“Let’s hope Agent Pearson shares things with Dad. I don’t think she and I will be getting any girl-bonding mani-pedis in the near future.”
“If that’s the case, you might want to bring Ryan Stone into the loop. He most likely has ties to the NYPD and their databases.”
“Ick.”
“Is that a good ‘ick,’ or a bad ‘ick’?” Betty asked.
Liz wasn’t sure.
Chapter 25
Monday dawned dark and brooding, reminiscent of Ryan’s face the previous evening when Liz had spotted him coming out of the caretaker’s cottage. He either didn’t see Liz, Aunt Amelia, and Killer, or he pretended not to. He walked with his head down, toward the emporium’s parking lot.
Liz had awakened at 6 a.m. from a restless night with Killer snoring next to her on the “man side” of her bed. The ever-gallant Captain Netherton had loaned the Great Dane to Liz and Aunt Amelia for the purpose of protection. The idea of Killer as a guard dog was humorous; he rarely barked and the only way he could stop someone from breaking into the beach house would be to lick them to death.
One of the reasons for Liz’s restless night had to do with the eerie Twilight Zone episode Aunt Amelia had picked for them to watch, “Jess-Belle.” Her great-aunt chose it because it starred Anne Francis in a part completely opposite her glamourous Honey West role. In the episode, a poor mountain girl had a local witch put a curse on the rich girl who was dating the man whom Jess-Belle was obsessed with. Things didn’t turn out well, which was not unusual in the Twilight Zone.
As they were watching, Aunt Amelia had remarked that Anne Francis’s and Tina Louise’s moles made them look so distinctive. “Liz Taylor had one, too, but it was farther back on her jawline. Moles, or ‘beauty marks,’ were all the rage back then, kind of like puffy lips are today. Maybe I’ll add one for my next performance at the Melbourne Civic Theatre. I’m going to try for the part of Cat in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” Aunt Amelia never got the ingénue parts anymore, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Whatever part she won, she always made it distinctively her own, and usually to much applause from the audience. Aunt Amelia had fallen asleep five minutes into “Jess-Belle.” If she’d had a cameo in the episode, she would have stayed awake until the credits rolled. When Liz was young, she never got scared from any part her great-aunt played, no matter how gory. She knew it was all make-believe. Now, as an adult, she took stock in the adage: True life is stranger than fiction.
At eight, Aunt Amelia left to have breakfast at the Indialantic; then she was going to the emporium to open the main doors, praying there would still be customers after the news of Regina’s death.
Liz sat in a chair next to the French doors, looking out at layers of gray: sand, ocean, and sky. Every morning, except in foul weather like today, Liz followed the same routine. She would take her mug of coffee, sit on the bottom step leading to the beach, and thank the universe for another day of living in paradise, then plan the day’s activities while staring out at the fathomless sea. Today’s weather would be considered most foul: The surf was high, along with the tide. Tornado and gale warnings had been issued for Brevard County. Luckily, no hurricanes were on the horizon this time of year, but the rain came from all directions, bringing with it grains of sand that sounded against the panes of glass like pellets shot from a BB gun. The wind chimes hanging outside the kitchen window clanged against each other in an earsplitting cacophony.
She took a last gulp of coffee and viewed a lone figure walking the beach. She stood and reached for the binoculars she used for spotting rare seabirds, a perk to having America’s first wildlife sanctuary, the Pelican Island National Wildlife Refuge, nearby. When Liz looked through the lens, though, she didn’t see a rare bird, just a drenched Ryan Stone. For a split second, he lifted his head. He wore the same pained expression she’d witnessed the previous night—as if he’d lost his best friend. Please don’t let it be Pops, she thought.
It was strange that he would pick this stretch of shoreline for a melancholy stroll in a storm. Liz had one of Aunt Amelia’s urges to rescue him. She put on her rain slicker and waited until he was near the steps leading up to the beach house, then went out into the deluge.
She called down, “Ahoy there!”
Ryan didn’t hear her over the howling of the wind. She grabbed the wood railing and went down three steps. When he finally glanced in her direction, she pantomimed for him to come up to the house.
He trudged up the steps and followed Liz onto the deck. Liz removed her raincoat and left it on the chaise. Ryan left his sandals outside the door as she ushered him inside.
“I’ll go get you a towel,” Liz said. “Wait here.”
When she returned, she handed him a large bath towel.
“Thanks.” He stood there, dripping like a wet seal.
“Take off your shirt and shorts. I’ll throw them in the dryer. Despite what you’ve read about me, I won’t take advantage of you.”
Ryan remained still, not even offering a comeback. He took off his shirt, wrapped the towel around his waist, then discreetly slipped off his NYU-emblemed shorts.
Her gaze lingered on his muscled upper right arm. What she thought was a tattoo from when she’d seen him at the caretaker’s cottage, turned out to be a purplish raised welt in the shape of a continent.
He noticed her looking and said in an irritated tone, “I know, it looks like Africa or Australia. And before you ask, it’s not from a fire. Only a
