Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

“Right,” Jones chirped in agreement.

  Zack Hyat added, “If he does turn up, I hope it's not anywhere near Miss Sheffield. She doesn't need another scare like that.”

  Curiously, Michael angled his head. “Oh, do you know Nicole?”

  “I haven't met her yet,” Hyat admitted. “But I’d heard she moved into the Nina Corday house. So I understand you've got some engine trouble,” Hyat said, changing the conversation.

  “Yeah, I'll be up and running in a couple of days.”

  “Well, at least you got a perfect time of year,” young Jones piped in. “The water's bluest in October.”

  Then, with an affable smile, Hyat asked, “So when's the last time you were boarded by the Coast Guard?”

  That gave Michael pause for a moment. “Is this an official check?” he asked casually.

  With a shake of his head, Hyat kept his tone just as light. “No, no. Just wanted to make sure you're good to go...you all set for PFDs?”

  “Two on board,” Michael said, referring to his life jackets.

  “Radio's working okay? In case of an emergency?”

  “Everything's working but the engine,” Michael said with a brief laugh. “You're more than welcome to come inside,” he offered, stepping back a bit from the door to widen their view of the interior. Both stayed on deck, but glanced inside—eyed the radio and dash straight ahead.

  Just then Hyat's belt radio sounded. From the garbling, Michael was able to gather that there was a search-and-rescue in progress. In response, Hyat said to Jones, “We’d better head out. Nice meeting you, Mr. King.”

  “Michael.”

  “You take care.”

  Soon the two officers were back on their own vessel and zooming away, sending white ruffles of water out furiously behind them.

  ***

  Todd Finn drove slowly down Arlen Road and couldn’t help rolling to a stop. Pensively, he sat, parked across the street from the Chatham police station. He didn’t know the local policemen well, just enough to wave a neighborly hello, but he’d never thought much of cops. Always strutting around with bravado, so sure of themselves. Yet, they always seemed to miscalculate the big cases. As far as Todd could see, law enforcement often “solved” major cases after the bad guy had already confessed the whole thing, right before killing himself.

  That was about the time the police swooped in to throw a press conference and claim all the credit. If the taxpayers were really lucky, the most incompetent detective on the force would even land a book deal.

  As Todd’s bitter rant wandered, his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. There was one Chatham police officer, in particular, who would benefit from some humility. So sure of himself, this man was. But Todd was way ahead of him…

  Todd Finn might never be a man who swaggered. Maybe he didn’t exude bravado, or have looks or youth to speak of. He didn’t have a uniform, a siren, or even a gun. But… Todd had a plan.

  Chapter Seven

  “You sound pretty calm considering what happened last night,” Alyssa told Nicole, then placed an order to someone else in the background. Something with the words vanilla, cream, maple, Chai, and praline. Whatever it was sounded lovingly autumnal and sickeningly sweet. Then she came back on the line. “Are you sure you're okay?”

  “I'm fine,” Nicole told her again, walking toward the fridge. Only when she leaned down did she feel a tangible reminder of the attack. Wincing slightly, she touched the tender spot on her neck. The soreness had been worse when she first woke up. She had soon discovered a deep pink bruise just above her collarbone. “It was the most random thing. The local police even said that the crime rate is practically nonexistent. They said the guy would have to be long gone by now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there's no way he could 'blend in' around here.” Nicole had already relayed how heart-stoppingly ugly her attacker had been.

  “I see your point,” Alyssa agreed. “Especially if law enforcement is aware of him, too.”

  “I get the feeling this is their only case.”

  “No—two shots of maple syrup, one of the vanilla—”

  “The police think he was just some coked up vagrant anyway,” Nicole added.

  “Hmm. Coked up vagrant,” Alyssa repeated. “I know I feel comforted.”

  “I'm just comforting like that...”

  “Well, thank God that guy came along when he did, but, Nicole, you have to be more alert.”

  “I am alert,” she said, though her conscience protested the claim. Last night on the beach, she had been so in her own world, she hadn't even heard Michael's dinghy approaching the shore before she was attacked. Assuming it was a motorized dinghy—she must not have been paying attention at all. There was really no excuse to have not even heard the dinghy.

  “No! I said steam, not cream—”

  “I just love having conversations like this...” Nicole remarked with mock appreciation. “It's so special...”

  “Sorry, I'm just...hang on...” During the brief pause, Nicole assumed that Alyssa was paying for her drink. When she came back on the line, she said, “Okay. I'm set now. You have my complete attention.”

  “You called me,” Nicole reminded her.

  “Now what were you saying? Wait—oh, this isn't hot...” Alyssa moaned.

  Nicole rolled her eyes. “I'll talk to you later, okay? You know, after you've got the guy who made your drink in tears.”

  “You mean the barista?” Alyssa said mockingly.

  Nicole had to laugh at her sister's tone. “Don't be a bitch...”

  Alyssa laughed, too. “Fine. I'll drink it, but I'm not a happy camper.”

  “That's the spirit.” Lifting the plastic lid on the Chinese food confirmed what Nicole suspected: that the leftovers she had accumulated thus far had lost their appeal and gained instead a kind of dread. Defeated, she closed the fridge.

  “Are you sure you don't want to tell Mom and Dad what happened last night?” Alyssa asked.

  “No...not yet. They'll worry too much. What's the point? Besides, it will only inspire Mom to come down here—and as soon as she comes, she'll take over everything. And don't you tell, either.”

  “I won't, as long as I know that you're not a sitting duck. For example: must I remind you of the recent apartment debacle?”

  Unconsciously, Nicole rubbed her neck. “Here we go... No really, it's a good question—must you?”

  “Yours was the only place broken into. Obviously whoever did it considered you a sitting duck.”

  “Roger Wasserstein did it! He did it because he has a drug problem. It wasn't my fault.”

  “No, of course it wasn't your fault, I wasn't saying that,” Alyssa said, softening her tone. “And by the way, you still don't know for a fact that it was Roger. You just assumed that.”

  “Everyone assumed that. There were reasons why.” The break-in had been a fluke—albeit a terrifying one. There hadn't been enough evidence to charge Roger, and he had denied it of course, but the fact that his parents hurried to Boston, packed him up and ushered him home with them, spoke volumes.

  At the end of it all, the only precious thing that was taken was the emerald pendant Aunt Nina had given Nicole for her college graduation. The pendant was never recovered.

  Firmly now, Nicole said, “I've always believed that Roger was the one.”

  “You chose to believe it.”

  “Technically what's really the difference—between believing something and choosing to believe it?” Apparently the lawyer in training didn't have a quick response for that one. Nicole pointed out, “It's the same thing.”

  Alyssa backed off. “Look, Roger probably did do it, for all we know. My only point was that you latched onto that conclusion because it was the most innocuous scenario put before you.”

  “Look, this is old news.”

  “Okay, fine. So what are you going to do now? More cataloging?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of walking into town and picking
up a few groceries. Just the essentials.”

  “Milk, eggs, ketchup, and toilet paper?” Alyssa said dryly.

  “Ha. I'm no bachelor. Milk, eggs, brownie mix and toilet paper.”

  “That's a good bachelorette. Oh, shoot! I'm late for class! Why does this always happen to me?” Alyssa railed against the cruel world. “I'm always late!”

  After they hung up, Nicole headed out. Wandering all the way down Orchard, she eventually came to Main. What stretched out before her was bright and welcoming, gilded with color. Red, orange and gold leaves decorated the street. Crisp green petals like sheets floated with the breeze.

  She felt safer as she walked, as if the events from the night before were being set further into the past with each step. Along the sidewalk were quaint shops with wooden placards, and ghosts and jack-o-lanterns in storefront windows. When she came upon a coffee shop with a pumpkin sitting on the doorstep, she hooked a right.

  As Nicole walked inside, a bell tingled—and someone nearly smacked into her.

  “Oh!” the man said, sounding just as startled as she felt. “Sorry about that, miss. My fault.” Then, abruptly, he seemed to stop—as though he were caught in a double-take. After a long, hard look, the man gave a chivalrous nod and stepped aside. The relaxed grace of the gesture didn't match the intensity of his initial reaction, however.

  Nicole managed a polite smile. The man was much older than she, maybe in his early sixties. He had a pound-puppy kind of face, slicked gray hair and weather-beaten overalls. Coffee dripped from his lid in fat drops.

  “You causing trouble again, Hermster?” a voice called out then.

  Both Nicole and the older man turned. A clean-cut guy in his thirties was walking toward them with a grin.

  “Morning, Zack,” the older man said.

  Zack said hello, then switched his gaze to Nicole. “Zack Hyat,” he said, introducing himself. She shook his hand. “And this here is Herman MacDonald.” She noticed that Zack Hyat's windbreaker read Coast Guard and he wore a silver wedding ring.

  “Hi...I'm—”

  “Nicole,” Herman MacDonald blurted.

  That gave her a start. “How did you know that?”

  “Sorry,” he said with a deprecating smile. “Same reason I was staring. You look just like your aunt—I mean...” He paused. “As much as an aunt and niece can look alike, of course.”

  “So you knew her?”

  “Yes, yes…we were real close friends.” There seemed to be something else that he was not saying.

  ”Unfortunately, I never got to meet her,” Zack Hyat spoke up, stepping a foot closer. “But I've heard good things. Nina Corday was sort of like a local celebrity around here.”

  For the next few minutes, Nicole and Herman MacDonald went on about Nina. To an outsider, the conversation might sound like gushing clichés, but it made Nicole feel better, like she was Nina's continuing ally. Sometimes too-little-too-late was all there was.

  “How long will you be staying in town?” Zack asked.

  With a shrug, Nicole replied, “I'm not sure.” She didn't want to bore every person she met with a long checklist of things to do to settle affairs here.

  Herman MacDonald seemed uncomfortable somehow. “Well, if you ever need anything, you just call,” he said and left. The bell jingled loudly as he went.

  “Hermster's retired, but he still takes handyman jobs,” Zack explained casually. “Sort of the go-to guy around here. And in case you couldn't guess, everyone calls him ‘The Hermster.’” She supposed she appreciated the information, but it wasn't like she was about to whip out the nickname the next time she saw the guy.

  Then Zack mentioned that the Coast Guard Station was located on South Beach, and that if she ever wanted a tour of the lighthouse, to let him know. Apparently it was one of the main tourist attractions during the summer season. “And if you're looking for a good place to eat or grab a drink, people usually hit the Squire after work. It's right down the street.”

  After Zack Hyat left, Nicole got on line. Across from her, a chalkboard menu spanned the wall, and just below it was a strip of mirror.

  As Nicole's eyes scanned the menu, they found their way downward, landing on her own reflection for a brief moment. She suddenly noticed another woman's face beside hers in the mirror. She seemed to be staring at Nicole through the glass.

  When their eyes locked, the woman glanced away.

  Nicole looked away, too, but when she glanced back, she found the woman watching her again. Maybe I’m mistaken, Nicole thought. Perhaps this lady was just caught in deep thought, not really focusing on her in particular. After all, she wouldn’t want last night’s assault to make her paranoid now.

  Either way, Nicole observed, she was a most strange looking woman. The broad triangular shape of her face gave her an almost space-alien look. A shock of white hair, which sprouted up from the crown, disappeared into the dark twist on the top of her head. At first glance, she appeared around forty—and exotic, maybe of Asian descent. Upon second glance, though, she appeared ageless; it was the oddest thing, but with her inscrutable expression, slightly bowed figure, and too-smooth skin, she could have been anywhere from forty to seventy.

  Finally, the woman dropped her gaze. She turned and walked away, her image all but sliding off the mirror.

  Chapter Eight

  After she returned to the house, Nicole found herself standing at the foot of what used to be her aunt’s garden. It was hard to picture flowers growing here. Suffering the pressure of weather, the soil had cemented into chocolate-colored concrete. Try as she was, Nicole could not kick up a single puff of dust.

  But somehow she would have to, because she had decided to restore Nina's garden. As a sort of tribute to her aunt, she would have this garden back in bloom and bursting with color. It seemed like the least she could do at this point. Of course, it would be good all around since fixing up the garden would add appeal to the house when she sold it.

  “Excuse me over there!”

  Abruptly, Nicole turned. A hefty woman in a skirt and blazer was charging toward her. She looked a bit like a big square with a head on top. Caught off guard, Nicole opened her mouth to say something, when she realized that there were actually two women approaching. One was trailing behind, obscured by the one who was speaking.

  “Hazel Baker,” the larger one said. She declared her name in a way that assumed its imperial importance. Unfortunately, if it possessed any significance, it was lost on Nicole.

  “Hi,” Nicole said, giving a friendly smile, which seemed to bounce right off the woman like a dart on an iron shield. Her expression didn't change, as her forceful gait thumped closer and she closed the gap between them.

  “Good afternoon,” Hazel Baker declared with all the joie de vivre of a prison guard. “I trust we’re not disturbing you.”

  “No, no...” Nicole looked around. “I am just trying to figure out how I'm going to revive this garden.” Hazel barely spared a glance at the barren plot. Up close, Nicole observed the details of her face. It was heavily drawn, with whitish powder providing the canvas. Her eyes thickly lined, her ruby lips painted in coats, and her rouge applied with a Baby Jane hand. She fared better with her wardrobe. Her jacket and blouse were coordinated, contouring each other in shades of green; her gold earrings matched her lapel pin shaped like a harp. In fact, it was probably Hazel Baker's tasteful dress that kept her from looking clownish or even a bit demented.

  “This is my sister, Ginger Bloomingdale,” Hazel added, referring to her plump companion with the short dyed-golden hair and the reluctant expression. “We tried the front door but there was no answer. Your front porch railing is loose, by the way.”

  “Really? I didn't notice that.”

  “We live next door,” Ginger explained, her tone of voice much quieter and warmer than her sister’s. She handed Nicole a foil pan. “This is for you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thanks, that's so nice of you—”

  �
��I'm so sorry about your aunt,” Ginger added. As she said it, her smile weakened.

  Nicole thanked her. “Did you know her well?” She didn't recall seeing these women at the memorial service, yet it was hard to imagine that Aunt Nina would not have been friendly with her neighbors.

  “Yes, sort of...we were both in the Chatham Preservation League of Ladies. Hazel here is president of the league. That’s a cheddar-apple casserole, by the way,” Ginger added, nodding toward the foil pan.

  “Thanks again—”

  “Ginger and I really can’t stay long,” Hazel interrupted. “We need to be getting to work. We’re proprietors of a highly respectable private library, specializing in local family histories.”

  “Oh, that’s kind of a coincidence,” Nicole said amiably. “I’m an archives librarian. We’re in the same line of work.”

  “Yes, well as I said, we can’t stay long. However, we did wish to speak with you.” Nicole waited. “First of all, I trust the incident from last night has been resolved.”

  “Oh, yes! Thank you for asking. The police are still looking into it, of course, but I'm fine. I was so lucky that someone came along at that time to help—”

  “I have no wish to intrude upon your affairs,” Hazel interrupted, “however, as a life-long resident of Chatham—and a pillar of this community—I must ask you to consider your neighbors when you choose the company with whom you consort.”

  Bewildered, Nicole tried to follow. “I'm sorry? What company?” (Pillar of the community?)

  '“Your...visitors...from last night,” Hazel replied. “I understand that when someone of your years sees a beach, perhaps she or he automatically ascribe it some social purpose, to see it as a place for bonfires and loud music and God knows what else.” Her tone managed to be both didactic and disgusted. “But Chatham beaches are quiet and clean and family-oriented.”

  “Look, I—”

  Hazel's hand went up. “Obviously I can't tell you what to do; I only ask that you to keep this in mind, going forward. Before you get defensive, let me also say that I realize you're from Boston, and things are different—”