Dead By Dusk (8 page)

“Yes, dinner sounds lovely,” Stephanie said.

“We will excuse ourselves—” Carlo began.

“No, no! You two will join us tonight—I insist,” Arturo said.

And so, they all trailed in to dinner together.

This time, Stephanie found herself between Grant and Clay Barton. She felt as if she sat between rival geysers, though surely, no one else had this perception, for the talk around the table was as casual and pleasant as could possibly be desired. Drew, Doug, Suzette, and Lena gave the archeologist and Grant a lively description of how the improv theater would run, and Carlo asked a number of questions and expressed his enthusiasm for the project and, naturally, asked about the work being done in English since they were in Italy.

“Reggie loves this area—the American lady who has bought the club. Like Lena, she is Italian-American,” Arturo told him. “Because so little has really been done in many areas of Calabria to draw on tourism dollars, Reggie is trying to pull visitors not just from the United States, but from around Europe. Whether deserving or not,” he said dryly, “English has become the second language of many other nationalities.”

“And we'll all be working on our Italian,” Stephanie said. “Eventually, we intend to work in shows that draw on both languages. To get the club up and started, we're working with English—and the premise, of course, that our world travelers are working hard on their Italian.”

“But sadly, it seems, you have run into a bit of a snag already, eh?” Carlo said. “Down a cast member, as it is.”

“There's no problem there,” Grant put in. He had leaned back to stare at Stephanie. “She's a wonderful director, of course. But Steph has quite a resumé. She's worked in touring groups, on Broadway, and, the last year, at the least, with a comedy improv group. She'll be able to step right in.”

“That's what we assumed, of course,” Lena said cheerfully.

“So, you will have your work cut out for you, Miss Cahill,” Carlo said.

She shrugged. “I can fill in. It's just that we've started out so small. I would have preferred not to have to be on stage—there are too many technical aspects to be watched. I'd already intended to be my own stage manager, wardrobe mistress, and prop master.”

“Each one of us can take on technical duty,” Drew Cunningham reminded her, his tone serious and businesslike. She liked him, she thought, watching him from across the table. Both he and Doug were cutups, natural for their choice of profession. But she realized as well that they both had a deep core of determination. Like most actors and comedians, they knew their choice of work created a hard road to follow, and she was certain she was going to find them to be diligent in their ethics regarding discipline and principle.

“That's true, and it's what's going to happen, so it seems,” Stephanie murmured.

Then, to her horror, Suzette chimed in. “And imagine! In this little corner of the world, you've accidentally run into your old boss, Stephanie. Surely, Grant, if we run into a problem here, the professional diggers will give you up for a night or two to help out here with your own speciality!”

Stephanie leaned forward, drawing a circle around the rim of her water glass, thinking quickly. “Grant is definitely a talented man. The Park Street Players win all kinds of awards, but hey, he's here to fulfill a dream—working with archeological experts. I wouldn't want to intrude on that.”

“Seriously, just how much can you dig?” Lena asked. “There are other volunteers working, right? And many more professionals.”

“But of course,” Carlo said.

“If Stephanie wants or needs me, I'm sure I can be available,” Grant said. He grinned then, suddenly, and it was a strange moment of normalcy in the midst of what felt like a very bizarre night to Stephanie.

“Steph is boss here. She likes being boss. And she's good. I don't like to step into a situation like that,” Grant continued.

“But you've created and run your own company for years!” Lena said.

“My point. I like to be boss. So does Steph. And this is her baby.”

“Are you saying that you don't think that you could listen to someone else's direction?” Clay Barton asked him politely.

“I don't know. It's been a long time since I haven't had total artistic control of such a project,” Grant answered.

“Ah, well, it's hard in life. We all have to learn to listen—and take direction upon occasion,” Clay said.

“Well, as to being the director of a theater group, I don't know,” Carlo said, “but in the field, Grant is a wonderful worker.” He laughed. “All that muscle! Many of my colleagues tend to be very scholarly—and not terribly athletic.”

“I'm sure that Grant simply doesn't want to give up any time at the dig,” Stephanie said, very aware of him sitting next to her, and watching her.

“But then again, we do have free time,” Carlo said cheerfully.

“It would certainly be interesting to have Grant give us a hand,” Suzette said.

“It's all really up to Steph,” Grant said.

“Oh, well, we've gotten to spend the day with Stephanie,” Suzette told him. “And she's wonderful, not hung up at all on being boss. She listened to every one of us. I know that she would always do what was best for the show, and Stephanie, I mean that as the most sincere compliment!”

A murmur of agreement went up around the table, and Stephanie forced a smile. With the size of their group, it wouldn't hurt at any time to have Grant's help, and he was capable of being the ultimate professional.

“Well, we'll see how things go,” she said lightly. “Oh, my Lord, Arturo!” she added, grateful for the distraction of the food coming toward their table. They'd already been served a fantastic antipasto and huge salad; now, waiters were bearing huge plates of different pastas. “We'll all be playing very fat world travelers soon.”

Food was passed around the table. Suzette asked Carlo and Grant more about the dig.

“It's fascinating!” Carlo assured her. “Well, if you have the patience to dig very carefully, dusting away layers of dirt with little brushes—and never, never rushing.”

“Lena and I were there, remember?” Suzette said. “You two were busy and students showed us around, but we got a taste of what it takes.”

“Hard work,” Carlo agreed. “But to me . . . well, there is a truly wonderful history to this area, much of it revolving around the Crusades. We were a stop on the way to the Holy Lands, and once many a lord or knight found his way here, he wanted to stay behind and live—and conquer. There has long been a story told in Italy about Norman conquerors—and a great battle between them that rocked the area. A nobleman named Conan de Burgh came beneath the flag of the king in Paris, and set his hand upon the land. As the story goes, he wound up being part of the land, respected and loved by the locals. He fell in love with a native Calabrian woman, but she was a known witch, wicked through and through! She was known to schoolchildren simply as Valeria,” Carlo told them dramatically. “She seduced de Burgh, but then left him for a man more ferocious in the art of conquest, a kinsman of the French king named François de Venue, and so, in time, a great battle ensued. It was quite terrible; the witch controlled heinous monsters—they said that she created them by forcing the dead in the cemeteries to rise and become fighting demons. De Burgh went to battle against the two, but was so smitten that, in the end, he tried to prevent the local people from executing the witch, and at that moment, the earth began to tremble and quake, and nature herself decided that they must all die. The stories were half legend and half history, and now—since the earth shifted again for us!—we are able to prove the history part of what occurred. Naturally, since I was a child hearing all these stories, this dig is very special to me,” Carlo finished.

“What a wonderful story! Witches and demons!” Lena said with a pleasant little shiver.

They were all startled then when a woman suddenly burst into the restaurant, crying out in Italian. For a moment, she stood in the center of the room, spinning around, obviously looking for someone. Stephanie thought that she was probably in her mid-forties, and that she had spent her years in hard work. Her hair was gray and drawn back in a bun, she wore no makeup, and was wearing a dress that fell nearly to her ankles; her features showed the aging of a life spent in the sun.

Then, she looked directly at Stephanie, and screamed.

Stephanie leapt up, but by then, the woman had turned again.

“What is it?” Stephanie asked Arturo, alarmed.

“I am trying to understand,” he said, rising.

The woman's eyes lit upon the two town policemen, Merc and Franco, who were dining at another table. She rushed to them, and in her excitement, fell to her knees at the elder man's feet. She tugged at his sleeve, though the man was already giving her his undivided attention.

Lena said, “She's talking about her daughter. Her daughter has disappeared.”

“Why did she look at me, and scream?” Stephanie asked.

“Oh, I don't think she was really looking at you . . . or at us,” Lena said. “She's just very distraught, you know. A bit hysterical.”

Arturo started toward the table. Carlo Ponti excused himself as well, approaching the table behind Arturo.

The talk was very excited and mournful, and Arturo tried to speak with the woman, his voice soothing, as was that of the policeman. Merc rose, drawing the woman to her feet.

Uneasily, Stephanie glanced over at Grant.

He was staring at her, eyes grave.
Whatever the others thought, he knew, too, that the woman had stared directly at her.

Or had she stared at him?

He offered her a shrug. She turned back to the action, and felt his hand on her shoulder, briefly. He meant to be reassuring, she knew. She stiffened, not wanting him to think that she was afraid, or that she had been unnerved in any way.

Lena was right. The woman was simply wild.

Stephanie heard Franco say, “
Il conto
?” to Arturo, which she knew to mean that he was asking for the check. Arturo waved a hand in the air, and the two policemen left with the distraught woman.

Arturo and Carlo returned to the table.

“What was that all about?” Drew asked.

“That was Lucretia Britto. Her daughter, Maria, has not come home,” Arturo explained.

“How long has she been missing?” Grant asked.

Arturo shrugged ruefully. “Just a few hours. She didn't return for dinner. She works in the souvenir and furniture shop up the cliff.”

“She's been missing just a few hours—and her mother is that upset?” Suzette said. “Perhaps she just met some friends for dinner—or, Lord! Just stopped to be alone a bit. Maybe she went for a walk on the beach—it's so beautiful at night.”

“Ah, yes, just a few hours, we should not be too worried,” Arturo said. “But . . . you must understand. Here, girls come home after work, even when they are twenty. Their mamas—and their papas!—keep a stern eye on them. Maria's father has been dead many years. Her brother is working in the United States at a theme park. So Lucretia and Maria are alone, and Maria is very good about telling her mother anything she wants to do. So . . . though it is just a few hours, Lucretia is very worried.”

“Can we help?” Stephanie asked.

Arturo shook his head. “No—as you see, the police here are very different, too. They are going with Lucretia now. They'll go to the shop with Lucretia, and they will gather together many of the local people to look for her. I'm sure they'll find her.”

Stephanie didn't think that he looked very sure.

She suddenly decided that the entire day had been long enough for her. “Arturo, the chef was wonderful, the food was delicious. I think I'm still feeling some of the effects of jet lag. If you'll all excuse me, I'm off to bed. Tomorrow, we've got to get an earlier start. Say, ten?” She looked around at her cast members.

There were nods of assent, and every man at the table rose.

“Steph, I'll walk you wherever you're going,” Grant said.

“Hey, I'm fine, just out back and to the left,” she said lightly.

“I can walk you,” Clay said.

“I just gave her the same offer,” Grant said.

In a minute, Stephanie feared, fists would be flying. At that particular moment, she didn't want either of them walking her anywhere.

“I'm fine, honestly. Sit down, both of you—have coffee, dessert, and after-dinner drinks,” she said.

“Actually, I'd like a word with you,” Grant told her.

She was aware then that everything said was being heard—and that at the table, eyes were going from one to the other of them as if they were at a tennis match.

“All right, fine. Thanks, Grant, and thank you, Clay.” She gave Arturo a kiss on the top of the head and waved to the others.

There was an exit to the beach at the back of the restaurant, Arturo pointed out, and they headed that way. They were barely out the door before Grant said, “There's something about that guy I don't like.”

“Which guy?”

“Clay Barton.”

“I think there's something about you that
he
doesn't like,” Stephanie said with a shrug.

“Because he knows that I don't fall for that polite exterior of his,” Grant said.

Stephanie laughed. “Oh, Grant, really! He's an actor.”

“He's not. I'm willing to bet that he isn't really an actor.”

She stopped, and she wasn't amused, just serious as she looked at him in the moonlight. “Are you jealous?”

“No. Yes, probably, but that's not what it is. There's something strange about him, and I'm worried sick about you.” He ran his fingers abstractedly through his hair, frowning, as if he didn't understand what he was saying himself. “Stephanie, whatever happened between us, I don't really know or understand. But you can believe in the fact that I care about you. Watch out for him.”

She let out an impatient sigh. “Grant! I went my way, you went yours. Pure coincidence brought us to the same place. Unless you did follow me?”

“Don't be silly. This came through one of those societies I subscribe to,” he told her, aggravated. “Did you follow me?” he asked.

“Now that's really ridiculous. Reggie owns the place.”

“Where is Reggie?” he asked.

“Off getting customers. Grant, I'm fine. I can deal with Clay Barton, and any problem that may come up. Really.”

“I should stick around,” he murmured.

“You're not responsible for me!” she exclaimed.

He slipped an arm around her shoulder, drawing her from the rear of the restaurant, as if he was afraid that their words would be overheard. As they moved her along, he was tense. “Stephanie, there's something very wrong here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your actress is missing. Another local girl is missing.”

“We don't know anything about the local girl yet. And my actress probably took off for Rome. Rude and very unprofessional, but that's what appears to have happened,” Stephanie told him.

“Yes, one would think,” he murmured.

They came to her door.

“This is it,” she said. “I'm back, safe and sound.”

He took a step back from the doorway and looked skeptically at the cottage. “Anyone could break into this place way too easily.”

“Grant, no one is going to break in here. Really,” she told him.

“Stephanie,” he said, and she was startled by the passion in the single whisper of her name. He reached out, as if compulsively, and touched her cheek with his fingertips. She was stunned by the emotions and sensations that such a little caress created within her. “You know—I pray you know, at least—that no matter what has gone on between us, your welfare means more to me than . . . life itself.”

His fingertips awakened all the hungers she had repressed. She wanted nothing more than to step forward, and pretend that the bizarre estrangement had never come between them. They shifted, just slightly, and in split seconds she remembered only nights where she lay cocooned against his naked flesh, felt his arms around her. Times when she would awaken and turn, and see his eyes, and then a slow, lazy smile, and feel his hands or his lips, stroking somewhere erotically against the most erogenous areas of skin. Those times when she had wakened slowly, rather, and known the feathery brush of fingers against her spine, lips against her nape. Gentle security suddenly turned to erotic fantasy and more.

She stepped back.

Those times had ended. His arms had grown too fierce. He had whispered another woman's name.

“Grant, I'll be fine, really.”

“I'm sorry I came here, I think, and sorrier that you did so.” He held his distance, but his speech remained as passionate.

“Grant, I'll lock all the doors tonight. I swear it, all right?” He was, she believed in her heart, strangely sincere.

“I don't mind helping with this, you know,” he said.

“You're here fulfilling your life's dream,” she reminded him.

“I'm here,” he said with a wave of his hand. “That's what's important. Because there is something going on, Stephanie. I know it.”

“I told you. I will lock up tightly.” He still didn't look happy. “Hey,” she teased, “want me to run back to the restaurant and ask Arturo for a big bag of garlic? I can deck it around all the windows.”

She was surprised when he didn't even crack a smile. “Hell, maybe that's not a bad idea,” he murmured.

She sighed. “Grant, good night. Thank you for walking me here.” She moved forward, meaning to stand on her toes, and give him a brief thank-you kiss on the cheek. Somehow, she moved too close. His arms wrapped around her. His knuckles were below her chin, and his lips were on hers, openmouthed, forceful, tremulous, and passionate. His tongue moved against the walls of her mouth, plunged with sensual insinuation, and she felt the wild birth of a wicked, aching arousal. She wanted nothing more than to stay there, feel what he would do next, return the urgent quest with a hunger all her own.

She stepped back, ever so slightly afraid. He released her, yet his eyes remained dark and searching, with a strange anguish she found hard to bear.

“Good night,” she told him quickly. “I'll lock up—I swear it.”

She escaped quickly then, and stepped inside, locking the door.

 

 

Clay Barton watched Grant as he returned to the restaurant. Both Suzette and Lena had opted for bed earlier, while the men had remained, Carlo and Arturo with their cigars, Doug, Drew, and Clay sipping on brandies. Merc had returned, asking them if they would help with the search for the missing girl. They were just rising to do so, having been given the territory they were to travel.

“We're going to search the beach along the resort area, see if Maria is anywhere around,” Clay told Grant.

“I said that we'd be delighted to help, of course,” Carlo said.

“Sure. Does anyone really think that the girl might be lost on the beach?” Grant asked.

“No,” Clay said flatly. His answer said much more. They were afraid that the girl might be dead, and that she had washed up on the beach.

“All right. Which way do I go?” Grant asked.

“You and I will walk south to where the rocks jut out, and then back,” Clay told him. “Drew and Doug are walking all around the immediate resort area, and Arturo and Carlo will head north along the beach.”

“Fine.”

Grant eyed him suspiciously. Clay shrugged with a small smile.

“We meet back here, right?” Doug said.

“Yes, we come back here,” Arturo said.

They exited together by the rear of the restaurant, then split to go their separate ways.

“So,” Clay said to Grant as they walked, “you own a playhouse. You've a reputation for excellence in comedy, satire, and improv—and you're here at a dig site.”

Grant flashed him a sharp and wary glance. “Yes.”

“Really? I mean, sorry, but it does look as if you followed Stephanie here.”

Grant stiffened. Clay observed him—physical features, stance, bearing. The guy was assured, and tall, broad-shouldered, and apparently composed of pure muscle. He was built like a rock, but seemed to have an easy coordination and agility.

“I've always had a fascination with archeology, the past, anthropology, you name it,” Grant said. “I grew up in Chicago—one of my first memories is of the Egyptian exhibit at the Field Museum. This came up, and I came here.”

“You didn't know about Reggie's place?” Clay asked casually.

Again, Grant shot him one of those looks that assured Clay that the fellow was barely controlling his temper. “I've seen Reggie three times. I knew she was Italian. That hardly meant that she was going to open a resort in Calabria and put a comedy club in her resort.”

“Kind of strange, though, huh?” Clay said lightly.

Grant was assessing him as well, Clay knew.

“Strange. Yes. But then, a lot of things seem strange. Somehow, you just don't look like the usual comedian.”

“No?” Clay said. He shrugged. “Well, hell, I always thought that actors and comedians came in all shapes and sizes.”

Grant stopped suddenly. He'd veered very close to the water. Clay hadn't gone so far. The sand was deep, and the air was filled with the scent of the salt water. And something more.

The smell of death.

“There,” Grant said.

Despite the darkness and the night, they could both see a clump of something ahead of them on the beach. They looked at one another for a split second, then headed toward it. They hunched down. The clump was covered in seaweed.

Grant let out a sound of relief. “Dolphin,” he said.

“Poor thing,” Clay murmured. “Looks like it beached itself.”

“Maybe. I don't know a damned thing about dolphins,” Grant said. He stood. He seemed inordinately relieved. “We'll have to tell Arturo. He won't have any tourists out on the beach for a week if they don't dispose of the carcass.”

Clay nodded, and stood as well. “The cliffs are just there. There's nothing, no one, out here.”

“I didn't think there would be, but what the hell,” Grant said.