He must have caught Dorsey spying on him and knew she was going to cause trouble. Dorsey believed in confronting problems head-on, and she wasn’t afraid to face adversity. Suddenly, raw and primitive grief overwhelmed Barbara. Dorsey was her only family and she missed her terribly.
Barbara closed her eyes, her heart aching with pain. Her grandmother had been filled with life, every day full of meaning. She didn’t complain or bemoan her fate. She went out of her way to help others. The average person didn’t have half of Dorsey’s heart. Barbara wished she’d retired earlier so that she’d have had more time with Dorsey, but her grandmother wouldn’t have stood for it. She’d urged Barbara to live her life.
The one thing Dorsey wanted had eluded her. She didn’t make it back to her island.
Five women. The investigator had found five women Elliot had conned in the last two years: Ellen Marks, Mariam Jones, Thelma Louis, Ivy Russell, and Ruby Taylor. All of their lives destroyed by one thieving family. All left devastated and heartbroken.
No, she couldn’t work with the sheriff. She’d get their money and return it to them.
Mud kicked up from the marsh as Barbara increased her pace. Having been here since July, she understood why Dorsey eagerly waited for Barbara to retire so they could move to Paradise Island together, and how devastated she must have been that much of her life’s earnings had been stolen by con artists, changing the way she’d planned to live her life.
In reality, life wouldn’t have changed for Dorsey. Barbara had made and saved more than enough money to take care of them both for the rest of their lives. Dorsey knew that. But it was the principle of the thing. The fact that someone could come into her home and steal her life’s earnings without a care. That was totally unacceptable.
Barbara sighed. Her life had changed dramatically in the last six months.
In Philly and Manhattan, Barbara’s existence had been a constant barrage of sirens, honking horns, corner delis, cramped condos, and droves of people around all the time. At times, even she wanted to be alone. She found this place enchanting.
Here her grandmother’s childhood home offered a breathtaking view of the Atlantic with two acres of land around her. The flow of the water was soothing to the soul, she thought as she listened to the lapping of the water and wondered what life had been like for Dorsey as a child. Dorsey had left a month after she graduated from high school. What was it about this island that made her desperately want to return after being away so long?
Barbara guessed it was “home.” No matter where life took Dorsey, the place where she was born and raised was always considered home.
The muddy path became too slippery for Barbara to walk, and she left the shore and headed to the country road.
It hadn’t taken long for her to be enveloped into the community. The island matriarch, Naomi Claxton, had roped her into working on the Founder’s Day committee and into the search for her family’s golden bowl. Since the islanders didn’t really know her true identity, Barbara wondered why she was chosen. You never could tell what was going on in Naomi’s mind.
She couldn’t refuse, though. No one refused Naomi. But shouldn’t the woman have chosen one of the islanders? With all that was on Barbara’s plate, the last thing she wanted was to get mixed up with the infighting that went with the monthly committee meetings.
The wind increased and Barbara’s hat flew off her head. Before she could retrieve it, the sheriff’s car drove up beside her, and although it didn’t roll over her hat, the driver positioned the vehicle so that it was on top of it. She sent an irritated glance at the pain-in-the-backside sheriff.
The object of the game was to stay as far from the law as she possibly could. She wasn’t exactly using lawful means to retrieve her grandmother’s money. Her brief sessions with the Philly PD had taught her that the only closure she’d likely get was by her own means.
How many times had Dorsey told her that?
Unfortunately, the sheriff was always turning up, even though she didn’t want to see him.
“Better hold on to that fancy hat or you’ll lose it,” Sheriff Harper Porterfield said, opening his door to retrieve her hat as if she were incapable.
That man, Barbara thought in exasperation.
“Honey, that wind’s strong enough to blow you away,” Harper said.
“Is that right, Sheriff?”
“Harper. Just Harper,” he said.
Oh, he had such a sense of humor, did he? Though Barbara didn’t take any crap about her weight, that little breeze wouldn’t bulge a baby, much less her at size 18. The sheriff took his time to give her the once-over, and by the time his eyes lingered on her face, she felt unusually hot and her breasts tightened with awareness.
When he shifted his gaze to retrieve her hat, she felt as if the laser that had beamed on her had released its heat. With her hat in his hand, he stood up to his full height. Barbara looked way up, to at least six-three or four. She was only five-five.
It wasn’t so much that he was large, and he certainly wasn’t pumped-up-on-steroids bulky, but with his solid muscular build and the authority with which he wore it, he presented an imposing presence. The black hair around his temples was sprinkled with gray, but it only enhanced his sex appeal.
Barbara felt a tingling of awareness in her stomach. She reached for her hat, but Harper held it out of her grasp and leaned against the car, his arms folded over his amazing chest. Her hat dangled from his long fingers. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“I’ll say. Breakfast at the B and B is getting better and better. Have you sampled the new menu yet, Barbara? Heard Gabrielle added a couple of items. Thought I’d give them a try.” He hit her hat against his hand. “How about joining me?”
As irritating as the man could be, she couldn’t deny the attraction between them. Barbara would love to join him—under other circumstances. Harper was one fine-looking man who’d attracted her from the beginning. She didn’t know what he saw in her, but she had no choice but to decline.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff, but I have early appointments. Besides, I’m already in a relationship.” She nearly gagged. Just the thought of being in the same room with Andrew Stone made her skin crawl.
Harper scoffed. “That boy?” Harper moved closer, invading her space. “He wouldn’t begin to know how to treat a woman like you. You need a real man, honey.”
That was putting it mildly, but sacrifices for the cause must be made. “And you would?” Barbara asked, feeling mischievous. She shouldn’t be flirting. Harper needed no encouragement.
“You can count on it.” He sent her a look that said he knew exactly how to handle things. Suddenly, Barbara was grateful for the wind. She needed cooling off.
Um-um-um. The way he was looking at her, she could have melted into a puddle at his feet. And that was saying a lot for a woman immune to silliness.
Those melted chocolate eyes impaled her. Barbara looked away. She was here for justice, not to be distracted by the handsome sheriff.
“Ms. Turner, I don’t know why you’re dating that boy, and I’m not going to stalk you. But I have to say, you’re a fine-looking woman.”
Barbara closed her eyes briefly. Why did he say things that turned her inside out? Why couldn’t he have come along a year or two ago—five years ago or even ten? Why did he have to wait until it was too late?
“Have a nice day, Sheriff,” she mumbled. “I have to get my walk in before I go into the hair salon.”
It was several seconds before Barbara heard a car door slam and the car inch closer.
“You know I’m beginning to wonder about you. You aren’t afraid of the law, are you? Or are you hiding out? Rob a bank, Barbara?”
He was hitting too close to the truth for comfort. Maybe she hadn’t robbed a bank, but she planned to rob the Stones. “Of course not,” she replied smoothly.
“You’re not putting your customers under a spell and robbing them blind when their heads are tucked under the dry
er, are you?” He was so corny, but he could get away with it.
“Heard any complaints, Sheriff?”
“They’re under your spell. How would they know to complain?”
Barbara laughed.
“One day you’ll let me have my way.”
Barbara stumbled. Just the thought sent a pleasing ripple through her.
“I’m already under your spell,” he said. “Be careful, you hear? Have a good day.”
Harper pulled ahead and turned a corner before Barbara realized he still had her hat.
Three miles from Barbara, Trent Seaton cut the motor in his boat and paddled the rest of the way to shore. He’d rented the old house for four months and needed to get the lay of the land before he moved in. With his binoculars, he watched some asshole leave the house with a magazine tucked under his arm, scratch his belly, and amble to the outhouse as if he belonged there. What the heck was an outhouse doing there? The place had an indoor bathroom. But maybe the electricity hadn’t been turned on yet. After all, he wasn’t supposed to arrive for a few more days.
And the owner had said the house hadn’t been rented out since the end of September. He’d also mentioned a brother-in-law who tried to sneak in freebees. Trent couldn’t have that. He couldn’t have some asshole walking in on him or spying on him. He was going to nip this shit in the bud right now.
Trent hunkered down in the marsh behind some bushes. Made him remember the old times when he was in the Marines. He waited ten minutes. A flock of birds flew south. A great gust of wind blew in, sending a shiver up his backside and bringing the stench of death with it. He shivered again. Must be a dead animal somewhere. Or else it was the unique stench of the marsh. He’d have to put up with it for the next couple months.
Was the guy going to read the whole friggin magazine in the stinking outhouse?
This had seemed the perfect place. Isolated. No houses in sight. Didn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors getting in his business, trying to keep tabs on him, reporting his movements to what stood for pitiful law enforcement on this hick island. Now that part suited him just fine. He didn’t need any jerkwater cop trailing him.
Trent took aim at the outhouse. It was time it came down anyhow. This was the twenty-first century for chrissakes, in the good old US of A. Trent fired over the man’s head, peppering one end of the outhouse to the other.
The man yelled “Jesus H. Christ!” from inside. Was more than likely crouched on the floor. Trent emptied his gun, dropped the clip, inserted another one, and fired again.
“All right, for crissakes! I’m leaving,” the guy hollered out.
Trent stopped firing, and after a moment, the man gingerly cracked the door, probably to test the waters.
Trent had already reloaded, but he wasn’t going to shoot the guy.
Pulling up his britches, and without even bothering to pack his gear, the guy sailed to the truck and fumbled the remote to unlock the door, all the while looking around like a scared rabbit, expecting to feel a bullet any second. Once in the truck, he jammed the key in the ignition and sent gravel spewing as he pulled off.
Trent had paid good money to rent the cabin and no SOB was going to encroach on his time. As soon as the loafer was out of sight, he retrieved the motorboat from its hiding place and started the motor. Soon he was bumping across the choppy water back to Norfolk. Good thing he had a cast-iron stomach, else he would have upchucked the breakfast he’d eaten at the IHOP.
Okay, so maybe his mother wouldn’t have approved. She was always whacking him upside his head, telling him to use the brains the Good Lord had seen fit to give him.
He didn’t take drugs or sell them, and he didn’t steal. But his mama disapproved of his career choice. He felt so laden with guilt and grief he couldn’t stand it. His mother loved him. And he’d never been a good son. Only brought her worry and heartache. To make up for all the deeds that made Mama heartsick, he was going to pay the sonofabitch back who took Mama’s money.
“You’re gonna be proud of me, Mama. I’m going to get some justice for you.”
He’d been away on an enforcement when some slick-talking dude had sweet-talked his mama out of her savings. She believed in putting away a little at a time. She’d attended secretarial school right out of high school. She’d waited tables to make the money to put herself through school and had started out working in a secretarial pool at a large corporation. She’d worked her way to the CEO’s office.
“Hard work, Trent. That’s the way to make it,” she’d drilled in his head. Sure he worked hard, but it wasn’t quite the work she was referring to. He wasn’t exactly the nine-to-five type.
He’d done a stint in the Marines. That was as close to an honorable job as he’d ever had. It made him tough at least. Tough enough to be a bouncer in nightclubs or an enforcer when people didn’t pay the bookie on time.
He never killed nobody. Just broke a few arms, bloodied noses. Stuff like that. The worst he’d done was shoot a guy in the leg. Once you’d gained a reputation, they went to any length to get the money for you. And if they were dead or too incapacitated to work, you couldn’t get your money. He wasn’t all bad. At least Mama could be proud he wasn’t a murderer.
But when those suckers cleaned out her bank account, they might as well have put a bullet in her head. She couldn’t live knowing she’d lost everything—that she’d have to depend on others for basics like food and medicine. Social security didn’t pay enough for a person to live on. And although she had her company retirement, she felt that she needed that extra money for emergencies. You never knew what life would turn up. She’d always been proud of the fact that she’d earned her own way.
Pain pierced Trent’s chest. When he got through with them, they’d wish they’d never heard of Lucinda Seaton.
Right now, she lay in her bed nearly comatose. His sister was looking out for her. Maybe if he could get her money back, she’d come back to them.
He’d been monitoring the Stones for a month now. What he couldn’t quite figure out was how Barbara Turner fit into the equation. His mother told him the old guy had a daughter. At first he thought Barbara was the daughter, but she wasn’t a young chick and she was dating the guy’s son. That didn’t make sense to him unless she was really his son’s girlfriend all along and just told his mother another lie. Elliot had said his son’s girlfriend was younger than he was, but then, how could you count on anything Elliot had said being true? Still, why would Andrew want to date a woman so much older than he?
It also surprised him that Barbara worked, really worked hard. That lot wasn’t known for hard work, only stealing. Anyway, he was going to try to get a job in the shop with her. That way he’d get the low-down on everything. Nobody talked like a bunch of women in a hair salon. It wouldn’t take him long to learn everybody’s business.
A man came barreling into the police station to report a shooting. After listening to him, Harper brought him back to his office and pulled out a form.
“Did you see anyone?” Harper asked. He knew who the guy was—the cabin’s owner’s brother-in-law. He’d stayed a week during the summer. The cabin’s owner had asked Harper to keep an eye on things. Had even sent Harper an e-mail telling him he’d rented the place out for a few months to Seaton. This was not Seaton and the man had no business there.
“Are you staying on the island?” Harper asked.
“Oh, no,” the man said, shaking his head. “Like I said, I was just passing through. Thought I’d report what happened, though.”
“We’re going to check it out. In the meantime, why don’t you wait around?”
The deputy on duty saw to the man’s comfort with a cup of coffee, and Harper called John Aldridge, his day-shift assistant.
“Scott, why don’t you drop by there, too? Just in case there’s trouble,” he said to Scott Lowell, a retired officer helping out while their lone detective was away on training. The place he mentioned was close to Barbara’s. It disturbed Harper that s
omeone was shooting that close to where she lived, especially since she went walking in the mornings.
He sighed. They’d just solved a string of murders. A funeral home owner who’d married one of the islanders had been a necrophiliac, and it turned out he was also a serial killer.
It was the end of October. Thanksgiving and Christmas were close. It would be nice if the island went back to its normal peaceful state when the sheriff’s department’s worst offenses were neighbors arguing over fences and speeding tickets. This was a small town—too small for all the activity they were having lately.
Now that Harper had dispatched Scott and John to the site, he was rifling through paperwork. And thinking about Barbara. He’d be the first to admit that he’d become complacent and uncompromising with the dating scene. Sure he spent time with women on the mainland—never on the island—because marriage wasn’t on his mind and women here wanted marriage and expected marriage. They had families, voters actually, to back them up, and he had to run for office. When a relationship ended, he didn’t want irate relatives knocking on his door, bringing up his dating experiences when election time came around every four years.
He’d given up on finding someone who interested him enough to bring him out of his isolation. And then Barbara had appeared and set his blood on fire. Made him dream of things he’d long forgotten, like having a woman in his home, a permanent fixture in his life. Someone who cared. He started to think bachelorhood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Saying that she’d knocked him for a loop was putting it mildly.
Barbara was a big girl, but a beautiful woman. Her black hair had grown longer due more to lack of time to get it trimmed, he suspected, but it was always well-coiffed. Her face was the rich brown of gravy poured over chicken or turkey. And her warm eyes—he just wanted to see them light with desire for him.
Island of Deceit Page 2
