Carla Neggers - Breakwater

He held up a hand. “It’s not a problem, Mr. Boone. Quinn and I are friends. Go ahead, Quinn. You can continue. I have nothing to hide from you or anyone else. As I told the FBI and local police, Alicia’s moodiness started shortly before her death. She’d been unhappy for a while, of course, but the irrational talk-the kind of behavior you reported she exhibited when she came to you in Washington -” He paused as if in pain. “Let’s just say she went downhill very fast.”

“I think I know why,” Quinn said, avoiding Huck’s eye. “Alicia had a very bad reaction to an antidepressant back in college. My neighbor here in Yorkville is a retired nurse. She’s pretty sure she recognized the symptoms.”

“Why would she take a medication when she’d already had a bad reaction to it? What doctor would prescribe that if he knew her history?”

“I’m not sure a doctor gave it to her. I told the FBI.”

“Special Agent Kowalski?”

“I suggested they check their blood sample for antidepressants, in particular SSRIs.”

“SSRI?”

“It stands for selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor.” She smiled faintly. “I wrote it down. SSRIs are the most commonly prescribed antidepressants. According to Maura, my neighbor, tricyclics are more likely to be lethal in overdose, but SSRIs can produce a temporary increase in anxiety. Most of the time it’s mild and goes away after a few days. In rare cases, the anxiety and agitation can be very severe and frightening.”

“As with Alicia.” Crawford sat forward, intent on what Quinn was saying. “This is all news to me.”

“I’m not a doctor, and neither is Maura-she emphasized that to me. Most people do well on antidepressants and don’t have this kind of severe, unpleasant reaction. Depression is a treatable illness.”

“Alicia’s bad reaction in college was to some kind of SSRI?”

Quinn nodded. Huck hadn’t made a sound in the doorway. “I don’t know which one,” she said. “Alicia told me that she had reacted very badly and refused to touch any kind of antidepressant. If depressed, she would try alternative therapies. Psychoanalysis, exercise, meditation-but not medication. She was adamant about it.”

“Then you’re suggesting she didn’t know what she was taking.”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Quinn said.

“Who else knew about her reaction? Presumably her doctor, and her family-any other friends, colleagues? Besides yourself, that is.”

Quinn shifted in her chair. “I did not provide Alicia with any kind of medication, with or without her knowledge. Not even a vitamin. I don’t know anyone who would.”

“No, of course not.” He exhaled, adding simply, “I miss her.”

“Do you know anything about the car that picked her up in Washington?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“One of your security people?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Quinn noticed his pained look. “I don’t mean to sound as if I’m interrogating you. I understand you’d visit her at the cottage-”

“Mr. Crawford,” Huck interrupted, “I can take Miss Harlowe out of here.”

He shook his head. “No, no. It’s all right. Quinn’s been through a terrible ordeal herself, losing a friend.” Crawford got to his feet, and took a few steps, as if he just needed to move. He had a lost quality about him. “I walked through the marsh to your cottage, without security. You’d think I wouldn’t risk it, given my recent history. But Yorkville’s so small-and I’ve been coming here for years. I couldn’t imagine anything bad happening here. Maybe it’s me. My fault she died, that is. I’m bad luck.”

Quinn let her shawl fall off her shoulders. “Did she think of you as a brother?”

“She’d never say. She wasn’t one to open herself up to that kind of emotion. She protected herself, hated to be vulnerable.” He stopped pacing, looked at Quinn. “You believe we were having an affair, don’t you?”

“Oh, God-Oliver!” Sharon Riccardi burst past Huck into the library, her bare arms red with mosquito bites from last night’s trip through the marsh. If she was embarrassed over her behavior, she gave no indication. “I am so sorry. Boone, why didn’t you get her out of here?”

“I asked her to stay,” Crawford said. “It’s all right, Sharon. Quinn and I have been having a nice chat.”

“It’s not all right.” Hands on hips, Sharon swung around to face Quinn. “You were invited here today because we believed you needed a break after what happened to your friend-we all needed a break and some closure. We assumed you’d act appropriately, not sneak around in private areas.”

Quinn thought Huck might say something in her defense, but he didn’t. “One thing just led to another,” she said.

Sharon Riccardi wasn’t mollified. “You need to bury your friend and leave the rest of us in peace. Oliver, you trust me to make difficult decisions, and I’m making one now. It’s time Miss Harlowe went home.”

Joe Riccardi appeared in the doorway and stood next to Huck, who still hadn’t moved or said anything. “What’s going on?”

Sharon stiffened. “Miss Harlowe is leaving.”

“I’ll see to it she gets home.” Huck calmly inserted himself between the Riccardis and Quinn and took her by the elbow. She felt the tickle of shawl fringe on her arm and remembered last night.

“I can find my own way out,” she said quickly.

Shaking her head, Sharon addressed Huck. “Take her back to her cottage in her car. That way we know she gets there safely. I’ll send Glover for you.”

Oliver Crawford rose, sweeping Quinn’s shawl up from where it had dragged on the floor. “I hope our discussion eases your mind.”

“It doesn’t, really, but thanks for your time.”

Keeping one hand on her elbow, Huck ushered Quinn past a dumbfounded, almost ashen Joe Riccardi. She wondered if he’d take the hit for her sneaking into the house, and felt a pang of regret. Just because he was married to ice-cold Sharon didn’t mean he’d escape her ire.

Huck picked up the pace as they walked back out to the kitchen. “Hey,” Quinn said, “I’m in high heels.”

“You’re keeping up just fine.”

He took her through the side door that she’d used to get in, skirting the edge of the party. But Gerard Lattimore waved from the shade of an oak. “Quinn! There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” He walked over to her, but glanced at Huck, saw his tension and frowned. “What’s going on?”

“I’m getting the boot,” Quinn said.

“Why?”

“Poking my nose where I shouldn’t.”

Huck loosened his grip on her arm. “I’m escorting Miss Harlowe back to her cottage.”

“I got caught talking to Oliver Crawford in the library,” Quinn explained, not exactly mortified over getting tossed from Breakwater. “Big sin.”

Gerard’s mouth twitched with humor. “Well, perhaps I can redeem you.”

“It’s okay. Really. I just wanted to see the place.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quinn’s leaving,” Huck said.

Gerard frowned at him. “I was hoping she and I would have a chance to talk.”

Quinn knew he would only grill her about what he hadn’t told her, and she’d lost any desire to stay. “I promised my grandfather I’d visit him on my way back to Washington,” she said. “I should get going.”

“Honestly,” Gerard said, “I can intervene and explain to Ollie that you’re like a wandering two-year-old-”

Quinn grinned at him. “Oh, that’s a big help.”

Huck straightened, everything about him on edge. “I need to get a move on.”

When they reached her car, he stood by the passenger door until she was inside, then shut it. If he’d had a dead bolt, he’d probably have used it to lock her in. He went around to the driver’s side and climbed in.