“Why didn’t somebody warn me?” Skye demanded.
“Because nobody knew she was on the island,” answered Lord Fraser, who, while no reader of the tabloids, had also recognized her immediately. “She must have just arrived today.”
“I’m out of here!” Skye hissed.
“You can’t do that. You have to deal with it now. You’re bound to meet her sooner or later. Let’s take a stroll on the beach while you come to terms with it.” Fraser laid a fatherly hand on Skye’s arm as they walked along a sandy path, bordered by sea grapes, to the beach. “She wasn’t the one who killed Jocelyn, you know. She wasn’t there. In fact, she probably hates that drunken boor as much as you do.”
Skye realized that his older friend was probably right. Erin had no reason to love the Kellys. Skye, who had made it his business to look into the Kelly dynasty, knew how poisonous the relationship between the Kellys and their erstwhile daughter-in-law really was. Because of all the publicity, the whole western world knew it too. At first, the union between the beautiful blond socialite and the man who one day might be president had captured the imagination of the American public. In a way, the golden young couple became a substitute for the royalty the country never had, but subconsciously craved.
The honeymoon, both with themselves and with the press, was soon over as Patrick Kelly continued his philandering ways and his young wife, shaken by his blatant infidelity and intimidated by his domineering family, took refuge in the bottle and fell into alcoholism. While the honeymoon with the press might have ended, the troubled couple still made wonderful copy, and the media reported with glee that Erin had been charged with driving while intoxicated and that she had twice checked herself into a detoxification centre. Glossy magazines delighted in running photos of Patrick, his good looks fast deteriorating with his dissipated lifestyle, living it up in nightclubs with one interchangeable blonde after another. Erin bore his philandering with stoic silence until Truth ran a colour photograph of her naked husband making love to an equally naked woman on the deck of an anchored yacht in the Mediterranean. The day after the photo appeared, she filed for divorce. Some said it wasn’t his adultery that bothered her, it was when she saw the photo and realized just how gross and bloated he had become.
The divorce quickly turned into one of those messy domestic sagas that hit the front pages and stay there. The marriage had produced a son, also named Patrick Sullivan Kelly, who was three years old at the time of the divorce and was already being groomed by the family as the heir who would continue the dynasty. The Kellys were determined to keep control of the child so that he could be brought up with a proper sense of his destiny. They also sincerely believed that Erin, whom they held in contempt for her drinking and her failure to stand up for herself, would be the worst possible influence on the boy. They were determined not only to maintain custody of young Patrick but, if they weren’t able to eliminate Erin’s visitation rights entirely, to restrict them to the barest possible minimum. The way to do that was to prove that Erin was an unfit mother, due to her alcoholism and depression. Her lawyers countered by attacking her husband’s character. Thanks to his lurid lifestyle they didn’t lack for ammunition. They also attacked the Kelly family itself, claiming that its oppressive, domineering atmosphere would smother the child’s individuality.
When it was over, Patrick was to live with his father and Erin was to have visiting rights that would increase if she stayed sober. To the dismay of the family, she announced that she intended to give up alcohol, and then when enough time had passed, she would reapply for custody under the “changed status” rule. All that would have been nearly three years ago.
As Skye and Lord Fraser rejoined the other guests, it was apparent that a rapport had sprung up between Princess Helen and Erin Kelly. They probably felt a sense of kinship because of the way the world press treated them. Someone must have told Erin about Skye because her expression became guarded as she saw him approaching.
“I guess we both know something about each other,” she said. In person, she was much different from what Skye had expected. From her photographs he expected her to be tall, statuesque and rather withdrawn. She was fairly tall all right, but she was slender rather than statuesque, and the expression on her attractive face had been open and friendly when she was conversing with the Princess.
“I’m afraid so.” Skye hadn’t intended to be so curt, but the words just popped out as the bitter memories came flooding back.
Erin, who had been about to extend her hand, dropped it as if she had been burned. The green eyes frosted over, and she smiled gratefully as Lord Fraser intervened and introduced himself. Then she turned away to continue her conversation with the Princess.
“I know what you’re thinking, Robert. But when I think of...”
“I understand, old boy.” Fraser accepted a glass of whisky with a splash of water and no ice from a white-jacketed waiter. It was Glenlivet but Fraser bridled when anyone used the term “Scotch” instead of just “whisky.” Whisky distilled in the highlands of Scotland was the only true whisky, and to describe it as “Scotch” was to confer an unwarranted recognition on the lesser liquors.
The four security officers were standing off by themselves at the edge of the lighted area. Still unsettled by his encounter with Erin, Skye went over to shake hands with Foxcroft. The detectives from Scotland Yard didn’t mingle with the guests on the island, but Alan Foxcroft was a competent horseman and he was the one who accompanied the Princess when she went riding with Skye. In that way the two men had come to know and like each other. Once Skye had caught the inspector gazing at the Princess with a quizzical expression, as if pondering the workings of an inscrutable fate that had led to his playing nursemaid to this spoiled and willful creature. But Foxcroft’s normal demeanour was one of cool professionalism. He introduced his fellow officers; Skye recognized one of them, whose name was Goodwin, as having been there in the past, but the other two were new. After exchanging a few cordial words with the inspector, Skye rejoined the party, now in full swing.
Down on the beach someone pointed out to the dark sea. The lights of three small boats were drawing steadily closer. Skye smiled in anticipation. The purring sound of throttled-back outboard motors drifted in with the onshore breeze, then a steel band burst into a highly stylized version of a Chopin polonaise, the music rolling in from the sea and crashing against the shore in a solid wall of sound. The steel band from neighbouring Union Island was making its entrance in its usual inimitable style. Next to the call of the whistling frog, the lively music of a steel band spelled Caribbean for Skye. At home in Bridgeport, Connecticut, he had every steel band CD the record store could locate, and on raw winter nights he and Jocelyn used to light a fire and play them one after another, letting their imaginations drift languorously down to their favourite islands. Joining the crowd streaming onto the beach, Skye could almost feel Jocelyn walking beside him, lips parted in excitement as the spine-tingling music grew louder and louder, until it seemed to fill the sky. But no one stood beside him as the members of the band, still playing their drums, leapt nimbly out of the pirogues.
The barbecue was buffet style, with the guests helping themselves and then sitting down at long trestle tables. There was no seating arrangement, but Detective Goodwin had come over to inform Skye that Princess Helen would like him to sit at her table. Erin must have received a similar command for she brought her plate over to the same table. Princess Helen, who was not above using her position for her own mischievous entertainment, had seated Erin next to her at the head of the table, directly across from Skye. Erin glanced at Skye as he sat