Hidden Cove Read online

  “No shit,” she heard Mary say. “What the hell?”

  Zelia placed the painting on the desk, picked up the cream-colored note that fluttered out and turned it over. ALEXUS FEINSTEIN was embossed in HTF Didot font at the top of the card. A word was scrawled across it in Lexi’s familiar handwriting.

  “What’s it say?”

  “The name of the painting,” Zelia answered as she took a couple of steps back, feeling the need to create some distance between herself and the artwork.

  Mary strode forward. “Why on earth would she send you this? She knows you don’t like the artist.” She plucked the Dattg painting and the packing materials off the desk. “Well, not to worry. I’ll rewrap this and ship it back to her.”

  “Good luck with that,” Zelia said.

  Sixteen

  MARY PAUSED. “OH.” She huffed out a breath. “You’re right. I forgot for a second that she was . . . Now I feel like a dickhead for the uncharitable thoughts that were clanging through my head.” She looked at the painting in her hands. “Well. What do you want me to do with it? The dumpster is right out that door. No trouble at all to toss it.”

  Zelia shook her head. The painting was powerful. Gazing at it made her feel ill. Isn’t that what art is supposed to do, make you feel something? “I think I’m supposed to keep it.” Just saying the words made her stomach clench.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I just think I should. Alexus must have sent it for a reason. Maybe there is something I’m not seeing. Maybe she typed out an e-mail explaining and forgot to hit send—Ack! No. I don’t want it on my desk. Let’s put it—” Zelia gingerly took the painting from Mary. If only Alexus hadn’t sent it. If only she hadn’t died. Zelia sighed. “I’ll hang it in the gallery.”

  “Really?” Mary looked as if Zelia had just announced she was going to eat the painting for supper.

  “She died, Mary. The last conversation we had, she asked me to display Dattg’s work. It’s the least I can do. Who knows? Maybe someone will buy it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  ZELIA HUNG THE painting around the corner in a nook where she wouldn’t have to see it too often. She printed a label, mounted it, then affixed the label on the wall by the painting.

  She returned to her office, sat down, and pulled up Dattg’s CV on her computer. She found the artist’s contact info, started to type an e-mail, but couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to find the appropriate words. “Later,” she murmured, closing the draft. She felt unsettled. Jangly.

  She opened her desk and rummaged around until she found the blue sage smudge stick and abalone shell that she had purchased at the Solace Island Saturday Market last summer. Zelia didn’t usually go for that type of thing, but the woman who was selling them had two small hungry-eyed children clinging to her flowing skirts. The woman had said burning the sage would clear out bad spirits and negative energy. Zelia had smiled and nodded, pretending that was exactly what she was looking for. A random act of kindness. However, she was grateful for the purchase now.

  Zelia read the hand-printed instructions.

  —Focus your energy.

  And how exactly am I supposed to do that? Well, here goes. She stared at the dried leaves of sage that were wrapped together with colorful cotton string. The smudging stick had an earthy smell.

  —Light the sage. Stay connected to your breath.

  Sort of hard not to. Death would be the alternative, she thought. However, just thinking about her breath made her feel more centered. She lit the sage stick.

  —Smudge in a clockwise direction.

  She carefully smudged her office and the gallery. There was something very peaceful about swirling the sage stick and watching the smoke trailing after. She waved her other hand to disperse the smoke.

  “Don’t even think about laughing,” she told Mary as she entered the main area of the gallery.

  “I would never,” Mary said, her face serious, but Zelia could hear the faint echoes of suppressed laughter in her voice.

  Never mind.

  She spent more time than she wanted near the Dattg painting, smudging the area around it. Wasn’t sure if it helped or not.

  Finally, her arms got tired of circling and wafting. Besides, she didn’t want to set off the gallery’s smoke alarms, so she extinguished the smudge stick and returned to her office.

  Her tea was lukewarm, but she still sipped it. At least she wasn’t shaking anymore. You have dealt with the unexpected, she told herself, and now you move on.

  Seventeen

  ZELIA WASN’T ALL that surprised when she discovered that her walk home at the end of the workday had taken her to Mansfield Manor instead of her intended destination. However, she wasn’t seeking comfort in the field communing with the sculptures. She was standing in the lobby at reception. An adorable older couple was completing their check-in. He had a full head of steel-gray hair, hers a wispy soufflé in a softer gray color. While the receptionist finished the paperwork, the couple held hands. The wife’s face tilted toward her bantam rooster of a husband, love evident in her eyes.

  “Welcome to Mansfield Manor.” The receptionist handed the couple a set of old-fashioned brass keys. “The bellman will make sure your suitcases are brought to your room. Lucy will show you the way to the Elsworth Cottage.”

  “No need.” The old guy cackled. “We’ve been here a million times before. Know this place like the back of our hands.” His hand snuck down and gave his wife’s bum a furtive squeeze. “It’s a wonderful hotel where magical things happen.”

  “Behave, Fergus,” his wife whispered, giving his shoulder a playful slap.

  Zelia quickly switched her focus to the old-fashioned arrangement of peach roses on the low coffee table that sat by the fire between two comfy armchairs.

  “We like to think so,” the receptionist said. “I hope you have a lovely stay. If you need anything at all, just let us know.” The couple moved to the side, depositing the keys in a pocket and purse.

  Zelia stepped up to the desk. “I’m here to see Gabe Conaghan,” she told the receptionist. The old couple swiveled to look at her. The woman’s hand was still half in her purse.

  “Is he expecting you?” the receptionist asked.

  “No. But I’m a friend.” Zelia felt her face flush. She could feel the elderly couple watching her avidly. “I’m not going to his room,” she said, making sure her voice was loud enough to carry to their listening ears. Didn’t want them to think she was some kind of hotel-frequenting hussy. “If you would be so kind as to call and let him know that Zelia Thompson is waiting in the lobby.”

  “Certainly,” the receptionist said, turning to pick up the hotel phone.

  “No need,” the old guy chirped. He stepped forward, beaming happily. “We will drop you off on the way to our room.” He turned to the receptionist. “Gabe’s staying in the Hampstead Cottage, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” the receptionist replied.

  “Perfect.”

  “Really,” Zelia said. “I’m fine. I’m happy to wait. If you would just call his—”

  “Nonsense,” the sweet-faced woman cut in. There was a soft lilt to her voice, the faint traces of an Irish accent. “It’s right on our way.” She smiled. Her dark brown eyes twinkled merrily. Something about her face seemed familiar. “Please,” the woman said, looping her arm through Zelia’s. “Indulge an old couple with the pleasure of a couple minutes of your company.” And somehow Zelia found herself walking out into the last vestiges of sunshine and heading down a gravel flower-lined path arm in arm with the woman while her grinning husband led the way.

  * * *

  * * *

  “HOLD ON A second,” Gabe said. “Someone’s at the door. Turndown service must be making the rounds early today. I’ll send them on their way.” He pushed away from
his desk, where he’d been making notes, crossed the room, and opened the door.

  Shit.

  Gabe blinked.

  Nope. It wasn’t an illusion. His father was standing on his porch, grinning at him like Beelzebub on spring break.

  “Dad? What . . . are you doing here?”

  “Surprise!” Fergus said, pulling Gabe in for an enormous, back-thumping bear hug. “And look who else is here. Your mom—”

  “Hi, honey.” His mom wiggled the fingers of her free hand at him. Her other hand was looped through the arm of—

  “Zelia?” Gabe shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. What was Zelia doing on the walkway leading to his room? Why was she arm in arm with his mother, who was supposed to be in New York? Were they friends? Did they know each other? And why did it feel so damn good seeing them together?

  “Gabe? Everything okay?” He heard Rick’s voice pipe from the cell phone in his hand.

  “Jesus,” Gabe said as he brought the phone to his ear. “Mom and Dad are here. What the fu—”

  “Sounds like you’re busy. I’ll let you go,” his brother said.

  Gabe heard laughter on the other end of the line right before the phone went dead. He slid the phone in his pocket, then turned to his dad, still feeling rather stunned. “Wow. So you’re feeling better. That’s great. Uh . . . What are you doing here?”

  “We were hoping to have dinner with you. Is that fabulous French chef Marcel still running the kitchen?”

  “Only in the evenings—”

  “Wonderful! The man’s a genius.” His dad turned and beamed at his wife and a rather red-faced Zelia, who appeared to be trying to find a polite way to regain her arm’s independence. “Of course you’re invited to join us, my dear. I’m sorry, what was your name?”

  “Zelia,” she said, with a trapped-in-the-headlights expression on her face. “Zelia Thompson. Thank you, but—”

  “Terrific! I’m ravenous.” Fergus jogged down the steps and took his wife’s arm. “We’ll meet you two lovebirds in the dining room in half an hour. That will give your mom and me a little time to freshen up from the trip.”

  “But . . . but I—” Zelia stammered as his parents fled down the walk. It was quite impressive how fast the two of them could move when they set their minds to it.

  “It’s a waste of breath,” Gabe said from the doorway. “Trust me. I speak from years of experience. When my father puts his mind to something, there is no dissuading him. Want to come in, have a drink? We can raid the minibar.”

  She took a step toward him, then stopped and glanced in the direction of his rapidly disappearing parents. “How about a walk around the gardens?” she said.

  He felt an internal smile bloom. Who knew Zelia Thompson was so old-fashioned? What she didn’t know was she could have swung naked from tree to tree and his parents probably would have applauded her free-spirited originality.

  “The gardens it is.” He stepped off the porch and joined her on the path.

  They walked for a few moments in silence. “It wasn’t my intention to barge in on your dinner with your folks.”

  “I know.”

  “You seemed kind of shocked.”

  “Not about you joining us. The fact is, dinner with my parents tonight was a surprise to me as well. I wasn’t aware they were planning a visit.”

  “I’d totally understand if you’d prefer I don’t come. You could make my excuses. To tell you the truth, I really should be home packing right now.”

  “Packing?”

  Zelia turned to face him. “Yeah. That’s why I came to see you. I wanted to let you know. Tristan was out when I phoned, but the temp who was covering found both Winnie Efford and Richard Rye listed in Alexus’s contacts. I’ve booked an early-morning flight to JFK. Mary can handle the gallery with her eyes shut.”

  “You’re going to Greenwich?” Is she nuts?

  “Yes. I figured I’ve been to Alexus’s gallery before. Maybe I’ll notice something odd or out of place that the police overlooked.”

  “Let me get this straight. We think it’s possible your friend Alexus might have been murdered.”

  She nodded. Her top teeth snagged her plump lower lip. Which was distracting as hell and not helping matters. He needed to focus, to concentrate on what she was saying. “And we are in agreement that perhaps Alexus isn’t the first gallery owner that has been killed. And so you decided it would be a good idea to jaunt down to Greenwich, Connecticut, by yourself to take a look around?”

  Her spine stiffened. “That about sums it up,” she said, her voice taking on a breezy air.

  “Are you insane?”

  “No need to put on that pompous professorial tone,” she said, wafting his objections away. “I’m not a starry-eyed acolyte hanging on to your every word. I am a grown woman. Responsible. Who happens to own and run a very successful business—”

  “What if the killer is still there? Hmm? Looking for another victim?”

  “All the more reason for me to zip down there pronto,” she said pertly. “Someone needs to stop this monster. Am I scared? Sure. I’d be an idiot not to be. However, I refuse to let fear deter me.”

  “Great.” He groaned, shutting his eyes for a moment to think. His head was reeling. He felt her hand alight on his shoulder.

  “Don’t take it so hard.” She spoke more softly now, as if he were the one needing soothing. “I’ll be careful.” She was patting his back as if he were a cranky toddler she was tucking in for a nap. Jesus. He sighed. Opened his eyes.

  She was looking at him, her gaze troubled. “I was hoping you’d tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

  The breeze off the water had caused tendrils to escape from the forest-green velvet clasp that held her hair up and away from her face.

  He longed to reach out, undo the clasp, and release the rest of her golden-brown hair with its warm, shimmering highlights. Wanted to luxuriate in the feel of those long silky strands pouring through his hands like fool’s gold. Wanted to pull her lush body flush with his, wrap his arms tightly around her, and try to find a way to banish the fear from her face.

  But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

  He was aware that his impulses where she was concerned were suspect. She thought of him as a friend. Not even that. He was a crime writer who might be able to help her solve the unanswered questions about her friend’s death. She was not looking for a relationship. She was a woman who had lost the great love of her life.

  He, on the other hand, was a horny bastard who had fallen in lust with a woman on her wedding day. A woman he didn’t know, who was clearly deeply in love with the man she was marrying. What kind of sick fuck did that? To make matters worse, he now realized he’d been carrying some kind of a torch for her ever since.

  No. He didn’t offer her comfort. He stood there like a stiff cardboard cutout. He opened his mouth, hoping something inspired would come out.

  “Give me your info. I’ll book the same flight.”

  Great. It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. Way to wow her, Mr. Writer. You’re supposed to be a goddamned wordsmith—

  “You’re going to come with me?”

  He couldn’t quite read her expression. There was caution there, but there was something else, too. Did she think it was ballsy of him to invite himself? Doesn’t matter. Better she think you pushy than that you politely step back while she dashes off to Greenwich, possibly risking life and limb.

  He nodded. Stiff. Like the primitive robot-man he’d become.

  “Oh, Gabe.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. The furrow that had taken residence between her eyes smoothed, and a slow smile dawned on her face. “Thank you so much,” she said, like he had just given her a fistful of priceless jewels. “I can’t even—” When her voice broke off, her shining eyes looked suspiciously bright. She flung
herself in his arms. “I was so scared to go, but I was going to anyway. Oh my God.” She was hugging him fiercely. Her soft pillowy breasts smashed against his chest, and the scent of her skin, tea, honeysuckle, and warm woman surrounded him. “It’s going to be so much better with you along. Thank you! Thank you so much!” She looked up at him and he was lost. His better self would have stepped away, not taken advantage, but instead he lowered his head. Slowly. Giving her time to turn away or say no. His lips were a heartbeat from hers when he felt the slight pressure of her hand pushing against his chest. He froze, disappointment shooting through him, jagged and sharp edged.

  “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

  The world around him snapped back into focus. He could hear footsteps approaching on the gravel path, along with the murmur of voices. “Sorry,” he said, dropping his arms back to his sides. Both of them stepped apart, leaving his body bereft, longing to pull her close again.

  “Me, too,” she murmured, glancing at him sideways, her cheeks flushed.

  His parents appeared around the bend, Gabe’s mother’s hand tucked comfortably in the crook of her husband’s arm. She was laughing softly and his dad was looking pleased with himself.

  Gabe jammed his hands in his front pockets in an attempt to minimize the obvious bulge straining against the buttons of his fly. Felt like a goddamned teenager.

  “Hey, son. Zelia,” his dad called. His free arm swept outward as if the view and all it encompassed were his doing. “Pretty damned spectacular, huh?”

  “You got that right,” Zelia said with a smile. “Wouldn’t live anywhere else.”