Stuart Woods - Palindrome

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that," he said. "Does the cop believe you?"

"I don't think so. Now he's talked to Baker, and he buys his story. She explained about Ramsey's alibis for the two nights.

"Well, look, a cop can only do so much. Even if these deaths are murders as you say, if Ramsey's got good alibis, what more can the guy do?"

"It stinks," she said. "He's getting away with it."

She began to cry. Keir gathered her up, took her into the house, and cuddled her on the living-room sofa. "Not only have I lost good friends," she said when she had recovered, "I've lost a publisher. The work I've done here means nothing, now. There's no one to publish it."

"Listen to me," he said firmly. "If what you're doing is any good, you can find another publisher."

"But Ray was going to write the text. I'm no writer; I can't even write a decent letter, let alone a book. It needs somebody who loves the island the way Ray did."

"It seems to me that you love the island the way Ray did. Why don't you have a shot at the text yourself?"

"I suppose I should, but I don't know if my heart is going to be in it after this."

"It's a big heart; it can handle a lot. You'll get past this, don't worry. This island will take hold of you again and make you want to do the book."

She grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and blew her nose loudly, then put her head on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're around," she said, then she reached up and kissed him. "There, I owed you that. I'm sorry I was nasty to you before."

"You were upset; it's okay."

"I'm still upset," she said. "Baker killed all three of them, I know it, and he's going to get away with it."

"Look, I know how strongly you feel about this, but you've got to leave room for some doubt. It is just possible, after all, that the deaths are a coincidence."

"I suppose it is possible, but if you knew Baker the way I know him-the way he's been the past couple of years, you'd know that he's perfectly capable of this, and, moreover, he's devious enough to cover himself. It's his craftiness that makes him so dangerous. And if he gets away with these murders, he'll think he can get away with anything."

Keir stroked her hair. "Do you think he might try to hurt you again?"

"If he did kill Al Schaefer and the Fergusons, he did it because of his hatred of me. I can't imagine he's gotten it out of his system.

"You're safe here. I'll take care of you."

"I'll have to leave here eventually; I can't spend my life hiding."

"I won't let anything happen to you."

"I believe you," she said, kissing him again. "I'll feel safe as long as I'm here with you."

"Good." She raised her head. "But I'll tell you this: if any other friend of mine suddenly dies violently, it won't matter how good Baker's alibi is, I'll get a gun and kill him myself."

"Easy, now," he said, cuddling her, "don't let him make you mad. If he makes you angry and afraid, then he's won."

"You're right," she said, making a conscious effort to melt the hard, icy ball in her chest. "I won't let him win." She stood up.

"I'm going to start living like a normal human being again, and right now. Let me get you another beer." There was a knock at the front door.

She looked around and saw James Moses standing somberly at the door, holding an envelope. "Evening, Miz Elizabeth," he said quietly. "I got an invitation for you from Mr. Angus. He said wait for your answer."

"Thank you, James." She took the envelope and opened it.

"Evening, Mr. Hamish," James said. Liz winced.

"My name's Keir, James," Keir said pleasantly.

"Good evening." The boy seemed embarrassed, and Liz stepped into the breach.

"Please tell Mr. Angus that I'd be pleased to accept," she said to him.

"Yes, ma'am," James said, smiling. He turned and left without another word. A moment later Liz heard a horse trot away.

"What did Grandpapa want?" Keir asked.

She passed him the heavy piece of stationery with its oldfashioned handwriting. "He's invited me to dinner," she said. "Told me to dress."

"You know, I think he's got a little thing for you," Keir said, smiling.

"You know," she replied, smiling back at him, "I think I've got a little thing for him."

Liz drove through the gates of Dungeness, wearing her only silk dress, a relic of her social life in Atlanta. She didn't remember why she'd brought it to the island, but she was glad she had. She wondered who else was coming to dinner. James Moses stood on the front porch of the huge old house, wearing a white cotton jacket, the sleeves of which were a bit too short for him, and a black bow tie. "Good evening, Miz Elizabeth," he said, bowing stiffly. "Welcome to Dungeness."

"Thank you, James," she replied, as she reached the top of the steps. "Has anyone else arrived yet?" She wondered where the regular servants were, if there were any.

"There's not anybody else," James said, looking surprised. "Just you and Mr. Angus."

While James held the door, she entered the large entrance hall in time to see Angus descending the grand staircase. He was wearing a freshly pressed dinner suit she thought must be very old, although it did not seem much out of style, except, perhaps, the waistcoat, which was double-breasted, with lapels.

A heavy gold watch chain stretched across it, and diamond studs gleamed on the stiff shirtfront, in the light from the chandeler. "Good evening, Elizabeth," Angus said. "Welcome to my home."

"Good evening, Mr. Drummond."

He met her at the bottom of the stairs and offered her his arm. "I would be pleased if you would call me Angus," he said.

"Of course, Angus," she replied. He led her to his study, and she began to feel that she was in another century. The room, which she calculated must be forty feet long and half as wide, was entirely lit by tall candles, placed in silver candelabra. At the opposite end of the room from Angus's desk, a table was set for two. "I thought we'd dine in here," he said. "The dining room is more suitable for forty than for two."

James spoke up. "May I get you some refreshment, Miz Elizabeth?" he asked, moving toward a butler's tray filled with decanters and an ice bucket. She asked for bourbon, and Angus' requested a martini, watching closely as James finished.

Liz took her drink from a silver tray and sipped it. "What a handsome room," she said, looking about at the high shelves of leather-bound volumes and the polished mahogany paneling.

"I'm glad you chose that word. I've always thought that old Aldred Drummond made this room to be handsome, not beautiful. It's a man's room, and it's always been my favorite. I have probably spent more time here than in any other place on earth."

She looked at the gun case and the rack for fishing rods, then at the old-fashioned file cabinets and map drawers. "I think it must reflect you as much as old Aldred," she said, and he beamed with pleasure.

"It certainly holds a lot more books than he originally allowed for. It is the library of six generations. We always had a bookbinder on the place until a few years ago, when the last one died."

"What sort of staff do you still have here?"

"Just a maid and a cook to take care of me. Of course, there's a gardener and a maintenance crew of a couple of dozen to keep the roads, the docks, and the airstrip."

She stopped before the fireplace in the center of the room and gazed at the painting over the mantel. It was a naval battle scene, and the fires on the burning ships cast an amazing light. "Is it a Turner?" she asked, not willing to believe her instinct.

"It is, and one of his best, I'm told. My grandfather bought it in London in 1889. I've got the bill somewhere. It was a hundred pounds, I think."

"He was always one of my favorites," she said.