“You want to be my client? It’ll cost you big bucks.”
“My father was rich, not me. I don’t have a cent.”
“What about your husband? He’s a big tycoon lawyer, isn’t he?”
She stood up like a shot. “I think you should leave now, Mr. Quinlan. Perhaps it’s just because you’re a private detective and it’s your job to ask questions, but you’ve crossed the line. I’m none of your business. Forget what you saw on TV. Very little of it was true. Please go.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be in The Cove for another week. You might ask your aunt if she remembers two old folk named Harve and Marge Jensen. They were in a new red Winnebago, and they probably drove into town to buy some of the World’s Greatest Ice Cream. Like I told you, the reason I’m here is because their son hired me to find them. It’s been over three years since they disappeared.” Although he’d already asked Amabel himself, he wanted Sally to ask her as well. He’d be interested to see if she thought her aunt was lying.
“I’ll ask her. Good-bye, Mr. Quinlan.”
She dogged him to the front door, which, thankfully, was still attached to its ancient hinges.
“I’ll see you again, Sally,” he said, gave her a small salute, and walked up the well-maintained sidewalk.
The temperature had dropped. A storm was blowing in. He had a lot to do before it hit. He quickened his step. So her husband was off-limits. Was she scared of him? She wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but the evidence of one had been in that thick white line on her finger.
He’d really blundered—that wasn’t like him. Usually he was very cautious, very careful, particularly with someone like her, someone fragile, someone who was teetering right on the brink.
Nothing seemed straightforward now that he’d met Susan St. John, that thin young woman who was terrified of a dead man who had called her on the phone.
He wondered how long it would be before Susan St. John discovered he’d lied through his teeth. It was possible she would never find out. Just about everything he knew was in the file the FBI had assembled on her. If she found out he knew more than had ever been dished out to the public, would she take off? He hoped not. He was curious now about those human cries she’d heard in the middle of the night. Maybe her aunt had been right and she had dreamed it—being in a new place, she had every reason to be jumpy. And she had admitted to having a nightmare. Who the hell knew?
He looked around at the beautiful small houses on either side of the street. There were flowers and low shrubs planted just about everywhere, all protected from the ocean winds with high-sided wooden slats on the western side. He imagined that storms off the ocean could devastate just about any plant alive. The people were trying.
He still didn’t like the town, but it didn’t seem so much like a Hollywood set anymore. Actually it didn’t look at all like Teresa’s hometown in Ohio. There was an air of complacency about it that didn’t put him off. He had a sense that everyone who lived here knew their town was neat and lovely and quaint. The townspeople had thought about what they wanted to do and they’d done it. The town had genuine charm and vitality, he’d admit that, even though he hadn’t seen a single child or young person since he’d driven in some three hours before.
It was late at night when the storm blew in. The wind howled, rattling the windows. Sally shivered beneath the mound of blankets, listening to the rain slam nearly straight down, pounding the shingled roof. She prayed there were no holes in the roof, even though Amabel had said earlier, “Oh, no, baby. It’s a new roof. Had it put on just last year.”
How long could she remain here with Amabel? Now that she was safe, now that she was hidden, she was free to think about the future, at least a future of more than one day’s duration. She thought about next week, about next month.
What was she going to do? That phone call—it had yanked her right back to the present, and to the past. It had been her father’s voice, no question about that. A tape, just like James Quinlan had said, a tape of a mimic.
Suddenly there was a scream, long and drawn out, starting low and ending on a crescendo. It was coming from outside the house.
She ran toward her aunt’s bedroom, not feeling the cold wooden floor beneath her bare feet, no, just running until she forced herself to draw up and tap lightly on the door.
Amabel opened the door as if she’d been standing right there, waiting for her to knock. But that wasn’t possible, surely.
She grabbed her aunt’s arms and shook her. “Did you hear the scream, Amabel? Please, you heard it, didn’t you?”