The Harbor

by Carla Neggers

  "Fair enough." He grinned suddenly, cuffed her on the shoulder. "Hey, it's good to have you back. I'll see you around, okay?"

  He turned and trotted back down toward the docks, apparently delighted with her response. Zoe had the feeling agreeing even to consider his request was more than he'd expected. Feeling the cold, she knotted her hands into fists and slipped them up inside her sleeves again, picking up her pace as another cold breeze gusted off the water. She hadn't counted on the wind.

  "That kid isn't doing a scholarly documentary," J.B. said. His tone was matter-of-fact, not critical. "He's looking for drama, titillation, scandal."

  Zoe nodded. "You're probably right, but I hope not. Christina isn't worried—she knows him better than I do."

  "Blinded by her feelings for him."

  "That's cynical."

  "Just stating the obvious." He wasn't argumentative, and he looked at her without expression. "Your father's death will be in it."

  "It has to be, doesn't it?" She didn't mean for him to answer, and he didn't. "Aunt Olivia died the next morning."

  "You blame yourself?"

  "I shouldn't have told her." She pictured her great-aunt that afternoon, her thin white hair sticking out in soft white waves, like angels' wings, as she tried to remember the name of whoever it was she believed had killed her only nephew. Zoe pulled her lips between her teeth, fighting for self-control. "I thought she'd find out and it'd be better to come from me, but I should have had her doctor with me—"

  "Everyone says her doctor told you it wouldn't have made any difference. That wasn't what killed her."

  I know who killed Patrick. Oh, Zoe, why can't I remember anything anymore?

  "Damn."

  She shot ahead of McGrath, then started to jog, her legs aching almost immediately, the wind whipping tears out of her eyes. She'd been on a run on a morning just like this a year ago, an incredible future ahead of her, everything she wanted, everything she'd worked so hard for, at her fingertips. All of it had evaporated the moment she'd spotted her father's body in the wet, cold sand.

  J.B. fell in beside her. He wasn't running, hadn't made a sound. He was just suddenly there, inches away from her as she slowed to a walk. "I thought I could handle being back here." She was breathing hard, not just from running but also from the tension and swirl of emotions—grief, fear, anger, frustration. An FBI agent in Goose Harbor, the break-ins, Teddy Shelton. Did they have any connection to her father's murder? Crazy to think so. Yet she couldn't stop herself. "I've been away a year and haven't resolved anything—I know that. But I thought—I thought at least I could get up this morning and have a nice breakfast, go out kayaking—"

  "You had a nice breakfast. You can still kayak." A hint of humor came into his tone. "Might want to wait for the wind to die down."

  She stared down at the gray, jagged rocks, a short stretch of pebble-and-gravel beach. The tide was out. Two seagulls picked at an exposed clump of dark green, slimy seaweed.

  She'd gotten to her father before the gulls had. She remembered that.

  J.B.'s calm was a counter to her sense of frenzy, her uneasiness. "How many people knew you liked to run in the nature preserve?" he asked abruptly, quietly.

  She didn't hesitate. She'd answered this question before, at least a dozen times. "I don't know. Everyone. No one. I never thought about it."

  "No way someone would mistake your father for you."

  She shook her head as if he were asking a question. "No. I can't believe that. There's no evidence—nothing to suggest whoever killed him was gunning for me. Technically—" She broke off, shaking her head. "Technically it's possible, but it doesn't seem likely."

  "Any leftover cases from your state police days?"

  "CID looked into it, and I've racked my mind for months. No, there's nothing." She breathed out, smelling the low tide now, wondering how she'd stayed away for as long as she had. "You'd think there'd be a record if my dad was investigating Teddy Shelton. You sure that guy was keeping tabs on me?"

  "No. Could be a coincidence."

  "But you don't think so."

  "I'm keeping an open mind."

  Her own smile took her by surprise. "You're on va-cation—you don't need to keep an open mind."

  He glanced at her. "Like being a civilian, don't you?"

  "It has its advantages."

  He acknowledged her words with a small nod. His nose, she noted, was red, too, but she still had that sensation that he belonged out here, on the Atlantic, Montana or no Montana. He had the hard-bitten look of a man who'd spent his life at sea.

  "Teddy Shelton could have an innocuous reason for being here, you know," she said.

  "He's not your problem, Zoe. I got into it with him. I'll play it out."

  She tilted her head back and eyed Special Agent

  J. B. McGrath, decided he was very serious for someone on vacation. "You're supposed to be relaxing and having fun."

  He smiled. "I am relaxing and having fun."

  His smile eased the tension between them and seemed to go straight through her, penetrating her natural reserve when it came to men. The way it brought a sexy gleam to his blue eyes, the way it tilted up one corner of his mouth and not the other—she found herself licking dry lips.

  Without thinking, without even knowing she was doing it, she put one hand on his hard shoulder and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

  He could have stopped her. He was a trained FBI agent.

  She could have stopped herself, except she hadn't stopped herself from doing anything insane in a year.

  He tasted like salt, and she wanted more.

  Then she realized what she'd done and jumped back, swearing under her breath. "Oh, damn. I must be going nuts."

  "I don't know." His voice was that studied calm, laced with amusement. "Nuts can be good."

  She bolted. She called on all her mental and physical training, her ten years of experience in law enforcement, and got the hell out of there, pushing herself hard and not even feeling the wind now.

  When she reached the house, she was gasping for air and had a sharp stitch in her side. She staggered up the driveway, thinking she might throw up her blueberry pancakes.

  That'd be just great. Kiss an FBI agent, then throw up.

  Everyone in Goose Harbor would know by noon. She'd never hear the end of it. She'd have to move back to Connecticut and stay there for good.

  She could feel the exertion in her calf muscles and had to slow down when she hit the stairs to the second floor. Not in as good a shape as a year ago. Definitely. She'd tried to keep her body fat below twenty-two percent.

  When she reached her bedroom, she shut the door and thought about barricading herself in, but that seemed a little over the top. She'd reacted to the moment. She was entitled. No one would blame her for being just a tad out of control her first days home.

  Except maybe the man she'd kissed out of the blue.

  His footsteps sounded on the stairs. "I'm going for a boat ride," he said calmly, as if nothing had happened. By his standards, maybe nothing had. "Wind's dying down. Need help getting out your kayak?"

  "No. Thanks." She sounded relatively calm and normal herself.

  "Water's fifty-eight degrees in the harbor."

  "Chilly."

  "Yeah. You might think about rolling on purpose. Cool you right off."

  The bastard. The bastard. Zoe almost burst through the door and told him what an unfeeling, obnoxious man he was, making fun of her at a moment of peak embarrassment.

  But she was smiling, too, although she doubted that was a good sign.

  "Don't worry," he said. "Next time you won't catch me off guard."

  Next time?

  He trotted down the stairs. Even through her door, she could hear the kick in his step. He might think she was completely insane, but he hadn't minded being kissed.

  "Well," she muttered, digging in her still-unpacked boxes and bags for suitable kayaking attire, "doesn't that just make my
day?"

  Thirteen

  Zoe waited until it was a rising tide before she got out on the water in her lime-green sit-on-top kayak. She dragged it down the bluff from the garage and launched from a small, protected area among the rocks. She had her life vest and safety whistle, but didn't bother with a dry bag of emergency supplies, since she didn't plan to go far and would stay within yelling distance of shore. She didn't know what had happened to her wet suit and instead had put on exercise tights, an exercise shirt and a fleece vest.

  At first the paddle felt awkward and even the slightest wave or breeze put her on edge, but within a few minutes, she had her kayaking rhythm back.

  Kyle and his documentary and Teddy Shelton and whatever he was up to—J.B. and his questions, even his steady calm—had all zapped her energy and frazzled her nerves. Kayaking should help.

  She should have stayed with her sister after breakfast and fixed her door.

  Not kissed McGrath.

  Maybe her blueberry-pancake sugar high had crashed, explaining her impulsiveness.

  She breathed out and dipped one end of her paddle into the water. It was just her and the gulls. The lobster boats were in deep water. Most of the pleasure boats were south or north of the harbor or docked. She noticed the Castellane yacht hadn't moved.

  The wind was in her face, but it'd be at her back on her return trip, when she'd really be feeling the effects of her first time in a kayak in a year. As she crossed the harbor, she avoided the shipping channels so she wouldn't run into the path of a bigger boat, which wouldn't easily see a small kayak, even a lime-green one. Bruce liked to threaten to run her over with his lobster boat. He thought most kayakers were irresponsible and out of their minds.

  She kept her weight centered in her boat and used her shoulders to dip the paddle, first on one side, then the other. Her kayak was stable and easy to maneuver, but not meant for long treks.

  The sounds of the gulls and the ocean soothed her raw nerves. Normally she'd have headed northeast to the quiet waters among the small islands along the shore of the nature preserve. There were spots with tricky currents, strong tides, shallow, narrow passages and underwater ledges that could be treacherous for both kayakers and power boaters, but Zoe knew where they were. She loved the islands, but the reminders of a year ago would be everywhere and she didn't want that, not today.

  She rested a moment, letting her kayak bob in the water, her shoulders aching but not unpleasantly so. Her father and Olivia used to sit on her aunt's front porch and watch Zoe and Christina kayak along the shore as teenagers. Christina didn't go out as often once she started college, but Zoe stayed with it, kayaking a great way for her to relieve stress. She wondered if her sister would take it up again—Kyle Castellane had an expensive kayak capable of handling long treks and virtually any condition. He'd never taken a lesson.

  Too busy trying to get into Olivia's attic, Zoe thought, suddenly put out with him for bringing up his request when she was still getting her feet under her now that she was back in Goose Harbor, when she was trying to figure out what was going on with the two break-ins.

  Then again, she supposed she should give Kyle credit for not walking in through the front door the way McGrath had.

  She stiffened, going very still in her boat. Christina had locks on her café doors and her house doors— forced entry wasn't necessary at Olivia's house. Just go through the damn porch door.

  Could whoever had broken in to her sister's house and café have gone through Olivia's as well? Were she and Christina the targets, or just Christina, or were the break-ins random and had nothing to do with either of them?

  Zoe shook her head, nearly throwing herself off balance and turning over her boat. But she quickly centered herself and continued paddling, moving closer to shore now that she'd passed the town docks.

  No one had broken into her aunt's house. The only uninvited guest she'd had was her FBI agent.

  Staying close to shore, she paddled past a rockbound point and out of the harbor, the water less choppy now, no wind. Bruce's lobster pound was up ahead, quiet at midday. She headed toward the protected salt marsh and figured she'd turn around in the cove there.

  As she passed Bruce's wreck of a cottage, just thirty feet from her, she noticed a heap of a truck parked out back, then saw Teddy Shelton walk out onto the rotting deck. He waved to her. "How's the kayaking?"

  "Invigorating."

  "Zoe, right? Zoe West? I heard you were back in town."

  She nodded. "It was time. You renting this place from Bruce?"

  "Yeah. Fancy, huh?"

  "Nice location."

  "Stinks at low tide."

  She smiled. "You get used to it."

  "Not me."

  He walked down the two half-rotted porch steps and followed a sandy path through the tall beach grass and wild beach roses and stood at the water's edge, the tide nearly in now, lapping at his feet.

  Zoe could feel her boat scraping the sandy bottom of the shallow cove. It was high tide, but the water wasn't much more than two feet at its deepest here. At low tide, the cove would be a wide stretch of mud. She skimmed her paddle over the still, clear water and tried to keep her boat from pushing in toward land with the tide. She was at a disadvantage and should say goodbye.

  But she didn't. "I understand you got off on the wrong foot with my houseguest."

  "That FBI asshole? Yeah, I did."

  Zoe noticed Shelton hadn't hesitated when she referred to J.B. as her houseguest. But given Bruce's big mouth, she wouldn't be surprised if it was all over town by now.

  "He should clear out," Shelton said, pushing a toe into the wet, soft sand. "He's pissing people off."

  Zoe gave a neutral nod and said nothing.

  Shelton lit a cigarette. He was a big man, probably in his early forties, and wore faded jeans, a denim jacket over a white T-shirt and a belt with a huge silver buckle. He shook his head, blowing out smoke. "You cops. Always suspicious. They teach you that in cop school, pester people who're sitting in their truck minding their own business?"

  "I'm not a cop anymore."

  "That's right. I heard that. You back for good?"

  "I don't know yet."

  A sudden swell lifted her kayak and pushed it toward shore, the bottom scraping hard in the sand. If she ran aground, she'd have to get out and shove off again, and she didn't want to do that, not with Teddy Shelton standing there smoking his cigarette and lying to her.

  "I have to go." But she added, "Did you hear about the break-in at my sister's café last night?"

  Shelton nodded thoughtfully, holding his cigarette between two fingers. "Any leads?"

  "I don't know. I haven't talked to the police since last night. I doubt there are."

  He grinned at her, exhaled more smoke. "Still got your cop instincts, don't you?"

  She smiled without any meaning, any pleasantness behind it. No wonder this guy had popped up on J.B.'s radar screen, as he'd put it. "I have training and experi-ence—I'm not sure I ever had any instincts. If you see Bruce, tell him I said hi, okay?"

  "Sure. No problem."

  Zoe felt his eyes on her as she turned, her back to him as she and her lime-green kayak scooted over the calm water. Her strokes were even, rhythmic, with more energy than before she'd talked to him. She paddled past the lobster pound and started to move in closer to the rockbound point, but an ancient, battered lobster boat was in her way, motionless in the water about twenty feet from shore. Approaching it on its nonworking side was a good way to get run over—the pilot could easily swing his boat around before he realized she was there.

  She paused in the water, debating her options.

  Then she squinted at the faded buoy atop the pilothouse and recognized Bruce's colors.

  It was the old boat he'd rented to McGrath.

  "Ah, hell."

  He must have seen her talking to Teddy Shelton. He'd positioned his boat so that she'd have to paddle in a wide arc out into choppier water or cut betw
een him and the shoreline, where she'd be within just a few feet of him. Working or nonworking side didn't matter, because J.B. wasn't on the water to catch lobsters.

  Zoe was too tired and sore even to try sneaking around him the long way. Straightening her spine, she took powerful strokes and maneuvered her kayak toward shore, debating whether she should just land here on the rocks, hoist her kayak on her shoulder and walk the rest of the way. But then she'd be acting as if she'd done something stupid, and she hadn't.

  The stern of J.B.'s boat was pointed at her. She could see him in the pilothouse and decided just to paddle along the shore as if she didn't have a care in the world.

  J.B. sauntered out and leaned over the gouged working side of his boat, where Bruce and before him his father had checked and rebaited their traps, day after day, in every manner of weather. "Want a ride?" he asked as if he just happened to be there.

  "I'm fine. Thanks."

  "Long way back across the harbor."

  She kept paddling. "Wind's at my back."

  "I saw you have a little chat with Shelton." His tone was unreadable. "Thought I'd have to jump in the water and come to your rescue."

  Zoe narrowed her eyes up at him, and all she could think was—damn, he really did look like he'd jumped off a Winslow Homer seascape. He was tight-lipped, stoic-looking, sexy, so at ease in his boat he might have grown up on the water.

  But he also wasn't happy with her at all. Not that she let it bother her. "What if Teddy is what he says he is and

  you're just on his case because he thinks you're a jerk?"

  "Did he tell you I was a jerk?"

  "Actually, he referred to you as ‘that FBI asshole.'"

  "That's what you two talked about? Me?"

  "We didn't talk about anything." She was beginning to feel restless, exposed. "I have to get going. If I stop paddling, my shoulders are going to seize up on me, and then you will have to rescue me."

  He stood up straight and smiled at her. "Could be fun."

  She ignored him and the unsettling picture in her mind of the two of them in the cold Atlantic. "I'll see you later?"

  "Most definitely."

  * * *

  He'd been kissed and called an asshole. J.B. figured that provided a certain balance to his day. He puttered on back to the town docks and tied up his boat, then walked over to Christina West's café for her incomparable Maine crab cakes and coffee. It was cold out on the water. He could see Zoe still making her way across the harbor. Her cheeks were red from the wind and cold when he'd cornered her.