23
I PICKED UP A FEW THINGS I'd need for the outing: a laminated nautical chart of the waterways from Wilmington to Little River, fresh batteries for a radio, a waterproof flashlight, cans of food with pull-open tops, bottles of Pepsi and water, and a couple of cans of tuna. By the time I got back to the house, my left leg was twice as large as normal and the skin felt like it was splitting open. I pulled myself up the stairs, cleaned the wounds, applied an antibiotic ointment, and wrapped the leg again.
I looked up the phone number for Screen Gems' Wilmington studio and dialed it. The operator reeled off a list of movies in production or about to commence, but said she didn't know of any Brad Pitt movie scheduled for Wilmington. I thanked her, hung up, unfolded the nautical chart, and laid it out on the dining room table. The Cape Fear River actually runs south from Wilmington and empties into the Atlantic Ocean some thirty or forty miles downstream. But Wilmington is only a few miles west of Wrightsville Beach, which is also on the ocean. It's as if Wilmington sits atop an ice cream cone-shaped peninsula; the Cape Fear on the left side and the Intracoastal Waterway on the right. These waters meet each other about twenty-five miles to the south.
Ashleigh rented the boat at Bradley Creek which flows due east and dumps into the Intracoastal Waterway right behind the barrier island that is home to Wrightsville Beach. From there you could take the waterway north or south, or go into Wrightsville Beach. I didn't think she would have gone to Wrightsville Beach unless she had someone meeting her, and if someone was going to meet her, why not meet them somewhere she wouldn't need a boat? Besides, to leave Wrightsville Beach by car, she would have come right back through Wilmington. My guess was that Ashleigh was on her own and headed either north or south.
The phone rang and I picked it up without taking my eyes off the chart or considering who it might be. "Richard Baimbridge."
"Richard, this is Sydney Deagan." There was that voice again—musical and unique. I sat back and the tension inside me mellowed.
"Hi."
"Martha called me and asked if I knew where Ashleigh's brother was staying. So I checked with a few of the girls and found out that he's living with his aunt and uncle, Henry and Doris Jackson, on a farm about twenty miles from town."
"Do you know how to get there?"
"Well, that's why I called you instead of Martha. If you're thinking of going out there, it might be best if I go with you."
"And why is that?"
"I was told he won't talk to anyone. He may not talk to me either, but he might if he remembers me. Ashleigh used to bring David to the studio years ago and he'd hang out during her classes."
"Okay. When can we go?"
"I can go right now if you want."
"Which way do we head?"
"Toward Lake Waccamaw."
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I was sitting at the new Wal-Mart watching for Sydney's van. Everywhere I looked there were couples walking hand-in-hand laughing and teasing, hugging and kissing—even folks that looked like they'd been married half their lives acting like newlyweds. Have these people always been out there, or is it just spring fever? God, how I missed being in a relationship.
The passenger door abruptly snapped open and Sydney hopped in wearing a dark gray cowl-neck sweater with a silver ballerina pin near the collar, black jeans, black sneakers, a three-quarter-length gray suede coat, and sunglasses. Her hair was pulled back in a looped ponytail and a wide smile spread across her face. I whiffed the light fragrance of her perfume and realized being around Sydney for an entire week and not falling in love was going to be difficult.
"Hi," she said.
I took a deep breath and smiled. "Hi."
Minutes later, as we crossed the Cape Fear Bridge heading northwest, I could see her watching me out of the corner of her eye. "I guess you've been keeping up with the news this week."
"Oh yes," she replied.
"Then you must have been a little shocked when you saw me."
"Yes, I was."
"Then do you mind if I ask why you're here now?"
"I know you didn't have anything to do with what happened to Ash."
The quickness with which she answered surprised me. It just came out without a second thought. Not only did I find that comforting, but encouraging as well. "Thanks. I needed that."
She smiled. "You're welcome."
We passed a doe with a couple of fawns grazing on new grass along the shoulder of the road. They didn't even look up as we blew by.
"So, what made you decide to open your own dance school?"
"I was teaching two days a week in Myrtle Beach, two days a week in Wilmington, and one day a week in Jacksonville and just got tired of all the driving. Then a school came up for sale here in Wilmington and I really wanted to buy it, but they wanted more for it than I could afford so I decided I'd start one on my own. And I did. But I never dreamed it would be this successful. I only needed enough students to earn a living, but they kept coming. It got to the point I had to hire more teachers. Then after three years, I moved it to where it is now."
"It looks like you've got something very special there."
"Thanks."
I could see her eyes staring at me through the dark lens and wondered if she was trying to figure out if I was guilty or not. "What?" I asked.
She looked down and brushed a piece of lint off her jeans. "I was just thinking about how little you've changed."
"And I was just thinking about how much you've changed. Why haven't you gotten married and started a family?"
"People ask me that all the time. I've always said I was too busy and that my students are my children. But, now? I don't know. It would be nice, I think."
As we rode on, we talked about the photography I'd be doing at her school, about the old days when I dated Jewell, and the black and white Manx cat named Tux that she still had after fifteen years. The more we talked, the more comfortable we got. And the more comfortable we got, the more we laughed. And the more we laughed, the more infatuated I became.
"So what do you want from her brother?" Sydney asked.
"I've got to start somewhere."
"Start what?"
I took a deep breath. "This whole thing—her murder, or disappearance, or whatever it is—just seems a little fishy to me."
"What do you mean?"
"Like it was staged."
Her mouth parted slightly and I could sense her eyes on me. I told her about the bicycle, the boat, the guy who knocked me in the head, the missing money, and what Mrs. Winslow had said. "And if she did set all of this up, I can't believe she'd just walk away without letting her brother know what she was doing."
"I see what you mean."
"And tomorrow I'm going out on the river to see if I can find the boat she rented and figure out why she needed it and, hopefully, where she went."
She looked to her right. "Why are you doing this?"
"Why am I doing this?" I laughed and looked her way, but she wasn't laughing. "I'm trying to prove I had nothing to do with what happened to her."
"And that's the only reason?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"I thought maybe you...liked her."
"You get right to the heart of things, don't you? Maybe you ought to be the one to interview David." She slapped my arm and smiled.
As we neared Lake Waccamaw, she called out the directions and I drove right to the farm. An older man in denim coveralls and mud-caked boots answered the door. I stood back from the porch and let Sydney do the talking. She spoke to him through a screened door.
"Hi. I'm Sydney Deagan. I was Ashleigh's dance teacher a few years back and I—"
"She ain't here," the old man growled stepping back to close the door.
"Wait! Actually, I was hoping to talk to David."
"David don't talk to nobody since the accident."
"He knows me. Sydney Deagan. Would you ask him?"
"Won't do no good. I told you. He don't talk to nobody, not even the police. They came the other day and banged on his door for half an hour. He ain't been out of that room since he come here, except to see a doctor."
"We were hoping he could help us find Ashleigh."
"You ain't heard what happened?"
I spoke up from behind Sydney. "Mr. Jackson, we think there's a chance Ashleigh might still be alive."
He pushed the screen door open and squinted his eyes. "You the police?"
I climbed the steps and extended a hand to shake. "No, sir. I'm Richard Baimbridge. I live—"
"Baimbridge?" He retreated, closing the screen door. "Ain't you the one they say done it?"
I retracted my hand and stuffed it in my pocket. "I had nothing to do with it, Mr. Jackson. And that's why I need to find her."
"We don't know nothing but what the police tell us," he said.
"When was the last time you saw Ashleigh?" I asked.
"You folks best be on your way. We got nothing to say."
"Please, I don't think anything has happened to Ashleigh. I think she planned this whole thing herself and made it appear there had been foul play. I was hoping—"
"Now why would she do something like that?"
"I'm not sure, Mr. Jackson. But I believe she got involved with some people she wanted to get away from."
"That girl was smart as a whip. She wouldn't get herself messed up in nothing that wasn't proper. Somebody done her in and that's the way it is."
I noticed a curtain slightly pulled back in a window at the other end of the porch and strode toward it. "David! Talk to us! We're trying to help Ashleigh!" The curtain dropped back into place. I banged on the window with the side of my fist. "David!"
The screen door sprang open and the old man stumbled out holding a double-barreled shotgun leveled at me. Sydney backed down the steps.
"Git on now 'fore I drop you dead." His eyes were clear and his hand steady. "Don't think I won't do it."
I raised my hands and moved slowly to the edge of the porch and stepped off into a long-abandoned flowerbed. "We're not trying to cause any trouble here, Mr. Jackson."
"If you know what's good for you, Mister, you'll stay away from here. I mean it. Now git!"
I backed toward the car, cupped my hands over my mouth, and shouted, "David! Call me! Richard Baim—"
The shotgun exploded.