what did you put the duct tape on?”
“The pipe under the bathroom sink. It leaks, and I didn’t have the right—What’s so funny?”
“You. And believe me, Lindstrom, right about now I could use a laugh, however feeble.” She paused. “By the way, I think I should continue to call you John Crowe in public. People here know you as that. A change could complicate things.”
“Sev Quill knows I’m Matt Lindstrom.”
“I asked him not to tell anyone, and he won’t. Where’d you come up with your alias, anyhow?”
“Johnny Crowe’s the deckhand I mentioned. I figured if anybody here wanted to check on whether such a person used to live in Port Regis, he’s in the directory. And he said he’d cover, claim to be subletting his place from me.”
“This Millie Bertram, your alleged publisher—who’s she?”
“Owner of the Port Regis Hotel.”
“She was well coached.”
He was as clever and devious in his own way as Ard was in hers. And Carly herself had her moments. Perhaps together she and Lindstrom could outwit her missing partner.
“Okay, Matt,” she said, “grab a cup of coffee and let’s get started on Ard’s papers.”
Saturday, May 11, 2002
S
he stood naked on the threshold of the gold-and-cream ballroom, and one by one the beautiful, formally attired people turned to stare. Silence fell, punctuated only by the tinkling of the crystal chandeliers. She turned to flee, but the doors had become a solid wall, barring exit. As she searched frantically for a way out, a woman behind her said, “She is not one of us,” and a man agreed, “Definitely not one of us.” Then the others began chanting, “Not one of us, not one of us—”
Carly jerked up from where she was slumped on the wide armrest of the chair. Her shoulder throbbed, and her neck was stiff. She blinked, looked around, saw sunlight streaming through the windows of Ard’s office. Looked down and saw she was swaddled in one of the afghans from the living room. Her reading glasses hung over one ear.
The dream…
She hadn’t had it in more than two decades, since she willfully banished it during her senior year in college. But now it was back in vivid detail, reminding her of her humiliation…
Don’t go there. Not today. You have to stay focused.
Focused on what?
Oh…
The events of the previous night returned to her in a painful rush of memory. She groaned, put her hands to her face, winced at the tenderness in her neck. After a moment she looked around, saw a note propped on the keyboard of Ard’s computer, extricated herself from the afghan, and went to read it.
Carly:
I’ve finished the manuscript and gone to fix my landlady’s leaky pipe. (I really do fix stuff in exchange for cheap rent!) Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll call or come by as soon as I can. “Johnny”
She crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket, anchored her glasses atop her head, and went to the kitchen for coffee. The maker was still on, and the dregs of the carafe she’d brewed last night had distilled to sludge. She ran water into it and, while it soaked, got out the cleaning supplies that she’d need to remove the evidence of Ard’s latest betrayal.
An hour later—after purging the hallway, taking a quick shower, and dressing—she was back in Ard’s office looking for the manuscript Crowe had been reading while she’d examined the legal pads and index cards full of notes. It was neatly stacked in a tray on the workstation. When she picked it up, its slenderness surprised her, and she flipped to the last page, numbered 130. Less than half the amount of pages Ard had led her to believe she’d written, and even at twice that number she’d’ve had trouble meeting her July first deadline.
At what page had Ard told her she’d rather she didn’t read any more until the book was done? One hundred, and that had been over six months ago. Yet nearly every night she proofed her day’s work after dinner. Where had those
“The pipe under the bathroom sink. It leaks, and I didn’t have the right—What’s so funny?”
“You. And believe me, Lindstrom, right about now I could use a laugh, however feeble.” She paused. “By the way, I think I should continue to call you John Crowe in public. People here know you as that. A change could complicate things.”
“Sev Quill knows I’m Matt Lindstrom.”
“I asked him not to tell anyone, and he won’t. Where’d you come up with your alias, anyhow?”
“Johnny Crowe’s the deckhand I mentioned. I figured if anybody here wanted to check on whether such a person used to live in Port Regis, he’s in the directory. And he said he’d cover, claim to be subletting his place from me.”
“This Millie Bertram, your alleged publisher—who’s she?”
“Owner of the Port Regis Hotel.”
“She was well coached.”
He was as clever and devious in his own way as Ard was in hers. And Carly herself had her moments. Perhaps together she and Lindstrom could outwit her missing partner.
“Okay, Matt,” she said, “grab a cup of coffee and let’s get started on Ard’s papers.”
Saturday, May 11, 2002
S
he stood naked on the threshold of the gold-and-cream ballroom, and one by one the beautiful, formally attired people turned to stare. Silence fell, punctuated only by the tinkling of the crystal chandeliers. She turned to flee, but the doors had become a solid wall, barring exit. As she searched frantically for a way out, a woman behind her said, “She is not one of us,” and a man agreed, “Definitely not one of us.” Then the others began chanting, “Not one of us, not one of us—”
Carly jerked up from where she was slumped on the wide armrest of the chair. Her shoulder throbbed, and her neck was stiff. She blinked, looked around, saw sunlight streaming through the windows of Ard’s office. Looked down and saw she was swaddled in one of the afghans from the living room. Her reading glasses hung over one ear.
The dream…
She hadn’t had it in more than two decades, since she willfully banished it during her senior year in college. But now it was back in vivid detail, reminding her of her humiliation…
Don’t go there. Not today. You have to stay focused.
Focused on what?
Oh…
The events of the previous night returned to her in a painful rush of memory. She groaned, put her hands to her face, winced at the tenderness in her neck. After a moment she looked around, saw a note propped on the keyboard of Ard’s computer, extricated herself from the afghan, and went to read it.
Carly:
I’ve finished the manuscript and gone to fix my landlady’s leaky pipe. (I really do fix stuff in exchange for cheap rent!) Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll call or come by as soon as I can. “Johnny”
She crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket, anchored her glasses atop her head, and went to the kitchen for coffee. The maker was still on, and the dregs of the carafe she’d brewed last night had distilled to sludge. She ran water into it and, while it soaked, got out the cleaning supplies that she’d need to remove the evidence of Ard’s latest betrayal.
An hour later—after purging the hallway, taking a quick shower, and dressing—she was back in Ard’s office looking for the manuscript Crowe had been reading while she’d examined the legal pads and index cards full of notes. It was neatly stacked in a tray on the workstation. When she picked it up, its slenderness surprised her, and she flipped to the last page, numbered 130. Less than half the amount of pages Ard had led her to believe she’d written, and even at twice that number she’d’ve had trouble meeting her July first deadline.
At what page had Ard told her she’d rather she didn’t read any more until the book was done? One hundred, and that had been over six months ago. Yet nearly every night she proofed her day’s work after dinner. Where had those
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