Deadly Homecoming. Barbara Phinney
the clinic, the road bent right and headed past the church. Her driveway plunged into the trees at a narrow lane on the left. The land around the old lighthouse and its replacement was kept clear, but at the perimeter, thick trees cloaked the lane’s entrance.
Daylight was fading behind some distant clouds, so Peta quickened her step, knowing she hadn’t left any lights on in the cottage and not wanting to be near the edge of the cliffs at dark. She heard a soft, rustling noise to her right, and quickened her pace. Another stupid cat, no doubt trying to freak her out.
Sea and salt caught on her tongue, telling her she was near the cliff, and that the wind had picked up. The drive in here this afternoon had been breathtaking, literally, with the road skimming too perilously close to the cliff.
But now the way felt damp and lonely and her heart tripped up several beats. She hefted up her groceries. Don’t look down. Don’t look at the edge of the cliff.
She glanced that way just the same. Her knees gelled, then liquefied. Her breath stalled in her throat. So high up, it made her ears ring. A gust buffeted her and she pushed too hard against it—
And stumbled. Then, in a desperate attempt to regain her footing, she tumbled over the cliff.
FOUR
Peta grappled with the roots and tendrils of the wild roses that clung to the edge of the island, her fear of sliding farther overcoming the painful jabs of the thorns digging into her hands.
Her foot, pedaling against the cliff face, found a rock, and she pushed hard on it, easing the agony on her hands. She threw out her right hand and met a long section of weeds. Her other foot scraped dirt and loose rocks until she’d gained another foothold.
Heart pounding, and forcing herself not to look down again, she stabilized her hold and clung to the edge. A gull, misinterpreting her actions for an offer of food, swooped close to her. She didn’t need to be reminded of how high she was above the waves and water. She looked anyway, hating the self-punishment.
A gust ripped past her, trying to peel her from the cliff. Releasing the rose branch, she swung out her left hand and punctured the soft soil above with her fingers. She found cold but compliant sod, and pulled herself up a few more inches. With her foot, she scraped out another foothold and lifted herself farther. She let go of the weeds she’d grabbed wildly with her right hand and found a small log. She tossed it to one side, and then locked on to a spindly bayberry plant. Thankfully, its roots held tight.
Finally, she was able to swing her leg over the edge.
Once on the flat of the cliff, she rolled away, onto the grocery bag of food Lawson had given her. Slumped over it, she shut her eyes and waited for the cold horror within her to run its course.
Eventually, she breathed. Thank you, Lord. Thank you so much.
Several long minutes later, she rose, every muscle still quivering. Daylight was fading now and the rotating beacon of the new lighthouse sliced through her vision.
She grabbed her donated groceries and limped toward the cottage, her one shoe full of dirt, her opposite knee sore from scraping the cliff, and her whole front filthy.
Inside, she locked the door and slumped against it.
Hers could easily have been the next death on Northwind.
Gary Marcano. Lawson had had to fight to contain his reaction when Peta had uttered that name.
Gary Marcano was his number-one suspect. Marcano was known to police as a drug dealer and as a member of organized crime. Born in New England, but raised in Canada, Marcano had been acquitted once of second-degree murder, then became a person of interest in several disappearances, including those of Lawson’s parents, his brother and his brother’s family. But with no evidence and no bodies, the police could do nothing.
And now he had proof that Danny Culmore worked for him.
But Culmore was dead. And the police officer thought Peta had killed him. Where did that leave him?
Mouth tight, Lawson gathered up the dishes and began to clean up. He’d sat in his kitchen with night approaching long enough.
Peta felt guilty about introducing Danny to Marcano. She should, a voice inside him spat out. Look what happened. My family is gone, probably dead. Marcano and Danny Culmore were most likely the ones responsible. Would this have happened if they’d never met?
Forget that question. This wasn’t fair to Peta.
Did she make it back to the cottage okay? She’d said she needed the walk, but with guilt eating at her and the town not wanting her back—
Ignoring the dishes, he grabbed a jacket and headed out. He would just drive up to the cottage, and if the lights were on there, he’d leave.
His heart leaped a few minutes later, when he saw the cottage blanketed in darkness. He jumped out and banged on the door. Almost immediately, Peta threw it open.
Startled, he stepped over the threshold. Only then did he notice her dirty front. “I thought I would check to see if you got home okay. What happened?”
She stared at him for a moment, then flicked out her hand in disbelief. “I fell off the cliff! Only by the grace of God did I manage to hang on and climb back up.”
Cold shock sluiced through Lawson. He should have insisted on driving her to the cottage. “Are you all right?”
“A bit scraped up, but otherwise okay. I didn’t fall far.”
“The cliff is getting closer to the driveway with every rain. This time next year, the driveway will have to be relocated.” He studied her. “It gave you quite a scare.”
Peta stood stiffly. “I, um,” she began, still shaking. “I’m a bit scared of heights. Well, more than a bit. I get dizzy, my heart races, and, well, this time, I fell over. I should have walked through the woods.”
“You’re acrophobic?”
She nodded. “I live on the ground floor of a tall apartment building, and I can’t even look up at it without getting dizzy.”
He stepped closer to her, feeling her vulnerable beauty like a sheer curtain whirling around her. Her eyes, dark now with relief and fear and something else, locked on to his.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to stay here. Even on the ferry trip over here, I was white-knuckled all the way. I can’t even look out at the sea sometimes.”
He wanted to pull her into a warm embrace, like the ones the little old ladies in his church back home give when someone just needs a good hug. Should he? Would she take it in the spirit it was being offered?
And what spirit would that be? a part of him wondered.
Shocked by his inner question, he stepped back, hitting the kitchen door with his heel.
She turned away, as if unaware of his thoughts. “It’s this whole day. Looking out Danny’s bedroom window and seeing him down there must have triggered this. I’m usually not this bad. I—I just don’t like going near the edge of the cliff.” She visibly shivered. “I get all dizzy.”
He frowned. If this were so, how could she stand being in the gazebo, perched on a cliff, where Danny Culmore had been murdered? She wouldn’t have even stepped into it, let alone been able to commit murder in it.
Peta had begun to speak again. “Maybe this is some kind of rebounding emotion from being accused of murder.” She paused. “Do you think I’m guilty?”
Did he? Could she have even walked into Danny’s gazebo, with it now clinging to the edge of the cliff? Another good storm and it would fall into the bay. And yet, what about the past she shared with Danny? And her reputation?
He shrugged. “No, but look at the evidence. The innkeeper on the mainland says you were only there the night before