Enright Family Collection (4 page)

“Nah. Too obvious.” Nick shook his head. He’d been over all this ground himself a hundred times over the past five days. “And besides, Chief Carpenter has questioned Kenny—and just about everyone else in Devlin’s Light, for that matter—and he has an airtight alibi. He was on an overnight camp-out with his son’s cub scout troop when Ry was killed, India. And for the record, Kenny has been on the wagon for the past five months.”

“I guess the first thing we have to do is figure out why Ry was there, in the lighthouse, at that hour of the night.”

“I think Chief Carpenter is still working on that.” Nick thought that now would be a good time to remind India that the Devlin’s Light police department had not closed the book on the investigation.

“Nick, I know that you discussed all this with the chief, but would you mind walking me through everything that happened that night? What you saw?”

“Of course not. Where would you like to start?”

“What time did you first notice that something was going on over there?”

“Um, maybe around two, two-ten.”

“And you were where?” Her eyes narrowed as the interrogator in her kicked in.

Nick sighed. Her eyes took on the fervor of one who was about to begin a crusade. Well, he’d expected it. Anyone who was as adept a prosecutor as Ry had said India was would want to be involved in the investigation.

Indy had obviously chosen to begin with him.

“On the deck of the cabin.” He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “I couldn’t sleep. Something woke me up.”

“Do you remember what it was? A noise? A boat out on the bay, maybe? Or maybe lightning?”

“No, there was no storm. Actually, it was a very quiet night. I turned in early—right after the eleven o’clock news—and there was nothing, not even a wave on the bay that I can recall.”

He frowned then, recalling. It had been a moonless night. Totally quiet. All had been still until … until …

“A bird. Took off across the bay squawking as if someone had stepped on its tail.”

“And what time was that—did you look?” She raised an eyebrow, and a smile of satisfaction tugged at the corners of her mouth. There had been no mention of a bird squawking in the police report. She knew there had to be more.

“Yes. It was about one-thirty.”

“What did you do? Did you get up, turn over, what?”

“I think I was sort of half in, half out of sleep for a while. Finally, when I realized that I was not likely to fall back to sleep, I went into the kitchen and got a beer out of the cooler, took it out on the deck and pulled up a chair. Watched the stars. Breathed deeply. Felt glad to be there.”

“Please”—she touched his arm—“maybe if you described it to me, maybe I could try to see what you saw that night.”

“There was a light at the top of the tower. At first I thought I was mistaken, because it was bigger and brighter than a lantern like the one Ry has. And then about ten minutes later, I saw Ry’s lantern light going up the steps.”

“You’re assuming that the second light was Ry’s?”

“I am. And it was his light that I saw come backward
down the steps. The lantern was next to him on the ground when I arrived.”

“When you got to the lighthouse, where was the first light—the one you first saw at the top of the tower?”

“Gone. There was no light when I got there except for Ry’s.”

India digested this for a moment before asking, “But you’re positive there had been one?”

“Absolutely.”

“You said there was maybe ten minutes between the time that you saw the first light and when you saw the second light … Ry’s light?”

“Yes.”

“I know that all of this is in the police report, but I can’t help it—I have to ask, Nick. It’s what I do—question people about crimes. I’m trying very hard not to sound as if I’m interrogating you.”

“I understand. Ry told me you were good at what you do. He bragged about you all the time. About how many convictions you’ve gotten. He was very proud of you.”

“I was very proud of him.” India twisted the small sapphire ring she wore on the middle finger of her right hand. “It is very difficult for me to accept that he is gone, Nick. And harder still that there’s no way of knowing what happened there that night. It’s just so frustrating. I guess I think if I look hard enough, I’ll find something.”

“Indy?” A voice called from the other side of the screen door.

“Yes?” India turned toward it.

“Your cousin Blake is here. Your aunt would like you to please come in.” Patsy Carpenter opened the door and stuck her broad face out. “Oh. Hello, Nick.”

“Hello, Patsy.”

“Indy …”

“I’ll be right in. Thank you.”

The screen door closed softly.

“I’d like to finish this conversation sometime later. That is, if it’s all right with you.”

“Of course.” He watched her unfold from her seat on the opposite side of the porch swing and stood up as she did.

“At your convenience.”

“I just need to
know
, Nick.”

“I understand completely, India.” He watched the afternoon sun cross her cheek as she turned toward the door. “If you think it would help, you’re welcome to come out to the cabin.”

“That’s very kind, Nick. And maybe it would help me to see it in my head. It might be easier if I’m there.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“Thank you.” She nodded and extended a hand to him. “Thank you, Nick. For everything.”

She slipped into the cool of the house, unaware that eyes the color of honey followed her well-fitting black linen sheath as it disappeared through the doorway, or that the man leaning against the porch railing could suddenly think of nothing but the way her golden hair curled around her face.

Chapter 3

India awoke to the sound of ill-mannered gulls squabbling over some luckless fish that, having ventured too far into shallow water, was now a sure bet to end up as breakfast for the gull that emerged victorious from the fray. She could picture it in her mind, having watched countless such seaside struggles over the years. The gull with the fish would be hounded and harassed until it swallowed the prize— often live and whole—or dropped it, leaving others to pursue the catch until one of them got lucky and managed to snatch the meal and fly off with it.

A vast change from the early morning sounds of the city. India smiled wryly as she stretched out her full five-foot-five-inch frame and pushed her toes out from under the light summer throw. There were no street noises to speak of much before noon in Devlin’s Light, unless you counted the sound of the Parson boy’s bike as he slowed down to toss a newspaper onto the front porch. And that wasn’t till around seven or so, so it didn’t really count. In the city, the first-edition newspapers landed on the front steps well before the sun came up, and you were lucky if someone hadn’t lifted your copy by the time you came outside looking for it.

India squinted at the small numbers that circled the hand-painted face of the delicate porcelain clock that stood on the bedside table. Eight o’clock. India could not remember
the last time she had slept till eight o’clock. On a normal workday, she’d be halfway through the documents she would need for court that day. Here in Devlin’s Light, there was no courtroom, no jail beyond the single holding cell where prisoners, mostly DUIs, would be housed till they made bail or were transferred over to the county jail. The crime rate in Devlin’s Light was so low it was almost nonexistent. There were exactly two unsolved crimes in the files of the Devlin’s Light police. One was the theft of the Lannings’ skiff the summer before. The second was the suspicious death of Ry Devlin.

India threw her legs over the side of the bed and sat up in a single motion. For a few minutes she had almost forgotten what had brought her here, to the peace and quiet of a weekday morning in the old house on Darien Road, when this hour of the day would normally find her in a flurry of activity in her busy, noisy office in Paloma. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

Ry.

For the first time in a week she had had almost two minutes of consciousness when she had not thought of Ry. And not thinking of Ry had given her a reason to think of him.

From down the hall she could hear the early morning sounds of a house coming to life. Aunt August, plagued by allergies this time of year, sniffled softly from the front bedroom where she had awakened almost every morning of her life, not counting those four years of college upstate many years ago. Water splashed in the sink in the bathroom next door. Corri washing her face, India guessed. The old faucet squeaked as the water was turned off—as it had squeaked for as long as Indy could remember—and the door opened softly. Corri’s little feet padded lightly on the rag runner that traced the length of the hallway as she returned to her room quietly, as if afraid to disturb anyone.

Indy rose, lifting her arms toward the ceiling to stretch out the kinks. She gathered clothes from her suitcase— cutoff denim jeans and a blue and cream striped T-shirt— and headed for the shower.

By the time India had dressed and made her way downstairs, Aunt August and Corri had already finished their
breakfast in the cozy little nook off the kitchen. India joined them, grateful for the cup of freshly brewed coffee awaiting her.

“It’s a perfect summer day, Indy,” Aunt August said purposefully as she rinsed her breakfast dishes under a stream of steaming water in the kitchen sink. “You and Corri might want to think about taking a picnic down to the beach.”

“Sounds good to me,” India replied. “How ‘bout it, Corri?”

Corri shrugged indifferently.

“There’s lots of good things left over from yesterday.” August paused in the doorway and glanced at the child who was quietly beating a long, thin brown crust of her toast against the side of her plate. “I can pack up some chicken and some salad, some cookies that Liddy made …”

August’s worried eyes caught India’s from above the head of the little girl who was clearly tuning out.

“Do that, Aunt August.” India nodded. “We’ll be ready to go in half an hour. Soon as I finish my breakfast and take a glance at the morning paper.”

Corri looked up at her with wide brown eyes from the opposite side of the table. Without speaking she rose and repeated August’s activity at the sink, rinsing her plate, then her glass, before placing them both in the dishwasher that was one of August’s concessions to modern living in a house whose original section was close to three hundred years old. Without a backward glance, Corri moved like a zombie through the back door into the yard. From the breakfast-room window, August and India watched her as she climbed onto the swing Ry had made for her and hung over a branch of the enormous oak that stood like a sentinel in the far corner of the yard. Pulling against the ropes and pumping her little legs, she propelled herself ever higher, toward the sky.

“I’m almost afraid that one of these days she’ll try to fly right off that swing,” Aunt August told India. “She is so filled with sadness, India, she doesn’t know what to do with it all.”

“She is a very small girl who is being asked to cope with more than most adults could handle.” India stood up and
looked out the window. Corri’s head was tipped back as she sailed to and fro across the morning sky.

“I think she is afraid we will send her away.”

“Send her away? Why would we do that?”

“We wouldn’t. We won’t. But I don’t know that
she
knows that.”

“Well, before today is over,” India said, gathering her plate and her cup, “she will.”

“What do you think, Corri, is this a good spot?” India shaded her eyes from the sun’s glare and dropped the picnic basket on the sand.

“I guess,” Corri replied without enthusiasm.

“Well then, here”—Indy tossed a corner of the old patched quilt in Corri’s direction—“help me to spread this out. … There, that’s fine. Perfect.”

She placed the basket on one corner of the quilt, then knelt upon the worn, soft fabric.

“This old quilt has seen a lot of sand in its day,” India told her. “It was our regular beach blanket. Mine and Ry’s.”

She had decided they needed to speak of him, she and Corri, the sooner the better.

“We used to have picnics just like this. Aunt August even packed us pretty near the same lunch.”

Corri drew a circle in the sand with the toe of her sandal. “Why didn’t your mom?” Corri asked without looking up.

“Why didn’t my mom what, sugar?”

“Why didn’t your mom pack your picnic?”

“My mother died when I was just a baby.”

“Did your mommy drown too?”

“No. She died in the hospital, a few days after an operation.”

“Oh.” Corri pondered this for a few moments, then asked, “And then Aunt August took care of you?”

“Yes. Aunt August was my father’s sister, and she loved us. Just like she loves you and takes care of you.”

Corri appeared to reflect on this but offered no response.

“Want to walk along the water with me?” India kicked off her sandals and took a few steps toward the bay.

“I guess so.” Corri shrugged.

India set out toward the shoreline, an unenthusiastic Corri trailing behind.

“Oh, look, sea glass!” India bent to pick up the piece of wave-worn green glass. She handed it to Corri, who pocketed the offering without looking at it.

“Here’s some mother of pearl.” India lifted the pale, opalescent shell from the water’s edge. “The inside of an oyster shell … they call it ‘mother of pearl’ because pearls grow inside of oysters.”

“I know that,” Corri told her impatiently. “Ry told me.”

“Did Ry used to walk on the beach with you?”

Corri nodded, her face settling into a sad little mask.

“What else did he tell you about the beach?”

“Stuff.” She shrugged her small shoulders under a thin pink T-shirt.

“Like what kind of stuff?” India persisted.

“About different kinds of shells. I used to find them and Ry would tell me what they were.”

“I used to look for shells with Ry too, when I was little.”

“You did?”

“Umm-hmm. Ry was four years older than me, and he was a good teacher.”