"I'm sorry about Mr. Drummond," Haynes said. "We got here just as soon as we possibly could. We'd have been here sooner, but for the hurricane."
They were sitting in the bar at Greyfield Inn, and the sheriff had poured them all a drink. Liz clutched the blanket about her, gripped the whiskey glass, and took another swig; it was creating a warmth in her belly that let her know she was still alive. "What I don't understand is why you're here at all," she said.
We wouldn't be here at all, except for a very determined cop named Lee Williams."
"The one I talked to on the phone?"
"That's the one. It was Lee who got Ramsey to tell him where you were." He told her the story.
"I hope he's going to be all right," she said. "He will be. He'll be very gratified to know what Mr. Drummond did."
"Not as gratified as I." She was talking on automatic pilot, now, just responding. The shock was wearing slowly away, although she could still feel Keir's cold skin against her body.
What about grief? she thought. Grief must come with reality. It was still not real. From outside the room there was the low sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. "The guests are stirring," the sheriff said. "It's after eight o'clock."
"Germaine will be getting breakfast for them," Liz said absently. Then she stood up. "Germaine!" she dropped her glass and ran from the room, down the stairs, hanging on to the blanket, followed by the sheriff and the two policemen. She ran across the kitchen to Germaine's office and tried the door. Locked.
"Oh, dear God!"
"What's the matter?" Haynes asked. "Baker was driving Germaine's truck. He would have to have gotten the keys from her." She ran up the stairs and out the front door of the inn. She flew down the front steps and, trying her best to hold on to the blanket, sprinted across the inn's lawn toward Germaine's cottage. The lawn was littered with tree limbs and other debris, and she had to detour more than once to make it across the expanse of grass. As Liz neared the cottage, she could see shingles missing from the roof, but nothing else seemed damaged. The front door was locked. She ran around the house and entered through the kitchen, then stopped. Everything seemed quite normal there. With trepidation, she walked into the living room; a brandy bottle and two glasses rested on the coffee table. "Germaine!" she called. No answer. Slowly, Liz went to the bedroom door. As it swung open, she saw a shapeless form on the bed, covered with a sheet.
The policemen came into the room behind Liz and stopped. "Germaine?" she said again, her voice quavering. Liz walked slowly around the bed and stopped. She reached out, took a corner of the sheet, and pulled it down. Germaine's still face was pressed partly into a pillow. Liz tenderly moved a lock of hair from across her eyes.
"What?" Germaine said, startled, and sat up. She was naked, and the men were staring at her breasts. "Oh, Liz," she said. "What's going on?" She saw the men and pulled up the sheet.
"Are you all right, Germaine?" Liz managed to ask. "Sure." She shook her head. "I had a pretty weird evening with a guy, though. All he wanted to talk about was you.