With ebony hair drawn back into a loose ponytail and black eyes scanning the patrons warily, John Morse located Serena and targeted on her as he approached the bar. Her quick intake of breath had Harriet rooting around in her seat. She acknowledged Morse with a grunt of disapproval, and then swiveled back.
"What’s he doing here? He never comes out in public—kinda like a vampire or something."
"Harriet, could you excuse me for a minute?" Serena was already edging down the bar towards the vacant spot where Morse now rested an elbow, peering disdainfully at the crowd.
A raucous sound drew his gaze into the main dining room where a troop of children in costumes from a Thanksgiving school production circled around the tables to play Pilgrims and Indians. His grunt of disdain was audible as he turned back to glare at her.
"Nice place you got here," he scoffed. "Can’t imagine why I ever stayed away."
"Probably because you have too much class," she muttered.
To still her nerves, she wrapped a towel about her hand, but managed to stare down the man.
"Look," Morse sneered. "For as much as you don’t want me here, I don’t want to be here." He tapped his thumbs on the bar. "But I need you to know something−something about your husband. You help me out, and I’ll tell you what I know."
Cautious, Serena set the rag down. "Suddenly you’re a font of knowledge? Yesterday you didn’t seem too cooperative. What changed?"
"Are you going to pour me a drink or what?"
"You got money?"
With a snarl, he extracted a five-dollar bill from the frayed pocket of his corduroys and slapped it down on the nicked surface. "Whisky."
Serena poured the shot. She caught Harriet’s eye and shook her head to deter the woman from approaching.
"Okay," Serena continued, focusing on Morse. "Go ahead."
Morse tipped his head back and downed the shot in one quick motion. Slamming the glass down, he eyed her for a re-fill. After deliberating a second, she complied and then set the bottle aside. She crossed her arms and banked on the knowledge that Brett was just upstairs.
"What are you up to, Morse?"
"Look," he grated. "I’ve got people coming around, snooping around my place, and I don’t like it one bit. There’s a group of landowners that stand to be evicted if the Pasamaquoddy suit for land that was legally ours two hundred years ago is passed."
"What’s this got to do with Alan?"
"He instigated the lawsuit. Got in bed with the Indians and anyone else who would help out, because he wanted that land. He wanted the profits of a casino. Hell, you’re no fool. You know how much money that would bring in."
Serena tried not to flinch at his reference to her husband’s promiscuity.
"I know how much money a casino would suck out," she said. "Yes, the people involved in such a scheme might stand to gain, but at the expense of everyone else. Victory Cove is full of lobstermen. They make enough money to live a happy life up here," Serena’s eyes scanned the regulars at the bar as she added, "but a casino would strip them of what little extra they have—it’s human nature."
Morse tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "Human nature is to make money. Ask your husband, that’s all he cared about."
"My husband is dead, Mr. Morse." Her voice was as cold as the chill in her skin.
"Maybe." He shrugged. "Either way, right now I’m your best bet."
"Best bet for what?" Serena reached for the discarded rag again and wrapped it around her hand.
"You give me the contracts and I’ll see that the tribe protects you. You keep hiding that paperwork, and you’re open game for both irate tribesmen, and even angrier locals."
"If any of this was going down, I’d have heard about it," she challenged. "This is a bar for Christ’s sake. A couple drinks and locals are spilling their innermost thoughts out to me. Nobody has talked about a tribal suit—or any land deal that’s going to evict them."
Morse shrugged and eyed the bottle she had cast aside.
Ignoring the gesture, she continued. "What contracts anyway? I haven’t seen any contracts lying around. Alan didn’t keep important paperwork at home. I guess he didn’t want me knowing what kind of business he was up to." Looking away, she spoke to the television as it flashed the local weather. "I’m glad he kept it from me."
The sound of clapping drew her attention. She caught John Morse applauding her with calloused hands.
"That’s good. Real good. Hopefully everyone’ll buy it. Me personally—" He leaned forward. "I think you knew exactly what your husband was up to. Maybe you turned a blind eye when necessary, but I think you knew. And I think you know exactly where he kept the contracts."
Morse splayed his hands on the bar. "You’ve got a choice, Mrs. Murphy. You can give them to me and I’ll look after you—cause it seems your brother in-law doesn’t want to do it anymore. Or else you better get used to sleeping with one eye open."
Blood pumped in her eardrums as Serena sought relief in the mechanical motion of cleaning dirty glasses. What contracts was John Morse talking about? And more importantly, where would Alan have hidden them?
In the midst of rinsing a mug, another troubling thought occurred to her. How did Morse know that Brett was gone? Morse had entered the bar several minutes after she and Harriet discussed the matter, so how did he know about the staged argument?
"Serena, are you done here? I’ve got to talk to you about Thursday, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it."
The words penetrated as she stared aghast at Simon.
"What?" she stammered. "But Simon—why? Has something happened?"
Simon treated holidays as his personal unveiling of talented coordination and management. He would never miss such an opportunity.
"I’ve got something to do." Pale eyes flicked towards Morse. "Look," Simon added angrily, "I’ll try my best to get back before the rush, but it can’t be helped—"
Serena’s head shook in disbelief as she began to wonder if the madness that besieged her was slowly ebbing through Victory Cove. John Morse shows up in O’Flanagans for the first time to bestow her with threats and promises of protection. Rebecca’s normally bubbling personality is suddenly edgy and evasive. And lastly, Simon, her rock of Gibraltar when it came to managing O’Flanagans−a man who bitched constantly, but thrived in his role−was disappearing on one of their busiest days.
"Whoah," Serena ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath. "Okay, Simon, do the best you can. You’ve worked hard and certainly deserve time off," she hesitated, "just don’t expect me to pull off the dove in grape sauce, or whatever."
Simon dipped his head in acknowledgment and cast another speculative glance towards Morse before heading to the dining room podium.
"And as for you," She addressed Morse, her distress evidenced by trembling fingers. "I quite honestly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and I’m very busy right now." She pulled his glass off the bar. "So unless you have something productive to tell me, or unless you want another drink, I suggest you go home."
With his hand tucked deep into his pocket, Morse searched for another bill, but only came up with lint. He shrugged his shoulders. "You’re going to wish you had taken me up on my offer. You’re on your own now, Serena."
The door to the bar closed, a cold waft of Atlantic air besieging her as she instinctively turned towards the thermostat.
"Dammit woman, don’t turn that thing up again!" Cooper yelled from three stools away.
"Bittyfield, shut your trap and let Rena do as she pleases. You’re damn lucky she lets you in here every night."
"Harriett, why don’t you go find yourself a man so that you can stop making my life miserable."
Serena listened to the exchange and her body sagged against the doorframe. She glanced at the cuckoo clock, urging it to move faster, realizing that more than anything she wanted to be with Brett.
Pacing the floor, Brett glanced at the Gran
dfather clock in anticipation. Anxious to see if anyone bit at the ruse they staged earlier, he stared at the door, willing it to open.
It did.
"Back up." Serena ordered, using her hand to prompt him to retreat.
"Okay, I’m moving." Brett’s foot clipped the edge of the carpet as he teetered. "Nothing like a warm welcome."
Wrinkling her nose at him, she switched the lamp closest to the windows off. "I could almost see your silhouette."
"What happened down there?" he asked.
"Craziness," Serena shook her head and sank onto the wooden bench, stretching her legs out as she proceeded to narrate the events of the evening.
"Look," Brett started. "This is way too dangerous now. Hell, I still want to believe that it was just an accident—a stupid accident. But now, Serena, you’re in danger, and by pretending that you’re up here alone, I’ve opened the door for whoever is behind this." He hesitated, "I’ve risked your life."
She waved away the concern. "I was alone only a week ago, Brett. I would have sat here and slowly gone insane. After all, that seemed to be the plan I guess." Her head cocked. "Yeah, let’s make Serena go mad. Then, all we have to do is sneak up to her loft. Don’t worry, she’ll be a basket case and won’t bother us." She looked at him. "Is that how you’d rather it went?"
"No." Brett advanced. "I’d rather a lot of things were different, but we’re left to deal with the current situation."
Extending his hand, he stared long and hard at Serena’s fingers entwined in his and finally used that grip to draw her upright, thinking that if he pulled hard enough, he could draw her into his arms.
And God, he wanted her there.
"I think we should go downstairs and start searching your old apartment." His voice was hoarse. "Those contracts have to be around here somewhere."
"Umm," She trailed, their hands still linked. "I was afraid you were going to suggest that."
"I would let you stay up here, but I don’t want to leave you alone." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Are you sure you’re up to this?"
Staring down the dark stairwell, Serena murmured, "You won’t be able to find anything down there without me. And besides, I don’t want you going down there alone."
Brett’s quick grin was lost as they descended into obscurity. At the base of the steps he flicked on the heavy metal flashlight. Moonlight infiltrated the windows, enabling them to make their way across the living room floor, dodging ghostly mounds of furniture.
The room was frigid, the warmth of the fire upstairs long forgotten. He was conscious of Serena’s fingers entwined with his as she guided them past the bank of windows into a short hall flanked by blackened chambers.
Doorways to the unknown.
In a whisper, she chronicled what each quarter represented.
"This is the den to the right, and on the left is a guest room, and towards the far end there, was—the bedroom."
Brett felt a stab of shame for resenting the happiness his brother once had, but Alan was foolish enough to damage a good thing.
Flashlight held aloft, Brett slipped ahead of Serena into the den. Erratic sweeps of the light dissected the darkness. In its scope, the flare encompassed bookshelves with threadlike cobwebs linked to the recessed ceiling. He swept the light over a wooden desk adorned with a blotter, brass lamp, and photo of Serena and Alan. Brett scooped up the framed picture and heard Serena’s startled gasp behind him. She too saw that the glass had been shattered, their faces obscured behind a web of jagged shards.
"Any strong breezes in here?" He inquired cynically.
"No."
He rested the frame down flat on the desktop, out of Serena’s view, and then began to open drawers. Shining the flashlight on their contents, he paused as she grabbed his arm and nudged her way forward.
"What’s that?" She was already in front of him, retrieving an envelope with Alan’s name written in elaborate cursive.
Unsealed, Serena extracted the handwritten script.
Dearest Alan,
It makes me crazy that I can’t be with you. Why you choose to go away and leave me here with this depressing ensemble is beyond me. We were meant to be together. Last night is testimony to that fact. I know you’ve told me to be patient—that as soon as your deal comes together we can go away, but I ache till that time comes.
Please Alan, see me tonight.
It was unsigned. Serena folded it back up with only a slight tremor in her fingers.
Brett cleared his throat. "I’m guessing that the letter wasn’t from you."
"That would be correct."
"If this was your house, why would he leave that sitting right in the top drawer in such plain view?"
"He never kept anything of importance around." She said. "I know he must have had an office somewhere else, but this room was where he spent most of his time, so I never bothered with it. All my paperwork—receipts, accounting, taxes, are stored downstairs behind the bar in one of the safes. I really had no need to ever look in here." She sighed. "Maybe if I did—"
Brett touched her shoulder. "I’m sorry, Serena."
"About what?" Her voice peaked. "You have nothing to do with me being a blind fool. Heck, I deserve this. I should have listened to everyone’s advice. But I didn’t."
"Stop that, okay? Just stop it." His fingers gently squeezed. "Nobody deserves to be treated like that. Look," he said, "Alan is a man of very few morals. So now this accident seems less and less innocent."
A sweep of the shadows failed to offer Brett insight. "The question becomes," he pointed out, "is Alan still alive? Is he in hiding? Or has someone killed him? And then, who out of the growing list of people with incentive?"
"And who wrote that letter?" Serena tried not to disclose the pain in her voice.
"I have my ideas." He sifted through the rest of the manila folders stacked in the cedar drawers, all of them empty.
There were no further clues to be found in the rank den. No traces of a man that lead a secretive life. A life that now exposed infidelity and corruption.
Suddenly Brett switched off the flashlight and his arm snaked around Serena’s waist to haul her behind the door.
"Shhh," he whispered.
Straining to listen, she heard it. The gentle scrape of a shoe. Beyond the door, a slice of light danced around the living room, like a heat-seeking laser. Instinctively, she shrank back against Brett, his arm a protective barrier across her stomach.
Someone was very close, ambling past the huge casement windows, pausing to draw a sheet off a piece of furniture. The resultant whoosh of air floated into the den, rustling the papers Brett left out on the desk. Serena held her breath, certain the noise would expose them, but it sounded as if the visitor simply sat down, the subsequent clip of a beer cap and silence of intake confirming this.
Anger at this intruder streamed through her. How dare he make himself at home here.
But the realistic possibility that it was Alan in that room quickly doused the rage, replacing it with a glacial chill.
The unwanted guest shifted as they heard papers ruffle, and then both Brett and Serena started as the figure abruptly rose and slashed the shadows of the den with the flashlight beam.
When she would have bolted, Brett clamped down, locking her against him. The glow receded and the intruder moved into the kitchen. Drawers opened and closed, followed by a loud smack on the counter that nearly jolted them into revealing themselves. Several anxious moments ticked by before the stairwell door swung open on corroded hinges.
Only a hollow silence remained.
They waited interminably, with no indication that the intruder was present. On instinct, Serena burrowed back against Brett’s warmth, wanting to hide inside him—wanting to disappear within his refuge. She strained to distinguish any hint of the trespasser, but heard only the beating of her own heart.
"Serena," He murmured in her ear, the sound husky and emphatic. "Stop wiggling—you’re killing me."
&
nbsp; Freezing at the tone, she was suddenly aware of her position and the impromptu embrace. The exact effect she had on Brett became very evident.
Sheltered in his embrace and excited by the intimate contact, she instinctively rubbed against him. His grip tightened in response and she bowed into that desire.
The hand that had been fisted against her waist now splayed across her abdomen, its counterpart grasping her hip and drawing it hard against him. Serena’s breath rushed out. She felt Brett’s lips brush her neck and arched her head back into him.
"What are you doing to me?" He hissed, but his mouth continued to feast on the curve of her throat.
"Brett," Her plaintive whisper was full of hunger as Serena tried to spin around in his arms, but was held firmly in place by strong hands that nestled her against him. She felt the nudge of his hips and heard her own muffled groan deep in her throat.
Above, the methodic tread of footsteps invaded their rapture. Brett wrenched away and immediately she missed his warmth. Even in the dark she could distinguish him glaring at the ceiling.
"Jesus, he’s probably waiting for you to get home from the restaurant." Brett’s grip altered from passion to protection. "Dammit, Serena, if you were up there alone—"
Furious and anxious, he switched on his flashlight and exchanged positions so that she flanked him. "That’s it. This is going to stop now."
She reached for his arm. "Brett, don’t go up there—he’s probably armed. Or just plain crazy."
In the glow of the flashlight, Brett looked at her and brushed the tip of his finger along her jaw.
"Exactly," he whispered. "Meaning he’s waiting to hurt you. Stay down here, please."
The hoarse emphasis of his voice played with her emotions, but she nodded, knowing all along that she had no intention of obeying.
Brett was swift. She had to dash up the stairs to keep up with him. At the top she found him circling the living room, a flow of curses streaming from his mouth.
"Dammit," He grabbed the back of his neck, "he’s gone."
Serena moved to the window for a glimpse. The stairwell and deck were vacant, but as the moon emerged from a cloudbank to illuminate the cliffs of Victory Cove, she caught a lone silhouette climbing grassy knolls, hastening towards the nearest building. The lighthouse. She could see the shadow slip several times, but the destination was obvious.
Widow's Tale Page 13
