The View from Alameda Island - Robyn Carr Page 0,122

of the astrological sign. She was neither arrogant, nor selfish, nor controlling. She possessed a raw courage, and she had a rare zest for life. Gabby turned fifty today—a beautiful, vibrant, exciting fifty. Fifty on the brink of still greater things, not on the declining side of life. Elly, fifty-eight, had not had such youth or vibrancy at twenty.

Something was wrong.

Elly heard the ticktocking of Sable’s heels on the flagstone walk. She, too, carried a grocery bag. There were two more bags in the trunk, all filled with the makings of a lavish champagne brunch. The idea was to arrive just prior to Gabby’s waking hour—somewhere around 11:00 a.m. It was ten-thirty. They hadn’t even considered coming earlier. Gabby, for all her joy of life, was as mean as a junkyard dog in the early morning.

“Don’t get Daisy barking,” Sable commanded in a whisper, though they stood several feet from the front door. “We don’t want Gabby to know what’s up until the others arrive.” The others were Barbara Ann Vaughan and Beth Mahoney. The five of them formed an intimate little writers’ group who relied on each other for support, critique, industry news, celebration and whatever the publishing industry threw at them. Their works were diverse, ranging from mystery to romance to academic. Gabby’s house was where they always met.

Daisy. That was the trouble, Elly realized. Gabby’s nine-year-old golden retriever was whining at the door. Not much more than a miserable squeak. Added was the occasional scrape of her heavy paw; she wanted out. This was not typical. If Daisy heard people outside the door, she usually got all excited. She’d woof politely, but loudly.

“Listen,” Elly ordered. “That’s Daisy. She’s not barking.”

“She probably knows it’s us,” Sable suggested.

Elly put her bag down on the walk and crept nearer the door. Daisy had known them all since puppyhood and it had never stopped her from barking before. She was crying!

“Eleanor!” Sable whispered furiously. She rushed up behind Elly, snatching at her sleeve. “Come away from that door! You’re going to spoil it!”

“Something’s wrong,” Elly said loudly, punching the doorbell.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The dog still had not started barking. “Listen,” Elly said. “Hear anything?”

“Not yet, but any second we’re going to hear Gabby cursing on her way to the—”

“Daisy still isn’t barking. Listen to her fuss. Something’s wrong.” Eleanor began digging through her enormous shoulder bag for her keys. She was the only one among the women who had a key to Gabby’s house, given to her years ago so she could check on things while Gabby was out of town. She’d had it ever since, but never had an occasion like this in which to use it.

“Eleanor,” Sable groaned. “Shit. You’re going to ruin everything. What do you think you’re doing?”

Elly rang the bell a couple more times, but didn’t wait for a response. She slid the appropriate key into the lock. Daisy came bounding through the door, rushing past the two of them, not looking back. Out into the freedom. Out onto the grass. She looked back over her shoulder guiltily as she squatted to pee not three feet from the front walk. She’d been ready to explode, obviously.

“Jesus,” Sable muttered.

“Gabby?” Eleanor called into the house. “Gabrielle? Gabby?”

“She’s probably still asleep,” Sable said, but she said so hopefully. “Slept through the doorbell and the yelling. Just like her. She sleeps like the—” Sable stopped herself.

Elly frowned over her shoulder briefly, then walked into the house ahead of Sable. Daisy bounded past them again, in the other direction, into the house. The sound of talking could be heard inside—television talking. Elly called out a couple more times, but softly, suspiciously.

They found her in the family room. She was lying on the couch, eyes closed. One foot was on the floor and she had a sheaf of papers on her lap. Probably manuscript pages. From a distance of three feet she could be mistaken for a sleeping girl; she was slight of build, fair complected and had hardly any gray streaking her curly, honey-blond hair. On the sofa table beside her was a can of diet soda, a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. By the time they got there Daisy had taken her place again beside the couch, guarding. She looked up at them mournfully, as though she knew.

Eleanor gasped and rushed to Gabby’s side, her large purse slipping off her shoulder and crashing to the floor as she knelt. She frantically touched Gabby’s brow. Sable’s