 
## The Collage

### by Rene Natan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Rene Natan

All Rights Reserved.

Second Edition

www.vermeil.biz

Contact: renenatan@aol.com

Main Personas

Allison Summer, protagonist

Luke Saint-Clair, Allison's father

Justin Bernard Saint-Clair, Allison's grandfather

Ian Summer, Allison's husband

Vern, Allison's brother

Marvin Garland, manager of the Farming Consortium

Susan Garland, Marvin's sister

Charles Sutherland, detective

Malcolm Clark, head of the Invicta

Ed Dustin, private investigator

Jenifer Dustin, Ed's daughter

José Barnez, criminal

Rudy Eaton, reporter

Peter Johnston, hired killer

## Prologue

Allison tried to shake off the fog that muffled her mind. Shaking her head was a mistake. Her skull pounded with a throbbing pain. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the pain to subside. That's when the musty smell of old floorboards invaded her nose and seemed to reach deep into her stomach.

Ian grabbed her shoulder. "Oh, no. You're not passing out on me." He pulled her to her feet, holding her at arm's length.

The feel of his hands cupping her elbows was enough to lift the fog, as tears of humiliation and grief stung her eyes. All she wanted was to get out of the house, away from herself, and the terrible ache tearing her up inside.

Ian's hand tightened on her wrist. He moved towards the den, dragging her with him.

"I don't know why you pretended to...to love me. But it's all been a big mistake. All we can do now is forget about it all and go our separate ways." Her voice trailed off to a sob.

He didn't say anything, just kept pulling her along. She didn't want to go into the den—not ever again. Allison dug in her heels, throwing her weight back to stop him. "Why are you doing this? Ian, let go."

"Just a big mistake, huh?" He glared at her, his face tight with anger. "We should just forget about it, right?"

Allison stumbled over an end table and crashed into the wall. The tears she'd been holding back blurred her vision. She was cold to the marrow, her head hurt and her whole body felt sore, as if her heartache was a physical pain. Ian's face swam in and out of focus as she blinked back her tears. "What do you want from me, Ian? Why won't you let me go?"

He made no reply. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of her nightgown and steered her towards the fireplace. "There's your mistake," he said. "Now tell me you can walk away from it."

A young man lay sprawled on the rug, one arm thrown up as if to protect himself. His face was dappled with blood; part of his skull was crushed. Bits of scalp clung to the cast-iron poker next to his head.

"You were drunk," Ian said.

Allison shook her head, numb with shock. Her eyes were glued to the poker. She'd bought it at an antique shop a couple of days after the wedding, only to find out that the fireplace wasn't working.

"Drunk, and choked with rage."

"No." Allison staggered back, shaking her head. "No!"

"Yes. You killed him, Allison."

## Chapter 1

Les Capucines, near Belleville, Ontario, October1998

Allison didn't know what to expect. Would he recognize her? Was he as beautiful as when she'd left him? She quickened her steps down the steep incline, following the narrow trail that led to the barn. The trail wound around a stand of birches to lose itself in the darkness of a grove of pines. As the trees thinned out near the bottom of the hill, the old barn drifted into sight. She ran toward it, her heart throbbing. When she was in front of it, however, she stopped cold. Timbers and siding of any color and shape had been used to repair the roof and walls.

This wasn't the barn she remembered.

She took a few tentative steps around it, then decided to walk inside. Old memories began to flash back. She was fourteen when the roof of the stable collapsed under a heavy snowfall, injuring her beloved colt Morello. She could still see him sprawled on the floor, his left ear split in two, his forelegs, both broken, folded under his trembling body, his eyes imploring.

Attracted by a loud neigh Allison moved toward the end of the stable. Morello was in the last stall, a big horse now, a star-shaped blaze glistening in the middle of his forehead. Only a thin, long scar parted his hair across the ear, a remnant of the old wound.

Allison stroked the horse's neck. On impulse she rubbed her nose against his nose, but Morello retreated immediately. He panted in snorts and his ears twitched. "You don't remember, do you? You forgot me, eh?" Her mind wandered back to that fateful dawn, when she frantically searched for her brother's old sled. Morello was tiny then—barely one month old. She'd lifted him onto the sled and tucked a blanket around him. Then she'd tied the frayed rope around her wrist, and set off through the snow-covered fields. The vet's lab was seven miles away. She didn't dare to stop. If she halted she might not have the strength to get going again. So she plodded on, mile after slow mile, never stopping until she reached the vet. When she finally arrived, she was unable to speak. She could only point to her precious bundle.

Allison smiled at her memories.

"Do you like horses?" A male voice echoed in the almost empty stable.

"Yes. But I found only one." Allison turned around.

A tall man in jeans and a leather jacket leaned his back against the wall. He was studying her with undisguised interest. Allison wondered how long he'd been standing there.

He pushed off the wall and sauntered over, taking off his cowboy hat. "They used to have horses, but they've all been replaced by Jeeps. Not as pretty, but a heck of a lot more functional." He petted the horse's ears and was rewarded by a grateful whinny. "Morello is the only one left." He offered her a big hand. "Marvin Garland."

"Pleased to meet you. Allison Summer."

"I'm in charge of Les Capucines."

Oh, that was news to her. "I thought Les Capucines was the name of Mr. Saint-Clair's residence."

"It's also the name of the Farming Consortium Mr. Saint-Clair had founded and built over the years. Farmers associated with the consortium share equipment and up-to-date information."

"Ah, I got it." Allison looked up at the ceiling, and then down at the rotted floor. "This place isn't in very good shape, is it?"

"It should be torn down. But for some reason, Mr. Saint-Clair is attached to this old horse. As long as the horse lives, the stable stays. So what brings you here? You look very much like a city girl."

For a moment Allison thought of telling him who she was. But the man seemed so sure of himself, so much in control—maybe she should tease him a little.

"What kind of employer does he make?"

"Mr. Saint-Clair?" Marvin shot her a curious look. "He brought me in four years back to modernize his operation. He was a friend of my father's, and I've been running things for him after his heart attack. He's a good man." He flipped his hat inside out. "Why? Are you looking for a job?"

"Already got one. I'll be helping out at the infirmary."

"So you're the new nurse they've been talking about for weeks." He grinned. "Now isn't that a coincidence. I need immediate medical attention." He pressed one hand against his chest, and his hazel eyes clouded over in mock pain. "It's my heart. It has been pounding from the moment I saw you. I can't stop it. It might be dangerous."

"Hmm. It's a common disease. It affects men, mostly." She grinned. "The good news is, it's not catching." Her gaze moved up and down Marvin's body. "You look healthy and strong. I think you'll recover." She began walking back to the large entrance.

"Wait, wait." Marvin trailed her. "Since you're new here, I should show you around."

She kept walking. "What, in your condition? You shouldn't strain yourself."

"Come on, just an easy spin in my comfortable Grand Cherokee. You can't imagine how big this place is. It extends all the way up to the Indian reserve, twenty miles to the north."

As she reached the door, Allison turned to face Marvin. "Thank you for the offer, Marvin. I'll take a rain check."

***

Ian Summer rolled his wheelchair toward the fireplace, attracted by its pink granite mantel. He fingered the stones to feel their texture. Moving to Les Capucines had been an excellent idea. The studio was spacious, with beautifully framed pictures and photographs covering one entire wall. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a credenza, all in solid oak, gave the room an imposing aspect. The sun, filtered through four stained-glass windows, created myriad colorful patterns on the dark, wooden floor.

Wheeling his way between an old desk and the leather chairs, he stopped in front of the portraits: there was Luke Saint-Clair with his pony; Luke with a sketching pad and crayons; Luke on a sailboat.

"Admiring my good looks? I was young then." Luke Saint-Clair closed the door behind him. Five-six, slim and almost bald, Luke was in his mid-fifties. "What's so urgent you wanted to see me at this early hour?" He slumped into the leather sofa.

"Don't move!" Ian raised the digital camera he carried around his neck. "Say 'cheese'." He snapped Luke's picture. "There, that's for my journal. To remember this special day." He moved over to the couch. "Now that I've seen the place, I'd like to start making plans."

"But you and Allison just got here!" Luke's eyes expressed even more anxiety than his words.

"It's never too early to make plans for the good life. And I intend to have a real good life."

Luke didn't comment right away, staring through the glass door at the back of the studio. Allison, riding Morello, was on her way to the lakeshore. He sighed, giving Ian a worried look. "What's left to plan? I thought this was what you wanted. A nice place to stay. Being taken care of."

"For one thing, I need cash. Maybe you can talk to your father. It's clear he's very happy Allison came here to stay. This could be the perfect moment."

"You can forget about that. He won't give me a penny—it's a miracle he lets me stay here at all."

"I'll have to get it from Allison, then. She's my wife."

"Ian! Please don't. She's my daughter, the only child I have left. I don't want her under pressure."

"Don't get sentimental now. You didn't care about her or..." An expression of guilt and pain flickered across Luke's face. Not wise to remind him of that particular agreement, Ian thought. He wheeled closer, and reached for his friend's hand. "Remember all the dreams we had? Traveling, lying on the beach..." he said, searching Luke's face.

Luke waved off his words. "True. But that was then."

Ian fretted. He tried to read Luke's expression. Was it possible that his friend knew what he'd done? Maybe it was better not to press the issue. He'd have to tread carefully, at least for the moment.

***

A gigantic walnut tree towered over the shrubbery off the kitchen patio. Its fruit, still green, began to drop to the ground. A squirrel dashed out of the bushes to grab two walnuts. It swiftly hid them in its mouth and carried them away to stock up its winter supply.

Allison stood in front of the glass door, lost in the peace and harmony of the view. Glimpses of her childhood came to her as scenes of a remote, lost world: the rides with Morello, the walks with her brother on the lakeshores, the calls of the loons, the frantic planting of hundreds of nasturtiums to cover the front yard...

She jerked as a hand stroked her shoulder.

"You didn't hear me walking in, eh?"

She turned. "No. Good morning, grandpa. Breakfast is ready. Just for the two of us."

"It's so wonderful to have you around, Allison," Justin Bernard Saint-Clair said as he sat at the table.

Allison filled his cup with tea, dropped a slice of fresh lemon into it and briskly kissed him on his thin, white hair. She sat beside him. "I didn't remember this old kitchen being so big. This table, for instance, could easily sit eight people."

"Your grandmother loved cooking. She liked to have people around, too. We often had our guests sitting here in the kitchen. This table was made to order for her. Bright ceramic top. You can cut on it. It doesn't damage easy." Justin sipped his tea slowly. "So, what else surprised you? After your mother took you away you came here only once."

"The size of the farm as it grew to be. More cattle. More fields cultivated as cash crops." Allison grabbed a slice of bread from the toaster and coated it with a thin layer of grape jelly. "You bought so much new land. The property is huge now."

He nodded. "There's a lot of people depending on this farm. When I'm gone, they'll be your responsibility." He pressed her hand. "Don't look so worried. You'll do just fine. And I'm not dead yet. But I can tell you, having you back here takes a weight off my chest."

Allison looked directly into his eyes. They were bright, alert. If only she could confide in him... But he had his own cross to bear. His adopted child, her father, had wasted his life on drugs and bad company. She wasn't going to add to his worries—Luke Saint-Clair had done enough damage for both of them. On top of that, her grandfather had a heart condition. She should never forget that.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Justin looked up from his cup. "Your mother... She never forgave me, did she?"

"Oh, grandpa. That's not true."

But the old man would not be deceived. He sighed. "She was right, you know, to take you away. I should have kicked Luke out long before I did, long before she left. It's just—" He shook his head. "I felt so sorry for him. When I looked at Luke, I still remembered the way I found him. Sitting on the house doorsteps in his pajamas, all hungry and bruised. A small, scared boy who didn't talk for weeks."

A quick smile appeared on Allison's face. "I know." She put her hand on top of his, stopping his tremors.

"And then, when I think of you and Vern—I feel so grateful to him. He gave me two wonderful grandchildren."

Grandpa would never fail to make her feel good about herself. "By the way, I didn't expect to find my father here."

"The social worker in charge of Luke's rehabilitation called me up. He asked me if Luke could stay at Les Capucines for the time being. He's in a recovery program. He's making great progress, the counselor told me. So I said yes." He slowly finished his tea.

"He looks tired, very much aged."

"Well, with the lifestyle he had, my child, he's lucky to be alive." Justin's voice was sharp now. "By the way, I found your husband on edge. Any particular reason?"

The urge to open her heart became overwhelming. But Allison saw an old man, in poor health, who needed comfort, not more worries. "In spite of the doctors' opinion, Ian seems to believe he won't recuperate the use of his legs."

"I see." Justin rose. "More tea?" As Allison nodded, he moved with unsuspected vigor around the kitchen counter. He put on the kettle and asked over his shoulder, "How is your own life, Allison? Hard, I bet, with the move and Ian in a wheelchair."

Allison could hardly refrain from crying. She waited until she trusted her voice enough to speak. "Things, at the moment, aren't that easy," she replied. "But don't worry. I'll be fine."

***

Marvin drove over to his sister's house and pulled the Grand Cherokee into the driveway. He'd have supper with Susan and then head off for a weekend of freedom.

Susan knew his vehicle by sound. Before he had time to turn off the engine, she appeared in the doorway, one hand resting on her cane, the other on the doorframe.

"Hey, little brother!"

Marvin gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek. He wrapped an arm around her waist, and they walked in together.

"Beer?" Susan asked.

"Sure." Marvin sat in the family room, in the chair reserved for him. Everything in Susan's house had a precise place and function. He'd had the place custom-built to fit her needs. The small, one-story house had a wrap-around porch with a secure railing, so she could move about in total safety. Susan was nearly blind—the result of diabetes she'd suffered since childhood.

She headed to the kitchen and returned with a cold beer. Susan maneuvered among the different pieces of furniture with a confidence that defied her impairment, and sat in her own chair, close to Marvin's. "Anything new?" she asked.

"Not much. Oh, yes. A new arrival at Les Capucines. A young nurse."

"Good-looking?"

"Er...well, yes, I guess." He tried to hide his embarrassment, even though she couldn't see him. Susan, fifteen years his senior, knew him well. Too well for comfort.

She sat back. "All right, time for a full report." She waved her hands at him, eager, eloquent: she wanted to see through his words.

"Not too tall. Big eyes. Short hair, looks soft."

Susan sat upright. "Does she look like Charlene?"

Marvin didn't reply immediately. "Maybe a little. The eyes. Like Charlene's, they're light grey."

Susan just smiled. "A quiet girl?"

"Not exactly. More like composed. She acts kind of cool and distant. But her eyes are very much alive. There's fire burning inside."

Susan whistled between her teeth. "Uh-oh."

"Don't uh-oh me. If I wanted fire I could have had it long ago."

"Oh, sure. At the ripe old age of thirty-eight you're finished with life. You've got your job, you've got your loving sister, you don't need anything else."

She kept her voice light, but he could see her mouth tremble. "That's right," he said. He scooted over and took her hands. "That's damn right." But as he kissed the top of her head, he wondered. And he knew she was wondering too. Was another Charlene coming to destroy their peace?

***

Malcolm Clark, head of 'Invicta,' a private agency created a decade ago for the active protection of citizens against crime, nodded at the prim, straight-backed woman seated in front of him, and sent her one of his award-winning smiles. He didn't like to antagonize potential customers, but Pamela Borodin wasn't making things easy. She'd been rambling on and on in her high, whining voice for over an hour now. The meeting had been an exercise in patience and understanding, and it didn't look like she was going to be done any time soon.

She ignored his smile and continued her tirade, lambasting the incompetence of police, prosecutors, and the justice system in general. Malcolm made sympathetic noises. To pass the time, he counted and recounted the pictures that covered the walls of his office. Twenty-four of them, each portraying a Stanley Cup winning team.

He had to find a way to stop her. So he rose, neared the side of his desk and stood there, imposing. He hoped that his six feet ten and two hundred and fifty pounds would have a calming effect.

Like magic, Pamela stopped talking.

Malcolm looked down on her. "Mrs. Borodin—"

"Ms. Borodin," she corrected him instantly.

"Ms. Borodin, as I told you before, there's nothing I can do. Your brother died—"

"Was murdered," she interjected.

"...almost a year ago. There was enough evidence to call his death a suicide."

"Mr. Clark, listen to me. I drove all the way from Montreal. I came to the Invicta because of its prestigious name. I was told it's an organization established to help citizens." She stopped and inhaled quickly, to gain strength for what she was going to say. "My brother Albert was killed and his body thrown into a river. I know who has done it. I collected a lot of evidence." She tapped on the folder lying in her lap. "If nobody at the Invicta wants to help, I'll take justice in my own hands."

That was probably the only thing the woman could say to sway him to take the case. The woman was upset enough to do something foolish, cold enough to plan it carefully, and smart enough to get away with it. A deadly combination.

As if interpreting his thoughts, Ms. Borodin moved ahead full force. "I can pay your agency to expose my brother's assassin or I can pay a killer to eliminate him." She gave Malcolm Clark a cold, determined look.

"Statements of this sort," muttered Malcolm, "could cause you big trouble, Ms. Borodin. Are you aware of that?"

"You told me on the phone, that our conversation would be confidential." She looked like a cat ready to catch its prey.

Malcolm sighed. "Well, not really...not if it includes specific plans to commit criminal actions." It wasn't easy to scare this customer away. He had to gain time. He moved back behind his desk and slumped into his swivel chair. "Let's see what you've got." He stretched his arm to promptly receive a thick, black folder. He leafed through the pages. "Why don't I see what I can do, and get back to you in a week? Ten days, tops. How does that sound?" He got up, hoping the meeting would come to an end.

Ms. Borodin rose too. She extended her hand. "Take two weeks," she said.

Malcolm Clark forced a smile as he escorted her to the door. The woman knew how to be generous in victory.

## Chapter 2

Built on a rise, Justin Bernard Saint-Clair's residence, known as Les Capucines, was a slick two-story construction with beige-and-purple brick walls. It had been remodeled to accommodate two families, Justin Bernard's in the old wing, and that of his adopted son, Luke, in the new wing. An addition at the back housed a first-aid center and a small apartment for a live-in nurse. That annex was going to be Allison's new living quarters. For the last couple of days she'd worked hard to make it look like home.

Standing on a chair, she balanced on her tiptoes to smooth the pleated curtains. "Nice, aren't they? Antique pink." She looked down at her grandfather's long-time housekeeper.

Julia was holding on to the chair's back to steady it. She shook her head, a frown creasing her normally good-natured face. "I still don't understand why you're staying here. You're the lady of the house. It just doesn't seem right."

Allison stepped down and tilted her head back to admire her handiwork. "Beautiful. I've always loved the look of satin curtains." Then she met the elderly housekeeper's worried eyes. "It's all right Julia. Really, it is. It gives my husband more space."

"There's plenty of space for the two of you," Julia muttered.

She was right, of course. But to her surprise, Ian had agreed she move into the annex. If she weren't driving around the estate to make home-care visits she'd be spending much of her time there anyway. Wouldn't it be more practical for her to use the apartment? He agreed that, yes, it would.

"And what about your grandfather? He'll miss you," Julia said.

Allison chuckled. "No need to worry about that. Grandpa gets up early too, so we can have breakfast together. Most of the time I'll be back for supper. And I'll join him at the main office every other day—he intends to show me the ropes, and you know him."

Julia laughed despite herself. "He's a sweet man. But when he has something in mind, he doesn't give up that easy."

"So...have you seen Ian today?" She kept her voice neutral.

"He's been in the studio since this morning. Busy reading. Art and photography books, I believe. He was surprised to find so many."

Allison smiled wistfully. "My brother spent all his pocket money on those kinds of books." She rearranged the pottery on the window ledge. "Look over there!" She pointed outside, at a rabbit running toward the woods. "And another one! Both cottontails. Wonderful. I love nature. This's going to be my very own little den." She turned toward Julia. "Go, Julia, and don't worry. Thank you for your help."

"See you, Mrs. Summer."

"Allison, Julia. I'm little Alli, remember? You helped me making clothes for my doll."

In spite of her heavy figure, Julia moved quickly to hug her. Then, quietly, she left, followed by Allison's silent blessing.

She wandered around her small living quarters—kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and a small sitting area. Everything looked neat and cheerful. And the little fish tank she'd ordered would soon add a touch of color and life. Pleased with herself, she grabbed the bag with the carrots she had ready for Morello. Time to take him for a ride.

***

Malcolm Clark was back from his daily workout. He'd never had any problem keeping his weight down, but since he'd founded the Invicta, the social gatherings had taken their toll. Being the big chief meant taking each potential client out for dinner—at least once. And good food was always a temptation. He should work on a case, in person, top to bottom, and stay away from headquarters. Maybe Paul Brennon, his right-hand man, could temporarily replace him as the agency's director.

From the basement where the fitness room was located, he walked upstairs and entered his office. He glanced around. He had every reason to be proud of what he'd accomplished. The Invicta had been very successful in offering citizens active protection against crime and in carrying out discreet investigations. Located in Vermeil, about eighty miles from Toronto, his company had solved complex cases and drew customers from all over the country.

Malcolm sunk into an armchair and stretched his legs on top of the coffee table. He'd remodeled that part of the office to better entertain his customers. In one corner he'd installed a rosewood armoire. It had a built-in fridge, and the right side, paneled with mirrors, swung open to reveal a well-stocked bar. Two side tables and six easy chairs of tan leather gave the place an elegant and yet cozy look.

Enough time spent in contemplation. He should do some work. He got the papers Ms. Borodin had given him and began reading. From time to time, he made notes directly on the sheets. Twice he got up to make a fresh pot of coffee. It was dark when Paul Brennon knocked at his door. "Come in." Malcolm gestured him to come close.

Paul lingered in the doorway. "Ooh, ooh! Did the interior decorator do a good job! Look at the new carpet: dark green with sparkles of gold." He walked over to the walls newly clad in soft yellow with green stripes. "Classy wallpaper. You must be pleased, Malcolm."

"Yes, but I liked it a lot better before I saw the bill," Malcolm muttered. "Sit down, Paul. I'm looking at a new case."

"An interesting one, I gather. I didn't see you around all day."

"A messy case. I didn't want to take it, but this client was very..." Malcolm tried to find the proper word to describe Ms. Borodin's behavior.

"Persistent," suggested Paul.

"Yeah. Persistent is an elegant word to cover it. Anyhow, her brother died last year. She's compiled a thick file on his death, and she's been raising a stink, claiming he was murdered. The police are incompetent, the investigating officers are a bunch of idiots, yada yada." He sighed, running a hand over his face. "Trouble is, I'm beginning to believe she may have a point."

"So? We take the case and solve it, she pays the interior decorator, et voila. Everybody is happy." Paul sat back, crossing his legs. "So, what's the story?"

"Her brother, Albert, was a struggling artist." Malcolm stared at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts. "A year before he died, things were going well for Albert: he was looking at a big fat contract, decorating a fancy hotel just outside Montreal. The building was supposed to be a reproduction of a medieval castle—we're talking mega-bucks here. Albert's business contact, guy named Bill Dadoun, fancied himself a patron of the arts. He started taking Albert to artist's gatherings, parties and clubs, introducing him around. According to the sister, Dadoun moved in some pretty shady circles, and Albert was getting antsy. He didn't much care for that kind of environment."

"I see."

"One evening Albert was assaulted and brutalized."

"Sexually too?"

"Yes. He was taken to the hospital. They had to sew him up." Malcolm closed the folder in front of him and looked at Paul over his reading glasses. "Albert believed Dadoun was responsible for organizing sexual orgies. He wanted to drop Dadoun altogether, even though the contract was about to be signed. Albert called his sister, our client, and told her he was scared of Dadoun. That the man was obsessed with him." Malcolm gave Paul a few pictures. "Albert used to support himself with modeling work when money was tight."

"Slim body. Perfect proportions. He wasn't a big man, though."

"No. His health hadn't been good either. Regarding his relation with Dadoun—" Malcolm resumed, "Albert wasn't interested at all, according to his sister. He had a girlfriend and was serious about her." He handed Paul the folder.

"So—"

"His sister insisted that Dadoun threatened Albert. If he didn't comply with his sexual advances, he'd kill him and throw his body into a river."

"And in a river it was found," Paul said after leafing through a pile of papers and pictures. "His sister, did she contact the authorities right away?"

"No. She was touring the Scandinavian fjords with no easy means of communication. When she came back, she was told her brother's death was classified a suicide. No reason to suspect otherwise." Malcolm paused. "Before I contact the office that handled the case, let's see if we can track down Dadoun. He disappeared shortly after Albert's death."

Paul smiled. "I knew you'd find a reason to go back to your beloved hometown."

***

Allison leaned against the wooden fence at the back of Marvin's house, watching the waves roll in and break on the shore. A blustery wind whipped the breakers into a frenzy of foam and mist. Dark clouds gathered overhead, hanging so low they scraped the tops of the trees. She'd been standing here for over an hour, and by now she was chilled to the bone. But she couldn't bring herself to leave. She'd waited a week before making this memorial visit. Marvin's house had once been the home of her late brother Vern.

Vern had filled it with laughter, friends, paintings and music. He'd filled it with his own heart. Then one day, a day as somber and cold as this one... She really didn't want to remember that day. The memories came flooding back anyway, as she knew they would. Their father had spent the entire afternoon with him. Nobody ever knew what happened between them—nobody except her father, of course. Somebody said that Vern, visibly distressed, had gone to the stables, saddled Morello and taken off for the woods.

That night Morello returned alone. Vern's body was found days later, at the bottom of the Falls.

Allison turned to look at the house. Its layout was etched into her memory: the big glass-enclosed hall that overlooked the lake had been Vern's showcase for his paintings; behind the hall was the living room; one floor below was the bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom.

Allison sighed, turned around and leaned against the fence again. The noise of the waves muffled the unlocking of the hall door.

"Hello, Allison! Not too cold there?"

"Marvin! I didn't think there was anybody in the house." She stood there, hugging herself for warmth.

"Oh, yes. I'm here, in flesh and blood." He moved toward her and touched her arm. "You're freezing. Come inside."

"Well, I should really go home." She'd been told Marvin wouldn't be back until the day after.

"Warm up a little, first." He took her by the arm and guided her inside. "Come, come over here. Sit on the chesterfield. I'll get you something warm to put on." He gave Allison a concerned look. "Be right back."

Allison looked around. The grand piano was shrouded with papers and magazines; the china cabinet was used as an improvised bar; the stuffed grizzly bear had been confined to a corner.

"This should do it." Marvin helped her put on a grey cardigan—it felt like a coat on her. "You're shivering! I'll make some coffee. Black?"

"Yes, please."

Marvin left again.

Allison couldn't stop wondering at how much her brother's old place had changed. Prints and photographs had replaced the modern-art pictures. A 35″-TV set stood in the middle of the room; the couch had been turned around to face the TV screen head on.

"So, tell me why you came here." Marvin offered her a cup of steaming coffee.

"Just wandering. A bit of daydreaming too."

"I was gone for a few days and had no time to check up on you." He sat on the carpeted floor, his legs crossed, in front of her. "Since you're here, you can fill in the gaps. Tell me something about yourself."

"Not much to tell..."

"Mysterious, I see." He smiled at her. "I like mysterious women."

Allison returned a tiny smile. Eagerly, she drank her coffee. "Feels good. Nice and warm." She deposited her cup on the side table. "Sorry I interrupted whatever you were doing."

"I wasn't doing anything special. I just returned from my tour on the farm up north. What we call the Upper Farm. I always check on my place when I come back. I spotted you from the hall. The glass is like a one-way mirror. You can't look in from the outside, but you can look out just fine."

Allison leaned her elbows on her knees, cupping her face in her hands. "Cozy place you have here, Marvin."

"It could use a woman's touch. I don't spend much time at home. I get my supper at my sister's place, half an hour's drive from here. She doesn't get around much. She's blind."

"Blind?" Allison rose slowly.

"Well, not completely. She sees shadows of people, something like that." Marvin rose too. "But let's think about you." He walked close to her. As Allison didn't move, he put his arms around her shoulders and bent to kiss her lips. When Allison's eyes filled with tears, Marvin took a step back and looked at her, puzzled. "Was it that bad?" he joked.

"I'm silly, that's all. Don't pay any attention to me," she said laughing through her tears. She should tell him who she was. That she was the boss' granddaughter and was married. "There's something I must tell you," she began. Then her eyes flickered to the big clock hanging on the wall. "Oh my God, it's very late. I must be going. Thanks for coffee."

"Let me give you a ride. It might start pouring any minute now."

"No. I prefer to walk."

"Then I'll come with you."

"No, no. I should go alone," said Allison firmly. "But I'd like to borrow your sweater, if you don't mind."

"Of course not."

Allison walked into the hall.

Marvin followed her. "Wait. If you insist on leaving, at least let me give you a good-night kiss." Allison had just turned to face him when Marvin took her in his arms.

She pushed him away and rushed outside.

Almost as soon as she left, the sky released its burden of rain. Alternately running and walking at a brisk pace, Allison followed the trail through the woods, heading home, her sneakers squelching with each step. Not a square inch of her body or clothing was dry. She stopped under the overhang in front of the portal, took Marvin's sweater off and twisted it hard. Then she opened the heavy, ornate door.

In the middle of the foyer Ian was waiting for her. "Where have you been?" he yelled as soon as she entered the house.

Allison took her shoes off, put the sweater on top of them and headed for the kitchen, followed by Ian.

"Where have you been?" He grabbed her by the arm.

"Out. Let go, Ian."

"No. I won't let go. You're my wife. Do you understand that?"

"Let go, you're hurting me."

"Look at you: what a mess you are! You should be ashamed of yourself. You look like the poorest of servants."

"I was caught in the rain."

"You always have an excuse. You've got to understand who is in control of the situation—if you know what I mean. You're supposed to take care of me."

Allison disengaged herself. "You're taken care of, Ian. You've got everything you wanted."

"Oh, yes? And where is my supper?"

Allison looked into the dining room. The table wasn't set. "Where's Julia? And where's grandpa?"

"Your beloved grandfather got sick. Julia warmed a bowl of chicken soup and carried it up to his room."

"Oh, I forgot. It's Julia's day off. Let me go change. I'll be back to make you a sandwich."

"A sandwich?" Ian's eyes sparkled with fury. "What do you think I had for lunch? A decent meal?" Wheeling around he managed to grab her sleeve. He twisted the material in his fist and yanked her down. "Do you have any idea what it means to be confined to the house like this? I can't get out by myself. I have nobody to talk to."

"I thought you and my father got along pretty well."

"Luke left early this morning and hasn't been seen since."

"Oh—" Allison shivered in her wet clothes. "I need to go change."

"You've got ten minutes." He relinquished his hold. "Then you get yourself back here and cook me up something decent."

## Chapter 3

Allison couldn't fall asleep. She tossed in bed for hours, replaying in her mind Ian's recent outburst. She tried to project another Ian over his mask of unmistakable hatred: the passionate lover who had brought her flowers, the gentle man who had pledged his undying love. She couldn't do it. The two images wouldn't merge. He had never been that kind man. The thought struck her with all the force of a physical blow, and she bit her lip hard enough to break the skin. But instead of blood she tasted truth.

He had never loved her. It had all been a game of pretend. She stifled a sob. But why? Why did he marry her? She couldn't find any logical explanation. The only justification that made any sense was that Ian was mentally unbalanced. If this was the case, she couldn't help him.

And, worst of all, she couldn't leave him.

Allison stepped out of bed to get a glass of warm milk. Wrapped in her velour robe, she sat on the sofa. The reality of her dreadful marriage had just faded away when the ghost of her dead brother began to fill the dark room. She shouldn't have gone to visit the place where Vern lived. That had been a mistake. A double mistake, because of the anguish she relived and the encounter with Marvin. She was told Marvin wouldn't be back until tomorrow. She hadn't expected to meet him again, face to face on his own turf. The intimacy that seemed to spring so naturally between them could prove fatal.

Especially if Ian found out.

***

Marvin pulled up in front of George Calbourn's cottage. George had been in charge of the stables until his retirement, five years before. When Marvin had started his job at Les Capucines, George filled him in on the habits and background of the people living on the farm. He would still do that, occasionally.

The door, as usual, was open; Marvin yelled a greeting and walked in.

George looked up from his newspaper, his weathered face splitting in a wide grin. "Hey, Marvin. Come to keep an old man company?"

"That, and enjoy your wife's cookies."

"Help yourself." George gestured to a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table. "There's fresh coffee in the pot."

Marvin poured himself a mug and sat down while George studied him over the paper. "So what's up? You didn't come here just for cookies. Trouble at the farm?"

"Nah, just the usual things; nothing I can't handle. But there is one thing I've been meaning to ask you..." Marvin took another cookie, munching slowly.

"Come on, boy. Out with it." He put down his newspaper.

"Tell me about the new guests at the hill."

"There's only one new person: Mr. Summer."

Marvin choked on his cookie. "Mr. Summer?" he managed to mumble. "Allison, the new nurse is married?"

"Of course."

"Do you know her?"

George laughed. "Do I know her? She's Mr. Saint-Clair's granddaughter!" Marvin coughed repeatedly, but George seemed unaware of the effect of his words. He continued. "She'll do a great job. She likes taking care of people, animals, every living thing. Her husband—Ian Summer—nobody knows much about him."

Marvin chuckled. "So the nurse and Mrs. Summer are the same person?"

"Didn't you know that?"

"No, the first-aid center used occasional help. When I left, Mr. Saint-Clair was going to hire a new part-time nurse. He never mentioned anything about a granddaughter."

"That was the idea. Then old Saint-Clair talked his granddaughter into coming back here. She said yes, if she could earn her living. So, he offered her the job." George gestured to rise. "I must have more cookies in one of the jars."

Marvin put a hand on his arm to stop him from getting up. "Not for me, George." He finished his coffee. "Tell me about young Allison."

"She was a very cheerful girl, and a beauty, like her mother. Determined too. One afternoon it started snowing; then a blizzard came. We got three feet of snow in twelve hours. The roads were closed. We all got busy trying to reach those who might need help. All of the sudden, the barn roof caved in. Allison's colt didn't come out. It was injured. Bad. The girl sneaked under a collapsed beam and got it out. She dug out an old sled, packed Morello on it and dragged it to the vet, miles from here. All by herself. The colt survived." George paused. "Ms. Allison is still a beauty, with that baby face. But now she looks kind of sick."

"Thanks, George." Marvin rose. "I should be going. Say hello to your wife."

Pretty women! Pretty women are trouble, especially those with a twinkle in their eyes. Take Allison with her innocent, delicate look. What did she do? She helped him make a fool of himself! She didn't say a word, she didn't even hint at being married, let alone the fact that she was his boss' granddaughter!

He parked in front of the first-aid center and walked in through the double glass doors. The waiting room was empty. He took off his hat and sat down.

When the door to Allison's office finally opened, a little girl came out, holding her mother's hand. The girl's left knee was patched with gauze held in place by two band-aids. "I fell off my skateboard," she informed Marvin. "I'm okay now."

"I'm sure you are." Marvin gave her a big smile.

"You can go in," the girl said. "Don't be scared, she won't hurt you. She's real nice."

"Good to know," Marvin replied. He twisted the cowboy hat in his hands and dented the top. When the girl and her mother left, he rapped on the office door.

"I'll be right with you," Allison stood at the file cabinet, her back to the door.

"It's just me, Mrs. Summer. Marvin Garland."

Allison turned around. Her white uniform contrasted with the flush that suddenly colored her cheeks. "Hi, Marvin," she said in a soft tone.

"I'd like to apologize for my behavior the other day. I didn't know you were married. Just as I didn't know you were Mr. Saint-Clair's granddaughter." Oh, my God, she looks so frail...he could never resent her. She reminded him of Charlene, his lost love. He stood there, dumbfounded. When he finally regained control of his thinking, he recited the little speech he'd prepared, "My great-grandfather dared to kiss the youngest daughter of a lord. It was a while ago: late nineteen hundred, England."

"Oh," Allison mumbled.

"He was sentenced to be flogged. Thirty times." He punched his hat twice to restore it to its original shape. "I wonder what my fate is going to be."

Allison turned her back to Marvin and looked out the window. When she looked at him again, her expression was composed. "Let's forget what happened."

Her grey eyes seemed to capture the light, and the thick lashes made them all the more luminous. Marvin stared at her, trying to summon the anger he'd felt when he drove over here. It was no use. There was just something about her... "My house was your late brother's home, right? That's why you came."

"Yes." Allison paused. "A sort of pilgrimage. Vern and I were very close."

"I'd have been more tactful— had I known."

Allison nodded.

They looked at each other in silence. Marvin put his hat back on. "I guess I'd better go." He turned to leave when she whispered his name. He looked back.

"Thank you for understanding," she said.

"No problem, Ma'am." He tipped his hat. "Any time."

He got into his Jeep and started the engine, but he didn't drive off right away. He looked at the annex and let his eyes travel to the colorful knickknacks arranged on the window ledge. Justin Saint-Clair's only grandchild was holed up in that small apartment, while her husband stayed at the mansion. He thought of the way she'd looked when he confronted her: forlorn, like a lost little girl. Thank you for understanding what? He didn't understand a thing.

He pulled out of the driveway, shaking his head. It was none of his business.

## Chapter 4

Ian flipped the switch up and down one more time. His wheelchair didn't budge. The battery hadn't recharged or there was a loose wire somewhere. He called for Julia, but silence greeted him. Of course there was no answer. Julia had ignored him since the very first day. She played deaf every time he or Luke spoke. Damned old broad! He knew she was around somewhere in the house.

"Julia!" Still no response. He couldn't wait for her to come out of hiding. He had to act. He would take another tour of the property and find out what was going on.

He wheeled his chair through the foyer and out the door, rolling down the ramp alongside the steps. Pushing on the wheels, he made his way around the main building and headed for Allison's office. It was Wednesday and the first-aid center was supposed to be open all day.

When he arrived there, a sign on the door said "Closed. In case of emergency, call 878 3837." Damn. That was the number of Allison's cellular phone. No indication of where she might be. She was getting too clever. Did she seriously think she could outsmart him? He may be disabled, but there was nothing wrong with his nose. The sweater he'd found on top of her wet sneakers the other day still retained the smell of aftershave. He smiled. So his prissy little wife was fooling around, was she? He would never have thought she had it in her. Then again, she was Luke's kid. Like father, like daughter, right?

The thought of Luke brought a sharp pang, a flash of pain he quickly suppressed. He focused his anger on Allison. She was the one between them, but not for long. Only for the time he needed to realize his plan.

He gave the door handle a shake, but it was locked securely. He looked around: nobody there.

Well, Allison's little walk on the wild side played nicely into his cards. Once he found out who the bastard was, he'd have one more thing to hold over her head. She'd be contrite and more than ready to humor him.

Allison... When he'd met her he desperately needed a place to hide; he needed to make a radical change in his life to get his pursuers off his trail. That's why he'd married her. Only later he'd realized her grandfather was running a successful agricultural operation. It was the mythical pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, he had found out. There was a problem though. Old Saint-Clair had all his money invested in one form or another. Only Allison would be able to get some cash out of the old man.

He turned the wheelchair around and began to roll his way back to the house. He parked it next to the main entrance and locked the brakes. He sat back to wait for Luke's return.

Luke Saint-Clair stepped out of the car. "Hi, Ian," he said cheerfully. "Come and see what I bought for you."

"You went shopping without me?" Ian asked, wheeling close to the car.

"Well, you were busy with your toys—cameras and computers. You had to download your photographs, or something like that, you told me," Luke said.

"Well—yes, but that didn't take long. When I looked for you, you were gone."

"But I had to leave, Ian. To see the doctor at the rehab center, remember? If I miss one appointment, I go back in. The rehabilitation center is not a nice place, Ian. They have so many rules and restrictions. This is heaven, believe me. Good food and no chores!" He got three bags out of the car and waved them in front of Ian. "A nice sweatshirt for you, my friend. Boston Bruins. And that's not all. I have great news. The car we ordered for you, with the controls on the steering wheel and cellular phone..."

"Yes?" Ian asked eagerly.

"It's ready. We can pick it up tomorrow." Luke gathered the bags in one hand, and pushed Ian's chair with the other. "Let's go inside."

"No. My wheelchair didn't work today. The battery didn't recharge. I've been cooped up inside all day. Take me out. Let's spend some time together, get some fresh air." He pointed to a narrow path leading into the woods. "Let's see where that trail leads."

Luke laughed. "It leads to the lakeshore. I can tell you that much. I grew up here!"

"Great. Come on Luke! Take me to the beach. Please?"

Luke deposited the shopping bags against the front wall and began pushing Ian's wheelchair.

"I want to exercise a bit," Ian said five minutes later. "Here, in the woods, where nobody can see me." He tried to rise but he didn't make it. "I wonder if I'll ever recuperate the full use of my legs."

"You would in no time, if you did what the doctor has recommended: take several short walks every day." Luke helped him rise and offered him his arm as Ian staggered. Together, they took a few steps. "And you could be as athletic as before—you just have to stop playing the grand invalid."

"You don't understand!" Ian snapped with anger. "First, it hurts to walk. My legs, my back, even my shoulders ache." Leaning on Luke's arm for support, he turned around and began walking back to the wheelchair. "Second, being an invalid gives me some advantages, if you know what I mean."

Luke shook his head.

"Third, everybody around me should be convinced I can't walk." For a moment the only sound was the whisper of the wind playing in the trees. "I need your help," Ian said as he slumped into the wheelchair. He gestured Luke to sit on a stump close to the trail.

"What for?"

"I have to find out what Allison does all day. I'd like to know about her moves. Where she goes. Who she's with."

Luke laughed. "You have got to be kidding. Do you have any idea how many people either live or work at Les Capucines? Her home-care visits take her all over the place. And then she's being groomed to take over when the old man dies. She has to learn about every aspect of farming: livestock, fertilizers, crop rotation..."

"I see."

"Why do you want to know anyway?" Luke broke a twig and chewed on it.

"I want to have an idea of her position, who she's seeing, that sort of thing." He pushed his chair very close to Luke and caressed his arm. "I'm in trouble, Luke. I need money. Soon."

"I have no money, Ian," he said. "You know that. I can't help you."

"The loan sharks are at my throat, Luke. We've got a big problem."

"Sorry about that. But you're the one who has a problem." Luke threw his twig away and began chewing on a new one. "Do I miss my smokes!" he murmured.

Ian shook Luke's sleeve. "I came up with fifty thousand dollars to save your neck," he said. "Remember that!"

Luke kept chewing for a while. "To pay you back I had to introduce you to Allison." He chewed faster, nervously. "You swore you'd changed, wanted to have a family, retire in a quiet place, blah, blah, blah." Luke threw his second twig away. "And I believed you. Without knowing, I gave you the instruments to seduce my daughter, the means to portray yourself as her dream man. You kept asking about her likes and dislikes. She's very much like her mother Nathalie—poor soul."

Ian put an arm around him. This was dangerous territory. He'd never seen Luke so upset. He wanted his love, but he desperately needed his help.

Luke shook free and rose. "You didn't change at all."

"I tried, Luke. I really tried." He had to regain Luke's trust. He must convince him it simply didn't work. "When I see you, I want to be close to you, that's all. I can't control that."

In silence, Luke started pushing Ian's wheelchair.

"Please, Luke, don't be upset with me. I can't cope with that. You're the most important person in my life."

"Now you play another tune—the suave tune. But it doesn't work as well as before."

"I don't play, Luke. You know me, sincere to the core. It just that I was very upset. I need a hundred thousand dollars. My life is at stake."

"There might be other ways. Going to a lawyer, for instance."

"There are no other ways! I can't do anything legally. They can pin crimes on me."

"You never told me you've committed a crime."

"I didn't. It's just that I have enemies ready to frame me. Of course I've done nothing wrong. You know me, Luke."

Luke didn't reply. He just stopped Ian's wheelchair before meeting with the long, sandy stretch. "Let's take a break from all the worries, Ian." He glanced around. "Let's enjoy the view. This place is a dreamland for an artist. Look at the water. It shines as if it were coated with silver, this time of day. It's so peaceful here." He gave Ian a sad look. "If I could only make you feel the way I do, Ian—" Luke sighed. "You could be happy."

"Yeah. Happy, with the mob at my door. You sure are a dreamer," Ian mumbled.

Luke ignored him. "There are two more lakes north of here." He gestured over the forest. "The bigger lake, the one we call Upper Lake, forms the Falls. Hidden between two high cliffs, it appears all at once. It's a spectacular sight. I'll take you there, Ian, one of these days."

Ian remained quiet. He knew Luke well. When he was in a contemplative mood, nothing and nobody could bring him back to reality.

## Chapter 5

Paul Brennon walked into Malcolm's office and dropped a duffle bag onto the floor. "Good news, Malcolm. I'm coming with you to work on the Borodin case." Paul was blond with blue eyes and a slim built.

Malcolm looked at Paul's jogging outfit. "I thought I got to wear the sweats from now on, while you'd wear the monkey suits. Didn't I just promote you to acting director? There's two new clients coming in today." He grinned. "Wine and dine, remember?"

"Right. My first executive decision was to split the PR duties with Judith, your sister-in-law."

"Oh?" Malcolm shoved a thick binder in his briefcase and zipped it shut.

"Simple. I take out the female customers. Judith handles the male clients. We get far more men than women, so I've got plenty of time for some old-fashioned legwork. Everything will work out, trust me. And for me, I enjoy women's company. They aren't so obsessed with justice."

"Wait till you meet Pamela Borodin," Malcolm muttered.

"She can't be that bad. I'll take her out for a nice dinner as soon as we're back."

"I appreciate it. I don't feel comfortable with women around," Malcolm admitted sheepishly.

"So I noticed."

"Hey! Don't get fresh with me. I was talking professional situations only."

"Yes, yes. You were married. For all of six months." Paul shook his head. "Your wife dies and you, great romantic that you are, spend the rest of your days chasing bad guys. You're always taking files home—I bet you sleep with the darn things." Paul grabbed his and Malcolm's bag with one hand. "It's good I'm around to spice up your days."

Aboard the company car, a Cadillac DeVille, Malcolm and Paul sailed along Highway 401. "So is Montreal our first stop?" Paul asked.

"Yes. My hometown. I'd like to get a feel for the place where Albert Borodin lived. Meet the crowd he hung with, talk to his girlfriend, visit the agency he modeled for. The same for Bill Dadoun. I called around, so we've got some leads to work with."

"Useful?"

"One was. The director of the agency heard that Bill Dadoun was going to get married. In Kingston."

"Married?" Paul asked. "But then the sister's story doesn't stand up. It doesn't make sense." Paul raised his voice. "Malcolm, watch out. You're over the speed limit."

"I know that. I'm just going a bit faster."

"There is a police car five cars behind us."

"Oh..." Malcolm looked in the rearview mirror. "Right. How did you spot it?" He tapped the brakes and the cruise control clicked off.

"Practice. I like to drive fast too, so I learned to watch out." Paul flipped through the file he held in his lap. "To get back to our suspect—I didn't find any pictures of Dadoun. Any physical description?"

"Just what Albert told his sister. It's in my notes somewhere."

"Here it is," said Paul. "About 6 feet, 260 pounds. Dark bushy hair, brown eyes. Age, around 35. The only clue we have, together with his presumed marriage, is that he was obsessed with fitness." He closed the folder. "So one of us is going to spend the day hanging around the fancier health clubs."

"How did you guess?" Malcolm asked, smiling.

"I read minds," Paul joked. "Do we know what Dadoun did for a living?"

"Apparently he was a photographer. He raced boats as a hobby. The people I spoke with seemed to think he had money, but so far I haven't found anyone who knew where the money was coming from. He was supposed to be well-connected, both in the art scene and in the world of big business. It's all pretty vague."

"A wheeler and dealer, huh? Sounds like a slick guy."

"Yes. Probably difficult to pinpoint what role he had in the Borodin affair. We may be heading for failure," Malcolm mumbled.

"Failure? I never heard you utter the word."

Malcolm chuckled. "Temporary failure—of course."

## Chapter 6

A cold wind blew in from the northwest, sweeping the land with gusts that broke branches and scattered old leaves and debris. The storm had been building since yesterday and was about to become a full-force gale. Marvin knew Allison wouldn't adjust her schedule. She'd been off seeing patients, rain or shine. He respected that, just as he respected the careful distance she kept between them. But he wouldn't let her go out in a storm, not in that old car of hers. It was nothing personal, he told himself. Just a matter of looking out for the boss' granddaughter.

The motor running, Marvin was waiting for Allison to step out of her apartment. He looked up as a whirl of dry leaves hit the windshield. At the same time the door opened and Allison appeared, wearing a long, thick poncho. The wind lifted her hair away from her face, playing with her curls. Marvin jumped out of the Jeep and walked over. "Morning, Mrs. Summer." He took her bag. "We're heading the same way this morning. I'll give you a ride."

Before she could protest, he took her arm and led her to the Jeep. He opened the door and helped her in. "You're going to see the Bridges, right?" He tossed her bag onto the back seat.

She nodded. "But I need to get back right away. Grandpa doesn't look well. I think he's coming down with something." She paused. "About the Bridges—they've been trying to manage without help for too long. He's sick, she's bedridden. He can't take care of her, and he's worried. They should be in a home, not living out there all by themselves."

Marvin got in beside her. "They won't be uprooted, those two. I know them. They'd rather die than move."

"I sensed something like that." She glanced at the sky. "We're in for some heavy weather. But really, there was no need to make a detour on my account. I could drive there myself."

"Mrs. Summers, I think we should travel together whenever it's practical. Especially this time of year. This is rugged country, and the weather will be rough in the months ahead. I know the roads a lot better than you do." Allison wouldn't look at him. "I've noticed you've been avoiding me. There's no need for that. I have this golden rule never to make a pass at a married woman, no matter how much I like her." It was his rule, all right, but he wondered how many times he'd think of breaking it. Right now he'd like to replace her poncho with his arms.

"Besides," Marvin added, "I'd better get on the right side of my employer's granddaughter. She may put in a good word for me with the boss."

Allison gave him a tiny smile. "You don't need my recommendation. Grandpa told me he'd have to sell if you weren't around."

"Nice to hear that."

"It's getting warm in here," Allison said, and shrugged off her poncho.

Marvin adjusted both outside mirrors to have a chance to glance at her. She'd look like an ordinary girl in those jeans and boots, if it weren't for that fancy sweater and that bright green scarf. Silk probably. Pity she always looked so sad—if she smiled more often, she'd be a stunner. He'd make some small talk to put her at ease. "So, you met my sister, Susan. She was very excited to have such an important visitor."

"She gave me a warm welcome. It must be horrible to be blind. Was she born that way?"

"No. She could see just fine when she was a kid, but as the diabetes went from type 2 to type 1, she started to see less and less."

"She's your only family, I understand."

"Yes. My parents are dead."

Allison took off the scarf and sweater.

"Too warm?" Marvin asked.

"No, just right." She unbuckled her seatbelt and stretched toward the back seat to fold and deposit her clothes.

Marvin sneaked a peek at her. The blouse, heavily embroidered at the front, was almost transparent at the back. She didn't wear a bra. Her breasts must be nice and firm. Her hips were narrow, her buttocks well-shaped. She was definitely his ideal woman. Well, even if she was married, there was nothing wrong with enjoying being with her. But then, he should keep his cool, and never let her know how much she physically attracted him.

Allison straightened up again. "You know what surprised me most about your sister? She's got this devilish sense of humor... When she told me about how you once stepped on a rake and almost broke your own nose, I thought I'd die."

"Why thank you. That's real compassionate."

She giggled. "I didn't mean... It's just the way she tells the story."

Allison's giggles pealed like silver bells. It felt so good to see her happy. "Susan loves company, but people are often ill at ease with her disability. So she uses her sense of humor to break the ice." Marvin gave her a sideways glance. "So she made you laugh, huh? How many times?"

"Two. No, three times."

"Then I'll make it a point to make you laugh too."

"Three times?"

"Oh, no. At least four. A brother has to outdo his sister! All-male ego."

***

The following day Allison couldn't stop thinking about Marvin. How pleasant he'd made the trip to see the Bridges. What a pity she wasn't free... Actually, how terrible she couldn't break loose from her husband. She would never have a real companion, somebody to share her feelings with.

She tried to chase those thoughts away. She should concentrate on her work and make an effort to meet her grandfather's expectations. Memorizing the names of each family living on Saint-Clair land had been a real challenge. But now, eight weeks after her arrival at Les Capucines, she could remember them all, and associate faces with names. She felt a sense of accomplishment. She'd just finished her last visit for the season. Ready to go home, she quickly glanced at her watch and realized she'd be late for supper. She grabbed the cellular phone from her bag. She pressed the "On" button several times, but without success. The battery was dead—that was the reason. She swiftly got into her car. As she was heading home, the feeling that something was wrong took hold of her; she couldn't ignore the dread churning in her stomach. She stepped on the gas pedal, ignoring all speed limits.

With a squeak of the brakes the St. John ambulance stopped at the front entrance of the Saint-Clair mansion. The back door opened. A gurney slid down, skillfully guided by two paramedics. In no time Mr. Justin Bernard Saint-Clair was lifted inside the vehicle.

Allison jumped out of the car. She was ready to run toward the ambulance, when Marvin stopped her. He took her arm. "Come with me, Mrs. Summer," he said curtly. "I'll take you to the hospital. We'll use your car. I'll try to stay with the ambulance."

Shaking, Allison meekly followed him. "What happened?" She should have known. Grandfather looked stressed. She should have stayed home and take care of him. God, don't take him away, she prayed. He's the only person in the whole world who cares about me. She hardly realized that Marvin was buckling her up in her seat.

"Your grandfather felt sick an hour ago." He quickly started chasing the ambulance down the hill. "Julia tried to reach you by phone. When she couldn't get you, she called for an ambulance. Then she called me."

"Another heart attack?"

"Don't know. He complained of stomach pain; he vomited. But he didn't seem to have any breathing problems."

Tears streaked Allison's face. "He looked pale the last few days. His skin was almost green. He was also worried."

"Worried?" Marvin asked. "He's got nothing to worry about, the business is doing just fine." He angled his head to watch Allison more attentively. "Why do you think he was worried, Mrs. Summer?"

"It was my fault. He overheard a conversation—actually it was a fight Ian and I had."

"I see," said Marvin. "A serious fight?"

"Yes. Ian needed cash."

"For what? Medical expenses? Oops...a red light. The ambulance made it, but we're stuck for now. Sorry about that." Marvin glanced at Allison. "What did he need money for?"

Allison remained silent, her eyes glued to the light.

"Sorry. I shouldn't ask."

"Green," yelled Allison, but Marvin was already going through the intersection.

"We're almost there. Relax, Allison."

At the sound of her name Allison turned her head toward Marvin. Their eyes met. "Oh, Marvin," she sobbed, tears running down her cheeks.

The hospital was in sight. The ambulance had stopped at the emergency entrance, its flashing lights still in action. The gurney was hustled inside. "I'll let you out here," Marvin said, extending his arm to open Allison's door. "I'll park and join you inside."

## Chapter 7

At Saratown Medical the ER staff wasted no time pumping Justin Saint-Clair's stomach. The stomach contents were sent off for analysis, while the patient was kept for observation.

When the lab results came the day after, they had everyone stumped, Allison more than anybody else. She was sitting at her grandfather's bedside, unsure what to make of the lab report. She took her grandfather's hand, linking her fingers with his. "What on earth is beta-chloro-whatever?"

"Beta-chloroethyl alcohol," Justin said. "We use it to speed up the sprouting of potatoes."

Allison tried not to think of how frail he looked. He'd always been the one she turned to for guidance and support, and her heart still saw him as a giant, the hero of her childhood. Out on the range or at home, his imposing presence defied his years. But lying in the narrow hospital bed he seemed smaller somehow, shrunken, and weary with age. It worried her to see him like this. "How in the world did that stuff end up in your food?"

Her grandfather shrugged.

Allison looked at Marvin, standing by the foot of the bed. "Do you have any idea?"

"Not a clue. It's not the kind of stuff you'd find outside of a greenhouse, and this time of year you wouldn't find it even there. We use it in the spring. Never in the fall. Besides, all chemicals are locked up."

Justin freed his hand and caressed Allison's face. "Your grandpa is an old man, even if he hates to admit it. I might be forgetting things, getting careless." He glanced at Marvin. "Maybe I should retire. After all, I'll be eighty next January."

"Nonsense," snapped Allison. "You're still as alert as twenty years ago!"

"My child, we have to face reality. I'm an old man with a bad ticker. I'm living on borrowed time."

"That goes for all of us, even if we don't think about it." She smiled at him. "They're going to release you tomorrow, and we'll have you back on your feet in no time. I've visited all the families on the farm, so I'll have plenty of time to nurse you back to health." She rose. "I'll see if I can get a hold of your doctor. He may want to put you on a special diet for a few days."

Her grandfather nodded. "Go home after that, Allison. Get some rest." He turned to Marvin. "Can you stay a minute? Allison can meet you downstairs. There's some things I'd like to discuss."

"You shouldn't be talking business, you know." Allison wagged a finger at him, but secretly she was glad. He was starting to sound like himself again.

When Allison's footsteps had faded away, Justin patted the chair next to his bed.

Marvin sat down and put his hat on the bedside table.

"Thanks for taking care of my little girl, Marvin. She's a brave girl, you know? Always was."

Marvin nodded.

"I don't think Allison has a good life," Justin said. "Her husband is difficult. Demanding."

Marvin resisted the urge to pick up his hat and start fiddling with it. Something was going on, he'd sensed that much. And apparently Allison's mysterious husband had tripped Justin's alarm as well. He waited, but the old man offered nothing more. "She seems uptight," he said finally. "But then again, she's under a lot of pressure. Learning to run an operation as complex as Les Capucines is no picnic."

Justin focused his intense eyes on Marvin. "Ian, her husband... What do you think of him?"

Marvin shrugged. "Can't say. I never had the occasion to talk to him. The few times I was at your place for supper, he was sick or out."

"Ah, right. You see, Ian Summer plays the loving and caring husband when I'm around, but I heard him yelling at Allison at the first-aid center, after hours. Asking her for money."

"Any explanation from Mrs. Summer?"

"Not really. She didn't want to talk about it. Whatever hold he has over her, she's determined not to bother me with it." Justin closed his eyes. "I'm tired."

"You should rest." Marvin rose and pressed the button to lower the headrest. "Why don't you lie down and have a snooze? We can talk it over tomorrow."

"Yes. Tomorrow."

Marvin already had his hand on the doorknob when Justin twitched and opened his eyes again. "You'd look out for Allison if something happened to me, eh?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Saint-Clair."

"Good. You're a patient man, Marvin, and patience pays."

Marvin couldn't afford to think about what those words meant. "I think you really need some rest."

"Later. Now I'm expecting company."

Marvin raised his eyebrows. "At this time of night? Visiting hours were over half an hour ago."

"They make an exception for the police." The old man grinned. "Being well-connected does have its advantages."

The nurse on night duty looked at the policeman's badge, and then again at the man standing before her. Apparently his strong physique and quick eyes didn't inspire her trust. "I don't know, Detective. He was asleep just now."

Charles Sutherland waited patiently. Around them, the small hospital was quiet, the lights dimmed so as not to disturb the patients.

"Are you sure this can't wait till tomorrow?" The nurse tapped her chin, unconvinced.

"Positive." He flashed her a smile and bent his head closer. "We're working on a case together," he whispered.

The nurse's eyes widened. "A murder case?"

Charles nodded solemnly.

"Well, I guess, in that case..." She led the way to Justin Saint-Clair's room. "Mr. Saint-Clair?" She stuck her head in the door, then walked in to check his pulse and the intravenous needle in his hand. "Your partner is here."

Justin sat up groggily and blinked. "My what?"

Over the nurse's shoulder, Charles was making faces at him. "Ah, yes! My partner. Of course."

The nurse left with a last puzzled glance, and Charles dragged a chair over to the bed. "Hey, Justin."

"Whatever did you tell the poor girl? I'm an undercover cop?"

"Something like that. What's up with this story of poison in your food?"

"That's one thing we have to look into. However, there's something more serious." He lowered his voice. "I don't like what's going on at Les Capucines. I need you to hire me a private investigator. To do some discreet snooping."

"What are you worried about, exactly?"

"My granddaughter. I'm concerned about her wellbeing."

Charles leaned back in his chair. "Tell me about it."

"I've got nothing concrete. Only that subtle, insistent feeling that things aren't the way they should be."

"Is Luke in trouble again?"

"No, I don't think so. I'm mainly worried about Allison's husband. There's something about the guy that gets my hackles up." Justin quickly outlined his concerns.

Charles loosened his necktie. "Five people living together, counting Julia. Two of them are elderly, one has been in any kind of trouble it's possible to imagine, another is potentially dangerous—" Charles paused. "I can see why you're worried. Your granddaughter is vulnerable, since she's your heir, right?"

"That about sums it up."

"Checking out the husband's background shouldn't be a problem. But it isn't going to be easy to actually snoop around without alerting the guy."

"I know. That's why I want you to find somebody who is familiar with modern art. His official duty would be to prepare a book in Vern's memory. Take photos of his paintings, write a few comments about each of them. Add a brief biography."

"Not bad," Charles said with admiration. "Nice cover. You're an old fox."

"That's what you get if your best buddy is a cop. Your father taught me quite a few tricks."

Charles rose. "All right. Let me figure out some possible scenarios, and I'll call you in about a week. Maybe earlier."

Justin smiled. "You're a lot like him, boy."

Charles, who, at fifty, rarely felt like a boy anymore, blushed with pleasure. "You think so?"

Justin touched his hand. "Absolutely. Your old man would have been proud of you."

## Chapter 8

December 1998

Nothing made him feel better than going back to work. Spirits high, Justin Bernard Saint-Clair entered his office. He almost tripped over a package lying on the floor. He picked it up and swiftly opened it. It contained the aerial photograph of his farm that he'd ordered a few weeks before. He stared at it, mentally comparing it to the tiny piece of land he'd inherited from his father.

He surely had been successful.

Over the years he'd expanded the family business by buying up neighboring farms. He'd founded the Farming Consortium, a cooperative in which each previous owner could still work on the land on a fairly independent basis while sharing equipment and facilities with others. Those who couldn't make a living and provide a modest return for the Consortium would work under his direct management. With the help of Marvin Garland, a graduate from the School of Agriculture in Guelph, he'd modernized every aspect of farming. He'd built greenhouses for fresh vegetables and flowers. His forty-seven varieties of roses and an increasing number of orchids were shipped all over the country, carefully packaged in single boxes or arranged in fancy baskets. He could always count on his flowers; they kept him afloat even in times of flood or drought.

His wealth... He always considered it an indispensable tool for the ongoing success of the Consortium. It had to provide a good living for more than fifty families. Was it possible that now his fortune had become a source of evil? A motive to harm people? Justin's still-weak stomach turned at the thought. He knew Allison hadn't married into money. That was one of the reasons why he'd insisted she come back to Les Capucines. He offered to provide for all of Ian's necessities. So why was he pestering Allison for money?

A knock at the door broke off his thoughts. A young woman peeked into his office.

"Mr. Saint-Clair? I'm Jennifer Dustin." She stuck out her hand. "My father is a friend of Charles Sutherland's."

Long brown hair framed her clean-scrubbed face. Her eyes were enlarged by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that kept slipping down her narrow nose. She was little more than a girl—a student perhaps.

Justin shook her hand and gestured at a chair across his desk.

She sat down, and pushed up her glasses. "I'm here to do a profile of Vern Saint-Clair, your grandson."

"I was actually expecting..." Justin caught the brief flash of anxiety in her wide eyes. "Uhm, I didn't expect Charles to find somebody so quickly."

"I'm good at research, compiling reports, things like that." Her smile was warm and open. "I'm not too bad at photography either, as long as the subject doesn't move." She giggled. "And pictures hanging on a wall, as a rule, don't."

Justin joined in her soft laughter, but inside he was fuming. He'd asked for an investigator and he got a teenager who wrote essays. What the hell was Charles thinking about?

"I've always admired Vern Saint-Clair. Getting this job would really mean the world to me." Jennifer was practically jumping up and down in her chair. "Please tell me I'm hired. I promise you're going to love the book."

"I don't even know if you're old enough to work."

"I'm twenty-two, sir. No problems there. Can I start today?"

Justin couldn't bring himself to burst her bubble. He stifled a sigh. "Sure. I'll show you where to get started."

He took Jennifer to the house and left her in the studio, sitting amidst two stacks of albums and books, her head buried in a hefty volume on modern art. He returned to his office and punched in Sutherland's number. "I've got a kid in my house getting dust all over her glasses, going through Vern's stuff. What's the deal on Jennifer Dustin? I thought you were sending me a detective."

"Ah, Justin. I take it you're feeling better?"

"It took three days to get my stomach back in line, but I'm okay now, thank you. About Jennifer?"

"Charming girl, isn't she? She's the daughter of a friend of mine. He moved into the private sector to make some money."

"Yes, but..."

"She'll work four hours a day on the book about Vern. It's totally legit—she's an art graduate. As for the undercover aspect, she'll report back to her father. He'll coach her as who to talk to and what questions to ask. Ed used her in three previous assignments. A success, believe me. People let down their guard when she's around. She could get a mute to talk his head off."

Justin groaned.

"Justin, trust me. Give it a try. Three, four weeks. After that the ball is back in your court."

Justin hung up and replaced the phone in its cradle. He may not have four weeks. He didn't like the atmosphere at Les Capucines. Julia was upset because of Ian's constant complaints about food and service; Ian and Luke seemed to spend too much time together, and Allison refused to explain Ian's request for money. He could feel the tension building underneath the veneer of domestic peace. He walked around his desk and stared out of the large bay window.

Below, Jennifer stood talking to Marvin. She shook her long brown hair and made a remark—apparently she'd said something funny, because Marvin threw his head back in laughter.

She was a fast operator, that was for sure. But she wouldn't be able to make Marvin talk. Justin grinned. Jennifer's first target was a poor choice. No stranger would get Marvin to divulge any secrets. Not about the business and, surely, not about himself.

Justin watched as Marvin took her by the arm and led her to his Jeep. He returned to his desk, and tried to concentrate on his paperwork. But the long lists of sales figures failed to hold his attention. With every passing day he became more convinced that Ian had some kind of hold over Allison, and the idea that this man had the power to hurt his little girl drove him mad. If only Allison would confide in him... But she wouldn't, and he couldn't force her to open up. He'd have to depend on his Trojan horse, his secret weapon: a sweet-faced kid with an ill-fitting pair of glasses. He hoped Charles was right about her. He couldn't afford any mistakes.

## Chapter 9

The first-aid center was filled with patients, some sitting in the black upholstered chairs, others standing. A flu epidemic was sweeping across the farm. For the last week Allison had been referring most of the patients to their family doctors; at times she sent them directly to Saratown Medical, the county hospital.

Today Allison opened the door of her office. "Attention, please," she said. She raised her voice to overcome the noise in the waiting room. "Good news. A doctor is on his way here. He'll stay as long as needed. Meanwhile, help yourselves to a cup of coffee. There's hot chocolate for the children." Julia wheeled in a table with two big containers. Allison helped the next patient, an older man, to go through her office door and closed it behind him.

It was ten o'clock at night when Marvin saw the doctor's car leaving the premises. He entered the waiting room and knocked on the door to Allison's office. She was clearing her counter, ready to leave. "You were busy! I was here three times already."

"It was a long day," Allison said flatly. "Hi, Marvin. I hope you aren't sick."

"No. I just came to see if I could do something for you. You look pale, exhausted. I'd like to take you away from all this. For a while, I mean. Take you to my place, let you stretch your legs on my stool, and prepare you some food."

"Julia brought me supper," Allison said as she took off her white uniform and replaced it with a soft wool sweater.

"A drink then?"

"I should go home. See grandpa. Exchange a few words with my husband."

"Well, I checked with Julia. Your grandfather went to bed early. He spent long hours with Jennifer Dustin. You know of Jennifer, right?"

"Yes. Grandpa hired her to do some work on Vern's stuff."

"He was tired because of all the talking and remembering. Your husband left this afternoon and won't be back until the day after tomorrow. So—" Marvin opened the door for Allison. "There's only the two of us."

"My father?" Allison asked as they walked outside.

"Nobody saw him all day."

"You keep an eye on me, Marvin," she said. "What did I do yesterday?" she asked him teasingly.

"Pretty much the same as you did today. Bury yourself in your work."

They entered Marvin's Jeep in silence. "My place, then? I'll make you a steaming cup of herbal tea."

"Jasmine?" she asked with curiosity.

"Of course, jasmine. Julia told me it's your favorite."

"You're spying on me! In a while I'll have no secrets from you, not even a little one!" she said amused.

"And that would be bad?"

Suddenly Allison became serious. "Yes, it would be bad. Very bad indeed."

Marvin put on a CD, letting the notes of Gershwin's Second Rhapsody spread over the entire house. He returned to the kitchen, as Allison insisted on sitting there, around the small table. "So, you have big secrets, eh? You're a mystery woman." He dropped a tea bag into each of the mugs and poured some boiling water on top of them. He knew she was carrying a cross in her heart. He could see it reflected in her eyes, so frightened and anxious, on her mouth, so often tight with spasms, and in her prolonged silences. "But you don't mind telling me something real simple, such as—such as what's your favorite color?"

Allison smiled back, a quick, furtive smile. "Orange," she said. "I like it in the flowers, and on me too." She stirred the sugar in her cup for the second time. In one big gulp her tea was gone. "I was thirsty," she said.

"I'll put more water in the kettle. Then I'll come to get more secrets out of you."

Allison looked at him, puzzled.

"Second question—no, that's too difficult," he said as if he was speaking to himself. "Something simpler—eh, what kind of movies do you like?"

"Adventures. I like stories with a lot of action. Strange places, different costumes, the heroine is in great danger and the hero suffers and struggles to save her." She looked at Marvin. "Childish, right?"

Marvin shrugged. "I like them too," he said. The teakettle whistled. Marvin rose to pour more water into Allison's cup. "Get ready for the third question—do you like dogs?"

"Oh, yes, I love them."

"Me too," said Marvin smiling at her. "Now it's your turn to ask me a question."

Allison shrugged and looked around. "What do you do when... What are your hobbies?"

"I don't have many. Susan takes most of my free time. Sometimes I go target shooting with your grandfather. He has a collection of old, valuable handguns he likes to keep functional. So, from time to time he invites me to the shooting range." They both finished their drink in silence. Finally Marvin asked the question closest to his heart. "Now comes the million-dollar question: what do you like in a man?"

Allison looked at him and blushed.

When she bent her head and gazed into her cup, Marvin knew he'd been too blunt. He tried to recover. "I just mean—the color of his eyes or the shade of his hair, things like that."

Allison lifted her head, uncertain.

"I won't take it personally if you say pitch-dark. I was just completing my third-degree interrogation, that's all."

"Hazel eyes," she murmured. "Dark-blond hair."

Marvin's heart throbbed, but his face remained inscrutable. "Now I know a lot about you, Mrs. Summer," he said with nonchalance. "A piece of strawberry cheesecake? It'd wash down well with a third cup of tea."

## Chapter 10

There was no question about it. He was losing his grip on Allison. Before moving to Les Capucines, she'd approve of anything he did, give him anything he asked for, and do it with a smile. The situation was deteriorating rapidly. He'd asked her for one hundred thousand dollars two weeks ago and hadn't seen a penny yet.

Ian glanced at Allison as she was spreading jam on a slice of brown bread. This could be the right time to bring up the subject. Luckily for him, the old man had already left for work. "Allison," he started, when the door opened. He jerked his head around.

Jennifer was poking her head into the dining room. She looked fresh and clean, her long hair still damp from the shower. "Morning! It's only me, Jennifer. Sorry to disturb you guys so early. Hope you don't mind."

"Hi, Jennifer. Would you like a cup of coffee?" Allison said.

"No, but thanks. I had a big breakfast at home. See you later." She left and closed the door behind her.

"Why did you offer her coffee? The girl has no respect for the privacy of this family. Yesterday she had lunch with Julia. Two days ago with your grandfather. That brat is all over. There is no peace in the morning around here."

"Just trying to be polite." She glanced at him. "Well, I could ask grandfather if it's possible to change Jennifer's schedule—ask her to work in the afternoons."

"That would be an improvement for sure." Good, Ian thought. Allison finally showed a sign of cooperation. "Did you sell the shares?"

"The broker advised me to wait. They were quoted low and might go up pretty soon. But I told him to sell anyhow."

"Good girl." He stretched his arm to stroke Allison's hand, but she retreated before he could touch her.

The money was coming—that was a relief. But he still had plenty to worry about. Allison wasn't submissive anymore. She was growing distant and less frightened. To add to his misery, he was losing Luke's support. Probably his trust too. He'd sensed that clearly during their last encounter. He had to regain Luke's heart. He knew what his weakness was. He should find a way to spend some time alone with him.

***

In a nook of the Dustins' basement, remodeled to serve as an office, Jennifer was typing frantically on her 475Mhz workstation.

Ed Dustin walked in and stopped behind her. "Enough of those written reports, Jennifer. Come talk to me. A concise, oral summary of what you've found out at Les Capucines. You've been there for two weeks plus a Saturday."

"Last Saturday was the most productive day," said Jennifer as she moved away from her computer to sit across her father's desk. "Only Justin Saint-Clair and his granddaughter were around. They spent time with me to discuss the outline of the album. The two are close."

"I knew that. Both children, Vern and Allison, were very attached to their grandparents. Their father was a disturbed man, on drugs, often in therapy. At one point he wandered around the country like a hobo." Ed Dustin drummed his fingers on his desk. "Their mother was a sweet, gracious woman. She was often sick, though. So it's normal that the bond between Allison and old Saint-Clair is still strong." Ed glanced at his daughter. "However, our main target was Ian Summer."

"An invisible target, papa. Normally, he has breakfast with his wife and Mr. Saint-Clair, then he retires to his room until I'm around, Julia told me. He just got one of those special cars for people with disabilities, and he's out a lot. Nobody knows where he's off to. Julia doesn't like him. He's very nosy around the kitchen."

"Luke Saint-Clair?" Ed asked.

"Luke is more consistent in his behavior. He takes off and stays away for days. When he's there, he just hangs around the house or he takes long walks, a sketching pad under his arm. Nothing suspicious about him so far." Jennifer raked her hair with her fingers. "It's good I made progress on the artistic part of my job or I'd have wasted my time and Mr. Saint-Clair's money."

"Is it possible Justin Saint-Clair is seeing ghosts?" Ed seemed to follow his own line of thought, looking through Jennifer, not at her. "I mean—maybe there's nothing wrong with any of his family members."

"Possible. Oh, one other thing, papa. I tried twice to talk to the general manager, Marvin Garland. Handsome man, by the way, very handsome. He has long legs and sharp hazel eyes, and a smile..." She let out a sigh. "His smile is to die for."

"Jennifer, wake up. You're there to do a job, not to get silly."

Jennifer exhaled again. "I know. Tough luck. So, Marvin. He has a sister, Susan. She's almost completely blind. I got that from Julia too. Since the brother seemed to have little time for me, I found an excuse to go to see her."

"I hope you didn't upset the woman."

"Oh, no. She was eager to talk. Apparently Marvin is a widower, but nobody at Les Capucines ever mentioned he'd been married. Do you want me to pursue this lead?"

"Contact him only in the context of your assignment. We're not interested in Mr. Garland's private life."

"Okay," said Jennifer, stifling a sigh. "What's next? Give me some directions, considering that I'll work in the afternoons from now on."

Ed didn't reply immediately. "Well, let's focus on Ian Summer. You said he takes off often? Give me a call next time he does so. I'll follow him. It's time we learned what our elusive Mr. Summer does when he isn't home giving old Saint-Clair the creeps."

## Chapter 11

Justin Saint-Clair unfolded a map and flattened it on the desk. He pointed at the location of the properties forming the Farming Consortium, marked "Les Capucines." "Look here, Allison. These farms operate independently. They make us a tiny bit of money." He moved the map closer to Allison, who was sitting beside him. "The others, circled in red, are the ones we control directly. They're the most profitable." He stopped to look at Allison, who had suddenly closed her eyes, and then at Marvin sitting opposite him.

"Maybe Mrs. Summer needs some time to digest all this information," Marvin ventured.

"Yes, of course. End of classes." He refolded the map and tapped on Allison's shoulder. "You should go home and rest."

Allison opened her eyes. "Oh no, it's just the middle of the afternoon."

"You should take some time off. I insist," said Justin.

"Maybe take a ride in the fresh air?" suggested Marvin. "The day is clear, the paths along the lakeshores are nicely packed with snow."

Allison gave them a timid, tiny smile. "Morello would love that."

"Excellent idea," Justin said. "You used to enjoy riding your horse, even in the middle of winter." He stroked Allison's shoulder. "Enough work for today, Allison."

"I'll go get the horse saddled for you," said Marvin. He swiftly rose and left.

When Allison opened the door of her apartment and stepped out, a long neigh greeted her. Standing in front of her was Marvin, holding on Morello's bridle. "Complete service, I see," she said. She gave Marvin her ski hat while she slipped on a leather coat. "It's my husband's. It may be a bit long." She stretched her arms to reach into the pockets and took out a pair of gloves.

Marvin laughed. "Only double your size."

"I couldn't find anything else. Julia must have washed my poncho."

Marvin tucked the reins under his arm. "Let me help you with your hat." He put the ski hat on her head, nudged a few curls underneath it, and then adjusted its rim around her ears, his fingers innocently grazing her face. "Done," he said. "You look ready for the north pole."

Allison looked at him, her eyes lost in his. "Thanks," she whispered.

"Maybe one day I'll buy myself a horse. Then I could keep you company." Morello neighed again, pawing the snow impatiently. "Your horse is ready to go. Oh, by the way, George will be waiting for you down at the stable, as soon as it gets dark." He straightened Morello's girth. "He'll give you a ride back here. I have to go to see my sister. When I called her a couple of hours ago, she didn't sound well."

***

As he pulled up to his sister's little house, Marvin noticed the lights weren't on. That was strange. She never forgot—it was her usual evening welcome. He parked and walked inside. The house was shrouded in darkness so he quickly switched on the kitchen lamp. "Susan?"

"In here, Marvin," Susan whispered.

Marvin moved into the family room, turned on the light, kneeled close to Susan, and grabbed her forearms. His sister's eyes were moist. She nervously squeezed the tissue in her hand. "Susan," said Marvin tenderly, "what happened?"

"I'm all right. But I have done something terrible."

"Uh-oh." Marvin got up and kissed her on both cheeks. "Let me guess. You burned the roast."

"No."

"The cake, then."

Susan shook her head.

"Flooded the bathroom?"

"Worse Marvin. I opened my big mouth."

"I see. With whom, Susan?"

"A girl. She said she was a friend of yours, but I know now she wasn't. It was a trick." She sighed. "Her name was Jennifer."

Marvin kept silent until he sat down in his chair. "What did you tell her?" His voice was cold.

"Where we were born, where you went to the Agriculture School. That you had a wife, once." Susan's voice was soft. "It was only when she asked me more and more questions about your wife, that I began to worry. She seemed anxious to dig into your life, Marvin."

"I see." Marvin's easy chair squeaked as he rose.

"Marvin?" Susan called. "Are you upset?"

"No. Yes. Not with you, Susan." He paused. "I need a drink." He briskly moved to the kitchen.

"Supper is on the table, Marvin," Susan called after she'd heard him pour a drink. "But you'll have to eat alone. I'm not hungry."

"Me either. We may eat later," Marvin called back from the kitchen.

When he returned Susan began to sob. "Stop it, Susan." He reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table. "You will make yourself sick." He caressed her cheeks.

Susan stopped crying. "Will they give you any problems at Les Capucines?"

"What? Oh, no! Mr. Saint-Clair knows everything about us. But somebody else may be interested. You very well know who."

Susan snorted, then nodded.

"You better tell me what Jennifer asked you, and what you told her. And please, don't leave anything out."

Small as it was, Susan's kitchen was a masterpiece of design for the blind. Pots just off the stove could find their way directly on the granite table located in the middle of the room. At the four corners of the table, ceramic inlays, each of a different shape, oriented Susan on her position. Counting the number of steps, she knew how to swiftly reach the counter, stove and sink along one wall, the oven and dishwasher along the opposite wall.

"You don't have to stay home for me, Marvin. I feel perfectly all right," Susan said the following morning. She poured milk into her cereal bowl.

"We're not going to argue about this." Marvin stroked her arm. "I can make a few calls from here; you shouldn't be alone today." He buttered a slice of rye bread and took a bite. "You bake the best bread in town, Susan."

"I love to make bread. And the new mixer you gave me is fantastic. I just drop in the ingredients, press a button and the dough is ready." Susan finished her cereal. "I'm really okay," she insisted.

"Don't be a bad girl, Susan. You aren't going to be alone today. Besides, we have to talk." Marvin poured coffee for both. "If another Jennifer shows up, you should call me immediately. If you can't find me, call Bernie." He tapped Susan's arm. "Agreed? I'll give you his new phone number. He'll be working at the Suisse Manor as a guard, starting next week."

Susan nodded silently.

"Now, the difficult part. Remember how we managed to keep the police at bay when Charlene was killed? We prepared a long list of questions, and made up the answers." Marvin lowered his voice. "We should do some rehearsing today, Susan. If you've been a suspect in a murder case, you never get a break."

## Chapter 12

Paul closed the trunk of the DeVille and held the door open for Malcolm. "On to Kingston! We didn't gather much information here in Montreal."

"Right. But it was a good stop for me. It gave me a chance to catch up with old friends, take a leisurely stroll through Old Montreal, and visit the cemetery to bring my late wife some flowers. Although I admit we didn't learn much about our case."

Both remained silent for a while, as Paul put the car in motion. "I prepared a brief report on our findings. For you to read while we travel." He gave Malcolm a stack of papers.

"Five days of work and only one possible lead." Malcolm gathered all the sheets and put his reading glasses on.

"Albert's girlfriend confirmed what his sister told us. She didn't add anything new. The same for the director of the studio. All we've got is Bill Dadoun's landlord. I talked to him twice."

Malcolm flipped through Paul's notes. "No female visitors for Bill. Plenty of males, however. That would confirm Pamela's belief that he was gay. Complaints from the tenants because of noise. What kind of noise?" Malcolm asked.

"He'd turned one of his rooms into a gym. Once he dropped his weights, cracking the room's floor and the ceiling underneath. He paid for all damages."

"So that's why we drew a blank at the health clubs. At the police station nobody knew of him. He paid his dues, never got a ticket. Now, why do you have an arrow and a handwritten note with 'See letter'?" Malcolm asked.

"Bill didn't leave a forwarding address. He told the landlord to keep his mail for a while. He never came back to get it, though. I have something addressed to him." Paul waved a letter near Malcolm's cheek.

"Sealed?" Malcolm asked.

"Yes, but not too well." Paul grinned. "Lousy glue. The letter is pretty much loose in the envelope." He tossed it into Malcolm's lap. "It's from his girlfriend. She's confirming the date and venue of the wedding."

Malcolm read it with great attention. "Good. A long shot, but worth trying." He looked at Paul, pleased. "How much did it cost you?"

"Only a fifty. A bargain, considering the money we've been spending on gas, accommodation and meals."

"Agreed. Pity she signs 'Your Love.' A name would have been helpful. But at least we've got an address for the church where the marriage was supposed to take place." Malcolm paused. "Tonight I'll call Pamela Borodin with the good news. First, we've got a lead. Second, the young acting director of the Invicta is anxious to take her out for a candlelight dinner."

Paul rolled his eyes. "I'm fine with dinner. But please leave out the candles. They're only for special occasions."

Malcolm watched the little out-of-town restaurant filling up. The stay in Kingston had paid off. They'd learned the real name of Bill Dadoun—Ian Summer—and the name of his bride, Allison Saint-Clair.

Malcolm looked at his wristwatch, wondering what might have happened to Paul. He was seldom late. Then he saw him brushing past the waiting diners and talking to the hostess. Malcolm waved at him.

"You wouldn't believe how hard it was to find a garage for your oil change," Paul said, sitting down. "I got lost twice, and still didn't get any service."

"By the way, maybe it's better if you drive my car when you go back to Vermeil. I'll get a rental for the next couple of days," Malcolm said.

"Uh-oh. The acting director is going to drive in style."

"You've got to take out Pamela Borodin, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Paul looked around, trying to attract the attention of the waitress. "I'm starved. Any suggestions?"

"I'm having poached salmon with leeks. But I know you don't care for fish."

As the waitress approached, Paul gave her a winning smile. He handed her the menu and said, "A New York steak will be fine for me. Rare, please."

For a while they ate in silence. "Do you feel confident to be in charge of the Invicta while I stay here?" Malcolm asked.

"No problem. You shouldn't be away too long anyhow, now that we've discovered that Bill Dadoun was an alias for Ian Summer," Paul replied.

The waitress filled two cups with coffee. "Lucky for us Bill's girlfriend mentioned the church's name and the date of the wedding."

"Yes. So the couple now lives in the country, about seventy miles from Belleville, thirty miles northwest of Saratown." Paul sipped on his coffee. "Do you think that anybody in Saratown is aware of Dadoun's double identity?"

"I'll soon find out. I placed a call to an old friend of mine, Ed Dustin. He'll introduce me to Detective Charles Sutherland. He already told me Ian Summer has no police record. So Bill Dadoun could simply be an artist's pseudonym. The man is married. Pamela Borodin could be wrong, you know. Dead wrong."

Paul frowned, then nodded. "The official report says Albert Borodin spoke of suicide after learning he had Lou Gehrig disease. The scene of death was credible: the suicide note was on top of his coat, on the cliff from which he, apparently, jumped into the Niagara River. The skull fracture was attributed to the rocks at the bottom of that cliff. Credible, if not true." Paul finished his coffee. "The note he left was addressed to his girlfriend and spoke of departing." Paul paused. " _Departing_ can be interpreted in two ways: breaking the ties with her or..."

"Departing from this earth," Malcolm finished off. "Pamela could be wrong. Just obsessed with guilt and overburdened with grief. Albert was the only family she had."

***

"Thank you for taking me to your gym, Ed," said Malcolm. "I miss my daily workout when I travel." His dark, thick, curly hair was still wet from the shower. He gave Ed an appreciative smile, showing his white, even teeth. "Since we're going to work on the same case, we should decide how to split the remuneration," said Malcolm.

"Oh, Malcolm, you speak so eloquently."

"Sorry. My fault. I went to medical school. Practiced with big words, among other things, of course."

"You mean—you're a real medical doctor? I heard some people referring to you as _le docteur_ , but I thought it was a nickname."

Malcolm smiled again. "No, I'm the real thing. Switched to police work after my wife was killed. I went to school in Quebec. That's where _le docteur_ comes from."

"I see. Let's forget, for the moment, about the money—excuse me, the remuneration. I don't think there's much work to do. I've been using my daughter as an investigator, and Jennifer has found nothing of substance. Everything seems to be normal at Les Capucines. She's been there for about three weeks." Ed rose. "Mind if I play some music in the background? It helps me think."

"Of course not."

"Bach okay? I love his fugues."

Malcolm nodded. "Let's put our findings together. Our clients are two caring people. One, old Saint-Clair, feels that his granddaughter may be in danger. The other, Albert's sister, suspects foul play in her brother's death." Ed looked at Malcolm as if reading his mind. "I know what you think, Malcolm. The two cases are linked by this Ian Summer, alias Bill Dadoun."

"Right, Ed. There's a strange coincidence in this connection. Do you mind if I pace your office?" When he turned around and faced Ed again, he said, "Brief me about Allison Summer's lifestyle, and about the Saint-Clairs."

"Allison grew up at Les Capucines. When her brother died—accident or suicide, it couldn't be determined—her mother took her to Kingston. Allison came back three months ago, with her husband, on the insistence of Justin Saint-Clair. She works as a part-time nurse at the first-aid center."

Ed looked toward the door. "I don't understand why it takes so long to bring over a box of doughnuts."

"What about Allison's personality?"

"She was a happy little girl. Sunny, and full of life. Right now she seems very reserved, worried. She's under a lot of pressure. Old Saint-Clair is grooming her to take over, and she's been working with him, learning the business, on top of her regular job."

"Well liked?" Malcolm asked.

"Definitely. The grandfather adores her, and so does Julia, the long-term housekeeper." Ed stretched his arms. "It's unclear how her husband feels about her. He doesn't talk much." On a corner table, the percolator gurgled. "Coffee?" Ed asked.

"Please."

"Now, Allison's father," Ed began as he offered a mug to Malcolm. "He was adopted when he was eleven. Justin Saint-Clair and his wife had no kids of their own. Luke was a troubled boy. Beaten by his stepfather, neglected by his mother, undernourished. He was found lying on the steps of the entrance of Les Capucines, half naked, in the middle of January. The Saint-Clairs took him in. After a probationary period, they adopted him. The boy was in poor health. Emotionally unstable. He couldn't attend a regular school. Old Saint-Clair sent him to a private school, then hired a tutor for him, an artist, when he discovered that the boy liked drawing and painting."

Ed was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Ah! That'll be our order. About time, too." He went to answer the door and returned with a big smile. "Nothing better than doughnut holes to go with a cup of coffee, especially after two hours at the gym." He opened the carton box. "Honey-dip or chocolate?" he asked Malcolm.

"Chocolate, thanks. So, at some point Luke gets married, I assume."

Ed handed Malcolm five doughnut bits on a paper napkin, and took four for himself. He wasn't quite finished chewing when he resumed talking. "Yes. Old Saint-Clair is happy. He expands his business—he buys three more farms. He restructures the main residence, Les Capucines, to fit the two families, one independent of the other. He builds an extra apartment for the nurse at the back of the house and remodels the first-aid center. Nathalie, Luke's wife, was the hired nurse before the marriage. So she can still work part-time there, without being away from the family. Then there's a period of grand joy at Les Capucines. Vern is born, followed by Allison."

"Luke straightened out?"

"No. On the contrary. He takes off frequently; he's arrested for drug use. He's still emotionally unstable. Then Vern dies. A terrible tragedy for the entire family. The circumstances are mysterious. Some people point to his father, Luke, as the cause of the accident. No evidence, however. Nathalie leaves and takes Allison with her. To Kingston. Allison comes back only once, for her grandmother's funeral."

"Old Saint-Clair, is he still in good shape at that time?" Malcolm licked his fingers after finishing his doughnut holes.

"Yes. Meanwhile he's bought a ranch on the northern side of the hill. Beef cattle. He's just expanded his operation when he gets a heart attack. Minor, fortunately. He has to slow down. He hires Marvin Garland as general manager." Ed paused. "Old Saint-Clair knew Marvin's father well. So, he trusts the man. As per today, the entire operation is profitable, I'm told."

"Total value?" Malcolm asked.

"Three, four hundred million dollars? Something like that. Now it's your turn, Malcolm. Your client: Pamela."

"Albert's bereaved sister. She was on a nature tour in Europe when she learned that her brother was sick. She'd booked one of those 'Explore Your World' trips. Weeks of walking up and down the Scandinavian coast. The group doesn't believe in modern facilities. No phones, except when they stopped at a village. When she heard about her brother's illness, her vacation was half over, so she didn't return home right away. When she called again sometime later, her brother was dead."

"The woman—is she believable?" Ed asked.

"So-so. The police in Montreal flatly dismissed the evidence she put forward as devoid of any foundation."

"That's incredible!"

"Well, Pamela is big on environmental issues, animal rights, that kind of thing. Last year she filed five complaints of animal abuse alone." Malcolm shrugged. "Her credibility may not be the best. That's the reason, I believe, she resorted to our agency." He paused. "She may have some reason to suspect that her brother's death was not suicide."

There was another knock at the door. Jennifer showed her cheerful face. "Gentlemen: don't you need a break?" As both Ed and Malcolm nodded, she continued, "I've prepared the first draft of the album of Vern Saint-Clair's work. Want to see it?"

## Chapter 13

The patio door at the back of the Saint-Clairs' studio was paneled with clear glass, framed in the same wood as the bookcases. As the doorway offered the best lighting, Jennifer sat on the floor in front of it, and tucked her legs under her. She began flipping through the book on modern art she had taken from the bookcase. Suddenly, the studio's inside door opened. She heard a wheelchair rolling in; then steps and whispers. Jennifer the reader turned into Jennifer the detective. Sheltered from the intruders by the antique desk and two high-backed armchairs, she became all ears.

"I have only five, ten minutes tops, Ian. I'm due at the rehab center in forty minutes, and it takes more than half an hour to drive there." Luke spoke with an unusually firm tone.

"You're spending too much time there," Ian said.

"This isn't the weekly visit, Ian. This is an independent group of people with life experiences similar to mine. We talk; we share feelings. The center only gives us the space to hold our gatherings. Most of the members were guests of the center at some point in their lives."

"And what do you discuss there? My relationship with you?"

"We don't mention names. And everybody is bound by confidentiality."

As Luke sat in the chair closest to her, Jennifer began to perspire. The room was getting hot, she felt, in more than one way.

"You idiot! Don't you understand? They're messing with your head, messing with your sexual identity. They're taking away the thing you enjoy the most."

"They don't try to convince me of anything, Ian."

"And it's working too. You neglect me; you avoid me!"

"That isn't true. I still care for you. But I'm beginning to see that there are other good things in life. In my life, Ian."

"You're beginning to lose your mind, that's what you're doing," Ian hissed.

Jennifer heard the whisper of tires on the wooden floor; from underneath the chairs, she saw wheels moving toward the fireplace.

"It's because I'm not the same—I'm not as strong as I used to be." Ian's voice was soft now, his tone suave.

"Not true!" She saw Luke's feet move close to Ian. "I still care for you."

"Then come, come close."

For a moment there was no other noise but the rustle of clothes, fabric rubbing against fabric. Then Luke's voice, loud and brittle. "I have to go."

"But you'll be here tomorrow, same time? It's the only time I'm sure Allison is kept busy at her grandfather's office."

"Yes."

The men had just left when Jennifer heard Ian shout, "Remember! You promised!"

She tried to get up, but at first she couldn't make it. Her legs were numb and not just because of the uncomfortable position. She was scared of Ian Summer. He could change mood and tone in a matter of seconds.

It was important to find out more about the relationship between the two men. Her father wouldn't be back for another two days. Maybe she should call him. It could be risky to come back here, tomorrow, all by herself.

## Chapter 14

Jennifer lengthened her stride to match Marvin's big steps as they walked toward the Grand Cherokee. She'd found an excellent reason to see him. Some of Vern Saint-Clair's pictures had never been removed from their old location, which was now Marvin's home. "How many pictures do you have in your house? Paintings by Vern, I mean?" Jennifer asked as they entered Marvin's vehicle.

"I don't know. A couple dozen? Something like that. I keep them all on the same floor. They seem to fit together." He gave Jennifer a distant look. "I don't know the first thing about art."

"Oh, but you probably know more than you let on." Jennifer took her glasses off and raked a hand through her long hair. As Marvin shrugged, she added, "I won't take much of your time, I promise. I know how busy you are."

"Do you?" Marvin glanced at her. "Maybe I'm just pretending."

"But I can tell you're an important person. The way you move." She angled her head to look at Marvin. "You must have a position of responsibility."

Marvin stopped his Jeep at the back of his house. He got out, unlocked the door and stepped aside to let Jennifer in. The walls of the foyer, the corridor and one of the bedrooms were full of paintings. "Here they are," said Marvin briskly. "They're all I have."

"Wonderful! I saw this painting in a magazine," Jennifer said, bending to study the one closest to her. "Look how expressive it is!"

Marvin opened the drapes all the way. "Maybe you need more light," he said.

"Oh. Yes. That's even better. Oh, thank you, thank you so much, Mr. Garland."

"Marvin. Call me Marvin."

"There is so much to do here, Marvin," she said in a soft tone. "It's so exciting! It'll take me days to study and analyze them with the attention they deserve." She approached another picture and interpreted some graphics at the bottom. "Here's the artist's signature, I believe. I think I can read 'Vern'," she said with exhilaration.

Marvin stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. "Possible," he said curtly, "though Mr. Saint-Clair told me they were all signed at the back." With one long stride he reached for the painting closest to him and flipped it over. "Here it is, big and clear: Vern Saint-Clair."

Jennifer put her glasses back on and looked at the signature. "Oh, I see it now." She looked around as if she were lost in the middle of the ocean. "All these pictures... It's going to take a lot of time. I have to photograph each of them." She looked at Marvin, expecting some reaction.

Marvin gave her an absent nod. "I realize that. No problem. I'll have them brought over to the study room of the Saint-Clair house. You can spend as much time as you need."

Jennifer walked back to Les Capucines alone. Damn! She blew it. She went out on a limb to impress Marvin, but he dismissed her as if she weren't worth a second look. She sighed. Life really sucked. She'd hoped to have the opportunity to see him often, in the relaxed atmosphere of his own home. That idea had vanished. She sighed again. She entered the house. What she needed now was one of those milkshakes that only Julia could prepare. They could lift the spirits of the most downhearted person. Mocha, no, raspberry, she decided. She walked into the kitchen and then into the family room, where Julia usually lingered in the afternoon. No trace of her. She looked at her Swatch. Time was running out. She grabbed an orange juice from the fridge and went to the studio. She wanted to take her old strategic position well before Ian and Luke could walk in. It would be an educational encounter, she told herself.

She crouched in the same place where she'd been the day before, in front of the old patio door. Marvin had already brought in all the paintings he'd kept in his house. Placed on top of the old desk, and around it, they provided additional cover.

Minutes later the door opened. Ian and Luke came in and stopped in the middle of the room. At first Jennifer heard only murmurs, then a few, sporadic words. Suddenly the wheelchair was pushed away and rolled against the credenza. Jennifer retreated against the patio door and curled up. She sat still while garments began to fly in the air, one by one. A pair of Nike shorts landed on the back of an armchair, a pair of sport trousers ended up on top of the paintings. Jennifer stretched her neck to get a bit of a view. Instantly, she received a Boston Bruins sweatshirt on her head. Dangerous, she thought. She didn't dare to move anymore. As groans of need began to fill the room, she removed the shirt from her head and quietly tossed it onto the floor. She changed position and leaned her back against the side of the credenza. She relaxed. All she had to do was to sit still until the end of the performance. Maybe she should time it.

Then the thrill of a phone. Of a cellular phone, she thought, as there were no phones in the studio. Of _her_ cellular phone. It took her a few seconds to realize that she should take action. She frantically dug into her purse.

She had just succeeded in silencing the noisemaker when Luke, totally naked, appeared between the desk and one of the armchairs. He stepped toward her. "What the hell are you doing there?" he shouted.

"Who is it?" Ian yelled from the middle of the studio.

Jennifer didn't lose time providing answers. She rose and tried to turn the handle of the old patio door. It was jammed. Damned old houses. She pushed hard against the left door's frame and pulled on the handle while trying to turn it. She finally disengaged the lock. The door swung open. She fled. She ran toward her car, turned the ignition on and headed home. She could count on one definite factor in her favor. Luke wouldn't give chase—not immediately, at least. His Adam's costume was too conspicuous, and totally out of season.

## Chapter 15

Jennifer sat quietly in her father's office, absorbed in meditation. Compiling artistic reports was safer than playing detective, she knew that for sure. Distractedly, she followed the conversation between her father and Charles Sutherland.

"I'm not the one who is going to tell him," Ed said in a firm tone.

"He hired you," replied Charles.

"But you're his friend. You may find a way...a diplomatic way to break the news to Justin Saint-Clair."

"There isn't any diplomatic way to tell a man who suffers from acute angina that his son is fucking the husband of his granddaughter." Concerned, he glanced at Jennifer. "Sorry, Jennifer. Maybe you shouldn't be here." Charles tugged at the collar of his shirt and finally loosened his necktie.

"Don't worry about her. She was there, remember? At the live show," Ed said. "Maybe we should talk to Allison."

"And tell her that her father fucks her husband?" Charles opened his briefcase. "Be serious, Ed."

Ed shrugged. "At least she hasn't got a heart condition."

Jennifer went to the fridge and got three colas. She deposited them on the little round table. "Gentlemen, take a break." She dragged her own chair around the table. For a while they sipped their drinks in silence.

"Jennifer, you were there for about four weeks. Maybe you've got some suggestions."

She adjusted her eyeglasses to steady them on her nose. "I have one of a general nature: get out of this business. It's a dirty one."

"Let's see things from another point of view. Two points of view, actually. Old Saint-Clair hired Ed to help Allison. That was the spirit of this—this dirty business. Maybe we should focus a bit more on the young woman and ask ourselves: does she know?" Charles took a thick folder out of his briefcase. "Secondly, we should get more information about Ian Summer."

"I thought you gathered quite a bit of background on him," Ed said.

"I did. But it isn't enough. Ian Summer worked as a steward for the Danish-Argentinean Ocean Line. Head office in Copenhagen. He was well liked. Dependable. Hard worker. No family. Off season he raced boats. We need to know more. Here, I have two pictures of Ian receiving a trophy."

Jennifer looked at one and then at the other. "These photos show a man with dark hair and dark eyes, like the man living at Les Capucines. But he looks—he looks different from our Ian. Happier, sweeter," she said.

"There's a three year gap that we know nothing about," Charles said. "He disappeared without a trace."

"Maybe he went to Europe or Australia?" Ed asked.

"Possible. But then, no trophies, or we would know. I ran a check on major competitions." Charles continued, "He re-emerged in Kingston to apply for a marriage license. He married Allison Saint-Clair. We know the rest." He looked nervously at his watch. "I have to get back to the station," he said and rose.

"One more thing," Jennifer said. "Yesterday I waited for Marvin Garland to pick me up." Under an inquisitive look from her father, she added, "His house was still full of Vern's paintings. That was the reason I met with him." She paused. "So, I was in the foyer when I saw Ian Summer cross the hall with a videocassette in his lap. He wheeled himself out of the house and turned to the right. He came back just ten minutes later. My guess is that he went to his wife's place." Jennifer explained, "The corridor between the main building and the first-aid center is too narrow for a wheelchair to maneuver with ease. The interesting thing was, when he returned he didn't have the tape any more. He must have left it there."

"One of the latest movies, maybe?"

"Not likely. Not from the cover. It was the type you buy to record on at home." Jennifer hesitated for a moment. "I could go there and..."

"Don't even think about it! I don't want you anywhere near Les Capucines. As of now your work there is done." Ed's look went from irritated to warm. "I'll find a way to see what kind of movie Ian delivered to his wife."

## Chapter 16

There was one last farm Allison had to visit; it was Justin Saint-Clair's most recent acquisition, in Northern Ontario, six hundred miles from Les Capucines. Marvin drove her there and introduced her to the family in charge of operations. Allison kept very much to herself and asked only a few questions about the kind of land they had and the grains they planned to grow the following year. At the end of the day Marvin suggested they spend the night at a lodge he knew of and return in the morning. Allison agreed and together they drove to The Beaver Lodge. It was a bit early for supper, so they took a walk. Allison hardly talked as they followed a cross-country ski trail, which, cutting through a wood of birches and maples, circled around and led back to the lodge.

A branch caught Allison's long scarf.

"Oops..." she said.

Marvin helped her to free it and wound it around her neck.

"Oh, thanks." She looked at him with sparkling eyes. "Funny, I'm not tired anymore. I had a hard time to follow all the talks about the sorts of seeds the farm used. The walk relaxed me. All together it has been a productive and wonderful day," she murmured.

"We still have an evening." He opened the door of the lodge. "Hungry?" Marvin asked.

"Yes. I worked up a good appetite."

A plump woman came forward to greet them. "I was wondering about you two," she said cheerfully. "The food is ready. I hope you'll like my cooking." She looked at Allison, a bit worried.

"No problem, Betty-Lee. I've already done some checking. Mrs. Summer loves stew."

"Good. Not too many guests yet," Betty-Lee said as she adjusted the place mats before them. "Not until a good snowfall comes. Then I'll have an army of hungry customers—all cross-country skiers." She lit the blue candle in the middle of the table. "It's scented. The sweet scent of romance." She winked at Marvin and strode away.

"Marvin," said Allison. "Grandfather seems in such a hurry to teach me everything there is in the business. It worries me."

Marvin remained silent. It worried him too.

"It's as if he feels he's running out of time." Allison paused. "When he asked me to come back to Les Capucines, he offered me the part-time job my mother had. He did mention involving me in the business, but only briefly."

"Your grandfather is close to eighty, Allison. The Farming Consortium is worth a fortune, and his management strategy is successful, but very complex. It makes sense he'd want to bring you up to speed as quickly and completely as possible."

"How did he accumulate so much wealth? I never thought grandfather would become rich."

"When he established the consortium, he made sure every prospective member knew exactly what he expected of them. The land not only had to support the people who worked on it, but it also had to give him a modest return. His approach worked—the business thrived. Excellent products, low costs. In the past years he spent a lot of time giving advice, suggesting how to operate efficiently." Marvin paused. "His personality and knowledge had a lot to do with the success of the entire operation. Then he started with the greenhouses—flowers are even more lucrative than fresh vegetables."

"He's still in reasonably good health, considering. I mean—his angina is under control, right?" Allison looked at him expectantly.

"I believe so. He'd like you to become familiar with what he's done. That's the reason he wants you to talk to everyone involved, at least once. To get a first-hand impression." He then added something Justin had told him. "Once you know the business from different angles, you can choose to keep going the same way, or make changes without complications."

For a while nobody spoke.

"There's something else I meant to ask you," said Allison. "It goes back to the poison found in grandpa's food. How did that happen?"

Marvin shrugged. "The police were down to ask questions and see how we handle the use of chemicals. They didn't have a clue how it happened."

Two hot oval platters filled with stew, mashed potatoes and baby carrots were served in front of them. "Time to enjoy our meal," said Marvin.

Allison complimented the meat. "Tasty. A lot of herbs in the stew." She then glanced at Marvin. "Grandpa is such a dear man. When I was a kid, I thought he was a magician." Allison smiled. "I never told anybody I wanted a horse all for myself. That I wanted a newborn. I wanted to see it grow, get strong, and start running. Faster and faster."

"You got it," said Marvin.

"Yes." Allison smiled again, an open, happy smile. "On my fourteenth birthday I got an envelope with a yellow ribbon. Inside there was a note saying: 'Your present is a bit late. Check in the mail.' Days later I got another envelope, with a big blue ribbon. This time the note said: 'Your birthday gift is at the stable.' I knew one of the mares was pregnant. I had the colt's name picked before I arrived at the stable: Morello." Allison paused. "It was so frail. So tiny." Her face fell. "It will probably be the only newborn I'll ever hold," she said, raw sorrow in her eyes.

Marvin was thinking how to console her, when Betty-Lee moved to the table with two glasses and a carafe. "Sorry, I forgot the wine. I can only offer you the house wine. White." She hesitated, holding the pitcher in midair.

"House wine will be fine," said Allison.

Betty-Lee quickly filled two glasses and left.

Marvin lifted his glass and toasted, "To you, Allison."

"Thanks." She touched her glass to his. "To you, Marvin, health and happiness." In one gulp half her wine was gone. "I was thirsty," she said. "Now I'm hot." She undid the top button of her blouse and fingered her necklace's little charms.

"Nice necklace you have," said Marvin.

Allison shook the heart-shaped charms in front of him. "Can you guess how many hearts I have?"

"Em...difficult question." He reached for the necklace.

"No touching," she said while jiggling her pendants.

"Ten, maybe eleven."

"Close enough. There are twelve." She let the necklace go. "Sorry, I get silly when I drink."

Marvin smiled at her. Nice to see her come alive. At last the hard crust of coldness, the wall she'd carefully built to serve her as a protective shield, was breaking apart. The young, exuberant woman Marvin had seen beaming in her eyes was finally surfacing. "Allison," he said choosing his words carefully. "I'd like to be your friend. A person you can count on. No matter what the circumstances are or could be."

The vigilant Betty-Lee was omnipresent. She came right back to refill Allison's glass.

"Oh, no!" Allison protested, but the wine was already poured.

"You don't have to drive," said Betty-Lee. "And I know Marvin. He'll escort you to your cabin." She winked at him again.

"What were you saying, Marvin?"

"That I'd like to be your friend. A true friend."

Allison smiled and took a sip of her wine. "Only a friend?" she asked teasingly.

"I'll try hard not to be more," Marvin answered promptly. How wonderful that Allison felt like flirting. Her eyes were full of excitement. "And that, believe me Allison, takes a lot of effort on my part."

Allison raised her glass, looking surprised to find it empty. "This wine is delicious, it slides down the throat better than water," she said. "What were we talking about? Ah, yes. Our friendship."

He wouldn't tell her how difficult it had been, all day long, not to put his arm around her shoulders. What an effort it was to resist the fragrance of her body, so close to his. He leaned toward her. "Yes. I'm just a friend. It would be a different story if you were free," he said, his voice husky.

Allison bent forward to meet his eyes. They were only a couple of inches apart. "How different?" she whispered.

Oh my God, Marvin thought. Speaking of effort. He glanced at her. Pendants and breasts moved with the rhythm of her breathing. Her eyes glimmered with desire. He'd love to accept her tacit invitation. But in the long run, that may push her away from him, instead of bringing her closer. It was too soon, he concluded. He looked away from her and leaned against the back of his chair. "Maybe one day you'll know," he said as coolly as he could muster, "how different things can be."

## Chapter 17

One full week of peace after her return from the business trip with Marvin. God must have thought she didn't deserve a longer break, Allison thought. Yesterday Ian had asked her for an additional thirty thousand dollars. The man who helped him cover up her murder had made that request. He had to disappear in a hurry and needed money to relocate. She'd given Ian all the money her mother had left her—there was not a penny left, she'd told him.

Ian hadn't spoken a word since, probably too busy planning his next move—which wouldn't be pleasant for her. Maybe it was better to go to the bank and see if she could get a loan.

The director of the Saratown Farming & Express Bank was very courteous. Having the Saint-Clair family as a client meant a lot, she said, and she was eager to do business directly with Allison. She could borrow the sum she mentioned, thirty thousand dollars, without collateral. The loan, however, had to be cosigned by Mr. Justin Bernard Saint-Clair.

Allison stepped on the gas pedal. She wanted to get home and be alone. There was no way out for her. She'd have to talk to her grandfather.

She walked inside and took hat, mitts and coat off. After closing the long satin drapes, she dipped into her purse to get the contract drafted by the bank, and slumped onto the sofa. As she stretched her legs on the coffee table, her foot hit an object. Quickly, she turned the light on. She stared at a tape; on top of it was a note from her husband: "You are familiar with the content. This is a copy, I have the original."

Allison glanced at the tape and note. Then, with a quick kick, she sent both flying across the room. That tape accused her of a horrible crime. Something she never thought she'd be capable of. Even worse, every time she thought about it, she felt pain, not remorse. Unbelievable. But, of course, all the happenings of that night were unbelievable. It had all taken place in that old, spooky house Ian had insisted on renting a week after their wedding.

She relived the night in a rush of scattered images. Waking up to a sudden scream, finding his side of the bed empty, padding down the stairs in her bare feet, still half asleep. Strange sounds coming from the den.

She'd wandered into the den, calling Ian's name. Burning candles cast the scene before her in a coppery glow. Ian had been there, all right. But he hadn't heard her. He was facing away from her, and she saw the strong muscles of his shoulders and back bunch up. He threw his head back to produce the grunting noise that had drawn her here. She'd watched without comprehension for a few seconds, until she realized the body writhing beneath him was naked as well.

She'd staggered toward the wall and stumbled over a tripod close to her. The tripod and the camera that was fastened to it had rattled to the floor. When she'd looked again in the direction of her husband, two men were staring at her.

She hadn't screamed, her voice deeply buried in her throat. She'd run across the hall to end up in a corner of the dining room. There, she'd poured herself a drink: whiskey, vodka, or something else—she couldn't remember. Then another.

After that, her memory was a big blank.

There was something, however, to fill in the gaps of her recollection: the scene in which she was swinging the poker at the man's head had been recorded on tape.

And that tape was Ian's most precious possession.

## Chapter 18

January 1999

Rumbling noises troubled Allison's sleep. Then the remote, muffled sound of a siren woke her up. She got out of bed and glanced out the window. The northern side of the house, on her right, was illuminated from within by an eerie, flickering light. She grabbed her velour robe, walked out of the bedroom and quickened her steps toward the small arched corridor joining her quarters to the main house. She pulled on the metal bar of the heavy door. Nothing happened. She pulled again and again. Then, all of a sudden, she smelled smoke. She remembered then...that door would lock in case of fire. She quickly retraced her steps, slipped on her boots and went outside. She turned to her left and began running along the side of the house. The wail of a fire truck cut through the air, followed by that of a police cruiser. As she arrived at the front of the house, she saw flames sneaking out of one of the kitchen patio doors. They aimed toward the upper floor. Part of the eaves crashed to the ground, the noise covering the shouting of the fire marshal. A long fire hose was being unrolled, a ladder winched upward.

As she watched in horrified fascination, the hall window exploded in a shower of glass. With an audible "whoosh," the fire sucked in fresh oxygen through the shattered window. The blaze flared up brighter than before. Allison took a few staggering steps, forced back by the heat. Oh, my God! Grandpa was trapped inside. She saw Ian, shouting and gesturing, being wheeled out through the main entrance and taken into a police car. She ran to the northeastern side, where the bedrooms of both Julia and her grandfather were located.

The fire marshal stopped her. "You can't go there. It's dangerous."

"There are two people trapped inside," she hissed. "Let me go."

"Anything that can be done, Miss, will be done by my men. They're the experts. If you want to help, tell us where the bedrooms are."

"One on the main floor. Can be accessed by the main hall or through the kitchen and the family room." She gestured where the flames were most active. "The other is upstairs, almost on top of the first one. That's my grandpa's room." The flames drifted toward the upper floor. "Please, please..." She began coughing. "My grandfather has a heart condition. Somebody must help him. He's up there." She pointed to a window on the upper floor.

"Stay here," ordered the man. Another fire truck arrived and pulled up behind the first one. An ambulance backed up to the house, its rear doors already open to receive the wounded. The thick jets of water launched upward evaporated in clouds of steam. Then there was a big bang. Glass flew all over. Hungry flames burst out of one of the kitchen doors. A hose was promptly angled at the new opening. Thick smoke came billowing out. The flames were higher now, licking the walls, almost cradling the building.

One fireman, wearing a black mask, came out from the front entrance. "We can't break in from this side," he shouted. "The kitchen ceiling is caving in. We'll have to reach the bedrooms from the outside." The action concentrated along the northeastern wing. Two firemen were ready to enter the upstairs through a window, three others axed down the second patio door.

Allison watched the men work, her heart throbbing. Thank God, they had almost reached grandpa's room. One of the firemen entered his bedroom but was right back on the windowsill. He took what Allison thought was an eternity to adjust his mask before he disappeared inside again, followed by a second man. "Get the gurney up here," somebody shouted. The two firemen came down the ladder slowly, carefully carrying a body wrapped in a blanket. Grandpa—Allison briefly closed her eyes, sending up a frantic prayer. Dear Lord, please keep him alive. The ambulance moved close to the fire truck. The stretcher was quickly shoved in.

Allison ran toward the ambulance, but the driver took off right away, speeding down the driveway. She stopped there, trembling.

A suede coat was heaved on her shoulders. Allison just had time to recognize Marvin's aftershave, when she felt one of his arms around her. For an instant he hugged her firmly, reassuringly. She turned to look at him. He took off his scarf and wound it around her neck, high, close to her ears. "You'll be cold," Allison whispered.

"No way! I'm wearing one of those sweaters my sister knits for me. So warm you'd swear a volcano is trapped inside." He lightly stroked her shoulders.

"Julia!" said Allison. "Julia isn't out yet!" Without thinking she leaped forward, closer to the inferno.

Marvin grabbed her by the arm and held her back. "Nothing we can do, Allison. Let's sit here." He gestured at one of the ornamental boulders flanking the driveway. "They're working hard to enter the main floor."

"I can't see much," Allison said. "The fire seems to be under control now. Just clouds of black smoke." She leaned her head on Marvin's shoulder. "Julia, she may not make it," she whispered.

***

Ed Dustin was on the phone with Malcolm, tapping his fingers on the metal desk. "So, it's true. Marvin Garland was married, common-law. You said his wife died in circumstances that weren't clear?"

"You remember the Barnez case, about four years ago? The accident was mentioned when that case went to trial. For reasons I don't know yet, the authorities never gave much detail. So, the woman was home alone. A fire started in the basement. She tried to extinguish it instead of calling for help."

"A lot of people make that mistake."

"Well, the fire was supposedly caused by a domestic appliance. And yet, she was literally carbonized. The intensity of the fire raised some questions, and the authorities were suspicious," Malcolm said.

"Of the husband?" Ed asked.

Jennifer entered his office without knocking. She leaned her arms on the desk's front edge, waiting impatiently.

"Yes, and his sister. The couple lived in Fernworth with Marvin's blind sister, Susan," Malcolm replied. "The investigation lasted more than eight months. Not much is known of the findings."

Jennifer gestured her father she had something important to say.

"Malcolm, can I call you back?" Ed asked.

"Sure. I plan to do a bit more digging—since I'm in Fernworth."

"Fine. We'll call you soon since we found out something interesting about our man Ian Summer."

Ed placed the receiver back and looked at his daughter. "So, what happened between eleven o'clock last night, and now, nine o'clock in the morning?" He smiled at his daughter. Jennifer could get excited because a new pup was born or she'd seen a new bird species in the backyard. She needed to share her experiences with people close to her.

"A major fire at Les Capucines. The housekeeper, Julia, is dead. Old Saint-Clair is being kept alive by machine."

"What? When? A major fire?"

"One dead, another in critical condition. That's major, all right. It started around three o'clock in the morning. The fire wasn't completely under control until eight."

"Oh my God... the others?" Ed asked.

"Luke Saint-Clair was away. Ian Summer was wheeled out in time. Allison heard the fire alarm ringing in the house from her apartment. She wasn't injured."

Ed leaned back in his chair. "I'd better go and have a talk with Charles," he said, rising. "Here is Malcolm's phone number." He handed Jennifer a yellow post-it. "He's in Fernworth, Kansas, the place where Marvin lived before coming here. Call Malcolm. Tell him what happened. Brief him also about what you've witnessed between Ian and Luke." As he read embarrassment on Jennifer's face, he added, "No need to be specific." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Malcolm will grasp the concept pretty quickly."

## Chapter 19

In the torpor of half-sleep Allison felt a hand on her shoulder. She blinked her eyes and tried to orient herself. She was in the hospital cafeteria. Luke tapped her shoulder again. "Hi, Luke," she said faintly as she sat straight in her chair.

"I'm so sorry..." He dragged a chair from another table and joined Allison. "My father," he started, but he couldn't finish.

"Grandpa was taken in with severe arrhythmia. They flew him to Toronto where they managed to stabilize him." She stopped, as if she couldn't swallow her saliva. "Then they decided to operate. Three bypasses. They said it was the only chance. They'd just finished the first, when grandpa had a stroke. They closed him up." Tears flowed down Allison's cheeks. "Brain activity is low, very low."

Luke wiped Allison's tears with his own hanky. "I know. I talked to the doctors." He caressed her cheek. "I hope he makes it."

Allison shook her head. "He's gone, Luke. The grandpa I knew is gone." She rose, took her coat from the back of her chair and slipped it on. "I have to leave. A few errands that can't wait, and then I have to see Ian. He called me already three times, today."

As he rose, Luke took her arm. "Is Ian giving you any trouble?"

Allison glanced at Luke's face. It was all washed out, the face of a loser. No, she decided, she couldn't confide in him. It would only complicate things. She shrugged. "Ian feels neglected, I guess. But I've been busy. Grandpa made it legal: I'd replace him in all capacities in case something happened to him." She paused. "I have to stop at the bank. Then I'm going home. Home? I should say what remains of Les Capucines."

Luke nodded. "Fine," he said softly, smiling at her. "I'll have supper ready for you."

"There's no kitchen left, no heat either. Ian is staying at a motel down the road, the Happy Days Inn. Only the new part of the house, the studio and my little apartment are okay."

"Don't worry, Allison. I'll buy some food. And we can use the fireplace."

It wasn't completely dark when Allison arrived home. She parked her car in front of the first-aid center and quickly walked inside. The door wasn't locked. She entered, threw her purse on the console near the door and took her coat off. In the penumbra she perceived a man's silhouette standing tall—Ian's, she thought with panic. How in the world was that possible? The shadow zipped across the room while she was frantically fumbling for the light switch—her eyes locked on the moving object. When she finally turned the light on, Ian was sitting in his wheelchair. She breathed with relief.

"You finally decided to come home!" Ian said sarcastically.

Allison looked blankly at him. She definitely needed to rest. She'd seen a phantom—and she'd taken it for real.

"Do you have the money?" Ian shouted.

Allison grabbed her purse, took an envelope out of it and slid it across the coffee table. "Here's the money. That makes one hundred and thirty thousand dollars since we moved here. Now, if you don't mind, I want to be alone."

Ian opened the envelope and eagerly counted the money. He stashed the envelope in his pocket. "I don't want to go back to that motel. It's a crappy place."

"You can go to the house. Luke is back. He's bringing in food."

"But there's no heat."

"Luke will light the fireplace." With a determined move, Allison went to the door and swung it wide open. "Ian, I need to be alone. See you in an hour."

"What a way to treat your husband," Ian hissed as he wheeled away.

## Chapter 20

Ian pushed his wheelchair against the fireplace hearth and stretched his arms toward the flames. He cast an eye in Luke's direction. A long cord trailing him, Luke was sauntering from one wall to the next in search of an outlet to plug in the percolator. Two cartons of pizza lay on the side table. He's playing the family man, Ian thought, disgusted. The Luke he knew had vanished. He wasn't his lover anymore; probably not even his friend. Someone else had taken his heart.

"Come sit by me," Luke said as Allison entered the room. "Dinner is ready. I was even able to light the fire without creating too much smoke."

"I was wondering what the smell was: a mixture of burning wood, cheese and tomatoes."

"So, who wants Hawaiian and who likes pepperoni and mushroom?" Luke opened both containers.

"I don't like pizza," Ian pouted.

"Hawaiian will be fine." Allison glanced at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and the wall paintings. "The fire never reached this part of the house at all, did it? Even the floral wallpaper with its delicate print seemed untouched. No smoke damage either."

"Grandfather remodeled the house, including the studio, when I married your mom. By that time they were using fire-retardant building materials." Luke pulled a slice of pizza free, slid it onto a paper plate and offered it to Allison. Then he helped himself. "When should we start rebuilding?"

"We have to wait, Luke. We don't know if the insurance will pay and how much. We won't know until arson is excluded," Allison said.

"Arson!" Ian snarled. "What arson? That poor excuse of a housekeeper didn't know what she was doing. She kept all kinds of chemicals in the utility room and the kitchen, cleaning products and such. Half of that stuff was way past its listed shelf life."

"How do you know?" Luke asked.

"Well, sometimes I went to the kitchen, to ask for a drink," Ian said, keeping the tone of his voice low. "She should have been replaced a long time ago. I bet she didn't know the difference between bleach and paint thinner!"

Luke kept nibbling at his pizza. "I talked to Marvin just an hour ago. He told me the police took all the samples and objects they needed. He didn't tell me the police were still investigating." He paused. "Maybe he didn't know."

"He knew," said Allison. "He was with me at the police station. Three times. They raised all sort of questions. They interrogated us separately, but the questions about Julia, grandpa's habits, and the part-time help were the same."

"Detailed questions?' Luke asked.

"Yes. They wanted to know who was in charge of the laundry. Who had access to the washer and dryer, which days and what time of day. How many smoke detectors we had, where they were located. How often we checked the battery. They asked these questions over and over."

"I wonder why," Luke said.

Ian spun around to face Luke. "What's the point? Everything got burned to a crisp. They can't analyze much in cases like this." He knew what he was talking about.

Luke gave Ian a sharp look, then leaned back into his chair. "Ian, what did the police ask you?"

"Only if I heard a fire alarm. I said no, I was sound asleep."

"They suspect the blaze started in the dryer," continued Allison. "A piece of clothing may have caught fire, probably because it was doused with chemicals."

"What chemicals?" Luke asked.

"I don't know, Luke. But their theory does explain the origin of the fire. It also raises the suspicion of arson." Allison spoke in a muffled voice. "And another thing... There were four smoke detectors in the house. On grandpa's specific request, I'd changed the battery of each of them a month ago. I heard one going off—it was the detector located in the corridor between the house and my apartment. But when the firemen arrived, none of the others were working. Three smoke detectors all malfunctioning at the same time... The investigators are mystified."

"All excuses," said Ian. "The insurance is probably paying the police so that they won't have to pay us."

Luke looked at Allison again. "Do you know anything else?" he asked.

Ian couldn't take it anymore. Allison seemed to justify all the questioning the police had been doing. By the sound of it, she even welcomed it. He exploded, "Bullshit! All this is bullshit! Stand up for your rights, idiots! You two make me sick!" He gave both a look of contempt. Better go back to his motel. At least he didn't have to listen to nonsense. He wheeled out as fast as he could. Nobody stopped him.

## Chapter 21

Malcolm looked with apprehension at the pellets of snow hurled against his windshield. He shouldn't have lent his wonderful car to Paul. He missed the NorthStar System installed in his DeVille. Finally, the sign announcing Saratown city limits appeared on his right. Malcolm slowed down and sighed with relief. Ed Dustin was expecting him, anxious to know more about the circumstances in which Marvin's wife had died, while he, Malcolm, was curious about the latest events that had occurred at Les Capucines. Before he could read the street names at the upcoming crossing, he spotted the Dustin house. It was impossible to miss. All the outside lights were on, making the house look like a Christmas tree.

Malcolm killed the engine as Ed walked out to greet him and relieve him of his bag.

"Typical winter weather," Ed said. "The second big storm of the season. The forecast says it's going to get worse before it gets better."

Malcolm glanced at the house with a critical eye. "Solid brick walls. A sloping roof that won't allow dangerous accumulations of snow. The blizzard won't affect us inside." He walked in and kicked his shoes off.

"My wife kept dinner warm, pork chops and mashed potatoes. She also baked a blueberry pie."

"Wonderful, Ed. Thank you for your hospitality." Malcolm took his coat off and followed his friend.

"You're welcome. My daughter went to bed early. She thinks she may have to get up extra early tomorrow morning, to make it to her new job at the Public Library." After Malcolm finished his first pork chop, Ed asked, "Sure you aren't too tired to talk business?"

"Sure. Just tired of guessing where the median was and where the road shoulder could be. Not too many cars on the road, either. So, no way to follow other vehicles' tracks."

Ed left to fetch the pie, cut two pieces and then slowly munched on his wedge. "Scotch?" he asked after Malcolm had finished his supper. He walked toward a small lacquered bar.

"Yes. Straight, please." Malcolm looked around. "Do you play chess?" He lifted a king and a queen from the chessboard lying on the side table. "Nice pieces. Onyx."

"Yes. Charles and I have a chess night. Every Thursday. Everybody knows about it, and most of the time we make it through without interruptions."

"The local hoodlums respect your weekly chess night? Get out of here!"

Ed grinned. "It looks like it." He gave Malcolm his Scotch, and then went back to pour a rye on the rocks for himself. "You start: Marvin's wife. That's a curious story." He took a seat beside his friend.

Malcolm nodded. "But it's a story for your ears only. Most of this information is still kept under wraps. With a gruesome murder like this one, it ain't over till it's over. The authorities are still hoping to bring the guilty party to justice."

"Of course."

"The couple was known as Merv and Michelle Lanvin. Marvin had changed his name as soon as he'd moved to the States. And Michelle's real name was Charlene." Malcolm sniffed his drink before taking a sip. "To avoid confusion, I'll refer to them as the Garlands." He paused. "Now, listen to this: Michelle had been a gangster's moll."

"A what?"

"You heard right. She'd been the woman of a mafia man. Wanted by both the authorities and the underworld. Marvin managed to keep her real identity secret for quite awhile. About three years. He kept moving, never stayed in one place for long. Then one day the authorities zeroed in, and the mob got wind of her refuge as well. The authorities wanted her for questioning, the mob—well, we don't know, do we?" Malcolm took another sip from his Scotch.

"How did the authorities discover her hideout?" Ed asked.

"Coincidence. One day a nurse from the hospital visited Marvin's sister. Susan's doctor had given her a new drug. The nurse—her name was Margaret—visited Susan regularly to monitor the effects of the new medication. She recognized Charlene in Michelle. She'd worked with the Danish-Argentinean Ocean Line—they used to organize cruises for the rich. On the way to the Maldives, Margaret had seen Charlene in the company of José Barnez. Charlene was a splendid creature—even women couldn't help but notice her. Later on Margaret had become the wife of Detective Turner. The search started from there," said Malcolm, finishing his drink.

"Michelle-Charlene was killed, right?" Ed asked.

"The killers made it look like an accident, but yes, she was murdered all right. At first the police suspected her husband, and they came down on him hard, trying to get a confession. Apparently some evidence turned up that let him off the hook. I'm not sure what it was, and I doubt that we'll ever find out. As I said, they're playing this one close to the chest. I do know they didn't tell Garland he was no longer under suspicion. They kept pressuring him, pumping him for information about Charlene and their life together."

"And? Wait, first I should refill your tumbler." Ed rose and brought the bottle of Scotch to the table. He poured a second drink for Malcolm.

"The man never broke down. Even when they hinted that they suspected Susan of murdering his wife, he didn't budge. At the station they said it would have been easier to squeeze liquid out of a rock." Malcolm paused. "They never got anything out of him."

Both men sat in silence, pondering. "Interesting guy, Marvin Garland. Was it true love, do you think, or something darker?" Ed asked.

"Difficult to say. Nobody knew much of his family life. Once married, he never stayed in one place long enough to make friends or have much of a social life. Charlene stayed home and kept busy helping in the house."

"I see. Well, you can't fault a man for being protective of his woman. He clearly knew of the dangers." Ed put his feet up on the coffee table. "Tired?" he asked Malcolm.

"Getting there. Maybe the details of the accident at Les Capucines can wait till tomorrow," Malcolm answered.

"Fine. I saw you yawning a couple of times. Just one more question, Malcolm. What kind of accident was supposed to have killed Charlene?"

"Somebody had doused Marvin's work clothes with a petroleum compound, added chemicals to create a highly flammable mix and cooked everything at high temperature. Charlene was home. The burst of flames coming from the dryer transformed the little house into a deadly torch in a matter of minutes."

Ed jerked upright, snapping to attention.

"The girl was carbonized."

"Holy shit!" said Ed, his eyes full of worry. "That's exactly how the police suspect the fire started at Les Capucines."

## Chapter 22

February 1999

Allison glanced at the chart clipped to the bottom of the bed and adjusted the blanket around her grandfather's chest. Despite the intravenous drip, Justin was losing weight. His bone structure had become very prominent, making his skin look like a blanket thrown loosely over his skeleton. Allison sighed at the sight. She was moving to sit close to the bed when Luke stepped into the room.

"Still here, eh? How are things?" he asked.

"No change."

"He's asleep, like this morning and yesterday and the day before." He squeezed Allison's shoulder. "He looks very much at peace," he said.

"Yes, he does."

"We should go," Luke said.

Allison nodded. She kissed her grandfather on the forehead. "Good night," she whispered.

"Sorry to rush you out of the hospital, but Marvin is waiting for you at the office. He says his signature goes a long way for routine matters these days, but he needs yours to carry on with the grand project grandfather started. He was talking about a new waterway, but I have to admit he lost me. Something to do with irrigation, I believe."

"Oh, yes, now I remember. Marvin asked me to be back early today. The engineer was coming. But grandpa was... grandpa is..." Allison didn't finish her sentence. She just sighed while tears started down her face. "It can happen any time."

Luke looked at her and nodded. "I know," he said.

Maps were unfolded and refolded on the metal desk, while the engineer leafed through a thick stack of papers briefing Allison on the plans to bring more water from one of the lakes to the valley. She followed the shuffling of papers distractedly, until she heard Marvin's voice.

"If you agree, Mrs. Summer, please sign here." He pointed at the bottom of the last page and handed her a pen.

Like a robot, Allison signed.

When she heard the studio door closing behind her, Allison folded her arms on the desk and rested her head on them. Confused images and muffled sounds flickered through her mind: flames and wails, white and green uniforms moving in and out of her grandfather's room...

As she heard her name called, she roused herself from reverie. She turned toward Luke. She waited for him to talk, though she already knew what he'd come to say.

"The hospital phoned, Allison." Luke paused. "Grandfather passed away fifteen minutes ago."

***

The funeral arrangement, the church service, the choice of choir songs and scripture readings swept Allison in a vortex of phone calls, meetings and trips. For a while the activities she had to pursue kept her emotional strain at bay.

It was not until she stood in the reception hall, giving mindless thanks for each phrase of condolence, that the meaning of the word burial hit her with all its might. It meant breaking the very last earthly tie she had with her grandfather. She kept shaking hands though, fighting back her tears.

Finally, at five in the afternoon the ancient ritual of bidding farewell was concluded.

Everything was over. The hall was empty and so was she. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to listen to, and nothing more to hope for. Julia had been buried a month before, and now her beloved grandpa was gone. He'd come to her rescue when she needed him the most, inconspicuously, without asking questions, probably because he already knew the answers. If she'd only had more time to show him how much she loved him...

To her surprise, she saw Luke briskly pushing Ian's wheelchair and heading for the hall exit. At the same time Marvin's voice sounded close to her, "Mrs. Summer, your father needed to speak with your husband. He asked me to escort you home." Marvin wore a dark-grey striped suit, a white shirt and a grey tie flecked with white dots. With his hair parted on one side and combed back, Marvin looked ready for a wedding, not a funeral. Allison lowered her eyes, ashamed of her thinking. She responded quickly, "Thank you, Marvin. I'm glad you're here." Even Marvin's presence was one of her grandfather's gifts.

***

Old Saint-Clair was right. Allison was a brave girl. She sat in a corner of the limousine, looking out of the window. She was sad but kept her composure. Marvin watched her in silence.

Halfway home she turned toward him. "Before we left for our last business trip grandpa said—" Her voice broke. "My grandfather told me he planned to include you in a new will and leave you all his bonds."

"Maybe you shouldn't talk about these things—not yet, Allison."

"I'd like you to know that I intend to honor my grandfather's wish."

Marvin squeezed her hand. "Thank you."

After a pause Allison said, "You may have to wait, though. I can't touch any money from my inheritance. Not until the investigation is over. Soon, I hope."

Marvin dismissed the limousine and followed Allison to the door of her little apartment. She shouldn't be alone tonight, he thought, as Allison rummaged through her satin purse searching for the key.

"I didn't see any lights on in the house. Your father isn't home yet. Why don't I take you to my sister's for supper? She'll be delighted to see you again. All I have to do is give her a call."

"I should mourn, you know," Allison said in a low voice. She opened the door, turned the light on and slowly walked into the living room, followed by Marvin.

"I understand." He helped her take her coat off. "But now you're number one. I'd like to make sure you stay in good health." Allison looked at him, doubtful. Marvin resorted to an argument he knew would be effective. "There're so many people depending on you, Mrs. Summer. You can't let them down." He sat on the sofa, trying to spread an atmosphere of calm around him. "I know you probably would like to change. Take your time."

Her straight suit outlined her feminine figure and the high heels made walk in small steps, as she graciously balanced her weight. In silence she walked to her bedroom, leaving a trail of soft scent behind her. Marvin wondered if she knew the effect she had on men—on him in particular. Probably not. She seemed totally unaware of herself as a woman.

He waited, still uncertain whether she would accept his invitation. When he heard the rustle of clothes in Allison's bedroom, he quickly placed a call to his sister.

Allison returned wearing a plain grey pantsuit. She stood before Marvin. "I'm ready. I'm looking forward to seeing Susan again. She was such good company, last time."

## Chapter 23

"I don't understand why we couldn't use one of the limousines," Ian complained as soon as he was in Luke's car.

"I needed to talk to you in private, Ian. I didn't want to have chauffeurs listening in." Luke buckled up and started the motor.

"No need to be that careful," said Ian sarcastically. "I haven't heard any love songs from you in a long time."

Luke drove in silence for a stretch of the main highway, and then turned off onto a gravel road.

"Why are you going this way?" Ian asked, suspicious.

"It's shorter. It'll take us to your motel through the forest. Just at the bottom of the hill."

"I don't want to go back to that motel!" He banged his fist on the dashboard. "The room is small, no desk for my computer, no satellite TV, and nobody to talk to." He looked at Luke. "You've got a big room in the new part of Les Capucines, with a fancy bathroom."

"It used to be our bedroom—Nathalie's and mine," Luke replied calmly. "But some smoke filtered through during the fire. There's soot on the wallpaper and carpet. You'd complain about all that, if you were there."

"I wouldn't complain," Ian said with a pout.

"When you arrived you claimed the guest quarters for yourself—the most beautiful part of the house, complete with TV, walk-in closet, sitting parlor and marble bathroom. Pity it all burned down." Luke got out of the car, fetched Ian's wheelchair and pushed it toward Ian's side. "Ready," he said, opening the door.

"I'm not getting out," Ian hissed. "I don't like to be treated like a stranger."

"Come on, Ian. Let's talk about our problems inside. Don't make a scene. I just buried my father, in case you didn't notice."

"I'm telling you again: I don't want Allison hurt," Luke said firmly. "It's bad enough that this double accident happened. Allison adored her grandfather; she was attached to Julia. I want you to let her be. She gave you the money you needed, right? So things should be back to normal, now."

Ian took his tie off and threw it on a chair. "Look at this place! It's small, with a kitchenette I don't use and a fridge with nothing in it!"

"There is beer," Luke said, taking out two bottles. He twisted off the caps and put one on the table in front of Ian. "The restaurant is famous for the best grilled trout in the region. They have excellent barbecued spareribs too." Luke took a sip from his bottle. "The Happy Days Inn is the best motel in a fifty-mile radius." He looked out the window. "Even now, the view isn't too bad, with all those pine trees full of snow and the sun dipping low behind them. I wouldn't mind taking my pad and doing some sketching." He paused. "Why don't you take some pictures?"

"I don't feel like it. I want out of here."

"Stop whining, Ian. This arrangement is temporary."

"That's what you said two weeks ago!" Ian shrugged out of his coat. "There are two other rooms in the new wing of the house, the children's old rooms. Why can't I have one?"

Luke slumped into a chair. "They're small, Ian." He grinned. "Together, much smaller than this room you're complaining about."

"You've got an answer for everything, since you started to go to those stupid meetings. They brainwash you, that's what they do." Ian finished his drink in one big gulp. "Give me another beer. Regular, not light."

"Now, Ian, you've got to be reasonable."

"Reasonable? That's one of those words you practice in your workshops, I bet! I need money and I want a good life."

"You can have a good life. We both can. But you have to promise me that you won't hurt Allison." Luke's voice was strained. "She doesn't have too much of a married life. At least you could leave her alone. And stop squeezing her for money."

"I asked her for cash because I needed it. And I'll ask her again, if I need it again." Ian shrugged. "It's that simple."

Luke rose. "Ian, please, leave Allison alone. She doesn't owe you anything."

"That's what you think," Ian snarled. "But she knows better."

Luke, ready to leave, made an about-face. "What are you blathering about?" He stood in front of Ian, looking down on him.

"I won't tell you. Ask her, if you want." Ian's grin could split his face in two. "I bet she won't tell you either."

## Chapter 24

Allison stood in front of Les Capucines, watching the tractor's bucket lifting debris into a truck. Whether or not the insurance paid, the debris had to be removed.

"A sad story, this fire," Luke said. He put his arm around her shoulders.

"And a lot of complications."

"I can't understand all the fuss the police are making. They questioned Marvin again. Hours and hours. What does he have to do with our household?" Luke said. The truck left, moving slowly down the driveway, followed by the tractor.

"I don't really know. They asked me a ton of questions too. Who had access to the house, who came and went in the kitchen and utility room. The names of the people who helped Julia with the cleaning. The last time they were obsessed with mother's hope chest, which Vern used for storing his painting material. It still contained Vern's stuff. Grandpa never cleaned it out. It was in the family room close to Julia's bedroom. Apparently it contained flammable material. It helped to fuel the fire already raging in the kitchen and utility room." Side by side, Allison and Luke walked toward the new part of the house.

"How would they know all that?" Luke asked.

"They have a way, apparently. Something to do with the flames moving upwards and spreading in a triangular fashion."

"And how do you know that?"

"Marvin explained it to me. He knows a lot about fires." She paused. "So until arson isn't excluded, the insurance doesn't pay."

"Insurance companies like to cash the premium. Fast. But they're very slow when they have to pay," Luke commented.

"Right," murmured Allison. They entered the house and headed for the temporary kitchen they had set in a corner of the large studio.

"Allison, I know that, in the past, I haven't been too much of a father to you." He stopped, searching for words. He gave her a rueful smile. "Being a father—I just never got the hang of it. I guess it's too late now, isn't it? But I need you to know I'm here for you. And if there's anything I can do..."

Allison walked over to the counter. "Not much anybody can do right now," she answered softly. "We'll just have to wait. And hope that the police stop bothering us. Did you know they took down the names of every single person Marvin talked to, over the three days preceding the fire? They checked the mileage of his Jeep and made him account for every hour of his time. That's crazy."

"I know," Luke replied. "Marvin told me. He worried about falling behind with his work."

"He's already behind, he told me. Tea, Luke?" Allison opened the cupboard.

"Please."

"Earl Grey? There isn't any other kind. No sugar either." Allison filled the teakettle with water.

"Earl Grey's fine." Luke paused. "How are things with Ian?"

Allison lingered at the counter, cleaning real and imaginary spots. "So-so," she replied without looking at her father. She dropped a tea bag into each of the mugs and waited for the water to come to a boil.

"I know—excuse me for intruding—I know he asked you for money."

Allison filled the mugs, put them on the table and sat across from her father. "Last week he asked me for some cash. To go to a boat race in Newport. He'll be back in a few days."

"Where did you get the money?" Luke asked, concerned.

"There's a fund for everyday expenses. It was set up so I'd be in charge of it the instant grandpa died or became impaired." Allison sipped her tea. "Grandpa thought of everything."

"Yes. He did. He was a wonderful man." Luke reached for Allison's hand across the table. He stroked it. "I may not be able to do much, but let me know if I can be of help."

Allison drank her tea in silence. Then she lifted her head to sniff the air. "What's that I smell? Herbs: rosemary, sage. Onions too." She looked toward the oven. "Playing cook again, eh?" She gave her father a tiny smile.

"Yes. I prepared a roast. With potatoes. For a good, home-cooked meal."

## Chapter 25

Excited, Allison opened the mailbox and looked inside. The letter from the insurance company was there. She picked it up and walked into the house. She tossed her parcels onto the sofa. The insurance company had already given her the good news over the phone: according to the police report, the cause of the fire could not be ascertained. They hadn't been able to prove foul play. She was happy to see the amount in writing—six hundred thousand and twenty-three dollars. She sniffed at the check. Better than Chanel No. 5. Finally everything was settled. No more worries about going broke. She could make plans now.

She turned on the side lamp by the phone. Her voicemail light was blinking. There was only one message, from the Bridges, asking her if she could come to see them. Mr. Bridges had slipped while cleaning the driveway. He was in pain, unable to move. He should be taken to the hospital, Allison thought. She'd arrange for someone to look after his wife during his absence. She'd go see them herself tomorrow, if they weren't calling for a severe snowstorm. She lifted the receiver to make a call, when her eyes flickered to the bags she'd just taken home. She'd make the call later.

She unwrapped her buys. The first was a snowsuit. It was a delicate orange shade, a color that always looked great on her. She rubbed it against her cheek to appreciate its softness, and then tossed it onto the floor. She grabbed her next buy, a little box containing an ornate frame. Her hands moved fast, as she inserted a picture of her late grandpa underneath the frame's glass. Her grandfather was standing behind his favorite leather chair, one arm on the high back. He smiled at her it seemed, a serene, accomplished look in his eyes. "I'm happy I got you a fancy silver frame, grandpa," she whispered. "You deserve it. I'd have bought it in gold, had I found one." She looked for a place to set it. She rose and walked over to the console on the other side of the room. She put her grandfather's picture between the VCR and the CD player. She then remembered of the videocassette Ian had given her with the graphic proof of her crime. She'd been looking at it when she received an urgent call from one of the families on the farm. She'd clicked 'stop' right away and then 'rewind'. She was sure she'd removed it from the VCR; it should be next to it. She didn't see it now. She looked underneath the console. It wasn't there either.

She kneeled in front of the TV set and reached into the cabinet underneath, sweeping the contents out and onto the floor. She picked up each videocassette, looked at its label and then tossed it into a corner. What she was searching for wasn't there. She hurried over to the closet in the hall, where she'd drop all sort of items with the intention of properly storing them at a later time. No trace of the infamous tape there either. She rushed into the bedroom, emptied all drawers onto the bed. Nothing. She looked under the bed and inside the night table. Her anxiety increased with each unsuccessful search. Her heart began racing. In an irrational yet hopeful gesture, she opened the medicine cabinet and scrutinized its contents. Nothing. The tape had vanished.

What an idiot she'd been to leave it lying around like that. How could she be so forgetful, so stupid, not to store it in a safe place? Oh, maybe Ian had taken it. No. It wasn't possible. She'd played it again two days before and Ian had already left by that time. On his expensive trip to Newport. Somebody had taken that tape! Her breathing became faster and faster, her head felt light. She could hardly stand, anxiety mixed with self-deprecation washing all over her.

She sat at the kitchen table and forced herself to drink a glass of water while her mind kept wandering. It'd been such a wonderful day. The first in so many months. And now, the tape... Why couldn't she get a break, one single break from all the hardship she'd endured?

Slowly, she finished her water to the last drop. She rose. As frantically as she'd taken her apartment apart, she now put every single thing back in its place. The tape had changed hands. Quite certainly, it would end up in some police station. They would come to get her. It was only a question of hours, maybe minutes. When they came, they shouldn't find a messy place.

A soft tap on the door made Allison's heart race even faster. The police—they were here already! To take her away forever. She didn't budge; she stared at the door, in shock.

"Hello." Marvin appeared in the doorway. "Your door was ajar." He smiled at her. "Can I come in?" he asked jokingly, since he was already in the middle of the living room.

"Oh! It's you! Hi, Marvin." It was so reassuring to see him. As it had many times in the past, his presence created an instant shield from all her qualms. Her worries seemed all at once remote, as if they belonged to another person.

Marvin took off his coat, pushed aside some accent pillows to clear a seat and sat on the sofa. "I got a call from the Bridges. The husband has finally decided to go to the hospital, but the wife doesn't want to move, not even for a few days. I tried to call you but your line was busy..." He bent over to the phone. "Oops, the phone isn't in right. That's why it gave a busy signal." He lifted the receiver and set it back into the cradle. "So thinking you weren't available, I arranged for temporary help. For two days, a nurse's aide will stay with Mrs. Bridges. Then we'll see what to do next." He glanced at Allison. "Is something wrong?" He studied her face. "You look exhausted. Almost sick."

Allison shook her head. "No. I..." She was tempted to confess her troubles to Marvin. She'd have somebody to lean on. But Marvin looked so relaxed and happy, she shied away from that thought.

"Oh, good. You had me worried for a moment." Marvin crossed his legs. "Tomorrow I have to go to Britel. We've got three sick animals on three different farms. I'd like to check out the situation in person, take a look around, talk to the vet." He glanced at Allison who stood in front of him, her arms behind her. He tapped on the sofa. "Here, Allison. Come sit."

Allison sat down mechanically.

"So if you want to visit Mrs. Bridges, I can take you there. It's close to where I have to go."

"Oh, I see. It might be a good idea."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Marvin leaned toward her and lifted her chin. "Now that everything is back to normal, you should start to relax."

"Right." Allison felt the urge to rest her head on his shoulder. "Just a bit tired. Maybe a touch of the flu."

"Then you should be in bed, and forget about coming with me tomorrow."

"No! No, I'll take a couple of aspirin. I'm sure I'll be okay by tomorrow morning." It felt so good to be near him.

Marvin let go of her chin. "Then I should go home and let you rest." He got up and walked toward the door. "So, lock the door and sleep well."

Allison nodded. "Good night, Marvin." Her eyes followed him until he disappeared behind the door. Marvin was such a nice man, so attentive... He'd been a rock for her in the last few months. Never failed to be there when she needed him most. And he liked her. She hadn't missed that. She sighed wistfully. He wasn't shy around the female sex, everybody knew that. All the same, it would be nice to hug him, kiss him... One time, before being locked up forever.

## Chapter 26

Allison closed the door of the Bridges' house behind her and joined Marvin in his Jeep. "Brrr... This wind is cold. It goes right to the bone."

"I know. I set thermostat and fan at their max and, yet, it's hardly warm in here." He gave Allison a long, warm smile. "How are things with Mrs. Bridges?" He put his Jeep in motion.

"As well as could be expected, given the circumstances. She was happy to see me. The live-in help seems to be a nice girl. It'll work out for a few days." She glanced at Marvin. "What about your day?" she asked.

"I talked to the vet. He reassured me. The animals at the three farms died, but he had run some tests and he's sure the deaths are unrelated. In any case he'll keep a close eye on the situation." He looked at Allison. "Feeling all right?"

"Yes." She looked out of the window and checked the low clouds. "We're in for bad weather. Any other stops before we head back?"

"Just one, up in the hills on the shore of the Upper Lake," said Marvin. "I hope we can make it before dark." His Jeep climbed without effort, the tires squeaking at each sharp turn.

The wind boosted whirls of leaves against the windshield. The sky, a heavy grey blanket, almost grazed the vehicle, making visibility poor, at times almost nil. Allison glanced at Marvin. His eyes were glued to the road, his attention focused on driving. Half an hour later they reached a glade. On a rise close to the wood's fringe stood a small cottage.

"Here we are," Marvin said with a sign of relief. He stopped the Jeep close to the base of the rise. "I'll park here," he said. "We'll have to walk up a few steps."

Allison lifted up the hood of her new snowsuit and adjusted the visor. She looked through the windshield. All she could see was a flurry of white flakes dancing in a dizzying whirl. She got disoriented as soon as she stepped out of the Jeep. "There's nobody here," she said. "Whose place is this?"

"Mine." Marvin opened the door. "Come up, Allison, it's freezing outside."

Allison didn't move. She zipped her jacket up to the neck and stood, not knowing what to do. She'd daydreamed about Marvin, even thought about making love to him, and now her cheeks flushed at the memory. She'd never really expected to be alone with him, except for a ride in his vehicle. She certainly wasn't prepared for anything like this: an isolated cabin in the woods, nobody around for miles, just the two of them...

Slowly, she walked up to the cabin.

"Let's go inside," said Marvin, "To warm up and talk a little."

"Marvin, I don't think it's a good idea," she whispered.

"Better than standing outside," Marvin said, his voice light. He took her hand and led her inside. With the other hand he carried a cooler. "Make yourself at home," he said softly.

"This is a mistake, Marvin," she murmured, her heart in turmoil.

"What's a mistake? Having a rest?" He deposited the cooler on the floor and grabbed a Coleman lamp from the ceiling. "Let's make a bit of light," he said. He lit the lamp. "There we are. Welcome to my humble place." He took off his coat. He unzipped Allison's and moved behind her to slip it off. "As you can see, there's only one big room—it's kitchen, living room and bedroom all rolled into one. Only the washroom is separate." He moved the cooler close to the stove and opened it.

She should stop him, Allison thought. Marvin always managed to create a reassuring, heartening atmosphere around her. An atmosphere in which she felt tempted to show her feelings. She'd been able to fight that temptation before and she had to do it now too—if for no other reason, because he didn't deserve to be dragged into the life of a criminal ready to be exposed.

Marvin looked at her. "Sit down. I brought some food and I'll heat water for a good cup of tea." He spread a plastic tablecloth on the rough table, and took two sandwiches, paper dishes and a carton of milk out of the cooler. He deposited a pie on the table. "This is the best part of the meal. Blueberry pie, made by my sister. Super. Nobody bakes like her." He finally looked directly at her. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Yes, but—" She should insist on being taken home, but she was too happy to be here. The lamp cast a flickering beam on Marvin's face—how handsome he was. He kept looking at her, and that made her feel like she was the center of the world. She sat at the table. "We should be on our way home," she whispered.

"We will, but not just right away," Marvin replied evenly. "Jasmine tea coming up," he added. He poured water into two cups and took them to the table.

"How come it's so warm inside the cottage?" Allison asked.

"I had somebody come over this afternoon to turn the propane stove on and cut some wood."

"Do you come here often?" Allison asked as she bit into her tuna fish sandwich.

"Only in the good season. The lake in front of the cottage is full of trout. I love fishing."

"Alone?"

"Mostly. It doesn't happen often that I sit here, like now, with a beautiful woman."

If only he knew how she'd longed for a chance to be alone with him. And now it might be the last chance they'd ever have of being together. She tried to cover up her feelings. "We should be going back."

"We'll go back. I don't intend to kidnap you," he said as he ate his sandwich with big bites. "This is just a stop to rest after a long, tiring day."

Maybe it's just that, Allison thought. Maybe her imagination was running away on her. Maybe Marvin was playing the usual role of a concerned, helpful friend. Allison quietly finished her sandwich and wiped off the crumbs. "I have to admit that tasted awfully good," she said. She poured herself a glass of milk. "Want some too?"

"Sure. But I'll drink it later, with the pie. Right now I'm going to light a real fire. Then we can sit in front of it and relax." Marvin rolled back the rug and kneeled in front of the fireplace. He deftly stacked up kindling to build a fire. "There," he said as the first flames leaped up. He rocked back on his heels and gave a satisfied nod. "That's a good start."

Allison followed Marvin's movements in silence. It didn't look like he was in a hurry to leave. In fact, soon after, Marvin dropped two small logs on top of the flames. He dragged the rug back in front of the fireplace, stripped two chairs of their cushions and deposited them on the rug, close to each other.

"Ready," he said. "We can sit there for a while, and chat a little." He gestured at the two quilted pillows.

Allison descended the two steps separating the kitchen from the remaining area. The entire atmosphere reminded her of her first visit to Marvin's house, when she'd just arrived in the fall.

One of the logs crackled as it split into pieces, making Marvin turn sharply. He grabbed the fire irons, rearranged the wood and set two huge logs on top of the now short, even flames. "This fire should last for a while." He turned to face Allison and slowly put his arms around her waist. "Now a kiss to warm up the heart," he said and bent to brush her lips with his.

The moment she'd feared, and yet desperately wanted, had come. Allison put her hands on his shoulders. "Marvin," she murmured. "Oh, Marvin..."

He smothered her words with a kiss, pressing his mouth onto hers. He pulled her close, running his hands up and down her back. When he let go minutes later, he looked into her eyes. "You don't know how long I've waited for this moment." He caressed her forehead and then her hair. "Today, when we started our trip, down in the valley, I saw a new light in your face. A surrender to your feelings." He hugged her tight, his hands stroking her body.

Her body felt alive, wanting. Wanting to touch him, wanting to be close to him, wanting to be part of him. Marvin kneeled to untie her shoelaces and helped her to kick off her mountain shoes. "These snow pants," he said, "they're way too warm for around here." Slowly he slid them down. He caressed her bare legs from her ankles up to her hips. "I'd like to undress you, Allison," he whispered as he rose.

Allison nodded, closing her eyes.

He unbuttoned her flannel shirt. "These two firm little breasts—I saw them peeping through a couple of blouses, like mischievous little kids. I think they want to come out and play."

Allison reopened her eyes to rake a hand through his hair. She'd been wanting to do that for a long time.

Marvin's hands moved without rest over her body. He stroked her buttocks. "Your underwear doesn't cover much." He moved behind her. "Look here: your little rump is peeking out," he said with a grin. "We might as well slip your panties off, right?" He hooked his fingers underneath the elastic band, and the flimsy garment whispered down her legs.

His last maneuver left Allison totally naked. He stood up behind her and kissed her neck. "You could drive a man crazy, you know that? You almost drove me crazy—and that was with your clothes on." He caressed her shoulders. "Let me look at you."

She slowly turned around to face him.

"Oh, Lord..." He caught his breath. "My beautiful Allison," he said as he lifted her up and carried her to the bed. "No doubts?" he asked, his voice husky.

"No doubts," Allison repeated, her voice clear. "Come, Marvin, come make love to me."

Marvin began to undress himself, each piece of clothing flying off and onto the floor. In no time he was on top of her. "Allison, I dreamed of making love to you every time I saw you. I dreamed of you at night. Daytime too. You became an obsession." He kissed her face. "I'll never let you go."

She put her arms around him and opened up to him. "I want you," she whispered. "I want all of you."

## Chapter 27

March 1999

With the darkness of night the blizzard vanished, leaving behind a soft, thick blanket of snow. As dawn rapidly changed into day, a playful sun bounced its rays from snowflake to snowflake. Some branches of pine trees, succumbing to the weight of the accumulated snow, bent downward, at places grazing the ground. The lake looked like an immaculate, recently starched tablecloth.

"It's beautiful," said Allison, looking out the little kitchen window. "Mother nature staged a superb show just for us." The cottage, high on the lakeshore, offered a spectacular view of the countryside. "Thank you, Marvin. Thank you for bringing me back to life. Even if it's only for a day."

Marvin hugged her tight from behind. "It doesn't have to be for one day, Allison. We can have many happy days together." Marvin turned her around, bringing her body very close to his.

"Don't talk like that. You don't know what you're saying." Allison gave him a pained look.

"I know you've got problems. I'd like to make them mine."

"You shouldn't be involved in my life, Marvin. My life is a sad story. I'm married. And I can't break loose."

"Your husband has something on you. Something he threatens you with. Right? And that's why you can't leave him?"

"He—" Allison began. "It's better if you don't know. It's better if you never know." She reached up to put her arms around his neck. "You've been a wonderful friend to me."

Marvin lifted her chin and looked into her eyes as if he wanted to draw out her soul. "I want to know," he said gravely. "I don't give up easily."

Allison shook her head. "No, Marvin. You shouldn't get involved."

"But I am involved, Allison. I love you." He took her hand. "Let's sit on the sofa and talk." Marvin clasped her hands in his. "Trust me, Allison. Your secret, whatever it may be, is safe with me."

"I can only bring you sorrow," Allison whispered.

"I can cope with that." He kissed her hands. "I wasn't born yesterday. I know what it means to be in trouble."

"You? In trouble? But you always seem so much in control..." Allison pulled one hand free to stroke his hair. "You're such a good person. It's easy to picture you as a knight in shining armor, coming to my rescue." She gave him a sad smile. "But, you see, I'm not an innocent damsel in distress. If you knew the kind of trouble I'm in, you'd want nothing more to do with me."

"Try me."

She turned away abruptly. "It's one thing to lose your friendship. It's quite another to lose your respect."

"You've already earned my respect three times over," he said quietly. "Nothing could change that." Still she wouldn't look at him.

"So you've made some mistake," Marvin said. "So you've done something you're ashamed of." He shrugged. "The real mistake is that you've already made up your mind that I will judge you."

She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "You don't understand—"

He took her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "Allison, I think you've run afoul of the law and now you're in over your head. You've been trying to deal with this all by yourself, and it's eating you up." He shook her gently. "Talk to me. Please."

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

"I told you, I know what I'm talking about. I was in _that kind_ of trouble, not too long ago. The life-and-death kind."

"Your life was at stake?" Allison asked, surprised.

"Not just mine. My wife's too."

"I didn't know you were married!"

"Very few people know."

She pulled her knees up to her chin, studying his face. "What happened? Things didn't work out between you two?"

Now it was Marvin's turn to look away. "She died," he said simply. Then he stretched out on the sofa and pulled her to him. "Come lie on top of me, my little bunny. I like to feel you against me, even if we just talk." He kissed her on the forehead.

Allison kissed Marvin as if it were for the last time. Her voice trailing off in a whisper, she said, "I killed a man." Marvin remained impassive. She lowered her head. "I killed my husband's boyfriend."

"What!" Marvin shouted. He pulled her away from his body to look into her eyes. "What did you say? His boyfriend?"

Allison looked at him, her face expressionless. "You heard right. I surprised him having sex with a man. Four weeks after we were married."

Marvin lightly kissed her on her eyes and hugged her tight.

Cradled in his arms, Allison continued, "I don't remember anything after walking in on them, except that I poured myself a stiff drink and downed it like medicine. I don't even remember what it was. I just grabbed the first bottle I found in the liquor cabinet."

Marvin stroked her back soothingly.

"My husband has the murder recorded on tape."

Marvin stopped petting her. "Recorded on tape? How did he do that?"

"I don't know. He's always playing around with cameras. He's an amateur photographer, you know."

Marvin sighed. "So he's blackmailing you."

Allison shook her head. "Not directly. He disposed of the body and covered up for me, but somebody helped him out. That somebody blackmails him—us." Allison brushed a bit of lint off Marvin's shirt. "That's my story, in short. As I said, it's a sad one."

"Mr. Saint-Clair noticed that you behaved as if you were afraid of Ian." Marvin kissed her again. For a while both were silent. "Well, maybe we should take a walk. The sun has been out for a while. What do you think?"

Allison didn't move. "I'm not finished, Marvin. You should know the rest."

"There's more?" Marvin's voice went up.

Allison nodded. "Sometime ago, Ian made a copy of that infamous tape and delivered it to me—a reminder to get the money he asked for. I was late in providing it, since I had problems in getting the full amount."

"How much? Sorry, forget about that. Go on."

"A few days ago I watched it again. There I am, grabbing the poker near the fireplace and swinging it around, until I hit the poor man." Allison's voice trembled. "I still can't believe I could do anything like that." She hesitated. "I remember when I walked in on them, I was far more stunned than angry. Seeing them writhing on the floor, naked, their limbs entwined... Lots of snorting and panting, and one of them yelling 'No! No!' It somehow looked like an uneven wrestling match." Allison broke into tears. "I couldn't figure it out. Ian had said such sweet things. He said he couldn't live without me. Why? Why did Ian marry me if..." She choked up with tears.

Marvin took a tissue and dried her face. "Maybe you should stop, love," he said. "It may be too much. All at once."

"No," Allison said firmly. She took another tissue, blew her nose and dried her eyes. "You've got a right to know who you're mixed up with. I had the tape in my apartment." Her voice almost broke. "Yesterday I looked for it. It wasn't anywhere."

"The tape disappeared?" Marvin looked at her with incredulity.

"Vanished, Marvin. I looked everywhere. Before you came to see me last night." She paused. "Remember when you came?"

"Yes. You looked upset."

"I'd just finished putting everything back in its place. When I heard somebody at the door, I thought the police had come to arrest me."

"Holy mother of God!" Marvin murmured. "Somebody else has a copy of that cassette. Oh, Allison..."

"I'm a murderess and a forgetful idiot. That is who I am, Marvin." She rose abruptly. "You shouldn't be mixed up with me. Take me home and forget about me."

Marvin rose too. "I'll take you home. It's getting late. But I won't forget about you, Allison. You're my woman, now."

## Chapter 28

Luke Saint-Clair glanced with satisfaction at the studio walls. He'd rearranged his son's paintings and cleaned all the books of the family's artistic collection. He looked at the old desk: its leather top, kept in place by flat, brass nails, had several deep scratches. He dusted them carefully, then polished them to a shine. He glanced around. Everything was neat and in order. He walked over to a carton box and got out one of the copies of Jennifer Dustin's album. He'd seen a draft of it before, but this was the official, final version. He leafed through it, admiring the way Jennifer had alternated text with pictures. Vern's life was all there, he thought with sadness.

The door burst open and Ian wheeled in. "So here's where you've been hiding," he said. "I called you three times yesterday. And again this morning."

"Hi, Ian. I wasn't in. I took care of my father's tomb. Allison left it to me to decide on the stone," he said. "So I was busy."

"Sure. You have to play the affectionate son, even if he didn't leave you a cent. You're an idiot."

"I can live here for as long as I want. And he left me a small monthly allowance." Luke paused. "I didn't deserve either."

"You don't have to deserve in order to inherit," asserted Ian. "It's just normal. But, of course, your father hated you."

Luke sighed. "I disappointed my father. Many, many times over. Once I stole from him. I hurt him by not taking care of my own family." He looked at Ian. "He didn't hate me. He was incapable of hatred. But you wouldn't understand."

"Now you're at the mercy of your daughter if you need any money. So am I. Fortunately, she's my wife." A smirk appeared on his face. As he moved close to the desk, his wheelchair hit the box with Vern's albums. "What is that?" he asked.

"The publication my father commissioned. All Vern's paintings and sketches are there, each with a nice comment, date and occasion. Jennifer Dustin has done a good job." Luke closed the album in front of him and handed it to Ian. "Want to see it?"

"No! The work of that bitch who caught us here, naked? I don't want to see anything of hers. Garbage!" He hit the book, making it fly up in the air. He closed in on Luke and caressed his arm. "I missed you," he whispered. "Let's go to my motel."

"I can't. I'm the family cook, remember?"

Ian sighed. "Let's talk, then. When do they start rebuilding?"

"Next week. Allison approved all the architect's suggestions. They'll do the guest room first. You'll have your nice quarters back in no time. So you should start to relax," Luke concluded, moving to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to check on my dish: a big trout with a stuffing of crab and shrimp. I invited Mr. Garland to join us for supper." Luke looked at the grandfather clock near the fireplace. "They phoned they might be a bit late."

"What do you mean, _they_?"

"Allison had to go to see a sick woman. He had to check on some cattle. They were caught out in the storm and had to stay the night."

"They were away _together_? _For the night_?" Ian hissed.

"I guess so."

"You mean they spent the night at the same place?"

"I think so. What's the problem? They were on a business trip."

"Yes. I know what kind of business!" Ian snarled. He pressed the button to start the motor and wheeled out as fast as he came in.

## Chapter 29

By tacit consent, Allison and Marvin didn't talk about their romantic encounter. Like two old companions, they chatted about the nothings of life. A few miles before arriving at Les Capucines, Allison asked, "What happened to your poor great-grandfather, the one who kissed the lord's daughter and got flogged?"

Marvin laughed. "He eloped with the girl and her dowry. All in gold coins. Enough to pay for the trip to America and a small farm in Georgia. They became one of the largest producers of pecans. My cousins are rich."

Allison laughed too. "You made me feel sorry for your great-grandfather and by association, for you." She brushed his arm with her elbow. "You're terrible. You handled me like you handle your Grand Cherokee. With great skill. That shows a lot of practice."

"Okay," said Marvin. He looked at her and smiled. "I put my two cents of experience into that play. I know it's effective with women. It makes them feel sorry for me."

"Right. That was the effect it had on me. How many times have you used it?"

"Well, I better not say." He extended his arm to ruffle her hair.

"You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Not at all. I'm big and strong. Women may feel intimidated. That little story makes me a bit... How should I say it? Vulnerable."

"And they love that," Allison concluded.

"I wouldn't know. But it works." He glanced at Allison. "Forgiven?"

"I'll think about it," Allison said, faking a pout. Then her face went serious. "Marvin, I've told you everything there is to know about me. In return, I'd like to know what happened to your wife."

"I'll tell you everything about her. We just have to find the time and the right place." After a moment of silence, Marvin asked, "When will I see you again? I mean, when will I hold you in my arms again?"

"Oh, Marvin, we have to be careful. My husband is—" She stopped. "Ian isn't normal. There's something very wrong with him."

"I understand. Don't worry. I'll be careful." As they arrived at Allison's apartment, Marvin reached to open his door.

"Don't bother, Marvin. I can grab my bag. We're late. Go home and come back for supper. Luke is probably anxious to show off one of his new dishes."

***

The door was unlocked. That was strange; she was positive she'd locked up. Oh, well. The cleaning crew probably forgot to turn the key when they left. She was just through the small hallway when a beam of light shone on her face. She sheltered her eyes with her hand and strained to see what was ahead. Ian was aiming the floor lamp at her, his eyes sparkling with fury.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

Allison tried to skirt him, but she didn't make it.

He seized her arm. "Where did you spend last night?"

"I went to see the Bridges. The husband is at the hospital and the wife can't leave her bed." She tried to disengage herself.

"Bullshit. I asked you where you were last night."

"Let me go," Allison yelled. She glanced at the wheelchair—the brakes weren't on. As Ian began to twist her arm, she kicked one of the wheels as hard as she could. The wheelchair went into a spin and Ian ended up on the other side of the room.

"How dare you?" Ian rose from the wheelchair and moved toward Allison, his arms spread to balance himself.

For a second, Allison was stunned at the presence of the giant who was moving toward her. She didn't react. Then Ian staggered. To avoid falling, he grabbed the floor lamp. With a quick move Allison wedged her body between the side of the couch and the little fish tank.

Ian regained control of his legs and closed in on her. With a karate hit he smashed a side table, with another, the coffee table. "That's what I can do to you," he shouted. He stood there, for a moment seemingly motionless. "I want to know where you spent last night! You know I can send a certain tape to the police!"

Allison flattened her body against the wall, as much to shield herself from Ian as to buy time to think. Ian could stand. He could walk. He didn't really need the wheelchair at all! The implications chilled her to the marrow. How long had he played his game of make-believe? And why?

She looked at him, standing only a few yards away from her. She could read rage on his face.

Ian grinned at her. "You've painted yourself into a corner, haven't you, little Allison?" He shuffled forward, his legs weak but his powerful arms moving in slow circles, chopping the air. His left hand moved fast as lightning. The floor lamp toppled and crashed against the coffee table. The light blinked out.

"Oh, Allison! Where are you!" The words came out in a singsong, as if he were playing hide and seek.

Allison could barely see him in the dim light filtering from the outside. She could hear his advancing steps, though, labored but moving closer. She stifled a sob.

She stood very still. The wall felt cool and solid against her shoulders.

Ian's arm lashed out, a black blur in the semidarkness, followed by the startling noise of breaking glass. He'd knocked one of her vases to the floor. "Allison! Oh, little Allison! I'm going to get you! Come out come out, wherever you are! I've got a tape you are just going to love! Want me to send it in to America's Funniest Home Videos? Or to the police?"

She braced herself. If the time of truth had to come, let it come. "No more blackmailing, Ian. You can show the tape to anybody you want."

With a roar, he threw his body against the couch, again and again. He was using his full weight to ram the heavy object sideways, squeezing Allison against the fish tank. Allison jumped on the back of the couch, while Ian, with a last thrust, bulldozed the couch into the aquarium. Water splashed onto the couch, on Allison and all over the floor.

Ian jerked his head around as he heard noise at the door.

The room brightened with light. Luke had turned on the ceiling lamp as he entered. His slender body slid into the living room. "What's all the commotion..." He looked at Ian, at the smashed tables and at Allison, perched on the back of the couch.

"Luke, help me!" Allison shouted. "Get Ian out of here!" When Luke didn't move, she raised her voice. "Father, for God's sake, help me!"

Cautiously, Luke fetched Ian's wheelchair and moved it over to him. "Sit here Ian," he said. "Let me take you to the house."

"What? I want to have a little discussion with my wife. You get out! Now!" He leaned against the wheelchair, swaying it left and right.

"I don't want Allison hurt. You know that."

Ian pushed hard against the wheelchair, charging at Luke. Luke stepped aside at the last moment. Ian tried to turn, but too late. The momentum of the wheelchair propelled him forward, crashing headlong into the china cabinet. With a groan of battered wood the cabinet toppled. Dishes and glassware smashed through the doors, shattering on impact, bombarding Ian with shards and chunks. He raised an arm to protect himself. A bowl hit him behind the ear and his arm fell back by his side. With a big scream he tumbled to the floor and then he moved no more.

Luke turned to Allison. He rushed over to her. He extended a hand to help her to step down from the back of the couch. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay. Thanks to you."

"I didn't do anything. I didn't know what to do."

"I had absolutely no idea Ian could walk!" Allison glanced at her husband. Ian's head seemed to be stuck between two shelves. "He's injured," she said and moved toward him.

Luke stopped her. "I'll take care of Ian." He grabbed the phone from the floor. "You're all wet, Allison. Go and change. Have something to eat. Dinner is on the table. I'll call for an ambulance and stay with Ian until things quiet down."

## Chapter 30

Malcolm descended the spiral stairway to the basement cautiously, his big feet hardly fitting the steps. He tapped on the door of Ed Dustin's office.

"Come in," Ed shouted. He was bent over an editing machine connected to a VCR. "You won't believe this videotape." He turned his head to face Malcolm. "I'm making a copy of it." His voice was tinged with excitement.

"Where did you get it?" Malcolm asked.

"At Les Capucines." For a moment the only noise was the whirring of the two tapes. "The corridor door leading to Mrs. Summer's apartment wasn't locked. I took a look around," Ed said with a contrite expression.

"You took more than a look, if you ask me," Malcolm replied, laughing.

Ed closed the vertical blinds. "I'm almost finished. Take a seat in front of the TV, Malcolm. As I said, you won't believe its contents."

"A porn flick?" Malcolm joked as he slumped into one of the bright yellow chairs.

"No. A snuff movie," Ed replied. He turned the TV on and took a seat next to Malcolm. They watched in silence.

When the tape went blank, Malcolm rubbed his chin. "Rewind it, will you? Go back to the scene before Allison brandishes the poker." Ed complied. "I want to watch those scenes in slow motion. Freeze some, maybe."

"Why?" Ed asked.

"Something doesn't convince me. Some frames aren't clear. Stop right there!" Malcolm leaned toward the screen. "Give me the control, Ed." He let a few images go by. "That's our girl, Allison Summer. Watch now. Watch for the light on her, on her nightgown. Then look at the next frame: the light seems to come from another direction. Less intense too." Malcolm kept clicking the remote, moving back and forth a few frames at a time. "Something doesn't fit. This tape should be examined for authenticity. Analyze the consistency of the shooting, of the environment and of the lighting. Not to mention the actors."

"I'm not sure I'd like to explain where the tape comes from," Ed said sheepishly. "I can't very well use the crime lab."

Malcolm laughed. "You sure can't. But I can ship it to my lab at the Invicta. They should analyze it carefully. Tell us whether it's for real."

Ed pushed the snow blower toward the road; Malcolm, in charge of the fine work, maneuvered a huge, brown broom dusting the snow off the driveway's edges.

Charles Sutherland's car stopped abruptly in front of them. He got out and slammed the door. "PIs at work!" he exclaimed over the noise of the blower's engine. "What's this story I got on my phonemail, that you've got a murder on tape? I couldn't understand the message. The wording was funny. The communication, fuzzy."

Malcolm looked up, hiding a grin. This was going to be an interesting scene.

"Yeah," Ed said, switching off the blower. "We came across a tape... Malcolm here—you know Malcolm, right?"

Charles nodded briefly.

"He'll ship it to his lab for testing." Ed looked at Malcolm, even as he addressed Charles. "It's probably nothing." He finally faced the scrutinizing eyes of his former boss. "Maybe you want to have a look at it. But really, it might be a joke of some sort."

"A joke?" Charles began to tug at his necktie.

"Well..." Ed looked at Malcolm with imploring eyes.

Malcolm hesitated. He enjoyed the scene so much he didn't want to intervene prematurely. He went back to sweeping—a bit here, a bit there.

"Let's go inside and watch the tape," Charles said.

"Wait," said Ed. "Malcolm!"

Finally Malcolm decided to talk. "Let's say the tape is part of an agreement between our two agencies." The words purposely meant nothing, but he was sure Charles understood he was expected not to give Ed the big sermon he deserved.

Ed, encouraged, added, "We'll let you watch it informally, as a favor among friends." He became even braver. "But no questions asked."

"Fine," said Charles brusquely. "Let's go at it, then. I don't have all day."

The show over, Charles sipped his coffee without looking at either Malcolm or Ed. "You're shipping the cassette to your lab?" he asked Malcolm after a while.

"That's my intention," Malcolm replied. Both he and Ed had agreed to leave Charles free to take the tape, if he wanted to do so.

"Fine," Charles said, emptying his mug. "Whatever the origin is, whatever the..." He stopped and rose. "I mean, let me know the result of your analysis. It couldn't be used in a court of law, since the tape wasn't—" Charles gave a sharp look at Ed, "wasn't obtained according to procedure," he finished quickly. "But it could help us gain insight into the case."

"Sure," replied Malcolm. "I'll give you a call as soon as the analysis is done."

"It could be a cut-and-paste exercise. A piece of a movie to practice digital image composition," Ed said.

"Yes. It could very well be. It might also be a test to assess Mrs. Summer's ability to act, something like that," Charles said, getting ready to leave. He stopped in the doorway. "In any case, we'll keep an eye on our girl Allison. With her grandfather's death, she has inherited a fortune." He sighed. "The inquest didn't exclude arson. We just couldn't prove it."

## Chapter 31

April 1999

Marvin and Allison didn't lose any time. They combed Ian's living quarters looking for the original of the incriminating tape. It wasn't there. It made sense that Ian had stashed it in a safe place outside the house.

The good news was, however, that Allison had found her own copy in her living room, stuck underneath a corner of the heat register behind the long curtains. Marvin had never seen Allison so thrilled. The fact that the tape had been missing still weighed on their minds, but as time went by without anything happening, they began to believe that maybe she'd overreacted. Ian might have taken it with him and put it back later. Also, Allison didn't remember having looked carefully anywhere near the heat register. But most importantly of all, it was clear that the tape hadn't fallen into dangerous hands.

Marvin had watched it over and over in the solitude of his own house. He couldn't bring himself to believe that his little bunny could do anything of that sort, with or without alcohol in her veins. Something was wrong. He immediately suggested that Allison seek legal advice. She couldn't do it without Ian's consent, Allison had replied firmly. And she knew far too well how Ian would react to the word _legal_ or _lawyer_.

Allison's calm acceptance of Ian's recent explosion of violence was another concern. He didn't think it was wise to drop all charges against him simply because he'd agreed to undergo psychiatric treatment. Luke's description of what had happened didn't leave a shred of doubt about Ian's intentions toward her. But Allison felt Ian needed help, not punishment. The irrefutable proof of her thinking, Allison kept saying, was in Ian's behavior itself: no normal person would spend his days in a wheelchair if he could walk.

At first Marvin had been stunned by her attitude. His relationship with Allison, however, was too recent and yet far too frail to press the issue. He'd keep his worries to himself. He shouldn't forget that Allison had been raised by old Saint-Clair. He too would focus on people's needs, rarely suspect of their evil and always offer a second chance to the offender.

He should lay back. Forget about the entire issue for the time being, as Ian would stay at the hospital for at least a couple weeks. He looked at his watch. Allison was late. He was going to give her a call when he heard the asthmatic noise of her old car.

As Allison joined him in the living room, he gave her a big hug. "Finally you're here! I missed you."

"From this morning to now? It's only two in the afternoon."

"Yes. And I'll miss you all the time we're not together." He gathered two pillows, fluffed them and tossed them back on the chesterfield. He gestured Allison to lie down. "There, see if they're comfortable," he said.

"Excellent. No pillow for you?"

"Oh, yes. The best in town: your soft tummy." He stretched on the chesterfield, letting his legs hang from the armrest.

"Time to tell your story," said Allison.

"Oh, that's why you came, eh? To hear my story, not to see me..."

"Exactly. You've tried to avoid talking about your lost love. And I want to know."

"Promise me that you won't get jealous."

"Promise."

Marvin began, "I'd gone to a congress for young farmers in New Jersey. I don't remember the exact topic—New Approaches to Farming—or something like that. I stayed there until six o'clock, the time for the closing session to wrap up the presentations. I decided to make it back to my hometown, Calvert, without stopping. I'd just driven a few miles on a back road, when I saw a young woman walking ahead of me. Almost immediately she took off for the woods on my right and disappeared. I stopped my car half a mile ahead, just after a turn. I switched the lights on, got out of the car, stood in front of it so I could be well visible, and lit a cigarette. I was ready to light a second one, when I heard steps crunching on dry leaves. A woman appeared about ten feet behind my car, a silvery raincoat on, the strap of a big purse across her chest, the hood of her raincoat up. It wasn't dark yet, but I couldn't distinguish her face. I didn't move. I just called, 'Can I be of help?'

"She didn't answer. She approached the car cautiously and said, 'Can you give me a lift?'

" 'Sure, that's the reason I stopped. Get in.'

"She opened the door and entered my car. I started driving and said, 'Going anywhere?'

" 'Yes. Wherever you're going,' she answered. She spoke in a whisper, and her voice wavered like that of an older person.

"I laughed. 'I'm going north. All the way. I'm headed for Canada, near North Bay. You probably don't want to go that far.'

" 'Then—' Her voice wavered even more. 'Then drop me at the border.'

" 'Can I see your face?' I said. I switched on the indoor light. She turned her face and aimed two light grey eyes at me. 'Nice face,' I murmured. 'And there's a name attached to it?'

" 'Charlene,' she said curtly.

" 'Hi, Charlene. My name is Marvin. Marvin Garland.' I turned the light off and kept driving. She didn't talk, nor did I, for quite a while. Then I said, 'Are you in some kind of trouble?'

" 'Yes. I need to put a lot of distance between where you found me and where you'll drop me off.'

" 'Fine, then. I will drop you off before we reach the border. I'm sure you don't want to go to Canada.'

" 'Canada would be even better,' she said, her voice even feebler than before.

" 'But you need ID to pass the border.'

" 'I have documents,' she whispered.

"I heard an insistent noise. I turned the indoor light on again to figure out where it came from. 'You're shaking,' I said. She still wore her coat, hood too.

" 'I'm tired,' she said. 'Very tired.'

" 'Why don't you stretch out on the backseat and take a nap? You may be more comfortable.' I tried to sound casual. She looked at me and parted two well-shaped lips into a tiny smile. Her lips were a vivid, coral pink. Her cheeks were very reddish. I pointed to a can of 7Up, took a container out of my coat pocket and said, 'Maybe you'd like to have a couple of aspirin. You seem to be running a fever.'

" 'Thanks.' She opened the can and container, counted six pills and swallowed them. In one big gulp she finished her drink. 'Thanks, Marvin.'

"She moved to the back. When I looked at her again, she lay on her stomach, breathing loud and irregularly. I'd drive until she'd wake up, I told myself. But, soon after midnight, I felt tired, sleepy.

"I stopped at a Super 8 Motel and got a room with twin beds. I tried to wake Charlene up, but she'd slipped into a deep sleep. I took her in my arms and deposited her onto the bed near the door, in exactly the same position she'd been in the car. I gently took off her raincoat and hood. Something stunned me. Her hair had been shaved off. In places, the razor had left its bloody mark.

"I felt her pulse. She was running a fever. A good night's sleep would make her feel better, I thought. I took her shoes off and covered her with a blanket."

"My knight," said Allison, bending to kiss his forehead. "He wouldn't resist helping a damsel in distress."

"Well, not any damsel, really. Only one almost as pretty as my little bunny." Marvin sat up and began caressing her legs.

"Don't get sidetracked," said Allison. "I really want you to continue your story."

Marvin resumed. "When I woke up, around seven o'clock, Charlene had moved only a little. Her head was turned to the opposite side and her feet stuck out of the blanket. I looked at them: they were blistered, had been burned in several spots, one heel was bleeding and full of puss. I should take her to a hospital, I thought at first, but then I decided to wait. I left a message: 'Be right back. Your chauffeur Marvin.'

"I drove to the nearby town and shopped for her: a pair of jeans size eight, a flannel shirt, a white cap, two pairs of loosely knit socks, an antibiotic cream and plenty of gauze. Back at the motel, I got breakfast for two.

"When I returned to our room, the door was locked. As I knocked, Charlene lifted the corner of one curtain and looked at me. Only then did she open the door.

" 'Good morning, Charlene.' I tried to sound cheerful. 'Breakfast is here.' I slid the brown bag onto the coffee table and carefully deposited the corrugated carton with the two coffees. I looked at her. Her face was a perfect oval, her eyebrows were gold with a sprinkle of red, her nose was small, slightly bent upward. She was wearing a short dress, showing off two well-shaped legs. She looked like a porcelain figurine: beautiful, fragile. 'Do you feel better this morning?' I invited her to sit.

" 'Yes, better. Thank you, Marvin. Could I—you wouldn't have more aspirin by any chance?' Her voice was more stable than the day before. 'I have a bad headache.'

" 'Here they are.' I gave her the container. She took six tablets and swallowed them with some coffee.

" 'I bought you some practical clothes,' I said casually. I pointed to the bag I'd tossed on my bed. 'Maybe you can use them.' She was clearly in pain, and my guess was that it wasn't only because of a headache.

"I ate my breakfast. She didn't touch hers. 'Why don't you try this scone? It might help to keep the aspirin down.' I smiled at her, in an attempt to reassure her.

"Surprisingly, she smiled back. 'I'll try,' she said, and started nibbling at it.

" 'By the way, don't you think we should stop at the local hospital and have your feet looked at?' I asked.

" 'No!' she shouted. 'No, please. No hospital. I washed them. They're okay.'

"They were raw, the skin had burned off in several places, and she said they were okay. This girl must be in deep trouble, that's what I thought. 'I bought you some gauze and ointment. Maybe I can bandage them. I took a first-aid course.'

" 'Oh, no. I can do it.' She took the bag and disappeared in the washroom.

" 'Are you sure you don't need help?' I called through the closed door.

" 'Oh, yes. I mean no, I don't need any help.' She opened the door and showed her face. 'Give me fifteen minutes. Then I'll be ready to leave.'

"We drove in silence, Charlene being asleep most of time. One hour before reaching the Peace Bridge, I said, 'They'll ask to see your papers, Charlene. If you're in trouble with the law, they will know.'

" 'I'm not in trouble with the law,' she said in a firm tone.

"I looked at her. She was still wearing her fancy dress underneath the flannel shirt I bought for her. The white cap hid her bald spots. Her feet were wrapped with gauze that peeped through the big knitted socks.

" 'What kind of trouble, then, Charlene?'

" 'I'd rather not say.' Her voice was cold. 'Thank you for all you've done for me. Just drop me off on the other side of the border. Wherever you want.'

" 'That's not what I meant!' I shouted. I stopped the car on the road shoulder. 'You said you have ID. Can I see it?'

"Charlene opened her purse and handed me her driver's license. She was Charlene Houston, age twenty. I looked at her picture. She had blond hair, with copper reflections. I gave her the ID back. 'Thanks,' I said. I looked at her. She was so young, so frail, and in so much trouble. 'I will take you home with me. You can stay there until your feet heal.' "

Allison suddenly looked at her watch and rose. "I'd like to hear more about Charlene, but I have to go. Marion Miller is waiting for me at the house."

"You decided to hire her?" Marvin asked. Together, they'd interviewed her for the position of housekeeper.

"Yes. I need somebody for the house. I hesitated only because... I don't know. I felt like I was betraying Julia." She brushed Marvin's cheeks with her lips. "Marion looks very efficient."

Marvin nodded. "She'll do just fine."

## Chapter 32

Straight grey hair and a dark outfit made Marion Miller look older that her forty-five years. Robust but not fat, she moved with alacrity, but without rushing. She gave an impression of efficiency and yet of calm. She'd accepted the salary Allison had offered her without discussion, and had been happy to move in right away.

As a start, she'd gone through every room of Les Capucines and made a list of what was missing and what had to be done. She'd restocked the freezer and seemed to enjoy sharing the kitchen with Luke, preparing dinner together. Allison was delighted. Slowly but surely home began to seem like home again. And she could spend some time with Marvin.

He was waiting for her holding a bag of potato chips, a salsa dip and two colas.

Allison smiled. "Looks like we're all set for a night of cocooning."

"You bet." He drew her into his arms for a quick hug and a passionate kiss. They settled on the couch, and he handed her a cola.

Allison took a sip and snuggled up to him. "Why don't you tell me the rest of Charlene's story tonight? She was on the run, I gather. Who was after her?"

"Her boyfriend. But let me tell the story in the proper order."

"I remember each detail of my coming home," Marvin began. "Susan's eyesight was already poor at that time. She could still do chores around the house and do some gardening. When we arrived in Calvert, it was late afternoon. I still remember the date: the 3rd of June. Susan was planting a tray of red impatiens along the front of the house. As I stopped my car, she took off her gardening gloves and came to greet me, excited, as she did every time after I'd been away. She didn't realize I had a passenger with me.

"I put my arm around her waist and led her away from the car. I briefly explained how I found Charlene and told her she was injured—how badly I didn't know. I asked her if she'd mind offering her shelter for a week or two, until we could figure out how to help her. Susan kept stealing glances at the car, trying to distinguish my passenger. She couldn't, of course. Up close she could still see, but anything beyond a range of ten feet faded to a blur. All the same she didn't hesitate, telling me Charlene could stay as long as she needed.

"Together, we walked back to the car and I introduced the women. Charlene seemed relieved by Susan's warmth. She stepped out of the car and took a few tentative steps on the tips of her toes. Instinctively, Susan made a move to help her.

" 'Don't touch my back!' she snapped. She then looked at both of us, worried and confused. 'Sorry, I mean, maybe I could just sort of lean on you?' She gave us a trembling smile.

"Susan and I slung her arms around our necks so we could lift her off the ground, and carried her inside to the guest room.

" 'Thanks,' Charlene said. She looked at both of us. 'God bless you.'

"Susan and I didn't know what to do. We just stood there.

" 'I'd like to take a nap, if you don't mind,' Charlene said.

"Susan and I nodded and left the room."

"Was she hurt that bad?" Allison interrupted. She sat up straight and turned to look at Marvin.

"Oh, yes. She had open wounds on her back, and her feet had been burned. Her boyfriend had also shaved off her hair, as punishment. And as deterrent from taking off again and freely walking in public places."

"Oh my God..." Allison said.

Marvin stretched his arm and grabbed his cola from the floor. "All this talking makes me thirsty." He quickly finished his drink.

"Five weeks later Charlene still used slippers and still slept on her tummy. But the infection had disappeared and, with that, the fever." Marvin smiled. "A thick, blond-red fuzz appeared on her head. It looked like gold dust." After a pause, Marvin asked, "Are you sure that you want to hear more about Charlene and me?"

"Abso-lu-tely," said Allison. "I'd like to hear the entire story."

Marvin continued, "So, that accounts for the first few weeks. At the beginning Charlene slept long hours. Then slowly she became more active. Not a word about herself. She helped Susan with the chores around the house. She shied away from people. We agreed to introduce her as a second cousin of Susan and myself: say she'd been in an accident and needed a quiet place to rest and recover. She sang as Susan played the piano—mostly church songs. As Susan's eyesight worsened, Charlene began reading to her. She'd sit at Susan's feet, reading 'whodunit' novels to her. Susan would guess the ending halfway through a novel, to Charlene's great dismay."

Marvin put his arm around Allison's shoulders and pulled her close to him. "I'd received the job offer I'd been hoping for. I'd be in charge of a big farm in Kansas. We'd have to move to the States. Susan and I decided to talk to Charlene. Actually Susan asked me to talk to her, her excuse being that she couldn't grasp Charlene's body language. The truth was that Susan enormously enjoyed Charlene's company. She hoped she would never leave."

"I can see that," commented Allison. "She had company all day long, and help too."

"That wasn't all. She hoped I'd marry Charlene. She thought Charlene would be the perfect companion for me. Susan had noticed that I was spending the weekends home, instead of taking off for the nearby city."

"To singles bars..."

"You shouldn't know that," said Marvin, suddenly alert.

"I have big ears," she said with a grin.

"Let's see them." Marvin pulled back a few of her locks and inspected her ears.

"Don't get sidetracked."

"Okay." He quickly bent to kiss her ears. "So, near the end of August Charlene was helping me collect honey from our bees. Susan couldn't do it anymore. We were one of the few farmers who had beehives so far north. We produced a special kind of honey with a blueberry taste."

"Isn't that a dangerous operation?" Allison asked.

"Not if you know what you're doing. Besides, we used protective netting. Of course, Charlene didn't know much about it. In fact she did get several stings on her right forearm. We stopped and took a rest on the veranda. I got a lotion to prevent the swelling. We sat on the swing, side by side."

Marvin dipped a chip into the salsa before resuming his narration. "She started to laugh, for no reason at all. She swung her legs back and forth. 'Hold still!' I said. 'Don't move or I can't put the lotion on the bites.'

"Her next swing sent the bottle to the floor. 'It doesn't hurt,' she said.

" 'It will, believe me,' I replied. She swung harder. 'Okay, suit yourself.' I rose, irritated.

"She rose too and, from behind, she said, 'Was I that bad?'

" 'Yes,' I snapped at her. 'You always want to have it your way. But that's going to change, because you won't be able to stay with us any longer.' It wasn't the way I planned to break the news to her. It just happened that way.

"She swiftly turned around to face me. 'You're sending me away?' she asked, despair in her voice.

" 'You can't stay with us forever,' I said, matter-of-fact.

" 'But you need somebody to look after the house, somebody to keep your sister company,' she implored.

" 'I do. But I don't want a person who doesn't trust me enough to tell me who she really is, what happened to her and why she can't go out and meet people.' I looked into her eyes as sternly as I could. She looked alarmed and upset. I should have taken her in my arms. Instead, I scolded her. 'You're a spoiled kid.'

"For a moment she stood in front of me without doing anything. Then tears started to flow down her face, her chest racked with incessant sobs.

" 'Stop, Charlene. Tears don't solve anything,' I said with trepidation. She moved away, leaned on the railing and kept crying until I lightly stroked her neck. 'Charlene,' I begged. She dried her tears with the back of her hand and calmed down a bit.

" 'Stop crying and start talking,' I said with all the authority I could muster.

"Charlene cleaned her face again and turned to face me. 'You wouldn't take me to the police, right?'

" 'You told me the authorities weren't after you. Isn't that true?'

" 'It's true, I mean I don't know. I didn't do anything wrong.' She stood there, her eyes and cheeks red, her body shaking.

" 'I wouldn't do anything that could harm you,' I said solemnly. 'I promise.' I dried her last few tears with my fingers. 'Let's go sit inside,' I proposed. 'It's getting chilly out here.' "

"Did she finally talk?" Allison asked.

"Yes. She did."

## Chapter 33

"Charlene had met her boyfriend, José Barnez, at a photography studio, while posing for a series of advertisements—dealing with body lotions, I believe. It was her first job. Enlarged pictures of Charlene, wrapped in green veils, her mass of copper-blond hair loose on her shoulders, covered the main wall of the studio entrance. José Barnez, a friend of the studio's owner, wanted to meet her. Immediately after the first date, he provided her with more work. Charlene was thrilled. She liked José; he had looks, manners and the right connections. He seemed interested in her, but although they saw each other on and off, Charlene felt he kept her at a distance. From time to time he'd disappear without saying a word about what he did or where he went.

"Then, one day he invited her to a fancy cruise. Destination: the Maldives. There, the two got together. As they returned home, he asked Charlene to move in with him. Charlene hesitated. She'd noticed that José was becoming jealous. But at his insistence, she moved to his mansion in New Jersey. After she finished the few shoots she'd scheduled before the move, she found out that there was no more work for her. The next month José told her she shouldn't go out alone. Security measures, he claimed. Temporary measures, he assured her.

"Charlene began to worry. José became less attentive. She had the distinct feeling he was isolating her, cutting her off from the rest of the world. She was allowed freedom of movement only as long as she didn't leave the grounds. She started taking long walks, exploring the mansion's park-like setting. One day she was wandering close to the side entrance gate, when she heard somebody groaning. A man lay on the ground, hidden behind a cedar hedge. She approached him, and immediately realized he was wounded. Badly. Blood was all over his shirt and on the ground. She bent toward him, hoping to capture the words he was desperately trying to utter. She couldn't. Then the man pointed at his waist and the gadget fastened on his belt, where a red light was flickering. With his fingers, he made a gesture to press the switch underneath the light. And that was what Charlene did.

"Moments later a police car came silently flying down the public road to stop just outside the gate. Almost at the same time José's limousine appeared on the road only a hundred feet from her. Instinctively, Charlene took to the bushes. Meanwhile the injured man—he would turn out to be an undercover agent—was swiftly taken into the police car.

"Soon after she heard her boyfriend yelling at his men. To their great dismay, the agent they'd taken for dead was nowhere to be found. Charlene stayed in hiding and returned to the mansion after taking a detour. From that moment on, she eavesdropped as much as she could without being noticed.

"When the news media reported the incident and announced that the agent was going to recover from his wounds, all hell broke loose. That shooting, in fact, was meant to be an execution. Charlene became frightened. For the next few hours, she lived in terror, expecting the police to come and question her. She was sure that the injured man had been alert enough to identify her.

"The day after she made her escape. With the excuse of José's upcoming birthday, she asked to be taken to an antique shop. She bought a fancy vase and sneaked out of the shop's rear door.

"She headed for the home of one of her old girlfriends. She'd just been there for an hour, when Vincent Ramirez, Barnez' right hand man, burst into the apartment. Charlene didn't stand a chance. She found herself back at the mansion within the hour.

"José took the incident as an act of unacceptable disobedience. He wanted to make clear that he wouldn't tolerate such behavior. He punished her. He beat her up, burned the soles of her feet, and shaved off her hair."

"Terrible," said Allison.

"I know. But it's nothing compared to what the man did next." He sighed. "I need a drink," he said. "How about you?"

Allison nodded.

He was back soon with one beer. "We'll have to share," he said. "This is the last cold drink in the house." He gave Allison the bottle, and then continued, "Two days later a search warrant allowed a squad of a dozen policemen to search José's premises. According to Charlene's version, the police literally flooded the mansion. In the general confusion, Charlene, despite her injuries, managed to gather her papers and as much cash as she could find. She hid in one of the police cars. At night, from the precinct where the cruiser was parked, she started walking north. Although in great pain, she walked two full miles before I picked her up." Marvin cleared his throat. "This is the first part of Charlene's story," he said, and quietly finished the beer Allison had handed to him.

"So," said Allison, "you were ready to move. Did you take Charlene with you?"

Marvin nodded. "Without saying anything to anybody, I took three days off and buried myself in the Toronto Public Library. I checked all the microfiche and printed material I could get my hands on, looking for articles on the Barnez case. The man had been indicted on charges of weapons trafficking. I found only a couple of paragraphs about the injured agent. It was hinted that the agent had a secret system to call for help. Being a secret, they wouldn't elaborate on it, the police said. And that was that. Not one single word about Charlene. Her presence hadn't been revealed. That was reassuring. My instinct, however, told me that both Barnez and the police were looking for her. Barnez, to safeguard his own interests and probably to eliminate her; the police, to collect more damaging evidence against José.

"At that point, I felt lost. I didn't have a clue how to help Charlene," continued Marvin. "She had the funny idea that everything would be all right if she stayed home with us and hid from people. I didn't agree. I contacted an old friend of the family: Mr. Saint-Clair. My father had lent him money when his farm was in trouble and no financial institution would give him credit. So I went to see your grandfather and asked him for advice. He immediately took me to a guy named John Astonic, a disbarred lawyer who owed him a big favor. Astonic listened carefully. He had connections in the States. First of all, he'd get inside information on the Barnez case. Within forty-eight hours we found out that Charlene was sought by the FBI. But so far none of their leads had panned out, and her whereabouts were still unknown.

"A decision had to be made. For the time being, we'd take Charlene with us.

"Astonic suggested we change Charlene's first name, and introduce her as my wife. To be on the safe side, he also helped me to change my own name into my mother's maiden name: Lanvin. We became Merv and Michelle Lanvin, from a small village near Quebec City."

Marvin paused. "You should have seen Charlene. She was so happy. Happy we didn't abandon her—she wouldn't feel safe back with her family or a friend. She became all excited about assuming a new identity. Not only did she darken her hair, but she insisted I do it too." Marvin smiled ruefully. "I grew a beard. It had to be dark of course, so Charlene was always busy putting some kind of tint on it. My beard grows very fast."

"I noticed," said Allison, feeling his cheeks up and down. "In the evening your cheeks are already rough." She kissed them both. "But I shouldn't distract you. Keep going with Charlene's story."

Marvin looked into Allison's eyes. "Now, I don't know if I should talk about when Charlene and I..." Marvin hesitated. "When we became friends," he finally said.

"Lovers," corrected Allison. "Like us, now."

Marvin ruffled her hair. "Okay, lovers," he admitted. "Maybe I should skip that part."

"Absolutely not. I want to know."

"You promised you wouldn't get jealous, remember?"

"I won't," Allison replied. "Just keep going."

"The last night I spent under the roof where I was born," began Marvin, "I couldn't fall asleep. At some point I turned the light on and looked at my wristwatch. Two o'clock in the morning. Then, very quietly, the door of my bedroom swung open and Charlene appeared.

"She wore a short rosy slip. She approached my side of the bed, moving with grace. She stopped close to me. 'I can't sleep either,' she said with her soft voice. She lifted the blue-and-white striped sheet that covered my body. 'Can I lie next to you?' she asked, her grey eyes locked on me. She caressed my bare arm with the back of her hand.

"I looked at her, not quite sure if I could believe my eyes. Of course I liked her, but I never thought she would fall for me. 'Do you know what's going to happen if you come lie next to me?' I asked.

"She stepped into my bed, and met my gaze. 'Yes,' she said. 'I know.' "

Marvin turned toward Allison. "Do you know what happens if I lie next to you?" he asked.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Allison teased, her eyes brimming with desire.

Marvin pulled her close and said, "Then I'll have to show you."

## Chapter 34

"Charlene was a wonderful person," said Marvin when he resumed his story. "She brought life into our home. She treated Susan like a normal person, and helped tactfully with the things Susan could no longer do herself. As for the two of us, we'd wait for the trial to be over, get married and plan a family.

"Meanwhile Susan's health worsened. Her doctor wanted to try a new drug. To monitor its effects, a nurse would come in once a week. Her name was Margaret. She asked questions about our family, but nobody thought much of it.

"One day a woman came by the house. Michelle, Charlene's assumed name, had won a lawnmower at the local hardware store. As Charlene overheard the reason for the woman's visit, she immediately hid in the basement. Susan became suspicious too. She knew Charlene wouldn't go to any store. And in any case, she wouldn't put her name, assumed or real, in a prize draw. Susan handled the situation with skill and promptness. She admitted to the physical description of Charlene. But, she added, the girl was gone. Vanished. She'd had a fight with her brother, and had disappeared.

"That night the three of us had a meeting in the basement. Charlene had to move. The next morning I camouflaged her as one of the summer students working at the farm. I took her to a fishing camp 500 miles away. I left her there, all in tears.

"I expected more visits but nobody ever showed up. Not the criminals, not the law either. That told me that I was being watched. They figured all they had to do was wait—sooner or later I'd lead them to Charlene. I called up your grandfather and explained the situation. He rescued Charlene from the campsite and took her to stay with the Bridges." Marvin reached out to hook a stray curl behind Allison's ear. "You know the Bridges, right? The wife was already ailing back then, and they could use some help around the house."

Allison nodded. "And their place is well hidden, practically in the middle of nowhere."

Marvin continued, "She stayed there for the rest of the summer and the fall. I missed her very much, but I was confident things would work out. The Barnez trial was imminent."

Marvin sighed. "You'll never guess what happened next," he said. "The head of Barnez lawyers' team suddenly died. There were grounds for a postponement. Of course, the postponement was granted: six full months!"

"Six months?"

"Yes, and my poor girl was confined in the hills with two old people. She couldn't take it anymore, and I couldn't either. I quietly looked for a new job in a rural area. We moved to Fernworth, in the northern part of Kansas. I chose an isolated house. Meanwhile, Charlene dyed her hair once more and started wearing it the same way as Susan, so she could pass for my sister, at least from a distance. Once she'd join us, she and Susan would take turns being visible around the house. To anyone watching us, there'd only be me and my sister living there.

"We waited until there was a farmer's congress up north that I could attend without raising suspicion. Your grandfather went to the same congress. He brought Charlene, and we sneaked her from his hotel room to mine in the middle of the night. I drove home with her huddled on the floor in the back of the car."

"You didn't make it, right?"

Marvin shook his head. "We had two weeks of happiness. Only two weeks," he said, sighing. "Then, on Christmas eve, while Susan and I were in church, I got the message that our house was on fire. When I arrived, a huge cone of flames was consuming the small building. The firefighters had just unreeled their hoses when the house collapsed."

Marvin paused. "I need a drink, now. A strong one." He rose, walked to the china cabinet and poured himself a double rye. He took a big gulp and then slowly went back to sit close to Allison. When he spoke, his voice was low, guttural. "The blaze had been very powerful. Charlene's body was hardly recognizable."

For a while neither spoke.

Allison sat back down and asked, "Inquest?"

"Oh, yes. And no end to the questioning. Margaret, the nurse, had recognized Charlene as José Barnez' girlfriend. Through her husband's office—he was a detective—the FBI got on Charlene's track. Apparently, however, the news that Charlene was with us leaked out. José's men kept a permanent watch."

"Did you tell Charlene's story to the authorities?" Allison asked.

"Are you kidding? They leaked the information that got Charlene killed. Charlene died because she saved the life of one of their agents. I had no respect for any of the people involved. I feared that Susan's and my own life would be jeopardized if I told them anything."

"So did you lie?" Allison looked deeply into his eyes, completely in disbelief.

"Well, Susan and I agreed on what to say. We kept up the story that Susan had given to the lawnmower lady. We didn't know anything about Charlene's past. She'd disappeared after we had a fight. She'd reappeared later without any explanation."

"You flatly lied!"

"I sure did. Would you love me less because of that?"

"No. It's just that I didn't expect that from you."

"I'd lie anytime to protect what's dear to me. I'd even kill, Allison, with absolutely no hesitation. Wouldn't you?"

"I really don't know what I'd do." She was silent for a while. "Did the police believe you?"

"Not for a moment. They kept up the pressure on Susan and me. They hinted I was a suspect. They surely treated me like a criminal. Then they hinted that maybe Susan had done it and that I was covering up for her. I didn't budge. Susan went further. She toyed with their questions. In a way, her disability protected her."

"So, what happened?"

"I kept saying that I knew nothing. That Susan didn't know anything." Marvin paused. "Then the Barnez trial started. José was charged and convicted of trafficking. With great sensitivity, your grandfather offered me a job as soon as the trial was over." He stared into his empty glass. "When the dust finally settled I found myself at Les Capucines, swearing to myself I wouldn't get attached to another woman no matter how long I lived." He looked up and smiled at Allison. "Then a sneaky little bunny came along and messed up my plan."

## Chapter 35

Keith Sample was a man in his seventies, with a white mane of hair and sharp eyes behind his metal-framed glasses. He'd been the Saint-Clair family's lawyer for the last forty years, and a personal friend of old Saint-Clair's. He'd used all his skills to keep Luke out of jail, since the man couldn't stay out of trouble.

Allison sat in front of him, waiting for his secretary to present the pages she had to sign.

"Allison, the only thing that your grandfather ever mentioned he wanted to give Marvin was his collection of pistols. The two of them went shooting together." He gave Allison a look full of concern. "I still think this isn't the right thing to do—turning all those bonds and shares over to Marvin Garland. Not that there's any legal problem. There's no inheritance tax to start with, and they're bearer's bonds—no name. But your grandfather never mentioned anything of this sort to me." He paused. "He had no secrets from his lawyer and long-time friend." He waited for Allison's reaction. There wasn't one. "Their value amounts to over one million dollars. Good as cash, Allison."

Allison straightened her skirt over her knees. Her wool suit was a bit tight. She looked into Keith's eyes. "I realize it's a lot, Mr. Sample..."

"Call me Keith, Allison."

Allison nodded. "It was something grandpa mentioned two weeks before he passed away. At first I was surprised too," she said. "Marvin Garland knew about it. So, I can't be mistaken."

"He told Marvin? And he never told me!" Keith arched his eyebrows. "Did you ask Marvin what the reason was?"

"Yes, he said it was a long story. That he'd explain everything after all the commotion around grandfather's death was over."

Keith's eyes clouded. "What I want to say, Allison, is that you may need that money. If not right now, later." Keith paused to let his words sink in. "You had a lot of expenses, and more may come. Let me make this crystal clear: you have no legal obligation to give him anything."

"I understand. But that was grandpa's last wish. You'd respect it too, Mr. Sample, ah...Keith, if you were in my position."

Keith sighed. "Yes, I would."

Allison began to sign the papers, one by one. "Done," she said. "Now, the other part of our business. My will. Did you have time to draft it?"

"Not yet," Keith replied. "I thought we could talk a bit more about your successor."

"I have no other relative in the world, Keith. Only my father."

"You see, my child, Luke may not be able to manage the business. Your grandfather tried many times to put him in charge of some activities. He'd take off all at once. Without saying a word to anybody."

"I know about his sudden disappearances. But there's nobody else." Allison closed her eyes, fatigued. "I think my father may be changing. He's showing some sense of responsibility. In minor things, it's true. But it might be a start." She reopened her eyes. "What I mean is that Luke is a kind person. He'd be very considerate of the people working on our land."

"Yes, I agree. You look very tired, Allison. Let's continue some other time."

Allison got her small purse from the chair's armrest and rose. "Luke can always sell out." She stood in front of him. "Thank you for your concern, Keith. I'll think about what you said." She extended her hand to him.

"Don't forget about the guns. One of them, a flintlock, is a museum piece. Sentimentally speaking, that gift may be important to Mr. Garland."

"I'll look for them. With the fire, everything that didn't get burned, got misplaced or rearranged. If I find them, I'll give them to him."

***

Allison drove away, her mind uneasy. Her grandfather had mentioned leaving the stocks and bonds to Marvin but he'd never mentioned it'd be so much. Maybe he didn't know. No, impossible. He may not have known to last penny, but he was surely aware of the bulk sum. Debt of honor? She wondered. Some job Marvin had done for him he couldn't repay at the time? It must have been some job... Something Marvin had to do after he passed away? The feeling that the sum could be some kind of payoff—delayed or anticipated—wouldn't leave her mind. Well, not to worry. Marvin promised to explain everything, and she knew he would.

Slowly she drove to the Suisse Manor, where Ian was recovering. She wasn't in a hurry to see him.

Her leather shoes made a crisp sound on the marble floor as she walked toward the reception desk.

A nurse in a pale blue uniform was arranging gladiolas in a tall vase. She greeted Allison with a smile and said, "Your husband requested we move him to a room with a nice view of the park. He's now on the third floor, number 325."

"Thanks," Allison said. She'd visited Ian twice since he was admitted. Both times Ian had been under sedation. She didn't know what state he'd be in now.

The door was open and Allison let herself in. Ian was in bed, his upper body propped up on two pillows, his head still bandaged with gauze. Beside Ian sat Luke, reading The Ducktale to him. The Ducktale was a small newspaper with the local gossip.

"Hi, everybody," Allison said. She approached Ian from the side opposite Luke. "I see you're making progress."

Ian didn't reply nor look at her.

"Today I took him for a breath of fresh air," said Luke proudly. "The sun was so bright it made up for the cool wind." He smiled at his daughter.

Allison sat on a chair close to the bed. "Did the doctors say when Ian can leave the clinic?" Her husband had asked for every luxury and all the extras he could get. Mentally she added up how much they would cost her.

"Within a couple of weeks." Luke looked at Ian. "Our man will be in fantastic shape, then."

Ian ignored both of them. A nurse entered the room. "Time for a dip in our whirlpool," she said, bringing a wheelchair close to the bed.

"We'll be going," said Luke, rising promptly. He squeezed Ian's hand. "See you tomorrow, Ian." He moved around the bed and took Allison's arm.

"Goodbye, Ian," Allison said softly.

Ian didn't reply.

"Did you get everything done at the lawyer's?" Luke asked as Allison drove home.

"Almost. He still has to draft my will," she said. She'd already told her father she would name him heir. "Legal matters always take longer than expected."

"I presume so," Luke said. "Keith is a good man. An excellent attorney too. He bailed me out twice, when I was sure I'd go to jail."

Allison didn't comment. She looked ahead. It was April and yet spring hadn't made its appearance. Two ridges of snow made the roadway narrower than usual, but the pavement was totally bare. The sky, full of stars, promised a cold night.

Luke continued, "I can't understand how I could have been so blind in my life. I never realized how much I had. What a gift it was to have a caring wife and two wonderful children. How much I missed by taking off as I did. For a life with minutes of pleasure and long hours of emptiness."

Allison kept driving in silence. She never really knew her father, not until recently. She'd see him once a year for a couple of weeks, sometimes less.

"Allison," Luke said with a dramatic tone. "I want to make it up to you. You're the only person who matters to me, now."

Allison looked sharply at the road. Its clear grey color had changed into a dark shade—a sign that black ice covered the road. It wasn't the time to engage in emotional issues. Besides, her father was known to be a man of good intentions and firm resolutions—all rarely kept. "It's a nice thought, Father," she replied, keeping her attention focused on the road.

## Chapter 36

It was playoff season, Malcolm remembered. He should be in front of the television to see his beloved game of hockey instead of being on the road. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was getting too late even to catch the third period.

As he arrived in Vermeil, he went directly to his office at the Invicta, anxious to read the details of the report on the murder tape. From the corridor he saw light shining from underneath the closed door. Paul was at the office. What a pleasant surprise.

"Anybody home?" he called as he entered.

"Hi, Malcolm." Paul briskly walked up to him, his blue eyes full of excitement. "You wouldn't believe what we just found out."

"The home video is for real."

"No, it's not. I'll explain that later. But I got something sensational. Remember the silhouette of the young man Allison is hitting over the head? It presented striking similarities with the pictures we got of Albert Borodin posing in the nude for the modeling agency. So I gave them to your experts. Result: eighty per cent probability that the dead man on the tape and Albert are one and the same."

"Holy cow," Malcolm slumped into one of the easy chairs. "Give me a cold drink, Paul."

"Iced tea coming up." Paul walked over to the fridge.

"That's really something. So the Summers knew Albert well." He took a long drink. "Everything would be solved if the tape was for real," he said looking at Paul. "But you said it's not, right?"

Paul shook his head. "The videocassette is a cut-and-paste piece of art. Not easy to put together. In the first few scenes it's the real Allison in full figure. Then the scene of violence: one quarter of the scene, the left top quadrant portraying the face, is still Allison; the other three quarters belong to different frames, with an actor. Your experts applied frequency analysis to each frame. They also used an edge detector—whatever that is—and found sharp jumps around the top left quadrant of each frame. These jumps identify the lines along which a first picture, presumably containing the real Allison, was superimposed on the others, the ones with an actor." Paul paused. "Clear?"

"Not in the least," said Malcolm who'd already finished his tall glass of iced tea. "Clear to you?"

"It became clear when they used the computer to show me the results of the analysis. They highlighted each single piece or line segment that was inconsistent with its neighboring parts." Paul paused again. "The Ian Summer who was a simple steward for an ocean liner couldn't have done that kind of work. It shows a working knowledge in image processing and computer graphics. Not to mention photography."

"Not that Ian Summer, but the Ian Summer who married Allison—that one, yes, sir. He fiddles around all day with cameras and computers, I was told."

"You mean—"

"I mean two things. One, there's a man who needs money. His wife is the heiress of a wealthy grandfather. The grandfather is killed in a so-called accident." Malcolm paused. "Two, this Ian Summer isn't the real one."

"Allison's husband assumed the identity of a dead man," Paul said. "Uh-oh. He may have killed the real Ian Summer."

"That's right. Then for some unknown reason he kills Albert Borodin and accuses his own wife of the murder. He blackmails her. The wife has money. This creates a permanent source of income."

Both men sat in silence. "Farfetched," Paul commented.

"Yes. Definitely. The tape could be an exercise in digital composition. Take pictures or key frames from another tape dealing with different scenes. Put them together through the computer, work on them so that, with a superficial look, they appear consistent with each other. Then record the fabricated version onto a new tape." Malcolm paused. "That's what Detective Charles Sutherland hinted at. His attitude was not to make a big issue out of this videotape."

"That was his position?" Paul asked.

"Yes. And remember, he didn't know that the tape had been left lying on a console, like something of no importance."

"That is where Ed Dustin found it?" Paul asked, surprised.

"Yes. Underneath a pair of wool mitts."

The following morning a fax machine was turning out sheet after sheet. Paul glanced at each page as he collected it. He greeted Malcolm absently.

"Busy, eh?" Malcolm gave a look at his daily planner. "Two new clients. Do I have to meet them?" he asked.

"No. I've seen them already. Small stuff. Routine work. You don't have to see them if you don't want."

"I pass, then. I want to pursue the Borodin case." Malcolm sat behind his desk and looked at Paul who was sorting the fax pages into two stacks.

"What do you have there?" Malcolm asked.

"The last trip Ian Summer took with the Danish-Argentinean Ocean Line. Final destination: the Maldives." He glanced at Malcolm. "Do you want me to go there?"

Malcolm ignored his question.

"I guess not," Paul continued. "That company had headquarters in Copenhagen. They folded two years ago." He deposited the first bundle in front of Malcolm. "I requested a list of the company's employees. I got it, complete with addresses. Ian Summer's last residence was Fort Lauderdale. Should I go to Florida?" he ventured. "May is a warm month, but not too hot yet."

"I don't think it will be necessary. The Invicta has excellent contacts there. I can request information on this Ian Summer over the phone. Driver's license, passport, maybe even his dental records." Malcolm put his eyeglasses on and looked at the second stack Paul held in his hands. "What do you have there?" he asked, extending his arm.

"Copies of Ian Summer's driver's license, passport and dental records. Physical description provided by one of the staff."

Malcolm looked at Paul over his half glasses. "You're good, Paul. Real good."

"Yeah. I know that. I also got little sleep last night. I was here very early." He went to sit in a chair in front of Malcolm's desk. "But I have bad news too. Pamela Borodin wants to see you."

## Chapter 37

May 1999

The bronze plaque on the door read: "Dr. Felipe Santera, Orthodontist" and below, in smaller letters: "Knock and walk in." Peter Johnston gave a sound rap at the door and entered the dentist's office. Another sign on the receptionist's desk greeted him: "Take a seat, the doctor will be right with you." Peter wasn't thrilled to meet Dr. Santera; he liked to deal directly with the top guns; often intermediaries create leaks—and the dentist was clearly a go-between. He glanced around and was ready to grab a magazine from the nearby table when a man in a white coat moved brusquely in front of him.

"Hi," he said. "I'm doctor Felipe Santera." He walked to the front door and locked it. He gestured Peter to follow him into his office and sit on one of the two stools.

"What's up?" Peter asked as his eyes scouted the almost empty counter.

A nervous tick made Felipe's left eye wink. "You have to deliver a message in person. No use of phone, mail or other—" The dentist stopped to cough. "Don't use any other means of communication. The message is directed to Carlos Barnez, José's brother. You know the Barnez family, right?"

"Of course. One was suspected of ordering the killing of his girlfriend. He was charged with arms trafficking. Got sentenced to ten years," Peter recited. "He's still in jail, right?"

"Yes. But the family is worried—"

Peter interjected. "I'm not here to listen to family stories. What's the message I should deliver? Let's not spend the entire day in this dusty office."

"Tell Carlos Barnez that I got a request for the dental records of Ian Summer. It seems that the man has resurfaced in his hometown. Kingston, Canada." He coughed again. "Repeat the message," he ordered.

After Peter had repeated the message, the dentist said, "That was the easy part. Now for the hard part."

"The part worth five thousand dollars?" Peter inquired.

"Right. You are to find out where Ian lives, and how. His activities, any new jobs, the works." He paused as if afraid of continuing. "Then you have to make him take you to a friend of his: Vincent Ramirez."

"Vincent Ramirez!" Peter jumped to his feet. "What does this have to do with Ramirez?"

"Ramirez is a threat to the Barnez family. To others too. He didn't stay in hiding as he was supposed to. He has to disappear. The five thousand—"

"You're crazy! If Ramirez so much as suspects I'm after him, I'm a dead man. Forget it. I'm out of here. Five thousand dollars! Do the job yourself."

"Twenty thousand," said the dentist, rising from the stool. He grabbed Peter's sleeve.

Peter pulled free. He was already out of the office when he made an about-face. "Fifty thousand. Thirty before, twenty after, take it or leave it." He crossed his arms.

"But I can't—I need you to leave immediately for New Jersey to contact Carlos Barnez. I can't have the thirty ready before then." He coughed and winked. He looked at Peter, who stood at least a foot taller.

"That's your problem, not mine." Peter got ready to leave again.

"Wait! Wait!" He grabbed Peter by his arm. "Agreed. Thirty thousand tonight. Come back here at seven o'clock."

Peter went back to his one-room apartment, hooked up his laptop to the Internet and searched for the only Canadian newspaper he knew of, the Globe and Mail. He hoped to be able to read back issues for the past six months, and see if there was any mention of the return home of speedboat racer Ian Summer. Only the last seven issues were available. "What a stupid system!" he muttered. All others issues were available, on microfiche, at the local public library. That was exactly what he intended to avoid. The less he was seen in public places, the better.

He got out his Remington 700 and cleaned it carefully. He'd visit Barnez and then proceed to Canada. He knew how to ship his weapon across the border. As the import of rifle parts was legal, he removed the barrel and packed it, together with the Leupold 10-power sniper scope, in a black duffle bag. He put the rest of the gun in a blue bag. He then went to buy two plane tickets, one under his current name, the other as Chris Mortan, which was one of his many identities. When he returned home he got a frozen dinner, warmed it up in the microwave and sat in front of the TV. All he had to do now was wait until seven, when he'd pick up his payoff.

The transmission of Felipe Santera's message to Carlos Barnez took twenty minutes of waiting, two nods and just two sentences. After repeating what Felipe had told him word for word, Carlos Barnez nodded. Then he said, "Felipe also told you what has to be done." This time Peter nodded.

Leaving the Barnez estate, Peter Johnston drove to Kennedy airport and dropped off his rental car. He lined up at one of the Martinez Airlines counters. He knew they'd be busy at that time of the afternoon. He checked in his blue bag and got a boarding pass as Peter Johnston. Twenty minutes later he lined up at a different counter, checked in his black duffle bag, and got another boarding pass. He patiently waited for the flight to be called.

At boarding time his coat got tangled with the strap of his laptop. Both items fell onto the floor, followed by his first boarding pass. As the airline assistant bent to fetch the pass, he bumped into the counter and slipped the second boarding pass through the ticket slot. He thanked the airline assistant and calmly moved toward the plane.

Peter Johnston knew that there would be at least one vacant seat aboard the aircraft.

## Chapter 38

The brief report of the fire, which had occurred at Les Capucines back in January, mentioned the names of Allison and Ian Summer. After two days of searching, Peter Johnston had a lead: the residence of his man. That was a good first step. Now he had to find a way to make contact with Ian, so that he'd take him to his final target, Vincent Ramirez. He weighed his options. The report said Summer was in a wheelchair. The man was married and had settled in the middle of nowhere. Peter surely wanted to avoid coming face to face with Ramirez. But chances were Summer wasn't on very close terms with Ramirez, who was known to like the excitement of big cities. It was probably safe to show his face at Les Capucines. He decided to head there, mentally reviewing a number of excuses he could use to make the first contact.

Marion Miller opened the heavy door and gave him a quick but friendly smile. "Yes," she said.

"I'm Peter Johnston." He forced the smile he'd practiced that morning. "I'm an old friend of Ian's. He does live here, right?"

"He lives here. But at the moment he is at the hospital. An accident, a few weeks ago."

"I'm so sorry," Peter said. "At the county hospital?"

"Not anymore. He's been transferred to the Suisse Manor, a private clinic ten miles from Saratown."

"Could I trouble you a bit more?" He parted his lips to form another smile. "Could you tell me how to reach this clinic?"

Forty minutes later the automatic doors of the Suisse Manor opened to let Peter in, his cowboy boots resounding in the elegant hall. His eyes immediately searched for a directory with a floor plan. There wasn't one.

A pretty young woman, her blond hair in a ponytail, rose from the seat behind the off-white counter. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'd like to visit Mr. Ian Summer," he said. "I'm an old friend of his."

"I'll see if that's possible." She disappeared behind a partial wall away from the counter and placed a phone call. When she reappeared she said, "I'm sorry, Mr.—"

"Johnston."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Johnston, but Mr. Summer can't see you today. He's in therapy."

"I came a long way, from California exactly, just to see my friend." Peter used an aggressive tone aimed at intimidating the young woman. "Surely I can at least talk to him on the phone?"

He'd just finished his last sentence when a male voice sounded behind his back. "What seems to be the problem, sir?"

Peter turned. A uniformed security guard, a good inch taller than Peter, was walking toward him, his right hand close to his belt.

Peter couldn't see if he wore a gun. He hesitated. "No problem," he said. "I came to see Mr. Summer. We chummed around in high school. We worked together on a ship. I know he's been sick. I thought—" He looked at the man again. "Never mind, I'll call in a couple of days. To find out if he can see me then."

"Good idea," the security guy said. "You just do that."

"So long," Peter said to the receptionist and slowly walked out.

He drove to the Happy Days Inn. Not bad, he told himself. In less than a week he'd made his first contact. He should be patient now. Meanwhile he'd reward himself by going to the inn's restaurant to taste the much-advertised catch of the day.

Peter didn't remember how old he was when he'd entered the world of crime. It all began with petty thefts, done more for fun than for need, even if his mother seemed pleased every time he wore a new coat or showed off a brand-name watch. As a child he worked at first with his pals. However, after his friends were arrested, one after the other, he decided to strike out on his own. One day—he was fourteen—he was asked if he wanted to make big bucks, really big: one thousand dollars. Peter accepted with enthusiasm and curiosity. He was taken target shooting—first with an air gun, then with an open-sight rifle. Four weeks later he was taken to the woods and taught how to fire an old Browning. Peter became good at target shooting. Then they told him that, to graduate and get the money, he'd have to be able to shoot at a few seconds' notice, and at a moving target.

Peter agreed.

He still remembered that day in October, when three men came to pick him up at school. He'd slept for most of the drive, until they'd turned off the highway and taken a rough road leading to the hills. The pick-up had made its way into the woods, clumsily maneuvering through the trees. They'd stopped in a narrow valley and swiftly gotten out of the vehicle. Two of the men had taken off in opposite directions. The third, who answered to the name Don, had carefully loaded a gun and thrust it toward him.

It was cold, very cold for October. Peter could still feel the chill in his bones. Low clouds hung over the trees, making him wonder how far he would be able to see. He looked around. Don, who stood at his side, was exchanging signs with the other two men. Then a shot, closely followed by another three, echoed in the forest, reminding him that it was hunting season. Deer, mainly. Poor, defenseless creatures, so easy to spot now that the trees had lost all their leaves.

Don told him what had to be done—shooting at the target that would soon move in front of him. His outstretched arm pointed at a rock below them. Peter raised his gun, holding it tight against his right shoulder. Nothing moved in front of him. He waited a long time. His boy's shoulder ached so much he wanted to scream. But he didn't.

Then a man wearing an orange vest and matching cap appeared and began climbing the boulder in front of him. Almost at the same time, the command came, "Shoot! Now!"

And so he did.

He'd killed a man with three bullets, each of them in the middle of the chest.

He surely was an easy target with all those bright garments.

It hadn't taken him any additional schooling to know he'd better disappear. But his reputation as an accurate shot had already placed him on the young assassins' market. He was reliable, followed orders to the letter and, most importantly, he never asked any questions.

Peter went back to Les Capucines. Through the wavy glass of the patio door he recognized Marion working at the kitchen counter. He knocked softly.

Marion slid the door open and welcomed him in. "I talked to Mrs. Summer about your visit yesterday." She hesitated and gave Peter an inquisitive look. "If you need anything from Mr. Summer, you should talk to her, since her husband is still quite sick." Marion paused. "Yes. That is exactly what she told me."

Peter's lips parted in a small smile. He was getting good at it, he complimented himself. "I really don't need anything, nothing at all. I just wanted to see Ian, talk to him. It has been—" he stopped to fake some mental calculations. "Some five years since I saw him last. Then I heard he'd taken ill." He waited for Marion to fill in the gaps. Lucky for him, Marion responded.

She gestured to a seat around the kitchen table. "Mr. Summer had real bad luck. First he had a nasty fever. They said he was lucky to survive it. He ended up in a wheelchair. Temporarily, they said. But, said to say, he still has problems walking."

Peter nodded sympathetically.

"Then this accident. I wasn't around when it happened. Deep cuts on his head and forehead. Crushed ribs. Then there were complications, I heard." She paused. "Now he's always sleepy because of the drugs he's got to take." Marion looked up. "You don't mind if I keep working, right? I'm trying to clean this model of a clipper. The sails are still dirty because of the smoke. From the fire." Marion's fingers tried to get at one of the small sails.

"Let me do it," Peter said. "I may be able to help you."

Marion gave him a doubtful look. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Well... then, what about a cup of coffee?"

"If it isn't too much trouble. Black, please." Peter turned the model upside down, snapped the hull free and unscrewed the spars. All the sails lay flat. "So any idea when Mr. Summer will be back?" he asked. He didn't want to go to the clinic again. Too much surveillance. He took the fine piece of cloth Marion had put on the table and wiped all the sails clean.

"It'll take a good week, maybe ten days Mrs. Summer told me this morning." She got two mugs and filled them with coffee.

"Oh, I see." Peter began reassembling the miniature. "Would you have a bit of glue? The mast could use some."

"Sure." Marion handed him a small tube. "Your coffee is ready."

"Thanks." Peter blew on the model to clear out the last bit of dust. "There. All done." He took the mug and sipped.

"Wonderful," said Marion. "You're very useful around the house."

"I don't suppose you're planning to hire a handyman, are you? I'm a licensed mechanic, you know." He had a license, though a fake one.

"Not much to fix around here," Marion said with a satisfied smile. "They bought everything new: from the microwave to the dryer."

"Too bad."

"Hold on a second. They've been looking for temporary help at the Sulton Repair Shop, a garage just out of town on the way up here. You can't miss it. They repair farming equipment, trucks... We all take our cars there for maintenance."

"Thank you so much," Peter said, giving Marion the warmest smile of his life.

## Chapter 39

The construction company had done a superb job. Les Capucines had been restored to its original elegant appearance. But the cost... Between the remodeling of the mansion and Ian's stay at the Suisse Manor, Allison had used up every last penny of insurance money and all the cash available—more than half a million. She looked around and sighed. She really liked those little rugs she'd seen at the Indian market. They'd give the foyer a homey touch. If she could have afforded the three hundred dollars, she'd have snatched them away. Maybe they'd be on sale sometime later.

Now it was time to go and see Marvin. One last evening before Ian's return from the clinic. She should set aside the worries Ian's presence would provoke, especially now that his mobility had increased. Maybe Luke would keep an eye on him. Oh no, that wasn't going to happen in spite of Luke's good intentions. Her father would take off as soon as the shadow of a confrontation appeared. She'd better not count on him.

Ian would probably start asking for money as soon as he set foot in the house. Allison sighed again. Worries, worries. Take the guy who kept coming by, Peter Johnston: what did he really want? He made no concrete requests, just asked when he could speak with her husband. Well, she'd soon find out—probably too soon. Nothing associated with Ian was good news.

The door opened before Allison had a chance to knock. "Hello, love," Marvin said. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

"Hi, Marvin," she said as soon as she could speak.

"I wondered what kept my little bunny so long." Marvin led her into the kitchen. "Dinner is ready."

"Smells delicious," said Allison. She gave him a teasing look. "What did your sister cook last night?"

Marvin showed a proud face. "You're looking at the cook: your own man. I baked a loaf of bread with a vegetable topping. But I admit, the recipe is Susan's."

They sat across from each other and quietly nibbled at the food.

"Excuse me for bringing this up again," said Marvin, "but why don't we go see a lawyer and ask for advice?"

"But Ian is involved too, and I'm responsible for him. He disposed of the corpse while I was in bed, unable to move. Ian may get in trouble with the law."

"I see." Marvin finished his food. "Your father is Ian's guardian now, isn't he?"

"Yes. Part of the bargain for not being charged was that he should undergo psychiatric treatment. They also wanted somebody to make sure he'd take his medication. They suspect he's bipolar."

"I know. Your father talked to me about it. Ian fought the idea of supervision, but he had no choice."

Allison pushed her plate to the middle of the table. "My life is so complicated," she said, and paused for a moment. "Marvin, I think we shouldn't see each other from now on. You know what I mean." She lifted her eyes to meet his. "We should keep our relationship on a professional level. I don't want to provoke Ian's madness."

Marvin rose briskly. Without saying a word, he walked out of the kitchen to return with a drink in his hand. He sat in front of Allison again, took a big swallow of his rye whisky and stared into the glass.

Allison had never seen such a grave expression on his face. Or maybe once, when he'd talked of Charlene's death. She didn't know what to do. "Marvin?" she said softly.

"You're asking a lot of me," he said. "Do you realize that?"

Allison didn't reply.

"The man almost sent you to the hospital. Luke told me he'd smashed two tables and the fish tank. He was threatening to do the same to you. In the past he asked you for large sums of money, and yet you've never seen the person who blackmails you both. I'd say your husband has some explaining to do." He looked at Allison. His eyes softened a bit. "All you can think of is soothing him. I think it's crazy."

Allison began sobbing.

Marvin's expression changed, his eyes became full of concern. "Don't do that to me, Allison. I can't stand a woman crying." He reached for her hand. "Let's see. I'll go along with your suggestion." He quickly added, "Only for the time being, though. Eventually we'll have to find a permanent solution of your problems and our relationship." His eyes clouded and his voice sharpened. "And I do mean _permanent_."

## Chapter 40

June 1999

The Saratown Public Library was a two-story building with aluminum siding and small windows. Two columns flanked the main entrance, joined by a painted arch with the triple inscription: "Reading is Fun, Reading is Knowledge, Reading is Power."

Jennifer Dustin had been working there for the last three months. She knew by heart where the most requested books were located, and how to access the county-wide database to tell a customer how to find a particular volume, if it wasn't among the 8,000 stored in the library. She'd become the most knowledgeable staff member and, for that, she was looked upon with suspicion by her boss and the two part-time employees.

For the third day in a row Jennifer monitored the movements of the man entering the first cubicle. There, a Dell computer allowed a user to hook up directly to the catalogue of all publications in the province. The man sat there for almost an hour. He never came to see her with any questions. He could be a detective, she thought. She wondered what he was searching for. The man wasn't bad looking either, a bit too heavy, maybe. Jennifer decided to take action. She walked over to the cubicle. The side panel was almost the same height as she was; her nose didn't clear the top but her eyes did. She peered over the partition. "Can I be of any assistance?"

"Well, I don't seem to be able to find copies of a small, local magazine, The Ducktale, from February 1st to February 25th." The man looked at her with interest.

"Oh, I can tell you why. It changed owners around that time. They suspended the printing for about three weeks." Jennifer walked around and entered the cubicle. "What else are you looking for? I've lived in Saratown all my life. My father is a PI." The man didn't react to her little speech. She continued, "My name is Jennifer Dustin."

"Rudy Eaton. Reporter. The Cosmopolitan News," he said. He rose and shook her hand.

A reporter from the Cosmopolitan News? Incredible! "Is Saratown making news?" she asked.

Rudy laughed. "I don't know yet. Maybe." He seemed busy studying her. "When do you have your lunch break?"

"Twelve sharp. A full hour."

"Let me take you out for lunch," he said. "You choose the place."

"Oh," said Jennifer. "Let me think. The Fish and Chip Restaurant is just around the corner. Their catch is always fresh."

"Fine," said Rudy. "In half an hour, then."

"You wouldn't tell me why you're in Saratown—" Jennifer grinned. "But I'll find out. My father was with the force until two years ago. Now he has his own private agency. Small, for the time being."

Rudy smiled. "The Cosmopolitan News isn't sold in town," he said. "You may never know."

"Oh, Yes. I will. The Cosmopolitan News is online. I already looked at its editorial staff." She paused to savor the last piece of fried walleye. "That's how I spent my last half hour before lunch break. Your name is listed," she said.

Rudy seemed completely stunned. "Good. You're good. However... you don't know if I'm the real Rudy Eaton," he shot back.

"If you're not, you're a great look-alike. Your picture is posted on the newspaper's Web site."

"Touché," Rudy said. "Maybe you can tell me if anything unusual has happened in town over the last six months."

"No way! Not if you don't tell me why you're here. And it better be the truth."

"I really can't. It'd blow the best chance I've had in four years."

Great, she thought. So Rudy was after something big, real big. Finally, some excitement. Life at the Public Library had been nothing but dull.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked.

"Yes and no. I can keep a secret, but not from my father."

"And your father is—" Rudy asked.

"Ed Dustin, the best PI in town."

"Well, only your father, you said?"

"Yes."

"I'm tracking down somebody who has escaped publicity for the last four years. There, I talked, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. But that isn't enough." She looked at him intently, leaning toward him. "Why is this person avoiding publicity? Is he a criminal? Is she a celebrity?"

Rudy laughed. "You don't expect me to spill the beans all at once, do you? Dinner tomorrow night?"

"I can't." She wasn't going to make it easy for him.

"I may still be in town the day after tomorrow. Dinner then?"

"Call me at the library," she said casually. "I have to go now. Thanks for lunch." She grabbed her purse and strode away.

Jennifer had finished reporting her encounter with Rudy to her father, when her mother, Emily put a meatloaf in the middle of the table and took a dozen little buns out of the oven. "Supper is served," she called, to be sure to get the attention of her busy family.

"Uh-huh," said Ed. "The Cosmopolitan News doesn't move on peanuts. I wonder what this story is all about."

"Are you going to do some checking with Mr. Sutherland?"

"Maybe," Ed replied. They all sat at the table.

"Jennifer, you aren't going to start that again!" said Emily, her eyes going from her husband to her daughter. "Detective work isn't for—" she stopped. "It's dangerous. You said that yourself."

Jennifer caressed her mother's shoulder. "You were going to say: 'It's not for girls,' right?" She shook her long hair. "It's dangerous, but it's exciting!" She scooped a double portion of meatloaf onto her dish. "And Rudy Eaton is quite handsome." She began eating. "Delicious," she said, pointing at the meatloaf.

Emily continued, "You're such an attractive girl, Jennifer. Warm, made for a family."

Ed stroked Emily's other shoulder. "Emily, Jennifer is much like you: warm and feminine. But she's also a bit like me: she likes adventure."

Emily sighed. "I can't fight you both."

"So—" started Jennifer. "Rudy Eaton invited me for dinner. I bet he's dying to ask a ton of questions." She grabbed a couple of buns and spread them with soft butter.

"I wonder why he didn't go to see Charles."

"Maybe he did. If the so-called celebrity is a movie star, he got nowhere with Mr. Sutherland. Your friend doesn't like reporters and hates actors."

"You may be right," Ed said.

Slowly Jennifer packed away all the food she'd loaded on her plate. "I bet Eaton thinks it's easy to get information out of me." A grin appeared on her face. "I'll toy with him a little. He was quite presumptuous today."

## Chapter 41

With June in full swing came the forecast of an excellent harvest. The Farming Consortium took advantage of it, pre-selling all the crops it controlled directly for an above-average price. Pleased with the way the business was going, Allison took a stroll along the shore. She enjoyed the light breeze coming from the lake and the afternoon sun warming her shoulders. Personal matters weren't the best, however. She missed Marvin, the closeness, the intimacy of their encounters and the little chats about their daily life. She sighed. Things could be worse—that was an expression her grandpa often used. And it was true.

Her spirits up, she walked into the main part of the house. She took her dirty sneakers off, got a glass of iced tea and went to the study to relax. Outside, Marion was vigorously washing the stained-glass windows. Great. Nice and clean, they'd sparkle in the sun. Vern had designed those long windows and assembled each piece of tinted glass with his own hands.

She slumped into an armchair and rested her feet on the small table in front of her.

"Sex was satisfying?" A guttural, harsh voice said. Ian surged from the sofa. "I know what's going on. I'm not blind." With the help of a cane, he walked toward her.

Quickly, Allison moved to another chair. As he approached her, she shouted, "Don't! Don't come any closer or I'll call for help."

Ian stopped where he was. "I just wanted to have a talk with my wife," he said resentfully.

"I can hear you just fine from where you are. Talk, if you want."

"I'm going to be generous, Allison. I know you like that guy, Marvin is his name?" He waved a sweater in his hands. It was the one she'd borrowed from Marvin in the fall, when she'd gone to his place for the first time. "He has good taste. He uses Intense by Givenchy." Ian sniffed the sweater and threw it at Allison's feet. "Unusual for a rugged, poor farmer." He paused, as if expecting some reaction from her. "So I want to give you your freedom back," he said.

Allison sipped her tea, watching him carefully.

"It's going to cost you, though." He nervously twisted the miniature camera hanging on his neck. "One million dollars, Allison. One flat million cash, and I'll disappear from your life. Forever."

"One million dollars?" Allison exclaimed. "And where do you think I'm going to get that sort of money?"

"At the bank. As part of your inheritance. I know your beloved grandfather had shares and bonds as good as cash. For about 1.2 million dollars." Ian laughed. "I want to be generous with you and your lover. I'll leave with you the two hundred thousand dollars." He glanced at Allison, a scoffing look in his eyes. "As a wedding present."

Allison finished her drink. "I don't have that kind of money."

"Sure you do. I've had plenty of time to get familiar with your grandfather's financial records."

With a pang, Allison realized the irony of the situation. If she hadn't paid that money to Marvin, she could have bought her freedom. That is, if Ian was to be trusted. "I don't have that amount of money. It was used to pay off a debt grandpa left behind." She rose. "You and the person who blackmails you will have to be happy with a few thousand dollars from time to time." She looked at Ian, making no effort to hide her loathing. He was a monster. "And not too often either." Never one day without problems. Why did she have to bump into Ian? Did he really believe she'd give him that sum, if she had it? It'd be foolish. Ian would never stop asking for money, for one reason or another. She was convinced of that now. He would never stop, except if he disappeared. She wished Ian were dead. Horrified, she asked the Lord for forgiveness. What a terrible thought. She had never, never wished death upon anybody. But she had never met anybody as mean as Ian.

She glanced at her wristwatch: it was six-thirty, time for supper. She went to the kitchen to see what Luke was cooking. She longed for the solace of his company, the easy chatter he kept up as he puttered about with pots and pans. But the kitchen was deserted—no sign of Luke. Wondering what might have happened, she went to his bedroom and knocked at the door. There was no answer. She entered and looked around. Well visible on the triple dresser was a note. "Gone to a retreat. To meditate on spiritual approaches to life. At La Jolla Mission in..."

Allison shredded the note in a hundred pieces and threw them in the air. Great, she thought. This was just great. She needed somebody to talk to, somebody to give her moral support, and where was her father? At a retreat. Her father would never get a grip on reality. Never. He would never do what was right. Never stand by the ones who loved him. Disheartened, she grabbed the phone and called Marvin. She needed to talk to somebody and Marvin was her last chance.

He wasn't home and wasn't at his sister's either. He'd told Susan he'd be away on personal business. He hadn't given Susan any details.

Allison sat on the steps of Marvin's house, her arms folded around her legs. She wrapped herself up in Marvin's old sweater, as it was getting chilly.

She wondered what sort of personal business Marvin was involved in. Maybe there was another woman. A sudden spasm clutched her heart. They met frequently, but only for business. They'd glance at each other a few times in a day but never touch one another. It was hard for her, but it was probably more difficult for Marvin. Maybe there was already another woman, a woman he may take home someday, maybe even tonight.

All at once, Marvin's Grand Cherokee rumbled as it climbed the last part of the hill. Maybe he was taking his new love home, she thought in a panic. Maybe she had already lost him.

Frightened of what the truth might be, Allison rose and rushed home.

## Chapter 42

The rain came in the form of isolated, warm drops, hardly making the ground or grass wet. Emily Dustin moved a blooming hibiscus from the house to the backyard. "Sorry to bother you," she said as the plant almost grazed Malcolm. "The summer has been so dry—this rain is what my flowers need. It's so soft it doesn't disturb the soil and almost as warm as the air. Plants love that, I was told at the nursery."

Malcolm smiled at her. "No bother, Emily." Comfortably seated on the veranda, Ed and Malcolm had reviewed all the information they'd gathered. Unfortunately, they'd failed to get recent dental records of Allison's husband. They couldn't determine whether Ian Summer was indeed the Ocean Line steward or somebody else.

Emily kept going in and out of the house. She paraded a dozen vases of different size, full of geraniums, hydrangeas and azaleas.

"Nice wife you have, Ed," said Malcolm. "Nice place too."

Ed nodded. "Emily and I chose this property together, some fifteen years ago. We both like nature." He pointed to the woods in front of them. "See that grove of willows? Behind it, there is a pond. Full of ducks with their families, at this time of year."

"Hummingbirds?" Malcolm asked, looking at the stands of coral bells flanking the manicured lawn.

"Plenty. All ruby-throated. At dusk they all gather around here to get their honey."

"Everything looks very natural and yet well taken care of." Malcolm rose. "Should we go back to work?"

"Sure thing," replied Ed. "So far we talked a lot and decided nothing. Let me get two glasses of that cranberry juice Emily prepared this morning, and I'll be ready to do some serious thinking."

"I feel we should inform Charles Sutherland that Allison's husband may not be the real Ian Summer. We have only clues, of course, but even the height doesn't match." Malcolm sounded convincing. "You gave Charles a copy of the tape and the experts' report, right?"

Ed nodded.

"We should also see if Charles knows of this reporter in search of a celebrity hiding in his own backyard."

"Are you sure we should contact him?" Ed asked.

"Yes. The two things may be linked. Also, Charles may have updated information on the real Ian Summer."

Ed drank all of his juice, before replying, "Why don't we think of some excuse to drop by Les Capucines?"

"It's an idea. Maybe we could see our man. Drop a question or two, see if he evades them. Study his body language. It might be helpful."

"Agreed then," said Ed. "I have a good pretext. Listen to this: we've seen the album with pictures of Vern Saint-Clair's work and wonder if we could have a look at the real thing."

"I don't know much about art," said Malcolm, suddenly worried.

"Trust me," said Ed.

"Well—" Malcolm hesitated. Then he rose. "Okay," he said. "Let's go ahead. While you make the call, I'll go get myself another glass of your wife's juice. It's special."

When Malcolm returned, Ed was stretching his arms, a satisfied look on his face. He waved Malcolm to a seat. "I talked with Mrs. Summer. She said she'd be pleased to show us the collection of Vern's paintings and drawings. She wouldn't even mind selling a few to advertise her late brother's talent." Ed looked at Malcolm sheepishly. "I introduced you as an art collector and a potential buyer."

"What! Art collector? Buyer?" Malcolm jumped to his feet. "Are you crazy? I couldn't distinguish a Picasso from a spot on the wall!"

"I know that," Ed said soothingly. "Don't worry. I have it all worked out. You wear your eyeglasses—they give you such an intellectual look—you keep a little pad in your hands, you look at each painting with profound interest and take notes." He avoided looking at Malcolm. "I'll be free to talk to Ian Summer about his favorite sport. If he shows up, of course." He finally glanced at his friend. "Don't look at me with that gloomy expression. You've absolutely nothing to worry," he said with confidence. "Tomorrow afternoon, five o'clock."

## Chapter 43

Outdoor dining at the Riverview Restaurant was an open invitation to romance. The flickering flames of myriad candles cast a soft glow, complementing the evening's early stars. Cedar hedges on three sides sheltered each table, offering privacy. The fourth side allowed a clear view of the river, where the local rowing team often practiced, raking up and down the still waters of the Sara River.

Rudy and Jennifer sat across from each other, a silver tray of hors d'oeuvres on the table between them. Off to one side, an ice bucket held a nearly full bottle of white wine. Rudy watched Jennifer carefully. She'd only tasted a couple of canapés and hadn't touched her wine. An intriguing girl, he thought.

"Why did you insist on inviting me for dinner?" Jennifer asked.

"Interest," Rudy answered, shrugging. What kind of question was that? Women were only too happy to go out with him—they never asked why. He mentally reviewed the strong points of his masculine attraction. His features were regular, his eyes expressive, his boyish smile captivating. If he showed interest in a woman, he could take her anywhere, convince her to dress the way he liked, or undress where and when he pleased. His major problem was to take what he wanted while keeping them at a distance. Ties weren't made for him. Commitment was a word that fit only his profession: journalism.

"So—" said Jennifer, sipping her Perrier as if it were Dom Pérignon. "Interest in what? In me as a girl, in my job, or in what I might know?"

The girl had a way of annoying him. He'd planned to get every last bit of information out of her. If she went along with grace, he may even consider pleasing her in bed. She looked young, though. "How old are you?" Rudy asked.

"Twenty-two," Jennifer answered. "And you're... Let me guess. Around forty."

"Not bad. I'm forty-one." The age difference might be a problem. This new generation of females was different, more difficult to handle. Rudy laughed nervously. "Why did you accept my invitation?" he asked.

"You aren't bad looking. And I'm curious. You're involved in a mysterious assignment. That makes you very interesting."

So he was _not bad looking_ , was he? Rudy took a sip of wine to hide his irritation. The nerve, to tell him she was interested only because he was after a celebrity. The girl was a spoiled brat.

Soft music drifting out through the open doors gave him an idea. He glanced over at the floor where a few couples were dancing, their bodies entangled. He'd teach the little brat a lesson. "How about a dance while we wait?"

"Oh, dancing..." Jennifer shook her head. "It's just an excuse for hugging while pretending it isn't hugging." She looked at the waitress unfolding a service table. "Besides, our Chicken Teriyaki is here."

Rudy drank his glass of Sauvignon Blanc in one gulp. He needed to relax. This girl was throwing him off. Time to try a different tactic. "Tell me, Jennifer, what's a man got to do to get on your good side." If she has one, he mused.

Jennifer gave the waitress a gracious smile. "Thanks," she said. She waited for her to walk away. "It's simple. He's got to play it straight." She cut a piece of chicken. "No, more than that," she corrected. She looked into Rudy's eyes. "He's got to be honest. If I feel he plays games with me, I play too." She wagged her finger like a schoolteacher. "And you play games."

Rudy looked around. It was getting hot, in spite of the breeze coming off the river. "Okay," he said. "Off the record?"

"Yes, except—"

"I know. With the exception of your father." He tried not to show his annoyance. "What do you know about the Farming Consortium and its owners?"

"Aha!" Jennifer exclaimed. "There's plenty of information on the Consortium in the library—you don't need me for that. What you're really interested in is whoever lives at Les Capucines, am I right?"

"Yes," Rudy admitted with a sigh. She could cost him his scoop.

"I know a lot about them," she answered. "And I do mean a lot. I worked there for about a month."

"You worked there?" Rudy asked. "In what capacity?" He forced himself to sit back and appear relaxed, but it wasn't easy to keep the hard-nosed reporter out of his voice.

Jennifer emptied the bottle of Perrier into her glass. "I'll answer one more question of yours, and then you will answer one of mine. No holding back."

Rudy nodded. He glanced at the candles on the table and the reflections of the tall lamps on the river waters. The music in the background was still playing softly. This was an ideal, romantic place. And this girl was holding an interrogation. How could she be so insensitive to his charm—

"Agreed?" Jennifer asked.

Nodding hadn't been enough. He leaned toward her. "Agreed," he said.

"I prepared a publication showcasing Vern Saint-Clair's pictures. It was commissioned by the late Mr. Justin Bernard Saint-Clair, the person who set up this model farm system. His grandson, Vern, was a painter. Modern art. I spent weeks at the estate documenting and cataloguing his work. I have a degree in Humanities and Artistic Design."

"I see." He was looking for gold, and she'd been right there, mining the mother load. "Your turn," he said. "Shoot."

"The celebrity you're after: is he or she a criminal? Yes or no."

This girl was born too late and in the wrong place. She should have held interrogations at the Lubyanca. "You'll keep it to yourself?" He read her face. "You and your father, I mean."

"The best kept secret," said Jennifer.

Rudy leaned toward her. "Criminal," he whispered.

"It figures!" Jennifer said. She didn't hide her satisfaction. "It matches the profile of the guests of Les Capucines," she added quickly.

"Why is that?"

"It's still my turn," said Jennifer. "First, you'll have to elaborate on the kind of crimes."

"No way! It's my exclusive. My four-year research!"

"No need to get upset," said Jennifer coolly.

Right, thought Rudy. This was a duel. One had to keep his cool. But why in the world would Jennifer want to know what he was after? What was her interest in the whole thing? He looked at her with a critical eye. "Did you work for your father, while you prepared this—this—what did you prepare?"

"An album," she said. She looked at him with a Cheshire cat smile. "I have already answered one extra question."

"That does not count," said Rudy. "Not pertinent."

"Okay. But you still have to spell out the crimes." She brandished her index finger again.

Rudy knew enough. The girl had worked for her father, it was pretty obvious. He was on the right track. He'd go to the hotel and call the head office. See what they thought of his findings. He probably didn't need any further information. He could already make a sensational announcement. "Oh, well, maybe we should stop talking business," he said with nonchalance. "Relax a bit." Jennifer seemed worried about the sudden change. Good. It was time she worried a little. He leaned against his chair's back. Jennifer liked men who played straight? Let's see how well she kept up that attitude. "What about a dance or two?" He looked into her eyes, a man's into a woman's. "You know, hugging while pretending it isn't hugging?"

Jennifer's brown eyes opened wide. "Agreed," she finally said. "But for a couple of dances only."

## Chapter 44

"Yes, Mr. Eaton, Ms. Dustin is here." Betty, one of the part-time employees of the Saratown Public Library, handed Jennifer the portable phone.

"Hello, Rudy." She had mixed feelings about him. Maybe it wasn't wise to see him again.

"I surrender," said Rudy on the other end of the line. "I'll tell you everything you want to know about my case—if you tell me everything you know. And I do mean everything." He paused. "Jennifer? Are you there?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to pick you up around three o'clock. Can you get away?" There was urgency in Rudy's tone.

"I'll try."

"It's important, Jennifer. I have to place a few other calls. I'm in a hurry. See you at three."

Rudy stopped in front of the library entrance and briskly got out of the rental. He caught Jennifer's knapsack and opened the door for her. "Thank you for coming," he said. "I'm taking you to the Sulton Repair Shop. My car is there. We may have to wait a little there. Meanwhile, we can talk."

Jennifer glanced at a copy of her album lying on the car's middle seat, and then buckled up.

"I talked with my head office. They want me to dig a bit more before making any announcement," he said. "Years back, Ian Summer used to be on friendly terms with a certain Vincent Ramirez, who was a hit man for the Barnez family. You heard of them, right?"

Jennifer hesitated. "Vaguely, I think my father mentioned them a couple of times. He follows what's going on south of the border. But I was still in school when that case went to court."

Rudy glanced at her. Of course, this girl was so young—in that blue polka-dot dress she looked like a teenager. "My boss suggests I pay a visit to Mr. Summer. You were there for several weeks, you said. To prepare this publication." He lifted up the album Jennifer had composed. "Nice work, by the way. Very nice."

"Thanks."

"Any hints you can give me about Mr. Summer's hobbies, activities, whatever?"

"Yes, two. No, three. Boats, photography and computers. I found several pictures of speedboats. And a list of places, with dates, and names of boats, each with the club to which they belonged. Accidents. Withdrawals from races and why. Names of the winners, too."

"Do you remember any?" Rudy asked.

"No. But I took notes." Jennifer looked at Rudy. Their eyes met. "You guessed right. I worked for my father while I was preparing this album."

Rudy smiled. "My budding PI."

"After you called I made a photocopy of my notes."

"Fantastic." Rudy stopped at a red light and looked at her. "You don't dislike me completely, then," he said. "Right?"

"Right." As Rudy crossed the intersection, Jennifer bent to get a few sheets out of her knapsack. She waved three blue pages. "Here I have dates, names, clubs relative to the speedboat competitions."

"Great." Rudy stopped at the garage. He talked with the person in charge and came back to sit in the car. "We have to wait a bit more. My car isn't ready." He turned toward her. "Let's talk business. As I said, I can use your help. What do you want in exchange?" His eyes scrutinized her. "What if I mention your name in my article and give you credit for your help?"

Jennifer didn't budge.

He grudgingly sweetened the pot. "Second column, no, first column."

"Hurray!" said Jennifer. She bounced up and down in her seat.

The car was ready. Quickly, they exited the rental and entered Rudy's car.

"Now listen to me. You'll come with me to Les Capucines. You can get me in, introduce me..."

"I can't go there," Jennifer cut in firmly.

"Aw, come on, Jennifer. This is not the time to start playing games."

"I'm not playing games," Jennifer said, as Rudy started to drive toward Les Capucines. "Really, I'm not." She began perspiring, in spite of the air conditioning.

Rudy gave her a sidelong glance. "The guy I'm after didn't make the FBI's most wanted list because of his pretty dark eyes. He's considered armed and dangerous. Is that it? Are you chickening out on me?"

"Absolutely not!" She glared at him.

"So why the cold feet?"

"If you have to know... I surprised Mr. Summer in a delicate situation," she finally said.

"What kind of delicate situation?"

Jennifer hesitated. "He was having sex with Mr. Luke Saint-Clair."

"He was having..." Rudy repeated, stunned. "You went to his bedroom?"

"No. It happened in the studio." Jennifer explained what she'd witnessed. "That's why I can't go there. Not ever again."

"You knew they were going to have an intimate encounter and you went there on purpose?"

"Something like that," Jennifer whispered.

"Yes or no, Jennifer."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you talk it over with your father? You tell him everything, you said. You probably even told him I kissed you on the neck, last night!"

Jennifer's voice was hardly audible. "He was away. I thought I could handle the situation myself." She paused. "Actually, I did." She paused again. "And I didn't tell him you kissed me, last night."

The car began climbing the hill leading to Les Capucines. When Rudy spoke again, he made a point to express his concern. "Why don't you hide in the back of the car, Jennifer. Sorry I dragged you here. I'll use the speedboat competitions to start a conversation with this Ian Summer." He glanced at the blue sheets Jennifer had left lying on the middle seat. "Can you please read me the names, dates, places—all you've got on the races?"

Jennifer complied.

Before getting out of the car with a voice recorder in his hand, Rudy said, "Thank you, Jennifer. You're a great girl."

## Chapter 45

Rudy Eaton stood in front of Les Capucines and began talking into his voice recorder. "The Saint-Clair mansion stands on a rise literally flooded with nasturtiums. Old bricks were used to reconstruct the part destroyed by the fire. They match those on the left wing, untouched by the flames. Four big windows take up most of the left part of the façade—they're all in stained glass. The main door, about five feet wide and eight feet high, has inlays of light wood alternating with dark. All together, the mansion is a fine example of what money and good taste can accomplish."

Rudy put away his recorder, walked up to the entrance and rang the bell. The chimes hadn't finished their melodic song, when the heavy door opened.

"My name is Rudy Eaton. I'm a correspondent with the Cosmopolitan News." He displayed one of his famous smiles, showing most of his upper teeth.

"Welcome, Mr. Eaton. I'm Luke Saint-Clair. How can I help you?" He waved Rudy in and closed the door behind him.

Though he expected to meet with Luke Saint-Clair, it still required some effort to conceal his uneasiness as Luke stood in front of him, and the vision of Jennifer's disclosure came to his mind. "Well, I don't know if you can help me. I'm pursuing a new lead in a story that first caught my attention four years ago. I'm looking for Mr. Ian Summer. I was told he lives here, at Les Capucines." He quickly glanced around. "I'd like to interview him."

"I just came back from a trip," said Luke, pointing to a suitcase behind him. "I don't know if Mr. Summer is in."

"Who is it?" Ian called from behind him.

Luke moved aside. He introduced Rudy and Ian.

Rudy was thrilled. He opened his windbreaker and said with enthusiasm, "I've been looking for you for a long time, Ian. Remember me? We met at the Gallupapa race. Seven years ago." He extended his hand.

"Right," Ian replied, shaking hands with Rudy. "Yes, I remember your face." He paused, uncertain. "Vaguely."

"Of course. I was only a spectator, you were the favorite contender. You were very nervous." Rudy looked around, trying to absorb as much as he could of the environment. "It was unfortunate your engine failed ten yards short of the finish line."

"Well," Ian said. "It happens. In a race like that, the engines are pushed to the limit. Sometimes they just give up."

They were still standing in the hall.

"Maybe we can remember old times in a comfortable place," Rudy said. "In a café in Saratown, for instance."

"Oh, no. We've plenty of space in this house," said Luke amicably, "come to our studio. The easy chairs and the sofa are fabulous: soft to the touch, solid underneath."

Rudy followed him, looking around. "Fantastic windows. Nice wooden bookcases." He walked over to one of Vern's paintings. "Modern art, eh?" He looked at it from different angles. "Beautiful combination of colors. That's the only thing I can judge when we're talking abstract art."

"Take a seat," Luke said, gesturing at the sofa. "I still have to unpack, so you'll have to excuse me. But I can serve you something to drink before I go." He looked at Rudy, waiting for an order.

"A soft drink would be wonderful," Rudy said. He sat down on the sofa, across from Ian.

"No, No!" Ian said. "It wasn't Bill Simpson who capsized at that race! It was Peter Chamberlain in his brand new boat, the 'Purple Dauphin.' I should know. I was right behind him. I had to maneuver like crazy to avoid him."

"My mistake. I followed so many races that year..." He finished his 7Up, and twirled the ice cubes around in the empty glass. "Now, I've got a confession to make. I didn't come here just for old times' sake."

Ian looked at him, suddenly suspicious.

"There's another reason for my visit," Rudy said.

"Oh?"

"It's a long story." Rudy cleared his throat. "I know you were friendly with Vincent Ramirez. He never won a race but he was there often, especially if the race was in the Gulf."

Ian blanched.

Rudy continued. "You probably don't know the story on this guy. I know you were injured and spent months at the hospital, and then you disappeared from the race circuit." Rudy ignored Ian's unrest. "So let me fill you in. Vincent Ramirez turned out to be in the employ of the notorious José Barnez." Rudy took a new can of 7Up from the table, a few ice cubes from the ice container and refilled his glass. "Ramirez—he used different names—was a hit man. He was suspected of killing Barnez' girlfriend, Charlene Houston. He drenched a load of laundry with gasoline, added other flammable chemicals, stepped up the temperature in the dryer and let things happen. The girl, Charlene, was incinerated. The police proved it was arson, but couldn't find out who had done it."

Ian unbuttoned the collar of his Gap shirt. "I see," he said curtly. "Why tell me all this?"

"Because you were one of few people Vincent Ramirez chummed around with. Ramirez has disappeared, but I think he's still alive and well, hiding under an assumed name." Rudy finished his second drink, making the ice cubes jangle.

"Stop that stupid noise! It makes me nervous."

"Nervous?" Rudy said. "What for?"

"Never mind." Ian used his cellular phone to call Luke. "I'm tired, that's all. I'm still recovering from an accident."

"I'm sorry, Ian. My apologies. I didn't know you'd been sick." Rudy rose as Luke entered. "Thank you for your time," he said to Ian. He slowly bowed to both men. "I think I can find my way out."

## Chapter 46

Crouched in the backseat of Rudy's car, Jennifer peeped between the two front seats to monitor the entrance of the Saint-Clair mansion. Finally, Rudy came out and joined her. She sat up straight and quickly informed him that her father and a friend of his were waiting down the road. Rudy turned the ignition key and made a sharp U turn. "What happened?" he asked.

"My father and Malcolm Clark were going to Les Capucines to do some snooping. They had about the same idea you had. They decided to wait and talk to you first. A successful visit?" Jennifer asked.

Rudy searched for her eyes in the rearview mirror. "This is top secret, Jennifer."

"Uh-huh, that good, eh? I bet you found out where Vincent Ramirez is hiding."

"Better than that, my dear friend. I think Ian Summer _is_ Vincent Ramirez. Ramirez had an old lateral scar on his head. Mr. Summer's hair has been shaved recently, because of the accident he had, I guess. That scar is well visible."

"Sensational!"

"You're not kidding! The best scoop of my career." He stopped the car. "I'll be joining the crowd," he said, pointing to Ed and Malcolm leaning against Ed's car.

"Fine, see you later." Jennifer stepped out of the vehicle and moved her arms and legs to loosen up her cramped muscles.

Across the road, Ed called to his daughter, "Jennifer, please take Rudy's car home. Malcolm and I'll give him a ride back."

***

The sun had dipped down, diffusing an orange glow in the sky. Jennifer sat by the side of the pond and opened the plastic bag she'd taken with her. Immediately three mother ducks, followed by their offspring, came gliding toward her. In their haste, they crossed each other's paths. Jennifer broke morsels of bread and threw them into the water. Several ducklings headed for the same piece, their quacking petulant and persistent. To avoid conflicts, Jennifer speeded up her tossing. A young duck came ashore. His feathers just started to shade in blue, green and black—nature's colorful way to identify the male gender. He waddled over to Jennifer and ate from her hand.

"Your mother said I'd find you here." Rudy sat beside her. "Feeding the ducks is your evening summer job, she said."

Jennifer nodded. "Hi, Rudy." She turned sideways to face him. "Made any important decisions?"

"Yes. Ed and Malcolm will go to see Detective Sutherland tomorrow afternoon. He's away until then. I'm ready to jot down a draft of my article. I won't make any outright accusations, but I'll put in enough hints to spook Summer, or Ramirez, or whoever he is. It'll take me all night." Rudy moved to take the bag with the last piece of bread from Jennifer, when the male duck pecked his hand. "Hey, you bird without manners!" Rudy hissed. "What's your problem?"

"That's Pucchetto," said Jennifer. "He's an orphan. I found him in the high grass, close to his own egg." She threw the last piece of bread onto the grass. Pucchetto rushed after it. "He wasn't more than three inches long. I put him in a little basket, covered him with soft cotton to keep him warm. I took him swimming in the fountain we have in our backyard. He's very protective of me."

"What a romantic way to see the world... That duck is very protective of his own supper," murmured Rudy. He moved close to Jennifer, his forearm brushing hers. They sat in silence, watching the sky getting darker, while the clouds took on shades of purple. The pond became quiet. Only a few soft quacks could still be heard.

"I came to say goodbye for the night," said Rudy softly. "But I'd like to see you tomorrow night."

Jennifer didn't answer. She folded her arms around her legs and stared off into the distance.

"I thought we could spend some time together."

"I don't think it's wise. Not for me, Rudy."

"Please Jennifer, I'd like to see you tomorrow, one last time before I leave. Please." He never thought of begging a woman for a date, not since he was fourteen and had a crush on the largest bust in grade twelve.

Jennifer shook her head.

"Can you tell me why?"

"Because." Jennifer's voice was low.

"Are you afraid that a short, brief encounter between the two of us would mess up your entire life?"

"Yes," Jennifer replied. "You said it right. You said it all, Rudy."

Rudy sighed. "I didn't think you'd be so..."

"Chicken?" Jennifer finished.

"I didn't mean that," said Rudy. Pucchetto circled them and quacked softly but insistently. "Send that stupid bird away. Tell him it's time to go to sleep. All the other ducks know that. That bird must be retarded."

"It isn't that. I used to take him home with me when the nights were cold. That's why he's hanging around." Jennifer rose. "It's getting dark now. No moon either," she said.

Slowly, they began walking back to the house and stopped before meeting with the porch, near a big maple tree.

Rudy leaned against its trunk and gently pulled Jennifer toward him. She didn't react. He had to make one last attempt to conquer her. "Are you sure you want to pass on a night of passion with me? You'll be sixty, one day. You may look back and regret it."

Jennifer laughed softly. "I'm twenty-two, Rudy. Between now and then I count on having many nights of passion."

Rudy could smell her perfume—something fresh and sweet, like lily-of-the-valley. He wanted to take her into his arms. "I think you like me," he said. He wasn't at all sure that she did, but it was worth a try.

"I do, in a sense, Rudy. But in another, I don't. I can't figure out why you're so persistent. I think your big ego has something to do with it."

"You read too much psychology stuff. You should have more practice and less theory." He caressed her arms. "So you don't have any idea why I want to be close to you?"

"I don't, really." Jennifer paused. "Maybe you want to move into a territory where you're a master player."

Not bad, Rudy thought. He couldn't see her clearly, but he was sure she had that annoying cat's smile on her face. Enough talking, she was too good with words. He pulled her toward him and pressed his lips onto hers. Oh, he was welcome, he thought, far more than expected. She leaned against him and put her arms around him. The girl was everything he felt she'd be: tender and giving. He set her lips free and caressed her hair. "Jennifer, we've got to talk, seriously, I mean. I have to go now, but I want to see you tomorrow." He paused. "My big ego, you know," he said, laughing.

"Well, maybe—okay, I'll see you tomorrow, Rudy," she said quietly.

"Great." Slowly, Rudy guided her toward the back door of the house. He took her hand and kissed it. "Good night, Jennifer. Dream of me."

## Chapter 47

July 1999

A wide arch separated Ian's remodeled bedroom from the adjoining bathroom, all set in dramatic black marble with white and green venation. Ian had just finished bathing in the whirlpool and was getting dressed, when somebody knocked on the door. "Is that you, Luke?" he asked.

"Yes." Luke entered the bedroom and glanced around. "The architect sure did a great job. Look at the parlor! This long counter is a great idea." He tapped the countertop. "You can put all your cameras and sketching kits on it, and there's still room for your computer stuff! You must be pleased." As Ian didn't bother to answer or even look at him, Luke continued, "I didn't have much time to talk to you since I came back from the retreat. How have you been?"

"Bad in general. Terrible after that reporter's visit. What was his name?" Frantically, Ian opened all the drawers. Finally he got a shirt out of the last drawer.

"Rudy Eaton. From the Cosmopolitan News," Luke replied. "He sounded very interested in you and your competitions."

"Too interested," Ian said as he slipped the shirt on. He stood in front of the wall mirror. "This shirt is horrible." He took it off and threw it on the floor. "Allison gave it to me. She's got no taste in men's clothes."

"What's the problem, Ian? You seem upset." Luke sat on the king-size bed.

"I've been upset from the very first day we moved to this crummy place." He chose another shirt, a soft grey with bright yellow stripes.

"Tell me what your problem _really is_ , Ian."

Ian stopped in front of Luke. "I need money. Do you have any?" he asked brusquely.

"What's it for?" Luke crossed his legs. "Let me try to understand, Ian. Allison gave you the sum to pay off your debt, right? Then you asked her for another thirty thousand dollars. What's the reason you need more money?"

Ian looked in the closet for a belt. "I can't explain much," he said in an unusual, calm tone. "Answer me, instead. Can you give me any cash?"

"Only a bit. I can borrow against my monthly allowance. I can come up with a few thousand. Maybe ten."

"I need more. Much more."

"Ian, what for? Please tell me. I'm here to help."

"Okay. Years back a person was murdered in strange circumstances. I thought all the fuss about that incident was forgotten. But it might not be so. Somebody could link my name to that murder. Rudy Eaton was a sports reporter at that time. He followed some of my races. I suspect he knows more than he lets on." Ian grabbed a small camera, looped it on a strap, and hung it around his neck. "Then Marion told me somebody else was looking for me. I didn't catch his name: Peter, Peter something." Ian took a deep breath. "To make a long story short, it might not be safe for me to hang around here. Not for much longer. I better disappear before some people put two and two together."

"But Ian, you haven't done anything wrong!"

"Of course not! But these days one has to prove he's innocent, Luke."

"Well, we'll get a good lawyer. I'm sure Allison will help you. Why don't you talk it over with her?"

"She wouldn't understand. She wouldn't even _try_ to understand." Ian finished getting dressed.

"Why do you think so? She was in love with you. She gave you everything you asked for. She remodeled the house to your taste. She must care for you or she wouldn't have done all that."

Ian laughed, a nervous, short laughter. "Bullshit. You don't know anything of what happened between me and my wife."

"But she's the one who could help you. I can't, Ian."

"Tell me, Luke, if you had money, would you help me stay out prison?"

"Certainly, Ian. I'd help you in any way I could. You know I would."

"I see," Ian said. He smiled at Luke. "That's one of nicest things you told me in a long time."

## Chapter 48

Too bad Ed Dustin and Malcolm Clark hadn't shown up. Allison wasn't in a hurry to sell any of her brother's paintings, but a few well-placed sales could make Vern known and produce some income. Some much needed income. When she'd gone to the bank this morning, she'd withdrawn all the cash available in her personal account: ninety-five dollars and thirty-five cents. She wondered how she'd pay for everyday expenses. And that wasn't all... Marion had refurnished kitchen cupboards and china cabinets, and sent everything to the cleaners that wasn't bolted down. Another expense she hadn't anticipated. There wouldn't be any other source of income until the beginning of the following month, when she'd collect the rent for the houses on Saint-Clair land. Immersed in her financial worries, Allison entered the house.

"Do you have a couple of minutes?" Marion was waiting for her in the foyer.

"Sure," Allison said.

"Remember those handmade rugs you liked so much at the Indian market near Saint Maurice? I left word to call me when they went on sale." She smiled proudly. "They just called. We can have all four of them, for one hundred dollars flat. No taxes. Cash, of course."

Allison didn't want to admit to Marion that her financial situation was critical. "I'm a bit short of cash," she finally confessed, without looking at the housekeeper.

Marion didn't take the hint. "They're closing for the season, you know that. They're moving their stuff up north. If you want those rugs, I have to pick them up this afternoon." She was ready to leave, a big bag hanging from her shoulder.

Clearly, Marion was not going to give up. "Let's see how much money I have in my purse." Maybe with all the change she could manage to scrape up that hundred dollars. Allison looked in her wallet and counted the change. She gave Marion the hundred dollars. "There," she said, relieved.

Marion pocketed bills and a pile of change. "Can I get some money for gas? My tank is empty. Five dollars should be enough." Marion stood there, seemingly unaware of her renewed embarrassment.

Allison didn't know what to do. She'd just found a way out of one predicament, and now she was plunged into another awkward situation. She rummaged through her nearly empty purse, trying to buy time. Then her hand closed on her car keys. Of course! She smiled up at Marion. "I've got a better idea. Why don't you take my car? The tank is half full. That way, you won't have to stop for gas—I know how you hate to waste time."

Marion gave her a doubtful look. "But won't you be needing it yourself? I thought you were going into town this afternoon."

Allison waved away her objections. "I'm not in any hurry. I'll go after you get back." She handed Marion the keys.

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Absolutely." Allison hustled Marion to the door to make sure she wouldn't come up with another request. "Thanks Marion. It'll be great to have those rugs."

***

The smell of fresh paint permeated the station's conference room. Charles Sutherland, Ed Dustin and Malcolm Clark sat around the oval table, ready to discuss Ian Summer's identity.

The phone rang and Charles snatched it up. Ed and Malcolm rose to leave, but Charles waved them back to their seats. "Stay," he said. "It's just a car accident." He listened for a few seconds. "The woman doesn't want to go to the hospital? She wants to go shopping? It's obvious she's in shock!" He listened some more. "If the car is in that condition, chances are she has internal injuries—air bag or not. Follow procedures." Charles listened intently. "Okay. Okay. I'll come. Shortly." He turned off the phone.

"An accident on a secondary road through the hills. Few people use it nowadays. Only one car is involved, an old Volvo."

"A Volvo?" Malcolm echoed. He swiftly rose and reached for a folder Ed had with him. He leafed through its contents. "Mrs. Allison Summer has a car of that make."

"Is the woman hurt?" Ed asked.

"Not seriously, it appears. But she's in shock for sure," Charles replied.

The following day Ed, Malcolm and Charles were sitting around the same table, leafing through the report on the road accident.

"Allison Summer lends her car to Marion Miller to go to the Indian Market. The brake line has been punctured. It'd take some time to disperse the fluid through the tiny, almost invisible holes. She takes a secondary road not maintained by the municipality or the county, but not closed off to the public either. The road climbs for a long stretch. There's a log across the road. She tries to stop but doesn't make it. The impact throws the car off the road and into the bushes, but doesn't tip it over. The Volvo bounces around for a short stretch." Charles' eyes clouded. "Had she gone to the Indian Market following the usual route, which tips down before going up, she'd find herself speeding down the hill with no brakes—just before the road curves into a sharp bend." Charles stopped, clearly perplexed. "Criminally speaking, the accident was well planned."

"It surely was," Malcolm said.

Charles continued. "Marion Miller isn't seriously hurt. She grabs the cellular phone and calls us." Charles stopped, exhausted. "The woman was lucky."

"Mrs. Allison Summer was even luckier, I'd say," Ed commented.

"Yeah. She certainly was. I'll have a talk with her first thing in the morning." Charles sighed. "I have no choice."

Malcolm and Ed nodded silently.

## Chapter 49

Somebody wanted her dead. Allison couldn't believe it. What had she ever done to provoke such hate? Her heart in turmoil, she sat on the steps of Marvin's house, anxiously awaiting his return. He'd be there in minutes, he'd told her on the phone. She hadn't seen him for the last week. Troubles with sick cattle at the Upper Farm had kept him busy. Then he had to take care of some personal business, Susan had told her. What sort of business, Susan didn't know. Allison had the distinct feeling that Marvin was involved in something he wanted to keep to himself.

Finally the Grand Cherokee appeared and stopped inches away from her. Marvin got out of the vehicle, a big smile directed at her. "Am I happy to see you, Allison!" he said. "Let me unlock the door." His hazel eyes rested on her, full of affection and concern. Side by side, they entered the house. "Problems?" he asked.

"Some. I'll fix you something to eat," she said, hurrying into the kitchen.

"No," Marvin said. "When you called, you sounded upset. I want to know what you didn't tell me over the phone. Let's grab a cold drink and go upstairs. I want my woman to relax. I want her to open her heart to me." He gave her another big, caring smile. "The agreement is not to touch you, right? But I can still look at you."

With two colas in his hands he almost pushed Allison out of the kitchen and up the stairs. "Let's sit here." He tapped on the chesterfield. He put a striped pillow between them. "There. I've put a barrier between us, if only a soft one," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. He handed her a can of cola and deposited the other on the carpet. "So tell me what happened."

Allison sat down and tucked her legs under her. She looked at Marvin. His presence was magical. Her troubles began to feel remote, almost unreal. "First, there's Marion. She had an accident. She wasn't hurt, but..." Two large tears rolled down her cheeks. "Somebody messed with the brake line. The police said it'd been pierced in several places. When she had to brake to avoid a log blocking the road, she lost control."

"She's okay, you said. But it probably shook her up pretty bad."

"Not exactly. She'd been on her way to buy me some rugs that were on sale. She was determined to save me money, and she was not about to give up because of some accident." Allison paused. "When the police arrived, she asked if they'd take her there. The police thought she was in deep, dee-eep shock." Allison paused. "I wanted her to take a couple of days off. She said she would—but not before next week."

"Good. Her car had been tampered with, you said?" Marvin asked.

Allison nodded. "Except it wasn't her car." She looked at him, her eyes wide. "Marion was driving my car, Marvin. My old Volvo."

"Shit!" Marvin jerked upright. "The accident was meant for you?" The color drained from his face. He swallowed hard. "Oh, Allison..."

"Yes, I was the target. Nobody knew she'd use my car. It was a last-minute decision."

"Terrible!"

"That isn't all. Ian suspects about us. He told me he knows we're having an affair." Allison paused. "He offered me a deal. A one-time payment to bail me out of marriage and blackmail. Two for the price of one." She chuckled without mirth. "He offered to set me free, for one million dollars."

"One million! You don't believe what he says, do you? He'd take the money and continue to do what he's done." Marvin jumped up and paced the floor.

"No. I don't trust him. He looks so nasty, so ready to explode, ready to hurt me. I don't know how to handle him, Marvin."

Marvin rose and closed the drapes. "Wait here. I'll go and check if all doors are locked." When he returned, he threw the striped pillow in the farthest corner of the room. He took Allison in his arms and kissed her on every bare spot he could find. He stroked her back. "I thought about us, Allison. A lot. Seriously. We've got to find a solution. Ian has to disappear from your life." He looked at her, a dark shadow in his eyes. "We have to get rid of him, force him out of our lives forever."

## Chapter 50

Allison couldn't wake up. As if from a great distance she heard the insistent trill of a bell trying to bring her up from the depths of sleep. She sensed a commotion, but was unable to distinguish whether it was real or belonged in her dream. There was a murmur of voices, many voices blending into a meaningless garble. Then chimes. Finally, she opened her eyes and glanced at the clock. It was eleven in the morning. Somebody was at the door. She grabbed her velour robe, slipped it over her pajamas and walked to the living room window. She lifted a corner of the satin curtains. Through the sheers, she peeped outside. A flashing cruiser blocked her driveway. Two policemen in uniform stood by it. One man, in plain clothes, patrolled the space in front of the entry with nervous steps. She judged him to be the person in charge. Far away, maybe thirty feet behind the cruiser, stood Marvin, his arms folded together. Oh, my God, they'd come to arrest her. What she'd once feared had happened. Her legs failed her. She dragged herself to the door, opened it and stood there, numb.

"Mrs. Allison Summer?" the man in charge asked.

Allison nodded, then glanced at Marvin. He didn't seem to notice her.

"Detective Charles Sutherland," the man said. "May I come in?"

Allison nodded again. There was no point in fighting the law. The detective moved in only a few steps and closed the door behind him. "We'd like to talk to you, Mrs. Summer," he said. "I wonder if you could get dressed and come with us to the station."

Allison nodded again.

***

A secretary entered the conference room and quietly approached Rudy Eaton. It was the usual meeting in which the Cosmopolitan News decided what to print on the front page. Calls were discouraged. The secretary whispered in Rudy's ear, "Jennifer Dustin is on the line, Mr. Eaton. She says it's urgent. She says it's personal."

"I'll take it," Rudy said. He rose and went to his desk. "Hello, Jennifer," he started with a happy tone. "Are you downstairs?"

"No," Jennifer replied.

"Are you in New York?"

"No. I'm in Saratown, Rudy."

"Now, let me think... You couldn't wait to hear my voice." Rudy was happy to hear hers.

"Wrong again."

"You wanted to tell me that you're in love with me and couldn't wait another minute." There was a short, hurried laughter on the other end of the line. Rudy changed his tone from flamboyant to serious. "How did I do, holding up the image of the big ego?"

"Excellent. You couldn't have done any better."

Rudy laughed. "I was going to call you tonight, Jennifer. Now you called. Whatever your reason, I'm happy you did."

"Can you stop talking for a second? I have sensational news. Fresh from headquarters, Rudy." Jennifer lowered her voice. "Ian Summer has been shot to death. Apparently at close range. At this hour nobody, except the police and the two guys who found him, knows of the murder."

Rudy squeezed the phone so hard it hurt. "Sh... Holy smoke! Are you serious? Jennifer, you are a gem. I'm taking the first plane over. Can you pick me up at Toronto airport, or am I asking too much?"

"No. I'll pick you up. Let me know when you arrive."

"Of course. Thanks. Jennifer?" Rudy hollered. "I love you."

Jennifer laughed. "I thought you would, after a call like this," she replied.

## Chapter 51

There were times when Charles Sutherland doubted he'd chosen the right career. After questioning Allison, he wondered if it wasn't time to retire.

Allison had waived her right to counsel. Even so, Keith Sample had showed up, making a mysterious appearance only an hour into the interrogation. But by then the damage had been done. The old attorney had been too late to prevent Allison's admission that she knew of the tape's existence, and was aware of its incriminating content.

In the past few months, Allison Summer had been through a sheer avalanche of humiliation, loss, and hardship. Now the law was about to heap on more misery. They had no alternative but to come down hard on her. Charles sighed. It probably was time for him to get out of law enforcement. One couldn't be a good policeman and feel sorry for the criminals. It was the wrong attitude altogether.

It was ten o'clock at night. Charles had no family to go to. His wife had divorced him twenty years before, his only daughter had moved west. What a life. He sighed. He took a glass of water, signed out the video of Allison's interrogation and moved to the projection room. He went over the session from start to finish, stopping the tape from time to time to jot down his observations. The woman was in a lot of trouble. He'd read the same conclusion on her lawyer's face—and Keith Sample didn't fret easily.

Charles rewound the tape, locked it back in the safe and returned to the conference room. It was the place where he concentrated best. He looked at the coroner's report: it clearly proved that Allison's husband was indeed Vincent Ramirez. With the notebook in front of him, he began pondering the salient points of the case.

The scene and time of the crime. The garbage men had found Ian Summer lying in his car, his left hand on the steering wheel, his body reclined on the passenger's side. They'd called police and waited there, on the service road looping around Les Capucines. Summer-Ramirez had been killed by a single bullet to the forehead. Death was estimated at around seven o'clock in the morning. Allison claimed to have been asleep at that time.

Then there was the falsified murder tape to consider. Allison didn't remember killing Albert Borodin, but she admitted having seen herself on the tape and having taken it for real. In fact, she'd given her husband money to cover up for her. She claimed not to know how he got rid of the body, or who helped him. She wouldn't admit that Ian blackmailed her, but now that they knew Ian Summer was indeed Vincent Ramirez, the possibility of blackmail seemed more than likely. In which case Allison had an important motive for murder.

She'd spontaneously talked about the content of that tape. That was the testimony Charles had collected before the arrival of her attorney. It was probably the most incriminating piece of evidence against her. She'd been totally cooperative. Until Keith Sample appeared, she was clearly under the impression that she'd been brought in for Albert Borodin's murder. After a brief consultation with his client, Keith had asked for a rescheduling of the interrogation.

Charles closed his notebook. It was time to go home. Tomorrow he'd consult with his superiors and look at the tape of Marvin's testimony. He wanted to compare, sentence by sentence, what Allison had said about her relationship with Marvin, and what Marvin had to say about her. They'd spent the evening before the murder together. They both had admitted to that. The two depositions differed, however, in what they'd done and said between eight o'clock—when a witness had seen Allison sitting on Marvin's steps—and eleven o'clock, when Marvin had taken her home.

If Allison hadn't killed Ian, Charles thought, Marvin had done it.

Morning came much too early for Charles. He sat at his desk, drinking a mug of black coffee, steeling himself for the day ahead. He had absolutely no desire to look any further into the Summer-Ramirez case.

With a sudden squeak, the revolving door let Ed Dustin in. Charles perked up. Ed was always good for a chat.

"Hi, Charles," Ed said. He plunked down in the chair reserved for visitors. "Got some news for you."

"Hot?"

"I would say so. Our Mrs. Summer paid Marvin Garland a big sum in bonds and shares out of her inheritance. It could be a payment of some sort. You might want to check it out."

"Interesting," said Charles. "How did you get—" He stopped. "Never mind, it's better I don't know."

"Is Marvin a suspect?"

"You know I can't comment on that," Charles said. "But one thing I can tell you for sure: I'd pity whoever would have to question him. When they grilled him on his wife's murder, he gave them zip. And believe me, they put him through the third degree. He just kept denying he knew anything, until he got both the law and the mob off his back. The guy is cool as a cucumber." Charles shook his head. "When we had him here yesterday, he even managed to give Allison some room to maneuver. He claims they spent the evening talking business. But get this: he said the poor woman was so upset about Marion Miller's accident that she couldn't grasp a word he said. If Allison's statement doesn't square with his, no problem—she was confused, right? End of story." He grinned. "You've got to hand it to him. He's smart." Then he looked at Ed and frowned. "This's off the record, of course. Sometimes I forget you don't work with me anymore."

"Don't worry. My lips are sealed."

"Ed, do you have any clue if the two are involved?" Charles asked. "That would add another reason for eliminating the husband."

"No, I don't. Jennifer thought the relationship was all business. That was more than six months ago. Things may have changed in the meantime." Ed paused. "Jennifer had two other pieces of information you may be interested in. Something she found out while talking to Marvin's sister, Susan. First, Marvin owns a small cottage in the hills, on the shore of the Upper Lake. He goes there often, in the good season. Fishing."

"Interesting," said Charles. "What's the other thing?"

"He frequents singles bars on the weekends. Not here, farther away. Susan didn't know where."

"Interesting again," Charles said. "Thank you, Ed." He got up, sighing. "Better get back to work. I've got a big chore on my to-do list for today. I've got to track down Luke Saint-Clair. He left a note saying he needed to spend some time in contemplation. That was his word: contemplation. I bet he's holed up at some retreat. He may become a monk one of these days. He's been on four retreats in five months. We've got to find which one he went to, now."

## Chapter 52

Look at her shoulders, so slumped, her sunken cheeks and her eyes, so red. She should be in a hospital. Keith Sample stifled a sigh. Allison's father had been in an ocean of trouble, but he'd never been involved in a murder. God had been merciful to take Justin Saint-Clair away before this happened.

"You have to understand, Allison," he started in the gentlest tone he could muster, "that the situation is serious. Very serious. You volunteered information about the tape, a tape that turned out to be a masterpiece of digital collage. Simply put, a fake. Why didn't you come to see me or any other lawyer with that incriminating cassette?"

Allison replied slowly, her eyes fixed on her hands. "I was ashamed. For what I was told I'd done. How could I suspect my husband would manufacture a piece of evidence like that? He courted me non-stop for four months. He told me all the nice things a woman would like to hear. He begged me to marry him. Then, a few weeks after the wedding, I discovered that he was—he was—" Her voice broke.

"A fag." Keith bit his lips. He shouldn't have used that word, it just came out. "We can't do anything about that," he said quickly. "Since the tape is a fake, there is no evidence you ever had anything to do with Albert Borodin's death. Now—" Keith looked at his notes. "We've got a problem: Marvin Garland. He's the one who took me to the police station the day of Ian's murder. Two problems actually." Keith looked at Allison. "One, you gave him part of your inheritance. After what happened, it may look like some kind of payoff in advance for your husband's murder." Allison's eyes shifted, evading his. She's involved with Garland, Keith realized in a flash. "I'm a criminal lawyer. Normally I don't prepare wills. But your grandfather was my dearest friend, so I made an exception for him. We kicked around different solutions to the problem of his succession, trying to decide who should be in charge of Les Capucines after he was gone. We discussed how much money to leave your father, et cetera et cetera. He never mentioned bequeathing anything to Mr. Garland."

"I know," said Allison. "You told me. But that _was_ what grandpa wanted."

"I'm afraid that's irrelevant," said Keith with a professional tone. "The police may get wind of this unusual transaction. If so, they may want some answers." He cleaned his eyeglasses with a tissue. "If they discover I handled the will and want to question me, I can no longer represent you."

Tears began to flow down Allison's cheeks. Without a word, Keith moved the box of tissues in front of her. "Now, the second problem. Are you involved with Mr. Garland?" He already knew the answer to that, and, under different circumstances, he wouldn't blame her.

Allison hesitated. "We've been seeing each other, but not since Ian came back from the clinic."

"So he's your lover."

"Has been. Yes. Only a few times."

She didn't have a clue what was important and that was totally immaterial. "Anybody aware of your relationship?"

"No. I don't think so."

Discretion in place of virtue. Not ideal, but something at any rate. Probably Marvin's idea. "I suggest you don't see him except on business and preferably in the company of others. No languishing looks. No phone calls. No faxes. No email either." He stopped. "They probably have wiretaps on all communication lines."

"I understand."

Keith was ready to conclude the session, when he suddenly remembered, "Oh, one more thing, Allison. Do you know where your father is?"

Allison shook her head. "He left a note, but it didn't say where he was going. Just that he needed time to contemplate. The police can't find him either."

That figured. The man was never where he was supposed to be. He'd probably be somewhere nearby, in a deserted cabin on one of the many lakes. Just sitting around, reading and dreaming. Maybe drawing. Keith sighed. "That's all for now, Allison. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes. The police, who do they suspect?"

Keith gave her an incredulous look. Was she born yesterday? "They wouldn't tell me, of course. My guess is that you're on top of their list. Followed by your lover. Then—but this is a long shot—they might look into the possibility of a professional hit. Vincent Ramirez had powerful enemies."

Alone in his office, Keith Sample looked at the big photograph hanging on the wall. It showed him standing next to old Justin Bernard at an exhibition of antique handguns. He remembered the pride with which his late friend showed off a flintlock manufactured by a local gunsmith in the late 18th century. Its stock was coated with mother-of-pearl. Justin Saint-Clair kept it shiny and functional, always filling its priming pan with special powder. Too bad it got destroyed in the fire.

Allison hadn't been able to find it anywhere.

## Chapter 53

A California clipper crossed the Bay of Quinte, its bow fitted with a figurehead, its sails unfurled to catch the late afternoon wind. It soon disappeared from Peter Johnston's sight, leaving behind only a few ripples and a perfectly symmetric wake.

Sprawled on a chaise longue, Peter stretched his limbs with the satisfaction of a hunter who knows his prey has fallen into a deadly trap. The newspapers spread on his lap contained lengthy reports on the Summer-Ramirez murder and commented on Ian's double identity. Several conjectures were put forward, with the widow and Garland listed as the primary suspects. Both had strong motives, and the papers already called the hit a crime of passion. Peter laughed inwardly. One doesn't need passion to kill. A congruent sum of money would nicely do.

He reached for the newspaper he hadn't read yet, The Ducktale. The Summer-Ramirez case stole most of the front page. Statistics were reported, showing the number of murders committed yearly by spouses or lovers. Statistics was a science, and the odds were that also in the Summer case the wife was involved. Peter agreed wholehearted. If it weren't for those pretty numbers, he'd have taken off for the Cayman instead of staying at the Yacht Parade Inn in Belleville. The hotel was famous for its encompassing view of the bay. From any of its front rooms a guest could watch the parade of old ships in privacy and comfort. The upcoming parade, however, was of no interest to Peter. What he wanted to attend was the open-air auction of miniatures that would take place after the show. A once-in-a-life-time event. He wouldn't miss it if his life were at stake.

After that he'd take some time off and spend long hours beautifying his collection of miniature aircraft and ships. Actually, he was ready to retire from the world of crime all together. But first he'd collect his final payment of twenty thousand. Life was good. And death, bless Ramirez' heart, was lucrative.

He rose and entered his room through the balcony door. He grabbed the phone and called Felipe Santera at his dental practice in Fort Lauderdale. As nobody answered, he left a message to call back. In the meantime, he'd take a walk and shoot some pool at a joint only a few blocks away.

The phone rang as he returned to his hotel room, back from the "Pool and Billiards" hall. He stepped in, sat on the bed and lifted the receiver. He didn't expect congratulations, of course, but he wasn't prepared for the outpouring of words that flowed over the telephone line. He hardly understood any. The man on the other end of the line spoke fast, with a heavy accent, and was obviously driven by anxiety or panic. At the first break, Peter ventured, "I would like to speak with Felipe Santera." He sounded each word.

"I'm Carlos Barnez," was the dry reply.

"I see. Sorry I didn't recognize you. I expected Felipe to return my call. The business—"

"Forget about the business!" Carlos shouted.

Peter hesitated, not knowing what to say or think.

"I'm on a secure line. Can we talk? Did you check for bugs?"

"Of course. Though nobody knows I'm here. I've just checked in. Anyhow, I only called to settle our account. The merchandise has been delivered."

"You'll get your money, don't worry, but now..."

Peter interjected, "First things first. I'd like to receive the payment in a couple of days."

"Fine. Let's settle this little problem quickly, then."

Little problem—twenty thousand dollars? These people have no idea of the value of money.

"The Caymans or Switzerland?" Carlos asked.

"Neither. I believe in direct handling. I'm at the Yacht Parade Inn in Belleville. I'll stay here for a few days. I'll wait for your man."

"It's very risky."

"These are my conditions. I work alone and in my own way. You folks knew that when you called me up."

"Fine. We'll deliver in person," said Carlos curtly. "Now the important business. I need to know if you're available for another delivery. Double the money. Half before, half after."

A new job? He was ready for a vacation, even retirement. But this new job meant earning one hundred thousand dollars. "Is it urgent?" he asked just to sound casual and cool. Urgency resounded in each of Carlos' words.

"Yes. I need you to make the delivery as soon as possible."

"I'd have to know more about the merchandise. If it's easy to get..."

"It's the same kind as before. Are you available?"

Why did the Barnez clan want an outsider to do their dirty work? He could understand in the Ramirez case—he'd been one of them for so long—but now... Something was wrong. A warning bell rang in the back of his head.

"Two hundred thousand dollars," shouted Carlos. "Yes or no."

"Yes, I'll deliver," Peter heard himself saying.

"I'll get back to you with instructions," Carlos said, and hung up.

Two hundred thousand dollars! Usually he'd get excited about such an offer. But there was something that didn't sound right. Was it the lack of details? The urgency? Normally he'd spend months to prepare a hit. Accuracy was the name of the game. Often he'd learned new skills to be able to penetrate the victim's environment without raising suspicion. Barnez, however, seemed to be in such a hurry... He was so upset he couldn't even speak clearly. That may cause a problem. Maybe he should have refused the job.

Peter rose. He was beginning to pace the room when he eyed the package lying on a chair. He hadn't unwrapped it yet. With one sharp cut he snapped the twine in two. He tossed the paper and the bubble wrap into a corner and admired its content: a miniature of the Fleet Finch Trainer. He fingered each of the propeller blades. Fine craftsmanship, he thought. His trip to the Montreal auction had paid off. His collection of biplanes was finally complete. His alter ego, art collector Chris Mortan, had reason to be satisfied.

Peter stretched on the bed, arms tucked under his head. With gratitude he remembered the mysterious man who had contacted him when he was fourteen. Teenagers were in great demand for dangerous hits. If caught, they wouldn't face the severe penalties reserved for adults; they also knew little about the people behind the crime. Things had changed since then, but at that time it paid off handsomely to hire and train a youngster.

Crime had been a profitable business. He was almost ready to retire before Barnez had proposed the two-hundred-thousand dollar job. Now he was sure. He'd bury Peter Johnston once and for all. He'd settle in a small, quiet town and build models himself.

## Chapter 54

Charles Sutherland and Ed Dustin had finished their game of chess in a draw. Both satisfied, they rose and went to sit in front of the TV. Ten days had passed since Ian Summer's murder and no arrests had been made yet.

"The evening news should have the replay of Garland's blitz interview," Ed said as he turned the TV on. "Want to see it again?"

"Sure."

"Drink?" Ed asked.

"Why not? Make it a rum and Coke, please. Time to relax." He looked at the screen. "Ed?" he called. "Come over here! Garland is coming out of the police station."

Marvin descended the steps in front of police headquarters. A crowd of reporters thrust their microphones at him.

"What's your connection to Vincent Ramirez?" a reporter yelled.

"Never heard of him," Marvin shot back.

"What's your relation with Mrs. Summer?" a second reporter asked.

"She's my employer," Marvin replied. In a few steps he was down the stairway.

"Do you think Mrs. Summer killed her husband?" another reporter asked.

"Absolutely not." With one last stride Marvin reached his Grand Cherokee.

"One more question, Mr. Garland, did you have anything to do with Mr. Summer's death?"

"Of course not," Marvin replied. He sat in his vehicle and buckled his seat belt. In no time his Jeep was out of the cameras' range.

"The man is cool," commented Charles. "He'll field any question they care to throw at him." He paused. "He's sharp. But if he did murder Summer, or helped Allison do it, we'll get him."

"Are you sure?" Ed asked.

"Sure I'm sure. We'll back off a bit to give them a false sense of security, and sooner or later they'll get careless. One or the other will slip up."

The sports report started, but neither bothered to look at it. "So, your friend Malcolm is back in Vermeil?" Charles asked as he finished his drink.

"Yes. His client suspected that Summer, alias Ramirez, had killed her brother. Now, the man is dead. Nothing she or anybody can do about it. Malcolm went back to talk to her. Help her find peace."

"A nice, personal touch," Charles remarked as he slowly rose. "I should be going. It's late. Thank Emily for the fantastic supper."

Charles cut across the Dustins' backyard, walked around the pond and took the shortcut through the conservation area. The air was warm, the woods filled with the buzzing of hundreds of cicadas. What a beautiful, wonderful summer night. Tomorrow he'd have to go back to thinking about the Summer-Ramirez case. He had put a tail on both Allison and Marvin and taps on their phones. He suspected the two were lovers, but he didn't have the slightest evidence of that.

Something about the case bothered him.

There was a very good chance that Vincent Ramirez was being blackmailed. If so, by whom? Was the blackmailer also the killer? Could the murder be a revenge for one of Ramirez' crimes? Was the Barnez family behind it?

And then, take Luke Saint-Clair. The murder didn't fit his personality. However, criminal instincts could surface in any peaceful person, if strongly provoked.

A complex case. Charles heaved a sigh. Too bad he was home already. He lingered on his doorstep, reluctant to go inside and shut out the sweet smells of summer.

If only he could shut out his worries.

## Chapter 55

The week had been frantic. Rudy would do one more revision before turning out the final draft of his article. Then he could sit back and relax. He'd finally have some time to spend with Jennifer. He looked at her, sitting at his feet, curled up like a cat, totally unaware of the effect she had on him. When she looked into his eyes and smiled her sweet little smile, she appeared so defenseless, so available to his manliness that he felt like taking her in his arms. He should control himself. He rose and began pacing the motel room.

"Anything else you want me to do?" Jennifer asked. She'd made a list of all the floppies Rudy had with him, with content and date, and stored them in a case.

"Well, you can type my article," Rudy said to tease her.

Jennifer stood up and glanced at his handwritten sheets. "Five good words per line. All the others have a stack of corrections," she commented.

"I know. I'm one of the few writers who still prepare a draft by hand. I can't type when I'm thinking."

"Too bad you can't use an OCR," she said. "You can read your manuscript, I can too, more or less, but no optical character reader will. Too messy."

"I know," Rudy said. "Old story. I already tried."

"But I can talk to the machine. Reading your stuff to it, I mean. That might work. I trained the system for my voice." She sat in front of her portable computer, opened a window and took the microphone in her hands. Slowly, with a steady voice, she read the first two paragraphs. She stopped and checked the corresponding written text. "Not bad," she concluded. "About 92% accurate." She turned to look at Rudy. "Do you want me to do it?" she asked.

"I can do it," said Rudy. He took a chair and sat next to her.

"You can't. The system is trained to respond to my speech pattern. You'd have to train it to recognize yours. "

"How long would that take me?" Rudy asked.

"To get the same accuracy I get? Twenty, twenty-five hours of steady reading."

"Twenty hours! Then I'll let you do it." He gave her a smack of appreciation on the neck.

Jennifer took the stack of sheets and, in a monotone, started talking to the machine.

He patiently waited for her to finish her dictation.

"I'm almost done," said Jennifer grabbing the last page.

"I should compensate you by giving you a kiss for every paragraph you read," Rudy said. "But I'm afraid the weekend wouldn't be long enough."

"I'll be happy to give you a discount." She clicked the mouse a few times. "Now I'm putting your file into Word. Ready to be revised." She rose and offered Rudy her chair. "It's all yours, Mr. Eaton. I don't think it'll take you more than an hour to produce a flawless article."

"Where are you going?" Rudy asked. He'd made plans, and they definitely included her.

"To Saint Maurice. Before you came, I promised Mother I'd go there. It's Saturday. Each Saturday the farmers set up an open market. Low prices. You can buy excellent fruits and vegetables to put in the freezer." She tucked her blue-and-white blouse into her jeans. "I've got to run now."

"When will I see you again?"

"At dinner, don't you remember? You asked me out." She stood in the doorway, ready to take off, her red purse swinging from her shoulder.

"Right, right. Can you make six o'clock?"

"Well... It takes one hour each way," she counted on her fingers. "At least an hour to do my shopping. Then I have to shower and change. I could be ready by six-thirty."

"I'll be at your place by six-thirty. If you can't make it that early, don't worry. I'll keep busy flirting with your mother."

"She'll love that," replied Jennifer.

She was a good daughter. The perfect daughter. How annoying. He sighed. So much for his plan to spend the afternoon courting her socks off. He sighed again.

Reluctantly, he sat in front of the computer and began revising his article.

The Saturday night crowd had filled all the tables of the Riverview Restaurant. His eyes fixed on Jennifer, Rudy wondered. All dressed up, she looked very happy to be with him. Was his date giving him the green light? With Jennifer, one just never knew.

"You look beautiful, Jennifer." Her outfit was bright blue, with a transparent jacket covering her bare shoulders.

She gave him her sweet, little smile. "Thanks."

"Wine?" he asked.

"Not for me, Rudy. It's too hot for any kind of alcohol. Water will be fine."

They placed an order for fruit and cottage cheese. When their entrées arrived, Jennifer glanced at both plates. "I have more kiwi, you have more papaya. Otherwise, they're just the same." She began sampling her food.

Rudy didn't touch his. He stared at Jennifer, admiring the way her pretty lips moved as she nibbled on a wedge of kiwi. Next, she speared a bit of papaya. She sucked the fleshy fruit off her fork. Rudy swallowed. Maybe he should try a different approach. Maybe he should be more direct—Lord knows, subtlety didn't seem to get him anywhere. If he put it to her straight, she might even find him disarming and cute. "Jennifer, am I making headway yet? Any chance of some hugging and kissing tonight?" She'd told him she liked people who played it straight. He hoped it was true.

"Maybe." She tilted her head to the left and looked at him teasingly. "The answer could be yes if you answer my questions sincerely. No holding back."

Rudy wondered what those questions might be. With Jennifer, nothing was conventional. On the other hand, what did he have to lose? He shrugged. "Shoot. I'll answer."

"Why are you insisting on having an affair with me?" Jennifer looked around. "There are dozens of women more attractive than I am."

"My big ego, of course. I can't stand it if a woman doesn't fall for my charms, so I'm going to keep after you until you do." Under Jennifer's scrutinizing look, he added, "Also, you make me feel alive."

"You are alive," said Jennifer, unsatisfied.

"Alive in a different way, as if I were fourteen again."

Jennifer wagged her finger at him. "No holding back, Mr. Eaton. Explain. Fully. With details." She toyed with her fruit and cottage cheese.

"You may get upset if I tell you," Rudy mumbled. This was the only excuse he could think of.

She shrugged. "Let me guess. I remind you of another girl."

Rudy laughed. "No. Yes, in a way. But only in one aspect. Otherwise, I never met anybody quite like you!"

"You want to forget another woman, then," said Jennifer. "And I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"Jennifer, you'll never guess." He pushed his plate, still full, to the middle of the table. Definitely, he wasn't hungry.

"Then you've got to tell me!" Her eyes full of curiosity, she parted her lips in a sweet smile. "Start with the fourteen-year-old boy. I'm interested in him, anyhow." She put her elbows on the table and propped her face on her cupped hands. "It can't be that bad," she said. "Surely not at that age."

Rudy lowered his eyes and smoothed a wrinkle in the tablecloth. "Well, it was my first day of high school. I saw this beautiful girl opening her locker. Long, blond hair, a tight top..."

"You mean big breasts," Jennifer cut in.

Rudy gave a conceding nod. "...and narrow hips. I stood facing her, semi-hidden between the last locker and the wall. From there I could watch her without being seen. She got some books out and closed the locker. Her movements were smooth, like her skin. She glided toward me. When she caught sight of me out of the corner of her eye, she turned her head and smiled. She smiled at me, at the little boy me. There was nobody else around."

"You fell in love... How romantic."

"I'm not sure romantic is the right word." He sneaked a glance at her, and his heart sank. He'd said about all he wanted to say about this particular episode, but from the look on her face, she wouldn't let him stop now. He sighed. "I stood there every morning, and every morning she smiled at me. Then, two weeks later, she said: 'Hi, Rudy,' when she walked by. She knew my name! My heart began racing. And then...then I understood the power females have on us poor males." He lowered his eyes to the table once more. He hoped she wouldn't ask for explicit details. "That afternoon I asked my father for a pair of pants a size larger. He agreed without asking questions."

Jennifer opened her eyes wide. Then she leaned back and roared with laughter.

"You're going to pay for laughing at me," Rudy said, emphasizing each word. "Wait till we're alone."

"Sorry, Rudy. I couldn't resist." She returned to her previous position, her eyes stuck on Rudy. "Did you ever declare your passion to her?"

"Oh, yes. I wrote her love letters, at least twice a week."

"Did you tell her of the effect she had on you?"

"Of course not! My letters were all poetry. I didn't even sign with my own name!"

"Oh my. Who'd ever have thought? You were shy!" She giggled. "You have sure changed a lot since then."

"Do you want to know what happened, or don't you?" Now he was in a hurry to finish the story.

"Sorry," Jennifer said. "I'm all ears."

"She was in grade twelve. That year, June came much too soon. My girl graduated and left. No one replaced her in my heart until two years later."

"You never saw her again?" Jennifer asked.

"Yes. Once. Our school holds a reunion every four years. I was thirty-four when I went. She was there, a full-figured woman now, her hair swept up and sprayed to concrete in one of those elaborate dos, but with the same sweet smile on her face. When she was asked to speak—she'd been elected Sweetheart Queen for four years straight—she mentioned the boy who sent her love letters and poems. She read one. She finished her speech wishing he'd ask her for a dance and whisper his pen name in her ear. She wanted to meet him, she said, and look into his eyes."

"What name did you use?"

"Jean Sorel. I pictured myself in the role of the young protagonist of Le Rouge et Le Noir, madly in love with a woman he couldn't call his own."

"Did you dance with her?"

"No. I intended to, but I didn't." That was the most embarrassing part. "I got up. I was halfway to her table, when her smile reached me." Rudy sipped his water. "I turned around as fast as I could. She still had the same effect on me as twenty years before."

Jennifer put a hand in front of her mouth to contain her laughter.

Rudy leaned toward her. "Go ahead, laugh!" he hissed. "But I've got something in store for you, Jennifer." He paused to look deeply into her eyes. "Stop staring at me with that look of mockery painted all over your face! That never happened with any other woman until..." He stopped to lower his voice. "Listen, you have the same effect on me as my first love. More so, if anything." He enjoyed her embarrassment. She'd have something to worry about, now. "It happened at the pond and every time I saw you from then on. That's why I couldn't sit still this morning. I had to get up when you curled at my feet. I was afraid you'd notice." He sighed a breath of relief. There, it was all out.

Jennifer became serious. "I never noticed anything," she reassured him. "Never suspected anything of the sort." She looked into his eyes. "It's cute, though."

"It's not cute, Jennifer. Damn! It's embarrassing!"

"I realize that...for you. But not for me." She smiled at him. "That's why you didn't ask me to dance."

Rudy lowered his voice. "I'll have to find a solution to my problem."

"But you already have," said Jennifer displaying an innocent look. "Baggy pants."

## Chapter 56

Allison hailed a cab, her movements stiff and wooden. "To the car rental down the road," she said briskly. Thank goodness for credit cards. At least she could afford to drive a car. Luckily it was the end of the month. Soon she'd be able to pay back the money she'd borrowed for Ian's funeral and everyday expenses.

In a shabby Toyota, Allison hurried back to Les Capucines. After a two-week closure she'd reopened the first-aid center. That job was a blessing; people needed her and she definitely needed them to keep her mind occupied.

She stopped by the house, where Marion greeted her warmly. She looked like a benign dragon on guard for her.

"Any news of my father?" Allison asked.

"No. Nothing." She followed Allison to the studio. "I counted five people waiting for you at the clinic—that was half an hour ago."

"I'd better go there right away, then," Allison said. "Did you see if the temporary help has arrived?" She'd hired Nancy, a student, as a receptionist to help her out for the first two weeks.

"No. But I see a car going down that way, right now." Marion gestured toward the patio door. "That could be her."

Allison took the long way to the clinic, walking around the house. She wanted to check out the repairman who stood on a scaffold, working on the power lines. She greeted him but got no response. His van was parked nearby. The lettering on the side read: "Morrison Electric—Installations and Repairs." She walked past, frowning. How strange. The company had sent somebody out here for three days straight, and yet there had been no interruption of service.

She put the repairman out of her mind when she reached the clinic. For now, she should take care of her patients. She entered the waiting room with a brisk "hello" to Nancy, who had indeed arrived. Then she stopped cold. Marvin was sitting in one of the chairs, his cowboy hat askew, his left hand wrapped in a bloody cloth.

"Mrs. Summer is ready to see you," Nancy announced coolly. She ushered Marvin into the office. When he entered, she went in after him and started wiping down the counter.

"What have we got here?" Allison asked him. "A nasty wound, I gather. Have you had your tetanus shot, Mr. Garland?"

"Yes. I got a booster two years ago." Marvin's voice betrayed nothing.

Allison grabbed the bottle of antiseptic and folded back the bloodstained rag. She wasn't surprised to see the skin beneath was unbroken. Keeping her back to Nancy, she started cleaning the imaginary wound. She put layers of gauze on it. She hoped Nancy would go, but her help showed no sign of leaving. Nancy had finished cleaning the counter, and now moved on to one of the cabinets. She began reorganizing its contents.

Allison took a long bandage and slowly wrapped it around Marvin's hand. She was standing very close to him when she felt his other hand in her uniform pocket. She couldn't help smiling. "Try not to use this hand for a couple of days," she said, keeping her voice professional. "If you're in too much pain, take two Tylenol."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Mrs. Summer." Marvin nodded at Nancy and left without another word.

Alone in the kitchen, Allison looked at the note Marvin had given her. "Need to see you. Tomorrow afternoon, around four o'clock, take the trail to the lakeshore. Go north. I'll pick you up." As she heard Marion coming in, she quickly put the note back in her pocket.

"Tea?" Marion asked.

Allison shook her head, her mind still on Marvin's message.

"Cookie?"

Allison finally looked at her and gave her a tiny smile. "It's so nice to have you around, Marion. You take such good care of me." She rose and gave her a hug. Marion stood in front of her, a sad look on her face. "What's the problem, Marion?" she asked.

"Yesterday I was in town, you know that."

Allison nodded, wondering why Marion was being so circumspect. Generally she had no qualms about speaking her mind.

"I saw people, maybe twenty. No, more like thirty people around a stand. I went to see what the commotion was all about. They were all trying to get their hands on one of those out-of-town newspapers. There was a big spread on the front page..." Marion stopped and sighed. "Want to see it?"

"Sure," Allison replied, still wondering why that newspaper was sold in Saratown.

Marion strode away and returned with the Cosmopolitan News. She unfolded it on the kitchen table in front of Allison. The headline read, "Ian Summer's Murder: a Belated Vendetta of Marvin Garland?"

Allison's legs failed. She took a seat. Below the headline were two pictures, one of a younger Marvin, the other of Charlene, both smiling, seemingly at each other. Oh my! How in the world did they connect Marvin to her late husband? She glanced at the length of the article: four columns just on the front page! She began reading, her heart throbbing. The first column gave the story of Charlene's short relationship with arms trafficker José Barnez. The second contained information gathered in Calvert and dealt with Charlene's hiding at the Garlands' family farm. The third column described the fire that cost Charlene's life and the evidence that pointed to arson. The fourth column contained a report on the long enquiry into Charlene's death and the authorities' frustrating failure to identify and catch the perpetrators. Allison frantically turned to the second page to read the rest of the article. The author indulged in a lengthy explanation of the link between Marvin and Vincent Ramirez, alias Ian Summer.

A week before Ian's murder, Marvin had accessed the Web page of the Ontario Provincial Police showcasing the most wanted criminals: pictures and data of Vincent Ramirez were displayed there and commented on. Allison felt sick to her stomach. The author continued by revealing his own findings, namely that Ramirez was believed to be the man who had carried out Barnez' order to eliminate Charlene.

Allison put her head on the table, unable to move.

Marion approached her from behind and stroked her back. "I don't care what this paper says." She took it away. "I don't believe Mr. Garland is capable of murder, no matter how much he suffered over his girlfriend's death."

"But the police may believe that, Marion. They may want to believe that. They're probably under pressure to find the guilty party."

Marion kept stroking her shoulders. "I'm sorry I was the one to give you this bad news." She paused. "But I thought you should know—"

Allison lifted her head. "Yes, Marion. I should know."

All that Marvin had said in the past came back to Allison. _I'd lie anytime to protect what's dear to me. I'd even kill_... And then, _Ian has to disappear from your life. We have to get rid of him, force him out of our lives forever_. Allison closed her eyes, her mind reeling. Was it possible? All those times he went away, and even Susan didn't know where he went, or what he did... Had he been working on a plan to eliminate Ian?

***

Charles Sutherland placed a call to Rudy Eaton. "Thanks for featuring the article the way you did. It was our luck you'd been following Ramirez for some years and finally discovered he was hiding at Les Capucines. I think we're all set to smoke out our Mr. Garland. Maybe together with Allison Summer."

## Chapter 57

August 1999

Three forty-five, time to get ready for the appointment with Marvin. Allison hadn't taken a long walk since Ian's death, afraid of being alone with her thoughts. She looked out the window. The telephone company was digging up a cable. So many activities around her house. It was annoying—she felt as if she had no privacy at all. She took the inside corridor leading to the main part of the house. She descended into the basement and walked out of the small exit opening onto the garbage collection area. Then, cutting through the woods, she reached the lake.

The water level was low, unusually low. It'd been a very dry season; much of the lake water had been used for irrigation. It was a privilege the Saint-Clairs held since the century before. Lucky for us, thought Allison. So far, none of the crops had suffered. What a blessing a good, steady rain would be. She looked at the sky where a few clouds amassed, to disperse soon after. In front of her the path changed direction to avoid the rocks bordering the lake, branching off into the bushes. Allison walked at a brisk pace, stepping on the small limbs and dry leaves covering the trail. Then the sound of Marvin's engine, that familiar rumble, caught her ears. She stopped and looked ahead, waiting for Marvin's Jeep to pull up. Silently, she entered Marvin's vehicle.

"Hi, love," said Marvin while maneuvering to turn his Jeep around.

"Hello, Marvin. I love you." Marvin's Grand Cherokee took the road to the hills. "Are you sure nobody saw us?" Allison asked.

He glanced at the rearview mirror. "I lost my tail. For the time being, of course." Finally he smiled at her.

She'd longed for that wonderful, warm smile.

"How's my little bunny?" he asked, his voice gentle.

She couldn't bring herself to ask him about the article she'd just read. She'd wait for Marvin to talk about it. "Not too good," she whispered. A faraway thunderclap echoed in the forest.

"That's one of the reasons I wanted to see you."

A bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky. It was followed by another, and yet another. "Those clouds are moving in fast," Allison said. "Do you think we might be getting a storm?"

"Twenty per cent probability of rain, the forecast said. It's the same forecast as every day last week, and we've had no rain whatsoever." Marvin looked at the birches and black cherry trees flanking the narrow gravel road. "Will you look at those trees! Dry as tinder. They're as good as dead unless we get some rain, and soon." He glanced over at her. "Enough about that. Tell me how you're holding up, love."

"Not too well. I hope to wake up one morning and discover it has all been a bad dream." A few tears coursed down her cheeks. "I feel everybody thinks I've done something terrible. Nancy, the student I hired, gives me that impression. And then the merchants in town. They're cold, distant." She dried her tears with the back of her hand. "The only people who show me some empathy are Marion—she's wonderful—old dear George and my attorney, Keith Sample."

"These are tough times, Allison. As I said before, this's one of the reasons I wanted to see you and talk to you." Another flash of lightning appeared in the sky, this time followed by a powerful thunderclap. "Here's what we're going to do." His right hand moved up and down Allison's leg. "We'll climb until we reach the altitude of my cabin, at the Upper Lake. We'll leave the Jeep there. We'll walk to the shore and take the boat I docked there. After a five-minute boat ride we'll reach a secluded bay. We'll hide our boat and walk deep into the woods. There, we can finally talk in peace. Maybe hold one another a bit." He smiled at her. "When we're through, we'll go north a quarter mile until we meet with a secondary road. There I've parked a rental." He smiled at her again. "Have you followed me through all these changes of transportation?"

"Not quite, Marvin."

Marvin caressed her hair. He then looked at the sky as two more flashes of lightning crossed the sky. "When we decide to come back, you take the rental and drive to Matha. From there, you go home. Leave the car about a quarter mile from the house." He paused. "I'll retrace my steps and return to the Jeep." He grinned. "I'm sure I'll find my tail waiting for me. They'll probably take off, disappointed, as soon as I appear with a fishing rod and the tackle box in my hands. Whistling, and alone."

"It sounds complicated," Allison commented.

"Nothing to it," Marvin said. "Don't worry, my little bunny." He stroked Allison's leg again. "In the unlikely case they catch us together, this is what we'll say—"

A lightning bolt struck close by. The sky became dark. "I don't like these sparkling zigzags. Leaves and limbs are dry. The forest is old, full of tall trees." The Jeep climbed another fifty feet. "We shouldn't be too far from the top," Marvin said.

Two turns later a foggy patch appeared ahead. Marvin lowered the window. He lifted the glass back up right away. "Smoke! Damn! There's a fire up ahead." He grabbed his cellular and nervously called 911. He stopped the vehicle and gave his position. The smoke became thicker.

The orange glow of flames appeared off to the west. Allison pointed in that direction to alert Marvin, who frantically kept talking on the phone.

"What's the wind direction, damn it! Where do I go from here? Tell me! You should know!" He listened for a few seconds. Then he shook his head. He dialed another number. As he listened to the voice on the other end of the line, a look of incredulity crossed his face. "What the hell difference does it make whether I say 'Mayday' or not?" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. "All right, I got it. You're sure there is no other way." He put the Jeep into drive again and turned toward a thicker part of the forest. With the phone still pressed to his ear, he maneuvered the car through bushes and trees. "One mile to the east. And how big is this small front?"

"Let me see if I got it straight. We've got to cross a fire front. It's three hundred feet wide, and if we stay on the south side we'll get only some smoke." He listened. "Hmm. Why don't I go all the way to the south?" He listened again. "I see. Expanding too fast." He looked at the Magellan clamped to the visor and punched in a few keys. "Yes. I'll keep the line open. Thanks."

Waves of thin smoke alternated with layers of thick smoke, reducing visibility to a few feet. Marvin proceeded slowly, cautiously, looking for a path wide enough for the Jeep to squeeze through. A background noise added to the crackle of the fire. Suddenly, trees in flames appeared in front of them. "We have to go through, Allison," Marvin shouted. "Hang on tight. We'll make it."

The noise they couldn't clearly distinguish before became the distinct sound of rotating blades. It swelled until it drowned out all other noises. "There's a chopper right over our heads," Allison said.

Marvin nodded. "A few more feet and we should be out of the worst. We should end up on some cliff overhanging the lake," he said. "Not touched by fire or smoke."

Some clear patches appeared, though the trees were in flames both on the left and the right of their Jeep. Finally a glade covered with sparse rocks and chunks of grass, showed up ahead. The wind from the lake had kept it in the clear. "We made it!" shouted Allison.

They were almost out of the woods, when a black cherry tree in front of them split in two. Marvin slammed on the brakes. Not in time, though, to avoid the impact. With a thump, the huge burning brand pierced the Jeep's roof, penetrating the vehicle.

For a moment, Allison was numb, incapable of realizing what happened. Two helicopters landed in the clearing. Men rushed toward the Grand Cherokee. One of them pulled Allison out of the vehicle and tried to drag her away. "No!" Allison shouted. "I want to see if Marvin is hurt. Let me go!" She wrestled out of his grip, turned around and ran to the other side of the car.

Marvin's head was resting on his left shoulder. Rivulets of blood ran down his face and neck. His right shoulder was crushed under the wood.

Allison fell to the ground.

## Chapter 58

Keith Sample folded the newspaper that lay open in front of him. It was the third he'd read, looking for reports on Marvin's and Allison's rescue. Even The Ducktale had the front page covered with Marvin's Jeep, its roof split in the middle. Each article was permeated with innuendoes of a close relationship between Mrs. Summer and Mr. Garland.

Allison appeared in the doorway, dressed in the severe-looking suit she'd worn at her grandfather's funeral. It looked big on her, now. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes puffy. Keith moved to greet her. "Good morning, Allison," he said. He took her arm and guided her to a seat in front of his desk. "How are you?" he asked as he sat in his high-backed chair.

"Not too well," Allison replied. "You said it was important, so I came just the same."

He'd asked her to come to his office at six in the morning, hoping no reporters would follow her. "I wanted to talk to you before anybody has a chance to ask you any questions. To advise you on what to say," Keith added. Allison wasn't too perceptive. He'd better spell out every detail.

"I'm listening," Allison said. She crossed her fingers and tightened them together.

"I'll have tea," Keith said to a woman who silently appeared in the doorway. "You too, Allison?" Allison nodded. Keith continued. "There's a chance you'll be asked what you were doing on that hill when the fire started. In the company of Mr. Garland." Keith sounded Marvin's name heavily.

Allison closed her eyes. "My grandfather wanted to dig a new waterway from one of the top lakes to the valley. To control the flow of water. To improve the existing irrigation system. The surveyors—is that what they are called?"

Keith nodded.

"The surveyors had already been there for a preliminary assessment. Do you say assessment?"

"Yes, assessment is the correct word, Allison." Marvin had coached her well. Even the words were his. Keith relaxed. Even if it wasn't true, inspecting a future construction site was a legitimate reason for the general manager to take his boss for a ride in the hills. "So—that's why Mr. Garland took you there?"

"Yes. He wanted me to see where the waterway would cut through the forest." Allison spoke with great effort.

"I see. Interesting project," he said to test her.

Allison smiled, a strained smile. "I wouldn't know, Keith. I have to rely on the advice of others."

Excellent. A touch of humility. She'd do great when they questioned her. "I suggest you keep these answers in mind. In case you're asked, that is. Don't volunteer any information."

Allison blushed. She obviously understood she'd goofed up talking about the videotape.

"How is Mr. Garland?" Keith asked as he slowly sipped his tea.

"He's in stable condition. The doctors are planning some surgery."

"I suggest you don't show—you don't let people see—" Keith looked into Allison's eyes. From the looks of her, she must have been crying for days. "Keep your feelings for Mr. Garland to yourself, Allison. For your own sake and his. Especially at the hospital. No emotional outbursts."

Allison nodded.

"Oh, another issue, Allison. I touched base with Mr. Garland's lawyer..."

"Does he need a lawyer?" Allison cut in. "Is he in trouble too?"

Keith sighed. She was so naive. "Definitely yes. In a case like this, it's always wise to seek expert advice. So I talked to his attorney. We're comparing notes on the circumstances that prompted you to give part of your inheritance to Mr. Garland." Keith paused. "The transaction received extensive, nationwide coverage—the Cosmopolitan News is hardly a local rag. I'm sure the police are interested as well." Keith waited, hoping for Allison's comments, but she kept quiet. "By any chance, did you come across any new documents that could justify your, uh, gift?"

"No. Nothing." Allison shifted in her seat. "Keith, do you know if the police have gathered information on Peter Johnston? As I told you on the phone, the man came to the house twice, looking for Ian."

"My dear child, after the first interrogation at the police station, we agreed that it was best for you to call upon your constitutional right and refuse to talk. But, by doing that, you also declined the opportunity of passing on information that may clear you. And I can't do that. My role is limited to advising you." Allison didn't look convinced. Too bad, there was nothing he could do about it. "Any other questions, Allison?"

Allison shook her head.

"In that case—" Keith rose and extended his hand. The slim fingers touching his were stone cold. "I suggest you go home and get some rest. You need to preserve your strength for the weeks ahead."

Allison nodded mutely.

After she left, Keith went over to the window. He stared down into the street below until he saw her frail figure emerge from the building. He wished his parting words could have been more uplifting, but he was too honest to tell her not to worry. The harsh truth was, she had plenty to worry about.

## Chapter 59

Rest was a magic word, thought Allison as she drove back to Les Capucines. Even her sleep couldn't be called rest. Her mind didn't stop ruminating, obsessed by what had happened and terrified by what might. Maybe it was better to keep busy and go to work. She was just inside her office when the phone rang. It was Susan.

"I hope I'm not imposing... When are you going to see Marvin? I have already asked all my friends for a ride."

"Tomorrow, Susan. Coming with me?"

"I'd love to. Marvin..." Her voice trailed off. "He's going to be operated on. I'm worried."

In the past days she'd forgotten about Susan. What would become of her if anything happened to Marvin? She'd lose all the family she had, and her independence too. "The Suisse Manor has some of the best doctors in the country, Susan. Marvin will be fine." She tried to sound convincing.

"I know about the doctors. I'm so happy Marvin is there. And the staff... they're so kind to me. They always take me to the outdoor café for a snack."

"It pays to be a friend of Bernie's, eh? So I'll pick you up tomorrow, say around ten?"

"Wonderful."

"Now that I've got you on the phone, I have a little favor to ask you," Allison said. "There's something I'd like you to do for me."

"Do for you?" Susan said uncertainly.

"It's nothing you can't handle, Susan. I'd like you to—"

Susan cut in, "Why don't you tell me on the way to the hospital?" With a timid tone, she added, "Then I'll have my voice recorder with me. Otherwise I may not remember."

"Sure," Allison replied, frowning. That was strange. Susan's memory was better than her own. Besides, all she wanted from her was to make a call to the car rental.

As they pulled into the hospital parking lot, Susan leaned forward in her seat.

"I've been here several times, but I still don't know what this place looks like. Allison, would you...?"

"Of course. The building is three stories high, with two wings. White stucco, nice looking, if a little plain. About seventy beds in all." She helped Susan out of the car and up the steps. "Inside, the halls are marble, and they have fresh-cut flowers in the visitors' areas. The rooms are done in a light green, with metal furniture."

The automatic door opened to let them in.

They were immediately greeted by Bernie, on duty that day. "Hi, ladies, nice to see you." He tipped his hat to greet Allison and bent to give Susan a big hug. Bernie, an old friend of the Garlands', would check on Susan every time Marvin was out of town. "First floor. Out the elevator, third room to the right."

Allison and Susan walked into Marvin's room.

Marvin lay in bed, his head wrapped in bandages, his right shoulder held in place by a temporary cast. A nurse was adjusting the settings of a monitor connected to Marvin's body by a set of wires.

"He's resting," she said. "I'll tell the management that you're here." The nurse left the room.

The management? Allison blinked. What on earth for?

"It's been that way ever since he was admitted," Susan said after the nurse left. She groped for a chair, her other arm still firmly linked with Allison's. With Allison's help, she sat down at the head of the bed. "Strange, isn't it? Every time I come here, they have to inform the management. I've never heard of anything like that. And I know about hospitals."

Allison took a chair on the other side of the bed and reached for Marvin's hand.

Marvin opened his eyes. "Allison?" He squeezed her fingers. "You're here." He smiled when he saw his sister. "And Susan, too. This must be my lucky day."

Another nurse slipped into the room. She tiptoed around the bed to reorganize the counter and adjust the TV set. She checked the monitor and scribbled some figures on her pad. She left as inconspicuously as she'd arrived.

"I thought I'd ask Allison for a ride," Susan said. "I wanted to visit with my big brother. Hear his voice."

"Your big brother isn't in the best shape right now," Marvin said. "But he'll make it. Not to worry, little sister." He looked at Allison. "Am I glad to see you, boss. I've got to get out of here. There's so much work to do this time of year." He kept his voice light, but his eyes were dark with longing.

"First you'll have to get better," Allison said.

Marvin moaned. "The surgeon's going to have a go at me, tomorrow."

Directed by the sound of his voice, Susan bent to kiss her brother. "They're going to put you together perfectly," she said. "They told me your shoulder will be as good as new..." Her voice faltered.

Marvin reached up and thumbed the tears from her cheeks. "And you better believe them. Before you know it, I'll be back chopping wood."

Susan sobbed, and rested her head against Marvin's chest. He stroked her hair, mumbling reassurances.

Poor Susan. Allison's heart cringed at the sight of her, so helpless, and yet so brave. She clasped Marvin's hand in hers. "You'll be back in shape in no time, I'm sure. And that's an order." She tried to keep her voice steady, if only for Susan's sake, but it was hard.

"Anything for you, boss." Marvin freed his hand and lifted his arm to caress her face. "I love you, Allison," he murmured. "I would do anything for you."

## Chapter 60

Before the fire, the kitchen patio used to be screened off from the rest of the world by a dense wall of trees and shrubbery. Now it was dappled only by the shade of a black walnut tree. Allison looked up at the thick foliage, peering into its green depths. She used to climb this tree as a little girl. She used to pull herself up from branch to branch, higher and higher, until she could see the whole yard and far beyond. Funny, how she'd never been afraid to fall.

She touched the rough bark, her fingers seeking the old scars where she and her brother had carved their names. They'd been children then. The world had been a wondrous place full of promise, and they would live forever.

All gone now. Only their names remained, embedded in the hard wood.

The old picnic table was still there, its color weathered to a grayish brown. The barbecue pit had caved in. The grid stood off to one side, thick with rust. Half buried under a rock, Allison found a skewer.

She picked it up and wandered around the patio, touching the familiar landmarks of her childhood, unable to shake the sense of loss the place exuded. Like shimmering transparencies, snapshots of a family life long gone overlaid the present. She saw grandpa cooking steaks on the barbecue; mother setting up the picnic table; behind her Julia was bustling about, going in and out of the kitchen.

She dropped the skewer, and shook her head to scatter the ghostly images of the past. No time to grieve for them now. She needed all her energy to deal with the present. Not to mention the future.

She flattened her pleated dress against her legs and sat in a cast-iron chair. She looked back at the house. It was big for her needs now, and cost a fortune. She should sell it. She'd talk it over with Luke when he came home. If he ever came home.

Allison closed her eyes, absorbed in thought. Luke, her father, the only relative she had left. Never there when she needed him. A man who couldn't come to terms with reality. He'd gone to spend some time in contemplation, he wrote. Why? And where in the world had he gone? Weeks had passed since Ian's death. The police were still looking for him.

The police... She wondered how much they'd pressure Marvin, once he left the hospital. He was suspected of being aware of Ian Summer's real identity, and that would constitute a major score against him.

A soft trot attracted her attention. Riding Morello, George Calbourn appeared. He stopped before the patio's concrete pavement, while Morello's neigh let everybody know he'd prefer to keep moving.

"Hello, Mrs. Summer," he said with his guttural voice. "Nice to see you're relaxing." He got off the horse and walked over. "I thought you might want to go for a ride. It's such a beautiful day." He stood in front of her, the reins in his hand.

"Oh, George... You're such a dear man. You thought of me." She smiled at him. "Sure, I'll take Morello. Just let me get inside and put on a pair of jeans. Be right back."

Allison followed the sandy trail up to the lake's end on the western side. As soon as open field was in view, she spurred Morello on to a gallop. Even bent over the horse's neck, the wind blustered her cheeks. It felt good; it was wonderful to feel alive. Rounding the foot of the hill, she retraced the path that led to a familiar village. There, ten years before, she'd dragged her injured colt to the vet. She'd been in control of the situation then, and she was only fourteen-year old.

Whatever happened to her in the last year? She'd been so submissive, she'd accepted a life that had become unbearable—worse, a life that had become absurd.

Why? Why had she become so passive? Was it because she'd stopped believing in herself? Once in love and then married, had she blindly believed everything Ian told her? Even the worst lie of all, that she was capable of murder?

Looking back, she could clearly see what had happened. Allison the fighter had been buried under a mountain of guilt—a crushing weight that had paralyzed her will. The weight had been lifted, at last. She had never caused anybody any harm.

She would fight to protect herself and Marvin—the man who stood by her, and who was now about to be ruined because of it. If the police weren't going to look for Ian's real killer, she would darn well do it herself.

She would start with Ian's so-called friend, Peter Johnston. He knew something. She would find him, and demand he talk to her.

Allison looped around the village, gave Morello his head and let him gallop back to the stable.

## Chapter 61

Underneath the name of the garage, Sulton Repair Shop, was a two-line advertisement: "We repair anything, from tractors to tricycles. Satisfaction guaranteed." In an unmarked car Charles Sutherland and Ed Dustin drove up to the garage without attracting attention, and stopped behind the combine parked outside. Peering between two wagons, they could watch Allison without being seen.

Allison nosed her car in front of the overhead door and briskly walked into the small office at the front of the garage. Five minutes later she emerged, holding a piece of paper in her hands.

"I'll go find out what that was all about," Ed said as soon as Allison's Toyota rolled down the road.

"By all means. I'll wait here and radio for a cruiser to follow Allison."

"Allison asked information on the whereabouts of a guy named Peter Johnston," Ed reported as he reentered Charles' car. "They directed her to a games room in Belleville, where Peter apparently spent some happy hours."

"Who is Peter Johnston and what is he to her? Something is going on here, judging by the way she rushed off!"

"Johnston is a mechanic. He can fix any kind of equipment, the owner says. He was sent in by Marion Miller."

"Marion Miller? Now, now...how does Marion fit into this scenario?" Charles put the car in gear. "I'll drop you off at your place and go straight to Les Capucines. I thought I covered all the territory with her. But apparently I missed something."

***

Only when she entered the town of Belleville did Allison realize it was two o'clock in the morning. Not the best time to be looking for the joint where Peter Johnston was supposed to drop by. The urgency she felt, however, kept her driving down the winding road until the sign "Pool and Billiards" flashed in front of her.

She opened the door and descended the steps cautiously, guided only by a flickering light at the rear of the big room and a few lights hanging over the pool tables. She waved her hand trying to disperse the smoke in front of her. "Hello," she said. "Anybody home?"

The bar running along one side of the room was full of empty glasses. Crushed potato chips and nuts littered the carpeted floor. From the far end of the room a man appeared, staggering toward her.

"I'm looking for Mr. Peter Johnston," Allison said. Her legs began to shake. God, this place was awful.

The man walked up to her. He was drunk, and probably weighed two tons. He lifted the bottom of his checkered shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "Peter, eh? I can do better than Peter, trust me," he said.

"Do you know him?"

"Of course I know him. Good-looking fellow, eh?"

"Where can I find him?" She should get out of here while she still could. She backed up toward the stairs.

"You can try the Yacht Parade Inn," he blabbered. Before she could take another step to safety, the man grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close.

Allison smelled alcohol, cigar smoke and something else she couldn't identify. She tried to break his grip. "Let go. I want to speak to the manager," she said firmly.

"There's nobody here but me, sweetheart," the man said, and held her tight.

"Stop it! Stop it," Allison screamed. She tried to push him away. When that failed, she kicked him in the ankles. The only effect was that he squeezed her tighter. She glanced around hoping somebody would appear and come to her rescue.

The man lifted her T-shirt and started to kiss her bare skin. "You're late for the party," he said as he pushed her shirt up to her neck. "Lucky for you I'm still around."

She'd been stupid to come here, especially at this time of night. She didn't need any more trouble. And this bulldozer of a man was all over her. "Help! Help!" she screamed.

The man laughed out loud. With a sweep of one powerful arm he cleared the nearest pool table. Bottles, balls and glasses crashed to the floor. With the other arm he grabbed Allison around the waist, lifting her clean off her feet. He pushed her back onto the table and climbed on top of her. Pinned down by his weight, Allison couldn't move an inch. One of his ham-size hands started fumbling at her crotch, trying to unzip her jeans.

Allison could hardly breathe. She frantically looked around for any object she could use as a weapon. She stretched her arm to reach for one of the bottles on the floor, but she couldn't make it. The man had torn away her bra. She looked up. A cone-shaped lamp hung down from the ceiling, with a chain to adjust its height. The lamp was out of reach, but the chain was not. She pulled on it. The fixture lowered. Allison could now reach the cone's top with her fingertips. She released her tenuous grip to swing the lamp at her assailant's skull. The man kept sucking on her breasts as if nothing had happened. Damn! She caught her weapon on the backswing, this time grabbing it firmly with both hands. She pulled back as far as she could. Then, with all her might, she rammed the edge of the cone into the man's fat neck. The man moaned and dropped his head on her chest.

Allison pushed the man aside, pulled up her jeans, straightened her T-shirt and rushed outside, running for her car.

***

Marion Miller had been quite cooperative, Charles concluded as he drove home. She'd asked him to join her for a cup of tea, and he'd been more than happy to accept. On the Johnston's issue he'd gathered that the man just wanted to talk to Ian Summer, had stated he didn't need anything, anything at all from either Mr. or Mrs. Summer. The reason for his visit was to have a friendly chat with Ian, and that was all, Marion had reported. After the interview with Rudy Eaton, she'd added, Ian had explicitly told her he didn't want to have any more visitors. So, in Marion's opinion, Peter had never met Ian at Les Capucines.

Did she know anything else about Peter Johnston? Charles had insisted. Marion had at first shaken her head, but then, when he was just ready to leave, she'd told him of Peter's ability to take apart and reassemble the clipper.

The chat with Marion hadn't produced anything of substance, at least not yet. Tomorrow Marion would help the police draw a sketch of Peter.

## Chapter 62

Her mind a cauldron of conflicting emotions and her heart pounding, Allison got it into the car. Her hands could hardly get a hold on the steering wheel. She began driving. What had she expected to gain by coming here? If Peter Johnston had come to town with the purpose of killing Ian, he'd probably fled two seconds after finishing the job. A professional wouldn't leave any tracks at a poolroom or elsewhere. All she'd managed to do was get into more trouble. She had very nearly gotten herself raped, and then... Allison banged on the wheel. She wondered how seriously she'd injured her assailant. She wondered... Did anybody see her driving to the poolroom? Maybe she should turn around and check up on him.

***

Charles sat at his desk, listening to the full report of Constable Al McGowan. He had to be patient; McGowan was on his first important assignment. "So, you followed Mrs. Summer to Belleville and saw her entering the poolroom. It's located in a basement."

The rookie nodded and opened his mouth to speak.

Charles held up a hand to stop him before he could lapse into another longwinded account of unnecessary details.

"Let me boil this down to its essentials," Charles said. "You couldn't hear much of anything until you took position on a fire escape located on the other side of the main entrance. From there you heard the conversation between the poolroom's caretaker and Mrs. Summer. There was a racket, sounds of a struggle, bottles and cans being thrown around. The man was snorting and grunting. The woman screamed. Is that right?"

Constable Al McGowan nodded. This time he kept his mouth shut.

"Good. So the caretaker tried to rape the woman. At the last moment, you believe she hit him with something. Then what happened?"

"I heard nothing for a while. Then the slamming of the main entrance door. So I ran... I tripped over some loose bricks on the side of the building. I hurt my knee, but I managed to get up. My uniform was all dirty."

Charles kept his composure. He hoped McGowan wouldn't tell him he had to use the washroom.

McGowan continued. "I really needed to pee, but I made an effort... If you know what I mean. I reached the front door. I saw Mrs. Summer rushing to the car. Then..."

"Yes," invited Charles, "then what?"

McGowan hesitated. "I didn't know if I should go down to the basement and see what happened there, or follow Mrs. Summer instead. She'd started the car and was ready to take off." He stopped, as if afraid to continue.

"Either action would be okay," Charles reassured him.

McGowan smiled. "I rushed down to the poolroom. I couldn't see much. The air conditioning wasn't working and there were no windows. The smoke was unbearable." He stopped again, waiting for another sign of approval. When none was forthcoming he continued, "I saw a man lying on one of the pool tables. I got close. He smelled awful: sweat, booze and cigar. He was asleep, snoring so loud that the light over the table was actually moving, going in circles like a merry-go-round."

Charles relaxed. The incident had no serious consequences. He moved to rise.

"That's not all," said McGowan.

Charles sighed. He was in for more details.

"I heard the front door open again. I just had time to hide behind the counter before Mrs. Summer came down the stairs. She tiptoed over to the caretaker. She stared at him for a good minute, as if she was surprised to find him alive. Then she left. This time I was right behind her. She didn't go too far. She stopped at the Yacht Parade Inn, right in Belleville, and took a room there. I radioed headquarters and waited for another officer to do the night watch. I'm due again for the afternoon shift tomorrow...oops, I mean today."

"Job well done," Charles said without reservation. He'd survive without knowing if and when McGowan had gone to the washroom.

## Chapter 63

"The Invicta is recruiting," Ed announced to Charles. "Maybe you should consider going to work for Malcolm Clark."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea. But first, I want to solve this case. The Summer-Ramirez murder. It chews me up inside. We can't find Luke Saint-Clair. We can't even think of making an arrest if we don't question all the people who were around at the time of murder." Sitting under the Dustins' porch, the two friends watched Emily and Jennifer retrieving clothes from the clothesline. They deposited the clean laundry on a picnic table, and then started folding each piece.

"The evening before the murder, Marion Miller hadn't taken off for her vacation yet. She said Luke was in the house. She was sure of that. She prepared him a late snack around eleven. We can't discount that testimony."

"You're right. It's a frustrating case. Did you see the article in The Ducktale?"

"About the money Marvin Garland received from Allison?" Charles asked.

"Yes, that one. It included the text of a letter Justin Saint-Clair wrote to Garland's father."

"Marvin Garland probably sent it to The Ducktale," Charles said, stifling a sigh. "We got the original from his lawyer. His father loaned old Saint-Clair the money to expand his model farm. Saint-Clair paid back the principal over ten years, and wrote a letter of thanks promising to reward Garland for the loan. If and when the Farming Consortium became profitable, Garland Sr. or his heirs would receive due interest. You can do the math—the loan was for two million dollars, the period was ten years. At an average of 6%, simple interest would amount to 1.2 million dollars. The interest should be compounded, really, so Justin Saint-Clair was still setting aside what he wanted to give Marvin."

"I didn't picture Garland as having so much money," Ed said.

"He didn't have anything but his own savings until old Saint-Clair died. His father made a poor investment after he got the principal back. He lost everything."

"The original letter: authentic?" Ed asked.

"Absolutely. I recognized his handwriting. I recognized Justin's style too—he said all he needed to say in a couple of sentences. The lab confirmed it." Charles sighed. "That was a major setback. I thought I'd have something substantial to bind Garland and Allison Summer together. Instead, zilch."

"Should we take a walk?" Ed asked after a while. It was getting dark. "We won't have many of these clear and warm evenings in a few weeks from now."

"You're right." Charles rose. Together, they walked to the pond, their steps synchronized by an invisible clock.

"The red car that was reported parked on top of the hill, close to the gravel road leading to Matha. It was rented by Marvin Garland, right? What happened to it?"

Charles grinned. "You're asking if we caught Allison calling the rental company to pick it up?"

"That is, more or less, what I meant," Ed said.

"No luck there either. Allison must have passed the information about the parked car to Susan. In person, I mean. They surely didn't use the phone. So, what happened? Marvin's sister called in. The car had been rented on a personal basis. Marvin has a cabin near the shore of the Upper Lake. It ended up being a family affair." Charles heaved a sigh.

"Frustrating," Ed said. "If Allison and Marvin are guilty, they will make a slip, sooner or later."

"I'd hoped so. But now, Marvin is in the hospital. At this point I'd be happy if I can prove that the two are lovers. Or just...just that they care for each other. That could be considered a break. A minor one, but better than nothing."

The following morning Detective Charles Sutherland stopped at the Suisse Manor. The employee at the reception desk didn't respond to his friendly hello. She handed him a videocassette, sealed in an envelope, as every other morning. She gave him a cold look and turned her back to him. The Suisse Manor, after a bitter fight, had to comply with a court order: informed of a visitor's arrival, they'd let an agent turn on the video camera in Mr. Garland's room, to be switched off immediately after the guest's departure.

Charles put the video in his pocket and drove to headquarters. He prayed he'd never need any medical assistance from that institution. He didn't think they'd be very kind to him. That was one of the drawbacks of his job: being hated. Having to watch the videos was another. He didn't know if he could stand another of those mushy scenes between Marvin and his sister. The two overflowed with love for each other. He wondered if that show was for real. Charles popped the cassette in the machine without much hope. But once the tape started to roll, he perked up considerably. On the screen, Susan extended an arm to feel her way to one of the chairs. But Charles was far more interested in her companion. The second woman turned to help Susan take her seat. The camera's autofocus wavered, then settled on Allison's pretty face.

By the time Charles left the building and walked over to his car, he was whistling. It was time to pay the Crown Prosecutor a visit.

"I've got something," he announced as he entered the prosecutor's office. He produced the tape with a flourish. "It's show time."

He knelt in front of the VCR and fast-forwarded to the juicier part of Allison's visit. Then he pressed the play button and sat back.

The men watched in silence as Marvin's face jumped into focus. In the stillness of the room, the suspect's words rang out loud and clear, "I love you, Allison. I would do anything for you."

## Chapter 64

The sound of trumpets became more and more intense. Allison, prone on the bed, stuck out an arm to probe the bedding in search of an extra pillow. When she found it, she clutched it to her head, determined to go back to sleep. The fanfare became louder. With a sigh, she got out of bed. She opened the glass door to the balcony and looked out into the street. The rehearsal for the upcoming yacht parade was in full swing.

The racket brought an unbidden memory of the "Pool and Billiards," and the thought of her narrow escape made her shiver. Holding on to the railing, she leaned out to stare after the band as it turned the corner to the harbor. She caught sight of a young man walking back and forth in the parking lot of the Yacht Parade Inn. When he looked up in her direction, Allison felt she'd seen him before, although she had no idea where.

The noise of the band had just faded, when Allison heard voices from the room adjoining hers. Two men were talking heatedly. Loudly, too, as if still trying to overcome the band's music. She could hear snippets of their conversation.

"Thursday is too late," said a man with a Hispanic accent.

"Be reasonable," said the other. "Today is Monday; afternoon, already. I need—" The wail of a police car superseded the man's voice.

"Peter, listen!"

Allison's heart throbbed. _Peter_ , the man had said. Could he be Peter Johnston, the man she came to find at the Inn?

"He can send the entire Barnez clan to jail, or worse," replied the first man.

At the mention of Barnez, Allison's attention doubled. She sidled up to the partition separating her from the neighbors.

"There is a guard at the Suisse Manor," hissed the other voice. "All the time."

Allison's knees went weak. For a while, she couldn't grasp a single word; it was all a garble. Cautiously, she stepped over the partition to land on the neighbor's balcony. Hugging the wall, she moved toward their door.

"Garland is a threat, do you understand me?" snarled the man with the Hispanic accent.

Allison didn't need to hear any more. She rushed back into her room, grabbed her purse, got out of the hotel and headed for her car. She frantically searched for the car keys. They weren't in her bag. She searched her jeans' pockets. Nothing.

She was ready to go back to her room, when a voice behind her said, "Looking for these?" A tall man, his hair so blond as to appear white under the bright sun, was waving a pair of car keys.

Allison nodded and tried to snatch them out of the man's hands.

"Just a minute," the man said, holding the keys high in the air. "Where are you going?" He tried to sound authoritative.

"Those are _my_ keys!" snapped Allison. "Give them to me!"

After some hesitation, the man complied. "They were on the ground, just beside that green Toyota. That's your car, isn't it?" he said, now trying to engage her in a conversation.

Allison ignored him and rushed toward her car.

"Where are you going?" the man asked, following her.

"None of your business," replied Allison and took off.

***

Constable Al McGowan could hardly recover from the surprise. Mrs. Summer, the woman suspected of being involved in her husband's murder, was a delicate, beautiful creature—her grey eyes sparkled with life, her jeans revealed well designed hips, and her T-shirt didn't conceal her round breasts. He'd seen her before in the poolroom, of course, when she'd checked on the sleeping caretaker. But at that time he hadn't realized how attractive the woman was. For a moment he stood motionless, taken by Allison's graceful beauty.

He should stop dreaming, he soon told himself. He should move and follow her. This was an important assignment. He shouldn't blow it.

He entered his unmarked car and traversed Belleville, driving at a safe distance from the green Toyota. Allison skirted Don Cherry's restaurant on the right, the two entries to Highway 401, and took off for the north, on County Road 62. It would be difficult to lose her from now on, McGowan thought. Clearly Allison was heading home.

A few miles later McGowan spotted Allison's car parked on the shoulder, the hood up. To prevent being recognized, he quickly lowered the visor and continued on his way without glancing to the side. As soon as he was out of Allison's view, he stopped and radioed headquarters. He briefed Detective Charles Sutherland on what happened.

"She was in a big rush, you said? Then wait for her at the next gas station or truck stop, where you'll have a good view of the road. My guess is that she'll come your way. Then you resume following her." Charles paused. "Good work, Al."

"Thank you, sir. It was only my duty, you know..." He wanted to continue, but a click on the other end told him that the communication was over.

## Chapter 65

Allison floored the gas pedal, but soon jumped on the brakes when the road first curved to the left, then to the right. The car skidded sideways, ending up in a cultivated field. It took some maneuvering to get her car back on the road. "No good!" she yelled at herself, after a moment of panic. "What am I trying to do? Kill myself?"

She'd lost precious time, almost an hour, hitchhiking to Belleville and back for a can of gas. She wondered where Peter Johnston would be. She'd seen five cars with a single male driver going in the direction of Saratown. He could have been in any of them.

Marvin was going to be operated on that afternoon; if everything went well, he'd be taken to the recovery room afterward, where he'd stay for a few hours. Being a nurse, Allison knew only hospital staff would have access to him until he left post-op. But from then on, Marvin was vulnerable.

Peter had bargained for time, but the other guy had insisted on action. It'd take her at least another hour to reach the Suisse Manor. If Peter had left right away, he'd have plenty of time to get to Marvin. He'd reach the hospital long before she did. She banged on the steering wheel in frustration.

Maybe there was something she could do. It was Monday, and Mondays Bernie was on duty. He'd know what to do. She grabbed her cellular phone from her purse. She pressed the power button several times. The phone was dead. Once more, she'd forgotten to recharge the battery. As much as she hated the holdup, she'd better stop and call the Suisse Manor.

A sign up ahead advised of food and lodging coming up soon. Allison slowed down. She pulled up at a rural roadside coffee shop that had a phone booth out front. She got her calling card out and punched in the Suisse Manor's number.

At her request to speak with Bernie, she was put on hold. The wait seemed interminable, though her watch showed it lasted only forty seconds. "Sorry," a voice finally answered. "Bernie isn't here. An hour ago he received a call that his wife had an accident. In downtown Toronto."

"Let me talk to his replacement then," Allison said in an authoritative tone.

"I'm afraid there isn't any," the voice said. "It all happened so quickly..."

Allison left the receiver swaying on the line and darted to her car. She wouldn't stop until she reached the hospital.

The door of the Suisse Manor's service entrance swung open as the truck from the Linen and Uniforms company approached the building. Allison parked her car and followed the truck. She skirted the laundry room and through a service stairway she reached the patients' wing on the first floor. Marvin's room was the third to her right. She approached it quietly and, without knocking, opened the door.

Johnston stood over Marvin's head, holding a pillow in one hand and a gun in the other. He turned around as Allison stepped into the room. A look of stupor crossed his face. In the split second it took him to recover, Allison screamed, letting out all the air she held in her lungs. She leaped across the room, trying to put herself between her man and his would-be killer. Johnston turned to the window, using the stock of his gun to knock out the glass. He hoisted himself up on the windowsill, and jumped out.

***

"You wouldn't tell me why you went to see Mr. Garland so late at night," said Charles Sutherland, looking at Allison with impatience. It was two in the morning. He'd slept very little the previous night. He'd personally rescued McGowan from the awning frame of the Suisse Manor's outdoor café, his uniform pants ripped off, his exposed parts a free lesson in male anatomy. Charles had spent the last hour keeping the press at bay, skillfully avoiding questions on his constable's acrobatic jump and its consequences.

Allison shook her head. "I'd like to consult my attorney," she said.

Charles decided to make an emotional pitch. "You understand that we won't be able to protect Mr. Garland in any way, shape or form, unless you give us all the information you have on Peter Johnston. My constable has heroically attempted to follow him after he leaped out of the window. But the end of the story is that Johnston escaped with his hide intact, while my man..." He couldn't keep a straight face.

"I'm sorry about your officer," Allison said softly. "I understand it was embarrassing, with all those light poles... But don't forget, Mr. Garland was injured. I bumped into his shoulder when I tried to stop Johnston. He's under the knife this very instant."

Charles pondered the situation. McGowan had been only a few steps behind Allison. His report didn't leave any doubts about Peter's intentions. Peter's daring escape clearly showed that they were dealing with a professional. A man in excellent physical shape who was ready for the unexpected. "Okay," he said finally. "I'll give you time to talk with your legal counsel. Keith Sample, right?"Allison nodded. "The hospital will be guarded, tonight." He rose and made his final and most emotional pitch. "But after tomorrow it will up to you to help us protect Mr. Garland. I hope you realize that we can't do it alone."

## Chapter 66

What a blessing a good rain would be. Keith Sample stared at his office's front lawn. Once a vivid green, it now looked like a flat, yellow rug. He turned around as he heard Allison come through the doorway. He greeted her with a warm smile and waved her into one of the armchairs around the coffee table. "You wanted to see me," Keith said. "I think I know why." He sat across from her and moved the blooming hydrangea aside so that they could see each other's eyes.

"I don't understand what's happening. The police didn't call me, as they said they would. Instead, they went to see Marvin only one day after surgery. They asked him to go to headquarters as soon as he left the hospital—I had no chance to talk to him alone. Not even for five minutes."

"I know," replied Keith. "You told me that on the phone, and I did some checking with Marvin's lawyer. The situation isn't good, Allison. Marvin may be able to come and see you later—if he isn't arrested."

"Arrested?" Allison shouted. "For what? What evidence do they have?"

"They found the weapon used to kill Ian Summer. In a dilapidated cabin near the Falls. It's that famous flintlock your grandfather was very proud of. The mother-of-pearl stock retained no fingerprints, but the barrel had Marvin's prints all over it."

"Of course his prints are on that gun, and probably on every other pistol my grandfather owned. They would often go to the range together, and they always used grandpa's guns." Allison threw her hands up. "Marvin probably fired that flintlock dozens of times."

"That may be so," Keith said calmly. "But this isn't just any gun. It's the one that killed your husband."

Allison's cheeks became red, her eyes blinked. "But why don't they get busy looking for Peter Johnston? He tried to kill a man, after all! Why are they after Marvin?"

Keith sighed. "I don't know why, but I can make some educated guesses."

"Such as?" Allison snapped.

Keith ticked off the issues on his fingers. "One: they can use the fact that his life is in danger, combined with their own threat to charge him with murder, to double the pressure and induce him to talk."

Allison's eyes widened with surprise. "Can they do that? It isn't fair!"

"My dear child, they have a job to do. And Marvin Garland does know a lot more than he is letting on."

"Can they really charge Marvin?" Allison's face clouded with worry.

"It's possible." Keith continued. "Two: keep in mind that this second thought is only a wild guess. If Marvin is guilty of Ian's murder, they may offer him a plea bargain—"

"A plea what?" Allison interjected.

"Let's me explain. The justice systems of two countries are committed to putting away the Barnez brothers. One is in jail for arms trafficking, but will be released in seven years, or something like that. The other is totally free to operate. If they're in fact responsible for Charlene's death, they can be put away for life. They wouldn't be able to harm anybody anymore." Keith paused. "So," he said, his voice mellowing, "with a plea bargain, Marvin can get a reduced sentence in exchange for information which can ultimately convict the Barnez brothers. Can you appreciate their strategy?"

Allison shifted in her seat. "What should Marvin do?"

Keith raised his eyebrows. "It depends whether he's guilty or not. It depends whether he thinks you're guilty or not..."

"I didn't kill anyone!" Allison shouted.

Then Marvin killed for her, Keith thought. He couldn't avoid closing his eyes. He'll never get away with that. When he was sure his voice wouldn't betray his thoughts, he asked, "Anything else you want to know?"

"Nothing else. I just hope I'll get a chance to talk to Marvin. Alone, without being spied on, in one form or another."

## Chapter 67

The sky was dark, the clouds thick. The trees stood motionless, the many dry leaves covering the ground did not stir. Sky and earth seemed completely still, like actors waiting for a cue to start the show. Then, as though on a silent command, torrents of rain began to fall. A hard wind bent the trees and whipped up the leaves, howling loud enough to drown out the rumble of thunder.

Allison staggered toward the gazebo of the Saratown Public Park, her head down, one hand firmly holding her hood in place. A few feet from the gazebo she lifted her head to glance around. In one corner stood Marvin, his right shoulder in a splint. She ran to him and hugged him with all her strength.

"Oops..." Marvin murmured. "This's already my second artificial shoulder. They may not replace it a third time. Not for free, I mean." As Allison released her hold, he caressed her face, looking deeply into her eyes. "Finally, finally I can touch you."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. Things could be better, of course. We need to talk."

"We didn't have a chance to speak to each other in more than two weeks. My lawyer told me to be very careful."

"I understand. But now our feelings are in the open. You saved my life, and that was in all the newspapers. You were very brave. I'll never stop being grateful to you." With his left hand he cleared Allison's face of raindrops. He then brushed her lips with his. "It feels so good to touch you," he whispered.

"Marvin, are they going to arrest you? I'm worried."

"They could. But I don't think there're going to." He led her toward the bench that offered the best shelter against the wind, the only one still dry. "Let's sit here," he said.

Allison took her jacket off and shook the water from it. "Tell me what you think, and how I can help."

"We have to find your father."

"Luke? Everybody has been looking for him, especially the police. He vanished without a trace." Allison paused, more worried than ever. "Do you think he is...do you think he's guilty?" Her voice became a mere whisper.

"No! No way! But he's the key. I mean, he can explain what happened the night before Ian was murdered." Marvin relaxed his back against one of the gazebo's column, as though preparing himself for a long story. "You see, that night, when I took you to your little apartment after Marion's accident, I saw your father driving home. I stopped him and asked him if we could meet and talk. At first he hesitated, then he told me he'd change, have a snack—he hadn't eaten all day—and then walk over to my place. Half an hour later he was sitting in my living room." As the wind direction slightly changed, drops of rain fell on Marvin's side. He moved over to the other side of Allison.

"I told him I was worried, because of Ian's behavior. I asked him if there was anything he could do. He looked at me in silence for a few moments. Then he began talking. He had never suspected Ian was a criminal, actively wanted by the police of two countries. Ian was in trouble, Luke said, serious trouble. He explained why.

"Two days earlier Ian had taken his car to the Sulton Shop for an oil-and-filter change, and he'd waited there for the job to be done. One of the mechanics came over for a chat, casually dropping a question or two about life at Les Capucines. It was when the chatty mechanic asked him about the scar on his head, that Ian became sure the mechanic had identified him as Vincent Ramirez. He knew the Barnez family was after him.

"He rushed back to Les Capucines. Your father said he was screaming like a madman, looking for you. He wanted to force you to give him the money he needed to make his getaway. Lord only knows what he'd have done to you if he'd found you.

"Your father struck a deal with Ian. He'd give him the money he wanted, even if he had to resort to loan sharks. But Ian had to leave you alone."

Allison blinked. She'd never expected her father to stand up for her, much less protect her from a raving madman.

Marvin continued. "Luke told me not to worry, everything would be okay. You would be safe. He'd borrowed the sum Ian had demanded. Together, they'd leave early in the morning."

"But why would the Barnez clan be after him, if Ramirez was one of their own?" Allison asked.

"From what your father told me, Ian, Ramirez I mean, didn't stay in hiding as he was supposed to. The Barnez family suspected the authorities could strike a deal with him, at their expense." Marvin moved closer to Allison. "We have to find your father. Find out what happened that night, after he returned home. His testimony could clear me, Allison. Something happened that night."

"You mean something concerning Peter Johnston?"

"I don't know, but it could very well be Johnston was involved. That's why we have to talk to Luke." He paused. "I never planned to harm Ian. I spent evening after evening gathering information on your husband, that's true. For some reason, I suspected the man had a record. I even accessed several Web sites to look for the 'most wanted.' But that's all that I did." He cupped her face with both hands. "I didn't kill Ian, no matter how much I wanted to make him disappear from our lives. And I didn't know he was the man who murdered my Charlene."

***

Marvin was innocent. What a weight lifted from her heart! They were both innocent. They had nothing to fear. Well, not exactly. There was always a chance of miscarriage of justice. But for that, there was Keith Sample. No wrong would pass by him.

Now she had to find Father. That was priority number one. She rushed back to Les Capucines, determined to dig out clues pointing to his whereabouts.

As soon as she was home, she walked into her father's bedroom and lingered at his desk in front of the large window. The mahogany desk was full of sketches and pictures. A 5″ x 7″ photo of Ian and herself stood in the middle, the newlyweds looking at each other with ardor. She grabbed that picture and banged it on the desk. With pleasure she watched the glass crack into hundreds pieces. What a farce, she thought. A carefully planned masquerade. Thank God, that was over.

She opened the desk's central drawer, for a moment hoping that she might find a clue to her father's whereabouts. Fat chance, she chided herself. The police had combed the entire place. If they hadn't found anything, she wouldn't either. She shut the drawer, rose and looked around.

The note her father had left... She'd found it on the triple dresser, close to a family picture taken at a beach. She and Vern stood in the middle, one parent on each side, the fishermen's village in the background. It was the only vacation she ever remembered having spent with her father. He'd insisted that his kids see the ocean, experience its waves and admire the azure color of its waters. And so much sand, Allison remembered. The four of them built sand castles, day after day. Suppertime always arrived before a castle was finished, as her father kept adding towers, defensive moats and new walls. She remembered her mother's laughter, as she fetched more water to help in the construction. And then, the following morning, nothing would be there, the castle leveled by the tide.

That vacation... It'd been all harmony and fun.

She looked attentively at the picture. The place... Mexico, she thought. A small village near Ixtapa, if she remembered correctly.

Was it possible that Luke had gone back there? It was a wild guess at best. But then, he couldn't be found anywhere else, and they'd been searching high and low. And maybe, just maybe, he'd left the note close to the picture for a reason.

***

Charles entered the police station and sat behind his desk. The policewoman assigned to tail Allison called in. He took the call and listened in silence for a few seconds. Then he sat up straight. "Mrs. Summer is ready to take off with a big bag? By all means, follow her and report every two hours." He put down the receiver, wondering. Allison was ready to drive away. Planning to stay away, if she was taking luggage with her. Something important. What could it be? Where was she going? Charles shrugged. He'd have to wait and see.

## Chapter 68

Geography had never been Allison's strongest subject in school, and now she wished she'd studied it harder. Had she paid more attention back then, she'd have known Ixtapa was far, very far from Ontario. After four days of driving she was still in the States. Of course, she had to stop to get a visa for Mexico, and that had taken half a day.

The driving was exhausting her. What normally would have been an exciting experience, had become a chore, something she had to do, and as fast as she could. Her thoughts kept going back to her father. Something extraordinary had happened. Luke had stood up to Ian—and that would take some doing for any person. Luke had battled a giant to defend his little girl, without being asked.

Father had not abandoned her.

A feeling of anticipation took hold of her. She was soon going to find answers to all her questions.

Late in the afternoon of the fifth day, the old village that was so neatly engraved in her memory drifted into sight. She parked her car and headed for the beach.

The sun grazed the calm waters tinting them with golden reflections. The late hour and a cool breeze had chased most of the tourists home. Allison looked at the place that once was the stage of her wonderful vacation. She took her shoes off and began walking along the shoreline. She moved briskly, determined to patrol the long beach.

Half an hour later she saw a man sitting alone, close to the water, sketching on a huge pad. She couldn't distinguish his features, but his silhouette told her she'd found Luke. She ran toward him, her feet scattering sand left and right.

Luke lifted his head. "Ah, Allison. There you are," he said as if her being there was the most natural thing in the world. He snapped his pad closed and rose. "Am I glad to see you!" He opened his arms, ready to hug her.

Allison threw her shoes, driving one in the sand close to him and the other into the water. She stood in front of him, trying to catch her breath. "Do you know that everybody is looking for you? Do you know that you're needed at home?"

Luke moved close to her. "Don't be angry with me, Allison."

For a moment, they look at each other in silence. Then Allison didn't hold herself back. She threw herself in his arms, her entire body racked with long, spasmodic sobs. "Oh, Father, you don't know what happened. So many things. Terrible things..."

Luke stroked her back. "Calm down, Allison. Everything is going to be fine. I love you. You can't imagine how much." He took her arms and invited her to sit.

Allison hesitated. She finally sat close to him.

"Look here," Luke said. "Four dolphins paraded in front of me, just a moment ago. Hopping in and out of the water. I couldn't resist sketching them. Don't they look great?" He tossed the two drawings onto her lap. He smiled at her, a sad smile, though.

Dolphins, thought Allison. She was suspected of murder, and her father was busy drawing dolphins. She locked eyes with him. "Father, do you know that Ian has been murdered?"

"Yes, I do," Luke replied, shifting his eyes away from her.

"Do you know that the police are looking for you?"

"I thought they might be. The police enjoy chasing people. They'd die of boredom if somebody didn't entertain them."

"Stop joking. These are serious matters, Father! Do you know that we had a big fire in the hills?"

"No. Anybody hurt?" Luke asked, concerned.

"Marvin. We were both caught in the middle of the blaze. The Department of Natural Resources rescued us, but a big tree hit the Jeep, injuring Marvin."

"Is he okay?" Luke asked, his forehead creased with wrinkles.

Allison nodded.

"And what about you? Did you get hurt?" He scrutinized her from head to toe.

"No. I was just in shock." She glanced around. "Why did you come here?"

"A pilgrimage, Allison. A sentimental trip to my past. To my memories. I needed that. I had to contemplate the immensity of the ocean, feel its rhythm. I needed to hear the sound of waves." He stared into the distance. "I needed to follow the tracks God left behind, so we'd be able to find Him." He turned his head toward her and caressed her cheek.

She never did understand her father. She wasn't sure anybody did—neither the things he said nor his behavior. He was elusive, when not mysterious. Allison lifted some sand and clutched it in her fist. Then slowly she sieved it back. "The police," she began. "Oh, Father!" Tears welled in her eyes again. "I don't know what's happening anymore. The police suspect everybody: me, Marvin. Probably you too." She sobbed again, her shoulders shaking hard.

Luke pulled her close and hugged her tight. "Don't worry, Allison."

"Don't worry? I've done nothing but worry!"

Luke sealed her lips with his fingers. "I know everything is going to be all right. Trust me, Allison. For God's sake, for once, trust me. You've absolutely nothing to worry about. Not anymore. We can talk. About anything you want to know. But now, you need to calm down, relax a bit. You must be very tired from the long trip." He touched her short hair. "Probably hungry too. Let's walk to the village. I know a stand where they prepare fabulous enchiladas."

"I'm not hungry," Alison said with a pout.

"Well, then let's go and buy you a pair of shoes..."

The moon, almost full, shed a dim light on the dark waters. Allison and Luke, back on the beach, walked side by side along the shoreline, their naked feet splashing in the warm water.

"Since you finally don't mind talking about our family, tell me what happened to Vern," Allison said. "His death, was it an accident or—" she hesitated, "suicide?" Her last word was just a whisper.

"I don't know, Allison. We'll never know."

"Grandpa thought you might know. You just didn't want to talk about it, he said."

"He was right, I didn't want to talk about it. It was a very sad incident, that's all I can say." His tone was unusually resolute.

"I want to know, Father."

"Oh, Allison, it was a long time ago."

"Father, please, that incident, as you called it, was very hard on all of us. Mother left because of that. We were all very close to Vern."

Allison stopped, but Luke kept walking. Then he turned around. "What do you want to know?" he finally asked.

"That afternoon. The afternoon Vern died. You went to see him. What happened that day?" She rejoined her father. They walked on slowly as Luke began to talk.

"It was the week prior to Vern's first exhibition," Luke said. "Vern was choosing the pieces to ship to the show. He called me and asked me if I could drop by. To advise him on his choices. To have a chat. He needed to talk to somebody." Luke paused. "I went to his place. There were pictures and drawings against the walls, on the chairs, on the grand piano—all over. Vern was unhappy, though, in spite of the upcoming event. He looked at me and began crying."

"Crying?"

Luke nodded. "To make a long story short, he wasn't interested in girls. Worse, actually. He was in love with an older man."

Allison stopped. "He was gay?" she shouted. "Vern?"

Luke stopped walking too and faced her. "Yes. That was what he told me."

"Then, what happened?"

"I told him—I tried to console him—I told him it wasn't uncommon. He'd come to terms with it. Then I thought it would help him to know that—" Luke stopped. "Oh, my God, I shouldn't tell this to my own daughter."

"I want to know," Allison shook his arm. "I'm a grownup."

"I told him I was gay too. Then..." Luke paused again. "He became very upset. That was all I told him. Allison, did you know that about me?"

"Not for sure. But several people hinted you were. So, no big surprise, Father." Another memory got hold of her. "Ian was too. I'll never know why he married me. Not for the money. Mother didn't leave me much... And he didn't know about grandfather until we moved to Les Capucines." Allison heaved a long, deep sigh. She didn't wait for Luke to comment. She wanted to forget everything that had to do with her awful marriage. "It's over, now. Done. The storm is passed. _That_ storm is passed, I should say." She began walking again, followed by Luke. "Whoever killed Ian bought freedom for me. And for that, I'm very grateful. It's a dreadful thought, I know, and I'm ashamed of it. But that's the way I feel." She stopped and faced her father.

Without saying a word, Luke hugged her. He stroked her shoulders. "There's no shame in feelings, Allison. Often they're just the result of what people have done to us."

Allison hugged him back. "Let's go home, Father. Together."

Luke caressed her face. "Yes. It's time for me to go home."

The moon disappeared behind the clouds, leaving nothing but darkness.

## Chapter 69

As Allison was tracing her way back to Ontario, Charles Sutherland kept busy following the trail left by Peter Johnston. No success, yet. He sighed. Better think about Allison and Luke, who had just returned last night.

The phone rang. He slumped into his chair and tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

"Are you ready for some news on the illustrious Mr. Johnston?" Ed's cheerful voice inquired over the static on the phone line.

"Not really. Your last couple of news briefs weren't exactly uplifting." So far, the assailant they knew as Peter Johnston had eluded them.

"That's just your hurt pride speaking." Ed chuckled. "How is Constable McGowan, by the way?"

"Embarrassed, if no longer bare-assed." Charles sighed. "The press had a field day. Fortunately, they didn't get pictures of the incident."

"Should have told him to cover his ass."

"Yeah, yeah." Charles had heard enough backside jokes in the past week to last him a lifetime.

"You're going to like this." Ed paused for effect. "Johnston's interest in miniature models is paying off."

Charles straightened up. "You have got to be kidding."

"I'm dead-serious. We picked up his trail in Toronto. He turned up in a shop dealing in rare miniatures." Charles could barely believe it. All the other information they had on Johnston had turned out to be useless. Nothing about the man seemed to be real: jobs and habits had been so many smokescreens. Disposable traits the killer had shed like a snake's skin when he was ready to move on.

"The owner said Johnston had been there a couple of times before, asking for collector's items. Looks like the housekeeper latched on to the one little thing that could give him away."

Charles grabbed a pencil and started scribbling. Maybe, just maybe this was the lucky break he'd been waiting for.

"I'm in Belleville. There's going to be an auction after the parade. Unique, exclusively dedicated to clippers," Ed said. "Maybe our man will show up."

"Did you alert the local police department?"

"Yes. I told them you'd fill them in on the details."

"I'll give them a call," Charles said. His somber mood had lifted, making way for excitement. Something was about to happen, he could feel it like a hum in his veins. He just wished he could be there when they made the arrest. "Keep me posted."

Charles spent fifteen minutes on the phone with his counterpart in Belleville, filling in the background of his case, and talking strategy. When he eased the phone back in its cradle, Charles bit back his excitement. All he could do now was wait and hope for the best.

As the minutes crept by, his cautious nature began to dampen his mood. Taking Johnston would be tricky. The man was a pro, and he'd spook easily. And what if Johnston never showed up? He'd told the shop owner he was interested in that particular auction, but that could have been just another false trail intended to throw pursuers off his track. To be successful in his line of business, Johnston relied on caution and deceit. Not unlike Charles himself. Charles was uncomfortably reminded of the cat and mouse game he was playing with his other suspects, letting them believe he'd lost interest...while he watched each of their moves. It was all a matter of caution and deceit.

He stared at the pad in front of him. Johnston... Catching him would be a coup. But now he found other reasons not to get his hopes up. He was not so sure Johnston's arrest would get him any closer to solving the Summer-Ramirez murder. Maybe Johnston had been staking out Les Capucines to get at Garland. Or perhaps he'd been looking for the real Ian Summer.

It was entirely possible he had nothing to do with Summer-Ramirez' death.

Frustrated, Charles got up and started pacing the narrow space between his desk and the next one. No matter how much he'd love to pin Ramirez' murder on a hit man, Johnston just didn't feel right for it. His optimism was quickly fading away.

His thoughts went back to Garland and the Summer girl. He had nothing solid on them. Luke was his only trump card. It was time to bring him in.

He glanced at the entrance. Rudy Eaton was coming through the revolving door, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with the imprint "Cosmopolitan News." He distributed smiles all around, showing every one of his sixteen upper teeth. Charles grimaced. He wished he could simply ignore the man, but he owed him one. Eaton's information had been crucial to the investigation. As if that wasn't enough, the reporter had become something of a fixture at the Dustins' household. He was Jennifer's close friend, if not boyfriend. If Charles wanted to keep his weekly invitation for supper, he'd better play ball.

Rudy made his way to Charles' desk, followed by the ravished looks of several female present.

Charles waved him to a chair.

"I'm flying back to New York," Rudy said. "So I'm here to say goodbye. Unless, of course, you can give me a reason to stay."

"Not really." Rudy clearly didn't know about Luke's return, and Charles was not about to enlighten him.

"What about the attempt on Garland?"

"We're looking into it. But frankly, I'm not optimistic."

Rudy nodded. He'd covered enough crime stories to know the Peter Johnstons of this world were notoriously hard to catch. "But I'd expected you to have some concrete evidence against Allison and Marvin by now. You're not holding out on me, are you?"

"I wouldn't dare."

"You're tapping their phones and you've got nothing? No interesting pillow talk, no whispered confessions on tape?"

"Afraid not," Charles said, looking contrite.

"So what do you think," Rudy lowered his voice. "Was Marvin fucking her?"

Charles shrugged. "The husband was a mean sonofabitch. She may not have dared to step out of line." He stole a glance at the phone.

"What about the time Summer-Ramirez was in the hospital? She was pretty much free to do whatever she pleased. Don't tell me she wasn't taking advantage of the situation."

"Your guess is as good as mine." Charles darted another look at the phone. It had been well over an hour, and still no word from Ed.

Rudy eyed him suspiciously. "Are you expecting a call?"

"Get off my case, Rudy. There's nothing I can tell you, and that's the bottom line. We're stuck." Charles prayed Ed wouldn't choose this moment to call—Rudy Eaton's ears were just as sharp as his pen.

"I guess that's it, then." Rudy rose. He didn't seem too pleased. "My plane doesn't leave until tonight. So if anything comes up, you'll let me know, right?"

"Sure thing," Charles said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. He got up to walk Rudy to the door.

"Better call me at Jennifer's." Rudy winked. "I'll be there for the next five hours or so. Giving her some time to kiss me goodbye."

They hadn't taken two steps away from the desk when the phone rang. Charles whirled around to snatch it up. Rudy stepped up beside him, pricking his ears to catch both sides of the conversation.

"You're not going to believe this!" Ed's voice bellowed in Charles's ear, shouting to be heard over the noise of the auction.

Charles pressed the phone against his ear to muffle the sound. He could feel the reporter's inquisitive eyes on him. "Charles! Can you hear me?" Ed yelled.

Charles hurried to interrupt him. "Yes, Mrs. Hamilton," he murmured into the phone. "No, Mrs. Hamilton. I'm afraid we can't help you. We don't shoot cats."

There was a baffled silence on the other end of the line.

"I'm sorry Ma'am, but you can't do it yourself either... Especially if this is your neighbor's cat. Yes, I know it's a horrible smell. Why don't you ask them to have it neutered?" Charles covered the mouthpiece with one hand and rolled his eyes at Rudy. "Old ladies... You got to love them."

"Yeah, well." The reporter backed up a step, already losing interest. He glanced at his watch. "I'll be seeing you." He gave Charles a half-hearted wave.

Charles nodded, forcing a smile. "Have a safe flight. And give my love to Jennifer." He watched as the reporter disappeared through the revolving door.

"Charles?" Ed's voice piped up tentatively.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"What's all this business about having me neutered?"

"Forget it." Charles rubbed his tired eyes. "Tell me what happened."

"You're not going to like it," Ed said. "Johnston must have felt something was off—maybe he spotted a couple of uniforms. In any case, he bolted before the place was sealed. He got away."

Charles sat down. "Damn."

"Yes. And something else..." Ed hesitated. "I sniffed around a bit, talking with some of the regulars, people who travel all over to visit these auctions and things. It seems there was a miniature show in Montreal the week Summer got killed. I've found two guys willing to swear they saw a fellow matching Johnston's description there. We haven't pinpointed the exact date yet, but it doesn't look good for your case."

"He could easily fly over here, do Summer-Ramirez, and be back at the show before anyone missed him." But Charles knew he was grasping at straws.

"Sure." Ed's voice sounded too sympathetic for comfort. "We'll get him eventually, and the attempted hit on Garland will send him away for a long time. Even if we can't tie him to the Summer-Ramirez case."

Charles sat staring at the phone for a long time after Ed rang off. They were back at square one. In fact, things looked even bleaker than before. Now that Johnston knew they were hunting him down, he'd go underground somewhere and disappear. And they still didn't have diddly squat on Garland and the Summer girl.

Luke Saint-Clair could solve all the problems. He thumbed through the pages of the file on Allison's wayward father, weighing his options. Luke had been a problem child from the first day he'd been taken into the Saint-Clair family. He'd been a major disappointment to old Saint-Clair, he'd ruined his own marriage, and he'd made a lousy father. Lousy enough to provide incriminating evidence on his own daughter? That was the million-dollar question.

## Chapter 70

"I'm going to propose a commitment," Rudy said, clasping Jennifer's hands. "A serious, lifelong commitment." They sat side by side on the sofa of the Dustins' living room, sharing a cold beer.

"A commitment?" Jennifer stared at him, her brown eyes wide.

"Yes. We pledge to spend a full week together, every year, for as long as we live."

"Oh, I should have known." Jennifer laughed, pounding the floral print pillow with a fist in mock anger. "That's what you mean by commitment!" Then she became serious. "Not if I'm married," she said firmly. "I won't cheat on my partner."

"You wouldn't have to. Since your commitment to me precedes your marriage vows, your husband will have to respect it."

Jennifer shook her long hair back. "You do cover all the bases, don't you?"

"I try." Rudy kissed her on her neck. Maybe she wouldn't go for it, not completely, but the hook was set. Jennifer was a delightful creature, sweet and caring. And her body never failed to feel alive under his. She was more than half in love with him. "So, what do you say?"

Jennifer rose and stood in front of him. "You've got a deal. That is, as long as I'm unattached. If I get married, I don't think I'll keep seeing you."

"Why can't you let me win, just this once?" Rudy pouted.

"What are you talking about? These past weeks I've done everything you asked."

"I'm not talking about the past. I'm talking about the future."

Jennifer thrust out her pointed little chin in defiance. "I'm sorry, but no can do. When I get serious with somebody else, the deal is off."

"You're planning to get serious with another man? Behind my back?" He gave her a hurt look.

Jennifer pushed him against the back of the sofa. "What other way is there? We're about a thousand miles apart, Rudy." She took a cookie from the tray on the table and put it in her mouth. "I intend to have a family," she said, munching. "And not just one kid. Maybe not right away, but not too late either." She grabbed another cookie.

"Don't you ever put on weight?" Rudy had to watch everything he ate. This girl put away three times as much as he did, and yet she stayed slim as a willow.

"Not yet. It's a matter of age. I'll have to watch out too, but not for another twenty years." She licked her fingers. "These cookies are de-li-cious."

Was she hinting that he was too old to be part of her life?

He tried to figure out a way to hold on to Jennifer without giving up the lifestyle he cherished. For now he just had to make sure they'd keep seeing each other, even if it had to be on her terms. "All right," he said more to his thoughts than to her. "When will I see you again, then?" He took her hand and kissed it.

"Next year for sure."

"Jennifer—"

"What?"

"We have to give our relationship some room to grow. Wouldn't you agree?" He should pick his words with care. Next year was a long way off, and he wasn't quite ready to put Jennifer on the backburner. "We have to give nature some time to run its course. Let our passion expand."

Jennifer laughed. "What you mean is, you want to see me next weekend. Right?"

Rudy pulled her close. "Yes, please," he whispered into her hair. He was shocked to hear the plea in his voice.

"I don't know about next weekend." She regarded him with her head cocked, one shapely finger tapping her bottom lip. "Maybe the weekend after."

He groaned. Something was wrong here. He was the star reporter, and she the small-town girl in love with him. She was supposed to be all starry-eyed and grateful that he wanted to keep on seeing her. So why was he the one begging for a date?

"Then again, I'm on a budget. Maybe it's better to wait awhile." She ran a teasing finger along his cheek, tracing his jaw line. A few small cookie crumbs clung to her knuckle.

"I'll pay for the tickets," he heard himself say. "And I'll take care of your hotel, and all that," he added in a weak mumble. When he looked into her eyes, he had the distinct feeling he was drowning.

Her smile seemed to mock and caress him at the same time. She studied his face. "Rudy, are you all right?"

No, he thought miserably. He was not all right. He had set out to add her to his list of conquests, but somehow the familiar exercise had horribly, inexplicably backfired.

She cupped his face in her hands. He closed his eyes, realizing what was happening to him, but unable to stop it. The touch of her soft lips against his own made him melt back into the cushions. What would happen after he returned home was anyone's guess, but he knew for a fact that he would never be the same again.

He had fallen in love.

## Chapter 71

Peter Johnston slowed down along the turnoff and eased his car onto Highway 401. He'd picked the westbound lanes on instinct, without a clear destination in mind, intent only on losing himself in the anonymity of traffic. He kept the car rolling at the average speed, just a shade above the speed limit, the nondescript rental merging seamlessly with the traffic.

Inside its armored shell the killer's mind was in turmoil. He relied on his cunning to make a success of his profession, and today his cunning had nearly failed him.

That square in front of the harbor... He wouldn't forget it if he lived to be a hundred. It was getting full with vociferous buyers as the auction was about to start. Everything looked normal up to that point, when a policeman took a stand near a pier. Another began patrolling the way to the parking lot. Peter didn't bother to look in any other direction. He calmly rose, leaving the auction brochure lying on his seat. He lined up at the nearby food stand to get a bag of chips. Hiding his face behind the colorful bag, he munched with nonchalance for a few seconds, planning his getaway.

Luckily for him, he knew of the underground passage that joined the square to the Yacht Parade Inn. When the auctioneer announced the opening of the event, the crowd rushed to take a seat. That was when Peter made his move toward the underground passage. His rental was parked at the other end of the tunnel.

He'd managed to escape with his hide intact, but never in his life had he come so close to getting caught.

He had no illusions about the how and why of the trap that had closed around him. The police had found out about his interest in models, which meant he'd made a mistake somewhere along the line.

The cops had left him no choice but to give up his hobby. He didn't mind changing appearance, name, even personality—he'd done so in the past, many times over. But his models were the one true element amidst all the pretending. And now he'd have to give them up. From now on, auctions and shows were off limits. None of his friends, all of them collectors, would accept him, once aware of his double life. He might as well ditch his private collection. All that he'd built for years had vanished. Miniatures collector Chris Mortan, and not Peter Johnston the assassin, was going to be buried.

Like most men and women in his line of business he was even-tempered by nature, seldom given to mood swings. But now an unfamiliar rage was building inside him. As his thoughts kept returning to the disastrous afternoon, he felt the hot rush of adrenaline quickening his blood. He had to give up his hobby, all of it. The thought was more than he could stand.

He changed lanes to pass a lumbering truck loaded with caged chickens. He returned to the right lane, and reset the cruise control. The clean and simple acts of driving momentarily eclipsed his anger, allowing his first lucid attempt to analyze the situation.

What had gone wrong? When the little dentist had first mentioned killing Ramirez, he'd ignored the warning bells chiming in the back of his head. Perhaps he shouldn't have accepted the contract, no matter how tempting the reward. After Ramirez' death, he should have packed it in. But Barnez offered a second contract and the deal had been too good to pass up.

Going after Garland had been a fatal mistake. The man had been stupid enough to cross the Barnez clan, which meant the money was good. So good that he could smell a comfortable retirement. But Garland was involved with the Summer girl, something he couldn't have foreseen. She'd stuck her nose in his business. Without her meddling Garland would be dead. She fouled up what was supposed to be his last kill. If it hadn't been for her, all would be well and fine. Garland would have been his ticket out. He'd been looking forward to years of peace and quiet, leisurely evenings spent with his friends who knew nothing of his bloody past, long days of creating the finest miniatures. Now he could forget about all that. The collector's world was a small one, and the cops weren't going to stop looking for him. Even if he changed his appearance, his passion would give him away. He had to give up his precious models to survive. All because of the Summer bitch.

His rage took hold of him with renewed hunger. Analysis had become moot. It didn't matter what mistake he'd made—there was no way to rectify it. Allison Summer had ruined everything. She'd slashed away his entire future by saving her idiot boyfriend.

He had nobody and nothing to go home to. No doubt the authorities, well aware of Garland's old brush with the Barnez brothers, had already associated him with the Barnez gang.

His hours of freedom were numbered.

He started paying attention to the road signs, and noted with bitter glee that he was going in the right direction. He was five kilometers away from the exit that would lead to Les Capucines. His subconscious had apparently reached the same conclusion a bit earlier than his conscious mind had. There was only one thing left for him now.

Revenge.

## Chapter 72

Marvin was on the phone with a feed supplier, negotiating a contract that may well save the Farming Consortium thousands of dollars. Les Capucines was an important account, and the voice on the other end of the line had the telltale warmth of a businessman eager to close a deal. But Marvin had a hard time concentrating. His thoughts kept drifting back to Allison. She'd returned the night before from Mexico and hadn't contacted him yet.

The man who had tried to kill him at the hospital was still at large. Allison had identified his assailant. Whether McGowan was also an eyewitness to the attack was impossible to know, since the police wouldn't release that information. In any case, Allison could be in serious danger. As the feed salesman's slick voice oozed platitudes, his eyes flicked to the big clock hanging over the door. Ten to one. Afternoon already. No time to spare. He had to find Allison to make sure she was all right. He told the feed supplier he wanted to reconsider the terms of the contract, and rang off.

He called the house and her apartment. No answer. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones, the same way he'd felt it when they'd gotten to Charlene.

Once again there was a contract killer on the loose. The past was coming back to haunt him. Goddamn Ramirez. He'd killed his first love, and now he was reaching out from beyond the grave to take Allison.

Now that the thought had grabbed hold of him, he couldn't shake it. He left the office and rushed to the first-aid center, one pledge reverberating in his mind: not this time. Not this time, please God don't let it happen again. The waiting room was empty, the office door locked. Nobody there. Pearls of perspiration ran from his forehead into his eyes. It might be too late already. He retraced his steps and walked to the front of the house.

Marion Miller was getting out of the car, a brown bag full of groceries in her arm. "Nice to see you, Mr. Garland."

Marvin got hold of her shoulders. "Where is Allison?"

"I don't know for sure," she said trying hard to hold onto her bag. "She was planning to take a ride with her father."

"Any idea where they were headed?"

"To the Falls—Mr. Saint-Clair likes to go there. You know, to sketch."

Marvin waved her off and ran for his Jeep. And in no time the Grand Cherokee was heading to the hills.

***

Under any circumstance, Luke Saint-Clair's file made for interesting reading material. Charles thumbed back through the thick stack of sheets, containing everything from psych reports to arrest records dating back to Saint-Clair's early years. He straightened the folder, putting the reports back in their proper order. He was familiar with all the background he might need for an interrogation.

Give them enough rope and they'll hang themselves. He still believed in that ancient bit of folk wisdom. The trouble was, he was running out of rope. The department simply didn't have the funds to keep up the surveillance. Only one of his men was now on duty at Les Capucines. To make things worse, he'd been told that two investigative units, one that will include the Mounties, the other from south of the border, were on their way.

Bring Luke Saint-Clair in, today. Take him and break him—it shouldn't be too hard. If Luke was guilty, he'd make him confess within the hour; if he weren't, he'd get out of him anything he knew to help convict his daughter and her lover.

Charles shut the file, and reached for the phone.

It started ringing as he was about to pick it up. He answered impatiently, barking his name into the receiver. Now that he'd made his decision, he wanted to move on it. His heart sank as McGowan identified himself. The young constable started chattering, his voice rising with excitement. As usual, McGowan needed ten words where one would do.

"They all left," McGowan said. "The last was Mr. Garland. He looked agitated, like he was angry, or worried. As soon as the Miller woman told him where Mrs. Summer had gone, he rushed to his car, to his Jeep, I mean." The words came out muffled, as if McGowan was talking with his mouth full.

A veiled suspicion took hold of Charles. He tightened his grip on the phone. "McGowan," he said softly. "Where are you now?"

"Well, I'm in my car, sir. Eating my lunch. It was getting late."

Charles closed his eyes, forcing himself to remain calm. "Perhaps," he said, "You could consider following Garland. That is, if it's not too much trouble?"

McGowan swallowed audibly. "Yes sir. But don't worry, sir, I know exactly where everybody's going," McGowan hurried to say. "They're all driving to the Upper Lake. To walk to the Falls."

"The Falls," Charles echoed.

"A very romantic spot, sir," McGowan said.

"Hurry! Follow Garland!" Charles jumped up, shouting into the telephone. "Don't let anybody go near the Falls, do you hear me? For no reason whatsoever. That's a three hundred foot drop! I'm on my way."

## Chapter 73

Marvin knew he was probably overreacting. After the botched attempt on his life Johnston had fled, and in all likelihood he'd long since left the area. Allison was probably safe. But _probably_ wasn't good enough for him. He'd thought Charlene was safe too...

Carved in the forest, the narrow road heading to the Upper Lake wound left and right, forcing him to steer through the bends and twists with both hands on the wheel. His eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror. During the time he'd spent with Charlene he'd always been looking over his shoulder, aware that every suspicious car, every stranger could bring swift death. Over the past weeks the old habits had returned to him, and he scanned the road ahead and behind him with a watchful eye.

He'd wait for the upcoming straight stretch to push his Jeep up to speed. He was ready to step on the pedal, when an old truck loaded with timber appeared in front of him. Damn! He jumped on the brakes. Now he remembered... that road was a shortcut to the Indian reserve. They were building a new school and Justin Saint-Clair had given them permission to cross his land.

He had to reach Allison. Deep inside, he knew she was in danger.

The old truck veered to the right, pushed its way into the forest and stopped. The driver waved him ahead.

Marvin squeezed past with an inch to spare, and checked the rearview mirror. There was a midsize sedan right behind him, and it accelerated to match his speed. He fell back a bit, so he could get a better look. No local bumper stickers. He caught a glimpse of a company logo, and frowned. A rental. The killer would drive a rental car. The rental hung back. Marvin clenched his jaws. He knew the road like the back of his hand. He could afford to let the speedometer creep up, increasing the distance between himself and the other car. He soon lost sight of his pursuer. But he could still feel it back there behind him, following in his wake.

He reached the Upper Lake in record time. He nosed the Jeep in behind Luke's car and started off on foot, following the narrow trail leading up to what was known to be Luke's favorite spot, high up on a rocky cliff overlooking the water. As the forest closed around him, he cursed himself for his haste—he should have hidden so he could see who else would arrive. Should he turn back? He hesitated, listening to the soft rustling breath of the wind stirring in the branches. But the urge to find Allison was too strong. He had to make sure she was all right.

As he made his way deeper into the woods, the feeling of being watched crept up on him, growing stronger with every heartbeat. Several times he stopped, listening to the secretive sounds of the woods. The wind was picking up, and sudden gusts rattled the branches over his head. Already he could hear the low rumble of the Falls, a constant thrum overlaying more subtle sounds. The afternoon sun filtered down through the green canopy, creating shifting shadows all over. He looked around, straining his eyes, but saw nothing to substantiate the feeling he was being followed. He pushed on, his senses on high alert.

Finally he broke out of the trees, to find himself on a knoll just below the rocky ridge jutting out over the Falls. Beyond, thousands of gallons of water rushed down in a deafening waterfall. Allison and Luke were there above him, outlined in sharp profile against the bright sky. They were talking, their heads bent close together to be heard over the noise of the Falls. He could see their lips move, but their words never reached him.

Why were they standing so close to the edge? Luke grabbed his daughter's hands, bringing his lips close to her ear, talking intently. As he watched, she took a step closer to the precipice. His stomach tightened. He called out a warning, but his voice was lost in the wind and the noise.

***

"Why did you bring me here, Father?" Allison asked. The wind was strong now, tugging at her long skirt.

"I wanted you near me. To give me strength." Her father's voice seemed to come to her from a great distance.

Allison stared at the familiar face only inches from her own. "Strength for what? You just have to go to the police, Luke. Tell them what really happened that night, when Ian was murdered." Why was he hesitating? Had he changed his mind again, as he'd done so many times in the past? "I need you, Luke. If you don't talk to the police, they're going to arrest us. They're going to throw Marvin in jail for a long time. Me too, probably." She thought she could trust him. But now...

He didn't answer, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Everything will be all right. I promise."

The pounding roar of the water was loud in her ears, so much louder than her father's words. Her eyes didn't look at Luke. Instead she stared down into the abyss.

A wilting fatigue seemed to spread out from her heart, numbing her feelings. "If you don't want to help Marvin, I will." She stepped closer to the cliff's edge, watching the water as it crashed down in a spray of fine droplets. "I'll take the blame myself. I'm not going to let Marvin take the fall for a murder he didn't commit."

***

Marvin struggled up the steep incline, intent on getting closer without being seen. He took a step forward, climbing cautiously. He didn't want to startle Allison. One wrong move, one misstep could make her lose her balance.

He still had thirty yards to cross when the feeling of being watched was upon him again. Someone was here. Someone besides the three of them. He was sure of it. He started to turn around, expecting to see the faceless killer who had attacked him at the hospital. A man in uniform moved out of the bushes. Marvin blinked to focus on him: he was Constable McGowan!

Panting, McGowan ran toward him.

"You... It was you, all along," he croaked. "You were following me."

"Of course. Who did you expect?" McGowan said.

Marvin almost laughed. He'd had a cop on his tail, instead of a killer.

He strained to see Allison and her father. They were straight ahead, moving even closer to the cliff's edge. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something else. A stealthy movement off to his left. A glint of metal or glass, like sunlight bouncing off a watch...or the scope of a rifle. With one hand Marvin pulled on McGowan's sleeve, with the other he pointed to the woods.

McGowan looked in the direction of Marvin's outstretched arm. His eyes went wide.

Half-hidden in the brush, up where the rocks leveled out, a man was kneeling down on one knee, steadying his rifle on a boulder.

"Holy smoke!" McGowan said.

Marvin didn't hesitate. There was no way he could reach the shooter in time, but Allison was closer—he might still be able to save her. He started climbing. When he was halfway there, he risked a glance at the shooter. The rifle was coming up. Behind him he could hear McGowan crashing through the brush, and his shouted warning, "Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon!" Marvin launched himself up the rocky wall, clawing his way with hands and feet.

***

Vaguely, Allison heard people shouting behind her, and what sounded like Marvin's voice calling her name. But she didn't turn back. Her attention was focused on her father. Luke was facing her, standing between her and the edge of the cliff, with his back to the drop-off. There was an expression on his face she had never seen before: a mixture of regret, love, and determination.

"I've never been much use to your mother or your grandfather," he said. "And Lord knows I failed Vern. But I won't fail you." He briefly stared over her shoulder, as if to see what all the noise was about. Then he turned back to her. He pulled a creased note from his pocket and handed it to her. "I love you, Allison. You'll never know how much. Marvin doesn't have to take the fall," he said. "And neither do you." He took a step back.

"Luke..."

"I'm the one who should take the fall."

Suddenly she understood. She lunged to take his arm. A shot rang out, and a bullet whistled past, finding space where her head had been a second ago.

Allison barely noticed. She stretched out her hand. Luke stepped out of reach, his foot finding the void.

She made a desperate grab for him. "No, Father!"

Luke smiled at her. Then her hands closed on empty air, and he was falling, tumbling backward into the depths of the Falls.

***

Marvin crossed the last few yards as Allison bent over to grab her father's arm, and the dry crack of the rifle echoed over the roar of the waterfall. He thought it was all over—his love lost. Then he saw Luke taking his last step, and for one brief moment their eyes met. In that moment, Marvin realized how perfectly Luke had timed his move. He'd been able to see the killer, he'd known it had been too late to stop him... And he'd known Allison would make a grab for him. The killer's shot went wide.

He wrapped Allison in his arms, holding her as she sobbed against his chest. After a while, they descended the trail, away from the cliff and the ceaseless rumble of the waterfall. They passed the spot where the shooter had been. Marvin looked up to see a beaming McGowan leading Peter Johnston away, duly handcuffed.

They found a quiet spot and sat side by side.

***

Allison looked up at Marvin, her eyes huge. "Luke..."

Before she could finish, Charles Sutherland walked up to them. He cleared his throat. "I hate to bother you at a time like this," he said, looking pained. "But I'm afraid we have a few questions for you."

She raised her tear-streaked face to him. "Father—He... he left a note." She handed him a piece of paper. "Please read it to me."

Charles knelt down in front of them and unfolded the paper. He began reading.

" _Dear Allison,_

This letter will probably cause you a great deal of sorrow. But I had to do what I had to do. I thought about it for long hours, and found no other solution. At first, Ian seemed willing to go along with my plan: I'd borrow some money and give it to him. I'd help him settle down in a small place on the east coast. But hours later, he changed his mind. He wanted a lot of money: ten million dollars! Ten million from you, Allison, or else... He wouldn't hesitate to do to you what he'd done to grandfather and Julia!

We had an ugly fight. To stop me from going to the police, he showed me the videocassette with the killing of Albert Borodin. I took that tape for real, Allison. I couldn't go to the authorities—I was afraid they'd arrest you because of that murder. I couldn't reason with him. I couldn't stop him from doing what he had in mind.

_I have never been a man of action. I never stood for what was right. I drifted through life, letting the current take me where it would. But after you came back to Les Capucines, I realized how much I could have done for you and hadn't. Instead, I caused you pain. I discovered how dear you were to me. How much I enjoyed seeing you ride Morello. I used to watch you feed him sugar cubes and carrots, and rub your nose against his when you thought nobody was looking_."

Charles paused and gave Allison a concerned look.

"I'm okay," she whispered.

Charles continued.

" _I was aware of the brutality Ian used to extort money from you. I was the remote cause of that, Allison. I'm afraid I'd caused you even more pain if I tried to explain how that all happened. I wanted to free you, Allison. I wanted to free you from what I thought was an impending accusation of murder, and from an assassin who was ready to act. Almost by accident I came across one of my father's old pistols. It was nice and clean, and loaded._

Allison, I killed Ian. I don't regret it. I finally feel a sense of peace, a sense of total liberation. I don't think I could stand a trial, the public exposure of all the wrong I have done in my life, the time in jail, which would inexorably follow. I decided to remove myself from this earth. From your life too, Allison. I want you free, free to have some years of happiness. I know this decision, my last one, will cause you a great deal of pain. But that will go away, in time.

You're now free. Free to live. Free to love somebody worthy of you.

_Your loving father, Luke_."

"It's terrible..." Allison stammered. Slowly, she rose, followed by Marvin and Charles.

Charles refolded the note and handed it to Allison. "We did have our suspicions, Mrs. Summer. I'm sorry for your loss."

As Charles strode away, Allison lifted her limpid eyes toward Marvin. "I never suspected..."

Marvin nodded. "Me neither. All I noticed was how desperately your father wanted to prove his love to you..." He gently stroked Allison's hair and pulled her close.

"I feel so guilty. I know how much he must have suffered to go against his nature and beliefs—taking somebody's life." Tears began raking her face again. "I wish I'd told him that I grew to love him."

The End
