Father Fever

He tore himself away from the window and headed for the shower, telling himself that Dancer’s Beach was his opportunity to change all that. And he had friends to help him—friends who had things they wanted to change, too.

And maybe he’d get lucky about the woman.

It could happen.

Chapter Two

“I want to go on record as saying this is insane,” Gusty said from the back seat of a little blue import Athena had rented when they’d first arrived in Portland. “And that I want to know the truth about these guys as much as you do, but I’m just not sure I can carry off the plan.”

Athena sighed into the rearview mirror, in no mood for Gusty’s naive sense of morality. Most people thought it came from dealing with young children, but Athena had known Gusty had this flawless moral compass since she’d been a child herself. Right now, though, she looked more like a conscience-stricken Scarlett O’Hara, sitting moodily in a corner of the back seat, the hoop skirt of her green dress poufed out around her. She fiddled with the ribbons of the green bonnet in her lap.

Her costume was part of the plan.

“Gus,” Athena made herself say patiently. “We have to go to this party, otherwise we’ll never know if Aunt Sadie’s death was truly an accident. If she gave the house willingly to this Hartford guy, or if she was coerced. You can do this.”

“It’s dishonest.”

“So are they.”

Athena had received a fax yesterday from Patrick Connelly, a detective who did work for her office and whom she’d asked to check out David Hartford. After waiting a week with her sisters in a downtown hotel, she’d found Patrick’s fax contained confusing and unsettling news.

David Hartford, thirty-four, graduate of exclusive Claremont School for Boys, of U.C.L.A. with B.A. in Sociology, Chicago Tribune columnist since 1991. Took up residence at Cliffside a week ago, according to public utilities services established in his name. Two friends or associates also in residence.

Trevyn McGinty, 32, B.A. in Journalism from Cornell. Camera bum until hired by Chicago Tribune in ’93.

John Bramston Bishop, 37, born in Boston, joined U.S. army at eighteen, served ten years until age twenty-eight. No information until current address.

Athena—strange gaps in more recent information on all three. Part of the reason this took so long. Curious, unexplained absences. For long periods, it’s almost as though they cease to exist. Best I could do on short notice.

One more interesting detail. Hartford is hosting the local historical society’s annual masked ball fund-raiser, usually held at Cliffside. According to an article in the paper eulogizing your aunt and “canonizing” Hartford, Mayor Beasley of Dancer’s Beach asked him to host the party since your aunt’s death left the event homeless. He generously agreed. He’s either a pillar-of-the-community type anxious to fit right in, or a supremely deft con artist.

Notify if you want me to pursue.

Pat.

“Oh-oh,” Lex had muttered as she read over Athena’s shoulder. “Now there are three of them at Cliffside?”

“What kind of absences, do you suppose?” Gusty asked over Athena’s other shoulder. “I wonder if they went to prison, or something.”

Athena shook her head. “That would be on record. It’s the criminals who don’t get caught who know how to cover their tracks. Damn it.” She’d hoped the information would be more definitive so she could contact the police and charge the new owner of Cliffside with something substantial.

Obviously, she was going to need more information before she could do that, and it was going to take a hands-on approach.

“We’re going to the costume party,” Athena had said authoritatively.

“Oh, no,” Augusta had groaned.

But Alexis was in agreement and, as had happened throughout their childhood, Augusta had been forced to go along or be left behind.

They’d reached the coast by noon the following day, and found a costume shop in Lincoln City not far from Dancer’s Beach. The chatty clerk told them the historical society party was responsible for the thin selection of costumes left. Then she added, without realizing how they valued the information, “The hosts will be dressed as the Three Musketeers.”

“We’re not going to get away with this,” Augusta complained anew. “Some of these people might remember us as children.”

“The masks will conceal our identities,” Athena argued confidently. “We came here a few times as adults, but usually on such quick visits, we never even got to town. If anyone saw us all together, or if we were dressed the same, they might recognize us, but we’ll be dressed differently and our eyes will be covered.”

Alexis frowned. “What difference does it make if we’re recognized or not?”

Athena glanced impatiently at her sister. “If we’re recognized, then Hartford and his friends will know who we are and whatever information they might have shared with us is down the tubes.”

Alexis made a face. “And you think if they don’t know who we are, they’ll eagerly tell us they’ve coerced an old woman into leaving Hartford her house?”

“No,” Athena replied with a huff, “but if they’re being hit on by women who flatter them and hang on their every word, they might loosen up and let information slip.”

Gusty groaned, “I hate this.”

“Got to give you credit,” Alexis said, patting Athena’s shoulder. “That’s a plot worthy of Mom’s manipulative schemes.”

Athena bristled but remained calm. She had a lot to do tonight, and she couldn’t do it with half her mind distracted by old sibling rivalries.

Then Alexis continued. “You remind me a little of her lately with that severe expression when you’re…”

That did it. Athena pulled over, the surprised driver behind her leaning on his horn as he swerved around her on the wet road.

Athena glowered at Alexis. “I bear no resemblance whatsoever to Mom,” she said loudly. “But if you think so, you can just get out of the car!”

Alexis blinked at the outburst. “Calm down. It was a harmless obser—”

“You’re never harmless!” Athena shouted. “You’re always likening me to Mom in subtle little ways and you know I hate it!”

Alexis’s mouth settled into a grim line. She unlocked her door. “Fine,” she said stiffly. “I’ll just…”

As she tried to open the door, Gusty reached over the seat and locked the door. “Come on, Athena,” she said quietly. “Lex didn’t mean it.” She gave their sister a scolding look. “You know how she is.”

“I don’t,” Alexis retorted. “How am I?”

“Determined to blame us,” Gusty said quietly, “because Mom wasn’t the mother you wanted her to be. You were always sure that if it had been just you alone, she’d have loved you. You think we crowded that out, but we didn’t. She just didn’t have love in her.”

Alexis folded her arms and stared out the windshield. “That’s a little oversimplified.”

Augusta shrugged. “Most things that are big on the outside come down to one very simple thing on the inside.”

Athena, a little startled by that profound observation, leaned back with a sigh as traffic sped past.

“You pick on Athena most,” Augusta went on, “because Mom loved her most—or, at least as much as she was able to love anyone. She thought you were a dreamer and I was a coward. She had no use for us.”

Athena closed her eyes, trying to blot out the memory of that beautiful woman who’d failed them at every turn.

“What does it say about us,” she asked no one in particular, “that she still dictates our behavior toward one another after all these years?”