A Charmed Place

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  Joan jumped at the chance to sneak a look at Dan's library, so Maddie wandered off on her own again, rationing her lemonade because the lines at the stand were getting long now. The sea breeze had died to a whisper, leaving a warm, clear evening, perfect for enjoying skyrockets, pinwheels, Roman candles, and burned hot dogs.

  But who to enjoy them with? On a good day, Tracey would be mortified to have her mother share her blanket with her—and this was hardly a good day. If George made his way through the bottleneck on the Bourne Bridge in time, Maddie would no doubt be watching the display with her mother, him, and Claire.

  But Maddie wanted ... more.

  Granted, fireworks at the lighthouse were a family affair, as old a tradition as Christmas. But this year's show was going to be special, and Maddie wanted someone special to share it with. Call it selfish, but she had reached the age in her life ....

  She stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the old and the young and wondering where the ones like her, the ones in the middle, fit in. When she was a child, her mother had sat her on her lap and together they'd oohhed and ahhed at the bright bursts of colors high in the sky. Later, when she was a young mother herself, she'd sat Tracey on her own lap, and together they'd oohhed and ahhed at the bright colors overhead.

  But Maddie's kids had their own friends now, and Maddie herself was forty. How many more fireworks would there be in her life? A Fourth of July here, a Labor Day there ... and pretty soon, she'd be opting to watch the show through her bedroom window ... or worse still, just wishing the noise would get over with so she could stop feeling guilty for not going.

  Don't let that happen to me, she prayed, suddenly leveled by dread. Please... let me hold on to the magic.

  "Maddie! Maddie Regan!"

  She turned around, disoriented by the voice; it didn't belong outside on a beach. She saw a man that she recognized, but he was wearing clothes that she didn't: a green knit shirt over rust and blue plaid shorts; white socks pulled up tight to the knees; and spit and polished black loafers.

  "Detective Bailey—what're you doing here?" she blurted.

  Chapter 13

  Detective Bailey hitched his sagging shorts back up to beer-belly height and gave her an off duty smile. "I've got family in Wakeby, and I brought the wife and brood down for the day. Matter of fact, the whole gang's coming here later for the fireworks, but I decided to get a head start on 'em. I figured I'd touch base with you and enjoy a little peace and quiet all at the same time," he said with a chuckle.

  "You've found something, then," Maddie said eagerly. "What? Tell me what!"

  The smile fell away. He shook his head. "Nothing so far, I'm afraid. You?"

  Maddie sighed and said, "I've been working my way backward through every calendar of events I can get my hands on, but nothing jumps out at me for April 6. I was hoping that since my dad was a gardener, it might be the date of a flower exhibition. But April 6 is too late for the indoor show and too early for an outdoor one. It's frustrating."

  "Yeah, tell me about it." Bailey looked around and said, "So. They selling beer at this thing?"

  She offered to accompany him to the concession stand, and they commiserated for a minute or two in their frustration over the unsolved crime. They talked about the note, and Maddie realized that though she wanted the slip of paper to have an innocent explanation, Detective Bailey did not. For him the note was a clue, possibly the best one they'd found so far.

  He said, "The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that ten o'clock on April 6 ended up being an appointment with your dad's murderer.

  "The carjacking theory never sat too well with us, you know that," he reminded her. "There were just too many loose ends: the cockeyed attempt to remove the sound system; the fact that the car was locked when we found it; the half-removed license plate. Someone was trying to suggest a theft—and maybe slow down our ability to track the owner—but I guarantee that the man who was in the car with your father was there at your father's invitation."

  "I guess the killer had to be a man, didn't he?"

  "Probably. I don't picture a woman pushing your father out of the car that way. Either way, after that the killer drove to the T parking lot, dumped the car, hopped a train, and was home free. He could've connected to practically anywhere. Now, a busy parking lot might seem like an easy place to be noticed, and if your dad had been driving an orange Jaguar, that might've been true. But a silver Accord? There are half a dozen in every lot. It was a reasonable risk, especially in a lot like Norfolk's, which isn't too visible from the road."

  "Could there have been more than one assailant, do you think?"

  The detective shook his head. "One man, and your father knew him. They left together from the same place in your dad's car; that's my gut talkin'."

  He offered to treat Maddie to a beer. When she declined, he held up a forefinger to the vendor, then turned back to her and said, "Another thing bothers me, we never did find your father's address book."

  "I've thought about that a lot," she said. "Why would someone steal it? Just because they also stole the wallet? I mean, it's not as if my father knew a lot of movie stars and millionaires. Who would want it?"

  The detective took a long, thirsty slug from the plastic glass and said over a discreet burp, "If the killer stole it, it's because his name was in it. If it really is gone, that's a significant factor. But I'd like to make sure it's gone. It could be somewhere still in your family's possession. It doesn't help the case so much if it is, but we gotta know."

  Scanning the crowd the way a Secret Service agent might, he said, "That's what I came here to see you about. We never found it in your parents' house in Sudbury, but you did say that your father came down to Sandy Point occasionally in the off-season for a quiet place to work. Could he have left the address book in Rosedale cottage and then forgotten about it?"

  Maddie shrugged. "I suppose. But I would've seen it when I packed up his study."

  "Well, maybe it's not in the study. Maybe it's in a bookcase in another room. A magazine bucket in the john. Wherever. My point being, since I'm down here anyway, would you mind if I took one more look around? Right now or even tomorrow morning, if you can stand my poking through your rooms real early. Unfortunately, I plan to hit the road back to Millwood by eight."

  "Oh-h ... you know, maybe that's not such a great idea. My mother's due here any minute for the first time this year. She's been dreading the visit for months. That would surely make it worse."

  The detective's face showed his disappointment. Maddie felt it, too. Here was someone willing to work on his own time for them, and she was telling him not to. She imagined her mother sitting in her robe in a state of anxiety while the determined detective searched under the beds and behind their clothes hampers.

  No. It would be too painful for her mother. Maddie couldn't let it happen.

  "I'll take the house apart room by room myself, starting tomorrow morning, I promise," she said with an apologetic smile. "I'll go through every box that I've packed."

  "Okay ... well ... just thought I'd try." A resigned but compassionate smile flickered on his round, scarred face as he looked away, hiding behind his uplifted beer.

  Maddie was so touched by the detective's concern that she threw her arms around him in an impulsive, affectionate hug and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for everything so far," she whispered in his ear. "We owe you so much."

  The detective, clearly embarrassed by the public display of emotion, patted her gingerly on her lower back with his free hand as he muttered something about a job and just doing it.

  "Hey, hey—that's my woman you're messing with, mister!"

  Caught off guard by the crack, the detective stiffened. Maddie released him and turned in annoyance to her ex-husband, who was standing behind her holding three helium balloons: a red, a white, a blue. He handed them over to Maddie with a grin as he said to the detective, "How goes the battle, chief?"

  "Never ends," said Bailey with
a cool look.

  "That's what they say. Maddie tells me you have a hot new clue. Anything going on with that note?''

  Maddie hadn't told Michael a damn thing—he'd read the note on his own. She resented his implying that they were still intimate, and took it on herself to cut him off at the pass.

  "Whatever the note leads to," she told her ex-husband, "I'm sure Detective Bailey will keep me informed."

  She glanced up at the balloons that Michael had thrust in her hand. "Maybe you should take these back," she said, handing him the strings, "and give them to someone who'd appreciate them."

  She saw the flash of annoyance in his eyes, but his grin was cheerful as he turned to a mother who was walking past just then with two young children.

  "Excuse me," he said, offering them to her. "I have extras. Do you think you can put these to good use?"

  Surprised but pleased, the mother accepted them with thanks and walked off, dispensing the balloons to her little boy and girl as they went.

  The detective said to Maddie, "I'll be in touch." He nodded to Michael. "See you around."

  He was barely out of earshot when Maddie turned to Michael and said, "You can be insufferable, you know that?"

  Michael folded his arms over his head in a comical cringe. "Whoa, whoa! What'd I do now?"

  "You embarrassed him, and you embarrassed me. And I really won't stand for it any longer, Michael. Stop making assumptions about you and me. Stop implying to everyone else that we're still a couple. We are not."

  He cocked one eyebrow. "What brought this on, darlin'? I'm behaving the same as I always have."

  "No, you're not," she said automatically. "And if you are, it's time to change. We have Tracey in common, Michael. And that's all."

  "Bullshit! We have a marriage in common."

  "That marriage is over. How many different ways do I have to say it?"

  "What's the matter?" he asked with sudden insight. "Am I cramping your style?"

  She didn't dignify the remark with an answer. Instead, she asked him a question of her own. "Have you seen Tracey yet?"

  "No," he answered, a little sullenly. "I was foolish enough to want to see you first."

  "Well, you're bound to get the tragic version of events when you do, so I'll give you the real version first."

  She described the gathering in the tower, and Tracey's apology afterward, and the terms of the grounding. She was gratified to see the expression on Michael's face turn more and more grave.

  "My God. Already?" he said when she was through. "I know they all do it—"

  "That's just the point, Michael. They don't all do it. We want to believe that—it gets us off the hook—but most kids don't drink or use drugs, and we have got to make sure that Tracey doesn't either."

  "Well, yeah, obviously. We'll keep her away from this Kevin character for starters. He sounds like bad news."

  "Which reminds me: Does the name Mark Menninger ring a bell with you?"

  Michael furrowed his brow. "Should it?"

  "Tracey went to a birthday party at his house and drank there as well. You didn't smell it on her breath in the car when you picked her up afterward?"

  "Did I pick her up? I can't remember."

  "God, Michael! You've got to keep on top of these things!"

  "But I'm always dropping her off somewhere or other," he said in his own defense. "Who can keep up? You know how they are at that age—totally wired. They can't sit still, not if they try. Maddie, don't beat me up over this. I love Tracey; I'd do anything for her. Let's just be glad she didn't experiment with something worse. Let's just stick together and do what we have to do to keep her out of harm's way."

  How could Maddie argue with that? Relenting, she said, "All right. As long as we're consistent. Please—please—don't let her go off scot-free on your weekend."

  "Absolutely not. I'll make that clear to her today. Maddie?" he said, fixing his gaze on her. "I mean it. We have to stick together on this."

  "I agree," said Maddie. And yet something in Michael's tone was too intense, too ardent, for her to agree with any enthusiasm.

  "I'm gonna see what she's up to right now," he said, heading off in an arbitrary direction. He came back half a minute later. "I meant to ask, how did she get in the lighthouse?"

  "The door was unlocked."

  He frowned. Obviously, he didn't like that answer. "What made you go to the tower looking for her?''

  "I... I didn't. Dan found her and brought her back."

  He didn't like that answer any better. "What? Who the hell does he think he is?"

  Maddie said with spirit, "What would you rather he did—let her loose without saying anything? Or maybe have the police round them all up; would that have pleased you more?''

  "Hey. I'm not the villain in this piece. I'm not the one who left the door to the tower unlocked. Doesn't he know what a hangout the tower is?"

  "How could he? He's not a local."

  "It doesn't take a genius, Maddie. And as I recall, Dan Hawke was exactly that, back at Lowell. Ace student, raging idealist, leader of men, and biker to boot."

  His voice became filled with innuendo, almost leering. "It couldn't have got any better than Hawke, could it?"

  "Just drop it, would you, Michael?" she snapped.

  Michael hunched his shoulders and leaned over her, a profile in menace. "Just keep him away from my daughter, that's all. Does the rest of your family know he's living there?" he added, yanking a thumb at the lightkeeper's house.

  For whatever reason, Maddie felt obliged to answer him. "I don't remember mentioning it."

  "I'll bet. Well, maybe you ought to. I'd be interested in hearing what Sarah has to say about having Dan Hawke for a neighbor—and your brother, too—although, why should they mind?" he asked sarcastically. "It's been twenty years since the trial. Probably George has forgotten all about assaulting Hawke in the courtroom."

  Michael had landed the punch squarely on her conscience. Maddie was all too aware that she should have said something to her family by now. At first she'd remained silent because she didn't want to distress them. Lately she hadn't said anything for the simple, stupid reason that she didn't want them boycotting the fireworks because of Dan.

  And where had it got her? Her family was probably going to miss the show anyway, and resent her hiding the news about Dan besides.

  "Do me a favor, would you, Michael? Let me tell them about Dan. You're right," she admitted humbly. "They're bound to be upset."

  Instantly Michael's manner toward her softened. His shoulders relaxed and his smile, always rueful, became tender. "Maddie, I'm sorry ... I shouldn't have thrown him in your face like that. I'm just rattled, I guess. It's weird, him being here. And him crossing paths with Tracey that way, that was weird, too. Hell, maybe I'm still jealous," he admitted with a soft laugh. "You always did prefer him over me."

  "I married you," she murmured. "I had your child."

  He grinned. "Yeah. You did." He dropped an unexpected peck on her lips and said, "Speaking of that child, I'm off to find her and give her what-for. Wish me luck."

  "You won't need that, Michael. She'll listen to whatever you have to say."

  He grinned and said, "You're probably right. Okay, where is she? Wait! Don't tell me."

  He closed his eyes and Maddie knew he was trying to "sense" Tracey's presence. It bothered her more and more, that conviction of his that he was psychic.

  "Michael, really. Must you?" she said, tense and put off by his manner.

  "That way," he said, ignoring her reproach and pointing vaguely in the direction where Tracey had set up her blanket. He plunged into the crowd.

  It wasn't until after he was gone that Maddie realized he hadn't brought up the subject of his windfall. It didn't seem possible that he didn't want her to know about it; he'd blabbed to too many people around her.

  Michael's motives had always ranged from arbitrary to inscrutable, but one thing Maddie did know: he wasn't trying to hide his mon
ey from her. It was one of the reasons she didn't hold him in such bitterness as some of her friends did their ex-husbands. So many bruised feelings were really about dollars. That wasn't her problem at all.

  Maddie continued to scan the crowd for the rest of her family, but without any luck. Hungry now, and feeling more adrift than ever, she joined the crush around one of the barbecue grills. This was new, this long wait for a complimentary hot dog. Too many people. She wondered whether the food would ever again have the charm of being free.

  The grill she'd chosen was manned by big Mickey Baretsky, a local butcher and donator of the hot dogs in question. Mickey, who looked amazingly like Dom DeLuise, was a driving force behind the barbecue every Fourth.

  "Maddie, m'dear!" he cried, waving a giant fork in the air. "What'll it be? One dog or two?"

  "One's fine, thanks," she said, lifted on the wave of his enthusiasm. "How's your charcoal supply?" she couldn't help asking. "Got enough to hold out?"

  "More'n enough, now," he said, slapping a blistered sausage on a split roll. "Ketchup's on the table. Yeah, it was touch and go earlier. I'll tell ya," he said, "that Dan Hawke's a wonder. He picks up the phone and calls someone who calls someone who calls someone, and next thing I know, a traffic chopper's dropping what we need at the airfield. Even I don't got that kinda clout."

  Amazed and yet not surprised, Maddie looked around quickly at the other grills, searching for a CNN correspondent in a white chef's hat. But he was nowhere in sight.

  Undoubtedly back in his cave.

  All innocent, she asked Mickey what he thought of their celebrity neighbor.

  "I like the guy," the veteran said with a shrug.

  Well, what did she expect? An in-depth character analysis? The butcher was surrounded by a hungry mob; you didn't chitchat when your life was at stake.

  She took a hungry bite of her food, annoyed at the crowd for being there and annoyed at Norah for making it show up. She wanted everything back the way it used to be: quiet, slow, peaceful, restful.