"Not going to let me use the green one?"
She grinned at him. "Your reputation might benefit from a pink kayak."
He found it in the back of the garage and dragged it, a paddle and a life vest out to the path. Zoe was lifting her lightweight kayak over a stretch of jagged rocks. She wasn't doing this because she got dunked yesterday— she was doing it to make sure she minded her own business and stayed out of the police's way. Let them find Teddy Shelton and talk to him.
J.B. knew he should follow her lead, but that wasn't why he'd offered to join her. He didn't want her out on the water alone. It wasn't a protective impulse so much as a common-sense one. Zoe could take care of herself, but she wouldn't naturally or easily regard anyone or anything in Goose Harbor as dangerous. J.B. didn't have that problem.
He made his way down the steep rock path and slid his kayak over the gravel beach. The air was clear and ice-cold down by the water. If he didn't take to kayaking, it could be a rough few hours.
Zoe zipped up her life vest. "Quick lesson. Wear your vest. Put it on properly. If you get into trouble, blow the whistle."
"Got it."
Next she demonstrated how to hold her paddle. "You want to stay centered in your boat. Don't lean with your shoulders or your torso or you'll go over. Just find that center line and hold it."
J.B. noticed the dark circles under her eyes. He
doubted she'd slept well. "I don't want to capsize."
"Then don't lean."
Next she showed him how to paddle. Stay centered. Use his shoulders. Develop a rhythm. To turn, paddle on the opposite side he wanted the boat to go. She showed him how to do a power turn to reverse direction, but he didn't know if he'd remember that maneuver. She said it was easy. Natural.
"We'll stay in calm waters, close to shore," she said. "The hard part is when you run into winds, currents, big swells, rapids, swirls, unexpected rocks. You should have a proper lesson, but at least I'll be with you if something happens." She grinned at him. "Then I can blow my whistle."
"Okay, Captain, let's launch."
"Another thing. You'll get wet. It's unavoidable. You'd do better in a wet suit, especially on a day like today. But so would I."
He had on khakis, a canvas shirt and his boat shoes. If he got wet, he'd stay wet. He noticed her outfit emphasized the shape of her slim body. "That'd be something. You in a wet suit."
"Don't even go there."
But he already had, and would again before his first-ever kayaking expedition. It'd be something to do out on the water. Think about Zoe in a wet suit.
He had to be out of his mind. He'd need another vacation to get over this one.
She pushed her tights up to mid-calf. She was wearing beat-up water sneakers with no socks and just plunged into the rising tide, dropping seat-first into her kayak and shoving off with her paddle. Her moves were competent and effective if not smooth. She used her paddle to keep from getting pulled back to shore with the tide. "I forgot to tell you how to get in the boat. Did you see me? Butt first. Legs next. Don't drop your paddle. And zip up your life vest. It won't do you any good if it falls off."
Or if he froze to death before he could get back in his boat. J.B. complied with her instructions, but he wasn't smooth or competent in launching—and he got wetter than she did. But he ended up in his boat, and after some remedial instruction from his guide, he was paddling along fairly well. As promised, he did get wet.
They meandered northeast along the rocky coast, past Sutherland Island and amidst the small islands off the Olivia West Nature Preserve. Because of the narrow passages and shallow waters, J.B. had stayed away from the smaller islands in his lobster boat. He'd never live down getting hung up on an underwater ledge or running aground in the mud.
Zoe finally led him to a pocket beach on the northwest shore of Sutherland Island. She hadn't shown him how to land, either, but there was nothing to it. She explained that it was important to pick out a sandy beach, some place where they'd have a minimal impact on the environment—he wasn't to be fooled by the rugged appearance of the landscape.
J.B. thought she looked relaxed and in her element.
They peeled off their life vests and sat together on a rounded, sun-warmed boulder above the water and several low-lying wild blueberry bushes. Zoe had a dry bag and offered to share her water bottle and Christina-made ginger cookies. Her rear end was just as soaked as his, but her tights would dry faster than his khakis.
"So, this island's named after one of your ancestors," she said. "George Sutherland. Did you know he fought in the Revolutionary War? He's buried here."
"On the island?"
"Mm. There's an old cemetery. Do you want to see it? It's not very far."
She was already on her feet, ginger cookie in hand. He followed her across an open expanse of sloping gray rock, the tide crashing below—much rougher here than where they'd landed. They curved inland, taking a visible but overgrown path under pines and spruces, until they arrived at a tiny, shaded cemetery enclosed in a crumbling three-foot wrought-iron fence. Maybe a dozen slender stone rectangles marked graves.
Zoe climbed over the fence and examined the largest of the stones, leaning slightly with time. "George Sutherland. There he is."
J.B. joined her at his ancestor's stone. 1742 to 1797. Just fifty-five when he died. J.B. knelt in the weeds and touched the smooth, cool stone, and tried to imagine what life must have been like on this small island over two hundred years ago.
"When did the Wests get here?" he asked Zoe.
"Not that early. Olivia and her brother were the first Wests actually born in Goose Harbor. Before that they were in Portsmouth, I think. My mother's family came down from Castine—it's just below Mt. Desert Island."
J.B. checked the other gravestones. Many also bore the name Sutherland. There were two babies, a teenaged girl. "No one lives on the island these days," he said.
"Not since the late nineteenth century."
A bramble stuck on Zoe's upper thigh, and she picked it off unconsciously. Gravestones or no gravestones, J.B. noticed the shape of her legs, the curve of her hip, thought again of that rose tattoo. She seemed oblivious.
They climbed back over the fence. He could feel his kayaking in his arms and shoulders. Zoe seemed unaffected, but he had no doubt she'd fake it just to lord her greater experience over him. He tended to bring out the competitiveness in people, make them feel as if they had something to prove to him. It wasn't always a bad thing. Wanting to stick it to him could bring out the best in people, too.
On their way back to their kayaks, he noticed a partial stone foundation amidst the birches and pines, the dry undergrowth. Zoe explained it was the foundation of the original Sutherland house, which, according to local legend, had burned down the same night Abraham Lincoln was shot. The entire island nearly went up in flames. Island fires and boat fires. Both were treacherous.
"There's an old boathouse at the tip of the island,"
J.B.
said. "I noticed it when I was out on my boat last week. New door, new lock."
"Really? I wonder if Luke worked out a deal with the preserve. He owns the island, but Olivia left the preserve enough money to buy it from them—of course, I think he should just donate it." She smiled as if she knew she was expecting a lot. "I know the preserve wants the island for public access. They think it'll help discourage people—especially kayakers—from stopping on the smaller islands and disturbing the seabird nests. They can picnic and prowl around here instead."
J.B.
nodded, looking out through the brightly coloredleaves and the dark green of the spruces and pines. "Gravestones, cellar holes, history, wildlife and scenery. Not a bad combination."
They returned to their kayaks, and after more water and cookies, set off back down the coast, the wind holding back until they reached Olivia's point. J.B. had no illusions he could handle white water and tough currents or one of Maine's notorious fog banks floating in, but he decid
ed he did all right his first time in a kayak.
When they pulled their boats out of the water, he thought he noticed Zoe might be examining his wet butt. He smiled to himself. Yesterday's kisses hadn't been a fluke, a response to the stress of her first full day home. The woman had something going for him. He didn't mind at all.
They left their kayaks in the front yard and headed up to change into dry clothes, but they didn't make it to their respective bedrooms. They got as far as the upstairs hall before J.B. scooped her up and found her mouth, lifted her onto him as she wrapped her arms around him.
"Damn," she whispered, "it must be the kayaking— I can't seem to resist you."
"Good."
She kissed him back deeply, hungrily, her arms over his shoulders, her fingers clasped behind his neck. When he lifted her higher, pressing her against him, his hands slid over her wet tights, the curve of her hips, between her legs. The wetness there wasn't cold at all.
But his intimate touch startled her, seemed to bring her back to reality. She slid down off him, back to the floor, and caught her breath, pushing both palms through her short blond curls. "I should get changed," she mumbled, and disappeared into her room.
J.B. didn't push it.
Retreating to his room, he put on dry pants and checked his voice mail. He had a message from Bruce Young. No boats missing at the lobster pound. No one saying they'd seen Teddy Shelton or given him a ride. "The guy's gone, McGrath," Bruce had said. "Maybe it's just as well."
Teddy Shelton had hit the road. Kyle Castellane wasn't pressing charges. J.B. clipped his belt holster back on and decided it wasn't necessary. He didn't need a gun. He needed a dose of common sense. He should go back to D.C. and let these people get on with their lives. If he hadn't tapped on Shelton's window, probably nothing would have happened. He wouldn't have beaten up Kyle last night and spent the night in the marsh. J.B. wouldn't have found out Stick Monroe had sentenced him to seven years.
Maybe he wouldn't have kissed Zoe the way he had.
She met him downstairs in the kitchen, and J.B. filled her in. She shook her head at Bruce's suggestion that Teddy Shelton was gone. "We're not going to be that lucky. He's still here. Lunch at Christina's? I haven't had my annual fried fish sandwich."
J.B. smiled. "No fish for me. I want meat."
She muttered something about Montanans, but at least she was smiling and the circles under her eyes didn't seem so ominous. He thought it might be that near-lovemaking in the upstairs hall, but she'd probably say it was the kayaking.
Twenty-Two
Betsy O'Keefe poked at a slice of warm apple pie. She was at a table in the far corner of the café, the only one without any window at all. She didn't want Luke to see her. Luke would disapprove of her apple pie. He seldom ate out. He worried about food poisoning. Normally she didn't have to worry about him seeing her, but he and Stick Monroe had gone for a walk together.
The café was crowded, but Betsy thought she looked like all the other tourists in her stretchy pants, windbreaker and walking shoes. Except she was alone. None of the tourists were alone.
"Hey, Betsy."
"Kyle." She was so relieved at seeing him she almost made a fool of herself. "Please, sit down. How are you feeling today?"
"Like shit." But he smiled, wincing in pain as he did. His swelling was down, but his bruises had blossomed, blues and purples oozing out across his face. Teddy Shelton had done a job on him. Betsy noticed last night that Luke hadn't mentioned to Kyle that he even knew Teddy, never mind that Teddy was on his payroll. "Sneaking out for pie, huh? Good for you, Betsy."
"Can I order anything for you? Pie, a milk shake— anything?"
"No, I'm fine." Despite his ordeal, he was in reasonably good spirits. "Chris used local apples. She has this thing about picking just the right apples for her pies. She likes Cortland, Baldwin, Northern Spy—I forget what else. Not Macs. She says they're best for eating. Me, I used to think an apple's just an apple."
"She's a wonderful cook," Betsy said. "And I noticed she was there for you last night."
"Yeah, after she thought I stood her up for dinner."
"I know from your perspective this doesn't matter right now, but truly, Kyle, you're very fortunate you weren't hurt worse."
"I know." He reached over and grabbed a bit of crust from her plate, eating it on the less-injured side of his mouth. "Betsy, do you think if she were alive, Olivia would object to my documentary?"
"I don't know. Probably."
"Why?"
"She was a private person, and she was very careful with what she let people know about her. She realized she couldn't control what they said, but she could try to keep them from learning all her secrets. Her books were her way of communicating with the world. For her, that was enough."
"Think she had any secrets?"
"We all have secrets, Kyle."
He tried smiling again. "Not you, Betsy."
She thought of herself breaking into Luke's files. "Everyone, Kyle. It's just that my secrets don't matter."
"You're the good nurse," he said. "You'd never divulge a patient's secrets, even if you knew them. Right?"
"That's right. I admire your tenacity, Kyle, but I can't let you interview me about my relationship with Olivia. That would be unethical. I was her caretaker for two years. She was a wonderful employer. That's all you need to know."
"Think you can get me up to her attic? Talk Zoe into letting me up there to take a look?"
Betsy didn't know whether to laugh or slap him. "What could you possibly think is in that attic?"
"That's just it. I don't know. I bet no one knows."
His ordeal last night hadn't lessened his zeal for his topic one iota, as far as Betsy could see. "I guarantee Olivia knew."
"But she had trouble getting around the last few years. Come on, Betsy, when's the last time she was up there? Two flights of stairs, hauling boxes. Damn, she was a hundred, you know?"
Betsy didn't remember Olivia ever going up to the attic, ever sending anyone up there with instructions as to what she wanted thrown out, not in the two years Betsy had worked for her. But she resisted catching Kyle's enthusiasm. "Zoe inherited the house—"
"Olivia's been gone for a year. Before Zoe left she didn't have the time or the inclination to clean out the attic. Look, who knows what I'll find. Maybe nothing, maybe just an old picture I can use that no one else will have. The smallest things can make a huge difference, lift a documentary like this from the mundane to some-thing—I don't know, something at least Maine public television might want."
Zoe and J. B. McGrath entered the café, both looking young and fit and almost smug to Betsy. But she didn't know if that was fair. She still regretted her encounter with Zoe yesterday, but the attack on Kyle— even if he refused to call it an attack—had put it out of her mind.
Kyle fingered a sugar packet, deliberately avoiding their eyes. "Just my luck those two found me last night. An ex-detective and an FBI agent." He spoke in a low voice, as if he thought they might hear him all the way from the front of the café. "You should have heard them grilling me while I'm bleeding and out of my head."
As far as Betsy was concerned, Luke's only child was smart and well-intentioned, but also a spoiled young man. "You told them the truth, didn't you?"
His dark eyes, Luke's eyes, settled on her, reminding her of his father's arrogance, his sometimes casual cruelty. But Kyle wasn't abused as a boy, and had no excuse. Not that anyone did, Betsy thought. She stared at her pie and wished she'd stayed in her stateroom and read a book.
But Kyle laughed suddenly, softly. "Easy, Betsy. I'm not going to bite your head off. I'm just doing a documentary on a famous local writer. I don't know anything about Teddy Shelton, and I don't want to know
anything."
She nodded, relieved. "Fair enough."
"And I'm not that interested in who killed Patrick West. Not to sound heartless, but we all know it was a drug dealer or some dumb-ass Mainer out
shooting birds. Oops, missed."
"Kyle!"
McGrath and Zoe took a table vacated by two tourists, and Kyle glanced at them, waved slightly and calmed down. He gave Betsy an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
But she was appalled, unwilling to let him off the hook that easily. "Patrick West didn't deserve to die the way he did. Look how young Christina is. Neither sister will have their father at their wedding, at the birth of their first child."
"I should be more diplomatic—"
"You should be nicer."
He got up and leaned across the table, coming very close to her face. "With the father I have, I have to work at nice, Betsy.You know that.You sleep with the bastard."
She gasped, shocked, but he walked away, greeting
J.B. and Zoe pleasantly, thanking them for their help last night. Betsy couldn't listen. She stared at the remains of her pie and fought back tears. Why didn't she just leave Goose Harbor? She had enough money, not nearly as much as Luke did, but enough for a fresh start somewhere else. She could get a nursing job in Portland, or another caregiving job almost anywhere.
But I want a life.
She didn't know what that meant anymore. It was always something she'd put on hold for the future. When she worked for Olivia, she promised herself she'd have a life after Olivia passed on. It'd be her last full-time caregiving job. She'd enjoyed Olivia's company and didn't mind the work, but it left her no time for anything else. Or no energy, at least. Now she had Luke, and even if he had his quirks, for the most part he was quite good to her. And he had so much money. She'd struggled to make ends meet all her life. Was it wrong of her not to want to struggle anymore?
She had no one to talk to, no one to ask but herself. She'd lived with her mum until she died and had never made very many friends, not close ones. Damn it, she was lucky to have a man like Luke Castellane. Count your blessings, her mum would tell her.
What would Olivia say? She'd had her soft spot for Luke but was hardly blind to his faults.
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