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She rolled over, away from him. The wall between them was so high it couldn’t be scaled, and yet she knew she wouldn’t sleep. There would be no peace. Thank God she’d brought the pills with her. She had to do something to obliterate this new and painful awareness of her bed partner.
Alison heard chimes ringing as she stole through the beach house, wondering where everyone was on this hazy July morning. Andrew had left earlier for a walk on the beach. He hadn’t asked her to come with him, and she would never have suggested it. She was still reeling from last night’s rejection. There’d been no discussion of what he’d done, except in the privacy of her own mind, where she had come to a decision regarding Andrew.
He had preyed on her vulnerabilities for the last time.
Aware that the chimes were still ringing, she lifted her head and sniffed the air. Was that coffee she smelled? After dinner last night, Julia had taken her and Andrew on a tour of Sea Clouds, including the new family room downstairs. She’d told them Rebecca, who had her own room on the third floor, set out a continental breakfast in the family room each morning.
Alison realized that must be where everyone was now. But she was lost in the huge house—and those damn bells wouldn’t stop! She couldn’t tell if it was the phone or the door, but the chimes crescendoed as she entered the foyer. A dark form was silhouetted against the etched glass of the front doors, and she assumed it was Andrew, back from his walk.
She opened the door, exasperated. “You don’t have to ring,” she said. “You’re part of the family.”
But it wasn’t Andrew standing there.
“Oh, sorry.” The man’s tigerish hazel eyes and predatory stare brought a flutter of recognition to Alison’s stomach. He hadn’t changed at all. His fine features had always made him look sinister rather than sensitive. No pretty boy, this one. “Tony Bogart?”
He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her hair. “I’ve never thought of you as anything but a blonde,” he said.
Alison felt like a lab specimen the way he was scrutinizing her. She’d slipped on a cotton sundress this morning that was quick, easy and cool, but it showed some skin, and already he was making her regret her choice.
“This is my natural color,” she said, deciding not to explain any further. He must have heard about her accident, but she doubted that was why he was here. She fervently hoped it had nothing to do with the secret past that she and Tony Bogart had shared over a decade ago. Against her parents’ wishes, they’d hung out together during her family’s stays in Mirage Bay. They’d been teenagers at the time, but their rich girl/poor boy relationship had probably been doomed from the start. It had ended for good when Tony discovered there was another man in her life. He’d actually been trying to propose to her in a local restaurant when Andrew walked in on them. Alison could only imagine how humiliating that had been for Tony. Shortly after that, Tony had packed up and left town, and that was the last contact they’d had.
“Have you moved back home?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I live in Virginia now,” he said, “near Quantico. I’m back in Mirage Bay on personal business.”
“Quantico? That’s—”
He nodded. “FBI headquarters. I’m a special agent.”
Of all the careers she’d imagined for Tony Bogart, FBI agent wasn’t one of them. Right now he was standing on the porch in ripped blue jeans and a black crewneck T-shirt, looking more like the rebel he’d been when they were younger than a lawman. He was holding something in his hand that looked like an eight-by-ten photograph, but she could only see the back.
“Are you visiting your father?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Obviously, you’re not gifted with second sight. I’m here because of Butch’s murder. You must have heard about that?”
Alison prayed her skin wouldn’t catch fire again. She knew about Butch’s case in detail. She’d gone through Andrew’s office when he was away on a business trip, trying to find out more about her mysterious husband and the life he led apart from her, and she’d found issues of the Mirage Bay newspaper that had dated back to her accident.
The discovery hadn’t surprised her, after she’d thought about it. Andrew had a personal interest in the yachting accident and its investigation. Butch Bogart’s murder had occurred the same day, so it was heavily covered, too. But Alison had found the newspapers stashed in a garbage bag inside a hassock that was also a storage unit, as if Andrew had intended to hide them. That had given her pause. Everyone knew it wasn’t the crime that got you into big trouble. It was the cover-up. But what did he have to hide?
She’d read the papers carefully before returning them to their hiding place, and then she’d added the question to her growing list of questions about Andrew, and filed it away. She’d never said a word.
“I did hear,” she said, “and I’m very sorry about your brother.” The right tone of sympathy evaded her. “Did you come to see Bret? Or Julia?”
“I’m here to see you, Alison.”
“Me? Why?”
“You don’t know? The local paper’s abuzz with the news that you and your hubby are here in Mirage Bay for a visit. I thought someone should come by and welcome you back.”
Alison couldn’t imagine how the local paper would know about their visit unless Julia had told them. Apparently the woman thrived on fanfare, and one way or another, she was going to make a social spectacle out of this visit. Alison hoped it didn’t backfire in all of their faces.
She glanced at the photograph in Tony’s hand, but couldn’t see what it was. Surely not a picture of her and Andrew.
He flipped the photograph over, handing it to her. Alison’s stomach rolled as she took it. She pushed his hand away as he reached out, possibly to steady her. “What is this?” she asked, but she knew. It was Butch Bogart’s mutilated body, a crime scene shot.
“There’s a new lead in Butch’s case,” Tony said. “I thought that might interest you.”
She swallowed back nausea and held out the picture until he took it. “Why would Butch’s case interest me?” She really didn’t understand what he was doing. “According to the newspapers, they named a prime suspect. Marnie Hazelton was supposed to have killed your brother, and then vanished. Have you found her?”
“No, Marnie hasn’t been found—and I never said she wasn’t a suspect. But since you brought her up, let’s say our murderer is someone other than Marnie—just for the sake of argument. Where were you on February second while Butch was being disemboweled with a pitchfork?”
“I was falling off a boat in a storm, Tony.”
He smiled, finally, matching her sarcasm. “Right, you went into the drink around six in the evening, according to your husband. The county coroner findings say Butch was killed that afternoon.”
Alison took a step back—and spotted Andrew hovering in a doorway that Tony couldn’t see from where he stood. What was Andrew doing? Her heart began to pound. She felt spied upon, cornered—by both of them.
“Alison?” Tony pressed a hand to the door and stopped her from shutting it. She hadn’t even realized she was about to.
“You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with what happened to Butch,” she said. “Why would I want to kill your brother?”
When he said nothing, she rattled on, unable to stop herself. “The only viable suspect is Marnie Hazelton. Everyone knows that. The night Butch died, she was spotted on the cliffs by LaDonna Jeffries.” Alison touched the penny ring on her bracelet. “Marnie jumped, didn’t she?”
The Mirage Bay newspaper had done an extensive profile on Marnie, attempting to unmask the strange child-woman. Rumors were rampant that she’d committed suicide. She’d often been seen swaying on the edge of Satan’s Teeth, the jagged rocks at the end of the jetty, as if she were listening to someone no one else could hear.
The article had said every village had its tormented outcast, and Marnie was Mirage Bay’s. Even at twenty-two, she was a wary, half-wild little thing that no one could get close to except her friend, LaDonna, and her Gramma Jo, who wasn’t her real grandmother at all.
Josephine Hazelton sold fresh fruit and vegetables from a cart alongside the road and was known in town as the produce lady. If you gave her some extra change, she’d read your palm, and if asked about Marnie, she would swear that she’d found her as a baby, in a creek near her house that emptied into the ocean. The infant had been swaddled in blankets and floating downstream in a willow basket, like Moses in the Bible.
Even Butch’s friends had been interviewed for the article, and every one of them believed Marnie had killed him because he’d made fun of her disfigurements. Her face was off-kilter. Her eyes didn’t line up right, and her smile twisted into a grimace, on those occasions when she did smile. She also had a ruby birthmark that emerged from the nape of her neck and crept around her throat like fingers, as though trying to strangle her.
Marnie’s macabre looks had made her a target since earliest childhood, and when the town’s fear and loathing became unbearable, she’d taken to hiding. But Butch and his ilk had hunted her down for sport. He’d teased her so mercilessly many people believed she had reason to kill him, except that Butch was the most feared linebacker on the high school team. It took a pile-on to hold him down, and Marnie was no bigger than a mosquito.
She’d had a body, though. The article had quoted locals who’d sworn she’d had the breasts of a Botticelli Venus, lithe limbs and a firm bottom. Alison remembered the references word for word. The boys from town all knew about Marnie’s figure because she’d loved to soak in the tidal ponds on her gramma’s property—and she hadn’t worn much beyond what God gave her.
That’s what had started the other rumor—that Butch had seen her bathing and tried to force himself on her, and Marnie had stopped him with the pitchfork. Brutally, viciously stopped him.
And now, for some unknown reason, Tony Bogart thought Alison had something to do with that monstrous crime?
She angled a glare at him. “What is this lead you have? If you’re going to accuse me of something, you’d better be able to back it up.”
“I haven’t accused you of anything. I asked you a question that you haven’t answered. Where were you when my brother died?”
A door hinge creaked and Tony stopped talking. He looked beyond Alison, searching the foyer, where the sound had come from.
“Villard, is that you?” he said. “Come and join us. I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on your marriage to our fair Alison.”
Andrew stepped out of the shadows. As he came over to the door, Alison watched the malevolence seep into Tony’s expression. He truly hated Andrew—and probably her, as well.
Andrew’s voice was cold. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“You should know,” Tony said. “You were listening to every word.”
Andrew strode over to the other man as if he were going to get physical. Alison almost wished he would. Someone needed to back Tony off. Andrew wasn’t trained in deadly force, as Tony must have been, but he was several inches taller.
“My wife is off-limits,” Andrew told him. “I don’t care what agency you’re with, if you have something to say to Alison, you go through me first.”
Nothing moved except Tony’s trigger finger. It twitched, as if he was firing a gun. His smile was as cold as his eyes.
“How did you get through the gate?” Andrew asked.
“Someone was kind enough to leave it open.”
“Then you won’t have any trouble getting out.”
“None whatsoever.” Still smiling, Tony excused himself with a tip of his head. As he strolled down the marble expanse of the grand portico, he called over his shoulder, “I hope this wasn’t inconvenient for either of you. Have a nice day.”
Andrew shut the door, and Alison sank onto the nearest settee. Her legs felt weak, but she shook her head, refusing his hand when he offered it.
“We should go down to breakfast before the rest of them come looking for us,” he said.
Alison couldn’t even think about food. The image of Butch’s mangled body kept coming back to her.
“There you are!” Julia came into the foyer, looking fresh and immaculate in a white crocheted slacks and top. “If you want something to eat, you’d better hurry. Bret has almost finished off the almond biscotti.”
She walked over to Alison and touched her cheek. “Are you all right, darling? Your face is red. Are you coming down with something?” As she talked, Julia glanced around the space. “Was someone just here? Bret thought he heard voices. This foyer is such an echo chamber.”
Alison pulled away from her mother’s touch. “It’s not a fever,” she said. “I have a skin condition, probably a reaction to all the surgery. I can get something for it at the drugstore.”
Julia seemed to approve of that idea. “Your little BMW convertible is still in the garage. It’s the only car Bret hasn’t wrecked,” she added dryly. “I’ll get the keys for you.”
Julia pressed the back of her hand against Alison’s forehead, apparently not convinced that she didn’t have a temperature. A moment later she was off in search of car keys.
Alison fanned herself with her hands to cool her skin—and looked up to find Andrew staring at her.
“What the hell was that about?” he asked, his voice harsh.
“You mean Julia?”
“No, Tony Bogart.”
She shook her head. She didn’t know. She truly didn’t know.
7
Tony gave the key of his rental Corvette a gentle turn, and soft jazz music oozed from the speakers. Eyes closed, he rested his head against the seat back. Jazz had always reminded him of women. It was sensual and complicated in a way no other music was. Good jazz relaxed him and cleared his head. Bad jazz taunted and irritated. It confused. But it all reminded him of women.
He’d locked in his favorite FM stations when he picked up the car so he could have what he wanted at the touch of a finger. He’d also programmed a shock jock and a bellicose political commentator for entertainment value. For the amount of time he spent in a car, he wanted some perks. Corvettes were pricey, but the agency wasn’t paying for this trip, he was—and he’d coveted a Vette since high school, like every other speed-crazed teenage male of his generation.
Tony was still parked across the street from the gates of the Fairmont compound, within easy eyeshot of the grand portico and the front door. He needed to think, and this was the perfect place to do it. If it made the rich folk nervous to have him parked outside their front door, too fucking bad.
Alison looked good in bright red blotches, anyway. A couple more wouldn’t hurt her. Abruptly, he switched the music off and rolled his head, stretching his neck. He wouldn’t have thought it possible that she could look more beautiful—or that she would ever have turned her perfect golden locks into something dark and wild. Jesus, what a vixen. Her eyes were big and soulful, her mouth a work of pure, unadulterated sensuality. They’d called her the ice princess when she was a teen. He wondered what they would call her now.
He still couldn’t think of her as Alison Villard. But at least he’d stopped seeing her face on the targets in the firing range. He was no longer obsessed with the trust-fund babe, his pet name for Alison in the old days, but the thought of her with Andrew still rankled. The smug bastard probably thought he’d just faced Tony Bogart down.
Make that stupid bastard, Tony amended. He’d been keeping tabs on Villard for a while now, which was how he’d learned about their trip to Mirage Bay. He’d called Villard’s assistant, pretending to be a rep with a Fortune 500 company that wanted to sponsor a charity concert. She’d volunteered that Andrew and his wife were taking a trip to southern California on personal business. The local newspaper item had confirmed their destination as Mirage Bay.
He glanced over at the house. He had a reasonable view of the grounds through the iron bars of the fence. Alison’s bedroom window was around the other side. He could remember climbing the trellis and scrambling inside to be greeted by her wearing nothing but a sexy smile. She was hot, and she knew it. What had pissed him off was the way she’d amused herself with him until someone better came along, and then dismissed him like he was a joke.
He’d known he was losing her when she started making excuses not to see him, and then when she turned eighteen she’d begun to travel on her own, making trips to the Fairmont’s apartment in New York. Tony had seen her hanging around with Villard in Mirage Bay, but she’d sworn he was just a sailing friend, and Tony had believed her. He’d figured the problem was that he, Tony, had nothing to offer. Desperate, he’d convinced her to meet him at a local restaurant, and he’d poured out his heart. He would go to college, make something of himself. He wanted to marry her.
She’d thought he was joking, and her laughter had cut him apart. Worse, there’d been no chance to explain himself. Villard had walked in and Alison had called the man’s name with an excitement she couldn’t conceal. Tony had seen it instantly. They were in love, or at least she was.
The bitch had cheated on him. She’d laughed at him for his feelings and his dreams. She was probably still laughing. He’d sworn to get her for that.
Was she sleeping in that bedroom with her husband? The man everyone thought had killed her? Tony was still suspicious about her miraculous return from the dead. Fucking convenient that was, especially for Villard. He might be on death row now if Alison hadn’t come floating to the surface.
Men like Villard lived a charmed life.
And so did she. Or had. Once upon a time.
All that was going to change.
Tony pulled his cell from the belt clip and dialed his voice mail. He’d already listened repeatedly to the anonymous snitch’s messages, but there was always the chance he’d hear something he hadn’t heard before. A clue to the snitch’s identity. A hint at the motive for the calls.
The first tip had come in as a voice mail message, which Tony had saved. After that, he’d inserted a modified subscriber identity module, otherwise known as a SIM chip, in the Global System for Mobile Communications slot on his cell. The spy-tech gadget, which he’d learned about during his FBI training, had allowed him to record conversations and permanently save each call. But right now he was only interested in the last message.
He touched a key to play it back.
“The police got everything wrong,” the whispering voice said. “Two people died on February second. Marnie Hazelton didn’t kill Butch. She was murdered, too, and then framed for killing him.”
The caller went silent, and Tony remembered thinking the call was over. But the real motive had been to create anticipation, he’d realized.
“Mirage Bay’s real monster is an old friend of yours,” the voice said. “Alison Fairmont Villard is the double murderer. She did them both.”
Tony clicked off the phone. He didn’t smile, but he wanted to. He had a very personal stake in this case, and he hadn’t told anyone yet, including local law enforcement. Considering how they’d handled the investigation so far, he didn’t trust them with information this vital. He had more work to do first. With the tipster’s help, he hoped to break this case before he told the cops anything.
Unfortunately, the tipster had never once mentioned motive. No one would be able to make a case against Alison without that, and Tony had no idea what her motive might be. No idea in hell. That’s why he was here.
He closed his eyes, imagining the face of the woman he’d just confronted. The accident hadn’t made her less beautiful, but it had changed her. He’d watched her throat blotch and her hands shake like anyone else’s. That could not have happened to the preaccident Alison. She’d been above it all, supernatural. Now she knew what it was like to be human, and breakable.
She hadn’t walked the same earth as everyone else. She’d floated on a cloud of perfection. Her whole family had. And if Tony couldn’t have been the one to bring her down, he was glad something had. Maybe there was some justice for those born less fortunate than Alison Fairmont, which was almost everybody.
By southern California standards, Mirage Bay was neither an upscale beach town like La Jolla or a funky art enclave like Laguna Beach. There were no brick streets lined with fashionable boutiques, no monogrammed awnings or oceanfront hotels with five-star restaurants and expensive art in the lobbies.
Despite the skyrocketing value of California coastal property, the town had managed to stay small, dusty and decidedly unglamorous. Kids drove from all over to surf the mostly gentle waves, and on weekends, small gangs of rough-and-ready marines from Camp Pendleton took over the main beer joint and pool hall.
“Beach shabby chic” was how one L.A. restaurant critic had described the local ambience. Alison wouldn’t have used the word chic in any context, although the weekend flea market did boast fresh-grown organic produce, a variety of handmade items—and Gramma Jo, who was something of a legendary local fortuneteller.
