The Harbor

by Carla Neggers

  "Nothing happened," he went on. "Relax. Anybody asks, I'm watching Zoe for you, making sure she doesn't get in over her head like last year. Because you care about her. Because Patrick West was your friend and Olivia West had a soft spot for you and you figure you owe them."

  "I don't want people to know you and I have any connection—"

  "Relax, will you? You should have thought this through before you asked me to spy on an FBI agent—"

  "I don't have to listen to this," Luke hissed.

  "Nurse Betsy say anything to you? She likes to have blueberry pie on the sly, you know. Probably figures you'll think your arteries will clog just from watching her chow down."

  "Where are you now?"

  "Cooling my heels. If McGrath spotted me skulking around your ex-cop sweetie, she could have, too. I'll go on back to town in a few minutes."

  "Be discreet," Luke snapped, condescending, irritable.

  "Why'd you agree to hire me if you're getting cold feet this fast? Jesus—"

  "Don't get the wrong idea, Shelton. I'm not afraid of either one of them. I just don't want them meddling in her father's murder investigation. It'll just make matters worse and won't lead to his killer. McGrath has no right to stir up trouble." Luke breathed heavily, as if he might hyperventilate. "The West sisters have suffered enough."

  Right. Like he'd hired Teddy because he was worried about Zoe and Christina West's feelings. Teddy watched the lobster boat ease on back around the point, toward the small, protected harbor. The temperature was going down, nightfall coming earlier and earlier. He could feel the bite of winter in the air. Luke'd be heading south soon. Teddy didn't have any firm plans, but he had no intention of spending another winter in Maine.

  "I think your instincts about our Special Agent McGrath are on target," Teddy said. "The guy's trouble. I don't care if the old cemeteries around here are full of his ancestors, he's here because there's an unsolved murder."

  "It's been bad enough having the state investigators snooping—" Luke sighed. "I should have thrown you off my boat that night you showed up here."

  Teddy knew he wasn't referring to the night a week ago when Luke had asked Teddy to keep an eye on McGrath, and Zoe if she came back, but to a night more than a year ago. "But you didn't, did you?" Teddy walked backward off his rock. "You sold me a gun you weren't supposed to sell me."

  "What's your game, Shelton?" Luke's voice was low, not so arrogant now. A touch of fear in it. "Because if you're playing me—"

  "Relax. Go hump Nurse Betsy. I'll stay in touch."

  Teddy clicked off. He felt almost smug—that'd teach the bastard to try to get the upper hand with him. He went back up to the cottage, a one-bedroom with cracked linoleum and cheap furnishings, and got his truck keys and headed out. He almost ran into Bruce's truck on its way out from the lobster pound. Teddy waved. The guy was amazing. His first instinct was to like people. He was totally undiscriminating. It'd never occur to him his buddy Teddy had an illegal arsenal in the jump seat. Grenades, semiautomatic assault weapons, so-called large capacity feeding devices.

  Nah, not Bruce. He was oblivious.

  Bruce slowed to a crawl and stuck his head out his window. "You play darts? Come by Perry's later. Maybe you can beat the FBI agent."

  Teddy didn't know what to say. "Okay. Yeah, I'll see you later."

  * * *

  Zoe drove out to a market south of town and bought staples, like bread, juice, milk and cereal, then stopped at a farm store for local produce—Cortland apples, butternut squash, potatoes, carrots, fall spinach. She bought a jug of apple cider and a half-dozen cider doughnuts, eating one on the way back through the village.

  She stopped at her childhood home, now her sister's home, and let the engine idle while she gripped the wheel with both hands and thought about the break-in. Her father had insisted on locks on the doors. He was chief of police. He wasn't going to make it easy for anyone to just walk in. He'd once stopped by Olivia's with a lock for her porch door, but she distracted him with some other project—locks made her feel like she was in prison. One was enough. The logic of having locks on both her doors defeated her.

  "Oh, Christ…"

  The tears came out of nowhere. Zoe breathed in through her nose, trying to get control of herself. It'd been a year, and she still missed them both, her father, her great-aunt. They'd always been there. The rocks of her life. Her anchors. Everything they'd ever wanted in life was right here. She could talk Washington, D.C., and world events and federal law enforcement with Stick Monroe—with her dad and Aunt Olivia, it had always been about Goose Harbor.

  Zoe wiped her cheeks with her fingertips and ate another cider doughnut.

  Maybe if she stayed in town, she could make her peace with not knowing who'd killed her father, or why, or if Olivia's death was in any way related.

  I know who killed him.

  "Ah, Aunt Olivia. Where's Jen Periwinkle when we need her?"

  Jen used her wits to distinguish good clues from bad clues—and there were always clues. The police had Patrick West's body and the two bullets that had killed him. That was all.

  Zoe pushed back her thoughts, her overwhelming sense of grief, and instead of driving back through town and fighting the leaf-peepers, she took the tangle of back streets, passing inns and summer houses, smaller homes owned by year-round locals, until she came out on Ocean Drive just above the nature preserve named for her great-aunt.

  She turned onto a gravel road and drove a hundred yards to a parking area and visitors' center amid a pine grove. This time she got out of her car. The air was cooler here, a slight breeze stirring. She looked up at the pine needles etched against the cloudless blue of the sky, heard birds in the distance—it was migrating season for hawks.

  The preserve's self-guided trails were open from dawn until dusk. Zoe found herself on the wide, three-mile gravel loop trail. She'd come out here to run ever since she was a teenager. After she'd resigned from the state police, she'd run the loop trail every day to train for the FBI Academy. She remembered how excited she was about her future, how her life had seemed to stretch before her. Now she didn't know what would come next. It was enough to plan dinner. She sometimes wondered if that was why she'd responded to the rhythms of the Jericho farm, milking and feeding the goats, harvesting the garden. Even with knitting, she had to stay focused on the present.

  She passed interpretive signs describing the wildlife and plant life, the geology of southern Maine's curving coastline and broad stretches of beaches, the cluster of three small offshore islands with their tricky currents and narrow passages. There were benches for birdwatching and scenic views, but she didn't stop for anything.

  The bright yellow leaves of a dozen thin birch trees told her she was close to Stewart's Cove. She slowed her pace, her throat tightening with tension, anticipation. It was late in the afternoon, and most of the tourists had left. She was aware that she was alone, possibly no one even within shouting distance.

  Except for J. B. McGrath.

  He was standing on a flat, wet rock that would be covered soon as the tide rose. It was about three yards

  from where she'd found her father.

  "It's a beautiful spot," he said.

  She nodded tightly, fighting the images of a year ago. Her father sprawled on his stomach. His blood had seeped into the wet sand and shallow water of the rising tide.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  "I saw your car and followed you. I came around the other way—I didn't expect to beat you here." His smile was surprisingly gentle. "No need for a sharp stick."

  She edged closer to the water. The wind caught her in the face, and she wished she'd worn a jacket. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to focus on the cresting waves out beyond the mouth of the small cove.

  J.B. didn't move from his rock. She let her gaze settle on him, realized he was a good-looking man, rugged, sexy, undoubtedly an independent type if he'd survived as an FBI undercover ag
ent for any length of time.

  "First time you've been back here?" he asked quietly.

  She nodded. "It's a beautiful spot. So peaceful. My father was trying to lower his blood pressure and cholesterol, so he'd taken up walking before work. But he was in uniform. CID's inclined to think he was meeting someone, either here in the preserve or shortly after his walk. He stopped at Aunt Olivia's that morning. She was always up early."

  "Did you have a chance to ask her what they discussed?" "Her revised obituary. Dad thought she was morbid."

  J.B. smiled and moved off his rock, his shoes sinking into the wet sand. He joined her on the packed, dry sand of the short stretch of beach. "I understand the police don't believe his body was moved. He was shot here."

  "The shooter could have come in by boat or by land—it wouldn't be hard to stay concealed. At that hour, lobster boats would be out or heading out, but they're in deep water this time of year." She sighed, bile rising in her throat, and she wished she hadn't eaten so much, could feel the pie and doughnuts churning in her stomach. "It's not for me to investigate my father's death. That was made clear to me last fall."

  "You run roughshod over everyone?"

  "I just wanted answers. At first people understood, but when the investigation stalled—" She broke off, dropping her hands to her sides. "It wasn't an easy time. In CID's place, I'd have done the same thing. I'd resigned. I was on my way to Quantico."

  "Losing your father and aunt the way you did must have pulled the rug out from under your life. I'm sorry." He shifted away from her, and for the first time she noticed the three-inch scar on his jaw, just below his left ear. He'd been a split second from becoming the subject of a murder investigation himself. But he glanced back at her and asked, "Teddy Shelton—you know him?"

  His question caught her by surprise. "Not really. He worked at the lobster pound last summer—I think he's renting a cottage from Bruce. Why?"

  "He popped up on my radar screen today. It's probably nothing. You must want some time here on your own. I'll see you around."

  Zoe didn't stop him. She'd get his Teddy Shelton story out of him later. He walked back up to the trail, falling in with a trio of seniors, and she didn't move until they were out of sight. Then, shivering in the chilly ocean air, she sat on a three-foot boulder and watched the tide slowly roll in, the two smallest islands visible offshore, just the northern tip of the largest, Sutherland Island, visible. They were mostly rock and evergreens, but their rugged look was deceptive. Their thin soil actually made them very fragile, easily damaged by careless hikers and kayakers. Luke Castellane's father, Hollywood director Victor Castellane, had bought Sutherland Island years ago—the nature preserve wanted to add it to its onshore acreage.

  Zoe stared at the short stretch of beach, not breathing, seeing herself a year ago when she realized there was no hope, her father was dead. She hadn't known if the shooter was still nearby, if she was in danger, but she hadn't been able to make herself respond like a law enforcement officer—it was her father dead before her.

  She could still feel the water seeping into her running shoes as she ran out into the cove, screaming at a lobster boat down toward Sutherland Island. It turned out to be Bruce Young's.

  It occurred to her then and had stuck with her for the past year that her father's murder had something to do with her. Was she supposed to find his body? It was no secret she ran in the preserve. Had she told him something in the weeks before that ultimately got him killed? Had a case she worked on when she was with the state police come back to haunt not her, but her father?

  In the first weeks of the investigation, the state detectives had looked into all those possibilities. But there was nothing—no lead, no potential lead—that connected back to her.

  So, what about Teddy Shelton?

  She doubted it took much to pop up on McGrath's radar screen, but still.

  She leaped suddenly up off the boulder, as if she'd been bitten by a spider, but it was just nervous energy, restlessness. She'd spent the last two months milking goats and knitting. Why hadn't she come back here sooner? She was convinced now, just as she was a year ago, that the answers to her father's murder didn't lie outside of Goose Harbor. They were here, in her hometown.

  I know who did it….

  Then again, maybe she was letting herself be misled by a dying old woman's ramblings.

  "Damn."

  She took a breath and walked back up to the trail. The three-hundred-acre preserve was her aunt's legacy, as much as her Jen Periwinkle novels were. Olivia had had a long, good life. It was some consolation. Her fa-ther's was cut short, in midlife. He hadn't even had a chance to fight back. For him, Zoe's only consolation was that he hadn't suffered—the coroner said he'd most likely died almost instantly.

  The first murder in Goose Harbor in thirty years.

  She glanced back at the cove, the afternoon light waning as the tide washed over the sand and rock. There were worse places to die.

  Eight

  J.B. wasn't in the mood for darts. He sat at a round table with a good view of Perry's ancient bristle dartboard and wood-shaft darts and drank his iced tea. He was staying away from alcohol. His judgment was off enough as it was. What the hell was he doing, getting involved with these people? He should leave and check into the Kennebunkport inn that Lottie Martin had recommended. Finish his vacation somewhere else.

  Zoe West had gotten to him. She wasn't out of control like he was—she had such a tight rein on herself, it was a wonder she could breathe. It wasn't the picture he'd formed of her based on the stories about her from last fall. He knew about post-trauma reactions. Flashbacks, sleep problems, anger, irritability, numbness. She'd pushed herself. She'd pushed everyone.

  He thought of her standing in the cove where she'd found her father's body. She still had no answers. Bruce plopped down next to him with a beer. "I'm having a lobster roll and calling it dinner. You?"

  "Sounds good."

  Bruce put in their order and settled back in his cap-tain's chair. He'd once insisted that the antique lobster pot on the wall had belonged to his great-grandfather.

  J.B.

  never knew when Bruce was pulling his leg and when he was playing it straight.

  His expression darkened when Kyle Castellane entered the waterfront restaurant with two young women

  J.B.

  had never seen before. They all sat at a table behind Bruce and J.B., and Kyle snapped his fingers at a middle-aged waitress. She walked over and carded him. She had a broad Maine accent, and J.B. thought she was married to one of the lobstermen who wanted to throw him overboard and set fire to his boat.

  The kid argued with her. "I come in here all the time. Nobody asks me for my I.D."

  "I just did," she said.

  He complied, grinned sheepishly at the two women with him. "I guess I won't mind being carded when I'm forty."

  Bruce got up, plucked the darts off the dartboard and walked back to the table, sitting down heavily. "No Christina," he said under his breath. "You see that?"

  "She and Zoe are having dinner together."

  Without standing up, Bruce turned his chair and fired a dart at the board. It hit the wall. He fired another, hitting an outer ring. "They've had a tough year. Chris has a good thing going with her café. She's scared Zoe'll start knocking heads together, or stir up dust just because she's here—"

  "She tell you that?"

  "She's been saying it for months. ‘What if Zoe comes back and it all starts over again?' Like that." He turned slightly to take a sip of his beer, and his eyes shifted to Kyle, just for an instant. He made a face, muttering under his breath. "I wish I knew what she sees in him."

  "He's smart, rich, artistic and not from Goose Harbor." Bruce managed a grin. "Other than that. I just want her to be happy."

  "That's what I told myself when the congressional staffer I was dating last year gave me the heave-ho. It beat the truth."

  "The truth was you're a jackass, McGrat
h." "Possibly. I also wasn't around enough, and I didn't know the right people and get invited to the right parties." "I'll bet you didn't get invited to any parties. Who's she seeing now?"

  "No idea. I've been busy." J.B. left it at that. Bruce had exhibited very little curiosity about the details of J.B.'s work with the bureau, which was just as well since he wasn't getting any of them. "That's why I'm on vacation now."

  "Where you staying tonight?" "My boat, the rate I'm going." Bruce liked that. "I can loan you a sleeping bag and

  a tarp if it rains. You could stay at my place, but I have

  three dogs—most people complain about the dogs." "Do they eat off the counter?" "I don't know. I'm not there all the time."

  "Bruce, if they're good dogs, you know they don't eat off the counters."

  "They're good dogs," he said. "They're just not prissy, overly well-behaved dogs."

  Staying at Bruce's was definitely out. Their lobster rolls arrived, and Bruce examined his before pulling out a small piece of tail meat. "I think I know this guy."

  J.B.

  laughed, feeling more relaxed. If anyone would understand how one of the West sisters could work her way under his skin, it'd be Bruce Young. J.B. started on his lobster roll, but stopped when he heard a commotion near the front door.

  Christina West burst through the crowd at the bar and charged over to Kyle's table. "Caught," Bruce muttered, but he must have seen what J.B. did, because he got to his feet. "What the hell—"

  J.B.

  stood next to him. Christina was white-faced, breathing rapidly, trying to hold back tears. "Someone broke into my café," she told Kyle. "They smashed in the door and took cash out of the register—there wasn't much—"

  Kyle didn't bother to get up. "What about my apartment?"

  "It's fine. They tried jimmying the door, but the police think something scared them away before they could get in. I just left there—" She inhaled sharply, brushed at her tears with the back of her wrist. She had on a black skirt and white top, black shoes that'd be easy on the feet. Despite her obvious distress, her boyfriend still hadn't gone to her. "Zoe's talking to the police."