Dark Tide Read online

  Surprise. I’d automatically assumed wife.

  I tried another search for the Moonglows and their sole album. All that came up were references made in passing to other members. Paulie St. Cyr had gone on to become quite well-known before his early death in 1967. Todd Thomas had given up music for selling ski boats. He’d apparently retired in the eighties and moved to Canada. His wife kept a family Web site which offered “news” updates and lots of photos of spectacularly plain children. Orrie New Orleans had a long, if unspectacular, career as a backup player. He had passed away last year. I couldn’t find any information on Jinx Stevens. The only time her name popped up was in reference to the Moonglows and Kaleidoscope.

  She seemed to have vanished as effectively as her brother, though it seemed there was no mystery about it.

  But then, there wasn’t a lot made of Jay Stevens’s disappearance either. Maybe it had only been news in Los Angeles. The Moonglows were strictly famous (and that was relative) for having been Paulie St. Cyr’s first band. For that reason, and that reason alone, a copy of Kaleidoscope was worth a small fortune.

  I plugged it into my eBay searches. I was curious. Plus, listening to music was on my doctor-approved list of activities.

  I spent the next hour scanning through jazz discussion boards and coming up with not so much in the way of information. The next time I surfaced, I realized that it was nearly ten o’clock, and Lauren would be showing up to drag me to cardiac rehab.

  I signed out, turned off the laptop, and went upstairs to change into sweats and a T-shirt.

  * * * * *

  “Depression is perfectly normal after a cardiac event, Adrien.” Dr. Shearing studied me over the top of her spectacles.

  Dr. Shearing was my therapist, yet another member of my rehabilitation team, which included my cardiologist, physical therapist, exercise therapist, dietitian, and…shrink. I didn’t care for her. I didn’t care for any part of cardiac rehab. Not that I didn’t know how lucky I was to be in such a program, but I’d never been much for team sports, and that was increasingly what my recovery felt like. All this fucking attention on everything I did. It was close to unbearable. And most unbearable was Dr. Shearing’s poking and probing into my emotional state.

  “I’m not depressed.” I gave her a smile perfected through years of dealing with my mother’s nosy cronies at interminable high-society shindigs.

  Dr. Shearing smiled politely in return. She was, as they say in legend, small but terrible. Barely five feet tall and built like a pixie. She had one of those pixie haircuts too. The kind of thing that looks best on elderly women or kindergarteners. The walls of her office were plastered in a disturbing mix of angel pictures and diplomas.

  “What about stress? Are you using your stress-management techniques when things seem to be getting on top of you?”

  “Nothing is getting on top of me.” As I said it, a totally inappropriate picture popped into my mind.

  “What are you feeling?” Jake’s breath warm against my face, my bruised lips tingling from his kisses. “Tell me what it feels like with me inside you.”

  I felt my face warm. I think Dr. Shearing mistook it for guilt. She said rather impatiently, “You’re an intelligent, educated man, Adrien. You must realize we can’t treat the heart without treating the entire mind and body. Did you know that depressed cardiac patients have at least twice the risk of repeat events in the two years following their first heart attack?”

  “Yep,” I said shortly. “Depressed patients are less likely to take their meds, stick to their diets and exercise regimes, and continue cardiac-rehab sessions. I’m not depressed, and I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do.” Including this waste of time thrice weekly for twelve weeks. That was how long my rehab was scheduled for. Twelve weeks of closely supervised…everything.

  I added, “So can I please go do my workout?”

  She shook her head as though she didn’t get it — or more likely, that I didn’t. “We talked about you bringing a support partner to rehab today.”

  “No, we didn’t. You did.” And now I was losing my temper. “Even if I wanted to put someone else through this, there isn’t anyone.”

  “I know that’s not true. Your mother —”

  “Jesus. You don’t give up, do you? I’m thirty-five years old. I don’t want to go through cardiac rehab with my mom, although I sincerely appreciate the fact that she’s paying for all this. I can get through it on my own. I prefer to do it on my own.”

  Mother, please, Mother, I’d rather do it myself!

  Dr. Shearing gave me a long, unsmiling look. “There’s not a lot I can do with that attitude.”

  Fortunately.

  * * * * *

  “How’d it go?” Lauren asked when I climbed into her BMW about thirty minutes later.

  “It’s going fine.” I relaxed against the headrest.

  She glanced at me. “That was a heavy sigh.”

  Lauren was the eldest of my stepsisters. Like Natalie, she was a tall, leggy blonde; classic California girl. She possessed a much more serious temperament, though. Her days were spent working for a nonprofit organization, and her evenings went to charity work. She was in the middle of an ugly divorce and had moved back home, which right there meant she already had her own problems and didn’t need mine.

  I smiled wearily. “Everything’s fine. It’s only that I’m tired of being tired.”

  “I know,” she commiserated, starting the car.

  She didn’t know, of course. That didn’t change the fact that she wanted to help — genuinely wanted to help, wasn’t simply offering lip service. That was one of the strangest parts of having acquired an extended family this late in life. Having all these people who genuinely cared, were genuinely interested, were not only willing but eager to help. It took getting used to. Even after two years, it caught me off guard.

  Even more surprising to me was that, despite what everyone seemed to think, I sort of reciprocated. I was mildly fond of gruff Bill Dauten, and I was, well, very fond of the girls. In fact, when Natalie had hurled herself sobbing into my arms yesterday, I’d experienced the completely unfamiliar urge to break someone’s face in her defense. I couldn’t remember a time when anyone had relied on me, really relied on me, let alone turned to me for protection and comfort.

  It had felt…good.

  We drove out of the crowded lot — another sore spot: I wasn’t allowed to drive yet and probably had to put up with another two or more weeks of being a passenger in my own life.

  “Why don’t we go by the house?” Lauren said out of the blue. “I mean, the bookstore is closed today anyway. Emma is dying to show you pictures of ponies. And it would do wonders for Lisa’s nerves.”

  I studied her profile. “I guess she’s still upset about the…er…”

  “The skeleton in the floor? You could say that.” She spared me a quick, wry smile. “It was all over the local news last night. She tried to send Daddy out to bring you home.”

  I raised my head and stared. At last I managed, “I guess I owe Bill one.”

  Lauren nodded. Her lips quivered, and I could see she was working not to laugh. “Don’t tell Lisa. I thought your skeleton sounded kind of interesting.”

  “It is, kind of,” I admitted. I considered telling her that someone had tried to break in to the bookstore for two nights running, but no way would she be able to refrain from passing that intel on to Lisa. It’s like these women had signed a blood oath to put loyalty to their sub rosa sisterhood above all else.

  “She’s afraid you’re going to get involved in another murder investigation.”

  “No.”

  Lauren didn’t reply.

  “Even if I did look into it…most of the principals would be long gone. It’s a cold case. I mean, I’m not considering getting involved, but…”

  Lauren shrugged. “Fifty years ago. If someone was in their twenties back then, they could still be around.”

  “Even Lisa can’t
think I’m at risk from the seventy-and-up demographic.”

  She bit her lip, still clearly amused at my woes. “Shall we drop by the house and reassure her that you’re still alive?”

  “Home, Jane,” I ordered languidly.

  * * * * *

  “I like him best,” Emma confided, handing me a photo of a five-year-old black gelding. “Adagio.”

  We were sitting on the wide sofa in the Dautens’ family room, which opened into the large kitchen, where Natalie stood quietly arguing on the phone with her boyfriend and Lisa pretended not to listen as she dished out lunch.

  “He’s a beauty,” I agreed, studying the graceful tail, arched neck, wide eyes, and classic dish face of an Arabian horse.

  “We’ve been through this, Emma. A pony is much more suitable.” Lisa set a plate of eggplant cannelloni on the coffee table in front of me.

  Emma’s face took on a mutinous expression. She was the youngest of my stepsisters, and if I were going to be honest, she was my favorite. I’d never been remotely interested in children, but Emma — somehow she was different. She even sort of looked like me. Well, she had dark hair and blue eyes. At fourteen, she still had to grow into her lanky height, and she seemed to be all knees and elbows.

  I said, “A pony isn’t necessarily the best choice for a child.” Emma opened her mouth, and I amended, “Or a teenybopper.”

  Torn between indignation and gratification, she volunteered, “Adagio is fourteen and a half hands.”

  I picked up the plate, saying, “That’s relatively small. Cutoff for a pony is fourteen point two.”

  “Tall enough for someone to break her little neck falling off.”

  “I won’t,” Emma protested.

  “She could break her little neck falling off a Shetland pony,” I said. “Or tripping over her little feet.” I added to Emma, “Try to avoid that.”

  She smothered a giggle. I actually liked her giggle. Sue me. I sampled the cannelloni. It was good: olives, shallots, goat cheese. But it was hard to make myself eat now. I surreptitiously set the plate aside.

  Lisa wore the expression I recognized only too well from many thwarted attempts to coerce her into letting me have something besides tropical fish during my formative years. “I think it would be better to start with a pony. I’m not wild about that idea, let alone buying a horse.”

  “Ponies can be stubborn and spoiled. A lot of it’s going to depend on the previous owner. Arabians are smart, alert, gentle. So much so that they’re about the only breed of which the United States Equestrian Federation will permit kids younger than eighteen to show stallions.”

  My grandmother had raised Arabians. In fact, my childhood ambition had been to raise Arabians. I’d probably have outgrown that even if I hadn’t gotten sick in my teens. I still enjoyed riding — and hopefully would be well enough to start again soon.

  “She’s not going to have a stallion,” Lisa exclaimed.

  “Adagio’s not a stallion,” Emma said. “He’s a gelding.”

  At that unconsciously possessive tone, Lisa gave me a long look. I intervened before she could.

  “Don’t set your heart on Adagio, kiddo. You’re going by a photo. We haven’t seen him in the flesh, let alone ridden him. And you’d want to ride him a couple of times, not make a decision based on seeing him once.”

  “But I know. If I ride him once and I think he’s the right one, why can’t I have him?”

  “Arabians aren’t much good as jumpers,” I reminded her. “They jump flat. You still want to show jump, right? Show me the other ponies.”

  It was clear that I had let her down big-time. She fought to keep her mouth from quivering as she handed me the next photos. I tried not to notice, though it was hard to ignore, when she was shaking with the effort not to cry. It reminded me of something I hadn’t thought of in a very long time: a cardboard box with an old pillow and a cheap dog collar for an unknown dog to be named Scout that I had confidently believed would one day be mine. I had held on to that box for two years, believing that I could wear my mother down.

  In the end, the cardboard box, pillow, and collar had gone in the trash, along with my dreams of dog ownership. And I’d gotten over it just fine. So would she. I picked up my plate, ate a bite of cannelloni.

  “This chestnut is nice-looking.”

  Nothing from Emma.

  “The Welsh pony?”

  She nodded. Pressed her lips still more firmly when they would have betrayed her.

  “Or what about the Welara?” For Lisa’s benefit, I said, “That’s an Arabian and Welsh pony mix. They’re supposed to be very gentle.”

  Emma nodded bravely, her fingers clutching the photo of Adagio so tightly, it was starting to crinkle.

  Appetite gone, I set my plate on the table. “I’m not saying Adagio’s not the right horse.”

  She gave another of those tight nods, wiped her nose with her hand, sniffed fiercely.

  “Emma, you’re being a goose,” Lisa said sharply. “You’re lucky that your father and I are willing to consider a pony.”

  Emma jumped up and ran from the room, ignoring Lisa’s exasperated “Emma!”

  In the wake of a distant bedroom door slamming, Lisa turned to me. “I do not understand that child. You were never like this. Girls are so…so unreasonable.”

  “It’s not going to hurt if I go take a look at this horse, right?”

  She paled. “Adrien, you are not well enough to ride. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know that.” I clamped down on my own impatience. “I’ll have a look at Adagio and see if it’s worth taking her out there for a test drive.”

  “She’s had her heart set on that bloody nag from the minute she saw his picture. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Yes. Probably. What’s the harm in letting me vet him? Osseo Farms is a reputable breeder, and I like Arabians. If I were in the market for a horse, I’d be looking at Arabians.”

  “Are you sure you’re not in the market?” my mother asked drily.

  I grinned at her, and after a moment she smiled reluctantly.

  Despite the flare-up with Emma, it was a pleasant visit. We sat in the large, shady backyard and drank lemonade and talked. Or they talked. Mostly I listened. And admittedly, I dozed off a couple of times as Lauren and Natalie discussed their romantic woes.

  Fortunately no one asked my opinion, because I believed Lauren couldn’t unload her cheating, corporate-clone spouse fast enough, and Natalie’s on-and-off boyfriend, Warren was a waste of space. Not that my track record was enviable, though with the exception of Mel, I didn’t think I had ever kidded myself that my relationships were going to last forever.

  “Guy called here last night,” Lisa said, jolting me out of a somnolent contemplation of bees buzzing the purple clematis climbing up the redwood pergola. “Did he get hold of you?”

  “Yes.”

  Three pairs of eyes watched and waited.

  “What?”

  Natalie said to the others, “I told you.”

  I asked shortly, “What did you tell them?”

  “That it’s over with Guy.”

  I closed my eyes, raised my face to the sun. “You worry about your own love life,” I said finally.

  Not exactly a crushing rejoinder. Surprisingly, they left it alone.

  After a time, Emma came out to join us on the patio, and everyone carefully ignored the fact that her eyes and nose were pink. Bill arrived home, and cocktails were served — though none for me. I was looking forward to the following week, when I’d finally be allowed a glass of wine again. Not that I needed to be drunk to be around my family, but it didn’t hurt to take the edge off.

  The only awkward time was when Lisa popped out with, “Darling, the house in Porter Ranch is still sitting empty.”

  “I thought you were putting it on the market?” I said.

  “This is a dreadful time to try and sell a house.”

  “Okay.”

  My bemusement must have
been clear. She pushed a fraction harder. “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed?”

  “What did we discuss?” I asked cautiously.

  “You moving into the Porter Ranch house.”

  I peered more closely at her. “That was like…two years ago.”

  She said brightly, “Then you’ve had plenty of time to think about it. The house is perfect for you. It’s quiet and private, and it has the swimming pool, which would be so good for you now. The doc —”

  “It’s sort of big for one, don’t you think?”

  “It won’t always be one.” She was giving me that maternal look that always raised the hair on the back of my neck.

  “That’s true. I do have a cat now.”

  She laughed her silvery laugh, and I knew I’d better not encourage her.

  “I appreciate the thought. I can’t afford a new house and a bookstore renovation.”

  To my horror, Bill looked up out of his paper and said, “You can have the house, Adrien. Your mother and I already discussed it. It would put Lisa’s mind at ease.”

  I made a sound that generally precedes having a doctor inspect your tonsils and managed feebly, “It’s too far from the bookstore.”

  “Darling, you don’t need to live over the bookstore.”

  “No, but I like living over the bookstore.”

  “But living over the bookstore is hardly conducive to developing a healthier lifestyle and more-sensible work habits, which is what the doctors warned you has to happen, or you’re going to be right back where you were.”

  I said to the others, “Is this better than reality TV or what?”

  Emma made a squeaky sound that was probably a laugh swallowed in the nick of time.

  “Adrien, you need to take this seriously.”

  “Serious as a heart attack,” I assured her.

  Her face tightened. “That’s hardly amusing, under the circumstances.”