by Jen Blood
I raised an eyebrow at Diggs, who raised his hands in surrender. “It wasn’t my call, Solomon—there was no way I could keep it quiet. I figured you’d rather I do the write-up than somebody else.”
He was right about that, at least. Still, I wasn’t thrilled to think the entire Trib readership was in on my business. I suppressed a sigh and told myself to get over it. I was sure it wouldn’t be the last surprise I had in this investigation.
“So, where do you want to do this?” Hammond prompted me.
He was a lesson in how deceptive a phone voice can be. In the one telephone interview he’d granted me in the past three months, Hammond had been articulate and reserved during a conversation that had been anything but pleasant. Though I’d known he was a retired cop, I had still pictured an aging professor-type—someone the local fishermen would hate, and the women in the tiny library on the corner would fantasize about. I was wrong.
Though he had to be at least sixty-five, Noel Hammond was built more like a linebacker than a man bound for the geriatric set. Over six feet tall and easily two-hundred pounds, he looked like he could bench press a buffalo without breaking a sweat. His hands were callused, his grip stronger than I’d expected.
“Do you guys mind coming back to the dock to check things out with me?” I asked. “We can talk there.”
“Actually, there’s been a little change of plan,” Diggs said. “I got a boat for you like you asked, but we took her out to the island and set the mooring already. Noel said we can take you out there together—make sure you get set up all right.”
This had clearly been Diggs’ idea, since Hammond looked like he’d rather hog-tie a rattlesnake than spend the afternoon hauling my ass around the harbor.
“That would be great,” I said.
“Great,” Hammond repeated, with a notable lack of enthusiasm. He was out the door before I could respond.
Five minutes later, Diggs and I were headed out when a grizzled fisherman in coveralls and an orange hunting cap stopped us in the hallway. I fought the urge to run in the other direction the moment I realized who it was.
“You got that paperwork I asked you for, Diggs?” he asked. He didn’t give me so much as a sidelong glance.
“I was just on my way out, Joe—can I drop it off later?”
The man shook his head; he didn’t look pleased. Joe Ashmont was the fire chief in Littlehope—or at least he had been, up until the Payson fire. A week after the church burned to the ground, Ashmont turned in his resignation. Though the reasons for that were never quite clear, he always seemed to hold my family personally responsible.
“I’ve gotta get that boat fixed or I’m screwed—the season’s about to start, I can’t have her leaking oil all over the bay. You said you’d help me,” Ashmont pressed.
Diggs glanced at me in apology. “Yeah, all right. Just hang on a second and I’ll grab it. You wanna wait in the office, Sol?”
I started to nod, but Ashmont interrupted. “She can wait here with me. I don’t bite.”
Ashmont was probably in his sixties, though he didn’t look a day under seventy-five. Still, he was lean and mean and, despite his claim to the contrary, I suspected that biting was the very least I had to worry about from him. Since he’d had a front-row seat at the Payson fire, however, I knew I’d need to break the ice sooner or later if I wanted any information from him. I sent Diggs on his way.
Einstein growled low in his throat, and stood with his body blocking my legs—just in case I did something crazy and took a step toward the psychopath in the hallway. He didn’t need to worry, though. I planned on staying put.
“It’s good I run into you,” Ashmont said the moment Diggs was out of sight. The way he said it gave me the uneasy feeling our meeting didn’t have anything to do with luck.
“Oh?”
“Payson Isle belongs to you now, don’t it? Word is Old Mal left it to you.”
‘Old Mal’ was Malcolm Payson—brother of Isaac Payson, the preacher who had led the Payson Church until their untimely demise. Ashmont took a step toward me. I smelled whiskey and stale cigarettes on his breath.
“I guess it does.”
“ ‘I guess it does,’” he repeated, his voice up a tone to mimic me. “It does or it don’t, right? I got fishing rights off that back cove—been pulling traps there for the past twenty years. Your old man didn’t bother me, said I was welcome to it. Once he strung himself up, nobody said a word about it since.”
My chest tightened at his words. “I’ll look into it,” I said.
A slow smile touched his lips. “You do that,” he said. “You got your daddy’s red hair, but you look just like your mum—you know that?” His eyes slid up and down my body, lingering on my chest. “You’re littler than her—not much to you, is there?” I’m lucky to hit five-five in heels, and at the moment I felt about three feet shorter. “You got that fire in your eyes, though. A lot of secrets locked up tight in that busy head.”
He took another step toward me, then leaned in more quickly than I would have thought possible. Einstein leapt for him, but he cuffed the dog in the side of the head with a swift, meaty-looking fist. Stein yelped and a split second later Ashmont’s hand was wrapped around my upper arm, his mouth at my ear.
“Somebody might crack that pretty skull and let all those secrets spill out, you don’t watch yourself. Go home, Miss Solomon. You got no business here.”
Einstein was headed in for another go and Diggs was rounding the corner when Ashmont released me, turning on his heel.
“Mind that dog,” he said, calling back over his shoulder as he reached the door. “A dog like that bites me, nobody’d say boo if I shot him where he stood.”
I stared after him, too stunned to respond. As soon as Ashmont was gone, I knelt to check on Einstein.
“What the hell was that?” Diggs asked as he hurried to my side. The dog was fine, just a little shaken up; I hadn’t fared so well.
“Did you see that? He hit my damn dog. Who does that? The son of a bitch actually hit my dog.”
“What’d you say to him?”
Like it was my fault. I turned on him. Diggs held up his hands before I could light into him.
“Not that that justifies anything,” he added quickly. “It’s just—you know Ashmont.”
That was true—I did know Ashmont. And it wasn’t like I was actually surprised at his behavior, given the number of drunken brawls he’d started and hateful epithets he’d spewed in my family’s direction when I was a teen. That didn’t make it any more acceptable, however. I took a manila envelope from Diggs’ hands.
“This is his?”
Diggs nodded. He didn’t say anything when I tore the envelope open, and he did a fine job of keeping his amusement to himself while I skimmed the pile of paperwork inside.
“His boat broke down,” he said. “There are a couple of places that offer financial assistance to lobstermen, but he was having a hard time with the paperwork. I told him I’d give him a hand.”
Since I couldn’t think of a fitting insult for this fairly innocuous revelation, I settled for a pointed glare as I returned the documents to the envelope and handed them back to Diggs.
“Newspaper man by day, guardian angel by night. What would Littlehope do without you?”
“I’m sure they’d muddle through.”
A horn honked in the parking lot.
“That’ll be Noel,” Diggs said. “Not here half an hour and you’ve already got two men who’d just as soon watch you drown than toss you a line. Could be a new record.”
“Give me time—I’m sure I can do better.”
From the look on Diggs’ face, that was exactly what he was afraid of.
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Acknowledgments
This book has been a bear! Thanks to my family for providing the much-needed support to help me through the process. To Mom, for her multiple read-throughs and invaluable feedback; to Ben, for keeping me on level ground when I felt like I was going over the deep end; to everyone else for simply being there. You guys are amazing.
To Jan, for her incredible feedback, good humor, and great eye: you are the very best treasure on Treasure Island. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
A significant amount of research went into this novel, with some truly phenomenal professionals helping me along the way. Special thanks go out to Caroline Blair Smith of Mornington Crescent Sled Dogs (www.sledpets.com) for her patience and expertise throughout this process; to Michelle Merrifield for answering a multitude of questions and, in particular, for giving me an invaluable day in the field with the K-9s and handlers of the Maine Warden Service; and to Michele Fleury of Maine Search and Rescue Dogs, for even more field time and answered questions. This book would not be what it is without their help.
I always love to hear from readers—email me at [email protected] or follow me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jenbloodauthor or Twitter @jenblood, and don’t forget to join the mailing list for your free copy of In Between Days, my book of shorts featuring Erin Solomon in the years 1990 to 2000.
About the Author
Jen Blood is a freelance journalist, certified dog trainer, and author of the bestselling Erin Solomon mystery series. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing/Popular Fiction, with influences ranging from Emily Bronte to Joss Whedon and the whole spectrum in between, and teaches workshops on writing, editing, and marketing for authors. Today, Jen lives in a big old farmhouse on the coast of Maine with a puppy named Marji, a Maine coon cat named Magnus, and a lovely bearded man named Ben.
