part and play it well.
Yet Eli Garner was a formidable opponent. It was possible he was too formidable. Had she met her match? The thought terrified her. Not so much for her own sake, but for her family’s. Their future and their welfare depended on her. She was their protector, and she loved them passionately.
She let her gaze meander over the room’s walls. The paintings hung there, and she loved them, too. They were striking and so full of life they seemed to glow with it. It was her duty to protect them, too, all that vivid, glorious work signed Roth.
She turned to face Claire. “I’m sorry, too. It’s just…upsetting. To have people prying. Spying on you.”
Claire winced and nodded. Nana said, “Em, someone followed you to Marathon, when you went to get the Captain’s medicine. Do you suppose he even followed you to the pharmacy counter?”
“Yes. He must have.”
The thought of being stalked and watched gave Emerson a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. What else had the informer seen?
Nana squeezed her fingers together more tightly. “They may have watched the beach from out in the cove. They may have seen the Captain from there. They may have even photographed him.”
Emerson swallowed. “I know. A good telephoto lens— I wonder how much they could see, what they could tell about him?”
“Let’s hope very little,” Nana said. “We’ve always been discreet.”
But not discreet enough, Emerson thought bleakly. What else did Eli Garner know?
Claire said in a small voice, “What can we do?”
Emerson smoothed her hair, which was still tousled from the wind. At the front of the house, she heard a scraping sound, and then a rattling and banging. Now that the outsiders were gone, Frenchy must be fastening the hurricane shutters in place.
“The first thing,” Emerson said, forcing her voice to sound calm, “is to talk to the Captain. I’ll go to him.”
Nana shook her head firmly. “No. I will. It’s best if I do.” She started for the door. But she paused for a moment and stared at the paintings on the walls. Emerson thought she saw tears glint in the older woman’s eyes, and a knot rose in her own throat.
Slowly, looking tired, Nana left the living room.
When Claire was certain Nana was out of hearing, she looked warily at Emerson. “I suppose you’re going to tell me not to talk to the photographer again.”
Emerson remembered the sight of the two of them crouched by the cat, staring raptly into each other’s eyes. The photographer had initially struck Emerson as harmless. He’d seemed truly smitten by Claire, and she by him.
Merriman might be as bad a scoundrel as Eli. Or he might not. But it seemed wrong to give Claire orders as if she were a child or an incompetent.
“Suit yourself,” she told Claire. “But be careful. Do you want to see him again?”
Claire didn’t answer immediately. She sat looking up at the painting over the mantel. Then, softly, she said, “Em, don’t you get tired of it? Of living this way? Sometimes don’t you think it would be better if we could just…tell the truth?”
Emerson wanted to say yes. It would be much better for Claire, who was not a creature formed for deception. It would be better for her, too, because maintaining the illusion took all her effort and energy. It ruled her life.
But she and Claire were not the only people caught in this complex web. There was Nana, there was the Captain…and there was more, much more at stake.
“We’ll tell the truth someday,” she said, rising and going to the window. “But not yet.”
“But how can you throw this Garner man off the track?” Claire asked.
“I’ll find a way.” Emerson said it with a confidence that seemed perfect. But it was false. Secretly she was more frightened by Eli Garner than by anyone or anything she had ever encountered.
CHAPTER FOUR
ELI DROPPED Merriman off at the hotel, grabbed his swim gear, then drove back north. He spent the afternoon at the best stretch of public beach in the Keys, Bahia Hondo.
The wind was high, the rain intermittent. The beach was deserted, which suited him fine.
His scratched feet hurt. The sand irritated them, and the salt water stung them. He didn’t care. The pain distracted him. He didn’t want to think about Emerson Roth, or her sweet-faced sister. He thought of them anyway.
Neither did he want to think about his own life, but he couldn’t stop himself. For years he’d gone from place to place, trying to solve puzzles. Some of the puzzles were unsolvable. Others were foolish, mere hoaxes or pranks to be exposed.
On occasion Eli’s work was dangerous. He had a scar on his chest from a bullet and one on his back from a machete. He’d been shadowed in Kuwait, beaten in New Delhi and drugged in Paris. He was still recovering from the caper in Yucatán, and he was not recovering swiftly. The machete wound still ached, and sometimes his fever came back.
The life of an investigative reporter was much like that of a soldier. It could be ninety-eight percent boredom and two percent terror. Sometimes he was tired of both.
His work could be disturbing as well as dangerous. If he had been hurt from time to time, he’d hurt others in return. He’d stripped them of their honor and watched the law strip them of their wealth, and sometimes their very freedom. Some of the people involved were criminals, and he didn’t mind what happened to them. But others were misled or deluded or desperate, and some were simply innocent bystanders.
There was a puzzle about the Roths, and it was a troubling one. But what was its nature and how culpable was Emerson Roth?
Sick of brooding, he waded into the churning waves. The sea was too rough to swim in comfort. He did anyway, the salt stinging the soles of his feet. Then he sat alone on the beach, throwing pebbles at the choppy waves and letting the rain pelt him.
When the rain began to pour down in earnest, he put on his street clothes in the little changing room, then limped back to his car. He hadn’t eaten, so he stopped at a rustic restaurant on Cudjo Key.
Few customers were inside, and none out at the garden tables, where the tropical trees waved their branches in the wind and flowers were beaten down by the assault of the rain.
Outside, workers fastened hurricane shutters, cutting off the view of the garden. The waitress was blond, busty, middle-aged, tanned to a crisp and friendly. She called him “hon” and said her name was Brenda.
“You here on vacation?” she asked, setting a plate of red snapper before him.
“No. I deal in art,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He switched the topic to her. “You lived here long?”
“All my life,” she laughed. “Born and bred here. Where’re you from?”
“I’m based in New York, but I travel a lot,” Eli said.
She raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. “Art dealer, huh? Lotta galleries in Key West.”
“Yup.” That was no lie, either.
Brenda looked philosophical. “Well, hope you got your work done and are headin’ home. We’re gonna have a big blow, I’m afraid.”
“It feels worse,” he said. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the car radio.
“Looks like its headin’ for Cuba. Folks’ll be evacuatin’.” Brenda nodded in the direction of the highway.
“That road out there’s gonna be mighty crowded. Ugh. Head north now, and you can get a head start.”
He shook his head. “Can’t. I got an appointment tomorrow I can’t cancel. Took too much work to get it. Local artist.”
She looked curious, so he thought he’d push further. “Nathan Roth.”
Her expression went dubious. So did her tone. “You’re talking to Nathan Roth?”
“His family, not him.” Eli did a good imitation of looking sincere and troubled. “Something may be up with him. Nobody’s seen him around for a long time.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” Brenda said. “He used to be in here every weekend. This was one of his favorite places. Liked the live music. Good-natured guy. Come here with that little wife of his. She hung back, but he’d get a few beers in him, be life of the party. Then…poof.”
“Poof?”
“He stopped coming. Just like that. Poof. Like he’d vanished.”
“Why?”
She gave an elaborate shrug. “I don’t know. There are rumors.”
He frowned and made his expression more concerned. “Can you say what? The outfit I represent is worried. They’ve heard rumors, too.”
Conflict played across her face. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “People think maybe it’s his health.”
“His hearing? One thing we’ve heard is that he lost his hearing.”
“No,” she said immediately. “More serious than that.”
He looked at her as if he’d just discovered his guardian angel. He’d given this look to women many time before, and it usually worked.
He said, “That’s what we’re afraid of. You’re the first person I’ve met here who’s actually known him. What do you think happened to him?”
She tapped her forehead. “His mind going? Something like that, maybe? He was kind of forgetful the last few times I saw him. And…sometimes he was different. Once he argued that I didn’t add up his check right. But I had. He got it all wrong.”
Eli felt his chest contract, and a chill played under his skin. The woman hadn’t said it outright, but she’d hinted clearly. This was the gossip growing and spreading through the art world about Nathan Roth: something had happened to his lively and creative mind.
And his family was hiding it.
Eli stared deeply into Brenda’s mascaraed eyes. “That’s what we’ve been wondering, too.”
She shook her head sadly. “He’s getting on in years. These things happen. What is he, eighty-something?”
“Eighty-three. Tell me, what do you think of his work?”
She made a gesture of exasperation. “Look, I liked him as a guy. But his pictures were just a bunch a wiggly lines. They didn’t look like anything to me. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”
“It’s okay,” Eli said. “Lots of people don’t care for modern art. It’s no crime.”
She shook her head. “I just don’t understand it, is all. Nathan’s, his was kinda pretty—the colors, the shading I guess you’d call it. But some of the stuff out there, it looks like a little kid did it. Or even a chimpanzee, for God’s sake.”
He gave her a half smile to show he understood. “You’re not the first person to think so.”
She pointed to a brightly colored ceramic fish on the wall. “That, to me, is artistic. You look at it, you know it’s a fish, right?”
“Right.” He paused. “Nathan’s granddaughter’s still putting his work on the market, you know. She says he’s still painting.”
Brenda’s face hardened. “Oh. Her.”
Her reaction pricked Eli’s interest. “Emerson Roth? You don’t like her?”
“She comes in here once or twice a month. To buy take-out for Nathan. He still likes our shrimp and scallops. I always ask her how he is, why he doesn’t come around. She just says he’s fine, then gives me the brush-off. Sometimes men try to get friendly with her. No dice. Guess she thinks she’s too high and mighty for the likes of us.”
Eli wondered. Emerson could give a fine impression of an ice princess. But was it snobbery that kept her from getting close to the locals? Or fear?
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If Nathan’s…not himself, could he really still be painting? Do you think so?”
