Summer in Eclipse Bay (Eclipse Bay #3)

"Stay out of it, Mitch," Sullivan said. "Things will get sorted out a whole lot easier if you don't interfere."

"Shoot and damn." Mitchell stabbed at some weeds with his trowel. He could hear the muted background noises of a vehicle in motion. Sullivan was calling from the backseat of the limo. "The whole blamed town is talking about her."

"Presumably the whole town is also talking about Nick."

"Well, sure, but that's different. He's a Harte. Around here everyone talks about you Hartes and us Madisons."

"If she's going to marry Nick, she'd better get used to being a subject of conversation there in Eclipse Bay."

Progress at last, Mitchell thought. The tough old bastard had at least used the word marry and Nick's name in the same sentence. He stopped assaulting weeds and tapped the trowel absently against a stake. "Just so long as he doesn't cut and run."

"You ever known a Harte to cut and run?"

"Nah. You're all too damn stubborn."

"Sort of like you Madisons, eh?"

"I reckon."

There was a short silence on the other end.

"Just got to hang on until dawn, Mitch," Sullivan said quietly.

The trowel went still in Mitchell's hands. The words echoed in his mind, bringing back the old memories. Just got to hang on until dawn.

He pocketed the trowel and pushed himself up off the low gardener's bench. Grabbing his cane, he made his way along the graveled path that wound between the richly planted flowerbeds, heading toward the greenhouse.

But it wasn't the glorious blooms of his roses that he saw in his mind now. Instead he was suddenly hit with visions of the ominous, eerie green of a jungle plunging inevitably into darkness. It would be a night in which death stalked at every hand. There would be no hope of rescue until dawn.

Survival that night had depended on silence and not giving in to the panic. Most of all, it had depended on being able to trust the man who guarded his back and whose back he, in turn, had guarded.

Just got to hang on until dawn were the last words that he and Sullivan had spoken to each other before they had settled in to keep watch in silence for the duration of that night.

The words had become a private code, a vow made between two young men who had gone through hell together. Neither he nor Sullivan would have made it until dawn if it hadn't been for the other and they both knew it. Just got to hang on until dawn meant You can count on me. I'm with you here. We'll get through this together. You can trust me, buddy.

He shoved the old images back into the furthest corners of his mind and concentrated on the present. He opened the door of his greenhouse and stepped inside.

"You got your list finished?" he asked.

"Yes, but it's damn short. You?"

"Same here. Most of the folks who were involved in Harte-Madison at the time have either moved away or died. There was our secretary, Angie, remember her?"

"Sure," Sullivan said. "But she died ten or twelve years ago. We both went to the funeral."

"Her son still lives here in town. Took over the hardware store."

"I can't see any connection. He wasn't even born when Claudia was with us. Besides, Claudia didn't do his mother any harm other than indirectly put her out of a job when the company went under. Angie wasn't all that upset about losing her position, as I recall. She went to work for George Adams and later married him. Who else have you got on your list?"

Mitchell fished the little notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. He rattled off the names of the handful of other people who had been directly or indirectly connected with Harte-Madison in the old days. He paused when he came to the last person on his list.

"There is one more," he said slowly. He read the name aloud. "Remember him?"

"Hell, yes. He's on my list, too."

"You know, for a while I thought maybe he was the one who had screwed us."

"That's because you were so dazzled by Claudia that you couldn't see straight. You were willing to blame anyone else except her."

"Yeah, well, later when I got to thinking straight again."

"Think she cut him in on some of the action? Made him an offer he couldn't refuse so he'd cover up for her?"

"Something like that," Mitchell said.

They talked for a while longer, comparing notes, going over different scenarios, and eliminating other possibilities. At last they were both satisfied that they had a possible answer.

Neither of them was very happy about it.

"I'm not gonna take this to Nick and Octavia on my own," Mitchell said. "What if we're wrong?"

"I don't think we're wrong, but either way this is going to be very unpleasant for everyone concerned. Sit tight. Carson and I will arrive sometime around noon. What do you say we keep this to ourselves until after the Children's Art Show tonight? I don't want to go upsetting everyone and spoil the big event. No reason this can't wait until tomorrow morning."

"Yeah," Mitchell said. "No reason to ruin the fun tonight."

Nick sat in the old wooden porch rocker, heels stacked on the railing, and watched the gleaming black limo coast slowly toward him down the long drive.

He did not like the conclusions he had reached after his conversation with Mrs. Burke that afternoon, but he had to admit that when he put the pieces together, everything fit.

The only problem now was how and when to confront the suspect.

It was going to be an extremely delicate operation, he thought. The reputation of an upstanding member of the community was at stake. And much as he would like to do so, he couldn't see any way to hush things up, not if Octavia was to be completely vindicated. And she was his top priority in this affair.

The truth would have to come out, he thought, watching the limo pick its way along the unpaved drive. He sure as hell was not going to let the cloud of rumor and suspicion hang over Octavia indefinitely. Someone had to take the fall and it wasn't going to be her. Which meant that there was no way around the unpleasantness that lay ahead.

The limo drifted to a halt in front of the cottage. The rear doors snapped open before the driver could extricate himself from behind the wheel.

"Dad." Carson pelted toward him at a hundred miles an hour. "Dad, we're back."

Sullivan levered himself out of the other side of the vehicle, cane in hand, and started around the rear of the car.

Nick looked at Carson running toward him. My son.

And then Carson was in his arms and he was swinging his boy around in the familiar greeting ritual.