THIRTY-NINE

MATT smoothly swung the big van around. It was a deft U-turn for the narrow lane, but then his driving always did impress me.

After years of muscling off-road vehicles around the coffee belt’s muddy mountains, treacherous rain forests, and edge-of-cliff death roads, a few dark, narrow lanes on Long Island weren’t about to faze the guy.

Ahead of us was Montauk Highway. Cars and trucks were zooming in both directions. With no stoplight to slow traffic, it looked intimidating to me, but Matt easily got us across and onto a road called Deerfield.

This was another lonely stretch, lined with trees and open land. The occasional high row of groomed bushes indicated estate property, and then came the thick trees again.

“This rural run is giving me the creeps,” I said. “Whoa!”

A Lamborghini with high beams nearly blinded us as it flew by.

“Idiot,” Matt muttered.

There were no streetlights along these two narrow lanes, just a yellow line to follow. Matt had to switch to high beams to illuminate the dark turns—but at least he clicked them off when another car appeared!

I gripped my cup for caffeine courage. “Given the wealthy set’s penchant for parties, alcohol, and fast cars, I’m guessing there are a lot of accidents on these Hamptons roads during the summer season.”

“Yes. Lots.”

“It’s not uncommon, then,” I said. “The way Annette Brewster’s husband died out here, in an auto accident.”

Matt gave me a funny glance. “Is that something my mother told you? I mean, about Harlan Brewster?”

“She did mention that Annette’s husband was dead.”

“Did she tell you how he died?”

“No, Madame didn’t. I just know.”

“Concentrate. Try to remember. How did you learn that? Who told you?”

I closed my eyes, shutting out the van’s headlights while I sipped more coffee. A female voice came back to me, but it wasn’t Madame’s. It was Annette’s. I recognized the voice as Annette Brewster’s!

“Matt, I can’t tell you when she told me, or even what she looked like at the time, but I can hear Annette’s voice. I know it’s her!”

“That’s good, Clare. Keep going.” Matt noticed my eyes were shut. “Do you see anything?”

“Just a table covered in white linen.”

“Sounds like the cake tasting on the night you disappeared. Don’t stop. What else do you remember about your conversation with Annette?”

“Coffee,” I said, eyes open again. “We talked about her hotel’s coffee. I wouldn’t call it swill or mud or anything. I mean, it was drinkable, but a place like the Parkview Palace should be offering guests something of much higher quality. Something like this . . .”

I lifted the excellent Hampton blend and paused to enjoy more of it.

“What else did you discuss? I’m betting you pitched Annette on our Village Blend coffee, right?”

“Yes, I did—” Another car came rocketing toward us, high beams bleaching the dark road in a flash of blinding white. Matt cursed and I tensed, holding my breath until it zoomed past.

“Sorry. Go on,” Matt coaxed. “Did your pitch work? Was she interested in switching coffee suppliers?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Annette said her husband, Harlan, insisted they use Driftwood Coffee because the execs of the national chain spent a fortune at the Parkview—corporate meetings, suites as perks for franchisees, that sort of thing. Harlan reciprocated with an exclusive contract for their product.”

“So, Annette planned to continue honoring that relationship?”

“No. She said everything changed with Harlan finally gone—and she emphasized those words, as if she were happy about it. She said, if it were up to her, she would dump Driftwood, but she wasn’t in a position to make any deals.”

“But she’s the owner,” Matt said, puzzled.

“She said I should talk to the new owner of the Parkview. She encouraged me to make a pitch when the time came. She thought the Village Blend could easily get the contract.”

“New owner? Are you telling me Annette was planning to sell the Parkview?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure, Clare? Nothing like that has been in the news. My mother never mentioned it.”

“I’m sure.”

“Then who’s buying Annette’s hotel?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. She said it was too risky to reveal the details of the deal, and she swore me to secrecy.”

Matt went silent a moment. “She said the word risky?”

“Yes.”

“And it was after your conversation that she was abducted. Can you remember anything about the crime? Concentrate, think.”

I tried once more, but there was no anchor, nothing to guide my mind, and I felt myself falling into the now-familiar shadowy wooziness that preceded a blackout. I immediately opened my eyes.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember,” I said, staring at the road.

“We know it happened. The cops have the picture of Annette and you and a ski-masked goon with a gun.”

“So everyone keeps telling me. But I don’t recall it—though I did dream about a man with a gun.”

“When?”

“When I fell asleep here in the van.”

Matt sat up straighter behind the wheel. “Clare, this could be it. Your dream could be the breakthrough you need.”

“You think so?”

“You just shared a recent memory of Annette.”

“That’s true.”

“Tell me about this man with a gun. Describe him . . .”

I took a breath, closed my eyes.

“He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but I can’t see his face.”

“Because he’s wearing a mask?”

“No. I can’t see his face because it’s deep in shadow.”

“What’s he wearing?”

“A blue suit. In my dream, when he took off his jacket, I saw his gun. It was in a leather shoulder holster, strapped across his white dress shirt. The man was walking along a city sidewalk. He turned a corner and suddenly he was in the woods, looking for me among the dark trees. He called my name over and over. His voice was so sad. He kept begging me to answer him. I wanted to cry out . . . but I couldn’t.”

I opened my eyes. “That’s it. What do you think?”

Matt sat in silence, gaze fixed on the road.

“I know it’s an odd dream.” I chewed my lip. “Do you have any idea who that man might be?”

“No, Clare. No idea.”