In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [68]
Mel loped up the steps. She stood next to him, peering through the windows. She grabbed his arm. “This is it. This is the room where the body was. And the safe is over there behind the painting—the landscape of a log cabin in the forest.”
“Ed’s cabin,” Camelia guessed, and Mel realized it was probably true. Ed had not forgotten his old home, and where he came from, even after all these years and all his success.
“Let’s go inside,” she said.
Camelia guessed she wanted to put her fears to rest by facing them. “I’m a cop,” he said. “I don’t break into other folks’ houses. At least, not without a warrant.”
“Well, I’m the owner’s lover. And I can break into his house anytime I want.” She grinned. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Do you have a key?”
She shook her head and he sighed as he walked back along the porch and checked the door. The lock was ancient, even a child could have jimmied it. It took him about five seconds with a gold Visa card.
“My oh my, honey.” Mel watched admiringly. “Anybody would think you did this for a living.”
He flung open the door and they stood on the threshold, peeking in like a couple of petty thieves, afraid of being caught.
“It’s not nice to invade somebody’s house like this,” Camelia said uneasily. But Mel was already walking past him into the lofty room that overlooked the ocean. He saw her pause outside the door on the right, saw her square her shoulders, take a deep breath before she flung it open.
Sunlight flooded the room she had seen only for a few terrible seconds before the lights went out. There was the place where the dead man had sprawled across the carpet in the vivid pool of blood and an ugly yellow spatter of brains and flesh and bloodstained dollar bills. Now there was just an immaculate antique Oriental rug in a blurred pattern of blues and reds. The book-lined walls were free of dust, and the only sign of neglect was the wilting scarlet begonia on the windowsill.
Mel’s heart slowed down and she took a cautious step inside the library. Then another, and another. It was okay, she told herself, everything was okay, there was no need to be afraid anymore. This was Ed’s room; these were his books; his desk stood under the window, the pens he used were stored in that small seashell-studded box. How sweet, she thought vaguely, that he had that little seashell box, when he could have the best desk set from Dunhill or Marc Cross. But that was Ed.
She heard Camelia behind her, and she pointed out the place where the body had lain, showed him where the wall safe was.
Camelia took it all in, but there was nothing for him to learn here. The beach house had been cleaned thoroughly and also gone over by the local police, as well as Ed’s P.I. His interest was academic at this point.
He took her hand, walked out of the library, and closed the door firmly behind them. “Just look at that view.” He headed for the row of tall French windows, opened one up, and led her outside.
They took off their jackets, and Camelia loosened his silver-gray necktie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. They stood for a few minutes, just breathing in gusts of the fresh ocean breeze, lifting their faces to the sun. “Like day-trippers at Jones Beach,” he said.
The Grand Banks 38 Europa was moored at the private dock to the right of the house, with a flight of wooden steps leading down to it. Camelia was a boat man, though he had never owned one, and he thought this was a very fine toy for a man to possess. For the second time that day, he envied Ed Vincent.
He walked down the steps to the deep mooring and stepped onto the immaculate teak deck. No fiberglass here; this was a proper craft, old but beautifully restored. The varnish was perfect, though the kelly-green canvas bridge cover had been ripped to shreds in the hurricane. He took a peek at the new engine, complete with Walker Airseps and a silencing package. It was powerful. He thought it probably cruised at a top of fourteen knots.
Mel jumped down beside him. She walked slowly along the deck, ran her