“He was horrible. Unprofessional. He deserved—”
“He deserved worse than he got. That’s not the point. You let him get under your skin, which is exactly what he set out to do.”
She picked up her tote bag, her cheeks flushed. She was still poised for battle. “This is why I’m an oceanographer.”
Straker smiled. “Go take care of your fish.”
“When you see Sig, if there’s any sign she’s not doing well—”
“I’ll slap her into the hospital.”
Riley nodded and pushed open her door. “I’ll check in with you later and let you know how long I plan to stay. If you learn anything, call me.”
He waited until she’d made her way to the center’s side entrance, then dove back into Boston morning rush-hour traffic and headed up to Beacon Hill. Lots of cars, lots of aggravation. He located Chestnut Street, located the attractive Federal Period town house that, according to Riley, belonged to her sister and brother-in-law. It had black shutters and a cream-colored, brass-trimmed front door.
He parked in a spot designated for Beacon Hill residents and rang the doorbell. If Sig wasn’t home, he had no Plan B.
She was home. “Straker,” she said in surprise, as she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing. Mind if I come in?”
“Of course not.”
She stood back, and he walked in past her. She shut the door quietly behind him. It wasn’t, he thought, that she looked like hell. Sig almost never looked like hell. But she was pale, drained, eyes puffy, the few lines in her face more prominent. She had on one of her oversize dresses, this one way too big, and her hair hung in tangles down her back. She wasn’t her usual vibrant self.
She smiled weakly at him. “I look that bad?”
“Nah. You look like a pregnant lady who jumped out of a burning building a few nights ago.”
“I’m feeling fine,” she said. “Just a little tired. I already went for a walk this morning.”
“Good for you.”
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
He could drink about a gallon of coffee, but he shook his head. Like her little sister, Sig didn’t have the kind of internal barometer that told her when she’d had enough. She’d keep going until she dropped. Straker followed her into a pretty front parlor that was surprisingly livable, had her sit. She took the couch. He took a wing chair across from her.
She cleared her throat, stared at her hands as she twisted them together on her lap. “The police were here when I got back from my walk.”
Straker wasn’t surprised. “They want to talk to your husband,” he speculated.
She nodded. “They said he’s a potential…a material witness, I think it was.”
“Bottom line, Sig, he needs to come in. He needs to grab the first uniform he sees and start talking. It’s squeeze-play time. He’s got too many competing things going against him.” He paused, debating the wisdom of his next statement. “He’s in over his head. Way over.”
“I know, I know. He’s a Harvard MBA, not an FBI agent. I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing!” She collapsed back against the couch. “I told the police he was here last night. Everything. God.”
“It was the right thing to do.”
She nodded, fighting tears. “I still feel like a fink.”
He couldn’t resist a smile at her choice of words. The St. Joe sisters were a dramatic, colorful pair. They got that from their grandfather. Their mother, too. “Did your husband give you any idea—”
“No. Not about anything.” Her dark eyes dried; her expression hardened. “I’d tell you if he did. I’d love for you to track him down and knock some sense into him.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not that good at knocking sense into people.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, you’ve just been spending too much time with Riley. No one can get through to her when she’s got the bit in her teeth. You have to wear her down.” She gave a sudden wry smile, her melancholy lifting. “And I’m sure you have your ways of doing just that.”
He judiciously said nothing.
Sig sat up straight, almost gleeful. “Straker! You and Riley are—”
“Stop right there, before you say something that’ll get us both in hot water.” He wished he could keep her spirits up, but he knew he couldn’t. “Sig, various lobstermen, including my father, have given your grandfather a hand. I don’t think they’ve stepped over the line yet, but they’ve come damned close.”
“I know. Riley told me. Are they in any danger?”
“Nothing they can’t handle, I expect. They’d love a chance to nail anyone who’d sabotage a ship.” He leaned forward, eyed her intently. “What your sister didn’t tell you, because I haven’t told her, is that some of the lobstermen saw your husband’s boat in the bay shortly before she discovered Sam Cassain’s body on Labreque Island.”
Sig frowned. She’d sunk back against the couch again, her dress draped over her bulging stomach. His words didn’t seem to register. “Matt’s boat?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he was on Mount Desert that weekend. Everyone was. Caroline, Abigail, most of the center’s staff. My father, Riley. My mother didn’t go up—she doesn’t have anything to do with the center anymore. It wouldn’t surprise me if Matt ditched Caroline and his sister to sail up to Schoodic.” She added softly, “We both have a lot of memories up that way.”
“The police have probably talked to the lobstermen. They’ll have told them they saw him. Sig, I’m not suggesting he had any direct involvement with Sam’s death or how he ended up on the island.”
“But that’s how it looks,” she finished for him. She shut her eyes, breathing out in a mix of frustration and resignation. “The police didn’t say anything about lobstermen, Matt’s boat—”
“They wouldn’t, necessarily.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Trust your instincts and call the police the next time you see your husband.”
She leveled her artist’s gaze on him. “He’s not a killer.”
Straker didn’t respond. What response was there?
“He’s not.”
If Emile was right, someone had sabotaged the Encounter. Someone who knew boats. Someone who, according to Riley, probably hadn’t realized Bennett Granger would be aboard. That opened up the possibilities.
“Sam’s death could have been an accident,” Sig said. “Matt’s never been that interested in the center. He indulged his father and Abigail, but he had no scores to settle, no grand plan for preserving the world’s oceans. He just wants to know why his father died.”
Straker could see she was getting upset; her face was red, her hands twisted into knots. Time to change the subject.
“My God,” she said, going even paler, “it’s not as if he sabotaged the Encounter.”
“Sig, I’m not jumping to any conclusions. Neither should you.”
“Why would he fund Sam to find out what really happened if he knew? If he’d done it himself? Why would he—” She gulped for air. “I suppose if he’s guilt ridden and the explosion, the fire, the flooding were all worse than he expected, he might want to know what happened. He could—”
“Sig. Stop.”
She placed a hand on her brow, tried to control her rapid breathing.
“Tell me about Abigail,” Straker said quietly.
Sig licked her lips, calming slightly. “She’s wonderful. Riley and I have known her since we were little kids, but she’s older than we are. She was always good to us. I think she might have liked to become a marine scientist, but she never did.”
“Your sister did.”
“Oh, there was never any question of that. You remember. She and Emile were joined at the hip from the minute she could dip a hand into a tide pool.”
“Did you feel left out?”
Sig smiled, looking better n
ow. “Are you kidding? With Riley tramping around after Emile and Mom and Dad, I was free to draw, paint, do my own thing. My mother and I have grown closer since she moved to Camden and took up nature writing.”
“What about your father?”
“He’s a great guy, and he and my mother are happy together now, even if they have unconventional living arrangements. I’m not sure I could stand it myself. I know Riley couldn’t.”
Straker made no comment.
Sig went on. “My father can’t wait for the Encounter II to get finished. He doesn’t have Emile’s charisma, but he’s just as committed to the center’s work.” Her expression hardened suddenly, and she glared at Straker. “He didn’t blow up the Encounter.”
Straker sighed. “You and Riley have to quit trying to read my mind. You’re no good at it.”
Unlike her sister, Sig had the grace to blush. “I’m sorry. I’m defensive. There’s one more thing about Abigail I probably should tell you—she and Henry Armistead are having an affair. I’m not surprised, really. Abigail’s divorced, Henry’s charming and handsome, and they both live and breathe for the center. They’ve had a traumatic year, trying to make up for the loss of both Emile and Bennett.”
“They’re keeping their relationship secret?”
“For now. I suspect they want to have a better idea of where it’s going before they open themselves up to that kind of publicity and scrutiny.”
“She and Armistead have to fill pretty big shoes.”
“Yes, they do.”
An awkward silence followed. Straker had never been much on small talk. He got to his feet and motioned for Sig to stay put, but she didn’t. Her color had improved, and she seemed to have more energy, even a little fight, now that she’d had a chance to talk.
She touched his arm. “My sister isn’t as invulnerable as she likes to pretend. You’ll be gentle with her?”
He smiled. “If I don’t throttle her first.”
Riley lasted in her office just over ninety minutes, thinking about the fall whale migration south, before Henry stormed in. He inhaled sharply and dropped into her extra chair, frowning at her. “The Maine State Police were at Abigail’s this morning.”
Matt. They would want to talk to him about his role in bringing up the Encounter’s engine. Riley nodded. “I hope they’ll get to the bottom of this mess soon.”
“They’d get to it a lot sooner if your grandfather—” He stopped himself, waved a hand in frustration. “Well, you know my position on Emile. I’d hoped we were over the hump when Caroline had us to Mount Desert last week. It’d been a year since the Encounter, and—” He sighed, throwing up his hands. “Obviously I was wrong.”
“You weren’t wrong, Henry. We had a great time at Caroline’s. None of us could have predicted Sam’s death.”
“I hope not.”
Riley felt her stomach turn over. “You’re not saying—”
He raised his eyes to hers. “Let me be plain, Riley. I hope for your sake Emile’s exonerated.”
“He will be,” she said. “If he’s not, I’ll resign. You won’t have to fire me. What about my father?”
“He doesn’t have your visibility. He’s pure research, and he’s been more willing to allow the possibility that Emile has gone over the edge.”
“I understand,” she said quietly. “But I’m not worried. I know my grandfather, Henry. He didn’t kill Sam or set those fires.”
He sighed, as if he couldn’t expect her to say anything else. “Abigail’s terrified for her brother. Nearly losing Sig just about did her in, and now the police are looking for Matt.”
“It’s a mess. I know that. With any luck the police will find Matt before he does anything really stupid.”
His chin shot up, his eyes sparking. “Are you implying—”
She gave him a quick smile. “I’m not implying anything.”
Henry rose, stiff, formal, carefully controlled. “Riley, if something else is going to blow up in my face, I need to know it.”
“Hey, I’d like to know it, too.”
Her halfhearted attempt at humor didn’t go over well. “I’m asking you to keep me in the loop.”
She groaned. “There is no loop, Henry. I wish there were.” She jumped up from her desk, suddenly restless; she couldn’t imagine focusing on her work. “We’re all in difficult positions. We’re all under a great deal of stress. Believe me, I’m not trying to make things worse for you.”
“I know, I know.” He exhaled, looking less angry and frustrated, more tired. “Forgive me. It wasn’t my intention to downplay the ordeal you’ve been through in recent days. Abigail said the police left her with the impression they have information they aren’t willing to share with her. I was hoping you had some idea what might be—”
She did have some idea. She had plenty of ideas. But Straker would have her head if she sat Henry down and told him everything. Instead she mumbled, “I’m just doing the best I can.”
His eyes narrowed, again suspiciously. The look of fatigue instantly vanished. “Riley?”
She’d never been a good liar. “Look, I’m not going to get anything done around here. I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. You don’t mind if I head out, do you?”
“Of course not.”
His tone was clipped, wary. She didn’t know what had tipped him off that she was in fact holding back on him—probably recent history. But how could she explain that her grandfather had been hiding out in an abandoned Maine sardine cannery with his pictures of a sabotaged Encounter engine?
“What about your FBI agent? John Straker. Where’s he?”
“He doesn’t exactly keep me informed of his movements.” She tried to seem casual. She swooped up her leather tote. “I’ll stop by Sig’s. If she’s seen Matt, I’ll let Abigail know. Okay?”
Henry remained cool. “Be sure you do. She’s worried about her brother, as you can imagine. None of us wants him to be the next victim.”
“Henry—”
He held up a hand. “I’m not suggesting anything. I imagine the police have interviewed your sister as well. She would cooperate, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure,” Riley echoed, annoyed.
After Henry left, she finished packing up for the day. Tension and fatigue had eroded her ability to concentrate. Usually the opposite occurred, and the more stressed out she was, the more she buried herself in her work. It was, she thought, her own form of self-imposed exile. Straker had gone to an island after his ordeal. She had dived into the world of marine recovery and rehabilitation. There was nothing more exhilarating than returning a healthy dolphin, a healthy whale, to the wild.
Instead of going directly to Beacon Hill, she slipped out to the small, rusting, outdated research ship moored at the back of the center. It wasn’t the Encounter, and it wasn’t even a shadow of the Encounter II. Her father was down below, trying to work in cramped temporary quarters.
Riley managed a smile. “This old tug doesn’t quite compare to the Encounter II, does it?”
He leaned back in his ancient chair, visibly shook off his total immersion in his work and focused on her. “It’s going to be a fabulous ship.”
“Bennett’s dream come true,” she added.
Her father nodded sadly. “He always had tremendous vision. Emile, too. They were remarkable men.”
“Emile still is. He’s not dead.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
He raked a hand through his scruffy hair. His research into the endangered right whale—a large, slow, acrobatic, oil-rich species long favored by whalers—consumed him. The northern right whale, Eubalaena glacialis, was near extinction, although the southern right whale was showing signs of recovery. Their slow breeding hindered their recovery and thus was a focus of much of Richard St. Joe’s research and restoration efforts.
“You’re okay?” he asked.
She nodded, realizing with a pang of regret that she couldn’t tell him about Emile a
nd the Encounter sabotage, either. She’d simply wanted to see him. “Sig’s back in town.”
“Mara told me. We’re in constant touch since the fire at Emile’s. I heard you came to work today—I was going to stop in later. I think it’s a good idea to try to maintain your routines as much as possible until this all gets sorted out.”
“In theory, anyway. I’m heading out right now. I thought I’d go up and see what Sig’s up to.”
“I don’t like her staying in that house alone.”
“I wondered about that, too. Maybe I’ll stay with her or make her camp out at my apartment.”
He nodded approvingly. “What about John Straker?”
Riley deliberately misinterpreted his words. “What, do you think I need to keep an eye on him?”
Her father smiled. “No, but I suspect he’s keeping an eye on you. That thought helps me sleep nights.” He gave himself a shake, sighed. “I can’t believe I said that. Amazing. Trusting John Straker with one of my daughters. But he’s here in Boston, isn’t he?”
“He most certainly is.”
“If you need me—”
“I know, Dad.” She gave him a quick hug. “You and Mom are both rocks. Thanks.”
The sun was bright, the air perfect for an afternoon of playing hooky—if only she could, Riley thought. She’d love to walk through Fanueil Hall Marketplace, sit on a bench and look out at the harbor, or just go to the Department of Motor Vehicles and replace her driver’s license after it burned up in the fire at Emile’s.
Instead she spotted Straker at the marine mammal fountain. His thick body, the ease with which he stood at a Boston fountain or on a rickety Maine dock, were unmistakable. He turned to her, his gray eyes sweeping over her. “No whales to drag back to sea?”
“Thankfully, no. Did you see Sig? How is she?”
“Hanging by threads.”
“She can’t stay alone. I’m going to insist we stay together.”
He nodded and gestured behind her. “Company.”
Caroline Granger joined them at the fountain. She looked composed, perfectly groomed and coordinated in her stylish pantsuit and gold jewelry. “Riley, you’re just the person I’m looking for.” She smiled at Straker, narrowed her ladylike gaze on him. “You must be John Straker, the FBI agent.”
On Fire Page 24
