The Harbor

by Carla Neggers

  "Teddy Shelton was around then."

  She nodded, picking at her eggs. She seemed exhausted, physically and emotionally wrung out. She lowered her voice, as if someone might hear. "Luke sold him a gun."

  Zoe tried not to react. "When?"

  "In September. I don't know what kind, but I know— it wasn't a legal sale."

  "Has Teddy been blackmailing him?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so. At least not in as many words."

  "But Luke's afraid of him," Zoe said.

  Betsy lifted her shoulders. "I don't know that, either. I overheard them talking—Luke didn't sound afraid. He was totally in charge."

  "Teddy probably realizes he doesn't have enough leverage on Luke. It'd be a first offense for Luke, but not for Teddy. If Teddy goes to the police, he's cooked, too." She sank against the back of her chair and looked out at the harbor, picturesque even on such a gray day. "But Luke suspects Kyle of stealing the Colt Python, not Teddy? Why?"

  "Zoe—Zoe, Luke would just die if it turns out a gun he owned was the weapon in your father's murder. I don't know why Luke collects guns. He's difficult, impossible at times, but he's not violent."

  Zoe nodded. "A gun collector isn't necessarily violent, but Luke behaved irresponsibly, even criminally. He sold a firearm to a convicted felon and didn't bother to report the theft of another firearm that he had reason to suspect was used to commit murder."

  Betsy took a shallow breath. "It's like collecting guns is his secret passion or something. I don't understand it."

  Zoe sat forward, Christina's strong coffee churning in her stomach, and she had to fight the effects of caffeine, lack of sleep and adrenaline. "Luke didn't tell the state detective this morning any of this?"

  "He says it can't possibly make any difference."

  "Then I'll tell them."

  "He'll know it was me! Zoe!"

  "Betsy, you knew when you started this story that I'd have to tell the police."

  She set down her fork. "You'd never look the other way, would you, Zoe? No matter who it was who'd done wrong. Your father was like that."

  "If you mean professionally, you're right. He wouldn't look the other way, and neither would I. That would be unethical, corrupt. On a personal level—" She sighed. "I try to be a forgiving person. I know life isn't black and white."

  "Olivia would look the other way. She would see the whole picture, how complicated people are, what their motives are, and decide—" Betsy swallowed visibly. "I wonder if that's why she couldn't come up with the name of the murderer. She knew who it was, or at least guessed, but she'd looked the other way. Maybe she thought it cost your father his life."

  "How much of all this does Kyle know?" Zoe asked abruptly. She had no intention of discussing Olivia's last hours with Betsy—not now.

  "I have no idea."

  "His documentary—what if it's a ruse for him to get more information about my father's death, his father's involvement?"

  Betsy considered the question. She seemed calmer, more in control of herself now that she'd told someone her story, or at least most of it. Zoe suspected there was more.

  "It's possible," Betsy said. "Sometimes I had the feeling Kyle was trying to satisfy himself that his father wasn't Chief West's killer."

  "Did you tell him what Olivia said?"

  She shook her head.

  "Betsy, are you afraid? If you are, I can make sure you're protected."

  "I'm afraid, Zoe, but not in the way you think." She blinked rapidly, but there were still no tears in her eyes. "I want him back. Luke. I can't help it. I've spent my whole life in Goose Harbor. I've worked hard. Two years with your aunt alone. I've never had much of a life."

  "I hope you didn't feel unappreciated for what you did for Aunt Olivia. She adored you, relied on you, and we all—Betsy, I've always respected you and what you do."

  "Thank you." She picked up her fork again, tried the eggs, chewed as if they had no taste. "I'm being selfish."

  "That wasn't what I was thinking."

  Betsy stared out at the harbor, the yellow police tape, the police cars. Zoe recognized the lead detective on her father's case. The fire trucks had left. "Luke threatened to charge me with harassment and trespassing if I tried to see him again," Betsy said quietly.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Me, too." She turned back to her food, a tear sliding down her cheek. "Tell the police, Zoe. You're right. I told you my sad story so you'd tell them."

  "They'll want to talk to you."

  She nodded. "I'll be here."

  * * *

  Teddy didn't like the looks of the kid. A scared shitless golden boy. "Are you going to puke? Do it out the window. I don't want you stinking up the car."

  Kyle Castellane's big brown eyes widened. "Don't shoot me."

  "Jesus Christ, relax, will you? The gun's to keep you in line. I won't shoot you unless you do something stupid. If you're smart, you'll be fine. Okay? Just do what I say."

  "You have grenades."

  "Mostly flash-bangs. They're mainly for show. The frag grenades are the ones that do the real damage."

  The kid was close to hyperventilating. "I should have stayed in my apartment and called the police. I never should have run after you—"

  "Water over the dam, pal. Stop thinking about it. You thought your old man was a killer."

  "I didn't!"

  "I wouldn't want to admit it, either."

  When Kyle came flying out of the café and tried to stop a moving BMW, Teddy had considered running the kid over. The show on the docks was intended to put the fear of God into Luke Castellane and make him reconsider the bonus. Now he had Luke's kid. Funny how things worked out.

  You have the plan. Things happen.You revise the plan.

  Luke had already called. Teddy was worried about the police tracing his cell phone signal, but decided they hadn't gotten that far yet—the phone was in Luke's name. Luke had loaned it to him when he hired him last week. He wanted Teddy to drive to the Olivia West Nature Preserve and await further instructions—like he was still the one in charge, never mind Teddy had his kid. At least Luke's voice had sounded more strangled than usual.

  The lousy weather was keeping the leaf-peepers away, and it was still very early. A month ago, Teddy would have been burrowed in his lumpy bed at Bruce's cottage.

  He pulled into the gravel lot. No one, not even any staff, was around yet. But he didn't like it—there was only that one dirt road in and out of the place.

  "If the cops bother us, you're going to tell them we're cool, right?" Teddy fingered the grip of his Llama. A damn fine gun, except it was unregistered and as a convicted felon, he wasn't supposed to have guns. "I picked you up on the docks this morning. You wanted to interview me for your documentary. We heard the flash-bang go off and decided the harbor was under attack and got the hell out of there. Didn't see anything."

  Kyle stopped hyperventilating long enough to give Teddy a sour look. The kid's face looked like hell, the bruises all blue and yellow and purple now, very ugly. "Why would I want to interview you? So you could tell me how you killed Patrick West and Olivia West?"

  "Nobody killed Olivia West. She died of old age. She was a hundred and one, for Christ's sake. You tell that shit to the cops, you'll find out how fast a bullet travels two feet right into your stupid head. Actually," he added, as a point of interest, "I should aim for center mass. Bigger target. Still deadly."

  "I've got my own money," Kyle said. "I can pay you."

  "Not as much as your daddy can."

  And as if on cue, Teddy's cell phone rang.

  "I'll bring your bonus in cash," Luke said, still in that weird, strangled voice. "Meet me on the beach where Patrick West was killed."

  "What're you doing, bringing the Zodiac?" It was a small, fast, maneuverable boat that Luke had aboard his yacht for short excursions—Luke had never used it that Teddy knew. "In this weather?"

  "I'll be there."

  Teddy looked around. He s
till didn't like the location. "Let me pick out the place—"

  "No. You'll get caught. Do as I say."

  "All right. Deal. And just in case you want to play games, say hi to your boy."

  Teddy shoved the phone at the kid, who didn't cooperate. "Dad—Dad, he's a fuck. Don't do it. He's got guns."

  "Asshole," Teddy said, and put the phone back to his ear. "Nice to know the kid cares, isn't it, Luke? The FBI loves kidnapping cases, but I'd leave McGrath out of this deal. I see one cop—state, local or fed, current, ex or on vacation—and your boy's dead."

  This time it was Teddy's turn to hang up.

  First, money. Then Stick Monroe. Get it all done in one day.

  He glanced at the kid. "Probably should have put your shoes on before you ran out. Come on, we've got to take a little hike in the rain."

  "Don't hurt my dad. I know he's an asshole, but he—"

  "Yeah, yeah. Let's get moving. It's payday."

  Thirty-One

  "What a crazy bastard," Bruce said, shaking his head after he discovered his junked rowboat was, indeed, missing. "He could have sunk and drowned. Anyone could have seen him out on the water in a leaky rowboat."

  J.B. nodded. The drizzle had let up, but the fog was starting to roll in, adding to his overall sense of foreboding. "Shelton doesn't necessarily think things through."

  "Like that guy who stuck a knife in your throat?" "Yeah, Bruce. Like him." Bruce shrugged. "Sorry. That was tactless."

  J.B. stood on the water's edge, the horizon no longer visible through the encroaching fog. The bright fall leaves—yellow-leafed birches, red-leafed maples—pen-etrated the grayness, and he could hear gulls but couldn't see them, couldn't place where they were. He'd checked his messages on his way down here. Sally Meintz had called to tell him she'd worked until 2:00 a.m. on his little mission and that Luke Castellane collected expensive weapons. She'd had to dig deep to find that one out.

  "Christ, you've got your FBI face on," Bruce said. "Mind if I take a look around my cottage, see if Teddy camped out there last night?"

  "Bruce, you don't need my permission." J.B. sighed. "Yeah, go ahead. Let me know if you find anything. I'll try to get hold of Chief Jacobs."

  "If I find anything, you'll be the first to know. I'm a simple lobsterman. You're armed."

  He headed off, looking as much a part of the landscape as the spruce trees and rocks. J.B. watched the water lap right to the edge of his shoes and felt absolutely no connection between this moment and his life two months ago. How the hell did he get here?

  Posey, tell me you don't miss Maine. Tell me a part of you doesn't hate your husband for taking you away from here.

  J.B. thought about his father, who could no more imagine life away from Montana than Olivia West could imagine life away from the southern coast of Maine. Zoe wasn't like that, he thought. That was what she'd bring to Jen Periwinkle—he'd seen that in the pages he'd read, however unpolished and awkward. It was what she was meant to do.

  An old Taurus sedan rolled into the lobster pound lot.

  Betsy O'Keefe climbed out, waving gingerly at J.B. as she walked down to the water, hugging her heavy sweater tightly around her. "Zoe said you'd be out here." She was shaking, her lower lip trembling. "She's talking to the police for me. I didn't want—she said they'd want to talk to me, too, but I can't. Not yet."

  "Luke collects guns," he said.

  She nodded.

  "He thinks one of them was used to kill Patrick West."

  "A .357 Colt Python." Her voice was calm but grim, as if she was telling someone they had cancer. "It was stolen last fall. He didn't report it."

  "Tell me about Stick Monroe. He's Luke's friend and Zoe's mentor, but he knew about Shelton and did nothing. He's savvy, a retired judge. He had to know Luke's arrangement with Shelton was dangerous."

  "He warned Luke—"

  "When?"

  "The other day, after Zoe got here."

  J.B. looked out at the Atlantic. The tide was out, the low-tide smells ripe in the air. "Everyone around here says Olivia West was a great observer of people in her hometown. I think you're a lot like her, Betsy."

  "I'm not," she said. "I don't have any instincts about people. I just—" She swallowed, refusing to go on. "I'm worried about Kyle. He hasn't turned up."

  J.B. nodded. "I'm worried about him, too."

  "Stick—" She turned away, which J.B. read as reluctance to say more than she should, not because she was contemplating outright deception. Betsy O'Keefe was accustomed to keeping confidences, by training, experience and nature. "Stick Monroe's a powerful figure around here. People respect and admire him, but they also like him. He took Zoe under his wing. He was Olivia's friend, Patrick's friend. He's not a wealthy man."

  "Luke is," J.B. said.

  Betsy licked her lips, still not looking at J.B., but she said, almost inaudibly, "Luke's been making payments to Stick on and off for a year."

  "How much?"

  "Thirty thousand dollars. Luke's so anal, he's kept a precise record."

  Which she'd found. J.B. didn't ask her about that. "Did you talk to Luke about what you know?"

  She nodded. "Last night. I didn't tell Zoe. I think she guessed I didn't tell her everything."

  "Why tell me?"

  "Because you're objective."

  In other words, she trusted him to be willing to hear something bad about Stick Monroe. "Stick knew about the missing gun."

  "Luke sold a gun to Teddy Shelton, as well," Betsy said. "I told Zoe that part—about the illegal sale, I mean. Stick must have threatened to go to the police and Luke—I know him, Mr. McGrath. I know he'd offer to pay Stick for his silence. That's what Luke does. He pays people." She faltered, her face crumbling in shame. "That's what he did with me. He knew I was drawn to his lifestyle. If he didn't have money, I wouldn't have put up with him. We used each other. Maybe it was that way with Stick."

  "Why would Stick take the money?"

  "He wouldn't want to tell on Luke. He elicits a kind of sympathy in people—it's hard to explain. The money was a way out. Stick wants to stay in Goose Harbor. It's been his dream to retire here for as long as I can remember."

  "He didn't want to know what he knew, so he took money to pretend he didn't know it?" J.B. shook his head. "Maybe, but he also wanted the thirty thousand."

  Betsy looked down again and ran her toe over the wet sand. She was wearing sensible walking shoes with white gym socks. J.B. felt sorry for her.

  "What else?" he asked. "Get it all out, Betsy. You've waited long enough. If people have done something wrong, the consequences are of their own making, not yours. You're just telling what you know. The police will decide if it's relevant to their investigation."

  She looked out at the harbor and squinted at the misting rain, as if she might see something there that would tell her what to do. "I should have said something before, but I didn't. I don't care if I get into trouble—" She took a breath, plunged in. "The evening before Patrick West was killed, he visited Luke on his yacht."

  "What time?"

  "Late, around ten o'clock."

  "Luke told you?"

  She shook her head. "He doesn't realize I know. I was interested in him even then, before Olivia died. I was spying on him, to be honest." She smiled lamely, waved off her own embarrassment. "Stupid of me. It was a nice night, and I took a walk on the waterfront. I just wanted to know if he had a woman in his life and I was wasting my time. I saw Patrick—I thought nothing of it."

  "Luke never said anything about the visit?"

  "No. Never. I decided I wouldn't, either. Patrick West and Luke were friends. I convinced myself the visit had nothing to do with Patrick's murder."

  J.B. waited. She wasn't finished. There was more. Zoe must have sensed the lies and deceptions, the secrets, in her hometown last year. That was why she'd pushed so hard, because the answers were there and she knew it. He'd bet Stick Monroe was one of the people who'd talked her into backing off.
/>   Betsy breathed out, her teeth chattering now, more from nervousness, J.B. thought, than the weather. "Patrick knew Olivia had a soft spot for Luke. We all tried to do right by her. She was so old, such a force in our lives, his perhaps most of all. He never knew his father. Olivia was his only connection to his father—" She caught herself. "I'm being overly dramatic."

  This time J.B. spoke. "Do you think Olivia put Patrick up to seeing Luke that night?"

  "Not that directly. If Patrick suspected Luke or Kyle of doing something illegal—"

  "Selling a gun to Teddy Shelton."

  She nodded. "He'd go the extra mile with them, for

  her sake."

  J.B. could feel his physical activity of yesterday and last night—kayaking, chasing bad guys, lovemak-ing—catching up with him. He needed food, more coffee, a few more hours of sleep. But he wouldn't get them, not yet.

  "Betsy, you were with Olivia before she died." She gasped. "Zoe told you? She said she didn't want to tell anyone!"

  Well, well. J.B. hadn't expected this one. "Tell me what, Betsy?"

  "Oh—oh, damn. You didn't know. It's not like it matters. Olivia was rambling. She was confused."

  "About what?"

  Betsy lowered her eyes. "I shouldn't tell you."

  "You've gone this far. If you don't tell me, I'll just drag it out of Zoe."

  "Olivia was convinced she knew who the killer was," Betsy said, almost mumbling. "She was frustrated because she couldn't tell us the name—she blamed her short-term memory. She wouldn't let go of it."

  J.B. grimaced at the thought of an old woman wrestling with such a demon, on her deathbed, no less."She died thinking she knew the identity of her nephew's killer?"

  "There was no point in saying anything once she was gone. She was very elderly, and she was dying. I'm sure her shock and grief played into it. She was so convinced. It was sad more than anything else."