Janice Macdonald - Suspicion

“Oh, God, Scott.” Carolyn shook her head. “Please don’t tell me they serve chow mein.”

“Chocolate-chip cupcakes.” He felt himself losing the battle not to grin. “Okay, knock it off. Everybody is looking at us.”

“The hell with them,” Carolyn said. “You know what? I was never a huge fan of your ex-wife, but she was right about one thing. You were crazy to give up your job at the Times. I mean seriously, how long can you get up every morning and write this kind of garbage? You’re going to go stark-raving nuts.”

“Well, it’s not all like that. There are…meatier stories.”

“Name one.”

He thought of Diana Lynsky. “I can’t.”

“I give it six months.”

“We’ll see.”

Carolyn went off to browse the buffet table and he went off to browse Ava Lynsky’s artwork, two dozen or so tile installations, hung at eye-level and illuminated by recessed ceiling lights: several views of Avalon Harbor, white yachts and blue water; an elaborate dwelling with a cone-shaped roof, nestled into a green hillside—the caption beneath it read The Holly Hill House; renderings of brown seals on white rocks, smiling kids in yellow kayaks, a shaggy-headed buffalo traipsing through long grass.

“Did you know there were buffalo on Catalina?” he asked Carolyn when they’d returned to their corner, Carolyn with a yellow paper plate of deviled eggs and small open-face sandwiches.

“Buffalo?” With her teeth, she removed an olive from whipped golden yolk, swallowed it and shrugged. “I can’t honestly say I’ve stayed awake nights wondering.”

“I didn’t know until last week.” Scott took one of the sandwiches, paper-thin cucumber slices artistically aligned with strips of red pepper. “Someone from the Conservancy called the paper to suggest I do a piece about the buffalo. I thought it was a joke.”

“Speaking of meatier stories,” Carolyn said.

Scott ignored her. “Years ago some Hollywood types doing a film about Zane Grey brought over fourteen of them. Now the offspring roam through the interior, doing…whatever buffaloes do.”

“So did you write about them?”

“Not yet. Too many other hot stories going on. The garden club’s electing a new president tomorrow.” He let a moment pass. “Daisy Summers, I kid you not.”

“Like I said, I give you six months. Maybe three.”

Scott said nothing. He’d just spotted Ava again, talking now to the president of the Catalina Island Improvement Association, a woman he’d been introduced to his first day here and who had immediately listed the articles she wanted to see in the Argonaut. At that moment he’d had his first serious doubt about leaving L.A. He watched Ava. Her white sundress seemed to gleam against her tanned arms and shoulders.

“So is that the artist?” Carolyn asked. “The one with the black curls?”

“Yep.”

Carolyn smiled. “Ah.”

Scott shot her a look, “Ah, what?”

Carolyn kept smiling. “Just, ah.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I just figured out the real reason we’re hanging out with a bunch of yahoos drinking cheap wine and chowing down on egg salad.”

“The real reason we’re here,” Scott said, still watching Ava Lynsky and wondering whether the tall geek with the crewcut in whose ear she was whispering was the fiancé, “is…” The geek had just whirled Ava around and was lifting the hair off the back off her neck, fiddling with something back there and causing Scott to lose his train of thought.

“Quit drooling,” Carolyn said.

“Don’t be absurd,” Scott said.

“Actually, I think she’s kind of witchy-looking,” Carolyn said.

“Exotic,” Scott said.

“If you’re going to go put the make on her, do it now,” Carolyn said. “I’m getting bored.”

“I’m not going to put the make on her,” Scott said. “I just need to talk to her.”

“Whatever,” Carolyn said.

Scott shot her another look, composed his features as he headed over to talk to Ava Lynsky, who was listening to the island-improvement woman but watching him as he moved through the crowd. He tried not to notice that his pulse had sped up.

“MY GOODNESS,” AVA SMILED at Scott. “A representative from the fourth estate. This must be a bigger occasion than I thought.”

“You summoned me,” he reminded her. “I’d be remiss in my duties if I neglected to cover Avalon’s cultural scene. Particularly one as glittering as this.”

“That is so kind of you,” Ava said. “I can’t tell you how flattered I am.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said.

“You’ve taken a look around?” she asked. “Tried some of our delicious refreshments?”

“Made an absolute pig of myself,” he said. “Everything’s…divine.”

Jerk, Ava thought, and turned to the president of the Catalina Island Improvement Association who had been shooting glances like Ping-Pong balls between herself and Scott. “You’ve met Scott Campbell, haven’t you? Aren’t you just thrilled to have a former L.A. Times reporter over here in Avalon covering our little goings-on?”

“Yes, well—” Doris gave him a measured look “—we’ll see. I’m sure you’ll find no shortage of exciting things to write about,” she said with a frosty smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a little plate of goodies for my husband. He’s over there just salivating for some of those scrumptious-looking Swedish meatballs.”

Ava watched Doris head for the buffet table and wished Scott Campbell would just go away. She’d spotted him as soon as he walked into the gallery—all urban and hip with his orange-haired girlfriend—and tried to ignore him. Tried unsuccessfully to ignore him. What really irritated her was the way the two of them had just kept to themselves, off in the corner, whispering and laughing as though they found the whole scene quaint and amusing.

“Well—” she tried to remember where she’d left her wineglass “—are you finding plenty to write about?”

“Still finding my way around. Meeting people, that sort of thing. I met your sister a few days ago. And your father was kind enough to give me a tour of the island.”

“How nice.” Reminded of her father, whose latest delaying tactic was the cottage’s leaking roof, Ava felt her cordial mask slip. Her head was aching, and while she hadn’t expected Ingrid to show up for the reception, she was a little hurt that her father hadn’t put in an appearance. She felt surly, tired and not in the mood for social chitchat.

“We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he said, “and I wanted to suggest we start over.”

“But you’re on the trail of a story, right? Driven, dogged, persistent. That’s the way reporters are, isn’t it? Not that I’ve had a lot of experience with hard-bitten reporters, of course, here in my sunny island paradise.”

“Look, could we knock this off?”

“Knock what off?”

“Come on.” He nodded toward the bar, where glasses of white and red wine were arranged in little rows. “Let me get you a drink.”

“I have one.” She glanced around. “Somewhere.”

“Have another one.”

“No, thank you. One glass is my limit.”

“Talk to me while I have one.”

“Talk to you about what?”

“Anything.”

“Look.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I really can’t think of anything I want to say to you. But thank you so much for attending my humble little event. I didn’t prepare any press kits, but if you’d like one, I can pull something together.” She touched his arm. “And now I really need to go and mingle.”

An hour later Ava checked in for another night at the Bay View. She was still annoyed at Sam and his newest delaying tactic. It was late April and the island probably wouldn’t see rain again till November at the earliest. She’d figured out his strategy. If he inconvenienced her enough, she’d give up and return home. The strategy would fail; she could hold out for as long as he could. When hotel living got too expensive, there was always Ingrid’s couch and the campground at Two Harbors on the other side of the island. She ignored the curious glance from the clerk at the front desk—a weekend busboy at Camp Breatheasy—signed the register and went up to her room.