Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

Hannah couldn’t tell which. Then she replayed her own words in her mind, hearing them as he must have. She would have laughed if she had the energy. But she didn’t. Archer was going to get the truth from her, without any frills or civilized flourishes. She simply didn’t have the strength to be polite, much less coy.
    “What did Coco think when she saw the oyster shell in Len’s chest?” Archer asked.
    “She flinched. Then she laughed.”
    “Nerves?” He knew that violent death affected people in many ways. Hysterical laughter was one of them. Throwing up your toenails was another.
    “I don’t know,” Hannah said. “She kept on saying, ‘Perfect. So fucking perfect. Done off by the shell he worships.’ ”
    “Done off?”
    “French is Coco’s native language. She still has trouble with English, especially when she’s upset. She meant done in. Killed.”
    “Killed or murdered? There’s a difference.”
    “The police say Len was killed.”
    “But you don’t.”
    “No, I don’t.” She tensed, waiting for him to ask why. He didn’t, which surprised her into relaxing just a bit.
    “How long had Len been dead when you found him?” Archer asked, keeping his opinion on murder to himself. He would have to examine Len’s body before he decided whether Hannah was smart or paranoid.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Who does?”
    “You could try the Territorial Police in Broome, but it’s a waste of time. They’re understaffed, overworked, and had their own cyclone problems to deal with.”
    “Where is Len’s body?”
    Hannah drew a shaky breath. “In Broome. The cremation is set for tomorrow. Early.”
    Archer glanced at his watch. He would have to move quickly if he wanted to see Len. “Do you miss him?”
    He shouldn’t have asked. He had no right to the answer. But it was too late to call back the words.
    Abruptly Hannah laughed, then pressed her hands over her mouth to push the laughter back down. It was impossible. The thought of missing what Len had become was so horrifyingly absurd it was hysterical.
    Archer watched Hannah struggle with her composure, watched her lose, and felt a chill in his gut as her laughter rose and rose, only to crash into sudden silence. Len, what did you do to your innocent, missionary-raised wife?
    But that was the one question Archer wouldn’t ask Hannah. He had no right to the answer. He was part of whatever had happened to her.
    “I mourn the man I thought I married,” she managed finally, breath breaking. “I mourn the man who could laugh. But that man died seven years ago. I’m through mourning him. The man who took his place, I can’t mourn. He taught me too well.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Len came to hate me as much as he loved pearls, and he loved pearls more than my parents loved God. Len taught me not to love him, not to like him, not to care about him at all.” She looked up at Archer with eyes that were as bleak as his own. “If that shocks you, I’m sorry.”
    “It doesn’t. I knew Len better than you did.” Archer wanted to ask why Hannah had stayed with Len, but he had no right to that answer, either. It had nothing to do with Len’s death. And that was the only reason Archer was here: his half brother’s death.
    If he told himself that often enough, maybe the message would sink through his skull all the way to his crotch.
    “Why do you think someone killed Len?” Archer asked.
    “Pearls,” she said simply.
    “Greed?”
    “Greed. Money. Power.” Hannah closed her eyes. “Maybe he was killed because someone could, so someone did.”
    “Who do you think killed him?”
    Hannah went still. It was a question she had asked herself over and over again. She had no answer but the one she gave Archer. “I’m only sure of two things. I didn’t kill him. You didn’t kill him. After that, there’s a whole bloody world of people who hated Len.”
    “What makes you think I didn’t kill him?”
    “You had no reason.”
    Archer looked at her short, sun-streaked hair, spiked by careless combing and shining like a dream. Her lashes were long, thick, the color of bittersweet chocolate, and her eyes were an indescribable color from the dark end of the rainbow. Her lips were too pale, too tight, yet nothing could hide the promise of sensuality in their full curves. As for the rest . . . she was long, slender but for her breasts, even more elegant than his memories.
    If he had known how it was going to turn out, he would have