Pelican Point

by Irene Hannon

“That was the original plan—but I’ve been investigating a few other options. Hope Harbor has a lot of appeal.” Including a certain red-haired newspaper editor. “Leaving might not solve the problem anyway. She could follow me to Ohio.”

  “In view of her obvious mental health issues, I wonder if she’s under treatment?”

  “Possibly—but if she is, it’s not working. And with HIPAA laws, we won’t be able to find out anyway.”

  “True. I’m sorry I can’t do more. I’ll instruct the officers to do frequent drive-bys on your street, but my presence—and my questions—didn’t seem to intimidate her very much earlier.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” He wiped a hand down his face and broached the concern that had been on his mind all afternoon. “I’m worried about her reference to Marci. Nicole has a very wide jealous streak. In Germany, she shredded the sheets on one of the other nurse’s beds and dumped a liter of blood all over it. All because I ate lunch with the woman in the cafeteria.”

  Lexie murmured a word he couldn’t make out. “And that wasn’t sufficient to convince everyone she had mental issues?”

  “It would have been if we could have proved she did it—but she claimed innocence and left no evidence behind that would implicate her.”

  “Man. This is one scary woman.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on her—and call us day or night if there are any new developments or we can help in any way. You might want to alert Marci to the situation too.”

  “I intend to. Thanks for giving this so much attention.”

  “Goes with the job. But I have to say, this is the most unusual situation I’ve dealt with during my tenure as police chief here. Watch your back—and I’ll touch base with you every day.”

  After one more thank-you, Ben thumbed the off button, slid the phone back into his pocket, and raked his fingers through his hair.

  In thirty-six hours, Marci would be back in town, anticipating a relaxing date with him at Charley’s.

  Instead, he’d have to walk a wide circle around her. The less contact they had while Nicole was lurking around, the safer she’d be.

  But he had to talk to her. Explain what was happening.

  And a phone call wouldn’t cut it.

  This was a discussion that needed to take place in person. He had to tell her the whole story about what had happened in Germany—as she’d told him about her stalker.

  Stalker.

  As the obnoxious word ricocheted through his mind, the irony smacked him in the face.

  All these months, Marci had been worried that the nutcase who’d invaded her world in Atlanta might show up and wreak more havoc in the new, untainted life she’d created here.

  Yet it was his past that had reared its ugly head and now threatened the future he’d begun to envision.

  They could get past this, of course. Nicole couldn’t hang around forever. He could wait her out if he had to.

  But given Marci’s history, would the skeleton in his closet undermine the foundation he’d been laying with her and short-circuit their relationship . . . or did she know—and trust—him enough to believe the story he would tell her when she returned?

  20

  She was almost home.

  Marci turned onto Pelican Point Road and eyed the digital display on the dash. The clock was only closing in on nine, thanks to her three-hour time-zone gain, but it felt like midnight. And after eight hours of flights and layovers, followed by a nearly five-hour drive from Portland, sleep was high on her agenda.

  But she’d make time to see Ben, if he wanted to drop by.

  Except she wasn’t certain he did.

  Frowning, she tightened her grip on the wheel as she navigated a curve on the dark, winding road.

  Yesterday, and again today during her layover, he’d sounded . . . different . . . on the phone. Distant, worried, preoccupied—it was difficult to pinpoint the emotion in his voice.

  Although he’d sidestepped her query when she’d asked if everything was okay, she intended to get a straight answer before she went to bed tonight. If her experience in Atlanta had taught her nothing else, she’d learned that pussyfooting around hard stuff didn’t make it go away.

  In fact, sometimes it made the situation worse.

  If Ben was having second thoughts about them, better to find out now. Without some clarity on that question, sleep would be elusive despite her fatigue—and she needed to be ready to charge full speed ahead tomorrow on the crowdfunding campaign. Given their short fund-raising window, it needed to be poised to launch the minute Eric let her know he’d filed the 501(c)(3) paperwork for the lighthouse foundation.

  And given that Ben had asked her to call as soon as she got home, he must want to talk too.

  She swung into her driveway, retrieved her overnight bag from the backseat, and let herself into the dark house.

  After flipping on a few lights, she pulled out her cell, sat at the kitchen table, scrolled through to his number . . . and hesitated as tension began to prickle in her nerve endings.

  Maybe she wasn’t ready to hear whatever he had to say, after all.

  Finger hovering over the screen, she chewed on her lower lip.

  She could always text instead, say she was too tired to talk tonight, and promise to call tomorrow after she got some rest.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, call the man, Marci! Don’t be a wimp.

  Right.

  Blood might send her into a tailspin, but she could face whatever he had to say without losing her dinner.

  She hoped.

  Bracing, she tapped in his number.

  He answered on the first ring. “Hi. Are you home?”

  “Yes. I walked in the door less than ten minutes ago.”

  “Long day.”

  “Too long.” Wait. That sounded like she didn’t want to talk to him. Better correct that impression fast. “But coming home always gives me an energy boost.”

  “How is your mom doing?”

  “Much better. You’d never know there was an issue. She seems completely back to normal. How’s everything been here?”

  A couple of beats ticked by, and she tensed.

  “Not as normal as it could be. There’s been a development I need to discuss with you.”

  Her spirits plummeted.

  Now that she was back in her snug house and all was well in Florida, he wasn’t dancing around whatever issue was troubling him—which could mean it was about them. Ben was a considerate man; he wouldn’t kiss her off long distance after the scare with her mom.

  Sighing, she kneaded her forehead. Allowing herself to hope they could work out some arrangement to explore the chemistry between them despite the geographic challenge had been dumb. She was too old to get all starry-eyed and—

  “Marci? Are you there?”

  “Yes.” She rose. Two aspirin and a glass of water might help her get through this—or at least dull the headache beginning to form in her temples. “What’s the development?”

  “I want to talk about it face-to-face.”

  He was trying to be a gentleman and let her down in person.

  But it would be easier for her if they did this now. She could hide her reactions—along with any stray tears that might leak out.

  “Um . . . like you said, it’s been a long day. It might be quicker if we discuss it over the phone.”

  “I need to see you for this conversation.”

  Based on his firm tone, he wasn’t open to negotiation.

  Meaning she’d have to take the initiative and put the difficult subject on the table.

  She filled her lungs, steeled herself, and said the hard words. “Look, Ben. It’s okay. I understand if this isn’t working for you. The long-distance complication was always an issue, and we both knew it would be a challenge to—”

  “Whoa!” His alarm came over the line loud and clear. “I’m not suggesting we end our relationship.”

  She froze, her ha
nd halfway into the cabinet to retrieve the bottle of aspirin. “You’re not?”

  “No. This isn’t about that. I’m as committed to figuring out the logistics now as I was before.”

  Before?

  Somehow she knew that was key.

  “Before what?”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  She retracted her hand from the cabinet, leaving the bottle of aspirin inside, and returned to the table. “You want to come over?”

  “Yes—but not yet.”

  “What time did you have in mind?” She sank into her chair. It was already after nine—but hey, she could muscle through her fatigue for another hour if it meant seeing Ben.

  “This is going to sound weird, but my reasoning will be clear after I explain what’s been going on.”

  “Are you thinking of a midnight rendezvous?” She tried for a teasing tone, but some nuance in his inflection told her this was no joking matter.

  “Close—but more like one-thirty.”

  That was weird.

  “You mean one-thirty in the morning?” Maybe she’d misunderstood.

  “Yes. Please trust me on this. Like I said, once I explain the circumstances, you’ll understand. We could both catch a few hours of sleep between now and then. You have to be exhausted.”

  “I’m more curious than tired now.”

  “I’ll tell you the whole story in four hours.”

  At the grim tenor of his voice, a shiver spiraled through her. “This is bad news, isn’t it?”

  “I hope not.”

  That wasn’t too comforting.

  “Can’t you give me a tiny hint? You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’m sorry.” Contrition softened his tone. “I don’t want to upset you. I’d wait until tomorrow to do this if I could, but there’s a reason we need to talk tonight—and at that late hour. In terms of a hint . . . an incident from my recent past has come back to haunt me. It has nothing to do with my feelings for you, but you need to know about it.”

  “You aren’t an undercover CIA operative or something, are you?”

  He exhaled. “I wish it was that simple. Can I come at one-thirty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. And try to get some sleep in the meantime.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Marci set the phone down. Rose.

  Apparently she was going to need those aspirin. Her temples were beginning to throb again.

  As for sleep—that was a lost cause.

  Yes, she’d go to bed.

  Yes, she’d try to convince her body to relax enough to let her doze off.

  But with Ben’s mysterious visit mere hours away, she had about as much chance of falling asleep as his grandfather had had of winching a full pot of Dungeness crabs from the ocean depths during the spring slow season.

  As far as he could tell, no one had followed him.

  The Hope Harbor police officer’s report that Nicole’s car hadn’t budged from the Gull Motel for the past two hours must be sound.

  But just to be safe, he killed his lights as he approached Pelican Point Road.

  If anyone was following him—like that PI Nicole had referenced—they’d never notice him veering off 101 on this black, moonlit night.

  It wasn’t likely she was still paying her spy now that she was on-site, though. She already had all the information she’d wanted.

  Not until he rounded the second curve on the point road did Ben flip his lights back on. No one from the main drag would spot him here, deep in the wooded terrain.

  Once Marci’s house came into sight, he eased back on the gas pedal, dread pooling in his belly at the thought of the conversation to come.

  This could go several directions—some of them not pleasant.

  He could only hope she’d listen to everything he had to say with an open mind—and believe he’d been justly exonerated from all of Nicole’s claims.

  A shadow moved behind a drawn window shade as he pulled into her gravel driveway and set the brake on the truck.

  She’d been watching for him.

  Not surprising, given his cryptic explanation on the phone earlier. In her place, he’d be curious about such a covert meeting too.

  As he approached the door, she pulled it open.

  “I want you to know I don’t unlatch my locks for just anyone at this hour of the night.” Though the backlighting from inside left her face in shadows, her mood wasn’t difficult to read.

  She was nervous—but trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.” If it lasted.

  “Come on in.” She swept a hand toward the interior as he ascended the steps to her front porch. “There’s a chill in the air, so I turned on the fireplace. I thought we could talk in the living room, over coffee.” She motioned to the two mugs on the glass-topped crab pot in front of the sofa. “It’s decaf, in case you’re worried about sleeping later.”

  Decaf or regular, he doubted he’d get much shut-eye during the remainder of this night.

  He followed her to the overstuffed couch, where she tucked her feet under her, picked up her mug—and gave him an expectant look.

  Settling in beside her, he surveyed the room. The glowing flames in the gas fireplace created a cozy, intimate ambiance that would be romantic in other circumstances.

  But romance had nothing to do with the sudden uptick in his pulse.

  Clasping his hands in front of him, he watched the firelight flicker for a moment. If there was an easy way to lead into his story, it eluded him. Besides, Marci was prepped for bad news. No reason not to plunge straight in.

  “We’ve talked a few times about the night we met—and you’ve apologized more than once for overreacting.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I did overreact.”

  “True—but I did too. And there’s a reason for that.”

  Lifting the mug, she watched him over the rim as she took a sip.

  “While I was in Germany, I was involved in a situation with a woman who turned out to be volatile—and dangerous.”

  “Someone you were dating?”

  “No. Or I didn’t classify it as that, anyway. We did socialize on occasion at first, mostly because I felt sorry for her. When Nicole crossed my path, she was working at Landstuhl—the army’s regional medical center—as a civilian employee for the Department of Defense. She told me her fiancé had been killed in action the year before.”

  Marci narrowed her eyes. “That wasn’t true?”

  “No—but I didn’t find out she was lying until much later.”

  “How did you two connect?”

  “I saw her in the cafeteria one night, after I finished a very late shift. She was sitting by herself . . . and she was crying.”

  Marci’s features softened. “I don’t suppose a man who rescues hurt kittens would walk away from a woman in distress.”

  “No—but I wish I had.” He picked up his mug, more to infuse some warmth into his fingers than to quench his thirst. “She latched on to me after that. She was new at the base, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I could see she was a bit high-strung, but that didn’t set off any alarm bells in the beginning. I assumed her emotional state was due to her grief.”

  “Except she wasn’t grieving.”

  “No. I later discovered she had serious mental issues.” He swallowed. “Serious enough to almost ruin my life.”

  Marci’s brows knitted. “What happened?”

  This was the hard part.

  “She became fixated on me. Kind of like your stalker did with you. I’d done nothing to lead her on, yet she became convinced I’d fallen in love with her. It was fantasy, pure and simple. And I told her that after she began suggesting we do more than meet for an occasional meal in the cafeteria.”

  “That didn’t go over well?”

  “A gross understatement.” The dark liquid in his mug began to slosh, and he set the cup down on the coffee table. Balled his
quivering fingers. “She had a total meltdown the night I finally told her I needed some distance. I hated to hurt her, but her attention was becoming smothering.”

  The twin grooves on Marci’s brow deepened. “I know all about that.”

  Yes, she did.

  But she didn’t know anything about the kind of craziness that had happened next.

  “There was a difference, though. In the end, your ‘admirer’ respected the boundaries you’d set and left you alone.”

  “Only after I got the protection order.”

  “Still . . . he went away.”

  “Nicole didn’t?”

  “No—and she was vindictive.” He told Marci the same story he’d shared with the chief of police about the nurse whose sheets she had shredded and bloodied.

  “Oh my.” As she breathed the words, Marci’s cheeks paled. “That’s bizarre.”

  “I agree. The problem was, she covered her tracks well. It was impossible to prove she was the culprit. After that incident, she began to spread rumors about us, suggesting I’d led her on, taken advantage of her, even harassed her.”

  “How could someone be so spiteful?”

  “I don’t think a normal person could.” He swallowed . . . inhaled . . . and braced. “In the end, she brought formal sexual harassment charges against me.”

  Marci’s complexion lost its last vestige of color. “Did . . . did anyone believe her?”

  “It didn’t matter what they believed. They had to investigate—because she arranged to have proof.”

  A hint of wariness crept into Marci’s face, and his gut twisted. This was the reaction he’d feared. “What kind of proof?”

  “An elaborate, but effective, ruse. Somehow she got into my quarters one night while I was working a late shift and hid. When I returned, I took a shower and headed for bed. No sooner did I hit the sheets than she appeared in the doorway. She was carrying most of her clothes, which she scattered on the floor. Before I could process what was happening, she jumped on top of me and started screaming. The MPs were all over the place in minutes.”

  “Didn’t you explain what happened?”

  “Of course. But I couldn’t dispute her presence, or the bruises I assume she self-inflicted before she ever got to my room, or her state of undress. Those were facts. The rest was my word against hers.”