He pushed open the door to the gallery. A muted laugh tinkled out, followed by a deep chuckle that grated down Gregory's spine. He paused, holding the door half shut so the greeting bell wouldn't alert Abby and Zack. The murmur of their voices floated out from the back room. Zack laughed again. Gregory eased the door open, trying to slide in before it opened wide enough to set off the bell. He was halfway through when it chimed.
The voices in the back room stopped suddenly. Zack peeked around the corner, saw who it was, then said something to Abby, too low for Gregory to hear. The intern backed out of the studio.
'Ab? I'll grab coffee on my way back, OK?'
Abby appeared from the back room, carrying a wrapped canvas, and beamed a smile at Zack. 'Perfect. Thanks.'
As Zack strode out the front door, he slid a half-smirk Gregory's way, as if being allowed to play errand boy for Abby was some great honour Gregory could only dream of. Art student, my ass. The kid looked as if he should be riding the waves, not painting them. Not that Gregory cared. If Abby wanted to play teacher with California's Picasso, she was welcome to him. He only hoped the kid wouldn't cause trouble later.
'I sold the new Martin's Point oil,' Abby said, laying the canvas on the counter. 'Got the asking price, too. A couple from Chicago. Once they heard the exchange rate, they didn't care to dicker.'
'Good, good. I just stopped by to make sure everything was OK before I left for my meeting.'
'You'll be staying for the weekend, I assume.'
Being little more than an hour from Halifax, there was no need for him to stay the weekend, and they both knew it, just as they knew that he usually stayed, and why he usually stayed. Yet Abby asked as casually as she'd ask whether he'd take Highway 3 or 103, a matter of no interest to her either way. The thread of anger that rippled through him surprised him, as it always did, and, in surprising him, only angered him more.
'Yes, I'll be staying the weekend. With a friend.'
He hated himself for tacking that on the end, hated himself for studying her reaction, and hated her even more for not giving one.
'Don't forget we're having dinner at the Greenways' on Sunday,' she said. 'Eight o'clock.'
'I'll be there.'
She nodded, then disappeared into the back room. He stifled the urge to call out a goodbye, turned on his heel and left.
'You've reached the voice-mail of Gregory Keith—'
Abby sighed and hung up.
'Still no answer?' Zack asked as he flipped the gallery 'OPEN' sign to 'CLOSED'.
'He must have turned off his cell. Maybe he's still in a meeting.'
Zack cast a pointed look into the darkening night. 'Uh-huh.'
'Sometimes his meetings run late,' she offered lamely. 'I'll try once more from home, then call Mr Strom back and tell him we're still considering his offer.'
She turned off the main lights as Zack locked the front door. He followed her into the studio, and trailed out the back door after her.
'Go,' Gregory hissed.
Deanna lurched from behind the bushes as Abby parked at the top of the long drive. Gregory had to squint to see her. For a half-mile in either direction, the only lights were the security floods beaming on to the renovated farmhouse.
Abby climbed from her car. She started to lock it, then stopped, seeing Deanna stumbling up the drive-way, her clothes torn and bloodstained. From this distance Gregory couldn't see his wife's expression, but he could imagine it. Eyes wide, mouth dropping open, a whispered 'oh'.
Abby jogged down the driveway towards Deanna. Smatterings of their conversation drifted to him.
'—accident – help—'
Abby gestured at the house. '—911 –?' She didn't have a cellphone, hated them.
Deanna grabbed Abby's arm, her voice shrill with panic. '—son – trapped – please—'
Then Abby did what Gregory knew she'd do. She followed Deanna. When Deanna stumbled, Abby grabbed her arm and draped it around her shoulders, supporting the injured woman. Very heroic. Also very stupid, because, when she reached the shadows of the cedar hedge, all Deanna had to do was trip Abby then throw her weight on top of her, and Abby went down. Deanna shoved a chloroform-soaked cloth over Abby's mouth and nose, and she stayed down.
Deanna turned towards Gregory's hiding spot, but he didn't step out. Not yet. First, he was making damned sure Abby was out cold. If anything went wrong, Deanna's face would be the only one she remembered seeing. He motioned for Deanna to slap Abby. She did. When Abby didn't move, Deanna slapped her again, the sound cracking through the silence.
'I think that's enough, my dear,' Gregory said, stepping from the bushes.
He tossed Deanna the rope and watched her tie Abby up. Then he took over.
Deanna slapped Abby again, the sound echoing the rhythmic smack of the waves against the boat hull. Gregory shifted, fighting the growing worm of pique in his gut. She wasn't waking up. What if she didn't? He'd have to go through with it, of course, killing her, but he'd really hoped she'd be awake. He wanted her to see who wielded the knife, to regain the power she'd sucked from him over the years.
Gregory grabbed the knife.
'I'll wake her—'
Deanna snatched it from his hand. 'No, let me.'
Deanna lowered the knife tip to Abby's cheek and pressed it against her pale skin. A single drop of blood welled up. Abby's eyes flew open. Gregory reached for the knife, but Abby bucked suddenly, startling them both, and the knife clattered to the deck. Abby jerked against her bonds, wriggling wildly. Deanna dived to hold her down. In the struggle, Deanna's foot knocked the knife across the deck.
'Don't!' Gregory said. 'She's tied. She's not going anywhere.'
Deanna nodded and pulled back from Abby. She looked around, gaze going to the knife by the cabin door.
'I'll get that,' Deanna said.
As she pushed to her feet, Gregory took her place, and loomed over his terrified wife.
'Ah, now she's afraid,' he said, smiling down at her. 'Smart girl. Don't worry. This won't hurt a bit.' He grinned. 'It'll hurt a lot.'
'Gregory?' Deanna said behind him.
His lips tightened at the interruption. He turned to her. 'What?'
'Yesterday you asked if I was looking forward to this. I said I wasn't.' She bit her lip, looking sheepish. 'Well, I just wanted to let you know, I lied. We are looking forward to this.'
'Good. Now—' He stopped. 'We –?'
Deanna smiled. Her gaze moved over his shoulder.
'Yes,' she said. 'We.'
He turned, following her gaze. Behind him, Abby sat up, tugging the rope from her wrists.
'Wha—?' he began.
Something cracked against the side of his head. He stumbled and managed to turn just enough to see Deanna raise the fire extinguisher again. She swung it.
Abby and Deanna stood at the side of the boat, watching Gregory's body sink into the inky water. A late-night fog was rolling in, a dense grey blanket barely pierced by the distant lighthouse beam.
'You're sure he won't wash up on shore?' Deanna asked, nibbling her thumbnail.
'Which way is the tide going, hon?' Abby asked gently.
'Out. Right. You said that. I forgot. Sorry.'
'That's OK. You did a good job.'
Good, but not perfect, Abby thought as she bent to wipe a smear of blood from the deck. She'd have to treat that later. If the first blow had succeeded, there wouldn't be any blood. It took a second hit to the head to induce bleeding. But Deanna hadn't known that and Abby hadn't thought to mention it and, really, it wasn't as if Abby would have changed her mind when the first blow failed.
She stood to see Deanna frowning as she squinted overboard, trying to see Gregory's body through the fog.
'It's OK, hon,' Abby said. 'He's definitely heading out to sea and will be for a few hours yet. Even if he does eventually wash up on shore, it won't be near here.'
'But they'll identify him, won't they?'
'Yes. But then what? He wasn't shot. He wasn't stabbed. He hit his head and drowned. Happens all the time. Even if they suspect something, it can't be linked to us. We were careful.'
'You're right,' Deanna said, forcing a small smile. 'You're always right.'
Abby walked to Deanna, smiling. 'Not always. I married that bastard, didn't I?'
She put her arms around Deanna's neck and leaned in. Their lips met. Deanna's parted, hesitant at first, as always, as if unsure, maybe still a little shocked at herself. A minister's daughter in spite of everything, Abby thought. She kept the kiss gentle and tentative, their lips barely touching. After a moment, Deanna tried to pull Abby closer, but she held back, teasing Deanna with modest kisses.
Abby reached down to the bottom of Deanna's blouse and began to unbutton it, her hands moving as slow as her lips. Deanna gave a soft growl of impatience, but Abby only chuckled. Only when the blouse was fully unbuttoned did Abby let her hands touch Deanna's skin. She pressed her fingertips against Deanna's stomach, then traced twin lines up her ribcage. She cupped Deanna's bare breasts, and slid her thumbs over her hard nipples. Deanna groaned, grabbed the back of Abby's head and kissed her, all shyness gone. As Abby returned the kiss, heat throbbed through her. Perhaps just once more . . . But no. She couldn't.
She wrapped her hands in Deanna's hair and eased her back a step. Deanna's balance faltered. She tore her lips from Abby's to shout a warning that she was too close to the edge of the boat. But Abby already knew that.
She put her hands around Deanna's wrist and thrust her away. Deanna started to fall. She grabbed blindly and caught Abby's charm bracelet, but the clasp came apart. Deanna's arms windmilled as she fell over the edge.
Abby walked to the back of the boat and pulled up the anchor. In the water below Deanna thrashed and screamed. As Abby headed to the cabin, she looked down to see Deanna frantically trying to get a hold on the smooth side of the boat.
'I can't swim!' Deanna shouted.
'Yes,' Abby said. 'I know.'
She walked into the cabin and started the engine. She moved the boat out of Deanna's reach, then waited and watched as Deanna's blond head bobbed like a beacon through the fog. When Deanna finally sank and didn't resurface, Abby pushed the throttle forward and headed for shore.
Thursday, August 20
Abby parked at the top of the driveway and she rubbed her hands over her face. God, she was so sick of playing the distraught wife. How much longer did she have to do this? The last week had seemed endless. Pretending to look up expectantly each time the bells chimed over the gallery door. Murmuring 'I'm sure he will' whenever someone reassured her that her missing husband would come home soon. Enduring Zack's constant, mooning 'I'm here for you' glances.
It hadn't taken long for the police to discover that her missing husband had been renting a cottage outside town for his mistress, who was, conveniently, also missing. A quick check of their shared bank accounts showed that Gregory had slowly drained out nearly ten thousand dollars over the last month. That had been Abby's idea, passed through Deanna to Gregory's ear. As Deanna had warned Gregory, he couldn't be seen dipping into the money right after his wife's murder. Better to siphon some out early so they'd have celebration cash during the mourning period. Now, with a missing husband, a missing mistress and missing money, it didn't take a genius to realize Gregory had cut his losses and left. Too bad all their assets were jointly held, meaning his abandoned wife could now use them as she wished. She even had the ten grand in cash Deanna had squirrelled away for them.
Abby grabbed the pile of mail from the passenger seat and climbed out. As she circled around the front of the car, she leafed through the bills, flyers and notes of sympathy. An unfamiliar postage stamp caught her attention. France? Who did she know in France? When she looked at the handwriting on the front she froze. It wasn't possible. It
wasn't.
Hands trembling, Abby tore open the envelope. In her haste, she ripped it too fast and the contents flew out. A postcard sailed to the ground.
'No,' Abby said. 'No!'
Deanna stood by the water's edge, her arms wrapped around her, shivering as a cool night breeze blew off the Mediterranean. Behind her the lights of the French Riviera flickered in the darkness, a scene that nearly matched the one on her postcard . . . the postcard Abby now had.
Deanna felt the sharp edges of the charms biting into her palm. She looked down at the bracelet in her hand. When she'd dived into the ocean, leaving Abby to think she'd drowned, Deanna had still clutched the bracelet. She'd kept it, thinking maybe she'd send it back to Abby as proof that she was alive. But then she'd decided the postcard would be enough . . . the postcard they'd picked out together, when they'd first hatched their plan, when Deanna had still thought – hoped – that Abby and her promises had been real.
Deanna fingered the charms on the bracelet, stopping at the lighthouse. She remembered her last evening with Abby, sitting behind the cover of the lighthouse, dipping their feet in the surf, their clothing strewn over the rocks and bushes. Abby had asked, oh so casually, how well Deanna could swim. And, as accustomed as she was to lies and deceit from her lovers, Deanna still almost fell for it. The truth had been on her lips, ready to tell Abby that she'd been captain of the swim team before she'd dropped out of school. Instead, when she opened her mouth, she heard herself say, 'Me? Can't swim a stroke. Never learned how.'
Deanna had tried to look past it, told herself she was too suspicious. And yet . . . Well, it never hurts to have a plan B.
She let the lighthouse charm fall from her fingers. That had been
her
lucky charm that night, when the unexpected fog rolled in. She'd followed its beam back to shore. Then, before she'd left town, she'd returned to the lighthouse one last time, to leave something for Abby. On the postcard, she written only one line, instructing Abby to look for further 'correspondence' at the 'charmed' place. There, in the very spot where she'd deceived her lover, Abby would find detailed instructions on how to make her penance, on the exact penalty she must pay. The demand was fair. Not enough to send Abby into bankruptcy, just enough to hurt. For every action, there is a price to be paid. Deanna knew that, and, now, so would Abby.