by Darci Hannah
Sergeant Stamper came over then. “The moment we heard you scream,” he began, “we turned on the spotlights and cranked up the motor. It was an odd sight until we realized the guy was wearing a ghillie suite.”
“Looking like that helped him sneak around without anyone noticing him,” I said.
Jack nodded. He’d already guessed as much.
“Then you went in,” Sergeant Stamper continued, “and Finn sped away.”
“And you let him go because of me.” I sighed.
Sergeant Stamper smiled. “You’re far more important to us, Miss Bloom. But I don’t think our ghillie-suited perp will get away so easily. A chopper’s on its way, and the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen back there fired up the cabin cruiser the moment Finn went barreling past them. They’ll run him to ground for what he did.”
Sergeant Stamper had been correct. As the police boat swung in an arc, ready to head back to Finn’s camp to retrieve an unconscious Erik Larson, Tate suddenly got to his feet.
“Oh my God!” he cried, pointing across the water. “They’re going to … ”
A loud bang rang out, followed by a column of fire shooting up from the darkness.
“Oh fer cripes sake!” Jensen exclaimed, and changed course once again.
∞
The moment we came abreast of the accident, we were met with a gruesome sight. Apparently Dad and his League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, as Stamper had called them, had caught up with Finn. It was a dark night. Carleton had been driving the cruiser because Dad, after seeing me plunge into the lake tied to the business end of an anchor, had been beside himself with anguish and grief. It had been a smart move on Carleton’s part to take the wheel. Anger had taken hold of him as well, and he was on a mission. He took off after Finn like a demon possessed, determined to drive the Irish psycho into the shore.
Finn had refused to comply.
Dad’s boat was bigger and faster. Finn’s stolen boat was easier to maneuver, and he was desperate—we now knew who he was and what he’d done, and we’d found the place where he’d been hiding. As Carleton explained it later, Finn made a sharp cut across the bow of the cruiser after realizing he was heading straight for a rocky outcrop. He almost made it, too. But the cabin cruiser was going full-out, and it slammed into the back quarter of the little fishing boat. The boat exploded on impact, and Finn, still in his ghillie suit, went flying headlong into the lake. By the time we arrived, all that was left of Tate’s stolen boat was a scattering of burning carnage.
“Where is he?” Jack cried, desperate to get his hands on the man. He’d crossed into Dad’s cruiser the moment we’d pulled alongside. I stood up as well and cried out to my dad. The look of tortured joy on his face when he saw me nearly broke my heart. He clearly thought I’d drowned.
The moment Dad was in the police boat, he gave me a hug that surely would have cleared all the water in my lungs, had there been any.
Not long after our little reunion, the police chopper arrived. It hovered over the site of the crash, scanning the black waves with its powerful searchlight. There was still no sign of Finn. It was assumed he had drowned. After all, he was wearing a cumbersome ghillie suit. All the faux leaves and moss dangling from every inch of the fabric would have swelled like a thirsty sponge, making the suit heavy and impossible to swim in. It would act like an anchor. Having literally been tied to an anchor myself, I felt there was some real poetic justice in such an end for Finn Connelly. Still, after Stamper ordered the divers to commence a search, I found myself hoping the guy was still alive. Yes, he was a ruthless killer, and he’d totally wreaked havoc on our cherry orchard. Nonetheless, standing on the deck of the police boat as I stared at the flaming carnage, I couldn’t help from being haunted by his parting remark: You’ll be after finding my motive, I suspect, but ye never will have it.
His words were oddly prophetic, and the longer the police searched for his body, the more likely it became that Finn Connelly had indeed taken his secret to the grave. It was his final senseless slap in the face, and it stung me nearly as deeply as being tied to an anchor and left to drown.
Forty-Six
There never was a Sasquatch lurking in the woods, just a vengeful drug-pushing Irishman in a ghillie suit, and to be honest, I’m a little disappointed.”
“Me too,” Grandma Jenn said sympathetically, plopping down in the chair next to mine. “A Sasquatch would have been easier to forgive, and it would have done wonders for tourism.” There was a twinkle of mischief in her eyes as she spoke, but deep down a part of me knew she would have preferred it. After all, Grandma Jenn was a lot like me. We both found it easier to believe that the evils of the world were the result of otherworldly forces rather than the guiles of humankind. I gave an affirming nod and took another sip of coffee.
After the trauma of being in the hands of a killer, and after my near-death experience anchored to the bottom of Cherry Cove Bay last night, I’d emerged from my ordeal with an entirely new perspective. Nearly dying had changed me. For the first time in my adult life, I saw with crystalline focus what was truly important to me, namely my family and friends. The thought of never seeing any of them again was overwhelming. So was the thought of never again being able to sit in the magnificent sunroom of my childhood home and stare across the diamond-capped water to the picturesque town sprawled along the hillside—a town that was so intricately linked to my very existence. Although yesterday’s bright sun had been replaced by a cool, overcast sky, it was still lovely. So lovely that I failed to notice the mug between my hands shaking until Mom gently took it from me and set it on the table.
“It’s all right,” she said, drying my cheeks with her warm hands. Her eyes were watering too, and I hugged her tightly.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so thankful to be here—so thankful to be alive—and yet I’m so … so damned pissed off! Why did he do it? The monster corrupted the young employees, killed Jeb, tried to kill Cody, and nearly succeeded in killing me—all for no better reason than to damage this place. And he targeted me. Why? What kind of crazy, demented flippin’ psycho does that?”
There was no good answer to this. And because there wasn’t, I was seized with the same sick, helpless feeling that had been haunting me for the past twenty-four hours.
After the devastating boat crash that killed Finn, Hannah and Erik Larson were taken to the hospital. Poor Hannah. She’d suffered a serious concussion and was held overnight for observation. Tay and Giff met us at the hospital and we stayed with her for an hour, making sure she was going to be okay.
Since Erik Larson was in the room next to hers, we couldn’t resist sneaking a peek at his toxicology report. The kid was in a blissful state of inebriation and had barely been conscious when he was found. When we read the list of drugs in his system, Giff inhaled scandalously, Tay covered her mouth in shocked disbelief, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. Aside from high levels of alcohol and marijuana, it appeared that Erik had also ingested the date rape drug Rohypnol. Finn Connelly, nasty bastard that he was, had taken no chances with the young man. He’d wanted Erik hidden and incapacitated. Thank God he hadn’t killed him. Erik knew that Jack would eventually want to question him, and knew that Finn knew this as well, so in order to avoid being murdered for a possible breach in their disturbing relationship, Erik chose the only course he saw available to him. He was smart. Oh, sure, he was going to have a hell of a hangover and he would have to face the wrath of his mother, as well as an uncomfortable interview with Jack, but at least he was alive. And there was more good news. Cody Rivers had come out of his coma. Our prayers had been answered—he was going to be okay. The fact that Finn didn’t pose a threat to the kids any longer was a blessing.
After the excitement of the previous night, I was anxious to talk to Jack. We had a lot to discuss. Jeb’s murderer had finally been identified and effectively stopped, and yet it seemed a hollow
victory without a body, or knowing why Finn Connelly had done what he’d done. Giff, feeling the same pestering unrest, had gone to Tay’s house while I was taking a nap. He’d decided to stay a few extra days in Cherry Cove and thought he and Tay could put their computer skills to the test and see if they could come up with anything on Finn Connelly that might indicate why he had terrorized the Cherry Orchard Inn. It was a long shot, and they knew it, but they wanted to try.
I leaned back in my chair and picked up my coffee again. “Mom,” I said as another thought occurred to me, “where’s Dad?”
A troubled grimace crossed her lips. “He went with Brock to meet with the bank and the insurance people.” Her lip began to tremble as she continued. “They’re trying to determine if the inn and the orchard can be saved.”
“My God,” I moaned, feeling all the blood drain from my face. It was the last nail in the proverbial coffin. “I’m so sorry.” I said, holding her as she cried. I couldn’t imagine what she was going through. Last night she’d learned how close she’d come to losing her only daughter, and this morning she was facing the imminent demise of her livelihood. I’d never thought it possible. I never would have believed that Mom and Dad could lose the Cherry Orchard Inn. Financial troubles were hard for any business to overcome, yet it still might have been possible. Now, however, the reputation of the inn had been damaged. That was harder to fix. In the ad business, it would mean serious rebranding and a pricey ad campaign, and there were still no guarantees. In a small, close-knit community where everyone knew everyone’s business, rebranding often backfired. But it was worth a shot. I’d do anything I could think of if it might save my family’s inn.
I pondered Mom’s statement that Dad was with Brock. Why did it ruffle me so? Probably because Dad was awfully trusting of the guy. Jack had seemed to think Brock was okay, and Giff had even done a quick background check and found nothing that was cause for worry. But I nevertheless had a healthy amount of suspicion where Brock was concerned. He’d hired Finn without doing a background check. Really, who does that? And he’d seemed a little too surprised when he’d told me at the bake-off that none of Finn’s information checked out. What if Brock had some connection to Finn Connelly? He’d only worked at the inn since the beginning of the year, and Finn had come aboard shortly thereafter. Although they were both willing to break the rules for their own self-serving needs, there was nothing further that linked them together. Still, it was definitely something worth looking into. I picked up my phone and sent a quick text to Giff with my request.
While I was busy consoling Mom, Grandma Jenn reappeared with a tray of sandwiches—rare roast beef and Havarti cheese on freshly baked Kaiser rolls. “Just a little something I whipped up,” she told us, setting down the tray. It was just the thing. And I’d been starving.
“Did I mention that Jack called while you were napping?” Mom said a short while later.
“What?” I swallowed a bite of my sandwich. “No. You should have woken me. What did he want?”
“They found Finn’s body in the lake this morning.”
I set the sandwich back on the tray, suddenly losing my appetite. So Finn Connelly had indeed died. I was slightly dismayed by this. “Where’d they find the body?” I finally asked. “Did it wash up on shore?”
“I don’t think so,” Mom said. “It’s at the morgue, but I don’t think you should go see it. Anyhow, I doubt they’d let you in there again.” Her eyes shot to my forehead, searching for the telltale lump. It was nearly gone, but I still sported a lovely bruise. Mom frowned sympathetically. “Besides,” she continued, “from what Jack said, the body’s not in the best condition.”
“I can imagine. He drowned. It’s bound to be mottled and bloated, and maybe even a little nibbled if we’re lucky.” This last bit I added out of pure spite. I reached into the pocket of my jeans for my cell phone, suddenly burning with the desire to call Jack. I looked at the phone and realized I’d turned the ringer off before my nap. I was just about to press Jack’s number when Tate appeared in the doorway. I shoved my phone back in my pocket and smiled into his sparkling sky-blue eyes.
“It’s true. Finn’s body was found in the lake, Whit,” he said, walking over to me. “But he didn’t drown. Doc Fisker said he was dead before he ever hit the water. It was the direct hit from the bow of Baggsie’s boat that did him in. And if on the off chance he wasn’t killed on impact, the exploding ball of flame finished him off. Either way, there wasn’t any water in his lungs, and not enough skin left on his hands to pull a good set of prints. MacLaren was fit to be tied when he found that out. Seems Finn’s going to take his secrets to the grave after all. MacLaren’s going to try dental records, but that could take weeks.” Tate reached down next to me, picked up a sandwich, and took a huge bite. “Make’s no sense at all,” he said chewing. “The guy went to all that trouble to ruin this place, and now he’s dead. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“It makes you realize that you never really know what another person’s thinking,” Mom added, staring out the window. “He always seemed so polite.”
“It was that accent.” Grandma Jenn cast me a knowing look. “Accents can be very disarming.”
Tate shoved the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and took my hands. “Enough talk about that bastard.” He pulled me to my feet. “How ya feeling, babe? I nearly had a heart attack watching you tumble into the water tied to the end of an anchor. Can’t believe you managed to break free. Thank God you did. I had a nightmare last night where I couldn’t get to you in time. Christ, Whit, I thought I was going to lose you, babe. And I’m not going to let that happen. Not now, not ever.”
“We can’t thank you enough, Tate dear, for diving in after Whitney.” There was adoration in Mom’s eyes as she spoke, and a gin and tonic in her hand that she offered to him. It was Tate’s favorite drink. Dammit! How did she do that? When had she had time to pour it? None of this concerned Tate, however. He took a hearty sip of the strong drink, made an appreciative sound, and set it down next to my coffee. My hand was back in his, and I had to admit, it felt good. It wasn’t quite enough to erase the painful mistakes of our past, but perhaps having a near-death experience was enough for me to realize that Tate and I deserved a second chance.
We were in the middle of the sunroom, Mom and Grandma Jenn staring at us open-mouthed, when Tate employed his dimples to their fullest effect. I felt my knees weaken at the sight as butterflies took flight in my belly. And then he brought his lips very close to mine. He was going to kiss me. Holy cobbler! Was I ready for this? So soon? I had just come back to Cherry Cove. I had gone after a murderer. I’d almost drowned! And yet … and yet I found that I wanted him to kiss me.
Tate’s lips were nearly on mine when a loud buzzing sound erupted in the room, breaking the spell and causing my recently frayed nerves to fire like buckshot from the gun of a spastic hunter. I squirmed out of Tate’s grasp. “Sorry. Poor timing. I should probably get that,” I told him and ran for the door.
Standing on the doorstep, holding a stunning bouquet of flowers, was Carleton Brisbane. My hand flew over my mouth. “Carleton!” I breathed, suddenly recalling that I’d agreed to have dinner with him. We’d never set a date; obviously that hadn’t stopped him from taking the matter in hand, and I found that I liked that. “Those are … gorgeous,” I said, taking the flowers. I inhaled their fragrance and smiled. Carleton. He was like a breath of fresh air—suave, handsome, and so very civilized. And he had money. Maybe even enough to save the Cherry Orchard Inn. Without another thought, I took his proffered hand and slipped out the door.
Tate and his kiss would just have to wait.
Forty-Seven
I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of setting up a little picnic for us? I thought it would be a charming first date.” Carleton took my hand and led me down the inn’s back walkway to an awaiting Gator.
“Where are we going?�
� I asked, utterly intrigued as I climbed into the passenger seat.
“You may find this a little cliché, but the orchard is still in bloom. The white of the blossoms look magnificent under this dull gray sky, and I thought it would be such a shame if every memory we have of your beautiful cherry orchard is blighted by death. The murderer has been found, and we are going to celebrate.”
“Yes, yes we are,” I agreed, smiling.
It was a scene from a fairy tale, I thought, spying the intimate table deep in the heart of the orchard. It was covered with a white lace tablecloth and set with fine china and crystal. A silver candelabra stood in the center, and beside the table was a bottle of wine chilling in a silver ice bucket. I was enchanted. The man had thought of everything.
Carleton lit the candles and pulled out my chair. Then he poured me a glass of the chilled wine as delicate petals fell like snow around us. It was everything I had dreamed of as a child. I felt like a princess, with Carleton my charming prince. Maybe he was my destiny, I mused, and smiled at him across the table. Beside him on the ground was a picnic hamper. Carleton excused himself and leaned over, pulling from the basket a plate of smoked Coho Salmon, a wedge of Brie, and a bowl of red grapes. Next he pulled out a tray of perfectly arranged crackers. He then picked up a cracker, loaded it with the tender salmon, and handed it across the table to me.
