Read Online Claire and Present Danger by Gillian Roberts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gillian Roberts
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why, on a calm spring day, he’d pitched over the side of his boat, half naked, not wearing the life vest he always wore, and drowned.
54
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
“It was the heat,” the widow was quoted as saying. “The wine. I warned him, but he loved fine wines, and it was his party.” Her take on the accident sounded weak and unconvincing.
“Jake was lots of things, but not a reckless sailor,” his ex-wife, Geraldine Fiori King, also an expert sailor, was quoted. The article semi-obliquely referred to a long and nasty divorce that followed Jake King’s meeting the lovely young Stacy. “He respected the ocean and bay,” the first Mrs. King said, “and the only time he took his vest off—well . . . you know . . . let’s say to go to sleep, okay?”
An investigation was underway. I thought of the lithe young poet-woman I’d seen within the hour. “Are you positive this story and this Stacy has anything to do with your son’s fiancée?”
She passed over the two photos she’d earlier pulled out of the manila envelope. One showed two young women, smiling into the sun. One, in a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with daisies, wore a halter top and a softly patterned long skirt that showed the outline of her legs through its translucent material. Her feet were bare.
The hat was good for her skin, but bad for recognition purposes, as it shadowed her features. Her companion held her hand up as a visor, almost as if she were saluting the photographer. She wore a man-tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up, and tails tucked into a pair of belted, tailored slacks and deck shoes. She reminded me of my sister and all my sister’s friends.
“That’s her, too. This past summer. The halter girl. The other is a proof.”
“The other woman? Proof of what?“
She shook her head.
I understood. Not the other girl, but the other photo, and not evidence of anything, but a photographer’s proof.
“Leo thought maybe an engagement announcement.” She took a few slow breaths before starting again. “She didn’t like any of the shots. So, nothing in the paper, but . . . I still have proofs. Must return.” Finally, a clear image of the young woman I’d met today.
Emmie Cade, a.k.a. Stacy King. I didn’t know why she hadn’t 55
GILLIAN ROBERTS
liked the portrait unless she truly didn’t want a clear image of herself anywhere. The photographer had captured her delicate beauty and the exceptionally warm smile. She didn’t look as if she were posing. She didn’t look capable of artifice of any sort. Instead, she looked as if she were transparent and the viewer had a view straight into her pure heart, catching her in a moment of joy.
I would have pressed my case that this woman wasn’t related to the one in the news story, except that Emmie Cade wore the iden-tical, unusual brooch of metal that had been hammered and twisted into a semiabstract image of a heart.
“You know,” I said, “despite whatever initial confusion there was at the time of that news story, and despite these anonymous messages, the law found her innocent or she wouldn’t be here.
This feels like maliciousness. Somebody who’s furious that she’s finding happiness again. Or somebody without any real reason, just a desire to make trouble.”
“I hope so.” She looked at me, head slightly tilted, challenging me to say she was lying. Oddly, I believed her. I couldn’t remember anyone else about whom I’d had such a mix of positive and negative emotions, all at the same time.
“That’s why Leo isn’t to know about this,” she said.
“What if—they’re probably just an evil-minded prank, but if there’s any real threat—”
“Not till he’s married, I think. No point before. No money till then.”
“And that marriage is taking place in two weeks?”
“I can’t let it. Not until you”—she gestured toward the pages—
“What I’ll do is get sick. Today. Near death. Delay wedding until you . . .” She squinted at me, as
54
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
“It was the heat,” the widow was quoted as saying. “The wine. I warned him, but he loved fine wines, and it was his party.” Her take on the accident sounded weak and unconvincing.
“Jake was lots of things, but not a reckless sailor,” his ex-wife, Geraldine Fiori King, also an expert sailor, was quoted. The article semi-obliquely referred to a long and nasty divorce that followed Jake King’s meeting the lovely young Stacy. “He respected the ocean and bay,” the first Mrs. King said, “and the only time he took his vest off—well . . . you know . . . let’s say to go to sleep, okay?”
An investigation was underway. I thought of the lithe young poet-woman I’d seen within the hour. “Are you positive this story and this Stacy has anything to do with your son’s fiancée?”
She passed over the two photos she’d earlier pulled out of the manila envelope. One showed two young women, smiling into the sun. One, in a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with daisies, wore a halter top and a softly patterned long skirt that showed the outline of her legs through its translucent material. Her feet were bare.
The hat was good for her skin, but bad for recognition purposes, as it shadowed her features. Her companion held her hand up as a visor, almost as if she were saluting the photographer. She wore a man-tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up, and tails tucked into a pair of belted, tailored slacks and deck shoes. She reminded me of my sister and all my sister’s friends.
“That’s her, too. This past summer. The halter girl. The other is a proof.”
“The other woman? Proof of what?“
She shook her head.
I understood. Not the other girl, but the other photo, and not evidence of anything, but a photographer’s proof.
“Leo thought maybe an engagement announcement.” She took a few slow breaths before starting again. “She didn’t like any of the shots. So, nothing in the paper, but . . . I still have proofs. Must return.” Finally, a clear image of the young woman I’d met today.
Emmie Cade, a.k.a. Stacy King. I didn’t know why she hadn’t 55
GILLIAN ROBERTS
liked the portrait unless she truly didn’t want a clear image of herself anywhere. The photographer had captured her delicate beauty and the exceptionally warm smile. She didn’t look as if she were posing. She didn’t look capable of artifice of any sort. Instead, she looked as if she were transparent and the viewer had a view straight into her pure heart, catching her in a moment of joy.
I would have pressed my case that this woman wasn’t related to the one in the news story, except that Emmie Cade wore the iden-tical, unusual brooch of metal that had been hammered and twisted into a semiabstract image of a heart.
“You know,” I said, “despite whatever initial confusion there was at the time of that news story, and despite these anonymous messages, the law found her innocent or she wouldn’t be here.
This feels like maliciousness. Somebody who’s furious that she’s finding happiness again. Or somebody without any real reason, just a desire to make trouble.”
“I hope so.” She looked at me, head slightly tilted, challenging me to say she was lying. Oddly, I believed her. I couldn’t remember anyone else about whom I’d had such a mix of positive and negative emotions, all at the same time.
“That’s why Leo isn’t to know about this,” she said.
“What if—they’re probably just an evil-minded prank, but if there’s any real threat—”
“Not till he’s married, I think. No point before. No money till then.”
“And that marriage is taking place in two weeks?”
“I can’t let it. Not until you”—she gestured toward the pages—
“What I’ll do is get sick. Today. Near death. Delay wedding until you . . .” She squinted at me, as
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