Dearly Beloved (24 page)

He didn’t know which was more excruciating—the harsh, true words the boys flung at him, or the physical pain.

They left him there, at last, sobbing and writhing on the floor where they’d shoved him.

And it was Stephen Gilbrooke who had found him. One of the new students, he was a virtual stranger to Arnold; but for some reason, he decided to become his savior.

Stephen had helped him up and wiped the Ben-Gay off with warm, wet towels, talking to Arnold in a soothing voice. Arnold had never remembered what he said, only that he was kind. Kinder than anyone had ever been to him before.

And he’d fallen in love with Stephen Gilbrooke on the spot. He didn’t look like Arnold’s usual crushes. Stephen was blatantly ugly, with a face that had earned him the nickname “Elephant Guy” among the other boys. But Arnold swiftly came to overlook Stephen’s appearance.

All he cared about was that Stephen was nice to him. And he seemed to understand how it felt to be an outcast—and how it felt to have parents who didn’t care at all.

The two boys had become inseparable by Christmas, and they were the only ones in the dormitory who didn’t go home over holiday break.

One night, as they lay on Stephen’s bed in the deserted dorm, playing chess, Arnold had impulsively leaned over and kissed Stephen square and hard on the lips.

It was something he’d wanted to do for months, but as soon as he pulled back, he chastised himself. How could he have been so stupid? Now he would lose his one and only friend.

But to his surprise, Stephen hadn’t recoiled in horror or even surprise. He had simply said quietly, “I know how you feel about me, Arnold. And it’s okay.”

“It is?” Arnold had been utterly shocked.

“Sure.” Stephen had laid a hand on his thigh then, sending quivers of pleasure through Arnold’s whole body.

It hadn’t gone any further that night, or for a long time afterward. But Arnold had thrilled to the secret knowledge that Stephen loved him back.

And he had ignored the irritating voice in his mind that sometimes told him to be careful . . . that Stephen was too good to be true. That maybe Stephen wasn’t who he seemed to be.

The voice seemed to surface whenever Arnold found himself doing a favor for Stephen. Like the time he stole the answers to the math test out of the teacher’s locked drawer. Stephen was failing the course and he needed a passing grade or, as he said, his father would beat the hell out of him.

And on several occasions, Arnold had agreed to meet Stephen’s dealer in the city to pick up a bag of marijuana or a little vial of cocaine or whatever it was that Stephen was in the mood for.

He didn’t mind doing favors for Stephen, even when there were risks involved, because he got so much back in return. Stephen let Arnold hold his hand—when no one was around, of course—and a few times, when Arnold tentatively kissed him, he opened his mouth and kissed back.

Arnold sensed that Stephen wasn’t getting as much pleasure out of it as he was, but that was probably because Stephen was more reserved, more uptight about things like that. He just needed to learn to relax and enjoy himself, Arnold decided, and there was plenty of time for that. After all, they were going to be together forever. He was sure of it.

And here we are, together still,
he thinks now as he reaches into his pocket and produces the key to the back door of the inn.
And I’ll still do anything for Stephen. Anything at all. That’s the way it should be when you’re in love. . . .

He pauses just inside the door, listening. Oh, Lord, that’s the phone ringing. If it’s Stephen, he’ll be so upset that Jasper didn’t answer on the first ring.

Tossing the keys on the counter, he scurries toward the front of the house. He’s rushing down the hall toward the foyer when the phone abruptly stops ringing.

“Hello?” he hears a female voice saying. “Yes, it is . . .”

Panicked, Jasper dashes around the corner and sees Liza Danning standing in a slinky black-lace nightgown behind the desk, speaking into the receiver.

“I’ll take that,” he says, grabbing the phone out of her hand and glaring at her. Stephen’s going to be furious.

“I was coming out of the bathroom, and I heard it ringing,” she says, yawning. “So I thought I’d better get it.”

“Thank you,” he tells her curtly, clearing his throat. Into the phone, he says pleasantly, “Hello?”

“Uh, I need to speak to one of your guests,” says an unfamiliar male voice. “Sandy Cavelli.”

A chill runs through Jasper’s veins. He’s conscious of Liza watching him, though, and forces himself to seem unruffled. He’s gotten very good at that these past few days.

“Can you excuse me for a moment?” he says into the phone, then covers the receiver and turns to Liza. “Thank you for your assistance,” he says shortly. “I’ll take care of this.”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously at him. “It’s not D.M. Yates, is it?”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“I didn’t think so,” she says, wearing an odd, calculating expression in her otherwise sleepy green eyes as she stares back at him.

But Jasper’s too preoccupied to worry about Liza right now. He waits until she starts up the stairs, then turns his back and quietly says into the phone, “Sandy Cavelli? I’m afraid she’s already checked out.”

“She checked
out?
When?”

“Who is this, please?” he asks crisply.

“It’s her brother, and I need to know where she went.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea. She said she was leaving the island on the late afternoon ferry.”

“But she called me just a little while ago . . .”

Jasper’s ears prick up. Sandy had called her brother? From where? How had she gotten to a phone? Where was Stephen?

“What did she say when she called?” he asks carefully.

“She sounded like she was—nothing. Never mind,” the man says abruptly, as though he has changed his mind about offering any information.

Jasper frowns and wonders if Stephen knows Sandy made the call. He should tell him.

“Thank you for your time,” the man is saying into the phone.

“Of course. I’m sorry I couldn’t offer more information.” He replaces the receiver in its cradle and rubs his chin, wondering if Stephen—

“Who was that?” a voice asks, and Jasper gasps, then turns to see Liza standing on the landing.

“Who was that?” Jasper echoes awkwardly, grasping for something to tell her. He impulsively opts for the truth. “It was Sandy’s brother, wanting to speak with her.”

“Why?”

“Because of the storm . . . he heard there was a terrible storm and he was worried about her,” Jasper says smoothly, looking Liza in the eye.

“Oh.” She shrugs, still wearing the same shrewd expression as she watches him.

Frantic inside, Jasper tries to recall what he said on his end of the conversation. Was there anything that might have made her suspicious? No. No, he doesn’t think so.

He dismisses Liza with a wave of his hand. “Good night, Miss Danning. Have pleasant dreams.”

“Yeah, right,” she says bluntly and turns to climb the stairs.

He watches until she reaches the top, then listens until he hears her shut and lock the door to her room.

“Good riddance,” he whispers in her direction before turning to the matter at hand.

He hurries down the hall toward the back of the house again, stopping in front of a closed door just beyond the parlor. With a key from his pocket, he unlocks it and slips inside.

It was once a storage room, he knows, and it’s too small, really, for a bedroom. Yet this is where Stephen wants him to sleep, on an old narrow bed with a lumpy mattress.

Jasper knows it’s only temporary, though.

Soon, he’ll be sharing Stephen’s king-sized bed, for good.

Stephen promised.

Urgently, he reaches for the cellular phone Stephen gave him and dials the number he’s supposed to use only in an emergency.

The fact that Sandy Cavelli called her brother qualifies. It means that everything isn’t going exactly according to Stephen’s plan.

If anything goes wrong with the plan, Stephen might decide that Jasper is somehow to blame. Then, Jasper’s dreams of a glorious future alone with Stephen will be ruined.

And Jasper can’t let that happen. No matter what. He’s so close, so tantalizingly close, to winning Stephen forever . . .

Nothing is going to stand in his way.

Nothing
.

S
herm Crandall has been the chief of police on Tide Island since the early seventies. Back then, his biggest problem was keeping a rein on the flocks of hippie artists who tended to smoke a lot of marijuana and skinny dip on public beaches, which wasn’t exactly good for tourism—at least, not the family trade that frequented other New England coastal islands.

These days, while hippies and grass and nudity aren’t unheard of on the island, Sherm doesn’t get so uptight about them. He’s gotten older, yes, but a lot less conservative than he was in his youth. The horror stories he hears about crime in big cities and even suburbs on the mainland make him a lot more tolerant of Tide Island’s few problems.

At least here, there are no car-jackings—few people even bother to have vehicles on the island—and no teenage gangs, unless you count the four boys who formed a rock band and pierced their noses, to the horror of some of the island’s old-timers.

In fact, during the off-season, Sherm’s the
only
cop on duty for Tide Island. About the most pressing issue he ever has to deal with is a storm.

And the way things look tonight, they’re in for a doozy.

Sitting at his desk in the small, gray-shingled cottage that serves as Tide Island’s municipal building, Sherm looks up as the door opens and someone blows into the room on a gust of wind.

“Pat, is that you?” he asks, recognizing the shock of red hair that’s sticking out from under the hood of the big storm coat.

“Sure is,” he says, his voice muffled until he unwinds the scarf from around his face. “It’s nasty out there, Sherm.”

“The kind of night your father would have called ‘fit for the devil,’ huh, Pat?” Sherm asks, with a fond grin. Robert Gerkin was one of his boyhood buddies here on the island. In fact, they’d been best man at each other’s weddings, and Sherm is Patrick’s godfather.

It’s hard to believe that Robert’s been gone almost a year now. Damn cancer moved so fast no one had a chance to say a proper goodbye.

“Dad loved a good nor’easter,” Patrick says, sitting in the chair by Sherm’s desk. “As long as there wasn’t serious damage.”

“Well, I hope that’s the case this time, son. But it looks like this one’s pretty powerful. I just talked to Joe Dominski at the weather station on the mainland and he says it hasn’t diminished any. If anything, it’s getting stronger and the rain is becoming snow as the temperature drops.”

“We haven’t had snow all winter.”

“Nope.” Sherm shrugs. “And it’s a little late for ‘Jingle Bells’ and chestnuts roasting over an open fire and all that stuff, huh? But who knows? Maybe it won’t be that bad.”

“Well, I made the rounds of the evacuation route, anyway,” Pat says.

“Anyone give you any trouble?”

“Just Old Man Mooney.”

Sherm chuckles, thinking of the eccentric octogenarian who lives in one of the old houses on the north shore. “As usual. Did he threaten you with that toy shotgun of his?”

“Yeah, and the thing looks real, Sherm. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he really was going to blow me away with it. Anyway, he says he’s not going to budge, no matter what the weather does. Says he’s been here on Tide Island too many years to worry about some little storm.”

Sherm shakes his head. “Someday that old fool’s gonna find himself floating in the Atlantic in his rocking chair. But there’s nothing you can do. Everybody else knows to go to the church, right? Including the weekenders staying at the Seawind Hotel and Millers’ Guest House? Those are the only two places open for tourists during the off-season.”

“And don’t forget the Bramble Rose,” Pat adds.

“Oh, right. Almost didn’t remember that place is open for business now, huh?”

“I guess. There were two women staying there, and I don’t know who else. I didn’t get to talk to the owner, but I told them to let him know that they might be evacuated.”

“Good.” Sherm pauses, then remembers something else. “What about the old Gilbrooke place?”

Pat frowns. “What about it?”

“I saw a light on inside when I drove by on patrol earlier. Looks like someone might be there.”

“I thought the Gilbrookes haven’t used the place in years. Didn’t they used to spend their summers at that fancy estate in Connecticut instead?”

“They sure did.” Sherm shakes his head, thinking of the beautiful old oceanfront mansion that’s gone to waste ever since Andrew Gilbrooke married that Greenwich snob who decided Tide Island’s summer crowd wasn’t high-society enough for her.

“So you think they sold the place or something?”

“Not that I know of. Someone might be back—probably the son.”

“Well, it can’t be the old man. He’s in a loony bin, isn’t he?”

Sherm thinks of pathetic old Andrew Gilbrooke, who had been a summer playmate of his when they were kids. He’d been rich as hell, but the most spineless son of a gun Sherm had ever known, ruled first by his overbearing mother, then by his tyrannical wife, Aurelia.

He looks at Pat, nodding sadly. “Yup, I heard Andrew went off the deep end after his wife killed herself. But the kid’s still floating around someplace. He was a real mess, too—mentally and physically. I had only met him a few times, when he came out here with his father to check on the property. Poor kid had the ugliest face you ever saw. Last I heard, he had taken over the family import-export business a few years back. Maybe he’s back here on the island for a while, though, to get away from the rat race or something.”

“Maybe.” Pat puts his hood up again. “You want me to go out there and check?”

“Would you?”

“No problem, Sherm. Then I’ll come back and help you board up those windows.”

“I’d appreciate it. After that, I’m going to head on home and take care of things there.”