The coppery smell of Harry’s blood followed me to the bluff like a silent stalker. I huddled on the damp cedar bench in the gazebo, my yellow slicker the only bright spot in the dull drifts of fog floating off the Puget Sound. I looked back toward the Claybanks’ house and shivered, glad that the cedars and dense huckleberry blocked it from view.

     I sought out the gazebo after the island’s volunteer EMTs sent us from the room where Harry Claybank’s body lay.  We were warned to stay close by until the sheriff arrived on the noon ferry.

     An hour earlier, Mandy’s screams had brought me running into the exercise room. She stood pointing a trembling finger at her father’s body. He lay by an overturned exercise bike. Blood was everywhere–except in Harry.

     The bicycle’s seat had broken off, the jagged post puncturing his femur artery. The EMTs thought massive hemorrhaging might have brought on a heart attack.

     Either way, Harry was dead and not by accident.

     The older EMT examining the bicycle’s seat post had whistled softly. “This thing’s been sawed-almost in two.  The post must have snapped when the guy started pedaling.”  He shook his head. “What a way to go.” 

***

     I had arrived at Harry and Claire Claybank’s house on Friday afternoon. After settling in, I wandered downstairs to get a mug of coffee but stopped at the kitchen door.  Claire’s angry voice easily filtered though. “I won’t stand for you making a fool of yourself over her this weekend, Harry.  Not anymore!”

     I quickly detoured and went out on the deck, grumpy that I had said yes to Harry’s invitation. He was a charmer–had been in high school, too. Our parting the last time had not been sweet. It took gumption on my part to call him for a guest spot on his radio talk show. But if Harry gave my book a thumbs-up, the novel would also make the Seattle Times top pick list.

     Over the phone, he had said, “Look, Bridget, we’ll do the interview, Monday. But I’d like a catch up with you first, find out what you’ve been doing. You know, personalize the interview with bits of nostalgia?” He paused, and then said, “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you join Claire and me at our annual April Fool’s costume party on Saturday? My daughter and her husband, my producer, too, will be there.”

     Well I was here, sitting on a driftwood log and stuck on an island for two days with Harry Claybank and his ego.  That’s paying the piper big time for publicity.

     From the direction of the house, I saw Harry slowly jog toward me over the smooth, sandy beach.

     He plopped down beside me, breathing hard in a two hundred dollar sweat suit and gold chain at his neck. I stood up as a subtle signal that I wasn’t staying and to keep out of range of Harry’s hands. He had always liked contact of the close kind--in football and with women.

     Glancing at the sky, Harry said, “Be dark soon.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe you’ve noticed that Claire’s a little upset.” He scanned for my reaction. “She’s high strung. Guess she gets a little jealous of me. I played the field too much before remarrying. It takes getting used to again--married life, I mean.”

     A breeze had picked up, and I nodded, holding my hair out of my eyes. Harry’s first wife had died in a freak accident when his only daughter was a child. His marriage to Claire four months ago had made the local “Scene Around Town.” Claire’s claim to fame was her early morning fitness show on cable TV. She was definitely buff–and fifteen years younger than Harry.

     Harry squinted as if focusing on someone behind me. I looked around, but saw only empty beach and the Claybanks’ house with its wraparound deck overlooking the bluff.

     Harry rose, and taking my elbow, quickly began walking. “We need to get back. My daughter’s probably arrived already. She’ll be disappointed I’m not there to greet her.”

When we walked into the living room, Claire stood talking with two couples. The younger woman, still wearing an Eddie Bauer jacket, broke away to rush into Harry’s outstretched arms.

     “Oh, Daddy. The ferry was late and cars were backed up for an hour.” She pouted while straightening her bangs.

     Harry hugged her, laughing indulgently. “Bridget O’Hern, this is my daughter, Mandy.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, “Her husband, Joseph Rossani.”

     Joseph forced me to throw out my theory that girls marry men like their fathers. Where Harry was tall, heavyset and as All-American as a double bacon burger, Joseph was half a head shorter, wiry and intense. His expressive eyes couldn’t hide his feelings. At the moment, they showed resentment over his father-in-law’s offhand introduction.

     But Mandy beamed. She clung on her father’s arm while giving Joseph a flirtatious smile. When she rested her head against her father’s shoulder, Joseph looked away.

     Claire took charge after the introductions. “Harry, fix drinks for everybody while I finish dinner.” She eyed his rumpled jogging suit with disapproval. “And change into something more appropriate for our guests.”

     On the deck later, Harry came up behind me while I was enjoying the view. He said, “Want to take a spin with me before dinner? See the big sights of Slattery Island?”

     “No thanks. I’ll hang around here.”

     “C’mon,” he said, pulling me close. “We could have our talk, make it fun.”

     The last thing I wanted was to be alone with Harry in a car. With a desk between us, I could handle him. Next to him in a car–I didn’t think so.

“You won’t believe this,” I said, laughing to take out the sting. “But I have a headache from the ferry ride. I’m going to take a couple of aspirins and lie down before dinner.”

     He shrugged and let me go. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

     “Thanks anyhow.” I smiled. “See you later.”

     He went down the deck’s stairs to the driveway leading to the garage. The doors were open, and I saw Joseph standing by Harry’s BMW. The two talked for a moment, then Harry shook his head briskly, got into the car and backed out. Judging by Joseph’s face, the conversation had not been a happy one. When I turned to go inside, I saw Mandy framed in the living room window. I wondered how long she been watching?

     At dinner, Claire sat between George and Joseph, chatting brightly with one then the other. She would incline her head as if totally interested in the conversation, but I saw her covertly glance at Harry several times with a worried frown.

     Halfway through the main course, Joseph raised his wine glass. “To our gracious and talented hostess for a superb dinner.” Murmurs of approval went around the table, except from Mandy.

     The more Merlot he drank, the louder Harry’s voice became. He said, “Bridget, I could never get to first base with you in school. I didn’t have a problem with most of the girls, but you were Miss Aloof I even have a shin bone that aches when I think of you--which is darn often now that I’ve seen you again.”

     Conscious of Claire’s stare, I shrugged off the comment. “Just shy, Harry.”

     George gave me a sloppy wink. “Old Harry usually gets his way with everybody,” he said, including Estelle with a nasty look. “How’d you escape?”

     Estelle, seated next to me, smiled vaguely across the table. Either she hadn’t caught George’s insinuation that she was one of Harry’s conquests, or the wine was getting to her, too.

     Refilling his glass, Harry said, “You can always be replaced, George. Remember, producers are like last year’s ties, easy to throw away.” Harry looked around the table at our faces, and added, “It’s a joke, folks. Laugh.”

     Estelle leaned around me, her elbow hitting my plate. She said to Harry, “C’mon guys, let’s talk about something else. I wanna know what everyone’s wearing tomorrow night? Who’re you going to be?”

     Mandy said, “We’re going as Beauty and the Beast. Well,” she paused, smiling coyly at Joseph, “You’ll have to guess if he’s coming as the Beast or the Prince.” Joseph looked embarrassed.

     The others gave a run down on the characters they would portray. Harry was going as Houdini; Claire, as the magician’s assistant; George as Pagliacci; Estelle, Marie Antoinette, and I would be Fiona, the Celtic seeress. My Irish grandmother always said I’d inherited her sixth sense.

     We moved into the living room and gathered by the fire after dinner. Claire perched next to Harry on the arm of his chair. Stroking his hair, she said, “Guess what? Harry’s finally giving me the honeymoon he promised. We’re going to Europe the end of the month.”

     Mandy appeared ready to cry at the news. She spoke directly to her father. “You promised we would go with you on your next trip.”

     “Ah, honey ...” he said, shifting in his chair.

     Claire said, “Honeymoon’s are for two not four, Mandy.”

     Mandy’s unhappiness froze into a chilly silence that turned the evening sour. Shortly afterwards, Mandy and Joseph excused themselves.

     Ten minutes later, Estelle and George started for the stairs. On the way, Estelle stopped in front of Harry, tilting her cheek toward him for a good night kiss. He patted her shoulder instead, and said, “G’night.”

I escaped by helping Claire in the kitchen.

Scraping dishes while she loaded them into the dishwasher, I said, “It was a wonderful dinner. You have a real talent with food. I envy that.”

“It was wasted tonight.”

“Too much wine can dull the senses.”

“Oh, Harry will be his charming self by midmorning after he jogs on the beach. Or if the weather’s bad, he’ll work out in the exercise room, even though he hates doing it. It’s supposed to be stormy this weekend.” Almost to herself, she added, “One day all this will catch up with him.”

We finished in the kitchen, and I went to my room. It was decorated in Laura Ashley floral prints and bowls of potpourri, which I put under the bathroom sink. If I didn’t, the fragrance would trigger my allergies.

In the middle of the night, an April thunderstorm rumbled and then settled into steady rain. Its rhythm patter on the windowpane lulled me to sleep. Later though, I found myself gasping for air, struggling to come out of a deep sleep, like a diver kicking to break surface.

Afraid to move, my heartbeat thudded in my ears. Something or someone had awakened me.

I sneezed and threw back the covers, then fumbled for the bedside lamp switch. No one was in the room. I scrambled out of bed to the bathroom, banged the door against the wall and flipped on the light switch. Nothing.

After propping a chair against the bedroom door, I spotted something red peeking out from under the bed skirt. It was a small ball of yarn, a pom-pom, the kind a cat or child might play with--or when I examined it, a clown might have on his costume. Had someone been standing at the foot of my bed while I slept?

The rest of the night I sat up with the light on.

***

Before going out to the gazebo, I had stopped by my room and put on my rain slicker. At the last moment, I jammed the pom-pom in my pocket. I didn’t know why, except that I felt it was connected to Harry’s death in some way. Sifting in the gazebo, I touched it again.

My gaze wandered toward the house, and I saw Mandy emerging from the trees. She wore a baggy man’s sweater, tights and shiny black boots with red stripes. The sweater might have been Harry’s, it was so large. The sleeves hung below her hands. She looked like a lonely child sent outside to play, only to find her friends had gone home.

She entered the gazebo and slumped on the bench by the entrance.

“Mandy, you should be resting.”

She said, “Claire tried to give me one of her tranquilizers since the island’s doctor couldn’t come. I wouldn’t touch anything from her.”

Grief glazed her eyes and tears slid down her cheeks. I moved next to her and put my hand on her shoulder. For a moment she leaned toward me, smelling of fresh air and jasmine.

She drew away, and I shifted back to my seat across from her.

Her voice subdued, Mandy asked, “Who do you think killed my father?”

She didn’t need me speculating about whether her stepmother or Dutch uncle and girlfriend had done in her father. Or her husband, for that matter. How could I respond without poking in the raw wound her father’s death had created?

Mandy didn’t wait for my answer, but said, “It has to have been someone who stayed at the house last night.”

I agreed mentally. Someone who had access to a hack saw.

“You know I hate Claire,” Mandy said shrilly. “My father never should have married her. He didn’t need anyone after my mother died.”

“How old were you when that happened?”

“I was six.” Her voice took on the hint of a lisp. “Daddy was so good to me. My mother wasn’t. He said he’d always be there for me--I was his life.” She started sobbing, rocking back and forth.

Then, as if the breeze had blown away her grief, she said, calmly, “George could have done it. I thought I heard somebody moving around out in the hall after everyone was in bed.” She glanced up. “Did you hear anything?”

I closed my hand around the fuzzy edges of the pom-pom in my pocket.

“Something woke me last night.”

She pounced on my words. “What was it?”

I don’t know. But I think someone came into my room while I was sleeping and dropped a yarn ball shaped into a pom-pom by my bed. I’m sure it wasn’t there earlier.”

Mandy flashed a triumphant look and leaned back. “George’s costume had red pom-poms for buttons. Color flooded her cheeks, making her face look like a painted china doll.

In the predawn hours I had remembered about George’s costume and considered the possibility that full of drink, he had found a key and entered my room.

I asked Mandy the question I couldn’t answer then. “Why would he come into my room dressed as a clown--and then leave?”

She said, “He hated my father. He was jealous of him. He thought Estelle had been Daddy’s girlfriend. I heard George tell her ‘she was cast off goods.’” Mandy shot me a glance, her mouth turning down. “George probably wanted to screw you because Daddy never made love to you. George was going to get even.”

A sly satisfied look crossed her face. “Or maybe George wanted to frighten you so you’d leave.”

She went on in a singsong voice. “Of course, the one who knew Daddy’d exercise this morning was Claire.” She lapsed into silence, not blinking or moving. Her grief was back. I thought Mandy’s hold on herself was so fragile that a whisper would shatter her.

“Claire never really loved my father, you know. She just liked being married to someone famous. She knew Daddy wouldn’t stay with her.”

I stirred, caught between my desire to hear her out and my need to run from her dark sickness filling the gazebo.

The breeze had become stronger, and Mandy’s perfume swirled around me. I sneezed and reached for a tissue in my pocket. When I pulled one out, the yarn pom-pom fell to the floor. I bent to pick it up, then stopped. Mandy’s eyes met mine. Red! I never told Mandy the pom-pom’s color.

A shadow seemed to pass between us, and I thought it was the shell of the woman in Mandy retreating to the safety of a childhood never left behind.

She sat there as bleak as the gray day. I felt as if a door had opened onto a hidden room. I realized that it was Mandy’s lingering perfume that had awakened me. With a horrible clarity, I knew that Harry wasn’t supposed to be killed. It was Claire!

When Claire warned Harry not to make a fool of himself over the woman, she had meant Mandy not a lover. Harry must have known of his daughter’s possessive need of him, even if he couldn’t acknowledge it. I think he saw Mandy watching us on the beach from the deck and was uneasy that she would be upset. That’s why we had to rush back. She was still wearing her jacket when we walked inside.

She cried, “Daddy never loved those other women. He wouldn’t have loved you. I was all that mattered to him. I cut the pom-pom off the costume after dinner. I wanted to scare you away   ... and hurt Claire so she’d be no use to Daddy.”

Raising the knife, she wailed a child’s brokenhearted cry. ‘Daddy hated to exercise.”

I crouched, gauging her strength, ready to make a desperate grab for the knife. But suddenly a voice from behind her said, “Mandy, oh Mandy girl. Come to me.”

Lowering the knife, she moved like a docile child and obediently turned to the voice.

Joseph stepped into the gazebo and held out his arms. Mandy fell into them, letting the knife slip to the floor. Her husband cradled and rocked her, his tears falling silently.