realized that must be where everyone was now. But she was lost in the huge house—and those damn bells wouldn’t stop! She couldn’t tell if it was the phone or the door, but the chimes crescendoed as she entered the foyer. A dark form was silhouetted against the etched glass of the front doors, and she assumed it was Andrew, back from his walk.
She opened the door, exasperated. “You don’t have to ring,” she said. “You’re part of the family.”
But it wasn’t Andrew standing there.
“Oh, sorry.” The man’s tigerish hazel eyes and predatory stare brought a flutter of recognition to Alison’s stomach. He hadn’t changed at all. His fine features had always made him look sinister rather than sensitive. No pretty boy, this one. “Tony Bogart?”
He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her hair. “I’ve never thought of you as anything but a blonde,” he said.
Alison felt like a lab specimen the way he was scrutinizing her. She’d slipped on a cotton sundress this morning that was quick, easy and cool, but it showed some skin, and already he was making her regret her choice.
“This is my natural color,” she said, deciding not to explain any further. He must have heard about her accident, but she doubted that was why he was here. She fervently hoped it had nothing to do with the secret past that she and Tony Bogart had shared over a decade ago. Against her parents’ wishes, they’d hung out together during her family’s stays in Mirage Bay. They’d been teenagers at the time, but their rich girl/poor boy relationship had probably been doomed from the start. It had ended for good when Tony discovered there was another man in her life. He’d actually been trying to propose to her in a local restaurant when Andrew walked in on them. Alison could only imagine how humiliating that had been for Tony. Shortly after that, Tony had packed up and left town, and that was the last contact they’d had.
“Have you moved back home?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I live in Virginia now,” he said, “near Quantico. I’m back in Mirage Bay on personal business.”
“Quantico? That’s—”
He nodded. “FBI headquarters. I’m a special agent.”
Of all the careers she’d imagined for Tony Bogart, FBI agent wasn’t one of them. Right now he was standing on the porch in ripped blue jeans and a black crewneck T-shirt, looking more like the rebel he’d been when they were younger than a lawman. He was holding something in his hand that looked like an eight-by-ten photograph, but she could only see the back.
“Are you visiting your father?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Obviously, you’re not gifted with second sight. I’m here because of Butch’s murder. You must have heard about that?”
Alison prayed her skin wouldn’t catch fire again. She knew about Butch’s case in detail. She’d gone through Andrew’s office when he was away on a business trip, trying to find out more about her mysterious husband and the life he led apart from her, and she’d found issues of the Mirage Bay newspaper that had dated back to her accident.
The discovery hadn’t surprised her, after she’d thought about it. Andrew had a personal interest in the yachting accident and its investigation. Butch Bogart’s murder had occurred the same day, so it was heavily covered, too. But Alison had found the newspapers stashed in a garbage bag inside a hassock that was also a storage unit, as if Andrew had intended to hide them. That had given her pause. Everyone knew it wasn’t the crime that got you into big trouble. It was the cover-up. But what did he have to hide?
She’d read the papers carefully before returning them to their hiding place, and then she’d added the question to her growing list of questions about Andrew, and filed it away. She’d never said a word.
“I did hear,” she said, “and I’m very sorry about your brother.” The right tone of sympathy evaded her. “Did you come to see Bret? Or Julia?”
“I’m here to see you, Alison.”
“Me? Why?”
“You don’t know? The local paper’s abuzz with the news that you and your hubby are here in Mirage Bay for a visit. I thought someone should come by and welcome you back.”
Alison couldn’t imagine how the local paper would know about their visit unless Julia had told them. Apparently the woman thrived on fanfare, and one way or another, she was going to make a social spectacle out of this visit. Alison hoped it didn’t backfire in all of their faces.
She glanced at the photograph in Tony’s hand, but couldn’t see what it was. Surely not a picture of her and Andrew.
He flipped the photograph over, handing it to her. Alison’s stomach rolled as she took it. She pushed his hand away as he reached out, possibly to steady her. “What is this?” she asked, but she knew. It was Butch Bogart’s mutilated body, a crime scene shot.
“There’s a new lead in Butch’s case,” Tony said. “I thought that might interest you.”
She swallowed back nausea and held out the picture until he took it. “Why would Butch’s case interest me?” She really didn’t understand what he was doing. “According to the newspapers, they named a prime suspect. Marnie Hazelton was supposed to have killed your brother, and then vanished. Have you found her?”
“No, Marnie hasn’t been found—and I never said she wasn’t a suspect. But since you brought her up, let’s say our murderer is someone other than Marnie—just for the sake of argument. Where were you on February second while Butch was being disemboweled with a pitchfork?”
“I was falling off a boat in a storm, Tony.”
He smiled, finally, matching her sarcasm. “Right, you went into the drink around six in the evening, according to your husband. The county coroner findings say Butch was killed that afternoon.”
Alison took a step back—and spotted Andrew hovering in a doorway that Tony couldn’t see from where he stood. What was Andrew doing? Her heart began to pound. She felt spied upon, cornered—by both of them.
“Alison?” Tony pressed a hand to the door and stopped her from shutting it. She hadn’t even realized she was about to.
“You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with what happened to Butch,” she said. “Why would I want to kill your brother?”
When he said nothing, she rattled on, unable to stop herself. “The only viable suspect is Marnie Hazelton. Everyone knows that. The night Butch died, she was spotted on the cliffs by LaDonna Jeffries.” Alison touched the penny ring on her bracelet. “Marnie jumped, didn’t she?”
The Mirage Bay newspaper had done an extensive profile on Marnie, attempting to unmask the strange child-woman. Rumors were rampant that she’d committed suicide. She’d often been seen swaying on the edge of Satan’s Teeth, the jagged rocks at the end of the jetty, as if she were listening to someone no one else could hear.
The article had said every village had its tormented outcast, and Marnie was Mirage Bay’s. Even at twenty-two, she was a wary, half-wild little thing that no one could get close to except her friend, LaDonna, and her Gramma Jo, who wasn’t her real grandmother at all.
Josephine
