Freefall (20 page)

"Does Nate consider him a suspect?"

What if it had been Brad in the house last night? What if he'd come in planning to kill her so he could somehow get his greedy, grasping, developer hands on Swannsea?

If she died, her grandmother's estate would go to Harlan. Who, if last night's conversation was any indication, might not be all that enthusiastic about keeping the tea company going.

Though, given how angry he was about Plantation Shores being built right next to Whispering Pines, she couldn't see him ever selling to Brad's company.

Maybe Zach was right. Maybe Brad
was
trying to scare her away, hoping that if he unsettled her enough, she'd want to dump the house, and the business, and leave.

"I've no idea what Nate's thinking." Titania shrugged her bare shoulders. "The man's frustratingly close-mouthed when it comes to his work. But I'd be shocked if the Swann Island Slasher turns out to be Brad."

"The Swann Island Slasher?"

"You didn't read this morning's
Trumpet
?"

"I've been a little distracted. Besides, checking out whose cousin is visiting from Raleigh and reviews of the Junior League cookbook wasn't exactly at the top of my priority list."

"Oh, the paper's changed a lot since you were last here. It covers real news now. At least local news, like elections and police logs and school board meetings, that sort of thing. There's this new editor, David Henley, who keeps saying he's determined to drag us into the twentieth century."

"Uh, I don't want to be picky, but this is the twenty-first."

"Of course it is. But, you know, you have to take change one step at a time down here. Anyway, he's a Yankee from D.C. who—"

"Unless the country had a massive land shift after I moved to Italy, Washington's still south of the Mason-Dixon Line."

"Well, geographically maybe. But, honey, it was, after all, the home of the Union army." She bit into a sweet potato French fry. "So, you want to tell me how that counts as Southern?"

Sabrina had often thought that one of the reasons she'd slid so easily into Florentine life was that she'd spent so much time in a place that continued to keep one foot firmly rooted in the past. In that respect, Italy hadn't been all that different from the American South.

"A Union army that set your people free," she pointed out.

"Well, there is that. Anyway, the
Trumpet's
new editor, who is, by the way, a bit of a hottie, despite his deplorable yuppie taste in clothes, apparently decided our local killer needed a catchy nickname. Personally, I find it rather unoriginal for a so-called wordsmith to come up with, but it's already been picked up by the AP and is starting to pop up on blogs all over the Internet."

"Oh, my God. Nate must be furious."

"Well, I'm not one to share domestic details. But he did promise to fix that fist-sized hole in my kitchen wall."

Sabrina glanced around the patio at the well-dressed people enjoying the sunny summer day. And, now that the fuss over the spilled mojitos had settled down, each other's company.

A lazy black and yellow bumblebee buzzed over the snowy white blossoms of the butterfly bush hedge; carefree children on vacation called out "Marco Polo" from the turquoise waters of the pool; golfers strolled across acres of emerald green lawn, while only a few feet away, a dragonfly hovered over the terra-cotta swan fountain, drinking from the tumbling clear water.

The idyllic scene could have washed off the canvas of
Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
, had Georges Seurat been painting here rather than on that island in the Seine.

"It's going to turn the island into a media circus."

"That's precisely what Nate fears. Which could make it more difficult to catch the killer. Nate's afraid he'll go underground for a while until the heat's off. Or even move on."

"And start killing somewhere else."

Sabrina shook her head. Even as she felt sympathy for Nate, she couldn't overlook the irony that she'd come back to the island seeking peace and quiet after nearly being killed, only to find that danger had followed her home.

Silver Shores Manor was a state-of-the-art facility designed by an award-winning team of architects, interior designers, and health-care professionals who were, if the manor's glossy brochure was to be believed, award-winning experts in the care of Alzheimer's patients.

Although it cost an arm and a leg, at least it tried to be more than a warehouse for those patients waiting to die, unlike all the others Titania had looked at during her six-month search for a safe and nurturing environment for her father.

Not that he would know anything about his surroundings.

But she would. As would Line, who admittedly was footing more of the cost than she was. Then again, his salary at Swarm Tea was triple what she cleared from the Wisteria Tea Room and Bakery, and besides, wasn't she the one who visited every single damn evening?

Not that Joshua Davis would even notice if she failed to show up.

But for all the sassy image she put forth to the world, Titania was, down deep, old-fashioned enough to know she'd never forgive herself if, when the blessed day came on which her father finally found peace, she couldn't look back and say honestly, if only to herself, that she'd done the best she could.

The walls were painted in bright primary colors, the better, the administrator who'd taken her on her initial tour had explained, to stimulate residents' minds. At Silver Shores, Titania learned, the patients were never called "patients"—they were "residents." As if, she'd thought at the time, the manor was merely some high-priced retirement condo development.

Paintings of scenes from the World War II era during which most of the residents had grown up were displayed on the walls of six hallways that radiated outward like the rays of the sun around the central nursing center located at the core of the building.

Family members were encouraged to bring in photos documenting the residents' lives, the idea being that seeing familiar images would stimulate memories. Or perhaps encourage conversations that might lead to recapturing memories lost in the mists of damaged minds.

Duke Ellington was taking the A train as Titania entered the building. Music—Glenn Miller, Les Brown, Tommy Dorsey, and all the other greats of the Big Band Era—continually drifted from speakers hidden in those bright red, yellow, and blue walls. She'd been fascinated at one event when elderly residents who hadn't spoken for months were not only able to remember the words to "Sentimental Journey" and "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," but sang along.

Unfortunately, once the player piano was turned off, the singing stopped. Like water turned off at a tap.

Wondering if, when her generation started arriving at Silver Shores, the speakers would be belting out Metallica, Barenaked Ladies, and Jon Bon Jovi, Titania waved a hello to the guard seated in his booth next to the locked door. The bank of TV screens in front of him allowed visual access to every room on all the hallways, which on one level she found an awful invasion of privacy. But, she realized as she signed the papers committing her father to the facility, a necessary one.

Despite all the optimistic and well-meaning efforts to make Silver Shores cheery and homey, it was still, to those forced to accompany loved ones on this long, fatal journey, as cheerful as, well… an Alzheimer's home.

No amount of bright paint or pretty pictures could hide the scents of disinfectant, despair, and impending death. No music could hide the cries of once vital members of the greatest generation whose minds were tragically trapped in nightmares they no longer had the words to describe.

She found her father in the lounge, sitting in his wheelchair in front of the large-screen plasma TV that someone had tuned to a cable news station. Terrific, she thought as she watched some apartment building burning somewhere. Wasn't that just what these people needed to see? Weren't their own lives tragic enough?

After clicking through the channels until she found perky Rachael Ray demonstrating how to prepare an entire meal in thirty minutes, she went over, bent down, and gave him a big hug.

" 'Bout time you got here, girl," he said. "What took you so long? I've been waiting all day for you."

"You have?"

She sat down on the ottoman next to the chair. Her father had good days and bad. Lately more of the bad, sliding downhill into horrid. Hope that this was one of the rare good ones fluttered like hummingbird wings in Titania's heart.

"Sure as heck have. What happened? Miz Swann keep you working late at Swannsea again?"

Her heart plummeted. "No."

"She's been making you work too many hours." His worried eyes swept over her face. No, not
her
face. Her mother's face. "Maybe I ought to say something to her about it. Tell her that you're expecting."

He nodded with more decisiveness than she'd witnessed in months. Which would have been encouraging, were he not back in 1981.

"Daddy—"

"Now, I know you don't want to tell her about the baby just yet," he said, overriding her planned words, "but Miz Lucie's a good woman, Mel. She'd never fire you for starting a family. Didn't she loan us that down payment on this house when we got married last year, so we'd have room for a nursery?"

He took her cold hand in both of his, lifting it to his lips. "You'll see. It'll be all right. Why, I bet she's gonna be near as happy about our baby as we are."

"I'm sure she will."

She gave up, knowing that arguing would do no good and deciding that believing he was having this moment with the mother she'd never known might bring some joy into his dismal life. She gave him a watery smile.

"You'll see," he said. His face, so much darker than hers, offered reassurance. And unqualified love. He reached out and brushed at the tears streaming down her face with a tender fingertip. "What you crying 'bout, baby doll?"

She drew in a ragged breath, swiped at her wet cheeks with her hands. "Nothing, Joshua," she said past the painful lump in her throat. "I guess it's just baby hormones."

And a broken heart.

"I'm fine," Sabrina insisted yet again.

Only to humor Lillian, she'd dropped by Whispering Pines after lunch for a checkup.

Harlan patted her knee, as if she were eight years old again and had fallen off her bike.

"Of course you're right as rain." He put the black cuff back in its drawer. "Though you could afford to lose a few blood pressure points."

"It's not that high. And it's only stress."

"My point exactly. I'm prescribing morning walks and afternoon naps."

The walks she could do. Even enjoy. But naps?

"I haven't taken a nap since I was eighteen months old."

Of course, she couldn't remember being that young, but she could recall her mother mentioning that the nanny complained about that fact.

"Well, it should be a nice change of pace," he said mildly. "How are you sleeping?"

"Like a baby."

It wasn't really a lie. She knew from having friends who'd become new mothers that lots of babies didn't sleep all night.

His harrumph as he picked up her chart suggested he didn't believe her. He skimmed the notes that Ida Thornbill, who'd been his office nurse since before Sabrina had been born, had written down.

"You could put on a few pounds."

"You know what they say about a woman never being too rich or too thin," she quipped, not wanting to admit that the number on the scale had surprised her.

And not in a good way.

He slid his wire-framed reading glasses down his nose and gave her a long, studied look. "You're already rich enough. But there's naturally slender and there's anorexic. You were always the first. But you're on a slippery slope, young lady." He waggled a finger at her. "If you're not careful, you could slide into the second category."

He made a notation on the chart. "While you're out on that daily walk, stop by Wisteria and have Titania feed you."

"I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself."

"You mean nuking diet frozen dinners."

"Sissy's obviously a snitch." She'd known the clerk at the market was gossipy, but this was stepping over the line.

"True. But a well-meaning one."

"Did she tell you I also bought ice cream?"

"Chunky Monkey," he said approvingly. "Which is a start."

"Aren't you supposed to be recommending fresh fruits and vegetables?"

"There are bananas in your ice cream. That's one serving of fruit."

"Hahaha."

"I'm not joking."

He wasn't? Of course, she thought, she was in the South, where people had never met a veggie they didn't think was better deep-fried.

"What kind of doctor are you?"

"A good one." He picked up a prescription pad and scribbled a few lines. "Who cares about my patients, especially when they're family." He put the pen back in the pocket of the lab coat and tore off a script. "Here you go. I believe they'll have everything you need at the market."

She snatched the piece of paper from his outstretched hand. "A liquid food supplement?" Oh, yuck.

"Being underweight also indicates you're undernourished. That and a bottle of multipurpose vitamins should get you back up to fighting weight."

"And if I don't want to fight?"

"You're going to be working with Zach Tremayne, aren't you?"

She slid off the examining table, tucked the script into her bag, and snapped it shut. "I haven't decided yet."

"Well, you know how I feel about it. I still think you'd be taking on too much."

"Did you know Brad Sumner wants to buy Swannsea?"

"So Lucie told me. The bastard even had the nerve to make me an offer the day after she died. But I told him I'd rather burn the fields than let him get his hands on them."

"I feel the same way."

"However, Sumner's not the only option. As it happens, we've had offers from two major tea companies, both interested in acquiring the business."

"And, of course, you told them no."

He didn't immediately answer.

"Uncle Harlan?"

He blew out a breath. "I was waiting until you got home to discuss the situation with you."

"There's nothing to discuss. Whatever I decide to do about Lucie's teahouse idea, neither Swann Tea nor Swannsea is for sale."

"You're like your grandmother, always operating in damn-the-torpedoes-full-steam-ahead mode. You'd probably end up with migraines and an ulcer if you didn't have some project to tackle."

"I don't see you retiring," she said pointedly.

"Touché." Chuckling, he draped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the door. "Ever hear of a guy named Aristotle?"

"Of course."

"Well, he recommended moderation in all things. That's not such bad advice."

She couldn't help smiling at that. "I'll keep it in mind."

"You do that." He winked. "Your Aunt Lillian worries."

"Well," Sabrina asked that evening, "what do you think?"

Lincoln Davis, Titania's brother, leaned back and took a long pull on the bottle of AmberBock beer Sabrina had greeted him with.

After he'd updated her on the details of the Atlanta conference—from which he'd returned with a dozen new major corporate clients—they'd turned to the blueprints John Tremayne had drawn up. The ones Zach had brought by that afternoon.

The minute she'd seen the computerized three-dimensional drawings, she'd fallen in love with the plan, and although she'd been ambivalent in the beginning, she now found herself desperately hoping Line would share her enthusiasm.

"Same thing I thought when your grandmother showed them to me. It's a damn good job of adding on while keeping the house's historical integrity."

"I know that," Sabrina said, trying to stifle her impatience. "Do you believe the entire concept is doable? From a business standpoint?"

"Sure. So long as you hire a really good manager."

"Actually, I'm thinking of taking over that job myself."

He spared her a look. "It's going to take some time to get off the ground."

"I'm aware of that."

"And while Swannsea is something to be damn proud of, it's not exactly in the class of the international Wingate Palace hotel chain. 'Where—"

" 'Deluxe will no longer do.' " She finished the famous slogan. "I'm disappointed in you, Line."

"Me?" He set the beer aside. "Why?"

"Because it seems as if I've known you forever, and I never would have taken you for a snob."

"Me?" he said again, flinging a dark hand against his chest. "Where did that come from?"

"Well, the fact that you felt the need to point out that Swannsea isn't the Wingate chain suggests that some people might consider it inferior. I certainly don't."

"Hell, Sabrina." He brushed his hand over his closely cropped black hair. "You know I didn't mean that. I merely figured that after all these years of jet-setting around the world and hobnobbing with kings and sheikhs and such, you might find the island, and Swannsea, well, a little tame."

She laughed when an image of Zach popped into her mind. " 'Tame' isn't the word I'd use. 'Peaceful' comes closer." At least if you discounted serial killers and the thief who broke into her house last night. "But it's apples and oranges, Line. Wingate hotels are the best in the world at what they do. Swann Tea may not be the biggest tea company in the world, but we make the best tea."

She tapped the eraser end of her pencil on the blueprints, loving the way the architect had made the windows able to be quickly changed out to screens for nice days.

"I loved my work at Wingate, but from the day I arrived, I jumped on a one-way track and kept moving forward without giving thought to anything beyond making the next goal and reaching the next level.

"This unplanned break has allowed me to realize that by the time I was appointed manager, I only ever actually interacted with guests when I was called upon to solve a problem. Which, while I don't like to boast, I'd gotten very good at, if I do say so myself—"

"It's not braggin' if it's true," he said easily. "And Lucie definitely was all the time telling us how good you were at your job."

"My grandmother was prejudiced. But the thing is, I got into the hotel business because I enjoyed creating an enjoyable, comfortable environment for people. I like the idea of putting 'hospitable' back into the hospitality business.

"So, let's you, Titania, and I make Swannsea the best destination location in the Lowcountry."

Amazingly, an idea she never would have considered two months ago, one she'd only found rather intriguing three days ago, now seemed like something she'd been waiting to do all her life.

"Sounds like a plan. And one that'd make your grandmamma real happy." He lifted the bottle. "To Lucie Swann."

She, in turn, lifted her gilt-rimmed teacup and clicked it against the bottle's neck. "To Lucie."

"You gonna call Zach?"

"I guess I should. So he can start getting a crew together."

Sabrina rolled up the plans, put the rubber band around them, and stuck them back in the cardboard tube.

"I do have some questions about a few details," she said. "Such as the crown molding in the tearoom. And the floors in the tearoom and museum. Also, Titania told me she'd like to add an island topped with a marble slab for rolling out pastry dough in the kitchen."

He nodded. "Good to get those little details straightened out right away, before construction starts."

She thought she heard laughter in his tone. Knew she saw it in his bright eyes.

"I'm not fooling you for a minute, am I?"

"Nope," he admitted. "But then again, my sister called to fill me in while I was down in Atlanta, so I had sort of a head start, so to speak."

"Any feelings I might possibly have for Zach are not why I've decided to follow up on Lucie's dream."

He immediately sobered. "I'd never think that of you, Sabrina. Or of Zach."

"Okay." She blew out a breath. "Well. It looks as if we're in business."

She watched him walk out to the SUV parked in the circular crushed-shell drive, then picked up the phone to call Zach but decided no, that pretending to call about floors, or molding, or countertops, or any of the million other things that would be bound to dominate their conversation for the next several months was the coward's way out.

"He thinks of you as a planner," she reminded herself. "A plotter. Who makes lists and checks things off one by one. A boring, unimaginative drone who's never done an impulsive thing in your life. Well, at least not since you were sixteen."

The disgusting thing was, that was mostly true. She'd chosen her path early in life and never wavered, never looked off to the side to see if there might be something more exciting. More pleasurable.

Unlike those people who found the unfamiliarity of hotels unsettling, to Sabrina a hotel had always been the closest thing, other than Swannsea, to home. It was where she'd caught up with her parents during those brief school breaks when they would send her plane tickets and deign to spend a few days with their only daughter.

Most of her time had been spent with the hotel staff, since her mother was a firm believer in using social occasions for networking and her father was always up for a party. Probably because with his larger-than-life personality, he'd always held center stage.

But being ignored hadn't bothered her all that much, because when they weren't out, they were always sleeping until noon, and fighting hangovers and each other the rest of the time.

Meanwhile, she was treated to behind-the-scenes hotel life, which she found both fascinating and reassuring because, she discovered, a well-run hotel—and her parents frequented only the best—made everything seem effortless, with every contingency was planned for.

By the time she was ten years old, she'd decided that if such a precise system worked for running a hotel, why couldn't it work for her life?

For the most part it had. What she hadn't planned for was losing both her parents and her grandmother unexpectedly, having a suicide bomber decide to make his radical statement at her hotel, and ending up back here on the island at the same time as Zach Tremayne.

Zach, who undoubtedly considered her one of the most boring, rigid women he'd ever met in his life.

"There's nothing wrong with being organized," she assured herself. "I'll bet SEALs never go off on a mission without a detailed battle plan."

Still, how long had it been since she'd done something not only impulsive but reckless?

How about eleven years?

Well, maybe it was time.