Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series)

by M. Kate Quinn

  She hung up the phone and faced Benny. Now what? Can this be good news or bad? Or will it turn out to be a big fat nothing? “I guess you heard. The police want me to bring the notes down.”

  She looked down at her robe. “I need to get dressed.” She walked Benny toward the front door.

  “Sarah, I’m thinking of going down to town hall with you.”

  “What? Why?”

  He shrugged as if it was news to him, too. “I might be able to help.”

  “If you want to help me at town hall, Benny, withdraw your complaint.”

  ****

  Something was up. Sarah was more and more convinced of this as the seconds ticked by in the police station’s small interior office. She sat in a worn vinyl chair facing a small laminate desk. A jumble of paper snips and little notes taped onto the sides of the computer screen fanned like fringe.

  Finally, Officer Carr entered the room, quickly positioning himself behind the desk. “Thank you for coming.”

  Sarah’s clasped hands on her lap squeezed tightly. The idea of Benny joining her shot into her head. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she suddenly wishing he was there?

  She liked it better when the whole world had been telling her to ignore the notes because they were just a prank.

  Although there was no smile in his eyes, Officer Carr’s mouth flashed an elastic grin.

  “May I see the notes again, Mrs. Grayson?”

  Sarah handed him the two envelopes. He flipped open a file folder on the desk and compared the originals to the copies he’d made. Silence hung in the air like fog. Sarah found it tough to breathe.

  He lifted his gaze to meet her eyes. “The mugging victim’s wallet, as well as his jacket, was recovered in a beach trash receptacle less than a half hour down the main drag, near Normandy.”

  “Well, that’s good, at least—that they found his belongings so quickly,” Sarah offered.

  “Minus the money, of course, but his credentials were all in place. The reason I wanted to speak with you”—Carr paused, making Sarah’s heart stall—”is we located a hand-written list of local realty lots in his jacket pocket. The list is titled “Prospective Properties.” The Cornelia Inn is on that list.

  “What?”

  “What piqued our interest, however, was the paper this list is written on. It’s the same shell-patterned stationary as those notes you received.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She startled herself with her sharp tone. “The Cornelia’s not for sale.”

  The officer gave his shoulders a nonchalant lift. “People prospect all the time. No crime in that. But the same stationary? In all probability it’s a coincidence. But, we’re going to be thorough and send it out for analysis. It doesn’t appear to be the same handwriting, but we’d like to have somebody knowledgeable tell us that for sure.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll send the notes up to Bricktown. They have a guy there that can give us an analysis. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”

  Officer Carr stood and reached across the desk, offering his hand. “We’ll contact you as soon as we get the report. Trust me; I’m sure this is just a formality. Really.”

  “But it was the same stationary,” Sarah added.

  “That particular brand of stationary is probably available everywhere from Sandy Hook right on down the shore. It’s probably in national distribution as well. He could have picked it up anywhere.”

  “It does seem a close coincidence to me.”

  He smiled. “Let’s wait for the expert’s opinion.”

  Outside, Sarah blinked at the sunshine in her eyes. Her mind couldn’t process what was going on. Was this just a formality? Should she be concerned that this guy was in some way dangerous?

  “Hi.”

  She came to attention. Benny leaned, arms folded, against a black Jeep. Suddenly the fear brewing in her system changed to frustration. She stormed toward him.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  He straightened his stance. “How’d it go?”

  “It’s not your concern.”

  “Are they at least looking into the guy?”

  She blew out a long breath. Her mind was scrambled. Had the officer said anything specific about the man other than the fact that he’d put her inn on some list? Should she have brought someone along to ask the right questions? She eyed Benny.

  “The guy had a list in his wallet with my inn on it. The list was written on the same stationary as the notes.”

  “Same handwriting?”

  “They don’t think so.”

  He swore under his breath and raked his hair. “Have they done an analysis?”

  “They’re sending out for that. They should get the results in a couple of days, and they’ll call me then.”

  “Okay, that’s good. So, what about the guy? What’d they tell you about him?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. Only that he’s not a criminal for compiling a list of prospective shore properties.”

  “But who is he?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Sarah, you should know who this is in case he’s the guy leaving notes at your door.”

  She took a deep breath. No matter what he’d done to screw up her life, Benny Benedetto was right about this. “I’m going back in there,” she said.

  “Let me come with you.”

  “No-o,” she said, groan-like. “I don’t need your input.”

  “I won’t talk, okay? I promise. I’ll just come along.”

  She turned on her heel and walked back across the parking lot with Benny, silent as promised, at her side.

  She asked the woman at the desk for Officer Carr. He appeared quickly through the door to the front hallway approaching where she and a quiet Benny stood. Thank goodness—another moment in the heaviness of their silent companionship and she’d have screamed.

  “Thank you for meeting with me again, Officer Carr,” she said with deliberate confidence. “I have a question. This man whose handwriting you’re sending to get analyzed—can you give me some information on him?”

  Officer Carr flashed a look at Benny. Sarah knew he was thinking Benny had put her up to the inquiry. She straightened her stance, trying to appear taller. “I’d feel better knowing his name, in case he tries to contact me or something.”

  “His name is Clyde Stone. He’s from Verona, up in Essex County. He’s staying down at the Pelican Motel in Ortley. He’s been scouting for a place to buy along the Barnegat Peninsula.”

  He glanced between Benny and Sarah. “As I said, Mrs. Grayson, so far he’s not suspected of anything. Our sending your notes out for analysis is simply part of being thorough.”

  “Anything on him?” Benny asked.

  Sarah shot him a warning look, doing her best to communicate, You said you wouldn’t talk.

  He gave her an annoying yet apologetic smile—just endearing enough that she bit her lip not to react.

  Officer Carr shook his head. “Clean.” He took a breath as he stretched his mouth over his teeth. “There’s nothing on him.”

  “Have you questioned him?” Benny asked.

  Sarah felt her teeth clamp down even harder on her lower lip and she hoped she wouldn’t draw blood. She’d tell Benny to shut up if he weren’t actually asking good questions.

  “Yes.” The officer’s voice sounded clipped now, laced with indignation. “Of course.”

  “What did you find out about the punks from the beach?” Benny asked.

  “The injured perpetrator’s been released from the hospital. He and his accomplice live down in Atlantic County. They were up here visiting the one’s girlfriend when they decided to go find some trouble.”

  The officer looked at his watch, blowing out a breath. He directed his attention to Sarah. “Most likely there’s no correlation between Mr. Stone’s and your notes. We’re just covering all our bases.” Another stretchy lip-pull came and went on his face. “We’ll contact you soon.”
/>   “That’s it for now?” Sarah asked.

  Benny cleared his throat. “Officer, let me ask you one more question. What’s your take on the fact that this guy was walking alone on a beach at night, wearing a suit and dress shoes? It’s not likely he was looking for prospective properties, dressed like a banker, in the dark.”

  “He’d been in Ronan’s Harbor for dinner. He claims he wanted to walk off a large prime rib dinner. We verified he ate at The Lamplight.” He looked at Sarah again. “We’ll contact you if there’re any changes.”

  She and Benny left the building with resumed silence between them. With the way her head was swimming she couldn’t even muster annoyance at him. Could this Clyde Stone guy be the one who’d written the notes? He was staying in a nearby town. Should she worry?

  When they came to Benny’s vehicle in the parking lot, Benny stopped and turned to face her.

  “Now, just keep your eyes open. If you get any more notes make sure you tell me…I mean, them.”

  She groaned. “You know something, I don’t know what’s worse, these notes or your sorry-assed formal complaint against me. Why am I even talking to you? You’re the enemy.”

  The pinch in his forehead gave his countenance a genuine look. It didn’t matter.

  Sarah’s mind zoomed. There was no need to continue a conversation, or even any contact, with Benny. All he was, really, was a roadblock—a big kink in her plans.

  The notes she’d received were not his problem, and yet it seemed that he wanted to make them his concern. His hanging around was just more trouble she didn’t need.

  “So long, Benny,” she said. She heard the ring of disappointment in her own voice and for the life of her she didn’t know why.

  “I’m not the enemy, Sarah.” Benny’s voice was subdued. “The complaint was simply a way to protect my family’s investment.”

  A directive to turn away and head home roared in her head. Instead, she stared at him.

  “Sarah, my brother and I were concerned about the effect of over-congestion…”

  “I know, the effect on your investment.” Now she felt a renewed blast of energy. “This town is not an investment to me, Benny. It’s not just some pit stop on a map. Ronan’s Harbor and The Cornelia Inn have been my home for a long time.”

  Conviction coursed through her veins. “I’m proud to be a part of Ronan’s Harbor’s history. I’m sure you don’t know that Ronan is Dutch for ‘little seal.’ Back in the seventeen hundreds when settlers landed here they were awed by the frequent appearance of seals basking on a sedge out off the coast. That muddy slip of land, that time’s since washed away, reminded them of home, a little Dutch island called Rona. And this became their new home.”

  “Sarah…”

  “And, my inn…” She paused to take a breath. She was on a roll, her adrenaline a runaway train on a distinct track. “The history of The Cornelia Inn goes back to those early days. It was owned by the DeGraff’s. Cornelia DeGraff was a matriarch in this town. It’s an honor to carry on the legacy of her homestead.”

  She bit back the urge to scream. “So you see, your concern for your stupid little flip property gets no sympathy from me. Your idiotic complaint has rocked my life and, more importantly, my daughter’s future. If my existence gets in the way of your profit margin, well that’s just tough shit.”

  She turned on a heel and left, her heart beating in her throat and her temples. It was more than anger drumming inside her. She couldn’t define it; but whatever it was, the feeling took her breath away. A sob threatened with a sharp ache in her throat.

  She heard quick footfalls approaching, felt a hand on her arm, the touch sending a zoom to her senses. She stopped short. Against all alarm buttons signaling her thoughts, she turned to face him.

  Benny’s eyes were searching, penetrating her gaze with urgency. He took a last step in her direction and her nerve endings poked, taut like protracted claws. Her whole body stiffened, bracing like a barricade.

  Now, of all times, the only thing she could think of was that dance and the kiss that followed. Her eyes found his lips and she remembered how they tasted, how they felt pressed to hers.

  She closed her eyes. Don’t, she commanded silently. But, behind her lids, her mind’s eye could see the image of their entwined closeness as they’d swayed to the music. She even heard the melody, the soft notes of the tune that had enveloped them and made them part of the song.

  “I had no idea…” His voice was pained.

  “Why did you ask me to dance?” It blurted from her lips too quickly to suppress.

  “What?”

  “That night at the Pier House. You led me on.” She felt her breath catch, her heart thunder. Her need for the answer swelled in her chest.

  “I didn’t know who you were then, Sarah. You have to know that.”

  “Maybe not at first you didn’t. Okay, maybe I’ll buy that. But, later when I told you…” She paused to quell the sudden emotion that rushed to her throat. It angered her that the memory conjured such feelings. Foolish tears stung her eyes.

  “I regret my actions.” His mouth formed a thin line on his face, concealing the fullness of his lips, hiding the crookedness of the one eyetooth. “I regret a lot of things.”

  If they were not here at this crazy juncture, if these were not their circumstances, Sarah felt somewhere inside that the situation would be different between them. Her body tingled with that instinct. But, this was here and now. The reality of that slapped her with an open hand.

  “I think you need to just leave me alone,” It was a ragged whisper, a plea. She allowed herself to look him in the eye, raised her chin as acceptance to her own challenge.

  He paused, breathed deeply, and let the air expel from his chest. And, then…that’s what he did. Benny walked away from her, toward his truck.

  Chapter Eleven

  Back at the house, Benny dialed his brother’s office line. Shirley, Sal’s secretary, greeted him warmly. She’d been with the precinct forever, having assisted the previous two captains before Salvatore. “Benny, how the heck are you?” she bellowed into the phone.

  “I’m good, Shirl. Sal around?”

  “You got lucky,” she said cheerfully. “He’s in the office today. Driving me nuts, if you want to know the truth.” She laughed into his ear.

  Sal was his usual official-sounding self and his words were clipped. “What’s up, Benny? This an update on the bed-and-breakfast?”

  “My first question is about a guy in your neck of the woods. The local police tell me there’s nothing on him, but just wondering if you’d ask around.”

  “With all my free time, you mean?” Sal snickered into the phone. “I’m not the retired one, little brother. What’s going on? Somebody causing you grief?”

  “The name’s Clyde Stone. Lives in Verona. He was involved in an altercation on the beach here in town and…”

  “Christ, Benny. Don’t tell me that shit,” Sal snarled. “That stuff is suicide for a vacation town. Word goes around that there’s crime brewing and nobody wants in.”

  After a long, silent pause, Sal continued in a calmer but authoritative voice. “We just need to hang on for a little while, till the market changes. Then we can kiss Ronan’s Harbor goodbye and laugh all the way to the bank.”

  The image of Sarah’s face popped into Benny’s head. The sad look in her eyes, the worry flecked in them. He closed his eyes, pinched his thumb and index finger in the space between his eyebrows and kneaded the tense muscle there. Yet, the image of Sarah’s face was still there in his mind.

  What kind of grownup woman still has freckles on her nose anyway? Makes her look like a kid, or something. Don’t they have some goo they use to cover them up?

  The way she had looked at him, and all that anger in her voice, normally would have just pissed him off. But, it hadn’t. He felt like shit now, thanks to her.

  This wasn’t like him, and all he had to blame it on at the moment were those damned f
reckles. And that’s what pissed him off.

  “Can you just see if anybody knows this guy?” Benny asked. “His permanent home is in the town next to yours. Shit, Sal, it’s no big deal. Ask one of your guys.”

  “What do you mean ‘permanent home’?”

  “He’s looking for property down here in Ronan’s Harbor.”

  “Christ.”

  “I’m almost hesitant to call him the victim after he kicked the crap out of one of the perps. The locals recovered his belongings and found a list. The Cornelia Inn’s on it. The cops aren’t particularly concerned though. They say people are always looking at beach property, for sale or not.”

  “So, who gives a crap? What’s it got to do with us? Forget about it, Benny.”

  “Sarah’s gotten a couple of anonymous notes telling her to stop her daughter’s wedding. She’s kind of spooked about it. Maybe this Stone guy’s the culprit.”

  “Okay, brother, first of all, you’re calling this chick by her first name now. Stay the frig away from her. Don’t go soft on me, Benny. And drop this crap about this what’s-his-name idiot that got robbed. You want to make some dough on this shack or not?”

  Benny blew out a whoosh of air.

  “Do I need to come down there, Benny? Christ, don’t be a pansy.” He started to laugh. If Benny didn’t know better he’d swear it was his old man on the other end of the line with the sardonic sounding chortle.

  A memory of his father crowded his brain and began to tumble free. He’d been just a kid, nine maybe, on that Easter Sunday.

  The whole family had been seated around the dining room table—Uncle Tony and his clan, Uncle Angelo there in his blue uniform, scheduled for duty that evening, and Benny’s grandfather, Dominick Senior. The men had gotten boisterous by the end of Maria’s elaborate meal. It happened all the time, a houseful of cops was just too much for everybody.

  Benny had delivered the dessert to the table. He’d helped his mother make her famous, flakey, triple-layered coconut cake—her masterpiece. Even at that tender age he’d felt a thrill in creating baked goods. He loved the smell that overtook the house, the delicious aromas that defined their home.