of Chandler’s The Big Sleep with her that night the family couldn’t say.
Jennifer and Alex had been the last to see her alive, so suspicion had fallen on them. First the police accused Jennifer—her motives: desire for Carla’s inheritance and jealousy over Carla’s secret affair with Alex, which he vigorously denied. When they couldn’t substantiate Jennifer’s guilt, they turned to Alex, noting his obsession with collectable antique books. The police were unable to find enough evidence against him to charge him with the crime. Nevertheless, the accusations, publicity and family recriminations led to her split with Alex.
When he left, he’d said, “Find the book and you’ll find the murderer.” That idea had spurred her investment in her aunt’s bookstore, since it might help her find the rare book that might solve her sister’s murder. Jennifer attended Antiquity Book Fairs, talked with book dealers and collectors and learned the business. She had traced Carla’s edition to a donation to the Friends of the Library by the estate of Helen Jacobi. Mr. Arnett, the estate’s executor, had explained that the sole heir was a distant cousin living in Israel. Arnett had little information concerning the rest of the Jacobi family. No record of the books donated was available. A dead end.
To Jennifer the only plausible reason for Carla’s murder was that someone had coveted the Chandler book. There were jackals who took risks to secure and own rare books or to sell them for a heady price. Despite the intrigue surrounding book collectors and their foibles, killing for a book with a value of eighteen to twenty thousand dollars seemed out of character for even the most ardent book thief. Besides, she always ran into the same barrier. Who would have known that Carla would be on the island with the book? The police had checked on Carla’s old boyfriends; all had airtight alibis.
As she huddled under the wool throw, she tried to take her mind off the past by turning her thoughts to her upcoming assignment to catalog and appraise Clifford Wedgeworth’s new book acquisitions while he and his bride were on their honeymoon. His book collection was legendary and this was a huge opportunity for Jennifer.
She’d been informed that his personal secretary, Warren Peabody, would let her into the house. All the arrangements seemed peculiar. The initial contact had been a letter, and at his request, subsequent correspondence had been sent to a post office box. Her report was to be put on a CD and mailed to the same box. Even more peculiar was that the payment for her services would be made in cash and delivered to her home address. It was as if Wedgeworth didn’t want their dealings traced. Why? Despite the irregularities, the money was too good to pass up, and she’d accepted the conditions. Had she been foolish to do so? She’d sloughed off her misgivings, convincing herself that the rich felt they had a right to be eccentric.
Jennifer turned off the flashlight and sat in murky darkness. On nights like this, she often took out her tape recorder and verbalized her ideas, but not tonight. The heat from the stove dispelled the dampness, but not her thoughts. She went to the door and checked on Lydia, but left her outside knowing she’d prefer the cooler air. She’d still be able to hear Lydia’s warning bark if Rick or anyone else approached. After locking the door, she retreated to the loft to try to gain the reprieve of sleep.
Chapter 3
Morning crept to life. Determined to take the day in hand despite the brooding fog, she strode to the beach after breakfast intent on burning the dried branches she’d placed in the pit she’d dug earlier. With a shovel, a pail of crumpled scraps of paper, and a small can of lighter fluid, she walked down to the beach. Lydia trotted ahead sniffing the brush. A muffled bell tolled from the sloop, reminding Jennifer that she was not alone.
She stuffed the paper trash in amongst the branches, sprayed them with lighter fluid and set it afire, then paced the pit’s perimeter to see that no wayward sparks drifted into the forest. Although the foliage lining the shore was damp, she never took chances with fire, something she’d learned from her grandfather’s experience. Years ago a boat of party goers had come ashore on the island’s northern tip and their camp fire ignited the nearby shrubbery. Only a heavy downpour prevented the flames from spreading across the two mile wide island.
Lydia barked and trotted to the water’s edge. Startled, Jennifer looked up.
“Ahoy. May I come ashore?” Rick’s voice rolled through the drab grayness.
Although still uneasy about his presence, she called for him to land and quieted Lydia. Like an image stepping through a curtain, he strode forward dressed in jeans and a raglan navy-blue sweater.
When he was near, he said, “I smelled smoke, then caught sight of flames. Are you all right?”
“Just doing a bramble burn before I leave.” She moved back toward the pit, but kept a wary eye on Rick and maintained a grip on the shovel. “I let it burn completely, then toss water on the ashes and cover the pit.”
“Very thorough.” He sat in the sand at the edge of the pit with his arms on his knees, gazing at the burn.
Jennifer knelt a few yards from him, passing grains of sand from one hand to the next, enjoying the soothing soft trickle. For a time they were silent, observing the fire.
Over the crackling flames, he said, “I began to think about your sign, ‘Beastly Manor,’ and recalled a story in the newspapers dubbed, The Beastly Island Murder. Did that happen here?”
She nodded and a lump rose in her throat.
“Sorry to bring up bad memories. Was it anyone you knew?”
She gripped the end of the shovel tighter. “My younger sister.”
“That had to be rough. Did they catch him?”
She could feel him watching her as she shook her head, cleared her throat and said, “No. The case is still open.” Unable to look his way, she stared straight ahead. A soft breeze shifted the heavy mist into wandering wisps. The sun broke through and sparkled in a hit and miss pattern upon the water. Slowly the shrub dwindled to embers, then orange glows. Ash fluttered like butterflies above the pit. “Fire’s done its work.” She stood, picked up her bucket and walked to the water’s edge. As she stooped to fill it, Rick moved to her side, taking the heavy pail from her. He strode back to the pit and sloshed the water over the sputtering fire. Before she had a chance to pick up the shovel, he grabbed it, too.
Lydia growled; Jennifer quieted her. Rick pulled out a pair of work gloves from his back pocket and began shoveling sand into the hole.
“You don’t have to do that.” Her annoyance at his usurping her duties made her voice strident. Over the last few years, the trait Alex had called pig-headed independence, had become more prominent.
Ignoring her, Rick continued shoveling until the pit disappeared. When he was finished, he handed the shovel back to her. “Wanted to make amends for bringing up bad memories.” He took off his gloves and jammed them back in his pocket.
She studied him for a moment. “How good are you with repairing roofs?”
“I’ve never tried. It can’t be too difficult.”
“It can be dangerous.”
“Ah, danger. Sounds like an adventure.”
“Adventures I like. Foolish risks, no.” She paused, not wanting to expose her vulnerability. Picking up the bucket, she started toward the cabin with Lydia at her heels. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m going to take advantage of your guilt.”
After
