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  Finally the tears slowed, then stopped. Nell again washed her face, slowly and gently, letting the water run warm.

  When she again glanced at herself, the warm washing seemed to have helped. It didn’t take away the sleepless smudges, but made them less harsh.

  “Okay, you’ve had your cry, time to get on with life,” she told the reflection. And to get out of the house, she decided, away from ringing phones and empty beds.

  She took a brief shower, savoring the heat, a luxury she usually didn’t allow herself lest one child or the other complain about lukewarm leftovers. Then she hurriedly dressed: jeans, an old sweatshirt of Thom’s that she’d always worn more than he had. Thom had referred to it as “your sweatshirt that used to be mine.”

  The shimmer of sunrise was now on the far horizon as Nell stepped out the door, replacing the diffuse gray. She paused for a moment, deciding where to go. And, she realized, checking out her surroundings, the fear and alertness not letting go.

  “Even maniac killers have to sleep sometime,” she muttered, again using the sound of her voice to chase the fear. She rejected a walk to the beach in favor of riding her bike to the state park.

  Josh had been trying to get her to go on some of the bike trips that Kate organized. He had gone on some of the shorter ones himself, and Nell had been caught in the parental guilt trap of not wanting him to go by himself on the longer overnight trips but not having the time—or the bicycling stamina—to go with him.

  Early morning with no one, especially her energetic son, to see her would make for a good time to check out what shape her legs were in.

  Not too bad, she thought as she cycled up to the entrance of the park. She had taken the back route around the harbor, with the state park another mile past it. Admittedly, she’d puffed a bit going up the hills, but it might only take a little work to get in respectable shape for a bike trip with Josh.

  Nell rode into the park, past the oaks draped in Spanish moss and the deserted picnic area, to the trail that led to the marsh. She pulled her bike off the road, onto the path. Of course, there was no place to lock a bike save to the trees. Not willing to drag a chain around some young sapling, Nell left her bike leaning against the sturdiest tree in range. Pelican Bay wasn’t the kind of town that had bike thieves skulking about early in the morning.

  Just murderers. Even if the sheriff didn’t want to believe that Rayburn Gautier had been deliberately killed, didn’t want to face the possibility that this kind of violence had invaded his town, Nell had few doubts. She’d heard the voice on the phone.

  The trail led to a wooden observation deck hidden in the trees just at the edge of the marsh. Plank steps spiraled up the outside of the platform. It was about ten feet high, making Nell feel, as she climbed, like she was in the trees and not just some earthbound observer. Looking in one direction, she had a view of the marsh as it led to the waters of the bay. Straight in front of her was a perfect view of the sun rising over the trees on the far side of the morass. To her left, she had a view of the road as it continued on past the trail.

  She tried to concentrate on the light, finding the far corners of the marsh as the sun rose in the sky, tried to enjoy the cool in the air. It would be temperate, even warm when the sun was fully up. A few of the trees were showing spring colors, the muted greens that stayed all winter overlaid with the light green of new leaves.

  She couldn’t help glancing at the road every so often and occasionally turning around to check the trail behind her. But no one seemed about on this early and still-chilly Sunday morning.

  For about ten minutes, she had the world to herself, then the quiet morning brought the sound of footsteps on the road.

  Nell found herself listening carefully. I can’t let it go, can I, she thought as her relief at what seemed like the purposeful stride of an early morning walker was broken by the thought that the killer might feel no need for stealth if he knew only Nell would hear him.

  But the footsteps didn’t turn onto the trail, and a minute later, Nell caught sight of Marion taking a morning walk.

  “Good Lord, I’ve been spooked by Marion the librarian,” Nell muttered softly.

  Another figure emerged from the opposite direction, but this time Nell easily recognized the person as Kate Ryan, with her distinctive purple helmet and metallic gray bike.

  As she watched them approach, Nell wondered if Kate and Marion knew each other. She’d never seen them together, never seen Marion on a bike or Kate in the library, but this was a small town. She found herself slipping into the role of observer, observing the two women. She also realized that their presence made the morning safer for her.

  Kate slowed her bike, then stopped, just as she reached Marion.

  Nell couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could read the body language—Marion resting her hand in a friendly way on Kate’s handlebars, Kate swinging off the bike, then taking her helmet off.

  Clearly they were friends. Nell felt a brief stab of envy. No, not really envy, more a longing for a friend that she could meet up with in the morning after a lonely night.

  She watched as Marion threw back her head in laughter, then pulled Kate into an embrace that turned into the kiss of a lover.

  There was too much ease and intimacy—and passion—for it to be the first time they had kissed.

  Nell backed away from the edge of the platform. She didn’t think they could see her, but she wanted to be sure they didn’t. She could still glimpse the women through the tree branches; turning her back now wouldn’t change what she knew. Nell was curious to learn what they did next, and practical enough to want to make sure that “next” wasn’t heading for the privacy of the observation deck.

  She wondered at her surprise, trying to gauge whether it was shock that these two women she wanted to be friends with were involved, or if it was the fact that she’d again completely missed one of Pelican Bay’s secrets.

  Kate and Marion broke their kiss, but they remained in each other’s arms for a few moments longer.

  This time Nell felt a deeper stab of longing, seeing the easy intimacy of their touching, their quietly talking to each other. She suddenly was lonely and cold, hidden on the platform, staring again into the empty place in her life where there used to be love and a person to hold.

  Kate and Marion slipped out of their embrace. Kate joined Marion on her walk, one arm still around her, the other guiding her bike. They stopped briefly for Kate to secure her helmet to the bike’s rack, then continued on, arm in arm.

  Nell watched them until they disappeared around the far turn in the road. She knew Kate and Marion wouldn’t have been so free and open with each other if they suspected they were being observed, but Nell felt no guilt about it. She would tell no one of their secret, as clearly they intended to be discreet. Given the number of times that Nell went to both the library and the bike shop, she would have seen them together at least a few times unless they were deliberately staying apart.

  The reasons were obvious. Beyond the prying eyes and gossip of a small town, Nell had seen Mrs. Nash, Marion’s mother, at enough social gatherings to know she was a very conservative, even rigid, woman. That alone would keep Marion silent; throw in Mrs. Nash’s heart condition and “nerves” and it seemed impossible that Marion could ever tell her mother who she was and who she loved. Her mother had been vocal in her disapproval of the changing laws.

  How sad, Nell thought, to find love—and even in their brief pantomime, she had little doubt that there was real intimacy and affection between Kate and Marion—and have to hide it so deeply away. The liberal ways of New York, or even New Orleans, had barely touched this small Mississippi town.

  As she climbed down from the deck, she probed at her reactions. Part of her felt stupid and unobservant. I’ve been living in this small town so long, I’m starting to see the world through small town eyes, she thought. Two in
telligent women, in their thirties, unmarried, and it had never occurred to her that they might be lesbian. Like no one gay is any closer than New Orleans. She was relieved to note that she didn’t feel any qualms about leaving her son with Kate. Or even Lizzie, for that matter.

  No, her surprise was either that Kate and Marion hide their secret so well, played their roles so perfectly, that even she, the woman who liked to know secrets, hadn’t come close to guessing it. Or, more likely, that the clues were there, and she should have had enough of an inkling to not have been so caught out by it.

  Nell got back on her bike and pedaled out of the park.

  From hidden love affairs to murders, Pelican Bay was changing—from what seemed to be a straightforward small town to a labyrinth of lies and secrets, love as well as hate hidden under layers of deception.

  seven

  Home was still quiet, bereft of children. Neither of them would be back until the afternoon, so after a quick shower and a change into still-comfortable but more professional clothes, Nell headed to the office.

  There was always stuff to do at the paper. She usually had about five or so letters on her desk from people listing the reasons that they should take over as the film reviewer. One of the current ones offered to cover the art films in New Orleans and Atlanta. All he needed was his expenses—hotel, food, transportation, and ticket prices—covered.

  One of the benefits to Stanley, the present film reviewer, was that he did it on his own time and with his own money. He was also, as he said, “just a guy that likes movies,” and his reviews paid attention to the things that Pelican Bay readers were interested in: was it a good time and could you bring the kids?

  Four of the five would get the polite rejection letter, including Mr. All Expenses Paid. One had possibilities; it was from a retired film professor. She and her husband had just moved to the area, and she was offering to do a few pieces on films for “the fame of seeing my name in print.” She enclosed several clippings, and they indicated that she might be a good counterpart to Stanley. She had a subtly feminist viewpoint, something Nell was always trying to sneak in, and a breezy, unpretentious writing style, something Nell was beginning to think was rarer than … pelican’s teeth. The professor wouldn’t get the form letter, which meant that Nell had to write an un-form letter.

  Then she had to edit Ina Claire’s cooking column.

  Ina managed the classified section, with a style that was a cross between a fifth grade teacher and a pit bull. Sometimes Nell suspected that people took out ads because Ina tapped into that primal fear that they would flunk geography if they didn’t. Ina wasn’t above suggesting classifieds. “Now, Miz Adams, I hear you’re moving to Hawaii, and a garage sale in the classifieds always does a brisk business.” Ina also never met a Past Due that she wouldn’t call again, often to sell another ad as well as to collect payment. “Now if you use that language with me, young man, I will have to pray for your immortal soul this Sunday” was as flustered as she ever got.

  The trade-off for having a little old lady Machiavelli keeping the classified profits up was the cooking column.

  Ina Claire could cook, but she couldn’t write. Fortunately, she either never noticed how extensively Nell rewrote her or was savvy enough to know that her “Soup is a liquid food that can be cooked even when it’s hot or cold out” was improved when Nell changed it to “Soup is a versatile dish, as appropriate in the summer as in the winter.”

  The real problem with Ina’s columns was that she belonged to the “a dash,” “a smidgen,” “just enough” school of cooking. So Nell’s Herculean task was to transform those into useful measurements. Nell had become fairly fluent in Ina-speak, but she still had to gather the sets of measuring spoons and cups she kept in a desk drawer and make a trek to Ina’s desk before she actually ran the column. “Now is this”—showing the ½ teaspoon—“or this”—the ⅓—“what you mean by a dollop?” was part of the editing process.

  Nell had finished rewriting the text and was in the midst of roughing in the measurements when she heard footsteps in the outer office.

  Both she and Thom, and Thom’s father before him, had always left the office open when someone was there. “Sometimes it’s a bother, but sometimes a story walks in,” Thom had quoted his father.

  Nell was suddenly aware that she was alone in the building and that there was little traffic in this secular part of town on a weekend morning.

  “Jacko?” she called out loudly, trying to keep the mounting fear from her voice. She stood up as if ready to run.

  Suddenly Police Chief Shaun stood in her doorway.

  Without even thinking, Nell grabbed a letter opener, as if it could be a weapon against this tall man and his gun.

  “Nell? Did I scare you?” the chief asked.

  Nell glanced from him to the useless letter opener. She quickly dropped it, feeling silly at her overreaction. “I’m sorry,” she fumbled. “I guess I wasn’t expecting anyone …”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I saw your car in the parking lot and that the door was open.”

  “I know. It’s usually not a problem. It’s just … that phone call in the middle of the night … and finding Rayburn’s body … has me on edge.”

  “I can understand. That’s actually what I came to talk to you about. May I come in?”

  He was, Nell realized, still standing in the doorway, and she was barricaded behind the desk, ready to run one way or the other.

  “Yes, please, have a seat,” she said, letting herself relax into hers. She made a point of putting the letter opener into a drawer. She couldn’t be much safer than with the chief of police and his big gun between her and the door.

  “What can I do for you?” she continued as he sat down. Ask the first question, control the interview. Nell was amused at how quickly her reporter’s instincts replaced the fear.

  “I’m just curious about why you called the sheriff’s office instead of the police station about that phone call. I thought that you and I had a better relationship than you and Sheriff Hickson.”

  “I called the police station first,” Nell replied.

  “You did?” He seemed both surprised at her answer and relieved that his rival hadn’t been her first choice. “There was no record of that call in the evening’s log.”

  “I’m not surprised. The officer that I spoke to didn’t take it very seriously.”

  “He still should have logged it.”

  “And leave proof that I did call and that he took down no information and didn’t ask a single question?”

  A hard and distant look came into Chief Shaun’s eyes, as if reconciling himself to the idea that his men would not only disobey him and flaunt the rules, but be nefarious enough to deliberately cover their tracks. “Who took the call?”

  “Boyce Jenkins.” From the look in Chief Shaun’s eyes, Nell knew that Jenkins was going to pay for pawning her off to the sheriff.

  “How did he handle it? Can you give me details?”

  “Offhandedly, like it couldn’t be important.” Nell stopped at that, wondering if it would do any good to bring up the sexual angle. She didn’t know the chief well enough to know whether he would give it a “boys will be boys” shrug or not.

  “So, he sort of blew it off and hung up on you?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Yes, it does. That phone call was important, and we let it slip away. I don’t ever want that to happen again. You’re a strong, intelligent woman and you know your way around and it mattered enough to you that you went ahead and called the sheriff’s office.” He fixed her with an intent, earnest look and Nell began to understand why so many women found him attractive.

  Flattery is a useful interview technique, she reminded herself, but she didn’t like him less because he’d called her strong and intelligent. “He seemed more interested in flirting than
getting any information about the call.”

  “Flirting? How?”

  “Tone. A lazy drawl. Nothing really damning I can quote him on. He did make a comment about lots of lonely women calling him in the middle of the night. When I mentioned that the caller had said ‘in the woods,’ he cut in and suggested we take a ‘moonlit walk in the woods.’”

  “And then what did he say?”

  “That’s when I gave up and said I’d call back in the morning.”

  “So, to sum up, Jenkins didn’t think there was any substance to your complaint, used it as an excuse to play macho hunk, and so alienated you that you felt you had to end the call?”

  “That sums it up from my end, Chief Shaun.” More than his earlier compliments, Nell appreciated that he seemed to be taking the matter with the seriousness that she felt it deserved.

  “Hey, that chief stuff is just when I want to impress people. Why don’t you call me Doug?”

  “Okay, Doug. Thanks for looking into this.”

  “I wish you’d come to me about it. I take it seriously when my men don’t do their jobs.”

  “I was afraid that you’d dismiss it as ‘boys will be boys’ and any complaints as some feminist reaction.”

  “Naw, that’s Sheriff Hickson. In my town, the boys better be police officers first. They forget that, then maybe they need to be working at the casinos in Biloxi.”

  “Is the sheriff cooperating with you on the case?” Nell had her problem solved; now it was time to get in a few moments of reporting.

  “I suppose he is. By the time his deputies finished tromping around in the woods, anything resembling forensic evidence was gone. He doesn’t like the idea that young boys can be murdered in his part of the world, so he’s still touting his theory that maybe Rayburn tripped and fell into the well and that phone call to you was just a bizarre coincidence—that’s his theory, not mine,” he said in response to the clear look of disbelief on Nell’s face. “Or that some sicko chanced on the body and made the phone call to get his jollies off.”