Close to the Bone (Widow's Island Novella Book 1) Page 3

  “Get in the chair, and put your head down.” Henry guided him into the seat of the chair. He wanted the man to lie on the floor, but he suspected Rex would refuse. The author bent over and didn’t protest when Henry took his wrist again. “Breathe deep and slow.” Henry looked over his shoulder at Cate, who frowned at the two of them. Is she worried about his health or analyzing his reaction to our news?

  “I’ll get you some water.” Dustin vanished in the direction of the kitchen.

  Henry wished he had a blood pressure cuff. “If you’re not having chest pains, I suspect it was a rapid drop in blood pressure.”

  “No pain anywhere,” Rex admitted, staring at the floor between his knees.

  Thank God.

  “I’m a fan,” Henry said, and he heard Cate softly snort behind him. “I’ve read every book you’ve written.”

  “Are you my biggest fan?” Rex muttered, alluding to a psychotic-fan quote from a well-known Stephen King novel.

  Henry grinned. The author making jokes was a good sign. “Definitely not.”

  “Good. Part of the reason I live here is to avoid the crazies.” Rex took another deep breath and gingerly raised his head. “Dizziness seems to be better.”

  Cate pulled a chair to Rex’s side and sat. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “I’d like to do the same to you,” the author said gruffly, eyeing the woman. “And the doc here.” He turned to Henry. “You don’t need to be a medical examiner to tell me if the . . . remains . . . had braces.”

  Henry looked at Cate, who gave a quick nod.

  “There were braces on the teeth, but”—he spoke quickly as Rex’s face fell—“Becca isn’t the only teenage girl missing from the area who was wearing braces at the time.”

  “What?” Shock rocked Rex back in his chair. “Why wasn’t I informed that more girls have vanished?” Dustin appeared with Rex’s water, and the author took several large gulps.

  “The other girl disappeared nearly fifteen years before Becca disappeared,” Cate said. “She’s never been found.”

  Rex drew his eyebrows together, forming a thick black line that contrasted with his gray hair. “I remember hearing about that when Becca went missing, but didn’t she fall off the Widow’s Walk?”

  “Her coat was found at the top of Widow’s Walk,” agreed Cate. “But . . . her body wasn’t found below.”

  “There are rocks and rough water at the bottom,” stated Rex. “She probably washed out to sea.”

  Henry carefully watched Cate. Her face was blank. No outward indication of pain from speaking about her friend’s disappearance. But he’d spotted a flash in her blue eyes. A momentary glimpse of her struggle to hold it together.

  “That was one of the working theories,” Cate admitted. “It’s why they built a fence at the top of the Widow’s Walk cliff.”

  “Should have been a fence there decades before,” Rex added. “How long will it take to determine if this is Becca?” He looked sick to his stomach, and Henry knew it wasn’t from the dizziness. “The county and FBI both have her dental records and DNA samples from her mother and me on file.”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” Cate said. “I’ve skimmed through some of the digital notes on Becca’s disappearance. I haven’t had time to read everything we have . . . can you tell me about the day she vanished?”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve recited that story?” Rex asked in a ragged voice. “How many times I’ve run it through my head as I search for something I missed? It’s haunted me for over two years.”

  “Humor me,” Cate requested kindly. “I want to hear it directly from you.”

  Rex took a long drink of water, his gaze growing distant. Henry watched the pulsating vein in his neck, wondering if Rex’s heart rate would spike again. His breathing had calmed, and his color was better.

  “It was summer. No school. I let her take the boat to meet up with some friends.”

  “Wait,” Henry interjected. “Wasn’t she a little young for that?”

  “Fourteen-year-olds can get a boater education card in the state of Washington,” Cate said. “It’s common with islanders.”

  Too young. Henry could easily imagine the stupid things he and his friends would have done with the freedom of having a boat.

  “She was a good driver. Responsible and smart about it,” Rex said. “I was comfortable letting her take it on calm days. No boating in the dark. She didn’t come back when she was supposed to, and she didn’t answer her phone. When it grew dark, I knew something was wrong and called the sheriff’s office.”

  Henry sat very still. How hard is this for him?

  Rex continued in a monotone, his eyes staring past them. “They found the boat at the marina in Bishop Bay, not far from the ferry landing. She’d had permission to go to Harlot Harbor to meet her friends. It’s a straight shot from here.”

  Bishop Bay is a good half hour by boat from Harlot Harbor. She drove the boat around the southeast point of the island.

  “Her phone was found on the boat,” he went on. “The sheriff suspected she’d ridden the ferry to the mainland, but she didn’t show up on the camera footage.” He turned to look out the window toward the lights of Harlot Harbor. “They theorized she might have hidden in a vehicle for the ferry ride. The cameras wouldn’t have seen her on the floor in a back seat . . . or in the trunk.

  “Her friends said she’d agreed to meet them but never showed. There were a dozen texts on her phone, asking when she’d arrive. They were all unanswered.” He took a deep breath. “They searched far and wide, but nothing ever came of it. It was as if she’d vanished into thin air.”

  He closed his eyes. “Daphne blamed me. It was my decision to live here. Neither she nor Becca were happy on the island. My wife was right; it was my fault.” He opened his eyes and looked directly at Cate. “Guilt like that eats away at your gut and brain. It ages you, and you wonder if you’re better off dead. But I can’t die . . . Becca could come back, and I wouldn’t be here for her.”

  Henry couldn’t speak. There were no words to comfort Rex. No words to alleviate his guilt. The author was drowning in remorse.

  Rex pointed at a family portrait on an end table, and Henry picked it up. A happy family smiled at him. Becca looked to be about twelve in the picture, and Rex’s hair was a salt-and-pepper mix, not the solid gray of today. He studied Daphne, wondering how hard it’d been for Rex’s wife to leave the island. She looked kind, vulnerable. He silently handed the photo to Cate. Her lips tightened as she studied the faces.

  “Originally the island was just a summer home for you, correct?” she asked, still examining the picture.

  “Yes. But I decided to stay permanently when Becca was eleven. My brain felt clear and light here. It was easier to breathe, and my writing flowed. The isolation was hard on Daphne, but she made friends on Widow’s Island and tried to stay social. Becca went to school and had friends, but both of them talked about life back in New York. They would go back for several weeks at a time on vacation.”

  “You didn’t go?” Henry asked.

  “I went a few times, but I couldn’t relax.” He frowned. “It’s as if the islands have become part of me. I feel off balance and empty when I’m gone.”

  Understanding flashed in Cate’s eyes as she slowly nodded.

  Ridiculous. He’s just scared to leave.

  “Can I go see her?” Rex looked from Henry to Cate.

  “That’s not a good idea,” answered Cate. “The scene is being processed.”

  He’s already convinced it’s Becca.

  Cate’s phone dinged. She glanced at the screen, did a double take, and opened the message. She studied a photo for a few seconds and then cleared her throat. “Mr. Conan . . . do you recognize this bracelet? It was . . . with the remains.” She held the phone out to Rex.

  Henry moved to look over Rex’s shoulder, not caring that it was none of his business. Dirt had been ground into the hollows of the brac
elet’s large glass beads. They were pale blues, greens, and pinks. Rust encrusted the metal clasp. Rex stared for a long time.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Daphne might.”

  “I don’t want to send her the photo without speaking with her first,” Cate said. “Can you give me her phone number?”

  Rex recited the digits as he continued to stare at the photo.

  Henry looked at the portrait he’d set back on the table. Becca wore a few bracelets, but they were black thin cords.

  Rex handed Cate’s phone to Dustin. He looked at the bracelet photo and shook his head.

  “I thought you moved here after Becca disappeared,” Cate said. “Why do you think Dustin could recognize a bracelet, Mr. Conan?”

  “Ever since I finished building the house, Dustin would spend weeks at a time here. My brother and his wife did too.” He gave a half smile. “Dustin was Becca’s official chauffeur when he visited.” He shrugged. “It was worth letting him take a look.”

  “Of course.” Cate stood, signaling the interview was over. “I’ll be in touch later today, Mr. Conan.” She paused. “I’m very sorry to interrupt your night.”

  “As if I sleep anyway,” he said without emotion. “Dustin can guide you back.”

  They said their goodbyes and left the home, stepping out into the cold November air. No one talked. Henry paused halfway up the cliff stairs, breathing hard, and looked back at the glowing mansion.

  Money doesn’t guarantee happiness.

  5

  The next morning, the wood floors chilled Cate’s bare feet as she headed to her grandmother’s kitchen, seeking the source of the coffee aroma that filled the home. Cate had grown up in her grandmother’s house, and her feet recognized every small imperfection in the floors. She avoided the board that still squeaked near the stove and headed straight for the coffee pot. She’d been home for less than a week, and it felt as if she’d never left. She wasn’t the only returning child; her brother, Logan, had recently come back to the island, but his work hours as a park ranger were long, and he lived in a cabin on-site. Cate had barely seen him.

  She tightened her bathrobe and looked out the large window of the kitchen. Frost decorated the needles of the pines. The charming home had been built in the early part of the last century by Elias Bishop for his lover, Ruby, and it’d been handed down through the generations. The small house on Ruby’s Island had been a retreat for the lovers, but this was Ruby’s formal home.

  The home wasn’t big and stunning like the Bishop mansion Elias had built for his wife, Camilla; this one had more character. Cate wished she could have heard the explosive gossip when the islanders had realized Elias wasn’t building an additional home to sell—it was for his lover.

  “Good morning, sweetie!” Jane Sutton stepped out of the butler’s pantry with a plate of cinnamon rolls in her hands as Cate poured coffee into her favorite delicate childhood teacup.

  “Morning, Jane.” Her grandmother insisted her grandkids use her first name.

  Jane planted a kiss on her cheek as she hustled past to set the rolls on the table.

  No worry about losing weight while I stay here.

  Cate sat down and plopped a roll on her plate. They were still warm. She sighed in contentment.

  “So what happened in the middle of the night?” Jane pulled up a chair and fastened an eager gaze on Cate. “I heard you come back in around five this morning.”

  Cate had fallen asleep as soon as her head had hit her pillow.

  “Bones of a young woman were found on Ruby’s Island.”

  Jane froze, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. “Whose?” Her eyes darkened.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Could it be Samantha?” Jane whispered, leaning toward Cate as she set down her cup.

  Cate swallowed hard, the cinnamon roll suddenly dry in her mouth, and took two sips of coffee to make her tongue function. “Could be. You know Rex Conan’s daughter went missing two years ago. I think it’s more likely to be Becca Conan, since she was found near her home.”

  Jane ran a hand over her long gray ponytail, blinking rapidly. “Is her father a suspect?”

  “That’s jumping ahead, but of course we’ll talk to him.” Cate didn’t mention that she’d met the man last night. The heavy aura of sorrow around Rex and his home kept her lips shut.

  “What’s next?”

  “Well, we need to get the bones to an anthropologist and have someone compare the dental records to Becca Conan . . . and Samantha. Any word on the ferry yet?”

  Jane shook her head. “They’re saying at least another twenty-four hours before it’s running again. My circle put the word out to let us know if the breakdown has caused issues for anyone; we’ll find them a ride. So far, no one is hurting from the lack of service.” Her eyes twinkled. “Most of the islanders just shrug. We like to believe we don’t need anything from the mainland, you know.”

  “Complaints don’t start until the Black Tail Bakery runs out of coffee.”

  “Damn right.”

  “The ferry is already causing an issue with this investigation,” said Cate. “I shouldn’t be handling this case since I’m on medical leave, and we need to get the remains to the right sets of eyes. At least I can review the old cases from our database.”

  “They’re lucky you were on the island.”

  “I’m sure Tessa could have handled everything.”

  “She can’t access the FBI’s information.”

  “True,” Cate admitted. “I’m going to work from home. There’s no point in working out of the sheriff’s office in North Sound. They have two desks in a space smaller than your dining room. I’ll just be in the way.”

  “I have a meeting with my circle today. Let me know if we need to get the word out about anything.”

  Cate nodded. Jane was the head of the Widow’s Knitting and Activist group. Thirty years ago the group had taken its name from the island, but now—oddly or creepily—all the women were widows. The fact was amusing to most of the islanders but not funny to several of the married island men. The group would knit while discussing projects to improve life on the island. The topics ranged from recycling to domestic abuse to the island’s rampant drug problem. The group set lofty goals and got shit done.

  “We finally got a doctor,” Jane said. “I haven’t met him yet, but all the gossip has been positive. His nurse is a cute little thing from Oregon—Julie something. She’s engaged to our newest deputy. Perhaps one of them could look at the remains and give their opinion—something to at least point you in a direction.”

  “I met Dr. Powers last night,” said Cate, focusing on her cinnamon roll. “He’s also the county coroner.”

  “Hmmm. Well, that’s good. What did he think?”

  With her mouth full, Cate looked up. Jane’s blue eagle-eyed gaze was fastened on her granddaughter. Cate recognized that intense look from her childhood. It meant she or Logan was in trouble, or else Jane had come up with a mission. Since Cate and Logan were now adults, she assumed Jane had stumbled across a new task for her group.

  “He said it was female and possibly a teenager. He asked to see the dental records today and wants another look in better light.”

  Jane massaged her hands, eyeing the lanky, bony fingers. “My arthritis has acted up this winter. Knitting is getting harder and harder. I wonder if he’d have some suggestions to help with the pain. I should make an appointment.”

  Cate studied her grandmother’s hands, remembering how they could knead dough or whip through skeins of yarn. The knuckles were more pronounced than she remembered, and the skin was looser. Jane still sat straight as a pole and held her head proudly. Cate’s heart swelled with love. Jane had raised her and Logan. Their mother was flighty. Cate’s father had died soon after she was born, and Jane said her mother had never recovered. When Cate was ten, her mother had left her children behind and moved to Arizona for year-round sun.

  Long ago Jane had said, “
Don’t be angry with your mother. She never felt she belonged here. The islands never spoke to her heart; they aren’t for everyone. She needed to leave for her own mental health.”

  But a small amount of resentment still simmered in Cate’s gut. What kind of mother abandons her kids? An immature one who acted like a rebellious teen instead of a responsible adult.

  She suspected that Jane had stepped in and insisted that the children stay behind. She and Logan had grown up in a warm, loving home thanks to Jane.

  “I didn’t realize your hands hurt,” Cate said.

  “It’s nothing.” Jane tucked her hands under the table. “How’s that shoulder and head of yours healing?”

  Cate shrugged her good shoulder, and Jane’s eyes narrowed. “You taking your pain medication?”

  “When I need it.”

  “Stay ahead of the pain,” Jane said sternly, but her expression softened. “In a way I’m glad this case landed in your lap. It will distract you . . .”

  Distract me from Stephen’s death.

  Cate closed her eyes. The door. The shots. The blood. A dark void swirled in her brain and sucked the air out of her lungs.

  “Cate!”

  Panic shot up her throat, and her lids flew open. Jane had stood and was leaning across the table, worry etched across her forehead. “I thought you were going to pass out.”

  “I’m fine,” Cate said automatically as her heart pounded out of control.

  “Mmph.” Jane slowly sat, her attention never leaving her granddaughter. “No one who has been shot is fine. It takes work to heal emotionally from that.”

  “I already talked to the psychiatrist.”

  “I know. But two sessions aren’t enough.”

  “It wasn’t helping. I just need some time alone.” Cate’s brain walled off the past, protecting her thoughts. If three weeks ago is considered the past.

  Jane reached across the table and took Cate’s hand with a gentle smile. “I’m glad you’re home. You’ll heal here on the island. Give it time to work its magic.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” She gave a flat laugh. “But I hadn’t planned on working.”