Harbour Falls

by Grey, S. R.

  But nobody knew that this case held more than a professional interest for me. Not because the main locale was Harbour Falls, and not because the mystery involved the disappearance of a local I’d once known. And, truth be told, had once envied. Nor was it the fact that this local, Chelsea Hannigan, had gone missing the night before her wedding. Scandalous, though it was.

  What piqued my curiosity was the man Chelsea had been on the verge of marrying—Adam Ward. He was the man at the center of the mystery. He was the man whose life had been altered when Chelsea disappeared, after he was named as the number one suspect.

  What role, if any, had he played in her disappearance? Though never formally charged, many believed he was far from innocent.

  Well I was here to uncover the truth. There was just one small problem.

  Contrary to what I’d told Ami, I was interested in Adam Ward. Still. Despite how ridiculous I knew it was, I couldn’t wait to run into Adam. Would he even remember me? Maybe not. But I wasn’t the shy girl I’d been back then.

  Of course I was playing with fire. If he ever suspected I was investigating him in order to research my new novel, he’d hardly be pleased. I might even see firsthand just how supposedly dangerous he could be.

  At the thought, a little shudder ran through me. Whether it was due to fear, excitement, or both, I wasn’t sure. I knew I should analyze it and get my head straight before I ended up in trouble.

  But I’d run out of time. Because the fog began to lift, and in the distance, Fade Island came into view.

  Chapter 2

  Jennifer Weston secured the ferry to an old, weatherworn dock on the southwest side of Fade Island. A lobster boat—looking a little worse for wear—bobbed in the water a few yards away. I shot a questioning look at Ami, and she shrugged, “Probably a fisherman stopping for a cup of coffee.”

  “Coffee?” I questioned. I’d expected the island to be mostly deserted this time of year. But before she had a chance to explain, Jennifer reappeared, holding her hand out to help Ami disembark.

  The light mist of rain that had been falling since we’d left Cove Beach continued, but over here the wind was much fiercer. Hair lashed at my face as I stepped up the aluminum rungs to reach the dock. Jennifer waited, arms crossed. And just as she’d done on the ride over, she was glaring at me.

  I didn’t appreciate her uncalled-for attitude, so I rolled my eyes at her and stepped out onto the dock unassisted. Unfortunately the wood was slippery from the rain, and I nearly lost my footing. Maybe heels weren’t such a brilliant idea today.

  Jennifer’s hand shot out to steady me. But instead of a light grasp, she dug her fingers into the material of my trench coat, squeezing my upper arm. I tried to twist away, but she tightened her grip in response and leaned close to my ear, hissing, “Go back to California where you belong, Fitch, before you end up getting hurt. Or worse.”

  What the—?

  I wrenched my arm just as she let go and nearly fell, again. Walking forward without looking back, I mumbled “Bitch,” to myself. I also made a mental note to find out as much as I could about Jennifer Weston. All I knew was that her parents had turned the ferry business over to her years ago, before they moved down to Florida. Maybe J.T. would talk to me about her? I hadn’t seen him in years, but it was worth a try. Why had he ever married her? Little wonder they were divorced.

  Ami was already way ahead, standing next to a sleek, black luxury sedan that looked remarkably similar to the car Adam Ward had once driven in high school. Weird. Ami had mentioned all of the cottages included an automobile for the tenant to use to travel about the island. Maybe this one, a Lexus, was going to be mine? Did that mean the cottage I was about to view—and possibly rent—was owned by Adam? Did he own all the cottages then? Maybe he’d just donated the car? From what I’d read, he could certainly afford such an act of generosity.

  Picking up the pace, I caught up with Ami just as she was opening the car door on the driver’s side. “What the hell is the Weston girl’s problem with me?” I complained, still shaken by Jennifer’s actions and hoping for a little compassion from my former friend. “So much for a warm welcome back.”

  “Try not to take it personally, Maddy. She’s always like that,” Ami said, her tone unusually dismissive.

  Ooo-kay, I thought as we got into the car.

  “By the way, this car comes with the cottage I’ll be showing you today.” Guess that answers that question. But I just could not bring myself to ask if this car was the same one Adam had once driven. I also nixed the compulsion to elaborate on the veiled threat Jennifer had whispered to me. Ami didn’t seem willing to discuss it anyway. It was probably better to keep as many people out of my troubles as possible, especially my clueless, very pregnant, and once-upon-a-time best friend.

  Ami pressed the gas pedal, and we surged up a steep, paved grade leading away from the blacktop parking lot. We turned left onto a neat and tidy cobblestone lane. The misty rain had abated but not the winds. A decorative brass sign with letters spelling out Main Street oscillated atop a fluted post on the corner. We drove by and slowly made our way along Main Street.

  Colorful, two-story storefronts stood on both sides of the road: a teal-blue hardware store, a general store painted the color of a freshly unfurled spring leaf, a store selling candy—the pink exterior a perfect match to the bubble gum advertised on a placard in the window. All the businesses were closed for the season. The proprietors, who generally lived in the second-floor apartments, had gone back over to the mainland. We passed darkened building after darkened building until we reached the last one on the left.

  A cute, olive-colored affair with a paned picture window and an awning big enough to shelter patrons from the rain was not closed. The scalloped front edge of the dark green awning flapped erratically in the wind, intermittently obscuring the bright white lettering that read: Café. The lights inside blazed. Aha, this was where the fisherman with the lobster boat would be procuring his coffee.

  “Why’s that one not closed for the season?” I asked Ami, pointing to a small sign in the window that was turned to the side that proclaimed it was open.

  “Nate’s wife, Helena, keeps it open year-round. She runs the place. The fishermen passing by the island appreciate a place where they can stop and grab a cup of coffee. Besides, there are always people going back and forth, even during the off-season.” Ami slowed to a crawl. “The café is also where you’ll pick up your mail. It comes over every weekday on the ferry. And you can order groceries through Nate and Helena. I don’t know if your dad told you, but Nate’s the manager of Fade Island.”

  I nodded absently, because I had already heard that from my dad. And I found it odd. Nate had been almost as adept as Adam at things like computer programming and software development. In fact, I recalled a time that together they’d hacked into the school computers and changed all the grades. So why was Nate just “managing” this island? Or was it some kind of cover?

  Ami cleared her throat and, in a worried voice, asked, “You do remember Nate and Helena from high school, right?”

  “Of course I remember them,” I replied.

  And I did. Quite well in fact. In addition to his skill with all things computer-related, Nate had been the star quarterback for the football team—big, muscular, mocha-colored skin, amiable brown eyes. Yeah, he was a good-looking guy. And one of the nicest. I remembered him always trying to make me laugh. He had a legendary sense of humor.

  Back then and apparently now, based on their close proximity, Nate and Adam had been best friends. And they’d been teammates. With cheering crowds of Harbour Falls residents—myself included—Nate Jackson had thrown many a winning touchdown to his top wide receiver, Adam Ward.

  Helena, who had dated Nate since sophomore year, was his perfect match—friendly and fun to be around. With her model-like looks—b
eautiful, long legs, blonde hair, and big, expressive blue eyes—it would have been easy to hate her. But quite the opposite was true; everyone adored her. In fact, she and Nate were voted “Most Perfect Couple” senior year.

  But things were far from perfect for Helena. Following her parents’ particularly unpleasant divorce, her mother met and married what seemed like the first guy who came along. Helena was just fourteen. At first her new stepdad appeared to be an average guy in almost every way: average looks, average build, average job. He even had an average name, Ron. He was the kind of guy people passed on the street and forgot about a second later.

  But Ron’s anger wasn’t average. He had a violent temper, and before long the whole town bore witness to the bruises his rages left on Helena and her mother. After all, even the best makeup doesn’t always conceal a black eye.

  Thankfully, during her freshman year away at college, Helena’s stepdad left her mom, taking off for places unknown with no explanation. The general sentiment was good riddance. At the time Helena had been attending the University of Maine with Ami. In fact, she and Ami shared not just a dorm but a room as well.

  At the end of freshman year, though, Helena quit college and moved down to Massachusetts to be closer to Nate. He was attending, and playing football for, Boston College. They were married in a small, private ceremony shortly thereafter. And that was it. I’d heard nothing more. It was strange to think that they’d ended up living out here on secluded Fade Island. Something to look into, for sure.

  Ami resumed her slow crawl up toward the northern boundary of Main Street, to where it turned into a paved, two-lane road twisting through the forest on the west side of the island.

  Ami was pointing to an olive-colored bungalow adjacent to the café, so I focused my attention back on the here and now. “That’s Nate and Helena’s house,” she said.

  The home was fairly large, with an elaborately landscaped front lawn. “But Helena spends most of the day at the café,” Ami continued. “If you’re trying to catch her, always check there before you go anywhere else. She’s almost always there.”

  Another bungalow, this one smaller and also painted olive-green, sat directly across from Nate and Helena’s. “Who lives there?” I asked.

  “Max,” Ami replied. “He was in the military a while back, did a few tours of duty. But now he handles security here on the island.”

  “Is he a police officer for Harbour Falls then?” I asked, knowing Fade Island, though privately owned, still fell under the Harbour Falls jurisdiction.

  “Uh, I think so,” Ami answered, picking up speed. “I don’t know all the details of his qualifications or whatever. But he provides security for the island, its residents, and any visitors.”

  Spoken like a true real estate agent. Uh-huh, I thought, sure. It sounded more to me like “security for the island” was code for “security for Adam Ward.” But I let it drop.

  Thinking of Adam, I asked, “Hey, wasn’t Helena friends with Chelsea at one time? Isn’t that how Adam originally met her?”

  The car bucked as Ami wavered on the gas. “Um, I think that’s how they met. I’m not exactly sure.” For whatever reason, she seemed irritated. “But, to be honest, I wouldn’t ask too many questions about Chelsea around here.” Around here? Did she mean on the island or the entire area in general?

  “Sure,” I replied, hesitant to ask for elaboration for fear this line of conversation might lead to me blowing my cover.

  Besides, I remembered plenty about Chelsea Hannigan. And really who could forget? She had attended a private school in Harbourtown, a neighboring town of Harbour Falls located a few miles inland. For as beautiful as Helena was, Chelsea had her beat. No contest. If Helena could be described as a model, then Chelsea was a supermodel.

  Exquisitely styled, strawberry-blonde hair; endless legs; flawless skin; high cheekbones; eyes that were the most unusual shade of green. To many, Chelsea embodied perfection. Every female dreamed of having her body, and so did all the guys. Of course, both had vastly differing definitions of what “having” meant.

  To top it all off, Chelsea was rich. Well, her family was. Sometimes she would pick Adam up at school in her father’s Ferrari, and Adam’s younger sister, Trina, would get stuck driving his car back home all alone.

  This reminded me to ask, “Whatever happened to Trina?”

  “She lives in Boston.” Ami glanced over, probably wondering what was with all the questions.

  But I continued, “What about their parents? Do they still live in town?”

  Ami nodded, and I shot off another question, “I heard Dr. Ward retired as dean at Harbour Falls U and that he and Mrs. Ward travel all the time now. Is that true?”

  Ami’s eyebrows knitted together as she frowned. “Maddy, are you sure you’re not still into Adam? ’Cause you sure are asking a lot of questions that have to do with him and his family.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I replied, a little too sharply. “I’m just trying to get caught up on all I’ve missed.”

  Ami didn’t need to know getting “caught up” was an integral part of doing research for my next book. To be based on what had really happened to Chelsea Hannigan four years ago, the night before Chelsea was supposed to marry Adam Ward.

  I had little doubt Ami would have further questioned my intentions, but we’d reached the property. Thank God.

  As she crunched along the gravel driveway that ran along the side of the property, I maneuvered in my seat so I could see more clearly through the windshield.

  The cottage, constructed primarily of gray flagstone, boasted a deep-sloping slate roof with a dark green-trimmed dormer window on the right. A prominent stone chimney bisected the façade of the house. Adorable and quaint were words that came to mind. A gable, painted the same deep shade of green as the trim on the dormer window, accented the area directly above the recessed wooden front door. Truth be told, I was taken with its charm.

  Placing the car in park, Ami shifted in her seat and took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry if I acted weird before, when you mentioned Chelsea. I know you haven’t been back in Harbour Falls for more than a few days, but there are some things we just don’t discuss around here. Make sense?” Oh, we’re back to that. She sat waiting for a response, so I nodded, thinking, sure, whatever.

  Seemingly satisfied, Ami threw open the door. With more fanfare than seemed necessary, she huffed and puffed her way out of the driver’s seat. Standing, she stretched and then popped her head back in. “Now come take a look at this incredible cottage. I just know you’re gonna love it.”

  I got out while Ami fumbled around in the backseat gathering up paperwork. Ami may have been acting strangely, but as I stood on the cobbled walkway leading to the front door, the cottage felt right. I knew I’d be comfortable living in a house like this for the next few months. I suddenly wanted to bake cookies, curl up by the fireplace, read a book in one of the little nooks I was sure would be found inside. It emanated the kind of homey feel that made me want to nest.

  We’d reached the door, but Ami was digging around in her bag looking for the house key. My eyes wandered to a flower box beneath a window next to the door. Filled with dark, rich soil but no flowers, I started to make plans. Immediately, white chrysanthemums came to mind. An autumn bloom I’d always loved, I could already see the white blooms contrasting beautifully with the deep green shade of the window box.

  Ami held up the house key victoriously and said in a relieved voice, “God, I thought I lost it.”

  I followed her inside with a last, wistful look at the flower box. I made a mental note to ask Ami, before we parted ways, if she knew of a place where I could buy a couple potted white mums.

  The next half hour flew by. With speed and efficiency, Ami whisked me from one beautifully decorated room to the next. Gleaming hardwood floors, warm
and natural color schemes, a big bed covered in a fluffy down comforter. Oh, and the artwork on the walls. The angle, the treatment of light, the brush strokes—all beautiful works of Impressionist-style painters.

  And then there was the spacious cedar closet upstairs, the soaking tub, the kitchen with the state-of-the-art appliances and a window above the sink with a view of a back yard that overlooked the ocean. My mind was reeling, my senses overloaded with texture, color, beauty.

  We finished the grand tour, and Ami turned to me. She asked, “So what do you think?”

  “You were right,” I replied, breathless. “I absolutely love it.”

  Signing the necessary paperwork was quick and straightforward. As I flipped through the pages—signing at each of the designated x’s—I kept scanning for some kind of information that would reveal the identity of the owner of the property.

  The header at the top of each page was the same as the one on Ami’s business card, Harbour Falls Realtors. That really didn’t tell me much, so I asked, “Do Harbour Falls Realtors own this cottage, or are they just in charge of the lease agreements?”

  Ami hesitated, and then she started gathering some papers that were spread out on the oak table in the dining room. “Uh, they own all the cottages on the island,” she answered, eyes averted.

  I hastily signed the last page and stacked the contract pages into a neat pile. As I held them out, I asked, “Well, who owns Harbour Falls Realtors?” After signing a lease agreement that was going to cost me a pretty penny for the next three months, I wasn’t about to give up so easily.

  “Maddy, I’m really not at liberty to say,” she said quietly as she reached to take the contract without meeting my gaze.