Promise Not To Tell(14)

“What’s explanation number two?”

“Something has changed in Zane’s world. Whatever it is, it convinced him that Brewster had become a threat.”

“And possibility number three?”

“Maybe Hannah Brewster really did burn down her cabin and jump to her death.”

“Because she was delusional.”

“Yes.”

The ramp was finally in position. Virginia started the engine and prepared to follow a battered pickup and a sedan off the ferry.

“I do realize that this is probably a complete waste of time, not to mention money,” she said. “My grandmother was very upset when she found out that I had hired Cutler, Sutter and Salinas. But once I saw Hannah’s last picture, I couldn’t stop asking questions.”

“And now you’ve shown it to Anson and me, and we can’t stop asking questions.”

She drove slowly down the ramp and onto the town’s narrow main street. “In other words, we were both doomed to make this trip.”

“Doomed is a very heavy word,” Cabot said. “How about destined?”

“Good thing each of us knows where the other is coming from, or one of us might conclude that the other wasn’t entirely stable.”

“Good thing,” Cabot agreed.

She decided not to mention that there were people, including some old boyfriends, who had already concluded that she was not entirely stable. At the very least they didn’t think she qualified as normal. One of the advantages of working in the art world was that “normal” was not considered an important job requirement.

She drove slowly past the small organic foods grocery and café, the tiny gas station, the herbal-tea shop and a handful of little galleries that displayed the works of local artists.

“This is one very small town,” Cabot said.

“Yes.”

“Do you know anyone here?”

“I’ve met some people but I can’t say I know any of them well. I visited Hannah a few times every year, especially after her friend, Abigail, got so ill. Hannah was at her bedside night and day. She was exhausted. My gallery is closed on Sundays and Mondays, so sometimes I came here to the island to stay with Abigail for a day or two so that Hannah could get some rest.”

Cabot looked at her. “You were a good friend to Hannah Brewster.”

“She didn’t have any family. Abigail was all she had and she was losing her.”

Cabot accepted that without comment. “Did anyone else on the island besides Abigail Watkins know about Brewster’s history in Zane’s operation?”

“It’s tough to keep a secret in a small community, so it’s quite possible that some people know about Hannah’s time in the cult. But I doubt that anyone knows a lot about it. Neither Hannah nor Abigail ever talked much about Zane or the past, not even to me.”

“How many B and B places are there on the island?”

“Four or five, but most are closed at this time of year. As far as I know there are only two open now, the Harbor Inn here in town and Abigail’s old place, the Lost Island Bed-and-Breakfast. That’s where we’re staying. It’s closest to Hannah’s cabin, or what’s left of it. I assume you’ll want to take a good look around the ruins and the place on the cliffs where she jumped or was pushed.”

“Someone took over Abigail’s business?”

“Yes. It was closed as a functioning B and B after Abigail moved into the final stages of her illness. But dying is expensive, so shortly before her death Abigail sold the place to a woman named Rose Gilbert, who agreed to let Abigail stay in the house until she died. Now Gilbert has reopened but only on a limited basis. She told me she’s planning some major renovations and hopes to be in full operation by the summer season.”

Cabot considered the heavy cloud cover that was moving in over the island. “We’ve got some time left before the rain hits. Let’s take a look at what’s left of Brewster’s cabin.”

“All right, but I’ll warn you up front there isn’t much to see.”

“Truth has metaphysical properties.”

“Meaning?”

“It exists regardless of the presence or absence of the physical surroundings. The trick is perceiving it.”

“Wow. That’s impressive. Another one of those insightful martial arts sayings?”

“No, I just made it up. Figured it would annoy you.”

She smiled and stopped briefly at the end of the main street.

“I suspected as much,” she said. “I took some self-defense classes back in college but our instructor didn’t teach us any fancy philosophical sayings. It was pretty much just the basics.”

“Run if you can because, in spite of how it looks on television, it’s hard to hit a moving target. If you can’t run, fight and fight dirty. Go for the eyes. Think of every object around you as a weapon. Strike fast and hard when you get the chance because you’ll only get one chance.”

“Yep, that pretty much sums it up. Like I said, the basics.”

“Do you still practice the moves you were taught?” Cabot asked.

“Yes.” No need to explain that the self-defense exercises she went through nearly every day – usually in the middle of the night – were a form of therapy.