Dawn in Eclipse Bay Page 5

  “Let me know if I can be of service,” she said and moved off toward another potential customer.

  “Yes. Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  Lillian turned away. She wove a path through the remaining cosmetic counters, angled across accessories and shoes and exited the store through the doors on the cross street.

  Outside on the sidewalk she glanced uneasily in both directions. Campbell Witley was gone.

  But he had followed her home the other night. He knew where she lived.

  This was scary stuff.

  She took a steadying breath and walked purposefully toward her office building. She had definitely made the right decision when she had made up her mind to close down Private Arrangements.

  A short while later she stepped off the elevator. Halfway down the hall she saw a familiar figure waiting for her in front of the door marked Private Arrangements. J. Anderson Flint.

  She was immediately hit with a full-color flashback to the scene in Anderson’s office on Friday afternoon. Every lurid detail was there, including the red bikini briefs. One of the drawbacks to having an artist’s eye, she thought. You sometimes remembered things that you would just as soon forget.

  It was all she could do to resist the urge to leap back into the elevator before the doors closed.

  She made herself continue moving forward. There were things that had to be done before she left town. She could not avoid Anderson. Running away was not going to solve anything. Sooner or later she had to deal with the man.

  Anderson did not notice her immediately. He was too busy checking the time on his very elegant black and gold wristwatch.

  “Good morning, Anderson.”

  He turned slightly at the sound of her voice and smiled. It struck her, not for the first time, that he could have played the part of the wise, understanding, all-knowing therapist in a soap opera. He certainly had the cheekbones and the jaw for television. He also had the eyes. They were very, very blue and filled with what looked like insight. He was in his late thirties but he projected an image of wisdom and maturity far beyond his years. His thick, precision-cut, prematurely silver hair and the precision-trimmed goatee added to the impression.

  Anderson was dressed more conventionally this morning than he had been the last time she had seen him. He wore a gray chunky-weave turtleneck sweater, dark tailored trousers, and loafers. He had explained to her once over coffee that a formal business suit and tie made patients tense and uncomfortable. She tried not to think about whether he had on the red bikini briefs.

  “Lillian.” He looked relieved to see her. “I was getting a little worried. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. I called your office several times this morning. When there was no response I thought I’d come up here and see what was going on.”

  “Good morning, Anderson.” She jammed the keys in the lock and opened the door with a single twist of her hand. “I didn’t have any appointments today so I used the time to take care of some personal business.”

  “Of course.”

  She flipped on the lights and went toward her desk. “Was there something you wanted?”

  Anderson followed her into the office. “I thought we might have dinner tonight.”

  “Thanks, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” She gave him an apologetic smile and put the laptop down on her desk. “I’m going to be busy all day and I have a lot to do tonight.”

  “You just said you didn’t have any appointments.”

  “I’m getting ready to leave town for a while.”

  “You never said anything about planning a trip.”

  “I’m not going on vacation. I’m changing careers.”

  “Changing—?” he asked with concern. “What’s going on here? You’re not making any sense, Lillian. You seem tense. Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Anderson. I’m going to stay at my family’s place in Eclipse Bay for a while, that’s all.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “A month.”

  He stared at her. She doubted that he could have looked any more dumbfounded if she had just told him that she intended to join a cloistered order of nuns.

  “I see.” He pulled himself together with a visible effort. “I hadn’t realized. Can you take that much time off from Private Arrangements?”

  “I can take all the time I want, Anderson. Private Arrangements went out of business Friday afternoon.”

  His jaw dropped a second time.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, looking genuinely baffled. “What do you mean?”

  “You heard me. I’ve closed my doors.”

  “But that’s impossible,” he sputtered. “You can’t just walk away from Private Arrangements.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, you’ve got too much invested in it.” He swept out his hand to indicate their surroundings. “Your office. Your program. Your client list.”

  “My lease is up next month. I made back my investment in the program several times over a long time ago. And I’ve whittled my client list down to one.” She waved one hand. “I admit I’m having a small problem getting rid of him, but I’m sure that situation will soon be resolved.”

  “What about our book project?”

  “That’s another thing, Anderson. I’m sorry, but I’ve decided not to get involved in helping you with your book.”

  He went very still. “Something is wrong here. This isn’t like you. Your behavior is very abnormal. It’s obvious that you’ve got some issues.”

  She propped herself on the edge of the desk and looked at him. “Anderson, a very unpleasant thing happened to me this morning. A man named Campbell Witley stopped me on the street. He used to date one of my clients. You know what? Mr. Witley was really, really mad at me because I’d helped his girlfriend find someone else to date.”

  “What does this Witley have to do with your decision to shut down your business?”

  “He pointed out in no uncertain terms that I had no right to use my computer program to meddle in other people’s lives.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “As it happens, I tend to agree with him.”

  Anderson stared at her, clearly appalled.

  “What do you mean?” he asked sharply. “Why do you say that?”

  She eyed the closed laptop and wondered how to explain things to him. He probably wouldn’t believe her if she told him that the program only worked in conjunction with her intuition and a dose of common sense. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, herself.

  She needed a more technical-sounding excuse with which to fob him off.

  “The program is flawed,” she said finally. In a way, that wasn’t really far from the truth, she thought.

  “Flawed. Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand. You’ve been so successful. You’ve attracted so many high-end clients.”

  “Dumb luck, I’m afraid.” She shrugged. “Keep in mind that I don’t have any long-term statistics yet because I haven’t been in business long enough to obtain them. It’s possible that over time my matches won’t prove any more successful than the ones people make on their own in the usual ways.”

  Anderson gave her a long, considering look. “I think I see the problem here.”

  “The problem,” she said very deliberately, “is that Campbell Witley has a point. I don’t have the right to fiddle with other people’s lives. Besides, it’s too stressful.”

  “Stressful?”

  “Lately I’ve begun to wonder—what would happen if I screw up badly someday and put the wrong people together? Oh, sure, I do a comprehensive background check on all of my clients to make certain they don’t have a criminal record or any history of serious mental disorders. But what if I miss something? Don’t you see? There’s a very real potential for disaster.”

  Anderson nodded soberly. “I agree.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” He shoved his han
ds into his pockets and rocked a little in his tasseled loafers. “To be perfectly frank, I had been meaning to broach the subject, myself.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. But I wanted to get to know you a little better before I raised such a delicate question. After all, Private Arrangements is your business.”

  There was something distinctly patronizing about his smile, she decided.

  “What delicate question?” she asked carefully.

  He looked at the laptop. “As you know, I have been deeply intrigued by your program for some time now, but I must admit that the fact that you have been using it without professional guidance has worried me more than somewhat.”

  She waited a beat. “Professional guidance?”

  “Let’s be honest here, Lillian. You don’t have a background in psychology. You have no training or experience in clinical therapy or counseling techniques. It says a great deal for your program that you’ve been as successful as you have thus far. But I agree that in using it for real-life matchmaking, you assumed an enormous responsibility and a degree of risk. Obviously such a sophisticated program should be used only by a professional.”

  “I see. A professional. Like you.”

  “Actually, yes. If you’re serious about getting out of the business, I would like to make you an offer for the program and the related files that you’ve developed in the course of your work.”

  That stopped her momentarily. She hadn’t bargained on this. The last thing she wanted to do was sell the program to Anderson. If he used it, he would soon discover that it didn’t work very well on its own. No telling how many mistakes he might make before he realized that it was not magic.

  “No,” she said. “I told you, it’s flawed.”

  “You mean there are bugs in the program?”

  “Not technical bugs,” she said, trying to keep things vague. “It just doesn’t work very well.”

  He chuckled. “I’m sure that I have the professional background necessary to fix any small problems that might come up. I’ll make you a fair offer. We can work out mutually satisfactory terms. Perhaps a licensing agreement?”

  “The Private Arrangements program is not for sale.”

  “Lillian, be reasonable.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve made my decision.”

  He frowned. “Obviously that confrontation with Witley was traumatic. Your state of generalized anxiety is extremely high. But I think that when you have a chance to calm down you’ll see that you’re overreacting.”

  She straightened away from the desk, walked to the door and yanked it open. “If you don’t mind, I have a lot of things to do here today, Anderson. I want to leave town the day after tomorrow. That means I don’t have time for this conversation.”

  He hesitated and then apparently decided that further argument would get him nowhere. “Very well. We’ll discuss this later.”

  Don’t hold your breath, she thought. But she managed what she hoped was a civil smile.

  He hesitated and then took the hint and walked out into the hall. He paused.

  “Lillian, perhaps—”

  “Goodbye, Anderson.” She shut the door very firmly in his face.

  It felt good.

  Probably overreacting, but what the heck. She had a right to overreact. Between Gabe, Witley, and Anderson, she’d had a very difficult week.

  She went back to the desk, picked up the phone and called a familiar number.

  Nella Townsend answered on the second ring.

  “Townsend Investigations.”

  “Nella, its me.”

  “Hi, Lil. What can I do for you? Got a new client you want me to check out?”

  “Not exactly. I want you to get some background on a man named Campbell Witley.”

  “Not a client?”

  “No. Ex-boyfriend of one.”

  There was a short, distinct pause on the other end of the line.

  “A problem?” Nella asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out for me.”

  “Okay, what have you got?”

  “Not much. All I know is that until sometime last fall he was seeing Heather Summers, a client, on a regular basis. You did a check on her when she signed up with Private Arrangements.”

  “Got it. This shouldn’t take long. He’ll probably pop up in her file. I should have a preliminary report ready for you by the end of the day.”

  “Great. I’ll pick it up on my way home. Thanks, Nella. I really appreciate this.”

  “No problem. Got any plans for tonight?”

  “I’ll be packing.”

  “Packing takes energy. You need to eat. Why don’t you have dinner with Charles and me?”

  “I’ll bring the wine.”

  At five-thirty that afternoon, Lillian sank into a deeply cushioned chair in the living room of Nella’s apartment and kicked off her shoes.

  “I’m exhausted. It took an entire day to pack up that office. I thought I’d be finished by two o’clock. How can a person accumulate so much stuff in an office?”

  “One of the great mysteries of life.”

  Nella picked up the blue folder lying on the table and carried it across the room. She wore jeans and a deep yellow blouse with a spread collar. The gold necklace at her throat gleamed against her dark brown skin. She wore her black hair cut close to her head in a style that showed off her excellent bone structure.

  She took the chair that faced Lillian’s, curled one leg under her and opened the folder.

  “I thought you told me all of your files were stored on the hard drive of your computer,” she said.

  “The client files are on the computer along with the program, but that still leaves a lot of paper. Receipts, correspondence, notes to the janitorial staff, messages from the company that leased me the space, you name it. I had to go through every single item and make a decision about whether to keep it or toss it.” Lillian exhaled deeply. “But it’s done and Private Arrangements is no longer in business.”

  “Congratulations,” Nella said. “Feel good?”

  “Yes, but I’ll feel even better after you assure me that Campbell Witley is not a serial killer.”

  “He looks squeaky clean to me.” Nella glanced at some of her notes. “Witley was in the military at one time, as you guessed. He received an honorable discharge. After leaving the service he took over his father’s construction business and has been very successful. He was married for six years. Divorced. No children. No record of arrests, no outstanding warrants, no history of violence or abuse.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear,” Lillian said.

  “I also managed to get hold of his ex-wife. She said Witley was the domineering type and inclined to get a little loud at times, but she sounded shocked at the suggestion that he might turn violent. She said he was, and I quote, ‘harmless.’ ”

  “Excellent.”

  Nella closed the file and looked seriously at Lillian. “None of this means that he might not be dangerous under certain circumstances, you understand.”

  “I know. But I suppose you could say that about any man.”

  “True.” Nella pursed her lips. “This was a fairly superficial check. I didn’t have time to go deep. Want me to continue looking in the morning?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s necessary. If his ex-wife vouched for him, I’m satisfied. Thanks, Nella. I really appreciate it. I’ll sleep better tonight.”

  The sound of a key in the lock interrupted her.

  Nella uncoiled from the chair. “That’ll be Charles. Time to pour the wine.”

  Lillian twisted in the chair to give Nella’s husband a welcoming wave. Charles came through the door, a long paper sack with a loaf of bread peeking out of the top in one arm, a briefcase in his hand.

  He was a slender black man with serious dark eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses and the air of an academic. He kissed his wife and released the bread to her custody. She disappeared into the kitchen.

&n
bsp; Charles turned his slow smile on Lillian while he removed his jacket. “I hear we’re celebrating the closure of Private Arrangements tonight.”

  “Yep. I finally took the big step. I am now officially a full-time painter. Or officially unemployed, depending on your point of view.”

  He nodded gravely. “This is going to put a dent in Nella’s business, but I’ve told you all along, that matchmaking business of yours was nothing but a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  Nella walked out of the kitchen with a tray of wine and cheese. She wrinkled her nose. “You’re a lawyer, Charles. To you, just walking down the street is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  “Dangerous places, streets.” Charles took one of the wineglasses off the tray and lifted it in a toast. “Here’s to art.”

  chapter 4

  “I love what you’ve done with the guest rooms,” Lillian said. “Very spacious and airy.” She opened the French doors of the corner suite and stepped out onto the balcony. “Fabulous views, too. “

  Her sister, Hannah, glanced around the suite with satisfaction and then followed Lillian outside into the chilly evening.

  “It wasn’t cheap getting plumbing into all of the rooms,” she said. “And installing balcony doors in each one was a major project but I think it will be worth it. Considering what we plan to charge for an overnight stay here at Dreamscape, Rafe and I have to be able to provide our guests with privacy and a sense of luxury.”

  Lillian wrapped one hand around the railing. “You and Rafe are going to do it, aren’t you? You’re going to make this inn and restaurant idea work.”

  Hannah looked amused. “You had doubts?”

  “No, not really. You’re both so committed to making a success of this venture that I knew you couldn’t fail.”

  “We owe it all to Great-Aunt Isabel.” Hannah smiled. “Although I must admit that when I first learned that she had left a half-interest in Dreamscape to Rafe in her will, I didn’t feel quite so grateful.”

  Lillian looked out across the bay. Night was closing in rapidly. The wind was picking up, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of rain off the sea. Another storm was approaching. She had always loved this time of year here on the rugged Oregon coast. The stark contrasts of the season appealed to the artist in her. The dark, blustery storms drove away the summer tourists, leaving the town to the locals.