Written on the Wind

by Cate Dean

  When he scooted closer, Maggie knew what he was about to do. He gently scooped up her right foot, set it on his knee, and started massaging.

  “Oh...” She leaned her head back. “Thank you. My feet thank you. They were about to declare mutiny and desert me.”

  “Since your feet will remain, does this mean you accept my invitation?”

  She lifted her head, and saw Spencer behind Martin, the hopeful look on his face making her smile. “I think I can. But Spence has also earned a night out. This will be my treat. No,” she said, trying to convey in her look just how much she wanted to spend time alone with Martin. “I must have sold half my decorative stock today. I can afford it.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’d like a raincheck on that supper for two, if it’s all right.”

  Martin glanced over his shoulder, and turned back to her. “I could not say no to that face, either.”

  She burst out laughing. Unlike Martin, she wasn’t falling; she had already fallen. Hard. He was a good man, with a generous heart. Every action told her that, and simple gestures, like rubbing her aching feet without her asking, just reinforced the fact that she wanted him in her life.

  For good.

  The thought of committing to someone like that didn’t scare her. It felt right, for the first time in her life.

  Six

  After a fun and delicious meal, Spencer took off, headed for one of the pubs along the high street.

  Maggie was content to walk along the boardwalk with Martin, holding his hand, and watching the waves crash on the rock beach.

  She loved it here, so much. Days like today reminded her of just how lucky she was. The only missing piece was Aunt Irene.

  Maggie missed her, every day. Aunt Irene had been the rock in her life, stern but affectionate, and Maggie had always known she was loved. Because of that love, Maggie had a dream life, in a place she had always thought of as home.

  “You’re cold.” Martin’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Here.” He took off his tweed jacket and laid it over her shoulders. “We should get back. You’ve had a long day.”

  “And the second wave of the tour comes tomorrow.” Thank goodness one of the guides had been kind enough to warn her. “I need to get to the shop early tomorrow, and do some restocking.”

  “I’d be happy to help.”

  She looked up at him. “Just because you live over the shop doesn’t mean you have to feel obligated—”

  “I am living there rent free, thanks to my generous landlady.” He squeezed her hand, and led her back toward the high street. “And I enjoy helping you, Maggie. You have excellent taste, and I always find some treasure I missed the first time around.”

  “I get it—you want first shot at the good stuff.”

  “Guilty.” He pulled her in and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Time to get you home. You look exhausted.”

  “I’m fi—” A yawn interrupted her before she could finish.

  “I see how ‘fi’ you are.” Martin winked at her. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Maggie slipped her arm around his waist and leaned into him. They had gone to the café straight from the shop, so her hair was still in the bun she normally wore, to keep it out of her way. Walking along the harbor had given the wind a chance to yank out random strands, but with Martin next to her, she had a warm wind blocker.

  They passed her shop, and she refused to look in the window. She knew it was a disaster, but she’d take care of that first thing in the morning—after a good night’s sleep. They were just a couple of shops away from Only Old Books when Maggie noticed light spilling out from under the door.

  “That’s odd. Mr. Tucker doesn’t spend time in his shop after he closes. At least, I’ve never seen a light on after hours.”

  Martin let go of her and stepped forward. “I want you to stay behind me, Maggie.”

  Fear slid down her spine. Until the events two months ago, she never would have looked at something out of the ordinary as dangerous.

  She followed Martin to the door of the bookshop, and her heart skipped when she saw that the door was ajar.

  “Martin—”

  “Stay here. And do it this time, Maggie.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  She watched him ease the door open, and disappear inside. She lasted about ten seconds before she followed him in—and froze on the threshold.

  Patrick Tucker was sprawled on the floor, in the only open space in the shop. Lying next to him was the last person Maggie expected to see again. Arthur Cragmoor lay face up, his eyes staring at the ceiling, and the letter opener Maggie had given to Mr. Tucker buried in his chest.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Call Ian.” Martin didn’t look surprised to see her. But then, he knew her better now.

  She pulled her mobile out of her jacket pocket and tapped in the number, her fingers shaking.

  Not again—this can’t be happening again.

  The two bodies on the floor told her that yes, it was happening.

  Seven

  By the time Ian Reynolds arrived, Martin had learned two things. First, that Patrick Tucker was not dead, as he feared, and that the other man was the infamous Arthur Cragmoor, with Tucker’s newly acquired letter opener in his chest.

  Make that three things.

  There must have been a struggle, because several items had been knocked off the desk, including a pewter cup filled with pens. A dark green pen caught his eye, one that looked familiar, but he was too concerned about Maggie to pursue it.

  He kept glancing over at her. She looked pale, but she was as composed as she had been at their first murder. Ian’s voice turned him back.

  “This village looks calm, to the casual observer. But there have always been petty feuds, and not so petty disagreements.” He looked down at Cragmoor. “I had no idea Patrick even knew him.”

  “Maggie bought a book at the church sale that belonged to Cragmoor.” Martin kept his voice low, so only Ian could hear him. “Whoever broke into her car was looking for the book.”

  “And Cragmoor could have been here, trying to sell other books to Tucker.”

  “There’s more, I’m afraid.” Martin told Ian about Cragmoor’s ranting—that the book Maggie had wanted to return to him was cursed. “I thought Cragmoor chasing her off would be the end of it.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I’d like to take Maggie home, now.”

  “Of course. I have your statements, and I know where to find you if I have any questions. Thanks for the information, Professor.” He moved over to the constable before Martin could correct him.

  With a sigh, he ran one hand through his hair, and took off his glasses. He was already past exhaustion, so the glasses did little to help his vision at this point.

  Maggie joined him when he stopped next to the door. “Is Patrick going to be all right?”

  “He will be fine, Maggie. He has a nasty knot on the back of his head, but he is already conscious. We can check on him tomorrow, if you like. I’m taking you home, love, and staying with you tonight. No argument.”

  “You won’t get any from me. I don’t want to be alone right now.” She moved forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I can’t believe this is happening again.”

  “We are out of it now, Maggie.” He eased back, until he could see her face. “I want you to stay out of it.”

  “Sure.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, but Martin knew avoidance when he saw it. “Let’s go.”

  They walked out of the bookshop, and Martin was not surprised to see half the village there, watching and talking among themselves.

  Spencer separated from the crowd and rushed forward. “Maggie!”

  “I’m fine, Spence.”

  Martin let go so the other man could embrace her.

  “Mags—when I heard, I thought—”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. I should have phoned you—”

  Spencer smothered her i
n another embrace. “Shut up.”

  Maggie held on to him for a minute before she stepped back. “I’ll see you in the morning, all right?”

  “Bright and early. I promise.” He hugged her again, then walked over and shook Martin’s hand. “Thanks for being with her, mate.”

  “I’m glad I was, Spencer.”

  “You’re going home with her?” Spencer’s clear blue eyes studied him.

  “Yes. She will be safe tonight, I promise you.”

  “All this, over a bloody book,” Spencer muttered.

  “Men have killed for less, trust me.” He had seen it, more than once in his travels. Not that he would ever tell Maggie; she’d never let him leave the house if she knew how dangerous some of his digs had been. Greed could change people.

  Spencer’s voice brought him back to the moment. “Have her ring me when you get there. I’ll sleep better, knowing you made it all right.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Spencer moved back to Maggie, whispering to her, then he glanced over at Martin before he made his way through the crowd.

  Martin ignored the stares, and the pointing. He took Maggie’s hand, led her up the high street until they were out of sight, and turned into one of the small side alleys that led to the street she lived on. For his part, he wanted to do more than spend the night on her sofa. But that decision would be up to her.

  Martin had told Maggie he was falling for her. The truth was, he already had.

  He was in love with this feisty, kind-hearted, funny woman.

  Eight

  Maggie woke up, and found Martin’s side of the bed empty.

  When she smelled coffee, she smiled.

  “I could get used to this.”

  She scrambled out of bed and grabbed her worn robe off the bench at the foot of the bed, pulling it on as she ran downstairs.

  Martin stood in her kitchen, already dressed, his wavy hair damp from a shower, and sipping at a steaming mug of coffee. He lowered the mug when he saw her, amusement in his eyes.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Your hair is especially exuberant today.”

  “Oh, no.” One hand flew to her hair. She’d taken the braid out last night, before climbing into bed. “How exuberant?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, running to the closest mirror. It was worse than she imagined. She patted the pockets of her robe for a ponytail holder—and blinked when Martin appeared behind her, holding up a bright blue one.

  “Looking for this?” He held it out of reach when she started to take it, and leaned down. “I will take a kiss in exchange.”

  Maggie smiled, and decided that she would be the one to win this little game. She slid her arms around his neck, her smile widening at the surprise that flared in his grey blue eyes.

  “With pleasure, Professor.”

  By the time they came up for air, the win belonged to Martin. He really was a fabulous kisser.

  “Your, hairband, milady.” He took her limp hand and laid the bright blue band in her palm. “Did you need some assistance?”

  “I—no.” The image that popped into her mind of him helping her with her hair led to another image—of him helping her last night. She felt heat flush her face. “I’m good. But I could use a cup of...”

  Her voice faded when she glanced past him, toward the kitchen, and saw her ghost.

  “Maggie, what is it?”

  She pointed, her heart too busy trying to lodge itself in her throat to talk. Martin turned, and she knew the second he saw the ghost; he stilled, only his hand moving as he reached for her. She gripped it, needing the human contact. Instead of fading, like the last time, the ghost glided forward, through the butcher block island, stopping in front of Maggie.

  The woman was tall, and looked so much like Aunt Irene that Maggie couldn’t help but stare.

  “Who are you?” Maggie whispered. The ghost looked at her for endless seconds before she glided over to the book shelf that held all of Aunt Irene’s precious cookbooks. Her hand hovered over the books, and she glanced over at Maggie. “You’re related to Irene, aren’t you?”

  A pleased look crossed the ghost’s face. She nodded, and glided over to Maggie. Martin started to step between them, but Maggie grabbed his arm.

  “No, it’s okay. I feel—safe. Like I did with Aunt Irene. She looks so much like my aunt, they could be twins.”

  The ghost backed away, and Maggie knew she was about to disappear.

  “Wait,” Martin said. He stepped to the ghost. “What is keeping you here?”

  She gave Martin a pointed look, shook her head, and slipped into the wall behind her.

  Maggie rubbed her arms, chilled. “You didn’t really expect her to answer, did you?”

  “It was worth a shot, while we had her here.” He picked Maggie up and spun her around. “That was incredible! I never had an actual conversation with any of the ghosts I’ve seen over the years. At least, not one that made sense.”

  She smiled, enjoying his enthusiasm. “I’m just glad you were here when she showed. How can she be here and at my shop? I thought ghosts only haunted where they died.”

  “That’s a myth. They can become attached to places, or objects. I once saw an old Egyptian ghost, on a ship in the middle of the ocean. He had followed one of the artifacts on the ship.”

  “That must have been surprising.”

  “It was.” Martin smiled. “Especially since he showed up in my cabin, where I was keeping the small statue.”

  “You have lived an interesting life, Professor Martin. I’d love to hear more about it.”

  “I will talk until your ears bleed and you beg for mercy. You are asking me to discuss the biggest passion in my life. At least,” he pulled her into his arms. “It was the biggest passion, until I met you.”

  “You are a charmer.”

  “I like to think so.”

  She burst out laughing, and was still laughing when he kissed her.

  ***

  Maggie’s good mood carried her through the village, past the curious locals who tried to stop her and ask questions. It died a quick death when she saw Ian Reynolds standing outside the bookshop.

  “Ian—has something happened?”

  “Good morning, Maggie.” He gestured to the shop. “Just some last minute checking before the scene is cleaned up. How are you?”

  “Better. Have you heard anything about Mr. Tucker?”

  “He was sent home last night. A concussion. He was lucky, Maggie, though he may not think so.”

  She frowned, not liking the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

  Ian glanced around before he answered, his voice low. “There is evidence that he may have been the one to attack Arthur Cragmoor.”

  “No—Mr. Tucker?” Shock had her staring at Ian. “He’s the kindest, most mild mannered person I’ve ever met.”

  “There are signs of a struggle, and Tucker had some of Arthur Cragmoor’s skin under his nails.”

  Maggie rubbed her forehead, her good mood gone. “Would it be all right if I went and visited Mr. Tucker? Just to see how he’s doing, not talk about this.”

  “I trust you, Maggie, you know that I do. But I’d rather you stayed out of this. You had a close call the last time, partly due to me not seeing what was right in front of me.”

  She laid her hand on Ian’s arm. “None of us saw the real Drew, so don’t blame yourself. I’ll stay away, if that will help. Can you tell him that I’m thinking of him, if you speak with him again?”

  “I will be, and yes, I will pass on your message. Thank you for understanding, Maggie.”

  She managed a smile. “Believe me, I know how lucky I was to get out of that unscathed.” After saying goodbye, she headed for her shop—and halted again when she saw Enid Phillips on her doorstep. With a deep breath, she moved forward. “Enid. How can I help—ˮ

  “I don’t want to pester you, dear. But it has been going on two months now, and you did promise to assist me with my shop.�
�

  “Right.” Maggie had pushed that to the back of her mind. “I have a big tour coming through today, but why don’t I come over after I close up, and we can start taking notes?”

  Enid’s face lit up. “That will be perfect. I can have tea ready for you, and we will make ourselves a little party.”

  “Sounds good, Enid. I’ll see you then.”

  She watched Enid flounce across the pedestrian street, and couldn’t help but smile. Enid had changed in the last couple of months, and this time, when she called Maggie dear, Maggie knew it wasn’t condescending.

  Her mood was better when she unlocked the door of her shop—then she stepped inside and saw the mess.

  “Yikes,” she muttered. “It’s worse than I remember.”

  She fired up the coffee pot, knowing she’d need the caffeine, and got to work.

  Spencer showed up an hour early, and she nearly smacked him over the head with the statue in her hand when he surprised her.

  “Hey,” he said, backing out of hitting range. “Is that the thanks I get for setting all my alarms and practically sleeping on top of them?”

  “I’m sorry, Spence. I’m a little jumpy this morning.”

  “After last night, I’m not surprised.”

  “There’s more.” She told him about her ghost visiting this morning as they methodically worked their way through the shop, straightening and taking notes on what they needed to restock. “It was terrifying, but exciting at the same time. I don’t know if I would have felt the same way if Martin hadn’t been there.”

  Spencer wiggled his eyebrows. “Is Professor Sexy moving in anytime soon?”

  She didn’t dignify that remark with an answer. Instead, she smacked his arm and gave him the list. “Grab everything we need while I finish out here.”

  He hung his head. “Punished again.”

  Maggie gave in and smiled. “Stop using the S word, and I’ll stop punishing.”

  “I can’t seem to stop myself—I love the look on your face when I do.” He danced out of reach and her fist missed his arm by inches. “I’ll go get that stock for you, while you think about Professor Sexy.”