“We’ll find out once we open the wall,” he told her. “There’s a pipe running behind this wall from a second-floor bathroom. “I’m guessing there’s a leak somewhere in that pipe.”
His use of the word somewhere should have tempered her smile, at least a little bit. What would the plumber have to do if the source of the leak wasn’t immediately evident?
Two hours and a gaping hole in the wall later, Monica’s mood had down-shifted significantly. Despite cutting the hole as neatly as possible, in an even rectangle of drywall that, ideally, could be fitted back into place like a piece of a puzzle, Frank and the plumber had left the parlor looking as if it had been blizzarded with nuclear ash. White dust and slivers of pasteboard spread across the hardwood floor and Turkish rug in the parlor. Fortunately, the furniture had been moved to the other side of the room first.
The second-floor bathroom above the parlor was in equally bad shape. The plumber had dislodged the sink’s vanity, which now sat in the adjacent bedroom, looking alarmingly out of place. The burgundy bath mat looked as if it had been left outside during a snow storm.
And they still hadn’t pinpointed the source of the leak.
Monica wound up spending the entire afternoon at Rose Cottage, overseeing the mess Frank and the plumber were creating as if there was a damned thing she could do to minimize it. Every clank and clang and thump made her cringe. The flickering beam of the plumber’s flashlight as he ducked his head through the hole and surveyed the pipes made her flinch.
But the leak had to be found and stopped. The walls had to be reconstructed and painted. Vacuuming up the white plaster dust was the least of it.
Her cell phone rang frequently. She did her best to manage other maintenance issues from Rose Cottage. She supposed she could return to her office in the main building—hovering over Frank and the plumber and wincing at each new indignity they inflicted on the walls of the cottage didn’t help the situation. But she couldn’t leave. She felt like a triage doctor assessing the damage so she’d know just what rehabilitation the patient would require.
A lot of rehabilitation, she thought as the plumber punched his way through the fluffy pink insulation inside the wall, enlarging the space so he could fit his head through and get a better look at the pipe.
“I can see it dripping,” he shouted from inside the wall. “Can’t see where it’s dripping from, though.”
Monica sighed. Just because her day had begun magnificently didn’t mean it had to end magnificently. Yet it would end magnificently. She would have dinner with Ty. They’d talk. They’d touch. They’d do wild things. They’d be wild things.
Her cell phone rang again. She stepped away from the plumber’s butt and legs, protruding from the hole in the wall, and pressed the button to connect the call. It was nothing major, just an inventory check from the head of housekeeping, listing all the supplies she would be ordering tomorrow. Monica okayed the list, clicked to end the call, and noticed the time on her phone’s screen. Five-fifty.
Damn. Had she been in Rose Cottage that long?
“I’ve got to go,” she told Frank. Leak or no leak, she was not going to blow Ty off, or even show up late for their date. After the frustrating day she’d had, she was ready to get back to magnificent.
Not bothering to return to her office, she bolted from Rose Cottage, jogged across the pool patio and headed down the driveway. The Faulk Street Tavern was only a few blocks down Atlantic Street from the inn. Searching for a parking space near the pub’s entrance if she drove would take longer than walking there.
She did not want to take longer. She wanted to be wild with Ty now.
She entered the tavern exactly at six. It occurred to her that she might have taken a moment to brush her hair and freshen her lipstick. It also occurred to her that had she done so, she would have arrived a few minutes late and not looked quite so eager to see him. Yet she didn’t want to play games with him, deliberately arriving late so he would have to wait for her. She’d played games with Jimmy for ten years, and what had that gotten her? Ten years with a guy who’d rather watch a game on TV with his buddies than celebrate an anniversary with her.
She stepped inside the bar, circled the room with her gaze, and realized that she would be the one doing the waiting. Ty wasn’t there.
Not because he was playing a game with her. She knew in her heart that he wouldn’t bide his time somewhere for ten minutes, forcing her to cool her heels and crank up her humility level. She had no basis for that belief, but she knew. He would be leaving her in a matter of days to return to Florida, or wherever his next stop was. They didn’t have time for silly courtship rituals. If Ty was running late, he had a good reason for it.
She crossed to the bar, smiled at Gus, and settled on a stool. Gus had been slicing limes, but as soon as she saw Monica, she lowered her knife, dried her hands, and moseyed over. “You look frazzled,” she said, placing a cocktail napkin in front of Monica on the bar’s polished mahogany surface. “Rough day?”
“There’s a leak in Rose Cottage,” Monica told her. “They’ve torn down a wall searching for it. Do I have plaster dust in my hair?”
“No.” Gus gave her a reassuring smile.
Monica shrugged. The leak had occupied her for too many hours. Now it was time to delete that mess from her thoughts and focus only on the pleasures that lay ahead. “It’ll get fixed,” she said, wishing she felt as certain as she sounded. “It’s just that with the holiday weekend coming up, the cottage is booked. We need everything back to normal there before the summer surge begins.”
“As you said, it’ll get fixed.” Gus plucked a wine glass from the rack above her head. “Chardonnay?”
“I’m meeting someone,” Monica told her, then grinned. “But I guess I can have a glass of wine while I’m waiting.”
Gus filled the glass with pale, fragrant wine and set it on the napkin. She said nothing, but Monica sensed a question trapped inside her, one she was too discreet to ask.
Monica answered it anyway. “I’m not waiting for Jimmy. We broke up.”
Gus nodded. Only because Monica knew the woman her whole life did she detect the corners of Gus’s mouth twitching upward into a faint grin.
“So I’m on the market,” Monica continued. “Meeting new people. Exercising new muscles.” She allowed herself a private smile as she contemplated all the muscles she’d exercised with Ty last night.
“Andy’s still single,” Gus said, naming her younger son. “Just saying.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Gus’s sons were a couple of years older than Monica, but Brogan’s Point was a small town. She’d always thought the Naukonen boys were cute. But they lived in Boston, and she was a hometown girl.
She sipped her wine, spinning on her stool to gaze out at the room while Gus wandered down the bar to fill an order for a waitress. On the far side of the dance floor, the jukebox sat in silence, regal and elegant, holding its secrets close. Why had it played that clamorous old rock-and-roll song yesterday? Why had it played that song just for Monica and Ty?
Where was Ty, anyway?
She sipped her wine, letting it slide cool and dry down her throat. Closing her eyes, she pictured the chaotic scene she’d left at Rose Cottage, the wall cut away like a skin, exposing the skeleton of insulation, pipes, and wiring it usually hid. What a disaster.
But soon Ty would enter the bar and sweep her away. He’d make her forget all about the leak, at least for tonight.
Any minute, she told herself. Any second now, he’d step inside, tall and buff and radiating sex appeal, and Rose Cottage would no longer exist. Her entire world would consist of her and Ty.
Any minute.
***
Some men just didn’t deserve to live.
Gus liked men. She’d married one and raised two. She was currently involved with a fine man—Ed Nolan, a public servant, a cop, someone who kept the peace while simultaneously keeping his sense of humor.
But Monica�
�s luck with men wasn’t so good. She’d been with that schmuck Jimmy for so long, maybe she just thought that being disregarded and disrespected was acceptable.
Not to Gus, it wasn’t.
Whoever Monica’s new schmuck was, he hadn’t shown up by the time she’d emptied her wine glass. She’d waltzed into the tavern a half hour ago, as bright as a full moon on a clear night, and now that glow was gone, muted like the night sky when a dense ocean fog rolled in. With a sigh, she’d paid Gus for the wine, slid off her stool, and strode resolutely out of the pub.
In her line of work, Gus witnessed a lot of heartbreak. It came with the territory. You poured a drink, and in return, patrons poured out their hearts. The best bartenders were good listeners, and Gus was the best bartender in Brogan’s Point, if not all of the North Shore.
What Monica had experienced tonight wasn’t heartbreak. Just disappointment. Just pissy, nasty annoyance. Just the recognition—as if she’d needed to learn this lesson again—that some men were jerks.
***
Monica hadn’t expected Ty to be the love of her life, although last night he’d certainly proven himself to be the lover of her life, at least so far. She’d liked him. She’d been drawn to him like iron to a magnet. She’d wanted to spend more time with him. She’d wanted to make love with him again, and again. She’d wanted to go wild with him.
But he was gone. Probably halfway back to Florida by now, or wherever he was headed in his moving-around life.
She was tough. She would survive. One glass of wine had fortified her, and she had a few bottles in her apartment.
She let herself in, flicked on the lamp, and moved directly to the refrigerator, where a bottle of Pinot Noir sat on the door shelf. Her computer desk, holding her lap top and a telephone, stood near the corner of her apartment that passed for a kitchen, and she hesitated. She hadn’t stopped back at her office after the Rose Cottage debacle earlier that evening. She’d hiked directly to the Faulk Street Tavern, far too eager to see Ty. She really ought to check her messages before she got hammered.
After tossing her purse onto the sofa, she lifted the handset and punched in the number to access her voice mail. There was a message from Claudia, who’d had front-desk duty that day. A guest had complained about the no-skid mat in his shower. It was too bumpy. Did they have any smoother no-skid pads?
Monica laughed wryly. A smoother pad would defeat the purpose, she thought—too smooth, and your feet would skid on it.
Housekeeping left a message about one of the driers being on the fritz. Someone in the kitchen called to let her know a water pressure problem had resolved itself. The pool service phoned to set up a maintenance schedule for the summer. And then a final message: “Hello, Monica? It’s Ty. I didn’t have your phone number, so I called the hotel to reach you. I hope that’s okay. I’m not going to make it tonight. I’m kind of…well, things are screwed up.” A pause, and he continued: “I need a lawyer, Monica. A criminal lawyer. If you can find one for me, I’d be grateful. I’m at the police station now. Thanks. I’m sorry. Everything’s really fucked up.”
He needed a criminal lawyer? Everything’s really fucked up?
No kidding.
Her heart thudded against her ribs. Her skull seemed to tighten around her brain, making her head throb. So much for going wild, she thought. So much for making crazy love with a total stranger. He was at the police station. He needed a criminal lawyer.
Who the hell was he? What had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Six
As a courtesy, Nolan, the tall, steely-haired cop who’d brought Ty to the Brogan’s Point police station, allowed him to remain in an interview room rather than locking him in a cell.
Some courtesy. Ty wanted to change into clean clothes and check his email. Then he wanted rent a two-stroke engine on two wheels, cruise around town, and fill his lungs with fresh New England air. After that, he wanted to meet up with Monica, take her somewhere nice, and feed her. And then screw her silly. He didn’t want to sit on a hard plastic chair in a bare, square room, knowing a police detective was spying on him through the one-way mirror attached to the wall. He didn’t want to stare at that mirror and see his disheveled, unshaven face, his hands folded on the Formica-topped table next to the remains of the ham sandwich and the empty water bottle Nolan had brought him a while ago, a poor substitute for the dinner he would have shared with Monica. His shirt was wrinkled and his vision was bleary, shadowed by anger and worry.
He and Nolan had chatted for several hours. According to Nolan, drugs were stashed somewhere on the Freedom. Nolan didn’t specify what drugs, or how much, or whose they were, although he insinuated that they were dangerous and illegal, that they were in large enough quantity to make a nice profit when sold, and that they belonged to Ty.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ty insisted repeatedly. “A guy in Key Biscayne hired me to sail his boat up to Brogan’s Point for him. He didn’t hire me to transport drugs.”
“We got a tip that a shipment would be coming up from Florida,” Nolan said, his voice low and even. “A reliable enough tip to convince a judge to issue a search warrant.”
“But you didn’t find any drugs on the boat.” Ty couldn’t believe their search would unearth anything illicit. He’d lived on that boat for a week, and he hadn’t encountered any drugs on it, other than the bottle of over-the-counter ibuprofen he’d tucked into his toiletries bag.
“Not yet,” Nolan said. “We’re still looking.”
It was during the search that Nolan had found Ty’s laptop and duffel bag. The cops must have used a bolt cutter on the lock Ty had used to protect his belongings when he’d stashed them yesterday. Nolan had assured Ty that his belongings were safe. Was that a courtesy, too?
Ty didn’t just want his stuff safe. He wanted his stuff within reach, or at least within his line of sight. But it remained in the possession of the police department for now. Perhaps some CSI analyst was right that very minute pawing through his clothes, searching for traces of weed in the depths of his pockets, or scouring his emails for hints that he was planning to make millions of dollars selling oxy to school children in a quiet seaside town north of Boston.
“Tell me more about the guy who hired you to sail the boat,” Nolan said.
Ty eyed the digital recorder Nolan had set up on one end of the table. He was glad for it. If the cop took a swing at him, he wanted that recorded. He didn’t want his words mangled, either. He’d done nothing wrong, and he wanted the digital-cam to record that. “His name is Wayne MacArthur. He’s a businessman in Key Biscayne, as far as I know. He owns the Freedom. He keeps it docked at a marina in Biscayne where I do a lot of work on boats. He told me he’s got a summer place somewhere around here, and this year he couldn’t sail the boat up the coast to his summer place, so he hired me to do it.”
“What kind of work do you do on boats?”
“Carpentry. These are pricy vessels. Ocean-going. They often have a lot of woodwork in their living quarters. Sometimes I’ll be hired to spruce up a houseboat someone’s living on. I work on buildings, too. Residential, mostly.” He shrugged. “I guess MacArthur had seen me around at the marina, or maybe he asked the Jeff about me—that’s the guy who manages the marina down there—or…I don’t know. MacArthur approached me and asked if I’d do this. It sounded good to me.”
“And he paid you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Ty recalled the lump of money Wayne MacArthur had wired into his PayPal account barely twenty-four hours ago. Twenty grand. A generous sum for a week’s work, but given that the gig had been 24/7 and had entailed risk, the payment hadn’t seemed outrageously high. If Ty had been hired to run drugs, he would have demanded a hell of a lot more money than twenty thou.
Not that he would have ever agreed to do something like that, for any amount of money. Drugs sucked. Drugs had killed his parents and nearly killed him.
“Twenty tho
usand dollars,” he told Nolan. No point in lying. He had nothing to hide.
Nolan seemed to think that amount was significant. Even though he was recording the interview, he jotted a note on his pad. “So, this gentleman—Wayne MacArthur—paid you twenty thousand dollars to cart drugs up to Brogan’s Point?”
“No.” Ty tried to keep his exasperation out of his voice. “He paid me twenty thousand dollars to sail his boat up to Brogan’s Point.”
“Mr. Cronin, things will go a lot easier here if you cooperate with us.”
“I am cooperating. I’m telling you the truth. What more do you want?”
“Tell me where the drugs are.”
“I have no idea.”
It went that way for hours. Nolan’s circular questioning, Ty’s honest answers. Hours, and they’d gotten nowhere. The first time Ty asked to make a phone call, Nolan told him he wasn’t under arrest and therefore didn’t have the right to make a phone call. It made no sense to Ty that being arrested would afford him more rights than merely being brought in for questioning, but he’d been doing his damnedest to cooperate.
As the minutes ticked by, however, he realized there was a good chance he wouldn’t be able to meet Monica at the Faulk Street Tavern as planned. He also realized that even though he didn’t know a freaking thing about the drugs the police seemed to believe were on the Freedom, he probably needed an attorney.
At four-thirty, Nolan finally relented and allowed Ty to phone Monica. He didn’t have her personal number, so he used his phone to Google the Ocean Bluff Inn and called her through its switchboard, hoping that receiving a message from him on her office phone wouldn’t cause her too many problems.
Two hours later, she hadn’t called him back, let alone sent a lawyer for him.
He’d probably scared her off. She was a good girl, after all, neat and quiet, professionally oriented, employed in the family business. Not the sort of woman who’d want anything to do with a guy getting worked over by the local constabulary, thanks to a rumor some scum informant had started that the Freedom contained a drug shipment.
Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) Page 5
