Chapter Thirty-Four
The hallway in the back of the Raven had the requisite men’s and women’s restrooms and an ungendered one in between; entry to the kitchen was at one end, and a door to the parking lot was at the other. Nick was nowhere in sight. Willow loitered for a moment to see if he would reappear.
A sudden thud and a yelp sounded from behind a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, as though something heavy had fallen. Thinking someone might have been injured, Willow opened the door to what was apparently a good-size broom closet.
And closed the door immediately.
Immediately wasn’t soon enough. Not only had one of the pair inside seen her, but she had seen them as well. And it was a sight she never wanted to see again.
Her feet carried her rapidly out of the hallway and back to the booth where Catherine sat waiting. The librarian took one look at Willow’s face and asked, “Willow? What happened? Did you find Nick? Did you run into Hank?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Willow replied, fighting back the inappropriate wave of laughter threatening to burst from behind her carefully closed lips. She sat down again opposite Catherine, who waited patiently for her to gather herself.
Finally, Willow said in a voice that was almost tranquil, “I think … I think Iron Man is … Hank.”
In a puzzled voice, Catherine said, “Um … that seems unlikely. Why would you say that?”
Willow replied, “Because about two minutes ago, I saw them together in the broom closet across from the ladies’ room.”
Catherine, stunned, stammered, “When you say, ‘together,’ you don’t mean…”
Willow nodded and gulped audibly. “Together. Yeah. I mean.” Willow had stepped backward and shut the door as fast as she could, but not before seeing far more of Hank Ramsey Jr. than she could ever forget, however much she wished she could wipe the image from her mind: Naomi, her back to the wall, her legs around Hank’s midsection; Hank hadn’t seen Willow, since his face was buried in Naomi’s neck and his attention was definitely not on the closet door, but Willow had seen the slightly bored expression on Naomi’s face turn to panic as she saw Willow standing in the doorway.
She shuddered. “Some things you can’t unsee. ”
Catherine put up her hands as if in self-defense. “Please, no visuals. You can keep the details to yourself.” Then she winced. “Too late. They’re there.”
Into the shocked silence, Nick strode back in through the front of the restaurant and slid into the booth again. “What’s up?” He looked at their aghast faces. “Hey, what’s up? What happened?”
Willow managed a shaky and slightly maniacal smile. “You missed all the fun. Where’d you go?”
“I told you, phone call. I took it outside.” He turned to Catherine. “Care to explain? I’d ask Willow, but she looks like she’s seen a ghost—”
At that, Willow began to laugh, one of those breathless teary-eyed fits one prayed would stop before you passed out from lack of oxygen.
Catherine reached across the table to pat her shoulder comfortingly.
“Actually,” she said matter-of-factly, “she apparently takes ghosts in stride; one of the Cameron House spirits has been passing her notes. This was different. A few minutes ago, she witnessed Hank Ramsey and Naomi Talbot having sex in a broom closet.”
Willow managed to squeak out, “Infinitely more terrifying,” before the laughter overwhelmed her and she helplessly put her head down on the table.
Nick’s face blanched. “She saw what?” He looked back at Willow. “Seriously? Please tell me you’re both joking before my brain starts—oh no, now I’m imagining it.”
“Definitely—not—a visual—” Willow lifted her head briefly from the table and gasped out, “Never—unsee—” She dropped her head back on the table.
By now, Catherine had started giggling too. Nick sat there staring into space. “Okay then,” he said. “Hank’s the one with the pepperoni.”
Catherine and Willow’s eyes met, kicking off a new burst of laughter. Nick, looking frustrated, demanded, “What?”
The two women dissolved again. Nick rolled his eyes, trying to keep from laughing. “God, what are you two, twelve? I thought guys were supposed to be the immature ones about this kind of thing.” He paused, suddenly serious. “Did they see you?” he asked Willow.
She nodded, and the hilarity faded. “They did. Or at least Naomi did.” She reached across and grabbed Nick’s wrist. “Hank knows. He knows where Catherine was today. If he doesn’t know exactly what she’s found, he at least suspects. And he came over and threatened us after you left.”
Willow’s face hardened as she came to the next, inevitable conclusion.
“It’s what was missing. The link between someone who wants the property Geralt was determined to acquire, and someone with the kind of access to Geralt that would make poisoning him not only possible but easy.
Hank probably reasoned that he could make buckets of money if Naomi were to inherit, all the more if he has even a dubious claim to the lineage himself—and I’d bet you anything she hasn’t told him Geralt was broke.
Hank sets himself up as the last Cameron heir, while Naomi poisons Geralt. ”
Catherine’s eyes widened. “Which means the last thing left in the way of their happily ever after is … Patricia.”
The three of them stared at each other.
From the corner of her eye, Willow saw Naomi step out of the back hallway and walk hastily through the restaurant, casting a terrified look in their direction. Nick murmured, “You stall her; I’m heading to the back to see if I can find Hank. He either slipped out the rear door or he’s still there.”
Willow nodded. She slid from the booth and followed Naomi to the door of the restaurant, catching her elbow before she could open it.
Naomi whirled to face her, wrenching her arm away.
She jabbed a pointing finger at Willow’s face.
“Don’t. Just don’t—not a word. Go ahead, tell all your friends so they can post on their socials about that slut Naomi Talbot, who came from nothing and isn’t good enough to occupy space in their precious puritanical polo-shirts-and-boat-shoes island community.
But you have no right to judge me, and it’s none of your business who I spend my time with—”
Willow swatted her hand away. “Naomi, are you serious? Hank Ramsey?”
Naomi had the grace to look abashed. “All right, so he’s no Prince Charming. But he’s fun, and he makes me feel gorgeous, and he—”
“He wanted your husband dead so he could have a clearer path to claiming Cameron House and turning the property into a golf course and hotel.” Willow’s voice was cold and cutting.
Naomi stopped. “What? Please, he’s got plenty of hotels already. Besides, he’s in the Cameron family line himself; he can do what he wants—”
“He’s not. He’s not, and he knows it. He made it all up. It looks okay on the surface, but the minute you scratch deeper, it’s obviously garbage,” Willow said. “Has he shown you any proof? Ask him for proof. He doesn’t have any.”
Naomi’s face clouded. “Geralt wanted the house to stay in the family. I thought—if Hank is family, then…”
“Then you can not only honor your late husband’s last wishes but more easily move on to the next old rich guy on the island and keep living in the manner you have become accustomed to. And the fact that this old rich guy is married won’t stand in your way.”
“Oh, please,” Naomi scoffed, “I’m not planning to marry Hank. I was just—” She looked, suddenly anxious, at Willow. “He’s not a Cameron? It’s all a lie?”
Willow nodded. “It’s a lie. He lied to you about the Cameron fortune, like I’m guessing you lied to him about coming into millions from your dead husband.
” Naomi looked abashed, and Willow knew she’d struck home.
For an instant, Willow almost felt sorry for her; then she remembered Geralt, his weakness and terror, the bleak despair and confusion as he vomited on the floor, and all pity went away.
“But it’s over. You guys blew it. I hope you like prison. ”
Naomi started. “You hope we … what?” Understanding hit her. “Oh my God, you think I—we—killed Geralt.” Then the next realization came. “And tried to kill Patricia?” She backed away from Willow, shaking her head in terrified denial.
“Didn’t you?” Willow spat. “It makes perfect sense. The minute we look at the two of you together, it becomes obvious. Everyone gets what they want. Except Geralt, who is now dead, and his family’s house about to be sold to a bloodthirsty developer.
But he was old and a creep, so who cares about what he wanted? ” Willow’s voice was bitter.
Naomi’s head was still moving back and forth. “No. No, I would never do that. Hank would never do that. He’s a bit of an operator, but he wouldn’t … I’m sure he wouldn’t…” Her voice trailed off.
This was unexpected. Willow had anticipated carefully planned denials, proactively offered alibis, and at least some more polished and indignant protestations, but Naomi gave the appearance of being genuinely upset.
And Willow didn’t think Naomi Talbot was that good an actor.
She had shown defensive hostility about being caught banging Hank in the broom closet, but when accused of murder, the woman seemed frightened and shocked.
Was Naomi’s only crime her abhorrent taste in men?
Was the young widow beginning to realize the danger she might face, far beyond newspaper headlines and social media cancellation?
A horn honked outside, loudly, aggressively.
Naomi recoiled a little at the sound. There was a new resolve on her face as she pulled a thick envelope out of her purse.
Her voice was hurried. “Look, my allegiance all along was to Geralt; you know that. So maybe I thought I could have my cake and eat it too—let Hank inherit the house and ride the wake of that for a while until I could get myself set up financially. But if he’s—” She stopped; Willow could all but see the wheels turning.
The horn honked again, more insistently.
When Naomi turned back to Willow, there was new resolve in her face. She held out the envelope. “Look. I don’t know if this makes any difference at all, but you should have this.”
Curiously, Willow took the envelope and looked at the return address: Downeast Investigation Services.
Naomi said, “Geralt hired a private investigator. He was helping your godmother, trying to track down living Cameron descendants. The guy’s preliminary report came this afternoon, and—well, it doesn’t change anything about the house or the situation we’re in now, but I feel like you have a right to know what he learned.
” She leaned closer. “Make sure you’re alone when you read it.
And don’t tell anyone you don’t absolutely trust.” Before Willow could respond, Naomi had slipped out the door.
Willow waited an instant too long before following; she stepped outside in time to see Naomi slip into another vintage car, this one bright blue, with Hank behind the wheel.
The man gave Willow a sly, knowing grin, kicked the car into gear, and squealed away just as Nick rounded the corner of the restaurant.
“Son of a—” The tall officer scowled as he joined Willow, panting a little. “He gave me the slip—literally. I almost fell on my face.”
Willow was frowning. “How many of those cars does he have?”
Nick did not hesitate. “A ’63 split-window Corvette Stingray in Daytona Blue?
Only the one. But he has maybe nine of these old muscle cars—a couple of Mustangs, ’68 Firebird, a ’66 Cyclone, I think he’s even got an Olds Toronado too …
The ’69 Camaro Z was totaled when Patricia went down the hill the other day, of course, so he’s down one —”
“And what’s that?” Willow interrupted, pointing to the asphalt, where a small brownish puddle had formed beneath the car in the few seconds it had stopped to pick up Naomi.
Nick walked over and touched it, rubbed the slippery fluid between his fingers, smelled it. His eyes returned to Willow’s, aghast.
In the space of two heartbeats, Nick and Willow came to the horrifying realization of what was about to happen.
Before they could spring into motion, they heard the sound rush up the hill to them, the harsh slam of high-speed metal against rock, distant but clear as a bell. And seconds later, the gut-deep thud and boom of a gas tank exploding.