Passing Through Paradise Page 17

  He gave it a gentle shake, and a sheaf of papers and envelopes slipped out of the lining of the case, spilling across the floor. Cursing softly, he stooped to pick them up. Then it struck him—the case had a crudely homemade false compartment. Someone had slit the lining and then refastened it with a few staples.

  “You need some help picking that stuff up?” asked Phil.

  “Nope, I’ve got it.” A chill slid across the back of Mike’s neck. Turning the beam of the flashlight away, he told himself not to pry into this. But the watery winter light through the windows slanted across the papers like a spotlight. Letters, mostly. He didn’t recognize the handwriting—even now, after all these years, he would know Victor’s precise handwriting.

  Phil got to work on the wiring, oblivious, whistling between his teeth.

  Mike glanced down. Some of the letters were addressed to Victor at a post office drawer in Hillsgrove, near the airport, and had been postmarked in Florida, but it was too dim to read the city or date. Other letters were typed and addressed to “The Hon. Victor Winslow” at his State House office.

  Mike had no idea what he was looking at. He just knew he didn’t want to see anymore. He scooped the papers together and stuffed them back into the lining of the case. He noticed a few receipts, too. And a computer disk with a lined label bearing one simple mark: M.

  Mike wondered if this was something Victor had hidden away, or if it was Sandra’s doing.

  He stuck the suitcase back into the torn box. Everybody had secrets, he told himself. Everyone had things they hid—from family, friends, the world.

  But not everyone was a murder suspect.

  He thought about Victor’s parents, filled with anguish and rage. The contents of the suitcase might be of great interest to them.

  He shoved the box out of the way and got back to work.

  Chapter 17

  Journal Entry—February 8—Friday

  Ten Ways to Get Malloy in Bed

  1. Tell him the roof’s leaking over my bedroom.

  2. Oversleep on purpose. [Note to self—get hair done already!]

  Sandra dreamed of being the president’s date at a state dinner. But when she stepped into the East Room of the White House, she looked down to discover her bare feet— toenails disgracefully unpolished—sticking out from the hem of her gown. She fled, finding herself in the place all her nightmares took her—to a speeding car on a wet road . . .

  She awakened still whimpering with horror, pushed aside the mound of afghans and stared at her feet. No polish.

  Then she blinked at her journal, shoved it aside and pulled one of the blankets around her shoulders. The afghans, knitted by her mother, smelled faintly of Aqua Net and Kent Golden Lights.

  “Miss you, Mom,” she said aloud to the empty house. She wondered what her mother was doing right now, what she was thinking. Was her cruise everything she’d dreamed it would be? Was she learning a foreign language, a new sport, a new definition of herself?

  Running a hand through her tangled hair, Sandra yawned and blinked herself awake. Lord, dawn already. Saturday. She reached over and snapped off the little gooseneck reading lamp. The book she’d been reading — Take Control of Your Life in Ten Days—lay half-buried in the mound of blankets. She didn’t remember getting past the first paragraph before setting it aside to scribble her futile fantasies about Malloy in her journal.

  There was something supremely pathetic about falling asleep on the sofa in front of the stove. It meant you didn’t go to bed because there wasn’t anyone waiting for you there. No one to gently take the book out of your hands and turn off the light.

  She went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror over the sink. She didn’t want to see the hollow shadows under her eyes, bruised evidence of nightmares no amount of sleep could banish. She still suffered from them too often, was still visited by images of Victor turning into a stranger, a car careening out of control on a dark night. A terrible ringing in her ears. Water so cold that her brain shut down. An eerie sensation that as she lay on the beach after the accident, she was not alone.

  There was a little bank calendar stuck into the frame of the mirror, and her gaze kept wandering to it. She didn’t want to know the date. But even without the reminder, she would have known this day—it was burned into her heart.

  Today was the anniversary of Victor’s death.

  Turning to the window, she raised the sash to let fresh air rush in at her. She scrubbed her face clean, ran a brush through her hair, wild with static and messier than usual. The hairbrush slowed to thoughtful strokes as an idea came to her. The day was hers to spend as she saw fit. There was one person in Paradise who welcomed her no matter what, who didn’t for a moment believe she’d hurt Victor. Sandra decided to pay her a visit.

  She dressed in wool slacks and a burgundy Shetland sweater and drove into town, passing the landmarks of Main Street at a slow roll. Paradise was the sort of place that lived in the heart—a true hometown of tree-lined streets, a park with a pond, brick bike paths and hand-lettered signs over the storefronts. It was a place people brought their hopes and dreams, and sometimes even their sorrows.

  She pulled up at the Twisted Scissors, the local beauty salon. A huge pair of mechanically improbable scissors hung in the window beside a sign that said “Open—Walkins Welcome.” Sandra’s heart lightened; how bad could things be when she was going to get her hair done?

  “Hey, stranger.” Joyce Carter greeted her with a grin and a wave. “It’s about time you stopped by.” Joyce was tall and boldly attractive, with bottle-red hair, long legs and a tight skirt. Even after the accident, her smile held a genuine warmth for Sandra.

  “Can you handle a drop-in?” Sandra asked.

  “You bet. Have a seat.” Joyce draped a smock over Sandra’s shoulders.

  Robin, the nail tech, came in, all smiles until she spied Sandra. Robin was friends with Gloria Carmichael, the deli owner responsible for most of the conspiracy theories that swirled around Sandra. “Are we busy today?” she asked Joyce, looking straight past Sandra.

  “You don’t have a thing on the schedule until Linda Lipschitz’s manicure at eleven,” Joyce told her. “How about you get caught up on bookkeeping in the back.”

  “Good idea,” Robin said, ducking into the office.

  “Sorry about her.” Joyce eased Sandra back to wash her hair with soothing, practiced strokes.

  “Don’t worry about it.” She stared at the acoustical tiles on the ceiling. “I’ve decided to stop worrying,” she added.

  “Yeah? Glad to hear it.”

  “There’s no point,” Sandra said simply. “I want to get the house sold and get out of town.”

  Joyce worked in silence for a few minutes. “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m not sure about anything.” Sandra shut her eyes. “I don’t belong here anymore. I don’t know where I belong.”

  “Oh, hell, you do too belong here, as much as anybody else. No one appointed the Winslows judge and jury.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Sandra said.

  Joyce shut off the water and scooped Sandra’s hair into a towel, then marched her to a thronelike salon chair. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here. Lordy, girl, this grows like corn in July. You need to come in more often.”

  “I was thinking of doing it myself. I’m a pretty good amateur barber.”

  “Do not try this at home.” Joyce punctuated the words by stabbing the air with a pair of Swiss-made scissors. “So how’s the renovation coming along?”

  “It’s fine. Malloy—the contractor . . . he’s good.”

  Joyce studied Sandra’s face in the mirror. “Look at you blush, hon. He’s single, isn’t he?”

  Sandra nodded, and the telltale burn in her cheeks persisted.

  “My God.” Joyce grinned from ear to ear. “You’re attracted to him.”

  “Maybe. I might be. It’s pointless, though.”

  “Why? You’r
e young, he’s single and you’ve been alone too long.” She combed and snipped with ruthless efficiency. “There’s no law against finding someone else, Sandra. I bet after Victor, you thought you’d never feel that way again, but—”

  “You don’t understand,” Sandra blurted out, “I have never felt this way. Ever.”

  “Whoa.” She stopped working and folded her arms. “Maybe you’d better let this happen, then. This thing with—what’s his name?—Malloy?”

  “Mike Malloy. Why? I’m leaving when the house sells. So what’s the point?”

  Joyce started snipping again. “Hon, if I have to explain that to you, then you’re really in trouble.”

  Mike spent all day Saturday with his kids. He took them bowling and gave them pizza for lunch, then treated them to a mind-numbingly stupid movie. Although Kevin had giggled his way through it, Mary Margaret kept getting up to go to the concession stand or restroom. Mike had been restless, too. He’d always been crazy about Kevin and Mary Margaret, but since the divorce, his love for them had taken on an edge of desperation.

  There was never enough time with them. Bit by bit, they were becoming strangers, taking on habits he had nothing to do with. And he was becoming a walking cliché—the single dad who wore himself out trying to show his kids a good time those few hours a week when they were his. Ordinarily they would have spent the night, but Angela wanted them back in Newport because Mary Margaret’s Confirmation was tomorrow.

  Mike hadn’t been invited. Oh, he could have shown up, and would have if Mary Margaret wanted that. But the fact was, Angela’s side of the family specialized in over-the-top Italian celebrations of Catholic milestones. The Meolas had been known to party for two days in honor of a child’s First Communion. It would have been awkward for Mary Margaret if Mike insisted on being there for her Confirmation, when she formally became a member of the church. Catholics weren’t supposed to divorce, and his presence would remind everyone of that fact. So he bowed out and pretended not to notice his daughter’s relief as he dropped them off at their mother’s.

  After a solitary drive to Paradise, he pulled into the dock parking lot and let Zeke out of the back of the truck. The dog stuck close, jumping up to sniff at the grocery bag Mike hefted in one arm. He’d stopped at Gloria’s deli for half a roasted chicken, and the aroma had been driving the dog nuts for the last four miles.

  The amber lights of the port picked out bobbing silhouettes of the fishing fleet, charters and lobstermen, the squat blocks of icehouses and packing plants. Stopping at a dilapidated bank of mailboxes, he pulled out a handful of envelopes. Bills, mostly.

  “Mr. Malloy?” called an unfamiliar voice.

  He stopped walking and waited for the stranger to catch up with him from the parking lot. The man was medium-sized, heavyset, wearing a denim jacket and jeans. Mike sifted through the various possibilities. Bill collector, social worker, attorney’s assistant—a year ago, they had all been unknown to him. Nowadays, he never knew what to expect. “What can I do for you?”

  The man held out a business card. “Lance Hedges, assistant news producer, WRIQ-TV.”

  A bad feeling infested Mike’s mood as he took the card. “Look, if this is about that problem with the satellite dish, I—”

  “It’s not about that. Not necessarily.” The words slid from Hedges, oiled with suggestion.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You’re the contractor restoring Sandra Winslow’s house,” Hedges said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll be straight with you. The murder of Victor Winslow—”

  “The accident, you mean.”

  “The death of Senator Winslow is an ongoing story for us. Our researchers are gathering facts on the new investigation, and it occurred to us that you might have come across some information on the case. In the course of your work, that is.”

  Mike held his silence, listening to the quiet slap of the water against the hulls of the fishing fleet. He lifted the grocery bag. “I’d better go,” he said with forced ease. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

  “We have a generous budget for this type of thing,” Hedges continued.

  Mike thought about the bills clutched in his hand. “You want to pay me to snoop around her house for you.”

  “It’s a baffling, high-profile case. Any information that throws some light on the facts would serve the public’s need to know. Maybe your coworker—Mr. Downing, was it?—maybe he’s come across something.”

  Shit, had this slimeball approached Phil? “He doesn’t know anymore than I do.”

  “Then if you’d consider—”

  “I don’t need to consider.” Mike wished he’d never stumbled across those papers in the attic. “I’m a contractor. I work on old houses. I don’t know anything, and if I did, I wouldn’t hand it over to you.”

  “Mr. Malloy, you caused considerable damage to the equipment.” Hedges held himself stiffly, and his voice chilled a few degrees. “We’re prepared to absorb the loss, but only if you cooperate.”

  “I don’t know a damned thing, and threats don’t sit well with me,” Mike said, swallowing the choice words he really wanted to utter.

  “Is that your— “

  “Final answer,” Mike broke in. “Game over.”

  Chapter 18

  Something was wrong. Suspicion nagged at Mike throughout the evening. It wasn’t just the under-the-table offer from the news producer, nor was it just the hidden cache of papers he’d found in Sandra’s attic. There was something off-kilter and incomplete, but at this point it was all so nebulous, he couldn’t put his finger on the cause. Should he dig deeper or leave it alone? Tell Sandra? Tell her what? That he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to see? Warn her that the media was poking around? And why the hell should he care?

  He glanced at the TV, a tiny black-and-white set bolted up under a shelf on the boat. The news was ending, with Courtney Procter staring earnestly out at her audience. “Finally,” she said, “an update on a local tragedy. Today is the one-year anniversary of the death of local politician Victor Winslow, a rising star— “

  Swearing under his breath, Mike grabbed his cell phone, dialed Sandra’s number and got an incessant busy signal. Maybe she was on-line, or had the phone off the hook. He pictured her alone in the house at the edge of nowhere, reading or going over the restoration plans, maybe picking her next battle with him. But he knew she wasn’t doing any of those things, because he knew about anniversaries. They turned an ordinary day into a dark monument of memories. The thought of Sandra alone bothered him more than it should have.

  He wasn’t her keeper. He’d never told her about his old friendship with her late husband. If he did so now, it would be awkward as hell. She didn’t need to know about that, he told himself. It didn’t matter. He didn’t owe her a thing except to fix up her house. He was too emotionally bankrupt to do anything else for her.

  Sifting through the papers on his desk, he found the perfect excuse to go to her. The county historical society had verified and catalogued her original house plans, and the place would qualify for a plaque and listing. He didn’t really think about what to do next. He just acted. Got in his truck and drove to Blue Moon Beach. The night was black and empty, bitterly cold. He didn’t pass anyone on the road. He’d just check on her, he told himself. Make sure she was okay. If she questioned him, he’d say he thought she’d want to know about the historical designation.

  Leaving his truck running, he knocked at the front door and waited, but heard only the deep bass beat of the stereo.

  He knocked again and waited, knowing she probably wouldn’t hear him. Grumbling, he killed the engine of his truck and knocked a third time. An Eric Clapton song played loud enough to rattle the old windows. He recognized the tune “Forever Man.” It had been a favorite of Victor’s years ago.

  After knocking a few more times, he used the key she’d given him and stepped inside.

  “Sandra?” he called. “It’s me
. . . Mike Malloy.” He passed through the vestibule, which already looked different from its former decrepit state. The walnut newel post stood straight again; the rails of the balustrade had been glued in place only today. “Sandra?” he said again, but the music was too loud. He knew she wouldn’t hear.

  She stood in the middle of the broad front room, holding a glass of wine and swaying to the rhythm of the music. Though she was facing him, her eyes were closed, her face soft with an expression so sad he couldn’t look away.

  He guessed she was thinking about the accident. Probably missing Victor like crazy.

  Run away. The thought came fast, like a rush of adrenaline. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t interrupt an obviously private moment. He didn’t need this solitary woman’s troubles; he had enough of his own. But there was something about her. He’d noticed it right from the start. She called to him without words, drawing him toward the lonely places inside her. No matter what his brain was telling him, his heart made room for her.

  At a pause in the music, he spoke her name again.

  Her eyes flew open, and wine sloshed over the rim of the glass. Her cheeks turned a shade paler. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Furtively wiping the back of her wrist across her face, she hurried over to the stereo and turned the volume down. The song changed to a mournful, musical whisper.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Mike knew he should simply hand over the papers and hit the road. He also knew he wouldn’t do that. He caught a whiff of the wine and glanced down at the half-empty bottle on the table.

  “Drinking alone?” he asked. “I’ve heard that’s not too good for you.”

  “Fine,” she said. “You can join me.”