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Copyright © 2006, Prudy Taylor Board. All Rights Reserved. Permission to copy material by written consent only, all pages. |
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BY
PRUDENCE FOSTER AKA: Prudy Taylor Board
Mystery Writers of America Presents San Jose, New York, Lincoln, Shanghai |
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I bid you, mock not Eros; He knows not doubt or shame, And, unaware of proverbs, The burnt child craves the flame.
OF A CHILD THAT HAD FEVER – Christopher Morley
Death Perception Prologue
A slapping sound caught her attention and the woman lifted her head and glanced through the windowpanes. The paddle-shaped leaves of the sea grape tree slashed at the dormer windows, striking with the fury of the gusting winds that twisted the branches into strange, contorted silhouettes. The gale whipped along the sandy beach lashing the placid blue green waters of the Gulf of Mexico into a churning froth.
She turned back to the interior of the sitting room. Mais oui. So much to do. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Henri and Marguerite were delightful children, but so messy. The au pair smiled. The girl lay sprawled on the carpet, her blood pooling to form a crimson aura around her golden ringlets. Her blue eyes were wide with surprise, but they were motionless. The slim white neck had been nearly severed. From the carotid artery in her throat, blood pumped slowly, slowly, slower and finally halted.
Henri lay face down on the carpet, reaching, stretching toward the door connecting the sitting room with their parents’ bed chamber. Red gore formed a ruff encircling his neck and staining his corn silk hair. His clenched fist and the scratches on the woman's face attested to the fierce struggle he'd made to live and escape to his mother. He had not quite gained the threshold of the next room, but that was a blessing for he had been spared the sight of his parents’ battered, blood-drenched bodies.
His mother, who'd been napping, lay at an unnatural angle on the canopied double bed. Her hands clasped her stomach protectively, but beneath the slashed fingers and amidst the shiny pattern of her paisley shawl glistened her entrails. Henri's father had been reading the New York Times while seated in the Morris chair. When she'd struck him from behind with the wood axe from the Inn’s kitchen, he'd fallen forward and lay spread-eagled across the September 10, 1904 edition.
She removed a washcloth from the oaken washstand and dipped it into the basin of water. She compressed it to wring out the excess then knelt by Henri's side and, turning his body over carefully, she washed his face and left hand while crooning his favorite song. It had to do with sailing kites high in the clear, blue October sky. Henri had made her very angry, but perhaps that was because she had always cared more for him than Marguerite.
She rose to rinse the washcloth and stumbled as she stepped on an object that rolled beneath her foot. It was the lad's right arm, which had been hacked so that shards of white bone glittered in the light of the kerosene lamps. Henri’s right hand clutched his favorite toy, but the tri-dimensional photographs on the wooden frame were spattered with his blood.
Tenderly, she removed the toy from the disembodied hand and placed it in the cupboard. Then, having rinsed the cloth, she washed the hand and arm and repositioned it next to his body. When her gruesome task was completed, she sat down in the little hand-carved wooden rocker with the rose petit pointe seat and began to crochet a collar for Marguerite's favorite lamb's wool sweater.
Sometime during the night, a limb from an Australian pine smashed one of the windows. The keening wind invaded the suite and extinguished the lamps. Shortly before dawn, the storm abated. When rescue workers from the mainland arrived at the hotel two days later, it was deserted except for the bodies. The DuBois suite was a macabre theatre of death awash in rain water and blood. In the corridor, the would-be rescuers followed a trail of crimson footprints that led to the edge of the veranda and then vanished.
One man from the group remained behind. He stood, head bowed, in the corridor, then steeling himself, he re-entered the scene of the carnage. In the far corner of the sitting room, he noticed a clump of what appeared to be gore-stained rags. Fearful yet fascinated, he approached warily. A tiny hand pierced the clotting, glutinous tissue. He clapped a hand to cover his mouth and willed himself not to throw up for there, lying amidst the torn placenta and other detritus of human birth, was a newborn babe — crying as if its heart would break.
Chapter 1 Wednesday - August 6 Isla de las Martyres off Florida in the Gulf of Mexico
Quicker than the blink of a gnat's eye, Marisa fell. One second she was fine, perched confidently on the sturdy pine ladder as she hung the moss green draperies in the Tarpon Inn's dining room. The next second the ladder tilted and she was screaming and clutching futilely at empty air for support and balance.
One more blink and she lay crumpled on the floor — long legs tangled in the support rod of the toppled stepladder. In falling, her back struck the sharp edge of one of the tables and she had fallen so that her left leg was crumpled beneath her body. She lay surrounded by upended chairs, looking like a broken doll in a bird's nest. The pins in her chignon had loosened and her steel gray hair tumbled around her pale frightened face. Her eyes wide with fear and pain, Marisa gasped for breath.
A few feet away, Hap Forrester stood as if mesmerized, one ineffectual hand stretched forward to prevent her fall. The interior designer groaned and the sound broke his spell. He hurried to her side, lifted the ladder and kneeling, gently attempted to straighten her left leg.
"Don't," she snapped, wincing.
Now that he'd moved the ladder, Hap could see from the leg's contorted position that it was broken. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed a slim woman striding down the hall. Her dark hair cascaded down her back and danced around her shoulders as she moved. He turned as Marisa moaned, then turned back to ask the woman to go for help, but that quickly she was gone.
"Marns," he ordered the black man standing just inside the door, "bring a pillow and a blanket and tell Markuss to call Dr. Bartleson. And tell him to hurry," he called as the porter left. "You'll be fine, Marisa," he soothed. "Dr. Bartleson lives just down the road."
Hap was relieved when Marns returned within minutes, followed by Anne Hunt, the woman who was opening the boutique off the lobby.
"Got the doctor comin’," Marns said, handing him a pillow which he positioned beneath the injured decorator's head. Anne knelt next to him and brushed the hair back from Marisa's forehead with gentle hands. In contrast to the soothing touch she used with Marisa, her expression when she looked at him was grim and angry. Hap was sure he knew what she'd say if Marisa weren't lying there injured. She'd repeat for the hundredth time that he should not be reopening the Inn.
Marisa tried to shove the blanket away, but he ignored her protesting hands. "Just a precaution. We don't want you going into shock."
"Marisa," Anne was saying in a deliberate, calming voice, "it's important that you don't move. Doc Bartleson will be here in just a few minutes now." Hap tried to think what else he could do to make Marisa comfortable, but every time he tried to concentrate, his mind insisted on repeating the litany of woes and problems that had confronted him since he'd been assigned — under protest — to the job of refurbishing and reopening Tarpon Inn.
Hap Forrester was dispirited though he was determined not to show it. He also realized he had to put on a good front for the staff. Scanning the dining room, he mused that the draperies Marisa had been hanging drooped from the rods like the folds of a shroud. And the rain banging against the windows sounded like a funeral dirge. Florida had suffered from a drought for several years, but so far this summer, it had rained every day and mildew was a problem. Mildew of the mind, too, he thought. Furthermore, if the rain didn't let up, it would discourage the tourists who would not pay hundreds of dollars a day to sit in their rooms. Ordinarily this was the slow time since Florida’s high season didn’t begin until late October or even November, but he’d planned to use this time to get everything ready for the Tarpon Inn’s formal reopening. The rain wasn’t helping.
A lump of anxiety crowded his gut. Was this hotel going to make it? God, he hoped so. It had to or his career was washed up. But then nothing had gone right since the divorce three years earlier.
He'd lost everything he cherished the day Diana walked out the door. Not material things. Hell, he'd lost those, too, but you could always replace things. No, he'd lost much more — a very special woman he’d idealized, his little girl Felicity and his home base. Even his livelihood had been affected. He'd started drinking and not paying attention to details and, as vice president in charge of operations for the Monarch chain of inns and motels, details were the most important part of his position. It hadn't taken Old Man Dekhaus, the president, long to demote him. Now here he was, back as a manager again. Almost right back where he'd started 15 years ago when he'd first graduated from college.
Enough of this bullshit thinking. It must be the rain. That and the fact that he was uptight because the opening of the Inn was so close and there was still so much to do. And he hadn't seen Felicity in so long and he worried about whether she'd remember him. Really remember him. And damn Diana anyway. How the hell had she managed to get on with her life when he was still struggling to make sense of what had happened? And then to drop Felicity in his lap this summer, of all times, this summer when he was on the verge of getting his career back on track.
But it wasn’t Felicity’s fault her mother had snagged one of Miami’s wealthiest real estate developers. Nor was it Felicity’s fault her new stepfather had dragged her mother off on a two-month round-the-world honeymoon — the trip he and Diana had planned on taking together when he got his next promotion and bonus. Now here he was trying to relaunch this accursed hotel while trying to take care of a seven=year-old child.
Thank God he’d stumbled across Markuss Harper’s sister. Literally. He’d been looking for the latest Nancy Drew mystery for Felicity in the Useffa Bookstore — the island’s only bookstore — when he’d tripped over a woman kneeling in the children’s section in front of books about dinosaurs. He had apologized and helped her to her feet. They talked briefly and he was amazed to learn she knew who he was and that she was Aleta, his desk clerk’s sister. Markuss had mentioned her when they’d shared a coffee break the previous week. He’d also Hap their mother had died in March and he was worried because Aleta was having a dealing with the loss. She’d be fine when school started in the fall, because she loved kids, but for now, Markuss said, she had too much free time, too much time to think.
When he met her at the bookstore and she mentioned she was an elementary school teacher, he wasn’t surprised. She looked like a school teacher. She had worn a navy blue dress with a high neck trimmed with a round white collar. Pretty, but very prim and proper, she was perfect for his purpose and he’d hired her on the spot to take care of Felicity when she arrived. He hoped Felicity would understand that he was busy and that’s why he couldn’t spend as much time with her as he’d like.
Marisa grunted with pain as she tried to shift her weight, drawing his attention back to the here and now. "Marns," he said, putting a hand on Marisa’s shoulder to restrain her while he dragged a ring of keys out of his pocket, "get a bottle of brandy out of the liquor locker in the bar and some glasses."
Taking the keys, Marns left quickly and Hap tried to comfort her. "Easy, Marisa. You'll be okay." He hoped he sounded convincing, but the fact that she'd struck her back worried him. "Do you want me to call your family in Miami? And I'll notify Monarch headquarters for you."
She nodded, her lips pale, nostrils flaring as she fought the pain.
Anne reached over to take her hand. "Marisa," she said firmly, "when it hurts, squeeze my hand. And hang in there, Doc'll be here any second."
He glanced at his watch. Felicity's flight would be taking off from Miami International about now. Then she'd take the commuter flight into Naples where his boat captain would be waiting to bring her to the island. What did she look like, he wondered. Eighteen months made such a difference in a child her age. Would she have forgotten him, wooed away by that dickhead her mother had married? No, he decided. Bunny'd always been a loyal little person. And so serious. She'd never really seemed like a child.
Marns bustled in carrying the Courvoisier and glasses on a tray. Hap poured a dollop of the amber liquid into a snifter for Marisa and supported her head as she sipped. She made a face, but drank it down.
"Good girl, it'll ease the pain."
"Thanks, Hap,” she managed. "Damn fool thing I did. Been climbing ladders more than thirty years and I've never fallen before."
"Good thing. You sure did it up right." She nodded. Carefully. "One minute the ladder was firm and stable and the next it felt like somebody was shaking me loose. Like a ripe orange from a tree."
"More?" he gestured with the brandy bottle.
She shook her head.
"Pour yourself one, Marns. It's going to be a long night. Anne?" She shook her head. He wasn’t surprised. He knew there was no way she would drink with the enemy. And she had definitely decided that he was the enemy. God, he could really use a drink. His mouth watered at the sight of the brandy and it reminded him of the painless nights of forgetfulness. The pain had begun when he was sober. Anne Hunt coughed, bringing him back to the unpleasant present and the crisis facing him.
He really looked at her for the first time. And then he looked again. And felt like he'd been hit by a sledge hammer. He'd been so involved with Marisa and her injury he hadn't noticed that Anne was wearing a very décolleté black chiffon cocktail dress. Or that she was so well endowed. He tried unsuccessfully to draw his eyes from the tanned breasts barely contained by the ruffled vee of the neckline.
Always before she'd worn business suits or if she was working around the Inn she dressed in bulky, paint-spattered jeans and shirts with that shoulder-length mane of chestnut hair covered by a bandanna. He'd never dreamed there was an incredible, lush body obscured by all that denim. He raised his gaze and discovered irate, sapphire eyes glaring at him. Shit. He was blushing. He couldn't believe it.
He looked away, listening to the light rain splat gently against the windowpanes.
They must present an odd tableau, he mused, forcing his mind away from Anne Hunt's body. Rather like a battleground with only one casualty. An uptight, unshaven man in rumpled jeans and a tee shirt, a beautiful woman in a party dress and a black porter of indeterminate age sitting on the floor with an injured woman, surrounded by rows of empty tables and chairs.
He'd read an article about the dining room once in an old issue of “Tropic,” the Miami Herald's now defunct Sunday magazine. The writer had waxed fanciful in his description of the revolving chandelier that glittered with splinters of light bouncing off its hundreds of tiny glass prisms. The fixture, which was motorized, had rotated when the switch was activated. He looked up. It was still beautiful and the mechanism still worked.
Sometimes when he worked in here, he'd close his eyes and imagine Tarpon Inn during its glory years. He could almost hear the music —.Strauss waltzes and the rustling gowns of the ladies as they danced with their elegantly attired, power broker husbands, nearly smell the heady perfumes mingled with the aroma of fine Cuban cigars.
Even though he hated Tarpon Inn, the Town of Useffa — hell, he hated the whole damned island — part of him yearned to nurture and restore the inn to its former beauty. Yet the other part cursed Old Man Dekhaus and shouted silently that it wasn't fair to sidetrack his career, to dump him in the middle of such a mess. But he'd never considered quitting. Monarch was a good company. And although he’d never admit it, Hap knew he’d screwed up and deep down he was grateful to Old Man Dekhaus for giving him a second chance.
Marisa moaned, but Anne was still holding her hand and the decorator seemed to be experiencing a little less pain.
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