§ § § -- September 15, 1996
"I can't believe none of them actually offered us a contract," Brooke was complaining over her ham and eggs. "We must have talked to four or five scouts, and all they did was beat around the bush and toss off overbaked compliments."
"Well, there was that one," Shara pointed out hopefully, nibbling on a slice of toast—the only thing she had fixed for her breakfast. "Calvin Dill from Goliath Records?"
Joy made a noise of revulsion. "Oh, him. I didn't like him. He struck me as smarmy."
"Yeah," Cyndy agreed, spreading jam on an English muffin. "He looked like one of those types who has a casting couch…or whatever the recording-industry equivalent is." The women laughed quietly.
"Well," Daphne said, "they'll probably be at one or another of our shows at the amusement park today. Maybe they just want a second opinion—see if we're consistent, if we can perform reliably instead of presenting them with a fluke."
Brooke shrugged. "I suppose that makes some sense," she said reluctantly. "But I thought we were supposed to be having a fantasy granted, so I was counting on at least one or two of them offering a contract."
"True," Daphne said, sighing. "I gotta admit, it would've been nice."
Joy looked around at their faces and pointed out, "Look, guys, Mr. Roarke can't make those guys think. He can make sure they see us, and he might even put in a good word or two, but the decision about contract offers is up to them, not him. He can't sway them. Our performances are supposed to do that."
"Well, I thought that's what we did!" Brooke protested. "Why is it everyone back home loves us, but leave Washington state and nobody gives half a hoot?"
"Because they see hundreds of aspiring musical acts a day, most likely," replied Cyndy with a shrug, taking a bite of her muffin and talking around it. "We think we stand out, but we probably don't. Not to them at least." She stopped chewing at Brooke's and Shara's downcast faces and at Joy's and Daphne's resigned expressions. "Listen, there was only so much room in the supper club anyway. The audience was great for both shows, but I think there was a maximum of fifty people per show. At the park there'll be space for loads more people. If they like us as much as the supper-club crowd did, then it might suggest to one or two of these scouts that there may be a substantial audience for our material, and they'll be more willing to take a chance on signing us. Make sense?"
Joy smiled. "Yeah, it does. Thanks, Cyn, I didn't think about it like that. So what say, guys? More optimism for today's shows?"
"You got it," Shara said brightly, dusting toast crumbs off her hands. "I'm gonna go and get dressed. Be back in a few." She got up and flitted off to one of the bedrooms.
"I just hope, if any of them do decide to take a chance, that Calvin Dill isn't one of them," Joy went on. "There's something about him that makes me think he's not always aboveboard in dealing with clients, you know? A shady character with shifty eyes and all those other clichés." They laughed.
"For sure," Brooke said. "Okay, I guess it's agreed that we turn down Dill if he makes an offer. On the other hand, I don't think we should jump at the first offer we get, either. We should hold out for at least two, so we can compare them against each other and see which one has the better benefits."
Their conversation had gone on for another ten minutes before Shara finally returned to the table. "Did I miss anything?" she asked cheerfully.
"Half the conversation, naturally," Joy said, rolling her eyes. "What took you so long?"
"I couldn't find my favorite shorts," Shara said, pulling out her chair. At that moment there was a knock on the door and she changed direction. "I'll get it."
It turned out to be Roarke; the women greeted him in chorus and he nodded. "Good morning, ladies," he replied, courteous but grave, before turning to Shara. "Miss Foster, I am afraid I must ask you to accompany me to police headquarters."
Shara's face drained of all color, so suddenly and thoroughly that her sisters and cousin saw it plainly from the table and looked at one another, then oddly at Shara. "What…what's the problem, Mr. Roarke?" Shara asked in a high, hesitant voice.
Roarke, too, saw her blanch, but didn't mention it. "A young man by the name of Howard Helms was arrested last evening in town," he explained. "He was caught red-handed in an attempt to sell narcotics. When he was taken in, he mentioned your name—specifically, that you know him and would vouch for him."
"Oh," Shara said faintly, clearing her throat.
"Howie was here on the island after all?" exclaimed Daphne, amazed. "I was just kidding around about him last evening. Geez, talk about lucky guesses."
"Sure sounds like he came to the proverbial bad end," Brooke commented, shaking her head and pouring herself some more orange juice. "Be careful, sis."
"Miss Foster?" Roarke prompted gently.
Shara nodded so quickly it looked more like a shudder. "S-sure, Mr. Roarke, I'll come along. Do I have to testify against him or something?"
"The police merely wish to take a statement from you, since Mr. Helms brought up his acquaintance with you," Roarke said reassuringly. "Nothing to worry about."
Shara sagged visibly with relief. "I see," she said, exhaling loudly. "Okay, sure, lead the way, Mr. Roarke." She trailed him out, pulling the door shut after her.
"Old Howie," Daphne marveled. "Who'd ever have thought."
"A drug-selling geek," Cyndy agreed and laughed. "I'm sure Shara'll fix him in no time flat. She never did like him anyway."
Joy chuckled, sounding subdued. "Yeah, just last night she told him to get lost…for probably the four thousandth time or so." They all laughed again, but she frowned at her French toast, feeling her intuition poking her again and wondering why.
The drive to police headquarters in Amberville took only a few minutes. When Roarke and Shara came in, Howie Helms leaped to his feet and curled his fists around the bars of his jail cell, staring desperately at her. She carefully avoided his eyes and stood quietly beside Roarke at the sheriff's desk.
Clark Mokuleia nodded a solemn greeting to Roarke and Shara, focusing on her. "Mr. Helms claims you and he know each other, miss," he said questioningly.
Shara finally looked at Howie, scowled heavily at him and narrowed her eyes. "I used to know him in high school," she said, "but he's no friend of mine."
"Come on, Shara, don't give me that!" Howie yelled frantically. "We been associating since graduation, remember? We're pals…buddies…chums…"
"We were classmates, not friends," Shara announced with a slight quiver in her voice. She looked at Sheriff Mokuleia now. "He hasn't changed very much, but I haven't seen him since we graduated ten years ago."
"Shara, you turncoat," Howie shouted, voice a mixture of rage and fear. "I can tell 'em everything. I been supplying you since—"
"You'll just implicate yourself, Helms," Sheriff Mokuleia warned him. "The lady says she doesn't know you now, and you're the one who's in trouble, remember. It's your word against hers, and right now, yours can't be said to be very trustworthy."
"I'm telling you…" Howie protested, but they ignored him. Shara stared at some point on the wall opposite her, refusing to meet anyone's gaze; there was a stiff nervousness about her that insisted to Roarke that she was lying. But there was no proof.
"Very well, sheriff, thank you…and thank you, Miss Foster," he said quietly.
"Sure thing, Mr. Roarke. Miss Foster, sorry to bother you, and thanks for your time," Sheriff Mokuleia said pleasantly.
Shara's smile was huge. "Any time, sheriff," she said and started out, even ahead of Roarke. Roarke gave the sheriff a farewell nod and departed with her, frowning slightly. The young woman clearly had a secret, and he had strong suspicions of his own. If he was any accurate judge, Shara Foster's fragile web would come unwoven soon enough.
‡ ‡ ‡
Alone in the main house to take care of some paperwork and listen for the phone, Leslie printed out a stack of letters for hopeful fantasizers, then scrolled through the business e-mail without finding anything urgent. She made a quick check of her own e-mail then; the only message was Christian's from last night. She cleared her throat, smiled a little and clicked on the reply button.
Dearest Christian,
I feel like a fool. I was so blinded by what looked like a betrayal on your part that I didn't think things through, till last night when Father told me you'd been communicating with him a little. It was Arnulf's doing, not yours, and it's taken me all this time to realize that. You're even more trapped than I am, stuck in a marriage of convenience. Arnulf's convenience, of course! Do you remember my telling you that I saw Arnulf's excruciating press conference? I asked Father about that this morning over breakfast, and he told me he had seen things I missed due to my emotional state at the time. Your grim, rigid control, Marina's calm and quiet acceptance, and Arnulf's sense of triumph. Father's good at seeing this kind of stuff anyway, but to notice it through a TV screen...obviously all those emotions stood out like a mouse in a cattery.
I'm so sorry, Christian. I've been clinging to my own hurt without thinking of yours. Yes, I did tell Marina I would wait for you, and I will. You can count on that, my love.
It's been a fairly quiet weekend so far, and the fantasies are nothing unusual. However, we did have an arrest last night – a small-time drug dealer from Washington in the US. He claimed he knew one of the fantasizers, a member of an aspiring singing group looking for fame and fortune. They're four sisters and their cousin, and they all seem so nice and friendly. I can't imagine why that guy would try to implicate one of them. I guess some people will do anything to get themselves out of hot water, including smearing the innocent names of others.
I have to go now, but I promise I'll look for your next message when I have a chance and reply quickly. I didn't lie the night of the wedding reception, Christian. I love you more than there are words to say. Be safe, my love.
Yours always, Leslie
She read it over, smiled again and drew in a deep breath, then clicked the send button. "There," she said softly, and to her surprise felt lighter, happier. She examined the feeling for a moment, then laughed to herself. Father was right again. When has he ever not been right? All these years on this island and you still haven't figured that out! Shaking her head with self-deprecating amusement, she signed out of her e-mail account and closed the electronic window, then made her way to the desk and thumbed through a stack of new mail that had arrived the day before.
