“One thing has been bothering me,” Virginia said.
She was sitting behind the wheel of her car, watching the two-man ferry crew prepare to lower the ramp at the small island dock. It had been a long trip from Seattle, involving a lot of driving, two ferries, and a great deal of waiting-around time in between the crossings.
She and Cabot had been in close proximity since she had found him in the lobby of her condo building at seven twenty-five that morning. It was now going on two o’clock in the afternoon. She could not remember the last time she had spent so much one-on-one time with a man. And it had been forever since she’d experienced this edgy whisper of excitement. She told herself it was the prospect of finally discovering the truth about Hannah Brewster’s death that was responsible for the sense of anticipation. But she had a feeling that Cabot was the real source of the little thrills.
This was dangerous territory. When it came to relationships she was a modern-day Cinderella. It was best for everyone concerned if she was home by midnight. Some men, of course, considered her quirk a real draw, at least initially. But eventually they came to see it as a form of rejection – which it was. True, she could buy a little extra time with her meds or a couple of extra glasses of wine, but that usually guaranteed a full-blown anxiety attack later.
She and Cabot had both been careful to keep things cool and businesslike during the trip. Theirs was an odd association, she reflected. They were, in some weird sense, intimate strangers. They had a history.
Cabot took his attention off the ramp-lowering process and looked at her.
“Just one thing bothering you?” he asked.
“Okay, a lot of things,” she admitted. “But the question I keep circling back to is, why, assuming he is alive, would Zane take the risk of murdering a woman who couldn’t possibly have done him any harm?”
“You’re working from a false premise. Trust me, if Quinton Zane did come here to murder Hannah Brewster, it’s because he believed that she was in a position to create problems for him.”
“If he thought she was a threat, he could have gotten rid of her a long time ago.”
“I can think of three possible explanations for the delay. The first is that Brewster was always a threat of some kind but Zane only recently discovered where she was hiding.”
“What’s explanation number two?”
“Something has changed in Zane’s world. Whatever it is, it convinced him that Brewster had become a threat.”
“And possibility number three?”
“Maybe Hannah Brewster really did burn down her cabin and jump to her death.”
“Because she was delusional.”
“Yes.”
The ramp was finally in position. Virginia started the engine and prepared to follow a battered pickup and a sedan off the ferry.
“I do realize that this is probably a complete waste of time, not to mention money,” she said. “My grandmother was very upset when she found out that I had hired Cutler, Sutter and Salinas. But once I saw Hannah’s last picture, I couldn’t stop asking questions.”
“And now you’ve shown it to Anson and me, and we can’t stop asking questions.”
She drove slowly down the ramp and onto the town’s narrow main street. “In other words, we were both doomed to make this trip.”
“Doomed is a very heavy word,” Cabot said. “How about destined?”
“Good thing each of us knows where the other is coming from, or one of us might conclude that the other wasn’t entirely stable.”
“Good thing,” Cabot agreed.
She decided not to mention that there were people, including some old boyfriends, who had already concluded that she was not entirely stable. At the very least they didn’t think she qualified as normal. One of the advantages of working in the art world was that “normal” was not considered an important job requirement.
She drove slowly past the small organic foods grocery and café, the tiny gas station, the herbal-tea shop and a handful of little galleries that displayed the works of local artists.
“This is one very small town,” Cabot said.
“Yes.”
“Do you know anyone here?”
“I’ve met some people but I can’t say I know any of them well. I visited Hannah a few times every year, especially after her friend, Abigail, got so ill. Hannah was at her bedside night and day. She was exhausted. My gallery is closed on Sundays and Mondays, so sometimes I came here to the island to stay with Abigail for a day or two so that Hannah could get some rest.”
Cabot looked at her. “You were a good friend to Hannah Brewster.”
“She didn’t have any family. Abigail was all she had and she was losing her.”
Cabot accepted that without comment. “Did anyone else on the island besides Abigail Watkins know about Brewster’s history in Zane’s operation?”
“It’s tough to keep a secret in a small community, so it’s quite possible that some people know about Hannah’s time in the cult. But I doubt that anyone knows a lot about it. Neither Hannah nor Abigail ever talked much about Zane or the past, not even to me.”
“How many B and B places are there on the island?”
“Four or five, but most are closed at this time of year. As far as I know there are only two open now, the Harbor Inn here in town and Abigail’s old place, the Lost Island Bed-and-Breakfast. That’s where we’re staying. It’s closest to Hannah’s cabin, or what’s left of it. I assume you’ll want to take a good look around the ruins and the place on the cliffs where she jumped or was pushed.”
“Someone took over Abigail’s business?”
“Yes. It was closed as a functioning B and B after Abigail moved into the final stages of her illness. But dying is expensive, so shortly before her death Abigail sold the place to a woman named Rose Gilbert, who agreed to let Abigail stay in the house until she died. Now Gilbert has reopened but only on a limited basis. She told me she’s planning some major renovations and hopes to be in full operation by the summer season.”
Cabot considered the heavy cloud cover that was moving in over the island. “We’ve got some time left before the rain hits. Let’s take a look at what’s left of Brewster’s cabin.”
“All right, but I’ll warn you up front there isn’t much to see.”
“Truth has metaphysical properties.”
“Meaning?”
“It exists regardless of the presence or absence of the physical surroundings. The trick is perceiving it.”
“Wow. That’s impressive. Another one of those insightful martial arts sayings?”
“No, I just made it up. Figured it would annoy you.”
She smiled and stopped briefly at the end of the main street.
“I suspected as much,” she said. “I took some self-defense classes back in college but our instructor didn’t teach us any fancy philosophical sayings. It was pretty much just the basics.”
“Run if you can because, in spite of how it looks on television, it’s hard to hit a moving target. If you can’t run, fight and fight dirty. Go for the eyes. Think of every object around you as a weapon. Strike fast and hard when you get the chance because you’ll only get one chance.”
“Yep, that pretty much sums it up. Like I said, the basics.”
“Do you still practice the moves you were taught?” Cabot asked.
“Yes.” No need to explain that the self-defense exercises she went through nearly every day – usually in the middle of the night – were a form of therapy.
“Good therapy,” Cabot said. “Empowering. Gives you a way to release the anger. At least for a while.”
Like he’d read her mind, she thought.
“Is it that obvious?” she said.
“It is to someone who went through what we went through. Why the hell do you think I go to a dojo a couple of times a week?”
“You know, after all these years of trying to let go of the past, it’s sort of a relief talking to someone who was actually there.”
“Must have been tough trying to pretend you’d put it behind you,” Cabot said. “I had the advantage of being able to talk to Anson and my brothers.”
“I’ve had some chats with good therapists but there’s only so much they can do. The reality is that it happened and we were just kids with no power to fight back.”
“We’re not kids anymore.”
“No, we’re not. That’s why we’re here. To get some answers about the past.”
“Yes,” Cabot said.
She realized she suddenly felt a lot better.
“Just so you know, if you really want to annoy me, you’ll have to come up with fancier philosophical sayings than that line about perceiving the metaphysical truth,” she said. “I sell art to a lot of very pretentious art collectors, and I talk to a lot of very snobbish art critics. When we really get going, the bullshit is so thick you need boots.”
“Sometimes you give the impression that you don’t have a lot of respect for the art you sell.”
“I respect any work of art that incorporates some hint of truth, however small, and I am downright fascinated by any artist who can give that little bit of truth a physical reality.”
The corner of Cabot’s mouth may have twitched up a fraction of an inch.
“You’re good,” he said.
“Thank you. I’ve been in the gallery business awhile now. I’ve had lots of practice looking at art and marketing it.”
“Do you date any of those artists who fascinate you?” Cabot asked.
He sounded genuinely curious.
“I learned long ago that it’s a huge mistake to date an artist,” she said. “They only want one thing.”
“Sex?”
“Nope. At least that would be an honest, straightforward objective. The reality is that usually the only thing they want is for me to display their work in my gallery. And if it doesn’t sell, they blame me. So I no longer date artists.”
“Ah.”
She glanced at him quickly and then looked away. “I’m sure you have similar problems in your line of work.”
“Cutler, Sutter and Salinas has a couple of cardinal rules, one of which is, never sleep with a client.”
“Sounds like a sensible policy.”
And it was, she thought, a very sensible policy. What’s more, she had the feeling that it would take something of earthshaking importance to make Cabot Sutter break the rules.
For some obscure reason, some of the edgy excitement she had been experiencing faded a little.
She turned onto the unmarked road that wound along the rocky cliffs. A few miles later she found the graveled lane that led to what was left of Hannah’s cabin. She brought the car to a halt. The only portions of the small structure that were still standing were the stone fireplace and chimney.
Cabot sat quietly for a time, studying the scene. Then he reached into the back seat for his jacket, opened the door and got out.
Virginia undid her seat belt, collected her own coat and got out of the car. A sharp, chill wind off the sound snapped at her hair. She pulled on the coat and went to stand next to Cabot. Together they stood looking at the desolate scene.
“That was one hell of a fire,” Cabot said after a while. “Burned everything right down to the concrete foundation pad. Definitely not a normal house fire.”
“I told you, the authorities who investigated believe that Hannah torched the cabin before she went off the cliff.”
“Do they have a theory about why she would have burned down the house before killing herself?” Cabot asked.
“Rose Gilbert, the woman who took over the Lost Island B and B, told me that the locals believe Hannah felt compelled to destroy her art before she took her own life.”
“If that was the case, why would she send you that camera with the photo of her final picture.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Exactly,” Virginia said.
Cabot walked slowly around the concrete pad, pausing occasionally to pick up a stick of charred wood or a blackened bit of metal.
After a time he rejoined her.
“Do the authorities have any idea of exactly where she jumped?” he asked.
“Or was pushed? I suppose it could have been anywhere along the top of the cliffs. I assume it was somewhere nearby.”
“The cabin faced the cliffs.”
“Yes.”
“Doors?”
“One in the front about where you’re standing and one in back off the kitchen.”
Cabot took up a position at the front edge of the concrete pad and studied the cliffs. Virginia folded her arms and watched him in silence. She sensed that he was going into some private mental zone. It wasn’t an act designed to impress the client. She had seen artists do something very similar when they were deep into their work and wholly focused on their inner vision.
“If she was running for her life, she would have gone down the lane toward the main road,” he said. “Instinct would have taken over. She would have turned left toward town. If she was being chased, the killer would have caught up with her near that curve in the road. That’s where she would have gone over the edge.”
He indicated the direction with one hand.
Virginia considered briefly. “I think I would have headed for the woods. They’re closer to the cabin, and my odds of losing the killer in the trees at night would have been better there.”
Cabot glanced at her, brows slightly elevated as if she had managed to surprise him.
“You’re right,” he said. “That is very clearheaded thinking.”
“Thank you,” she said, careful to keep her tone excruciatingly polite.
Evidently the small bit of sarcasm went straight over his head without ruffling a single hair because he continued walking her through his logic.
“We can assume that Brewster didn’t head for the woods because there were no indications of violence,” he said. “If she had been killed somewhere on land and then dumped over the cliffs, there would have been signs of a struggle. Maybe an indication that she was dead before she went into the water.”
“All right, I understand your reasoning. Why does it matter where she went over the cliffs?”
“Because it would give us a few more solid facts.” Cabot turned to face the cliffs again. “Now, if she had already made the decision to take her own life, she would have gone toward those rocks. It’s the closest point to the water and there’s a sheer drop. Not much chance of accidentally surviving the fall.”
He started walking toward the craggy outcropping. Virginia folded her arms, hugging herself against the sharp wind, and followed.
Cabot did not follow the graveled lane. Instead he cut straight across the muddy clearing. Virginia trailed a few paces behind, not wanting to crowd him.
He stopped just short of the jumble of rocks, reached down and picked up a small, rain-dampened carton.
Virginia hurried to catch up with him. “What is it?”
“A box of household matches,” Cabot said. “The long kind that you use to light kindling in a fireplace.”
Virginia thought back to the occasions when she had visited Hannah. There had always been a fire going in the fireplace. It was the sort of detail you noticed when you had a serious phobia about open flames.
“Hannah kept a box of matches like that on her mantel,” she said.
Cabot looked back toward the ruins of the cabin. “She set fire to the cabin to destroy her last painting and then she ran for this point on the cliffs. Probably didn’t realize she was still holding the box of matches until she got this far. She dropped the matches just before she jumped.”
Virginia took a long breath and let it out slowly. “The authorities are right, then.”
Cabot looked at the box in his hand. “Yes. But the real question is why she thought she had to take such extreme measures.”
“The locals will tell you that she was more than a little crazy.”
Cabot’s eyes were steel-cold. “The locals don’t know what we know about her history.”
“No,” Virginia said. “I’m sticking with my original theory. Hannah believed that Quinton Zane had come back from the dead. She sent me a warning in the form of her last painting and then she destroyed the picture.”
“There’s only one good reason why she would have done that,” Cabot said.
“She was afraid Zane might see the painting.”
“That’s what this looks like.”
“Maybe the hallucinations finally overwhelmed her mind.”
“Maybe,” Cabot said. “We can’t rule out the fact that she might have gotten lost in a delirium. But we also can’t ignore the possibility that she saw something or someone who made her think that Quinton Zane is still alive.”
He started toward the car. She touched the sleeve of his jacket. He stopped at once and turned. He did not say anything, he just waited.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For believing that Hannah Brewster did not kill herself because she went mad. For taking my concerns about Quinton Zane seriously.”
“When it comes to Quinton Zane, I am always serious.”