Rachel Lee - Something Deadly

Then, squaring his shoulders, he climbed on his Harley and rode through town toward the Shippey house. He had no doubt Marilyn was there, surrounded by friends, people who were now scared half to death because the island had been quarantined.

Marilyn was at home, but she wasn’t surrounded by friends. She was all alone, her face tear-streaked and swollen.

“Are you sure you want to come in here?” she asked him almost bitterly.

She was an attractive woman of sixty, with carefully tended, smooth skin and dark hair with a white streak. Right now she looked older than her years.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, only that everyone is treating this house as if it were full of lepers. Nobody wants to even get close. They’ll call me, make vague remarks about helping and dropping by soon, but not a single one has showed up.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “I thought it was a heart attack.”

He hesitated. “I don’t think so, Marilyn.”

Her face twisted; then she stepped back, inviting him in. “Want some coffee? I’ve been living on it.”

“Sure, that would be great.”

He noticed that she didn’t lead him to the living room where her husband had died last night. Instead they went into the kitchen and sat at a small dinette with mugs of coffee. Under the table, at their feet, the Shippey’s King Charles spaniel seemed to cower.

“Sorry,” Marilyn said. “He’s a mess. He misses Carter.”

Declan reached down, gently scratching the dog’s ears. “I’m sorry,” he said. Sorry for the whole mess, though there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about any of it.

“So it wasn’t a heart attack. I knew you were going to say that. The minute I heard about the quarantine, I knew it was something else. Am I going to die, too?”

She looked at him straightly, her expression seeming to say that she hoped so, because right now life was past bearing.

At this moment, he didn’t have a shred of hope to offer her. She was locked too tightly in grief and shock to respond. Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand.

Something in her eyes tightened, then relaxed. “You’re not afraid to touch me.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

The tears came then, a flood of them. He held her hand, letting her squeeze his fingers until her nails dug in, and wondered what the hell was going to happen to all of them.

“He wasn’t sick at all,” Marilyn told Declan when her tears abated. “Just before I left for my bridge club, we were talking about taking the catamaran to Jamaica next week. He’d been looking forward to that for ages, and with Christmas vacation starting, we decided to sail around the Caribbean a bit.”

“So you didn’t notice anything amiss.”

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears that this time didn’t fall. “I didn’t notice anything at all, Dec. Not a thing. He hasn’t been sick. He’s been eating normally. He even took a walk before dinner, like he’s always done.”

Declan nodded, gave her hand a comforting squeeze. Much as he’d been trying to hold his own feelings in abeyance since last night, they were still there, and right now his chest ached painfully for Marilyn and Cart. “Not even a sneeze or a sniffle in the last few weeks?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dec. Everything was normal. He was healthy. So unless there was something he didn’t tell me, nothing was wrong.”

Riding toward his house, Declan noticed for the first time that the streets were empty. At nine at night on these balmy tropical evenings, there were usually plenty of people out for a stroll, or sitting on their porches. Despite the advent of satellite TV, few people regularly spent their evenings in front of the tube. The weather was too nice, the beach too inviting, the shops too attractive. And being such a small community, where everyone knew everyone else by sight, evening was a time to socialize.

Square dancers met in the park; street entertainers dotted the waterfront; ice cream was hawked from shops that were little more than a counter with an open window. The place had a flavor all its own, carefully nurtured by the wealthy inhabitants to be both exotic and Caribbean in nature. Or at least what they thought of as Caribbean. Sometimes Dec felt he’d been caught up in a Disneyesque version of Key West.

But tonight even the marimba band wasn’t playing downtown. The restaurant doors were closed, a shock in itself, since the doors of all the businesses were always wide open. Every shop was closed tighter than a drum. No music spilled from bars; no one strolled the streets; no cars were parked along the narrow side streets except near dwellings.

The word of the quarantine had scared everyone. The panic he had feared had transmuted into people hiding within their closed-up houses. He was driving through a dead zone.

Shaking his head, he turned left on La Puerta, past more closed shops, heading toward his subdivision north of town and its winding, palm-lined streets. As he passed the veterinary clinic, he realized he was only a couple of blocks from Markie Cross’s home. As if the bike had a mind of its own, he found himself on the street in front of her house.

She was home. Lights were on, and as he pulled up along the curb, he saw the head of her dog silhouetted in a brightly lighted window.

Her wolf. That probably explained a lot about the critter, Declan thought as he sat on his bike, engine still rumbling, debating whether to drive on or get out and go to her door. Kato’s silent watchfulness was a whole lot more unnerving than a dog’s barking.

But the wolf had been fairly friendly to him last night, so that was certainly no reason to drive away.

Finally, not even sure why he was there, but unable to forget Markie’s smile and feeling a need for something to brighten his day, he switched off the ignition, climbed off his bike and walked to her front door. As he approached, he saw Kato’s tail wag in a distinctly friendly fashion.

Well, at least one of the residents here welcomed him. With that amused thought, he rang the doorbell.

Markie opened it a minute later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Dr. Quinn! What a nice surprise.” A smile spread across her face. “What’s up?”

“Not a damn thing,” he admitted.

Her smiled deepened. “Well, come on in. I’m just making dinner, and I made way too much. Stuffed mahimahi. You’re welcome to join me.”

Fish sounded good. He forced himself to remember that this was a professional visit, coupled with ordinary island hospitality. Because for some reason he wanted to read more into it.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind himself. Immediately Kato approached him, sniffing at him as if he were full of interesting information. Declan waited a few moments, then squatted down, letting the wolf continue his exploration.

“You’re good with animals,” Markie said, sounding as if that surprised her.

“Well, I figure Kato is in the driver’s seat. He’ll let me know when it’s okay to touch him.”

“Yes, he will. Most people don’t understand that. Listen, I’m going to put the mahimahi in the oven. Kitchen is straight back when you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” He smiled up at her, then returned his attention to Kato. Fascinating animal, coal-black with golden eyes. His tail was down right now, as if he were a bit uncertain, but his ears were pricked with full alertness and even a bit of caution as he sniffed the man.

Declan found himself wondering what the dog was learning. Smells of the morgue. Smells of Cart’s body or disease? He hoped not. The taco he’d had delivered for lunch, a decision he’d been regretting ever since? The scent of Marilyn Shippey. That would be fresh. The odors from his drive through town?