"Zoe and that FBI agent, you mean," Luke said.
Stick nodded. "Precisely."
"I had nothing to do with Patrick's death." Luke's voice was raspy, as if he were being strangled. "Neither did Shelton."
"I didn't say I or anyone else suspect you of any wrongdoing. I just don't think you want the likes of Zoe West and J. B. McGrath asking questions about why you hired Teddy Shelton." Unruffled, Stick polished off the last of his champagne and got slowly to his feet. He set the glass on the bar. "They're going to want to know who you suspect of wrongdoing. How far will you go—"
"Go to hell!"
Luke reared back to punch Stick, but the old judge shook his head, as if his disapproval alone would be enough to ward off the attack. It was. Luke backed away, breathing in rapid, shallow gulps, spit oozing out at the corners of his mouth. Betsy had never seen him so angry.
"Get off my boat," he spat. "Now."
Stick still didn't react. "Luke, I'm not accusing you of anything except hiring Teddy Shelton. I don't question your motives. Others might, but I don't. I know you wanted him to check out this FBI agent and keep an eye on Zoe—because you're afraid for her, afraid for Christina, afraid for your son."
Betsy was stunned, and she lost her footing, stumbling on the flat carpeting. "Luke? What's going on?"
"Your loyalty to Olivia is no secret," Stick continued. "Given Zoe's behavior this past year, we all want to make sure she doesn't self-destruct. I imagine we all have things we'd rather hide from the prying eyes of the police. A murder investigation spares no one. But to spy on Zoe here in Goose Harbor requires a subtlety and expertise Teddy Shelton doesn't have. People might draw the wrong conclusion if they find out."
"I don't care what people think. I've done nothing wrong!"
"Luke," Betsy said, "that FBI agent was talking to Teddy earlier today—"
He swung around at her. "Stay out of this, Betsy."
Stick waited. Betsy, breathless, could feel her pulse thumping in her temple and thought—watch, I'll drop dead of a stroke and Luke'll be fine.
"Patrick was my friend as much as yours," Luke continued, calmer but obviously only because he was forcing himself. "Just because I'm wealthy doesn't mean I'm arrogant and accustomed to having my own way. Don't make assumptions about me, Stick."
"Oh, for God's sake, Luke." Stick seemed almost amused. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were stating the obvious. "You are arrogant and accustomed to having your own way. So is your son. I'm here because I'm your friend. I'm not implying you know anything about Patrick's death or have anything to hide. I'm merely asking you to cut your ties with Shelton and head south. If this liaison with Teddy Shelton goes sour and someone gets hurt, what do you think will happen to you? Who do you think will stand up for you? You don't have a lot of friends in Goose Harbor as it is."
"When Olivia was alive—"
"She was a great lady and may be the only person in your life who ever loved you unconditionally, but she's gone, Luke. I know Zoe as if she were my own daughter, and I just had an encounter of my own with J. B. McGrath. Don't be fooled by his easygoing manner, playing darts with the guys, letting them tease him, teasing them back. He's tough as nails. Suspicious, well-trained." Stick stood back from the bar. "I'd listen to me if I were you."
Luke was silent, breathing hard. Betsy stumbled forward a few steps and touched Stick on the elbow. "It's time to leave, Stick. Luke's done. You won't get any more out of him tonight."
His expression softening, Stick didn't jerk his arm from Betsy's grasp but instead reached across with his free arm and patted her hand. "You're the salt of the earth, Betsy. I'm just trying to get him to see this situation for what it is. If I had any information, any inkling, Luke was trying to protect a murderer, I'd take what I knew to the authorities."
"Don't interfere, Betsy," Luke said. "Do yourself a favor for once and mind your own business."
"Luke," Stick chided him. "You're lucky to have a woman like Betsy in your life."
Luke said nothing.
Betsy tried to hide her embarrassment with a polite smile. She'd always been intimidated by Stick— it wasn't his fault. His reputation, his intellect, his manners, the fact that he'd lived in and seen more of the world than she ever would—everything about him made her feel frumpy and inadequate. At seventy-two, he could walk farther than she could. He grew prettier roses.
"Here," she said quietly, "I'll walk you out."
"It's all right, Betsy, I know the way." Stick kissed her warmly on the cheek. "I'm sorry about all this. Think of it as a form of tough love. I had to get through to him."
He nodded at Luke, who said nothing, his lips bloodless, and left.
When she was sure Stick was gone and out of earshot, Betsy grabbed up his empty champagne glass. "I hope the old fart trips and falls headfirst into the harbor. A dose of cold Maine water might give his system just the shock it needs." She noticed Luke was sweat
ing, trembling. "I suppose he means well."
"Betsy…"
She didn't move to his side. She'd learned not to go near him unless he wanted her there. "What do you want me to do, Luke?"
"Help me…" He gasped for air. "Help me to bed."
"Are you sure? It's still early—"
His eyes shot through her, and she realized that even as upset as he was, anger and humiliation seethed just beneath the surface. She knew he hated the idea of someone like Stick Monroe thinking he'd done something stupid. "Help me."
"Do you want me to check your blood pressure?"
He shook his head. "I know it's high. I can feel it."
He motioned for her to come close, and when she put her arm around his lower back and took his hand, she could feel that his skin was clammy. But there wasn't a thing wrong with him. He'd live to be a hundred, unless it turned out all the supplements he was taking were no good for him, after all.
She guided him back to his stateroom. She had her own. He kept a little bell by his table in case he needed her in the night, not just for medical care. For sex, too. It was just a little arrangement they had. It made him feel more secure, and she didn't mind. Her stateroom was beautiful, and she appreciated the quiet nights when she could just sit in bed and read. But she'd die if anyone knew she responded to a bell.
She helped Luke out of his clothes. There was nothing romantic or loving in her actions, nothing remotely sexual. This was work. She was the nurse now, the professional.
"I don't think Kyle's relationship with Christina is anything that'll last, but if he—" Betsy found herself unable to get a proper breath. "Luke, I know you can't think your son had anything to do with Patrick's death."
"I asked you to mind your own business. None of this is your concern. Betsy—" He shivered as if suddenly he was cold, and she pulled back the covers of his bed and helped him slip beneath them. He took her hand, his eyes brimming with tears. "I'm sorry. Betsy, I don't know how I'd manage without you."
Pure drama. He'd be fine without her. He knew it. Betsy wasn't fooled. He just didn't want her to tell Kyle about Stick's visit. Let the plain, single nurse feel wanted and loved, and she'd do anything. Betsy had no illusions about Luke or their relationship.
"Let me know if you decide you want to get up," she said, keeping her tone clinical, professional. "Ring the bell. I'll be up for a few more hours."
He nodded. "I can't believe Stick came in here like that. Who does he think he is?"
"I don't know, Luke. I think he just wants to look out for you."
"Later." He raised his hand higher and pressed two fingers against one of her nipples, through the fabric of her top, an example, she thought, of the sort of abrupt, inappropriate gesture that had kept most women out of his life. "I might want you later."
Betsy thought of several sarcastic remarks about heart attacks and strokes, but she withdrew to the main salon without comment and checked the bottle of champagne. Another glass left. She poured it for herself and sank back onto the sec
tional.
She stared out at the dark harbor, wondering how long she had before she heard the tinkle of Luke's little bell— and what was wrong with her for staying to find out.
Ten
Despite the cold night, Zoe slept with the window open and awoke to the sounds of the ocean and the seabirds, and for a moment, she felt as if her life was normal again. Then she remembered she was in the twin room because McGrath had the big bedroom, and she could hear him in the shower down the hall. Picturing him naked was enough to propel her out of bed. She pulled corduroy pants and a fisherman's sweater out of her backpack and jumped into them, bolting downstairs before she could bump into her houseguest coming out of the shower.
It had been a long-enough night as it was, just knowing he was in the next room.
She ended up telling J.B. about her year in Connecticut while they carried her belongings upstairs. How she'd asked questions about the governor's drowning death that the state detectives were slow in asking or not asking at all. In Maine, she'd have been one of them, so she'd tried not to step on toes—but she was persistent.
Then it had all, literally, blown up. Bombs, shootings, national Breaking News happening right in the tiny Connecticut town where she was the sole detective.
J.B. had surprised her. He'd stood in the hallway and said, "I'm sorry about your father, Zoe. It must still be very hard for you and your family."
Then he went into his bedroom, shut the door and left her alone.
She'd failed her father. He'd have expected more of her. At the very least he'd have expected her to stand and fight until his killer was brought to justice.
Except that wasn't true.
He'd have wanted her to mourn him and then go on with her life. Leave the investigation to CID. Go to Quantico. She could almost hear his soothing voice… It's okay, Zoe, it's okay, you don't have to worry about me.
It had been one long damn night, she thought, pulling open the freezer. Only one Toaster Strudel left in the box.
"Ah-ha," J.B. said from the doorway, "so the Toaster Strudels are yours. I thought you were the flax-seed type."
"I am. I sprinkle ground flax seed on the Toaster Strudels. You can't even taste it."
"That, ex-Detective West, is disgusting."
He smiled, and that just made everything worse. She'd noticed how good-looking he was again last night while he was carrying boxes and trying not to bug her about the break-in at the café and Stick Monroe being such a jerk and Christina and Kyle and all of it. It wasn't the first time she'd noticed, but it was the first time she'd admitted to herself she was attracted to him. Physically, in a kind of elemental, rock-you-to-the-core way that generally only led to trouble.
She didn't trust her reactions. Responding to his blue eyes, his irreverent smile and his long, lean legs and scarred hands, his shoulders and flat stomach, could just be an unconscious ploy to keep her from confronting why she was even in Goose Harbor. Maybe even why he was.
He came up next to her and shut the freezer door. He had on a navy pinwale corduroy shirt and jeans. If he was physically aware of her, he gave no sign of it. Probably just didn't want to split the Toaster Strudel with her.
"Wait," she said. "I almost forgot. I have cider doughnuts—"
"Save them. Why don't we have some of your sis-ter's wild blueberry muffins? We can see how things are at the café this morning."
She nodded. "Make sure the police didn't miss anything."
"I'm not second-guessing them."
"Right. Of course not." She smiled, and for an instant, she wondered where she'd be now if she'd followed through and gone to Quantico. "We can walk. On the way I'll tell you how I've come to my senses and decided you shouldn't stay here, after all."
"Why not?" His voice was low and amused, and he stood very close to her, making her think he might actually be physically aware of her. He said softly, "I behaved."
Oh, God.
She darted past him to the side entry and pushed open the door, welcoming the gust of brisk autumn air, the sparkle of the sun on the water and the gleam of brightly colored leaves. But J.B. was right behind her, and she had to fight an image of him in the shower. The ends of his hair were still damp.
This was not good.
Dew had collected on the mums and the grass and glistened in the morning sun, and she could hear the wash of the waves down on the rocks. It was cool enough for a jacket, even over her sweater, but she didn't want to take the time to go back for one—she wanted to get to the café and join other people as soon as possible. She didn't need to be alone with J. B. McGrath for one minute longer than was absolutely necessary.
She was feeling awkward and out of control this morning, but it wasn't just him. It was last night, too. She'd talked with Donna Jacobs, the acting chief of police, a former captain with the Portland Police Department—very good, but wary of having Zoe back in town, especially with two break-ins within twenty-four hours of her return.
The water was choppy in the harbor as they walked along Ocean Drive, no sign of fog or mist or rain in the clear air. The bright reds and oranges of the huge, stately maple trees in yards above the harbor were breathtaking against the blue sky. Soon the leaves would start to fall, the reds first, the rusts and burgundies last.
Zoe had to choke back a tug of emotion. Autumn was her favorite season in Maine. She used to associate it with cooler weather, beautiful scenery, plentiful lobsters, hikes and Olivia's birthday—for years, they'd all wondered if she would make it to her next birthday, never realizing that she'd die on her birthday. Her one-hundred-first.
"I think you should probably find a different place to stay," she said.
J.B. shrugged. "Let me get more information onTeddy Shelton first. Then you can decide what to do with me. You don't go armed anymore, ex-detective. I might come in handy."
"I'm going to let you think you're funny."
"Who's trying to be funny?"
"McGrath, you're not armed. You're on vacation—"
"I can be armed. Just watch me."
From her own experience in law enforcement, Zoe knew that FBI agents could carry a weapon in any state, without a local permit, on duty or off. "How long are you on this vacation of yours?"
"It's open-ended."
"Meaning they don't necessarily want you back?"
"Of course they want me back. They just aren't sure what to do with me."
"No more undercover work?"
"I never said I worked undercover."
"Stick—"
"Judge Monroe can say what he wants." He glanced over at her, his very blue eyes unreadable. The more agitated she got, the calmer he seemed to get. "I can't talk about it."
"He says you were almost killed. Your throat—" "Your friend Stick must have good connections."
"Excellent connections." Zoe narrowed her eyes on him, aware not only of her quickening heartbeat but of just how damn sexy he was. It was nuts. She had to be going out of her mind. "I've got enough going on in my life right now without hanging around with a loose cannon of an FBI agent."
"You'll have to draw your own conclusions about me," he said quietly. "Yes, I'm just off a rough investigation. Yes, I'm on vacation to help put it behind me. I did my job. It wasn't easy. End of story."
"Bruce thinks you're just obnoxious. Christina says the guys all want to throw you overboard and set fire to your boat."
"That's because I know more and can do more ocean stuff than they think an FBI agent born and raised in Montana should."
Zoe smiled. "Like Bruce said. Obnoxious."
The docks were quiet at this hour. The working boats were already out, the pleasure boats—fewer of them in October than during the summer months—were still in. A handful of walkers and runners cruised the waterfront streets, but most of the tourists were still tucked in bed or having scones and muffins at their inns.
Pulling her hands up into her sleeves, Zoe looked across the harbor and saw two lobster boats churning out to sea.
J.B. hunched his shoulders against a sudden gustingbreeze. "You can almost see Jen Periwinkle crawling around on those rocks, can't you? I've only read a few of your aunt's mysteries, but her fictional Maine is a lot like the real one."
"All Jen Periwinkle's mysteries get solved," Zoe said.
"No DNA labs, either. She does it with her wits and clues scattered through the book. It's fun, a puzzle to be solved. Real life—"
"Real life's different. Aunt Olivia knew that."
J.B.
nodded, as if he'd known her himself. "I'm sure she did."
"She never took anything here for granted. That's why she created the nature preserve and left most of her money for its protection and continuing work." Zoe glanced out toward the head of the harbor and her aunt's famous house, a Maine landmark. Hers now. An honor and a burden, but a problem for later. "She was born and raised in Goose Harbor and lived here her whole life, but she didn't assume that everything she loved would automatically be here for future generations."
J.B.
moved on toward the café. "Did people mind when she bought up that much prime coastal acreage and set it aside as a nature preserve?"
"At first it was controversial, but you can't develop every single inch of coastline. People know that. And it turns out the preserve attracts tourists and ultimately makes money for the town."
"Even with two break-ins in two days, there was a lot more crime in Jen Periwinkle's Goose Harbor."
Zoe looked out past the mouth of the harbor at the endless blue horizon, where sky and water seemed to meet. "At least the crimes Jen had to deal with only affected fictional characters, not real people."
Eleven
Christina's Café was between crowds. The lobstermen had grabbed their coffees and muffins and gone, and the tourists hadn't arrived yet. On his first few days in Goose Harbor, J.B. wandered in with the lobstermen, then went out on his rented boat and stayed out of their way—at least his definition of out of their way. The lobstermen wanted him back in Washington.
The Harbor Page 8
