Blood Kin

by Judith E. French

  “How long did it take before your neighbors stopped watching you from behind the curtains?”

  “Two, maybe three years. It helped that I was a Smith. There have always been Smiths in Crisfield, and then there’s Smith Island. The general feeling was that although I was a mainlander, I came from good stock.”

  “What does your husband do? Is he a fisherman?”

  “No, Jim is a conservation officer. Not a fabulous salary, but he loves it. Can’t imagine doing anything else. We do a little farming on the side, mostly organic vegetables for the Baltimore market.”

  When the bread was gone, Cathy issued an invitation for her to come and see the Tawes Elementary School any weekday. “It’s small, not many students, but we’re proud of it. We have computers and a great library. Your great-aunt was instrumental in that. She found a government site where we could get free books from the Library of Congress, and she convinced some of the major computer companies to donate rebuilt ones.”

  “Maybe I should try the same tactic. Our library books are old, and there aren’t enough computers to go around. Some of the kids have them at home, but others don’t. And they’re going to need that knowledge in the future.”

  “I agree,” Cathy said enthusiastically. “I really love what I do, and we think Tawes is special. I teach a combined second and third grade.” She balled up the empty paper bag. “Some of our kids didn’t do as well as we hoped in the state testing, so I and a retired teacher volunteer hold summer catch-up classes to bring them up to speed.”

  “What about high school? Creed Summers said that they go to Crisfield by boat every day?”

  “Yes. They’ve done that for, I don’t know, maybe twenty years. A few kids are homeschooled, and some go away to boarding school, but most don’t mind the commute.”

  “I can’t imagine going to school by boat instead of bus, but I suppose somewhere in the world, kids go by plane.”

  “Please come and visit the school. We only have class until twelve; then you can come back to my house and have lunch with me. It won’t be fancy, but I think we’d have lots to talk about.”

  “I’d like that,” Bailey admitted. “I came down to the dock looking for Creed. Is this a day he’s making the ferry run?”

  “Yes, it is, but—” Cathy rubbed her belly. “I think this one has three feet. She kicks like a mule.” She giggled. “What was I saying? Oh, yes, Creed. He doesn’t tie up here. He has a dock behind his place. It’s about a mile and half out of town. Turn left when you leave Emma’s; then go about a mile on the main road.”

  “I love the way you say that. Main road.”

  Cathy laughed again. “Wait until you take Hessian’s Redoubt. That’s Creed’s road. It makes the dirt road look like an interstate. Take a left at the fork in the main road. There’s no sign, but there’s a big walnut tree with a lightning-scarred limb. Out past the old cemetery. Stay clear of that. Some of the graves have sunken in and . . .” She shivered. “I wouldn’t want to have to dig you out of what’s left of a two-hundred-year-old pine coffin.”

  “Me either.”

  “Take the left onto Hessian’s Redoubt and follow the ruts along the water’s edge. You pass two farms, then go through a wood, and Creed’s house is on your left. It has a red roof and a barn that leans hard to starboard.” She glanced at her watch. “Uh-oh. I’d better run home and get dinner started.”

  The most normal person I’ve met on this island, Bailey thought as she turned toward Emma’s. She really liked Cathy. The young teacher seemed smart, dedicated, and full of fun, someone that she’d have enjoyed getting to know anywhere. She’d make certain she stopped by the school before she went home. Perhaps she and Cathy could exchange e-mail addresses.

  As she passed the parsonage, Bailey glanced toward the house. There was no sign of Grace or Matthew, but as she walked by, she caught a hint of movement at a window in the living room. Imagination, or was Grace Catlin spying on her? It must be her imagination. Any moment now she’d hear spooky music coming from the attic. Chuckling at her own foolishness, she hurried on, wondering what fattening marvel Emma would put on the table tonight.

  “Will you get away from that window?” Matthew admonished. “Do you want her to think the worst of us?”

  “Me? What were you thinking to invite her to go on your dig?” Grace asked. “She’s an attractive young woman, a stranger, and a Tawes. I don’t need to remind you that a minister of the gospel must be above reproach. Some of our parishioners will remember Beth’s disgrace.”

  “Old gossip. And you know Bailey isn’t responsible for what happened thirty-five years ago.”

  “I didn’t say she was. She’s seems like a sweet girl. But why start people talking again? Let it lie, I say. It’s a tragedy, certainly, but it’s done with.”

  “Will Tawes paid for his crime.”

  “Did he? He’s out, isn’t he? And he’s still carrying a grudge. You know that it wouldn’t take much to set him off. Some people have been talking about the senator’s death, saying it was no accident.”

  “The police said it was. A hunting accident.”

  “Think that if it gives you solace, Matthew. But the sooner she leaves Tawes, the better it will be for all of us. And encouraging her to stay only tempts that devil Will to kill someone else.”

  “You have no proof he killed Joe Marshall.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m not the only one to suspect it. Emma told me that Bailey heard the whistler two nights ago.”

  “Emma’s always been a worrier. She was probably dreaming.”

  “And if she wasn’t? If I’m right, Joe’s won’t be the only blood to spill on this island. Mark my words, Will is dangerous. And so is Beth’s girl.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Daniel!” Emma called from the foot of her stairs.

  He’d spent all Thursday afternoon installing the downstairs toilet in the cabin, had returned to the boardinghouse, and was about to jump into the shower before supper. Barefooted and shirt half-unbuttoned, he retraced his steps to the top of the stairs. “What is it?”

  “I have to go out. There’s a pork roast, a peach pie, and baked potatoes in the oven. Could you do salad? I need you to take care of supper. And remind Bailey about Mama’s birthday party tomorrow.”

  Daniel scowled. “If you’re trying to play matchmaker, forget it. It’s better if she leaves before things get out of hand.”

  Emma shook her head. “It’s already out of hand. You heard him two nights ago, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” he lied. He’d talk to him, try to reason with him. He’d done it a dozen times, but maybe this time . . .

  Emma scoffed. “Right. Tell that to Joe Marshall. I’m scared, Daniel.” She stared up at him. “Do I have to shout up the stairs so half the town can hear?”

  He grimaced, lifted a palm in mock surrender, and descended halfway down the steps.

  Emma lowered her voice. “I want you to take over here for the evening. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?” He knew this was about Mallalai, and Emma’s determination to get him to move on with his life.

  “She’s dead, son. It’s a hard fact, but that doesn’t mean you need to go in the ground with her. It’s only right to mourn—”

  “Leave it. I’ll deal with it in my own time.” He turned to go back upstairs and muttered, “In my own way.”

  “Daniel.”

  He stopped two steps from the top landing.

  “You’re not dealing with it; that’s the problem. Hell-fire and damnation! I’m not asking you to sire her babies, just serve supper and make a damn salad. She barely ate a bite at lunch today.”

  Daniel scowled over his shoulder at her. “You’re an interfering—”

  “Busybody? I thought that was Grace’s job. I care about you, boy. Maybe I’m one of the few who does.” She raised one beefy shoulder and rested a foot on the bottom step. “Not hard on the eyes, though, is she
? Never saw a Tawes girl who was.”

  He wouldn’t give Emma the satisfaction of knowing just how attractive he found Bailey. She was a beautiful woman, petite, with a waist a man could span with his hands. She had nice legs, and a man couldn’t be shot for looking—at least, not in the Western world. And he’d always favored small women with nicely shaped, firm breasts. . . .

  Emma snickered. “You do think she’s cute.”

  “You won’t leave it alone, will you?”

  “Just supper. That’s all I’m asking of you. Anything else is on your own conscience.”

  Memories of Mallalai washed over him as he tore butter lettuce and chopped scallions for the salad. There was a jar of sun-dried tomatoes and another of black olives, and he absently added some of each. Letting his thoughts drift back to Afghanistan was as agonizing as probing an abscessed tooth with an ice pick. What happened there . . . His feelings about Mallalai were hard to forget.

  Logically, Daniel knew that Emma was right. He couldn’t go on living like a monk or he’d end up as bitter as Will Tawes, but fifteen months wasn’t long enough to get over it. Maybe fifteen years wouldn’t be either.

  Her eyes had been what had drawn him, large, dark, almond-shaped eyes . . . eyes fringed with thick, long lashes, eyes that spoke volumes without her uttering a sound.

  She’d been bundled up with layers of clothing from the crown of her head to the toes of her soft leather boots the first time he’d met her. She’d wound a scarf around her head to protect her face from the snow, and only those mysterious eyes showed. Later, when she removed her outer clothing, when he could see her features, he thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  She’d come to his tent with one of his most trusted informants, Daoud, and her brother Zahir. The two men carried Russian Kalashnikovs; the weapon slung over Mallalai’s shoulder was a shiny, American-made M16. The three had come from a valley controlled by Taliban sympathizers, over a pass that had been blocked with snow for three weeks—a pass that the village elders had sworn was impossible to traverse at this time of year.

  Daoud had sobbed when he related how two mules and his cousin, seventeen-year-old Osman, had been swept away in a snowslide the night before. Mallalai stood silently behind him, her gaze darting around the tent, and didn’t shed a tear. The three of them were hungry, half-frozen, and weary beyond belief, but refused food and rest until they passed on the message Osman had died to deliver.

  “You’re making dinner?”

  Bailey’s voice cut the frigid mountain air, tearing away the fabric of the past, so that Daniel’s senses returned one by one. The odors of wet wool, mule shit, and onions frying in mutton fat gave way to spicy peach pie and roast chicken. The lump in his throat dissolved, and he let out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding as Mallalai’s image wavered and then faded. In her place stood an auburn-haired woman in khaki shorts and a sleeveless summer blouse.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Set the table.” He motioned to the wall cupboard. He dumped radishes and celery into the salad bowl and carried it to the kitchen table. “Emma had to go out. No reason why we can’t eat here.”

  “Dinner wasn’t necessary.”

  “Emma thought it was.” Memories of the first meal he’d shared with Mallalai lingered. Yogurt. Naan made with coarsely ground grain and baked in a mud oven. Raisins. Roasted goat so stringy that muscle fibers kept getting stuck between his teeth. She’d devoured her meager portion ravenously and licked her fingers. Later he’d learned that she, Daoud, and Zahir had eaten nothing but snow for three days.

  “Look,” Bailey said. “I’m sorry for what happened—when you were working on the grape arbor. I overreacted. If I was rude, I—”

  “No, you weren’t rude.” He sliced the steaming chicken. “I was.” She held out a serving platter and he forked a mixture of light and dark meat onto it. “And for the record, this is supper. Dinner is the meal served midday on Tawes.”

  She smiled. “I stand corrected. Supper. And will you join me, or am I to dine alone?”

  “I’ll eat. Emma has a special way with roast chicken. Some kind of seasoning she rubs into the skin before she puts it in the oven.” He removed the potatoes and put them in a bowl.

  “We’ll need butter and—”

  “Sour cream.”

  They both reached for the refrigerator door at the same time, and their hands brushed. He jerked back and she gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Sorry.”

  “My fault.” She passed him the butter and sour cream. He put them on the table and took a chair opposite Bailey as she began to relate her chance meeting with Cathy at the dock.

  One small hand rested on the oilcloth, and he wanted to cover it with his own. Instead he busied himself with his napkin and tried not to stare at the hollow of her slender throat or the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks.

  She’d obviously showered before coming down to the kitchen. Her damp hair was twisted up on the back of her head so that tendrils curled at the nape of her neck. She smelled good enough to eat. Her perfume scent was light and spicy, almost like green apples.

  Mallalai had worn jasmine.

  “So tell me,” Bailey urged. “How is it that a bright young government employee with an important career and a good retirement check on the horizon throws it all away to come back to Brigadoon and become the village handyman?”

  “Who said it was an important career?”

  “Your brother.”

  “Matt’s easily impressed.” His voice grated. He found himself thinking about the shape of her mouth and what it would taste like if he kissed her.

  She laughed. “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s a long story, and most of it not for mixed company. It was probably inevitable. We’re an inbred lot here on Tawes, and despite the obvious brain damage, we’re independent as hell. The government career sounded good to begin with, but when push came to shove, I wasn’t cut out to be a regimented, nine-to-five bureaucrat.”

  “Why do I think there’s a lot more to it than that?”

  She had a really nice smile that went all the way to her eyes, blue eyes that reminded him of Elizabeth’s and Will’s. When she smiled, Bailey Elliott went from cute to knockout, and the temperature in the kitchen rose noticeably.

  She was damned attractive, and he found himself responding to her in ways he hadn’t done since . . .

  Whoa, boy, back off, he thought. This is definitely not a woman you want to get messed up with. For a lot of reasons . . . her connection to Will Tawes number one on the list.

  “Why weren’t you drawn to the church?” Bailey teased. “Matthew told me that your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all ministers.”

  “I always was the odd man out in the family.” He concentrated on his salad, stabbing at an olive, missing, and pinning it against the side of the bowl. Hell, he thought. He hadn’t been this nervous around a pretty girl since he was fifteen. “My arrival was something of an embarrassment to my parents. Matt is more than twenty years older than I am, and my mother assumed she was past childbearing.”

  “Mother and Dad were in their forties when they adopted me. Everyone always asked me if they were my grandparents.” She took a bite of the chicken. “Delicious. But then, everything Emma cooks is terrific.”

  “It’s why I haven’t moved out to the cabin,” he admitted. “I can cook well enough to keep body and soul together, but Emma is a master chef.”

  “Ah,” she teased. “So you admit you have a soul?”

  “It’s an old saying. Tawes is full of clichés.”

  “You wiggled out of that nicely. I can believe you worked for the government. Never giving a straight answer must be a requirement for the job.” She dabbed at her lower lip with her napkin.

  Apparently she wasn’t wearing lipstick, because none came off on the cloth. That peach color must be natural, he thought.

  “Part of the reason I change
d careers.”

  Bailey was sharp, with a mischievous sense of humor and a lively curiosity. In spite of himself, he was intrigued. If she were anyone else he would have been interested . . . more than interested. He would have suggested they dig out a bottle of Emma’s best wine and take it upstairs, where they could be more comfortable. But this wasn’t any woman . . . this was Beth Tawes’s daughter.

  As they shared the meal, he found himself talking much more than he normally did, telling her stories about his childhood on the island and her great-aunt Elizabeth. “She was a teacher too. We knocked heads more times than I can count.” He grimaced. “I was a handful, but she didn’t give an inch. She wouldn’t let me get away without doing my best. For all her toughness, the kids loved her. I usually had the job of unsaddling her horse before school and—”

  “Her horse? She rode? I love horses. I used to beg for one every birthday and Christmas, but the closest I ever got was riding lessons one summer at camp.”

  “Elizabeth was a fantastic rider. She rode to school every day from the farm, snow, rain, or sun. And when she decided that her horses needed more than a lean-to shelter here in town, she threatened to quit if the board didn’t build her a proper stable.”

  “Did they?”

  He nodded. “They did. A nice box stall and an enclosed area where the horse could graze. I think they have sheep in the pasture now.”

  Daniel had meant to minimize the contact between them, see that she had a decent meal, and make himself scarce, but it didn’t turn out that way. After supper they shared the chores, cleaning up the kitchen, and doing the dishes. And somehow he found himself sharing the front porch swing with Bailey as the long summer evening slowly slipped into purple dusk.

  “I’m surprised,” Bailey said softly as they watched the first lightning bugs of the season blink on and off in the yard. “Somehow I’d thought of Elizabeth Tawes as a sick old lady.”