A tentative rap on the front door broke Serena from her tormented slumber and into the morning light. She rubbed at raw eyes and tried to focus on the silhouette behind lacey yellow curtains.
The shadow was a short one, not very intimidating. Encouraged, she unfolded her legs and hastened towards the door.
"I’m coming, Rebecca."
Rebecca Sorenson stood drumming her fingertips against her crossed arms. "It’s about time-"
Taking stock of Serena’s appearance, Rebecca shooed her back inside. "Wow, another bad night? You look like shit."
Serena ran a hand through her hair, hoisting loose the ends that had tucked into the collar of her sweater. She glanced at the short woman who evoked life with vibrant red curls, sizzling amber eyes, and a constant need to be in motion. Firecracker was the word that came to mind when she looked at Rebecca Sorrenson.
Conversely, Serena felt old and drained. She sank back onto the loveseat.
"I didn’t get much sleep."
Rebecca was already in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors in a loud effort to make coffee.
"Well that much is obvious. Have you considered seeing someone?"
Seeing someone. A shrink. The final confirmation that she was losing her mind.
"No."
The rich aroma of coffee wafted through the loft as Rebecca vaulted up onto the counter and swung her legs around to face the dining room. "You can’t go on like this,” she scolded.
Serena closed her eyes. The wraithlike sounds never attacked during daylight. She felt safe enough for now.
"I’ll be fine, just let me take a shower and then I’ll head downstairs."
"Simon’s down there prancing around like a wounded peacock,” Rebecca said. “Squawking about the lack of respect he gets, and the fact that we should start putting some—what did he call them—nuveau dishes on the menu." The redhead launched off the counter with two mugs in hand.
“So that was Brett Murphy?” she continued. “How long did he stay? Too long, huh? He’s not bad on the eye, but temperament-wise he seems like a real pisser."
Serena hoisted herself up and accepted the fact that there would be no rest this morning. She reached for the coffee.
"He’s understandably concerned about his brother."
Ever the voice of reason.
So why was she losing her mind?
"Hmmmph, he looked like he just wanted to pick a fight."
"Like his brother?" The words slipped before Serena could check them. She caught Rebecca’s brow wrinkle.
"Alan never struck me as the hostile type." As if to confirm this, Rebecca glanced around the room for a picture of the man.
Serena followed her gaze until it landed on the silver-framed photo of their wedding. Alan Murphy’s smile was handsome, his grip around her waist, possessive.
Serena clutched the mug with both hands and stared at the picture. To women in general, Alan Murphy could hide his dark side—so much so, that he was quite the charmer. It was only natural that Rebecca would succumb, but it still felt like a tiny stab of betrayal.
"I have to talk to Simon." Serena changed the subject. "I don’t know if he’s started ordering the food for Thanksgiving."
"You better. He mentioned something about serving Dove in grape sauce."
“Uggh," Serena smiled with disgust, grateful to her cheery friend for helping her to retain a small fragment of sanity. "Thanks Becky."
Rebecca reached forward for a brief hug. "You’ll be okay. It’s all going to be okay. It’ll just take time."
Perhaps what Rebecca said was true. Perhaps in time she might begin to feel normal again.
But having Brett Murphy here was not going to make the healing process go any quicker.
"Order turkeys, potatoes, green beans, and carrots. We’ll make the gravy and rolls from scratch. That’s it. Everything else we have here."
"But everybody can have that meal at home on Thanksgiving." Simon Turner whined. "They come here for something different."
Serena shook her head at the lanky man and then rifled through her list of suppliers.
Not to be undaunted, Simon persisted. "I’ll compromise. We’ll have turkey as an entrée, but let me offer another dish as an alternative."
With a quick nudge of her hip, she closed the drawer and glanced up at Simon. He was in his late- twenties, tall, with pale blond hair that was thin enough to hint he would be bald by the time he hit thirty. The blue eyes of a wannabe businessman pleaded with her as she staged reluctant compliance for her maitre de.
"One dish." She held a single finger up for reinforcement.
Simon gripped her forearms. "Great!" His enthusiasm vanished as his near invisible eyebrows furrowed together. "My God, that’s only a week and a half away—I’ve got to get going."
What have I been saying all along?
Simon Turner was not from Victory Cove, he was from Portland. He was also gay.
Sometimes she wondered with a twitch of the lips, which of the two bothered Cooper Littlefield more.
It was ten thirty. When the door to the tavern swung open, Serena assumed it would be Rebecca back from her morning job at the Day Care Center. Instead, the dominant silhouette of Brett Murphy filled the frame. For the span of a breath, their eyes locked.
Blood pumped in her ears. She cleared her throat and reached for a coffee mug, holding it up.
"Coffee?"
Brett crossed over to one of the barstools. He nodded at the offer and twisted to study the tavern.
"So where are you staying?" she inquired.
"The Vacation Inn down by the Interstate."
She bit back the offer to one of several rooms upstairs. Judging from the grim look on Brett’s face, he probably would not have accepted.
"Have the police been any more helpful with you?" Than with me?
"Not particularly." He fiddled with the handle of the mug, dark eyebrows furrowing in anger—or anxiety.
She couldn’t tell which.
Ten years. Ten years, and Serena was still like a fist to the gut.
Brett saw everything. He saw the patches of blue skin beneath her eyes, and the fatigue in her stance. He caught the furtive motion of slim fingers as they toyed with the hem of her sweater, and he glimpsed the dark hue of fear in her stare.
Was it mourning he saw there?
He detected tiny wrinkles of pain at the corners of Serena’s eyes, and maturity in her expression he had not seen the last time he was with her. She was no longer the innocent little girl he’d wanted to steal away from his brother. She was a woman now.
Christ, he thought it had been a fluke. He was still young then. He could have written off the affect Serena had on him as plain old lust. But, lust was for the youth, and he was no youth.
A desire that transpired a decade ago would not overrule his senses, though. He was here for a reason. His brother was dead. It could have been an innocent boating accident as everyone else claimed, but he doubted it.
"Why did it take you a month to reach me?" Brett sought stability by going on the offense. "You couldn’t have been trying that hard."
Serena’s lips trembled as he tried not to stare at them.
"Except for the few scraps of information Alan would share with me about you over the years," she said, "I had no idea where you were, Brett. No address, no phone number. The internet search results were vague. A friend of Alan’s in Boston finally looked up your name and located you in New York.
"Okay, look," Brett’s hands splayed on the rim of the bar, real close to her fingers. "You’re going to have to help me out here. I need to know what happened, Serena. I need to find out what happened to Alan."
Brett tried not to notice Serena shudder, or the way her eyes were riveted on him, unblinking.
Was it possible that his troubled sister in-law had finally been pushed too far? Could she have been pushed enough to kill?
He couldn’t afford to let Serena get under his skin. He had to stay subjecti
ve. He had to find the truth. No matter their differences, no matter his opinion of Alan, Alan was family.
"Look," Brett said. "Forget the police report. Why don’t you tell me what happened?"
He waited for Serena’s response, but she remained mute.
"Serena," he paused until her eyes jumped back to his, "tell me what happened."
What happened with what?
My relationship with Alan? The demise of that relationship? Or the demise of Alan himself?
Serena felt cold again.
"That day?"
"Yes." Brett’s expression was unreadable.
That day.
It was no different than any other day in October. Alan had been away for almost two months. His long absences, no matter the legitimacy of the latest excuse, were growing more and more suspicious. Sadly, she had stopped caring whether he was around or not. Each time Alan returned to Victory Cove, his attitude was abrasive, his mannerisms secretive, and any probing into his whereabouts was met with open hostility.
That day.
Serena was in the kitchen upstairs washing the dishes when the familiar heavy tread of Alan’s boots ascended the staircase. She glanced at the calendar, calculating the length of time he had been gone. He walked in and did not even venture a glance in her direction.
Two individual souls they were. Children who had rushed into a marriage Alan soon grew tired of. Serena often wondered what prevented him from asking for a divorce.
For her, it was a product of upbringing, growing up in the idyllic warmth of her parents’ marriage. Anything less than what her parents shared, Serena would have considered a failure. For better or for worse. Yet, the fact that Alan chose to stay away from her for months at a time, carrying on a business that was clandestine at best, threatened her resolve.
Serena gazed onto the deck and the silver, choppy Atlantic beyond it. The breakers were rough, but not like that day.
"Alan came home around two in the afternoon." Her voice was distant. "He said he was taking our boat out."
Serena felt no need to let Brett know that it had been two months since she last saw her husband.
"I reminded him that the Stew needed repairs," she attested. "I had been trying to get him to work on it for awhile, but he never seemed to have the time." Never seemed to be around. "And then there was the weather. A storm was coming in. The tavern was packed because the lobstermen were staying inland. Alan said he’d be back before it hit." She flinched. "That was the last I saw of him."
Her gaze fell and her throat constricted. It was the closest she came to grief.
She did grieve for Alan Murphy. She never wished for it to end like this, to see someone so young lose his life.
But her grief began long before Alan died.
"Actually, Harriet was one of the last people to see him," Serena added. "Even she tried talking him out of taking the Stew out, but Alan didn’t want to hear about it."
Brett’s gaze revealed nothing.
"What was so damn important that it had to be done that moment?" he asked.
"Alan wasn’t big on sharing his business practices." Serena’s voice faltered. “I don’t know.”
Okay, Brett believed her on that account. His brother was very secretive.
But he shouldn’t be dead.
Brett had to look away from her. He stared at the nicks on the bar, scars that had been glossed over with replenished lacquer, and tried to get the memory of Serena in her wedding dress out of his head.
They had met several times leading up to that day, with nothing more than civil pleasantries exchanged. But each time he was aware of her proximity, her scent, her laugh. For some reason that day was the catalyst. As ill-timed as it was, Brett chose that event to make his statement. Perhaps it was the champagne-colored dress, or the cascade of shimmering cinnamon hair across freckled shoulders−but the sight of Serena took his breath and his ethics away.
They ran into each other in the hall prior to the ceremony. Serena grabbed his hand with the spontaneity of genuine delight. “I’m so glad you could make it here for this, Brett.”
Brett’s gaze dropped to her hand. He stared until he noticed her fingers start to tremble. He saw the diamond and cursed.
"Are you sure about this?"
Either the question itself or his husky tone must have startled her. Serena snapped her fingers back.
"Sure about what?"
"Alan." He felt tension creep into his neck. "Are you sure about this marriage?" How to ask this of someone you barely knew?
Her mouth opened, but it took a moment for sound to come out. “I’m not sure what you’re asking?”
“I’m not sure either, Serena. But I know how my brother is, and I just, I just—” he struggled. “You should just know that maybe there are others who have feelings for you. Maybe you shouldn’t rush into this.”
Serena did not blink.
“Others?” she whispered.
Brett took that final step. He touched her arms and felt her breath dust his lips as he lowered his head. He hesitated with a thousand alarms going off inside his head, and then he brushed her lips with his.
For one moment there was shock, followed by the sharp pang of pleasure. They both jumped back, staring at each other.
“Serena, I—”
"Aaah, I see you’ve found my brother."
Alan Murphy appeared, his fingers descending on Serena’s shoulder, their grip reddening the pale flesh.
Brett almost groaned aloud at the recollection.
"Brett," Serena’s voice jerked him back to the present. "When was the last time you talked to Alan? Did he say anything," she floundered, "anything at all?"
And now, Serena, the woman, was asking him to recall the last conversation he had with his brother. Brett recalled it. Every single word. Alan’s declaration that he and Serena had been expecting a child. Alan’s horror that Serena didn’t want that child——that it would interfere with O’Flanagans. Even now, Brett could hear his brother’s bitter voice as he chronicled Serena’s visit to the clinic to have it taken care of.
Looking at this beautiful, haunted creature, Brett found the story inconceivable. The harsh fact remained, though. He didn’t really know his sister in-law well enough to dispute Alan.
"He told me what happened." Brett’s voice was hoarse. "Why, Serena?"
Serena grabbed a dishrag to conceal her shaking hands.
Oh God, now Brett’s behavior made sense. It would be brutal to say that Alan hated her. She didn’t believe her husband was capable of such an ardent emotion—but he had grown tired of her. When he was not inflicting that rage towards her, he would weave tales to anyone that would listen. Tales of her frigidity, her infidelity, anything Alan’s malicious mind could conjure. Fortunately, in Victory Cove there were very few to listen or give credence to his tirades. But Brett was fresh bait, and his brother. Alan would cash in on the allegiance of family.
"I don’t know what Alan said to you. It’s hard to deny something when you have no idea what you were accused of," she hesitated. "I understand if you have an issue with me. It seems to be a Murphy family tradition."
Serena stepped out of the sanctity of her domain and drew to a halt two stools away from Brett.
"But know this," she met his eyes. "I had nothing to do with Alan’s death if that’s what you’re thinking."
Before Brett could respond, Serena walked out the door and crossed the deck, her head ducked into the wind. Its roar pulsed in her ears as she clutched the rail and leaned over to gulp in air laced with salt and brine.
Alan’s ghost was out there. Each night he came ashore, summoning her to find him.
Would it be today?
Would they find the body today?
The Christmas-like jingle of the bells strung to the front door of Morgan’s Bait and Tackle Shop sounded over Brett’s head as he entered the cramped quarters of Harriet Morgan’s store. He located Harriet behind the cash register, hastily clamping down
the lid of a Tupperware container filled with chocolate chip cookies. A quick brush of the back of her hand across her lips left traces of chocolate.
Gray eyebrows narrowed at his approach as Harriet rose to her feet and plopped her chocolate-stained hands on the counter.
"Lookin’ to do some fishing, are ya?"
Her voice oozed enough sarcasm to make Brett smirk.
So, Serena Murphy had the entire village of Victory Cove wrapped around her finger. But he was not from this town, and he was trying to stay immune to Serena’s allure. And he could not be bullied by the likes of this daunting shop owner who had within her reach several large utility knives and other menacing tools that belonged in a torture chamber.
"Yes, I’m fishing."
Brett stopped adjacent to a meshed net affixed to a metal rod. He liked knowing it was there, just in case.
"I’m looking for answers," he added.
Harriet roosted herself on the bench behind the counter, crossing her arms and giving him such a once-over, he felt like he was up on an auction block.
"What are the questions?"
Acknowledging that he was on foreign turf, Brett was nonetheless undaunted by Harriet’s tactics.
"Let’s not waste each other’s time," he began. "I want to know what happened to Alan, and you seem to want me out of your town. It’s obvious how protective you are of my sister in-law. I doubt you think her capable of murdering her husband, so what other theories do you have?"
Harriet gasped, clutching her sheepskin vest. "Serena? Rena has a tough time killing spiders."
Alan had led him to believe otherwise.
"It had to be obvious to all of you that there were problems between the two of them." Brett persisted. "Alan may not have treated her very well. Don’t you think over the years that anger was building up inside her, enough so to—"
"I don’t know who the hell you think you are," Harriet roared. "You showed up here a month too late to be judgmental. Heck, before Alan went out on the boat that day, we hadn’t seen him for months. We have no idea what happened. For all I know, he was with you out there. Maybe you pushed him ovah."
What the hell was going on in Alan’s life?
Widow's Tale Page 2
