Sweet Pretender Page 2

  Their talk took much longer than she'd expected it would. By the time she arrived home and let herself in, she was running late. A tureen of steaming seafood chowder explained the delicious smell that met her at the door. A white tablecloth had replaced the plastic cover that served for most of their meals, and the good soup bowls had been set out along with the silver. Debussy was on the stereo turntable, set low enough—for a change—to allow conversation. Arlene wore a Cheshire cat grin.

  "Did you meet Mr. Hendricks?"

  "I did."

  "Then I'm going on a holiday."

  "You're only half right, my pet." Melissa sailed past Arlene to attack her favorite dish. "We're going on a holiday."

  "By we, you mean…"

  "I mean we. You and I. I insisted. If you have no objections."

  Arlene slapped a hand to her forehead. "I think it's fantastic. There'll be all sorts of wonderful-looking men there. Who knows? You might meet someone."

  "Someone?"

  "You know what I mean. You haven't gone out much since Mom and Dad left. I know it's because you felt you had to stay home and watch over me."

  "You're talking nonsense."

  "Just the same, I feel responsible for the lack of excitement in your social life." Arlene's dimples deepened when she smiled. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples as if she were a mystic trying to peer into the future. "I see a man in your life. He's tall, dark and very handsome."

  Melissa laughed and took her place at the table. "Never mind. I'll settle for two out of three. I've already met someone tall and handsome."

  "You mean Brian Hendricks? Aha! So he's the reason you decided to tag along." Arlene sat down, too, but made no move to ladle chowder into her bowl. "I thought as much."

  "I'm going, my girl, to keep an eye on you."

  "I believe you," Arlene crooned, nodding in a way that said she didn't believe her at all.

  "I want to be there if you need me."

  "Of course you do," the girl said, still nodding.

  "It's my vacation too, you know. I have two weeks coming to me, and I've always adored the sea air and the sand. Besides, I can't turn up at our grandparents' house without you. They'd ask a million questions."

  "I know."

  "Don't you realize that it's…" Melissa began, but changed her mind. She wasn't going to convince her sister that Brian wasn't the reason she was going to Sandgate.

  Well, let Arlene believe what she would. Melissa would be saved a lot of worry. Arlene wouldn't be alone in a village of hostile strangers if Natalie's plan hit a snag.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The box-shaped house set on a gentle slope was white clapboard, with creaking steps that led up a curving path to the rickety porch. Inside, the walls were slate gray. The ceiling was gray as well, with rough-hewn beams, and the floor was scrubbed plank with rag rugs here and there to soften the barnlike effect.

  Two marvelous small-paned windows on either side of the pegged door compensated for any gloom that might have pervaded the rest of the house. They began almost at the ceiling and were deepset, to accommodate window seats wide enough to allow a person to curl up and sleep comfortably—if that person was as travel-weary as Melissa was now.

  The wall opposite the door was given to a massive stone fireplace. Ancient ladles, bed warmers and practical-looking implements of all descriptions hung before it, as if expecting someone to put them to use. In the center of the main room hung a twisted iron light fixture that held candles, and hurricane lamps sat on several of the chunky chests and side tables. Melissa couldn't help but wonder if the owner was a romantic who liked the effect of lamplight, or if the area was subject to heavy storms that caused power failure.

  She had insisted on taking her own car, in case she and Arlene decided to head back to Albany before Natalie was ready to go. Natalie had insisted just as strongly that Arlene ride with her to give them time to get their stories straight. So two cars had been needed for the trip to Sandgate.

  Since Melissa had drawn Brian as guide and map reader, and since he fancied himself an expert on that part of the country, their side trips had been numerous. They'd followed almost every highway sign that pointed the way to tourist sites, taken pictures of each other at historical markers, and Natalie and Arlene had arrived at their destination well before them.

  Natalie had changed into an ankle-length silk kimono in a Chinese red that showed to advantage the slim, youthful line of her figure. Her hair was pulled into a cluster of golden curls at the nape of her neck. She was a stunning woman, but, except for her blond coloring and her deep brown eyes, she bore no resemblance to her brother. She was as proud and aware of her beauty as he was natural and unassuming.

  "You look tired, dear," she said to Melissa. "I'll show you to your room."

  My room? Melissa mused. Evidently she wouldn't be sharing a bedroom with her sister, after all. "Where's Arlene?" she asked as they started up the stairs.

  Mrs. Kerr stopped with a hand on the banister and waited a dramatic moment before answering. "Miss Brandon—Melissa—I hope you don't think I'm being overly critical of you. We're pleased to have you here. But I must ask you to remember that in Sandgate your sister is not your sister, and her name is not Arlene. It's Jean."

  "I didn't think it mattered when no one was around to hear."

  "A slip of the tongue at the wrong time could ruin all my plans. It might be well to get used to the name."

  "I'll remember." Mrs. Kerr was right, Melissa told herself. Still, she couldn't help but feel a bit James Bondish about the whole thing. "Where is she?"

  Natalie nodded toward a door at the opposite end of the hall from the one she opened for Melissa. "Her room is adjoining mine. Yours is somewhat small, I'm sorry to say. But I believe you'll find it comfortable enough for a short stay."

  Was there unusual emphasis on the word "short"? Or was she only touchy because she was tired?

  "I'll be fine," she said.

  "There won't be time for you to visit with Jean now. The wheels have already begun to turn. Tonight's banquet marks the opening of the bicentennial celebration, and reservations were made before we knew you were going to be with us. There's room only for three, I'm afraid."

  "It's quite all right."

  "There's tea in the cupboard, and there are tins of soup if you're hungry. There are biscuits in the bread-box and, of course, eggs in the fridge. You'll be alone for a time. I hope you don't find things too dull."

  "Don't worry about me," Melissa told her, marveling that anyone could find such a place dull. The house was nothing special, but it was only a short walk to sand and sea. Anticipation of quiet time on the beach with damp sand between her bare toes and water lapping against her ankles lifted her spirits, and she decided against taking a nap.

  "I'll fly then." Natalie paused at the landing. "Don't forget, should you meet anyone, anyone at all, don't tell them you have a sister. Don't tell them anything. Just say you're a friend of my brother's, come to join in the festivities."

  Natalie hadn't exaggerated when she said Melissa's room was small. It was only a few paces across, and the sloping ceiling made it impossible to straighten up in a third of it. There was no closet. Only a mahogany wardrobe with a half mirror on the inside of one of its doors.

  But she had her own window seat and a wide window that swung in to allow her to enjoy the cool sea breezes. A lingering warm bath would have been relaxing, but the day was passing, and she was determined to enjoy what was left of it.

  By the time she'd showered, the house was quiet. Everyone had left. She was slightly miffed that her sister hadn't insisted on seeing her. But she brushed aside negative thoughts and slipped into a pair of jeans. After donning an oversized tailored shirt and a pair of canvas sneakers, she pinned up the glossy tumble of her long black hair to secure it against the wind and plopped on her white sailor hat with its brim turned down.

  As she started on her way, she had to smile. Slim-hipped as
she was and shiny-faced from her shower, she would have needed only a sand pail and shovel to complete the picture of a young boy combing the beach for shells and bits of driftwood.

  Night hadn't closed in completely, but there were lighted windows in most of the houses along her way. The lowering fog made it seem later than it actually was.

  The village had evidently sprung up with little thought given to street planning. Dwellings were built in a one-by-one haphazard way. She had to zig up one street and zag down another for some distance before she reached the seawall. It would have been more pleasant if Arlene could have accompanied her, but since it couldn't be so, it didn't matter. She had never been one to mourn moments of solitude.

  Walking through the grayish mist, she had a sense of drifting out of time. There were few passersby and no sounds, other than the sounds of the water and an occasional blast from a distant foghorn. A curious melancholy swept over her as she noticed that many of the houses had been constructed with widow's walks atop them. Some were built simply as decorative features of the architecture. But others, especially in the older houses, looked as if they'd served a real purpose in time of storm and squall. She thought of the countless young wives and mothers who had stood on those walks, shivering against the cold—waiting, hoping, praying for their men to come home safe from the sea.

  Melissa removed her shoes and stepped onto the sand. The going was smooth for a time, but when scattered stones gave way to boulders, the beach became a narrow strip. She could barely see the water now, but she could hear it. For long moments she stood listening, imagining she heard the sound a small boat might make, sliding through the dark water. A boat manned by buccaneers who planned to bury their stolen treasure deep in the sand, along with the unfortunates who did the digging.

  She shivered, put her shoes on again and began to walk faster this time. She heard the youngsters, but didn't see them soon enough to keep from stumbling over their ice chest. She fell sprawling into their midst, and there was a wild scramble.

  "Hey!"

  "Watch it."

  "I'm sorry," Melissa murmured, noticing that she had not only startled them but scattered a tower they'd built.

  "It's okay," one boy told her. He was about thirteen, as were the others with him. He wore a nylon windbreaker and shorts. His feet were bare. "But you scared the bird off. We almost had him."

  "What bird?"

  Another of the boys pointed. They'd evidently been trying to surround a gray seabird, who, in spite of a badly drooping wing, was doing a good job of evading them.

  "We have to go. We're late now, and one of us has to kill him first."

  "Kill him?" Melissa was horrified. "Why?"

  "He's hurt real bad," a towheaded girl said. "Even if his injuries don't get him, the other birds'll pick him to death. My dad says the kindest thing to do is—"

  "No!" Melissa didn't want to hear. "Can't you take him home?"

  "No way. We've got cats."

  "Us too."

  "We don't have any cats," the girl said. "But my mom'd skin me if I brought another hurt bird home. They always die anyhow, and my little brother bawls about it for days."

  "Shh!" The boy in the windbreaker held a finger to his lips.

  Everyone fell silent as the smallest of their number dropped to his knees and began to inch his way toward a rock where the quivering bird was attempting to secrete himself under a pile of seaweed. A hand shot out and there was a cry of triumph.

  "Got him!"

  "Don't hurt him," Melissa pleaded.

  "You take him, then."

  "I can't."

  "She could take him to Eli."

  "Who's Eli?"

  "Eli Campbell. Some weirdo who knows all about birds. He lives in a shack up there. Through those trees." The girl blew her hair out of her eyes and pointed to rickety steps that led up and away from the beach. "The path leads straight to his door."

  Melissa drew back. "Couldn't you and your friends…"

  "Nope. We're gonna catch it now. We were sup to head back an hour ago."

  "But…"

  "Eli won't hurt you," the girl said. "He's just strange. He's not a criminal or anything."

  "It's because he drinks," the boy in the windbreaker added, struggling with his towel, a blanket and a canvas bag of canned soft drinks. "He used to be a doctor, they say. A people doctor. His wife died, and he didn't want to practice medicine anymore. Mom says he's trying to make Sandgate dry by drinking up all the whiskey in the village."

  "If anybody can save the bird, it's Eli Campbell. Loads of people bring hurt things to him. He even has a cage on his porch in case folks come round when he's gone."

  "We always leave something on his table to pay him," the girl said. "Don't hand him money, though. Father says it might hurt his pride."

  "If you don't want to take him to Eli," the smallest boy offered, "I can kill him real quick. He won't suffer and—"

  "No!" Melissa reached for the still-struggling bird. "Give him to me."

  She had to walk carefully. The steps were splintery, her vision was limited in the fog and growing darkness, and there was no handhold. If she were to lose her balance, she might hurt the poor little guy worse than he was hurt already.

  "There, there," she whispered, wondering at the birds rapid heartbeat. "You're so pretty. And you're strong. You'll be fine. Eli will know what to do."

  Eli's cottage sat on blocks. It was weatherbeaten and grayed, and its plain plank door was hollowed out at the handle from many openings and closings. Along the side of the house was a tar paper shelter, well-stacked with firewood and housing what might have been Robinson Crusoe's raft, fashioned from tree limbs lashed together. There were fishing nets and barrels, broken kegs and crates, hooks and rolls of twine. An anchor had been fastened to one of the four-by-four supports along with a part of an old ship with the name Lenore painted in neat black letters.

  The porch wasn't a porch at all, but rather a series of steps made from split logs. There was so much clutter that at first she didn't notice the cages the children had mentioned. A small one sat to the side of the stoop, and a large, walk-in one had been constructed on the other.

  She raised the hinged cover on the smallest cage and allowed her prisoner to flutter free. He snuggled deep into the dried grass and uttered a halfhearted squawk. "I'll get the doctor."

  When her third knock on the door brought no answer, Melissa moved around to the window, where an inch of yellow light shone between the sill and the shade. She'd no sooner bent down to look inside, than she felt herself being hoisted off her feet.

  "Damn you!" a man shouted at her. "Didn't you do enough damage on your last visit?"

  "Wait! Please!" she protested, abandoning her struggle quickly when she realized that his iron grip would still be fastened on her shirt if she managed to wriggle free. "You must have me mixed up with someone else."

  "I suppose you're here selling magazine subscriptions."

  "Let me go and I'll—"

  "I'll let you go. I ought to whale you good. But I think I'll wait and let your father do it." As he dragged her into the cottage, Melissa lost one of her shoes, bumped her head on a support post and whacked an elbow on a door frame. Her outcries didn't stop him, though. He pushed her through the door, still berating her, and hurled her into a heap on the floor.

  His back was to her now. He was searching through the incredible clutter on the desk. Could she—dare she—try to make an escape now? What an idiot she'd been to come here.

  "He's a weirdo, but he isn't dangerous," one of the children had assured her. And she had accepted that assurance. What had possessed her?

  When he faced her again, he was holding a torn square of paper and a ballpoint pen. "I want your name and your telephone number."

  His appearance took her aback—and then some. She'd visualized Eli Campbell as a smallish man of about sixty-five, with stooped shoulders and a red-veined bulbous nose. The man who towered above her was none of these
things. He was a man who would have warranted a second look and probably a good, long third if she'd met him under ordinary circumstances. His features were strong looking but well made and striking. He was at least as tall as Brian. The rolled-up sleeves of his denim shirt showed thickly muscled forearms, and there was only a scattering of gray in his black, Gypsylike hair. The expression on his face wasn't one of grief, but of anger. No. Anger was too mild a word. It was rage, and it was directed at her.

  "I came with an injured bird. I believe its wing is broken. Some children told me—"

  "And where is this bird?" he snarled. "Under your hat?"

  His sarcasm tweaked her pride, enabling her to swallow her fear and answer with indignant deliberation. "I put it in the holding cage outside. Isn't that customary?"

  "It's customary, yes." With a jerking movement, he turned up the lamp. His eyes made a quick but thorough sweep of her, eyebrows to ankles and back, accusing her without words of wearing a deliberate disguise. "You aren't one of them."

  "No, I'm not. Whoever they might be."

  "I'm sorry about this," he said, not sounding terribly sorry. "There's been trouble with vandals this past couple of weeks. Kids with too much time on their hands. I've been waiting for the chance to catch one of them in action."

  "And you caught me instead."

  "So it seems. Their ringleader is a boy about your size, who wears the same sort of…" He fluttered a hand toward Melissa's sailor hat. "Last night he smashed one of the windows in the shed and made off with some tools."

  "And you thought I was that boy."

  "It was a natural mistake."

  "Natural?" she snapped. "Because I'm short."

  "Not at all. If it hadn't been for the dim light and the fog, I couldn't possibly have missed the fact that you're a woman." Again his eyes took their inventory, this time more slowly.

  "You might have taken a moment to be sure I was one of your culprits, before you pounced on me," she said, ignoring his silent approval.

  "I might have. But, then, you might have gotten away. What were you doing on the beach anyway?"