You Don't Want To Know

Chapter 5


Ava was hurrying down the main stairs of the house when the phone started ringing. One ring. Two. She was almost in the front hallway when she heard Virginia’s voice as she answered. “Hello . . . oh, yes . . . hello, Mrs. Church . . .

Mrs. Church? Uh-oh. Ava cringed inside as she ran through the possibilities of who the caller might be: her uncle Crispin’s wife, Piper, mother of Jewel-Anne and Jacob? It certainly wasn’t Crispin’s first wife, Regina, the bitter woman who had borne him his first three children: Ian, Trent, and Zinnia. Regina was long dead, the result of an automobile accident in which Uncle Crispin had been at the wheel. He’d survived and shortly thereafter had taken up with Piper. Ava wanted no part of the conversation with Piper.

“. . . of course,” Virginia was saying, and glanced down the hallway where she spied Ava gathering her purse. Shaking her head and waving her off, Ava hoped that the cook would get the message. Of course she didn’t. “She’s right here,” Virginia said brightly. “Just a second.”

With a smile as warm as the frosts of winter, Virginia headed her way. Ava steeled herself.

Thrusting the phone into her hand, the cook announced, “It’s your aunt.”

Perfect. Shooting Virginia a don’t-ever-do-this-to-me-again glare, she yanked the phone to her ear and said, “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God you’re all right! I was so worried after Jewel-Anne called last night.” Piper. In her mind’s eye, Ava conjured her impossibly thin aunt whose flaming red hair shot out of her head like lit firecrackers gone wild, all curly streams that she couldn’t tame without massive amounts of hair straightener. Piper’s fingers would be splayed theatrically over her more-than-ample chest, her breasts out of proportion to the rest of her tiny body.

“I’m fine,” Ava assured her, and sent Virginia’s broad backside a withering look as the cook lumbered toward the kitchen.

“Are you? I can’t tell you how upset I’ve been. Ever since Jewel-Anne called me last night, I’ve been beside myself. I couldn’t decide whether to make this phone call or not; then I said to myself, ‘Ava is your niece, damn it, Piper. You need to call and see how the poor girl is doing.’ ”

“I’m good,” Ava said dryly.

“Oh, how can you be?” Piper asked on a sigh. “After all you’ve been through? I know it’s none of my business, but if I were you, I’d sell that drafty old house, move off that sorry rock, and start over. Most of Wyatt’s business is in Seattle anyway, so why stay on the island and relive that horrible night over and over again? I’m telling you, Ava, you need to do this for your sanity. As long as you stay there, you’ll be forever haunted, and that’s just not healthy, don’t you know? You and Wyatt, you need to have another baby and—Oh my, listen to me ramble. More advice than you ever wanted to hear.”

Amen, Ava thought as her aunt tittered.

“Anyway, I just wanted to hear your voice, find out how you were doing, and I’ll pass it along to your uncle, too. He’s been worried sick!”

Crispin, the brother Ava’s father had swindled out of his share of the Church fortune? Ava didn’t believe for a second that he cared one iota what happened to her, the last of his brother’s progeny.

“Oh, dear, I’ve got another call. We’ll talk later,” Piper said, and clicked off.

Ava hung up with relief and then hurried through the kitchen and out the back door before some other relative decided to pick up the phone. Who knew who Jewel-Anne had called or texted or e-mailed or Facebooked or whatever? Ava didn’t want to hang around and find out. Besides, she really needed to straighten things out with Wyatt. She’d been short with him. Actually, she’d been a full-blown bitch the last couple of days, always suspicious as hell, always second-guessing his motives. And he, too, was tense. Well, who could blame him? Their fight today was indicative of the state of their marriage. Maybe she should try to start over . . . if it wasn’t too late.

Casting a glance at the stable again, she thought about the new man Wyatt hired and told herself to trust that her husband had picked the right man for the job.

She walked swiftly down the back steps to the curving drive and through the massive open gates to the road leading into town. Monroe was less than half a mile down the hill, built upon the shore where the bay fingered a little inland, and Ava figured the walk would help clear her head and keep her focused.

Without meds.

Hopefully the fresh air and exercise, not to mention getting out of that prison of a house, would help dispel the headache that seemed to be constantly lurking inside her brain, ready to rage at any moment.

She slid a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose and kept to the side of the road where the gravel-covered sparse moss and weeds hadn’t quite died with the coming of winter. The air was brisk, the scent of the sea strong as the sun peeked from behind thick, billowing clouds. Farther west, out to sea, a fog bank seemed to hover, as if waiting for a starting bell or some other indication to roll inland. For now, though, the day was clear, the sunlight warm against her skin despite the breath of autumn.

Once in the tiny burg of Monroe, she found her way to the marina and passed boats where fishermen were sorting their catches or cleaning their hulls or fiddling with the engines of their moored crafts.

Moored near the end of one pier was the Holy Terror, a walkaround-type fishing boat. Butch Johansen was seated at the helm of his small craft, perusing a newspaper. A ratty baseball cap hid the fact that he was prematurely bald, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He wore a down vest over a sweatshirt, jeans that had seen better days, and half a week’s growth of dark beard.

He glanced up as Ava’s shadow fell across him.

Squinting against the sun and smoke from his slowly burning filter tip, he said, “Hey, little sister!” a name he’d tagged her with years ago when she had followed her brother and his best friend along the sheep and deer trails of the island. Most of the time they’d tried to ditch her; most of the time they’d failed. “What the hell are you doin’? I heard you half drowned last night after you went in for a quick little midnight dip.”

“Is that what you heard?” She would have bristled, but this was Butch, Kelvin’s best friend, someone she’d known for as long as she could remember. He was forever teasing her, and he found the fact that so many people she knew thought she was crazy somewhat amusing.

“Close enough.”

“Bad news travels fast.”

“In a town this size, any news travels at the speed of light.”

“Speaking of which, think you could streak me across the bay?”

“Hot date?”

“I’m a married woman, remember.”

Butch tossed his cigarette into the water. “If that’s what you call it.” When she was about to protest, he lifted a hand to stop her, then added, “Okay, okay, I was outta line. It’s just that Wyatt and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye.”

“Is there anyone you do? See eye-to-eye with, that is?”

His thick eyebrows converged beneath the frayed edges of his baseball cap. “Guess not. At least not since Kelvin.” Untying the lines holding the Holy Terror against the dock, he added, “Your brother was one of a kind.”

She felt a pang of regret. “Yeah, I know.” Kelvin’s death was difficult to think about, a painful wound that had never quite healed. Though it had been over four years since that horrid night, it was with them all constantly. Climbing aboard, she watched as Butch twisted his cap so that the bill pointed down his back, slid a pair of sunglasses over his nose, then started the engine. “You still miss him.”

“Just every damned day. That’s all.”

She sat on one of the plastic seats as he maneuvered the boat away from the other crafts nestled in this little marina. She missed her brother, too. Soul deep sometimes, though the night he died was partially lost in her mind, her brain not accepting the horror of it all, though she’d been with him . . .

The mouth of the bay was tricky to navigate, as it was guarded by seven black rocks visible only in low tide but lurking under the surface when the tide was in. Treacherous and sharp, they’d been named the Hydra by her great-great-grandfather, and she always shuddered as they passed, for upon those hidden rocks, her brother had died.

Refusing to stare into the gray depths of the sea, she wrapped her arms around her torso. For his part, Butch didn’t so much as glance in her direction as they passed the only dark tip currently visible, a stony protrusion thick with barnacles and starfish.

Once in the open water, Butch let the engine out. Churning a heavy wake, the little boat cut through the dark waters where a stiff, salty breeze was whipping up whitecaps, and seagulls soared in the clear blue skies.

Her spirits lifted as soon as she stepped ashore on the dock in Anchorville. It was afternoon now, the sun sinking lower in the western sky, but she spied the boat Wyatt had used earlier tied to its mooring. A sleek inboard cruiser, it boasted a galley and sleeping quarters, though it was rarely used for anything but transport to and from the island.

“You want me to wait?” Butch asked after she handed him a twenty-dollar bill, which he made a big show of not wanting but pocketed anyway.

“No. I’ll ride with Wyatt.”

“Sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Butch cocked a bushy, doubting eyebrow but nodded. At the top of the graying steps leading into the town, she paused and looked out to sea. Spying the Holy Terror streaking away from the mainland, she held up a hand and waved, then let it fall. Butch didn’t so much as cast a glance over his shoulder.

She checked her watch and saw that it was two-fifteen. The ferry to the island returned at four, so she’d have to be quick if she wanted to finish everything on her agenda.

First stop was to try and catch up with Tanya, a high school friend who had dated Ava’s cousin Trent—who just happened to be Ian’s twin—for a few years. The relationship had fizzled when she’d met and quickly eloped with Russell Denton, a bad-ass cowboy type who couldn’t stay faithful, sober, or away from poker tables.

That marriage had crumbled fairly quickly but not before she’d gotten pregnant. . . twice. Tanya and Russ had been involved in one of those mercurial and toxic relationships that they could never quite end. Eventually, less than a year ago, the divorce papers had been inked. Now a single mother of seven-year-old Brent and his older sister, Bella, Tanya was the owner of Shear Madness, one of the two beauty shops in Anchorville. With her nose for business and ear for town gossip, Tanya was doing all right, or so she’d told Ava. Tanya had left the marriage in possession of the house, an older bungalow built on one of the town’s steep side streets, and this little shop. She was one of the few people Ava felt she could trust entirely.

As clouds gathered overhead, Ava hurried to the beauty shop, some five blocks from the docks and wedged between a deli and the best bakery in the county. Her stomach growled as she passed the bakery’s open door where she caught a whiff of freshly brewed coffee laced with the scent of warm bread and cinnamon.

The door to Tanya’s salon was closed, the lights dimmed, and a sign in the window had been posted with a quickly written note saying that the shop would reopen in the morning.

“Great,” Ava muttered, disappointed. Then again, what had she expected? It wasn’t as if she’d made an appointment. She glanced into the darkened interior where the walls were painted a soft pink and the decor was an homage to the sixties, with framed black-and-white pictures of women icons of the decade. Everyone from Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy, and Brigitte Bardot to Twiggy and Audrey Hepburn stared down at the four stations, now empty, their black faux-leather chairs unoccupied.

She grabbed a coffee to go at the bakery, resisted the urge to buy the last cinnamon roll in the display case, then tried calling Tanya only to get voice mail, where a lifeless computer’s voice instructed her to leave a message.

She didn’t.

Instead, she sipped her coffee and walked to the corner where she caught a glimpse of the bay and Church Island, still visible despite the fog bank slowly rolling in from the sea. She even made out Neptune’s Gate on one end and, just visible on the southern tip of the island, the dark roof of Sea Cliff. The institution had been closed for six years now, forced to shut its doors permanently when the last of its criminally insane inmates, Lester Reece, had escaped. Reece had been a suspect in several local homicides and had been convicted of murdering his wife and her best friend in one of his many fits of rage. His defense team had insisted that he’d been suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, and in the end, Reece had been sentenced to live out his days at Sea Cliff.

Then he’d somehow duped the guards, slipped through the iron gates, and disappeared into the night.

Ava felt a chill when she thought of Reece and his heinous acts. It seemed impossible now to think of him, and the others who had been equally dangerous, living so close to Neptune’s Gate. Of course, as a child, she’d accepted it as just a part of Church Island’s lore.

“So, who sprung you?” A male voice cut into her reverie, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Looking over her shoulder, she caught sight of Austin Dern heading her way. A beat-up backpack was slung over his shoulder, and the shadow of his beard had darkened overnight.

“I’m not locked up.”

Yet, hadn’t she thought of the house as a prison just an hour earlier?

“If you say so.” Not bothering to mask his skepticism, he shifted the backpack higher onto his shoulder. “You coming or going?”

“Coming. Just got here . . . I have a few errands to run and I thought maybe I’d look up an old friend.”

“Good idea.”

“And you?”

“Needed a few things,” he said easily. “I checked in Monroe, but you can’t get much more than stale pretzels and pepperoni that’s months past its pull date at Frank’s Food-O-Mart. The name’s kind of a lie, y’know. Not much would pass as food in there.”

She felt a smile threaten the corner of her lips. God, when was the last time that she’d grinned or been even slightly amused?

“Frank’s, that’s the name, right?” he asked, squinting.

“Monroe’s answer to 7-Eleven. And you can get corn nuts there,” she said, nodding. “If you’re desperate. I don’t think they have pull dates.”

His gaze sharpened on her face as if he’d just discovered something unexpected. “You could be right.” He hitched his chin toward the marina, where there were several boats that were used as private taxis to and from the island. “Depending on how long you’ll be, we could share a ride.”

Shaking her head, she demurred, “Don’t wait. I’ll probably catch the ferry.”

“I don’t mind.”

He didn’t budge, and she wondered what he really thought of her after dragging her kicking and screaming out of the bay the night before. “You sure?”

“Yeah, really. Despite what you might think or may have heard, I don’t need a keeper.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I know.” She held up a hand to ward off any further arguments. “Thanks.”

He nodded, then started toward the waterfront. “Your loss.”

“If you say so,” she said, throwing his words back at him, and the sound of his laughter tumbled back at her. Watching him walk down the hill toward the marina, she noted the breadth of his shoulders pulling at the seams of his jacket and the way the faded denim of his jeans fell over buttocks that moved easily.

Heat climbed up the back of her neck, and though she told herself it didn’t hurt anyone to “check out” another man, her gaze slid to the slip where Wyatt had docked the family cabin cruiser.

“Get over yourself,” she whispered under her breath, then waited, sipping her cooling coffee until she saw Dern climb into a boat and negotiate a ride. As he settled into a seat, he glanced over his shoulder and up the hill, his eyes finding her before the captain started the taxi’s engine and maneuvered his boat out of the marina.

She wondered about him. How he’d found the job on the island.

Nothing sinister in looking for a job.

So why did she feel she’d met him before? That Austin Dern had his own set of secrets? That he wasn’t who he said he was?

Because you’re a suspicious bitch.

She smiled a little, then as the first raindrops fell, turned up the hood of her jacket and hurried along the side streets. Head bent against the wind, she decided to cut through the park where an elderly woman was herding two dogs on separate leashes. Half-grown whippets were pulling this way and that, nosing the wet grass and charging after a gray squirrel that had the nerve to scamper from one oak tree to the next.

“Harold! Maude! Come along!” the woman said, pulling hard on the leashes, while the thin dogs strained to give chase. They lunged and stood on their back legs as the woman tried in vain to haul them toward a little blue Subaru parked near the curb. “It’s raining!” she reminded her pups, though neither Harold nor Maude seemed to notice. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. How about a treat? Come on now!”

Her dogs didn’t so much as flick an ear in her direction. Ava skirted the woman’s unruly charges and wound up at the far edge of the park, where a wrought-iron gate was open to the street. She was about to jaywalk when she stopped dead in her tracks.

Her husband was holding open the door to a coffee shop and looking toward the interior. A second later, Dr. McPherson emerged. Wearing boots, a slim skirt, and sleek leather jacket, the psychologist opened an umbrella against the rain, then turned and with Wyatt’s hand on her elbow, walked away from the park, heading toward the bay.

Ava stood frozen to the spot.

Her heart drummed in her chest as she watched the couple leave. Wyatt’s head bent low under the umbrella, and his fingers never left the crook of Evelyn McPherson’s elbow. It was almost as if he were shepherding her along the wet sidewalk, as if he had some proprietary claim to his wife’s doctor.

What did that mean? She barely noticed the steady drip of the rain or a teenager who whipped by her, sending up spray from a puddle.

It’s nothing, she told herself. Nothing.

Yet she was left with the same cold feeling of suspicion that had been with her since leaving the hospital, that everyone she knew wasn’t as he or she pretended to be. Not even her own husband.

Fortunately, Wyatt had been so wrapped up in Dr. McPherson that he hadn’t noticed his bedraggled wife standing in the rain. Which was just as well. It was far better if no one had any idea about what she was doing on the mainland.

They already thought she was nuts as it was.

If anyone on the island realized she had started seeing a hypnotist, there would be no end to the questions and raised eyebrows.

Trouble was, she didn’t really blame them.

Even to her own troubled mind, it sounded lame.