Safe Harbor

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  You don't want to go there, pal.

  He forced himself back to the crisis at hand.

  "First things first," he told the two. "I presume that you're on friendly terms with the dock help. Let's see if we can get them to talk. After that, we'll go to the police."

  "Yes, absolutely," said Charlotte. "I'm ready."

  Holly wanted to spare her mother that ordeal. She argued that Charlotte should stay home; that the police would be just as likely to give information to the daughter as they would to the wife—maybe more so, given the circumstances; and that whatever Holly didn't think to ask, Sam most certainly would.

  For whatever reason, her vote of confidence in Sam touched him. What an amazingly trusting young woman she was. How amazingly vulnerable.

  It was Charlotte who had the last word. "If your father is a suspect, then the police will want to question me eventually. I'd just as soon get it over with."

  So off they went, this time, in Charlotte's Volvo with Sam in the back. They could easily have walked down to the dock, just as they could walk to the police station. He had to wonder if Charlotte had a dread of being under public scrutiny. Would her neighbors be watching from behind their lined drapes and black shutters? Probably.

  Humiliation: it was one tough emotion to slog through. He'd had to do it himself after Eden skipped town and the police came a-calling.

  It may have been the instinct to hide that made Charlotte stay behind the wheel when they reached the marina; or it may have been the simple fact that there was no place convenient to park.

  Whatever the cause, Holly ended up being the one who approached the dock master. Muttering something to Sam about him being the mean one, just their luck, she abandoned their agreed-upon plan to sweeten him up and tried crashing the gate instead.

  "No dice, Miss Anderson," said the dock official, stopping them when Holly tried to breeze through the gate. "You can't go aboard the Vixen until the crime scene guys are done with it. They're off gettin' lunch, but they'll be back."

  "Is my father still on the boat?" she wanted to know.

  "Nope. He wasn't on it when it got towed in. Don't know where he is."

  "All right. We won't go aboard," she promised, but she began heading down the dock anyway.

  "Whoa whoa whoa. Where you goin'?"

  "To see ... someone else. To see if Dr. Pell is aboard Sweet Tooth."

  "He's not."

  "May I check?"

  "I'll be watching."

  "Go ahead," she said, and she took Sam's hand as if they were lovers out on a leisurely stroll.

  Bemused, Sam waited until they were out of earshot and then murmured, "And what exactly is it that you hope to accomplish?"

  "Number one, to irritate him," muttered Holly. "And number two—I don't know. To irritate him."

  She stopped and Sam stopped and both of them seemed to realize at the same time that they were holding one another's hands.

  "Well," said Sam with a somewhat perplexed smile. "Here we are."

  "Where, Sam?" she said, gazing at him with a sudden shift into gravity. "Where exactly are we?"

  "The Vixen?" he said, inclining his head toward the boat.

  "The—yes, right!"

  A deep, wonderful blush spread across her cheeks. She turned away and made a production of looking the yacht over. "I wonder if they left someone aboard," she said, putting one foot on the transom and leaning on the stern rail as she tried to get a look below.

  "Hey, hey, get off there!" came the inevitable shout from the end of the pier. "What'd I tell you?"

  Holly dropped back down to the dock. "I wasn't going to go aboard!" she yelled back.

  And if anyone believed that, Sam had a couple of tickets for a luxury cruise on the Bounty that he'd like to sell.

  "You know, you can't go tramping all over a crime scene," he said in an undertone. "People get arrested for that."

  He wondered whether Holly might be deliberately trying to contaminate the scene, presumably to insure her father's freedom. But after she rolled her eyes at him like a sulking teenager, Sam decided that such nefarious thoughts had never crossed her mind. If anyone was having nefarious thoughts, in fact, it was Sam: he was judging Holly through his experience of Eden.

  And meanwhile, the evil dock master, flanked by two grim-faced men, was bearing down on them fast. Sam had an abhorrence of being grabbed by the collar and tossed off the premises (it had happened to him once too often in the bars of New Bedford) so he said, "Quick! Pretend we're in love!"

  He grabbed Holly, swung her around, and kissed her hard on the mouth, catching her so much by surprise that she went limp and he ended up bending her in a backward dip, like the sailor on the famous cover of Life magazine.

  Holly might have gone limp, but she hadn't gone dead. Sam heard a soft moan from deep in her throat, and suddenly, amazingly, she was returning his kiss. Her tongue met his and his mouth came down harder and he couldn't get enough of her.

  Nor would he. Among other considerations, he and Holly were standing on a public dock in the path of approaching police.

  "Hey, you two. Get a room!"

  Sam broke off the kiss to see the younger of the investigators grinning broadly as he climbed nimbly aboard the Vixen. Sam grinned back in a suitably leering way.

  The other cop wasn't as good-humored about the show. "Take it somewhere else," he said. "Move away from the boat."

  Or I'll shoot seemed to be his unspoken promise. Grateful that the distraction had been a success, Sam began hauling the little vixen away from the big Vixen.

  "Didn't I tell you? Didn't I?" he said through gritted teeth. "For crissake, you'll get us both thrown in jail." ,

  She had to skip to keep up. "What's the big deal? You told me yourself that you've been there."

  "To scare you. To put the fear of God in you. To—"

  "Impress me, maybe? And what about that kiss?" she said, tacking off in another direction. "Another attempt to impress?"

  "Hey, that was your idea."

  "Holding hands was my idea!"

  "And that's what we're doing."

  "Is that why my fingers are turning blue?"

  Sam held up the hand he was gripping so securely. She was right: he was holding her just a tad too tightly.

  "Sorry," he muttered. He let her go. Damn. What a ridiculous distraction she was from the business at hand. She had his emotions bouncing around like a trick rubber ball; he couldn't seem to get himself under control.

  Charlotte zipped down the window at their approach. "What was that all about?" she asked, but whether she was referring to their inspired performance or their encounter with the investigators, Sam couldn't say.

  "It was all Sam's fault," said Holly, distancing herself from him.

  "Did you find out anything?"

  "Just that Dad wasn't on the boat; it got towed in. They must be dusting it for prints and taking samples of bl—well, whatever it is they do when they investigate."

  Charlotte said wearily, "I suppose the police station's next, then."

  Wondering now about the wisdom of accompanying them, Sam reclaimed his seat in the back of the car. It gave him a chance to study this mother-and-daughter pair, these key players in the drama that had begun in a New Bedford bungalow over a piece of lemon meringue pie.

  The women's conversation ricocheted all over the place, from the mundane to the profound. Sam sat bemused and took it all in; he'd never been privy to women-talk before.

  "Oh, look—the Websters have taken out their whole row of forsythia," Charlotte remarked. "What do you suppose they'll plant there instead?"

  "Bayberry, hedge roses; anything with thorns. You know how they hate it when the dogs from next door wander through."

  ''They're such old farts."

  "So uptight. It's hard to believe you're the same age."

  "I know," said Charlotte dryly. "I feel so much older."

  "Very funny. How's your head?"

  "Will you stop g
oing on and on about my head? My head is fine."

  "You know it isn't."

  "Well, it won't be, if you keep it up."

  "When are you going to see a doctor about them? They're always making new breakthroughs."

  "Quiet and dark, that's all I need."

  "Well, here we are on a crowded, sunny afternoon, headed for the police station. That should do the trick."

  "Did you lock your back door when you left? I don't want that thug lying in wait for you."

  "Sam will take care of him."

  "Who? Oh." She cast a brief glance over her shoulder at Sam and then said to her daughter, "You know, it's not that much of an effort to turn a lock."

  "It doesn't work right."

  "You just won't make the effort. I don't know why you're not more determined about things. Have you done anything at all on that home-fumishings proposal?"

  "When? In my spare time?"

  "You need to shut this out, that's all. Shut this out and get to work."

  "Mother. This isn't like having a bad hair day. We don't have a clue what Dad's done with Eden or what the police have done with Dad."

  "Do what I do. Don't think about it."

  "Of course you think about it! That's why you get the damn migraines!"

  "Here we are."

  "Let me do the talking."

  "Absolutely. I wouldn't know what to say. Mr. Steadman?" Charlotte gave him her wonderfully bright smile. "Will you be joining us?"

  Chapter 15

  Inside the recently built station, the three were quickly ushered into the office of Tisbury Police Chief Matthew Cottier, a barrel-chested, middle-aged guy who in another age might have shipped out to sea with Herman Melville under Captain Pease. But the captain was long gone, and so was the one who'd written so eloquently about men, their ships, and the ocean. In their place was someone who pumped iron instead of hauled on halyards and who wouldn't know a gudgeon from a pintle, sitting in an air-conditioned jailhouse quaintly shingled to satisfy a variety of historically minded commissions.

  It wasn't the same.

  Still, for all his well-educated manner, the chief had enough of a rough edge about him that Sam sat up and took note. Sam knew a townie when he saw one: Matthew Cottier was not the kind of man who would roll over and play dead just because some rich man offered him a biscuit.

  "I was about to call you, Mrs. Anderson, to see when it would be convenient to ask you a few questions." The chief glanced at the others, then suggested politely, "Perhaps this would be a good time. I wonder if I could talk to you you alone for a few minutes."

  Up in arms went Holly. "I have every right to be in on this, sir. Eric Anderson is my father, after all."

  Cottier conceded the point with a nod, then turned to Sam. "And your connection is—?"

  "With Eden Walker," said Sam, choosing his preposition carefully. The last thing he wanted was for Holly to discover then and there the true nature of his relationship to Eden. He'd been trying to tell her about it since the day he nearly knocked her down in front of the gallery, of course, but the timing so far had never been right. Then and there seemed spectacularly not right.

  He confined himself to stating simply that Eden had had in her possession a valuable piece of art that belonged to his parents, and that his parents had called him to find out when Eden would be returning it, because they were becoming somewhat concerned.

  Holly immediately jumped in with the candid version. "Somewhat concerned? Somewhat? You told me they were devastated!"

  "I don't remember the exact word I used," he said, keeping it carefully nonchalant. It was better to state the facts without the drama and then see where the questioning went; didn't she realize that?

  Apparently not.

  "Sam! For crying out loud, tell him what you told me! That Eden was up to her old tricks; that she wasn't dead, that she couldn't be dead!"

  Shit.

  The chief turned to him with interest. "Maybe the best thing would be for you and me to—"

  "Just a minute, please," Charlotte interrupted. "I came here to find out about my husband. I think I'm entitled to that information before you go off on a tangent."

  Surprisingly, the chief didn't take offense at her imperious tone. He rubbed the back of his ear while he considered her demand. He sighed. He picked up a pencil and tapped its eraser on the sheaf of papers stacked in front of him. He sighed again. He acted in every way like a car dealer who's about to give his last, best offer.

  "Mr. Anderson is not under arrest," he said at length. "The investigation is in its preliminary stages and so far we have no direct evidence that a death has occurred."

  No body, thought Sam. Naturally. Because Eden wasn't dead. She couldn't be dead. He refused, still, to believe she was dead.

  "We've interviewed Mr. Anderson," continued Chief Cottier, "just as we're interviewing anyone who may have information leading to the whereabouts of Eden Walker. That includes the present company."

  "Where is my father, if he's not under arrest? He's not on his boat."

  "That's correct. The yacht has been impounded until the State Police have completed their investigation. Any evidence they collect will be sent to the crime lab for analysis, and sometime after that, depending, the boat will be released."

  He hesitated, then added, "As for Mr. Anderson, I believe he's staying with a friend on the island for now."

  "Which friend?" Holly wanted to know.

  "Ah, sorry. You'll have to ask him."

  "How can I ask him if I don't know which friend?" she said in rising frustration.

  "The Bouchards have probably taken him in," her mother said.

  But Holly, bless her loyal soul, wasn't done defending her father. She glowered at the impassive officer and said, "You're treating him like a criminal!"

  "We're treating him like a person of interest . There's a difference."

  "None that I can see," she countered. "You may as well suspect—him," she said, jumping up from her chair and swinging her arm to point at Sam. "He has an excellent motive: he wants his stolen engraving back. It's worth a fortune. Who says he wouldn't kill for it? Why not interrogate him!"

  Sam smiled wryly and said, "That's exactly what Chief Cottier would like to do, if only you'd give him the chance."

  "Holly, you are out of control. Will you please sit back down?" her mother said. She turned to the chief and said, "I'm sorry; this miserable affair has us all on edge."

  "Don't apologize, Mother. We're not the ones conducting the witch hunt."

  Cottier declined to rise to the bait, which made him a hell of a better man than Sam.

  "Be that as it may," he said calmly, "I really would like to have a few words with Mr. Steadman. I'll tell you what. Suppose I interview him now, and I'll come by your house later this afternoon. How would that be?" he asked, smiling.

  He said it as if he were hoping that Holly would find time for a nap before then.

  His condescension sent Holly's outrage up another notch. "What do you think I'm going to do? Feed you facts that you can turn around and use against my father? How stupid do you think I am?"

  Pretty stupid, thought Sam. The way she was going on, even he was beginning to believe that her father was guilty. With someone like Holly rallying to his defense, Eric Anderson was going to end up in a cell on death row in no time flat.

  "Okay, young lady," Sam said, getting up from his chair to show her the door. "No more Lucky Charms for you. Sugar-free breakfasts from now on in." Turning his back to the chief, he twisted his features into a warning scowl fierce enough to stop a charging rhino in its tracks.

  A rhino, maybe; not Holly. "I can't believe that you people don't have real crooks to catch," she said, turning back to the beleaguered police chief. "A stranger came to my door this morning and all but threatened to kill me. Look at my foot; it's black and blue! Put him in your pretty new jail. Leave my father alone. Sam, tell him that Eden is just scamming everyone! Tell him!"

 
"I never said that," Sam said quickly.

  "You implied it!" She threw up her hands. "Oh, what's the use? All you care about is your godforsaken engraving!"

  "Not true," Sam said in a low growl. It had never been true. Now it was not true for a whole new set of reasons.

  Something in the way he said it seemed to calm her down. She faltered in her tirade, then abandoned it altogether. Bringing her chin up, she said regally, "If you want me, Chief Cottier, I shall be in my barn."

  "In your—?"

  "Holly, I want to get this over with," said Charlotte, annoyed. "I'm not taking you home now."

  "I'll walk."

  "And what about him?"

  Him, of course, being Sam. "No problem," he said immediately. "I'll just—"

  "Where are you staying?" Charlotte interrupted.

  "Good question." He looked at Holly.

  "Oh, all right. I'll meet you back at my mother's house and bring you home."

  That got Charlotte's attention. "Home? Whose?"

  "He's staying in the apartment over the barn. We just decided."

  "Really." Charlotte turned her green gaze on Sam and looked him up, then down, in a whole new way. "I wasn't aware of that."

  "We just decided, Mom, I told you."

  "So you're staying on the island a while?" she asked Sam with leery interest. "May I ask why?"

  Damned if Sam could even remember at that point. "I thought I'd stick around to see if I could learn anything about ... about the engraving," he said. He sure wasn't going to say, "about Eden."

  "See?" Holly said glumly. "He's obsessed with that thing."

  "Well, can you blame him? If it's valuable and his parents are worried ... I think it's commendable that he's concerned about his parents' welfare."

  "Are you saying that I'm not the type to be concerned?" asked her daughter, bristling.

  "I said nothing of the sort! Holly, what has got into you?"

  Chief Cottier had lost patience with the lot of them. "Mrs. Anderson, I'll try to be brief, but I really would like to move this along."

  "Of course," said Charlotte. She turned to Sam with an apologetic smile that he found oddly touching and said, "I won't be long, Mr. Steadman, I promise; I don't have much to say. And then Chief Cottier can have you all to himself."