Safe Harbor

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "And if you're cleared but Eden is dead?" she said. "Will you still be in hell?"

  "More than ever."

  She sucked in her breath. That's it! I don't have to listen to this.

  She turned to leave, then spun back around for one last shot. "You understand, don't you, that she's trying to frame you for her death? That she's willing to have people think you're a homicidal maniac?"

  He heard the words; he didn't understand them.

  She waited for a light bulb, any wattage, to go on in the murky, besotted chambers of his brain. Nothing. He remained in the dark. Finally she threw up her hands and said, "Don't you get it? She's framing you! You didn't kill her, did you?"

  A spark at last: "Of course not!" he said angrily. "What do you take me for?"

  "Oh, Dad," she said wearily, "don't ask." She looked away.

  She heard his voice slip back into broken musing as he said, "I should've gone looking for her sooner when she didn't come back on the windsurfer ... but she was so competent ... an expert ... it's my fault ... I shouldn't have waited so long ... my fault ...."

  In the distance Holly saw the little girl with her bucket of shells fading from view.

  She turned back to her father with white-hot resentment.

  "Listen to me. Listen. I met someone who knows Eden; he came to the island looking for her. Eden is a thief and a con, Dad. She stole a valuable engraving from an elderly couple who were counting on the proceeds to get them through their old age. That's your Eden."

  Now she saw real anger.

  "That's outrageous! Eden would never do something like that!"

  He jumped up and Holly actually believed he might knock her down for the blasphemy, but he turned away from her instead. She saw him clutch his thinning hair with both hands, a shockingly melodramatic gesture for him. He muttered something under his breath, then planted his splayed hands on his hips and, bowing his head, stared at the gray-painted planks of the porch. Another pause, and then he looked sideways at Holly. She was the enemy now.

  "You met someone who's on a vendetta," he said flatly, "that's all. And you're angry enough to believe him."

  "Oh, I'm pissed enough, I agree, but—"

  "How do you know this man isn't making it all up? How do you know he's not out to punish Eden in some way?"

  It was an entirely new thought. "Because I trust him," Holly said at last. And she did.

  "Eden is—was—is—a stunningly desirable woman. Don't you think she's left a trail of broken hearts behind her?"

  Holly looked at her father and said evenly, "It keeps getting longer all the time."

  "Oh, fu—" He stopped himself mid-sneer and wheeled back around to the sea.

  There he stood, apparently calm—but she could see the infinitesimal pumping of his shoulders. Her father was in a state of rage, and the worst of it was, it was holy rage. He honestly thought that Eden was suffering from a bum rap.

  Infuriating, exasperating, self-deluded man! Where did you take people like him? To a detox clinic?

  "Why would she bother staying with me," he said through gritted teeth, "if she had stolen a prized engraving."

  Softly, so that she wouldn't alienate him from further dialogue, Holly said, "Your boat was a good place to hide, I imagine."

  He shook his head. "She could have walked off the Vixen anywhere along the coast; we sailed nearly to Nova Scotia. Why go to the trouble of sailing all the way back with me?"

  "I don't know," Holly had to confess. "I don't know why she wanted the police to think you killed her. She must have assumed that sooner or later, Sam would find out about the engraving and come running."

  "Sam is the guy you say is after her?"

  "Yes, but not because she broke his heart. The engraving belonged to his parents. They're not well-off; they have medical bills."

  Her father gave Sam the benefit of a grunt.

  "Dad—how did blood get all over the boat?" Holly asked bluntly.

  He looked both annoyed and embarrassed. "Simple. Eden ... she hurt herself cutting an orange for breakfast—you know how sharp I keep my knives—and she bled on the butcher block in the galley, and then on the teak sole in the head when we took off the paper towel and were bandaging her finger. It took a couple of tries."

  Holly was watching her father carefully. He was nervous, but surely that was a reflex. He'd already given the story to the police; if they treated him as if they thought he was lying, then naturally he was going to worry about how he sounded every time he told his story later. That's how innocent men flunked polygraphs.

  "It wasn't anything that needed stitches," he continued, still averting Holly's gaze, "but ... but it did bleed for a while. And the police, well, they found blood on the port deck, too," he admitted. He cleared his throat and added, "But the bandage probably started leaking again when Eden was rigging the sail on the windsurfer. It definitely must have done that."

  Holly listened to her father with growing dismay. He was lying through his teeth.

  "It sounds as if it was a bad cut," she said, trying to draw him out. "Why would Eden go windsurfing with an injury like that?"

  Her father shot her an angry look: clearly he did not expect skepticism from his own flesh and blood.

  "She's spunky," he said. "It's part of her appeal."

  There was a lull. Her father turned back to the sea.

  "I would have made good on the engraving," he said after a moment. "Even if she had stolen it. She would have had a reason."

  Besotted! "Did you give Eden any reason to believe that you would be capable of something like that? Dad—did you talk of marriage?"

  "That's none of your business," said her father without turning around.

  She wanted to shout, "Of course it's my business! Whatever affects Mom is my business!" But that was the surest, quickest way to get him to shut down altogether, so she bit back the retort and said instead, "If Eden's alive, then she must have said or done something susp—out of the ordinary during her time on the boat. Can you think of anything? Anything at all?"

  Her father had been leaning with both hands on the balustrade. Now he looked almost shyly over his shoulder at her and said, "So you do think she's alive?"

  Bitterly disappointed by his response, Holly merely repeated the question. "Can you think of anything out of the ordinary?"

  Squinting into the sun, he said, "Yes, actually, there was one odd incident. Eden got a call on her cell phone—it was right after we left Portsmouth, where we'd put in for an emergency repair. It was the first call she'd ever received, and I was surprised; she never gave out the number. Anyway, whoever it was made her extremely upset. So upset that after she hung up, she threw the phone in the water—like this," he said, simulating an underhand Frisbee toss. "She was furious for the rest of the day, when she wasn't acting ... I don't know ... frightened. She kept bouncing back and forth between the two moods."

  "She didn't say why she was so upset?"

  Holly's father shook his head. "Not a word. I'd just got my own new cell phone by then," he said, nodding over his shoulder to the one on the table next to his eyeglasses. "Eden could still make calls on mine, so that wasn't it. It's hard to say what had her so upset. She's had a painful life, you know. She's learned to keep her own counsel."

  Ha. The only counsel that Eden was keeping was Eric Anderson.

  "How long did you stay in Portsmouth?" Holly asked her father. She wondered whether it was long enough to fence an engraving.

  "Three days. I had to go back to the office anyway, so it worked out. I stayed at the house."

  "At the house? Did Eden go with you?" Good grief. This would kill her mother.

  Even her father seemed scandalized by the thought of Eden knocking around the family homestead on the toniest street in Providence. "She stayed behind on the boat. Apparently she never once stepped off it. The shipyard had to do some fiberglass repairs, and she told me later that she simply didn't trust the yardhands. As I said, she's had
a difficult life—not like the rest of us," he added.

  He was daring his daughter to argue with him, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being able to defend Eden. If he was feeling so all-fired chivalrous, he could just find himself a joust somewhere.

  "And you never had—you know—any big arguments or anything?"

  His smile was rueful, even fond. "Of course we did," he freely confessed. "We argued all the time, about everything. How to anchor, where to anchor, what movie to see ashore, what restaurants to eat at..."

  His musing look turned suspicious again. "Why? Are you back to thinking I killed her?"

  "No, no, it's just that ... there were stories—"

  He scowled. "Marjory Betson," he said flatly. "I saw their boat."

  "Yes, of course Marjory. What did you expect? That you'd go unnoticed?"

  "I expected," he said, drawing himself up with ludicrous dignity, "that people would mind their own business."

  So he wasn't flaunting Eden as some youthful trophy. Even worse. The thought that he was genuinely, truly in love with her—whatever that meant—left Holly even more depressed than before. She shouldn't have come to see him. Deep down she had had some grandiose notion of acting as intermediary between her parents. She had expected to bring her mother at a minimum an apology, and ideally her father himself. Instead, all she would be bringing back were tomatoes.

  The conversation was clearly at an end. There would be no tearful hug, no hopeful exchange. Holly muttered something about being due back home.

  "Sure; I understand. You really think she's alive, then?" he asked his daughter plaintively.

  "Of course she is."

  You couldn't kill someone like Eden.

  Chapter 18

  Holly returned to her mother's house to find Sam sitting on the front stoop. Her heart did the funny little flip-flop that she associated with routine thoughts of him, and an extra little flip-flop besides: the reality of him was so much better than mere dreams could be.

  "Stick a bottle of beer in your hand, and you'd look just like a T.V. commercial," she said, grinning for no other reason than that she was near him. He did have the look: square-jawed, windblown, slightly scruffy—and topping it off, the kind of offbeat, crooked smile that made women glance instinctively at his left ring finger.

  It was blessedly bare, as always, and that made her own smile linger. "Did you knock?" she asked, cradling her bag of sweet millions. "Her car's here; she must be home."

  Sam stood up and arched his back in a stretch, then said quietly, "When she left the station, she looked as if she could use a little peace and quiet."

  The smile faded from Holly's face. She remembered now: misery was all around them. "What's the chief like?" she asked, instinctively lowering her voice. "Is he a hard man?"

  Sam shrugged and said, "He's a cop with a job to do. But if you're asking me, does he feel for your mother—yeah; I think so. It's a small island. He understands that it's rough on her."

  "She's cut herself off from all of her friends," Holly admitted. "And she—boy, she didn't used to like wine with meals so much, Sam. I'm worried."

  "Don't be," he said, slipping his arm around her and squeezing her lightly. "Your mother's a strong woman; she'll get through this."

  The simple gesture of comfort was incredibly welcome, more so because it wasn't faked for the sake of some troopers. Holly felt a catch in her throat; not altogether sure of her voice, she merely smiled and said, "Mm-hmm."

  She glanced up at the window of the guest bedroom in which her mother now slept. The drapes were closed, but the shades weren't pulled; that could mean anything. She looked at Sam with his reassuring smile. She looked up at the window again. She looked at Sam.

  "I think," she whispered, "that I'll leave her be for now. Let's go home."

  Let's go home. The words sounded so right. If Holly were to step inside to see how the interview had gone, she was bound to blurt out that she'd just seen her father. Did she have a single iota of good news to deliver? Not an iota. Best to leave the bag of tomatoes on the doorstep and tiptoe away.

  Still ....

  She couldn't do it; couldn't leave without checking, however briefly, on her mother. Just to be sure.

  "I'll just run in for a second," she told Sam, who was headed for the truck. She fished out her key and let herself into the house.

  "Mom?" she called out softly from the bottom of the steps. "Are you around?"

  "I'm up here, honey, lying down. I feel one of my headaches coming on, and I'm trying to beat it off. It's not too bad."

  "Oh, good," said Holly. She meant it in so many ways. "I'll check in with you later."

  "Okay, sweetie. Thanks."

  Holly set the bag of cherry tomatoes on the hall table and ran like hell.

  Let's go home.

  Almost shyly, she threw the truck in gear and started them on their way. Sam could have walked; it wasn't much more than a mile between the station and her place. She liked—she loved—that he had chosen to wait and go back with her.

  "That sure was a lot of tomatoes," he said. "Your mother must be extremely fond of salads."

  Holly laughed and said, "Those are from Mr. Bouchard, my father's old mentor. His plants runneth over."

  "Ah."

  She took a turn possibly a little too sharply, sending Sam groping for his seatbelt. "As it turns out, my mother was right," she said, feeling obliged to confess what Sam probably had guessed. "My dad is hiding out at the Bouchards."

  All she got in response was a noncommittal nod.

  "The Bouchards are incredibly nice people," she went on, suddenly ill at ease. "Mi casa es su casa, and all that. Really, their doors are always open. I practically grew up there before we got our own house. Nice, nice people. You'd like them if you ever—well, they're nice. Really nice."

  No use. Something had changed. Sam's mouth was set in a flat line of resolve, his gaze fixed straight ahead. It wasn't her driving, she knew, so it must have to do with her father. Sam's antipathy to him seemed to emanate from every pore.

  And yet she had to talk about her father with someone, and Sam was the obvious choice: he wasn't emotionally involved. "Aren't you going to ask me how it went?" she asked, exasperated.

  "You're here; I assume it didn't come to blows," Sam said quietly as he stared out the window.

  Her laugh came out grim. "It almost did, a couple of times. Trust me, if it had, I would have cleaned his clock. I'm much more angry than he is."

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sam do a double take. "Your father isn't spitting nails over being set up?" he asked.

  Holly shook her head. "I explained your theory. He doesn't believe that he's been set up. A worst-case scenario for him is if Eden drowned; nothing else matters much. When he actually understood that she might still be alive—who cares under what circumstances—his eyes lit up. I could have killed him on the spot."

  "Unbelievable."

  "He's obsessed with her, and it's eating him alive. He's not sorry, he doesn't want to come home, and—my mother's catty friend notwithstanding—he actually enjoyed those public fights with Eden. What kind of man does that?"

  Sam's voice seemed distant and preoccupied as he said, "A woman like that can get under your skin."

  "Oh, bullshit. Eden is pretty, she's clever, she's a flirt—but she's not Cleopatra. I've never understood this femme fatale business," she groused. "Maybe it's because I'm not one myself."

  If that was an opening, Sam sure didn't take it. "I'd say you're the polar opposite," he maintained. "You're the freckle-faced kid next door. And you know what?" he added, smiling. "There are worse things to be."

  "I do not have freckles, Mr. Steadman—as if you'd notice," she added in a dark mutter.

  Clinging! She was clinging! Shutupshutupshutup!

  "You do have freckles," he argued. "Three tiny ones, on the left side of your nose about half an inch below your eye. And when the wind blows your hair away from your face
, you can see two more near your right ear."

  She felt a wave of delicious heat roll over her cheekbones. "Oh, I forgot," she said breezily to disguise her pleasure. "You're a photographer."

  "That's right. Uh, did your father ... did he have much to say about Eden?"

  Eden again. Holly was learning to hate the sound of the name. She blew frustration through puffed-out cheeks and said, "He thinks it's none of my business."

  "Interesting," said Sam. He sounded bemused, almost relieved.

  Holly said, "I don't think my father killed Eden—God, I can't believe I'm even saying words like that out loud; they sound so ridiculous. But Sam, he was lying about the blood. I don't know how the boat got blood on it, but it wasn't from Eden cutting herself as she sliced an orange. I know my father. He's a rotten liar. When he explained the blood, he was lying rottenly well."

  "How do you think it got there, in that case?"

  "I don't know. Not from slicing an orange. And here's another thing that's puzzling me: Eden hurled her cell phone into the sea."

  Holly explained the mysterious phone call and Eden's impulsive reaction to it and added that Eden had insisted on staying aboard the boat during the emergency repairs.

  Naturally Holly had a theory for all of it. "My guess is that she stayed on the boat during the repairs just to guard the engraving, and that the person who called later was someone—either Stefan or the actual buyer—making an offer that she considered insulting. She was infuriated by it. Then, after she impulsively threw away her cell phone in a hissy-fit, she became frightened—maybe that's not the right word—alarmed because she'd cut off her link to a willing buyer. It can't be easy to fence art that has no known provenance. Y'think?"

  In her preoccupation, Holly overshot the drive to the barn. She slammed on the brakes, sending Sam lurching forward, and then threw the truck in reverse, sending his head whiplashing back.

  Sam said, "You do have a license to drive, right? Sometimes on an island people get casual about niceties like that."

  "Very funny. I taxi people around all the time and no one complains."

  "Maybe, darlin', but here's some advice: don't quit your day job."