The Harbor

by Carla Neggers

  Her blanket slipped off her shoulders, and her flimsy bathrobe fell open, exposing the swell of her breasts but, mercifully, not her nipples. Her skin was overheated now; the contrast to the chilly air seemed erotic.

  He trailed one hand down her throat, let his fingertip skim over the curve of one breast before he took in a sharp breath and whispered into her mouth, "I need to stop now or I won't." He stood up straight, but his gaze shot straight to her breasts, his jaw tightening as he raked one hand through his hair. "Hell, Zoe."

  "I don't know." Her voice was hoarse, and she quickly tugged her blanket back over her shoulders. "At least my kiss this morning wasn't a toe-curler."

  "Oh, you don't think so?"

  "It was spur-of-the-moment."

  "Ah-ha."

  "It was."

  "So you think I walked out here with the specific intention of kissing you?"

  She swallowed. "I didn't say that."

  "Where'd you get the robe?"

  Her throat was tight, dry, and she could feel her skin tingling under her blanket, wondered what she'd have done if he hadn't pulled back. Made love to him out here on the porch? Let him carry her inside? She shook off the images. "Bedroom closet. It reminds me of Lucy Ricardo, except I don't have red hair."

  He went to the porch door and pulled it open with more force than was necessary, and she realized he was on edge, fighting for self-control. His muscles seemed tensed, his back rigid. He glanced back at her. "Your sis-ter's invited us to dinner tonight."

  His clenched teeth undermined the normality of his words. Zoe took a quick breath, remembered Stick's warning about him. An undercover agent who'd killed a man in front of his children. Who'd almost been killed himself. A potentially dangerous man who was supposed to be in Maine cooling his heels, not getting mixed up in a year-old murder investigation.

  She took a breath and followed his lead, keeping her words mundane. "Both of us?"

  "Yes, ma'am." His eyes sparkled, his humor back as abruptly as it had vanished. "Probably the whole town saw you kiss me this morning. We're an item."

  "McGrath!" Zoe almost jumped out of her chair but saw his quirk of a smile and stopped herself. "You're kidding, right?"

  "You need to be kidded more, Detective. Life's been damn serious for you for too long."

  "For you, too, don't you think?"

  "Absolutely. That's why I picked Goose Harbor for my vacation."

  She leaned back, wiggling her toes inside her heavy socks. "Is it? I don't know, Special Agent McGrath. I don't think Teddy Shelton's told me the whole story about why he's here. But neither have you."

  "I haven't known you two whole days," he said. "I haven't told you the whole story about anything."

  And he smiled, winked and headed back inside.

  Zoe flopped back against her chair, sighed at the porch ceiling, then made herself pour another cup of tea. An erotic, toe-curling kiss, a dunk in the harbor and a million questions had her reeling. Her peppermint-lic-orice tea would calm her down. She didn't need warming up, not anymore.

  What could J. B. McGrath possibly be hiding?

  She shook her head at the simplicity of her question, because she had a feeling there was nothing simple about her houseguest.

  And she knew how insidious the aftereffects of a traumatic experience could be. Her former colleagues in the state police and her father's small, shattered police force in town had all been more than patient with her in the first weeks after his murder. They understood she'd just wanted to find out who'd shot him on an isolated stretch of Goose Harbor coast and why.

  It wasn't the wanting that got her into trouble—it was pushing herself, and them, beyond all reason. She'd made a pain of herself, complained about the lack of progress in the investigation, demanded answers to questions she knew they weren't going to answer. She meddled. She didn't believe she was somehow magically better than her former colleagues because her father was the victim, or because the FBI had accepted her as a new trainee—she simply couldn't stop herself.

  The last straw was when her criticism of the slow progress of the investigation ended up in the Goose Harbor News. The Boston media picked up the story.

  Finally, Stick Monroe had called her over for a visit.

  They'd stood in his garden as he'd stirred his compost and read her the riot act. If the FBI found out she was handling this crisis this badly, they'd boot her. She could forget the academy. Kiss her career goodbye. "We all understand," he said. "Zoe, I know it's hard, but it's not your case. If you keep this up, you're going to end up on the wrong side of a jail cell, never mind get dis-invited to the academy and lose friends."

  She hadn't cared, not then. It wasn't that she didn't want to—she couldn't step back from the brink of her own need to keep acting, doing, not thinking. She remembered thrusting her chin out at her old friend. "I found him, Stick. I saw his blood mixing with the sand and saltwater. I felt for his pulse. His skin was cool, mot-tled—you know, that bluish-purple marbled effect bodies get—"

  "Stop it, Zoe."

  "I can't!"

  "That's why you need to let CID do their job."

  She'd fought tears, felt so out of control, more than she'd ever experienced in her life, even when her mother died—because both her father and her aunt had been there then, anchoring her, absorbing some of her trauma. "Aunt Olivia—if I hadn't told her—"

  "She still would have died, Zoe." Stick was patient, firm. "You know that. She knew it. She'd been working on revising her obituary that morning before you arrived."

  "I feel so terrible. I've made such an ass of myself."

  "No, you haven't. Patrick was a good man. We all miss him. We all hate what happened to him. But it's time to back off."

  All the rage and fight had gone out of her as she watched Stick use his pitchfork to turn over rich, black dirt made from scraps from his yard and kitchen, his special worms, his care and time—most of all, time. She didn't say a word. She just stared at that new soil and listened to the birds overhead, felt the warm autumn sun on her back contrasting with the cool breeze coming up from the water. No wonder he'd retired to Goose Harbor. No wonder her father and her great-aunt and her sister had stayed.

  Then, still saying nothing, she'd turned on her heel and left. She packed up her car that afternoon and headed south. She stayed in Boston for a few days and bowed out of the FBI Academy. Forget it. She wasn't coming. She contacted people she knew who didn't live in Maine, and within two weeks, she was offered the job as the sole detective in Bluefield, Connecticut.

  And now here she was, back again. Her problems hadn't changed. Her father was still dead, her aunt was still dead, and a murderer was still on the loose.

  Sixteen

  Betsy ate a double-chocolate brownie from Christina's Café as she walked up Ocean Drive to the house where she'd spent two years of her life. If Zoe was there and let her in, it would be the first time Betsy had been into Olivia West's house since her former charge's funeral.

  Those awful days last October weren't easy to think about.

  Olivia had been a forceful but engaging personality, and her fame had given Betsy's work a certain cachet. She wasn't the caregiver for just any old woman, but the creator of Jen Periwinkle.

  Few people were aware, because Betsy kept it to herself, of the generous nest egg Olivia had left her.

  Her legs ached. She needed more regular exercise, but Luke's compulsive "physical training" turned her off. As a little private rebellion, she didn't exercise at all. She could feel the effects now as she puffed and coughed after just half a mile. As a girl, she used to see Olivia walking around town at all hours of the day.

  Betsy had always imagined she was plotting fictional murders. When she started working for her years later, she discovered that Olivia in fact liked to walk when she was plotting a book or was stuck.

  No wonder she'd lived to be a hundred.

  Betsy turned up the driveway and surprised herself at the overwhelming sense
of sadness she felt being here. Olivia was gone. Her nephew, such a good man, was gone. Really, all of Goose Harbor was still dealing with their loss. But how much more awful for the West sisters to endure two deaths in one twenty-four-hour period. Betsy had watched them scatter the ashes, in separate urns, of their great-aunt and their father into the ocean and thought—I'm not going to put off living anymore. I'm going to have fun. Enjoy my life.

  Every day she'd known Olivia West, every day she'd worked for her, Betsy had watched Olivia try to make the best of what she had. She didn't pine for lost opportunities or days past but lived in the moment, the present. Betsy saw that as the key, the answer. She'd promised herself never to forget it. She had to be prac-tical—she didn't have the financial resources of someone like an Olivia West. But that wasn't the point. The point was no more feeling sorry for herself, no more living in the past or the future.

  She'd marched herself down to Luke's yacht and made sure he knew she was interested in him. She'd be his nurse. Romance could come later.

  And it had. Sort of, anyway.

  A leaf-peeping tour bus crawled down Ocean Drive, a string of bumper-to-bumper cars behind it. Betsy noticed J. B. McGrath's Jeep in the driveway next to Zoe's VW and almost turned back. This couldn't be a good development. Zoe needed to move on with her life, not look for reminders of what she'd given up by letting herself get involved with an FBI agent.

  Would the two of them guess what she'd witnessed between Luke and Stick Monroe last night? Was it even relevant?

  Zoe would have an opinion about Betsy's relationship with Luke. Zoe had an opinion about everything. Would she think Betsy had settled somehow? That one or the other of them wasn't worthy of the other? Betsy, because she was the salt-of-the-earth nurse who deserved better than a self-absorbed, mercurial man. Luke, because he was rich and could get more.

  But Betsy resisted making assumptions. She knew she had a bit of a chip on her shoulder, and she didn't like it.

  Before she could change her mind, she ran up the walk to the side entry.

  Zoe already had the door open. "Betsy! I spotted you coming up the driveway." She seemed genuinely pleased. "It's great to see you. Come on in."

  Mumbling something about being glad to see Zoe, too, Betsy followed her into the kitchen. Although she had no idea why, Betsy had always been self-conscious around Zoe, who looked so trim and pretty with her blond curls and blue-gray eyes. She had on slim side-zip pants and a close-fitting dark pink sweater with a V neck that was downright sexy. But she was probably unaware—she'd always seemed oblivious to how attractive she was.

  Betsy felt frumpy in her old L.L. Bean barn coat and elastic-waist chinos.

  She stood in the middle of the kitchen, noticing that Olivia's typewriter was gone. Otherwise it seemed the same as a year ago.

  "Would you like a cup of tea?" Zoe asked.

  "Oh, no, I can't stay long, but thank you." Betsy wondered if Zoe, with all her experience as a police officer, could see through her white lie. What did she have to get back to? Luke was off on his seven-mile run. In truth, she had nothing to do. "I just wanted to stop by and say hello."

  "I appreciate that."

  "I noticed you have company."

  Something came into Zoe's eyes, then was gone again before Betsy could identify it. "Right. It's a long story, but he's upstairs."

  "It's the FBI agent everyone's been talking about? J.B.—"

  "McGrath."

  Betsy smiled. She supposed she was being silly pretending not to have the FBI agent's name on the tip of her tongue. "Now I remember. Like Mr. Lester McGrath. I didn't mean to pry."

  Zoe gave her a reassuring smile. "You're not prying."

  "It's hard to believe she's been dead a year, isn't it?" Betsy stared at the empty table and unexpectedly found herself on the verge of tears. She cleared her throat. "Those two years with her were good ones for me. I did what I could for her at the end."

  "I know, Betsy." Zoe's voice was soft, steady. "No one could have asked more of you. We were all so grateful."

  "It was just her time." Betsy hesitated, uncertain of what to do with herself. Sit? Walk around? Go into the front room? When she'd worked for Olivia, she'd had a sense of authority, a place. "You're staying here at the house?"

  Zoe nodded. "I lost my job in Connecticut. Time to figure out what comes next."

  "The break-ins are worrying, don't you think?"

  "No one's been hurt, nothing taken. Good signs, I hope. It could just be someone scrounging for cash."

  But she didn't think so. Betsy could see that. "I hope so." She ran her fingertips over the oak table. Even if she didn't mean to, Zoe always made her feel inadequate, as if she came up short to her and Christina. Betsy knew better, but she couldn't help it. She managed a quick, awkward smile. "I don't know if you've heard, but I'm living with Luke Castellane on his boat. He and I—we hit it off."

  "I'd heard. You seem happy, Betsy. That's great."

  There was no condescension in Zoe's tone, but Betsy bristled, angry with herself for reading anything into Zoe's words, for wanting this woman's approval, as if Zoe West was somehow an extension of Olivia. That was how Luke saw her. That was why he was protecting her. Betsy doubted Zoe would understand that Luke had hired Teddy Shelton to spy on her and Agent McGrath out of a noble desire to do right by Olivia, a woman who'd done right by him. He'd been devastated by her death. He wasn't over it even now.

  "Betsy," Zoe said, "is something bothering you?"

  She stared out at the water and suddenly wished she hadn't come. "Just being back here, I guess. I'm sorry—"

  "It's okay, but if something's on your mind…"

  "I'm afraid for you, Zoe. I'm afraid for all of us, maybe." Betsy couldn't believe she'd blurted that out, but she couldn't stop herself now. She flew around at Zoe, knowing she must look wild with her wind-tangled hair, the intensity she felt surging through her. "I remember what you were like in the weeks after your father and Olivia's deaths. We all do. It's understandable. No one blames you, Zoe. You wanted answers, and you weren't willing to stop at much to get them."

  Zoe sank into a chair at the kitchen table and nodded with remarkable calm. "That's not much of an exaggeration. I can understand you'd be worried that now that I'm back, especially with these two break-ins, that it'll all start over again and I'll make people's lives miserable."

  "And still end up with no answers." Betsy surprised herself at her own boldness. She eased gingerly onto the chair opposite Zoe and reached across to take her hand, squeezing it gently. "Let sleeping dogs lie, Zoe. The police haven't found anything in a year. You know they've worked hard at it—your father was one of their own. There's no rock, no stone they haven't turned over and looked under. The media aren't letting them off the hook, either. They'll all keep at it."

  "I know. I'm not here to make a mess of things, Betsy. I'm just trying to get on with my life."

  Betsy pulled her hand away and could feel her heart beating like a scared bird's inside her chest. She felt cold, on edge. Nothing she was doing made any sense— she had no plan. And Luke—Luke would be furious with her.

  "Olivia was out of her head that last day," she said, her voice almost inaudible. "You know that, don't you?"

  A flicker of pain came into Zoe's eyes. "Betsy—"

  "She was always making up stories. She didn't write them down anymore, and I think they filled up her head. She could have had one of her stories in mind when she said that about knowing who your father's killer was. She wasn't making sense."

  "Do you think that's why I'm here?"

  Betsy felt her jaw jut out. "You suspect the break-ins are connected to your father's death, don't you?"

  "It doesn't matter what I suspect, and anyway, I'm trying not to jump to conclusions. Betsy, I went over all of what Aunt Olivia said in my own mind last year. Even if she had a hunch—even if she knew—who killed my father, the police couldn't arrest on that basis. They'd need evidence. And there was none.
There is none."

  "It was a stranger," Betsy said firmly, as if saying it could make it so. "It was a drug dealer or a bird poacher from someplace else, an escaped convict, an escaped lunatic. It wasn't anyone from Goose Harbor. Olivia only knew people from here—that's all she saw during her last weeks on this earth, were people from Goose Harbor." Betsy got to her feet and glared at Zoe, as if somehow she was being an obstructionist. "You know that."

  The more agitated she got, the calmer Zoe seemed to get. She stayed in her chair at the table and looked up at Betsy. "And what? You think I believe someone from Goose Harbor killed my father? You think I'll start digging into people's lives here? Betsy—why would I do that without any reason, without any suspicion—" She stopped, narrowing her eyes. "Do you suspect—"

  "Everyone has something to hide," Betsy blurted. She wished she hadn't eaten the brownie, sitting like lead in her stomach now, perhaps the chocolate and the sugar pushing her past the threshold of common sense, common decency. She continued to glare at Zoe. "I'll bet even you have something to hide. Even Olivia. Even your father."

  Zoe went very still, her face draining slightly of its color. She looked pale even against the pretty pink of her sweater. "Betsy, I take your point. Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

  Stricken by her own behavior, Betsy covered her mouth and gasped against her hand, then blinked back tears. "I'm sorry. I had no right. You and your family have gone through so much this year. I should be more understanding, at least more diplomatic."

  "Forget it." Zoe gave her a weak smile and got to her feet. "What happened last year was difficult for you, too. And your larger point's well taken—I don't want to go off half-cocked, either."

  "It's just that you haven't been here every day, with the police, the questions, the little invasions of privacy. It all adds up. Maybe your coming back like this, the break-ins, the time of year, have made some of us—me— realize that we're ready to move on, as difficult as that is to say when your father's murderer is still on the loose."