FIFTEEN

The big white tent was visible from the top of the marina driveway. Claire could see the crowd and the buffet tables. Buffet! Everyone was supposed to bring a dish. Not only hadn’t she brought one, she hadn’t made anything.

“Are you all right?” MaryAnn asked.

“Yes, fine.”

“You look pale.”

“I just realized I left my dish at home.”

“Looks like they’ve got plenty,” Payton said.

“You can eat it for supper,” MaryAnn said.

People were everywhere. No one crying, no one looked the slightest bit sad. Sean’s body hadn’t been discovered. Well, at least the race would go off as planned, though they’d be minus one racer. The only one who’d worry when he didn’t show up was Frank, his partner. Claire couldn’t see him in the crowd.

Helen disengaged herself from a small group and came toward them. She wore white slacks and a sailor top with a navy blue tie. “Good afternoon, ladies. Isn’t it nice the weather broke for us?”

Claire hadn’t noticed. The rain had indeed stopped. The dark clouds gone. A mix of sky and puffy whites looked down on them. Sun beat down in all its glory. The temperature must be ninety degrees.

“Are you excited about your first race, Payton?” Helen asked.

“A little.” She held out the dish of tossed salad.

“Just find a spot on a table.”

MaryAnn followed Payton. Helen bent toward Claire. “Is that a black eye I see on MaryAnn?”

Claire nodded. “She reminded him that MaryAnn belonged to her.”

“Damn him.” Helen shook her head. “I used to really like him. Dear, are you all right? You’re all flushed.” She laid the back of her hand on Claire’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

“I’m a little nervous. Timing the race is a big responsibility.”

Helen smiled. The movement made the crinkles at the corners of her mouth turn into craters. “Me too.”

Payton returned and stood beside Helen, who said, “Come, I’ll introduce you to the Chaumont team.”

People milled around the long food tables. Sylvie and her partner, holding almost-empty plates, wore serious expressions. Sylvie pointed at the harbor, then down the bay, obviously talking race strategy. Nearby stood Aden, Edward, Amanda and Seymour, all holding plates or cups. To their left was an industrial-size coffee urn, beside it, Frank Simpson. He forked something into his mouth and chewed. He gazed around, at ease, seemingly unconcerned about Sean’s tardiness. Claire thought about going to him, seeing if he’d heard from Sean.

Someone stepped from behind the urn. Athletic, handsome, smiling. Claire’s knees buckled. She groped for something solid, finding one of the oak poles that held up the tent. Fingers closed around the wood, expression tightened, brain churned. Sean Adams spotted her and smiled. Claire squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, the phantasm still looked at her. Frank touched his sleeve. Sean broke eye contact to heed his partner.

Sean still lived. The monkshood didn’t work! She hadn’t used enough leaves. The cup water was too warm, too cold. The cooking temperature killed the poison; too many variables to determine the culprit.

Strong hands grasped her waist. Guided her downward. Something enveloped her backside. “There, there, sit. Take it easy.” Claire squinted into sunshine. Aden Green smiled down on her. “Someone get her a glass of water.”

She tried to rise. “I’m all right. Really.”

Aden’s hand held her in the chair. “Just sit a minute. It’s very hot out.”

Someone handed her a bottle of water. She drank, feeling the liquid trickle down her esophagus and strike the boiling lava in her gut. She could almost hear the sizzle when the two made contact. She coughed down the explosion, leaned forward, arms wrapped around herself, afraid to open her mouth for fear steam would come out.

“Someone call an ambulance.” She thought it was Aden’s voice, but it could have been anyone.

Many concerned legs appeared. Her eyes followed one pair, clad in white gabardine, upward. Pale blue shirt. Clean shaven chin. Nicely shaped lips. Sean Adams’ eyes. He knelt before her. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He’d found out somehow. Claire blinked. He was still there. He grinned. A shark’s grin. What would he do? Surely he’d get retaliation.

His face blurred, and spun. Worried voices grew louder, closer, then wafted away.