“What is it, Mac?”
Mac was the epitome of sophistication and discretion. His thick silver hair truly did deserve the term “mane.” He was dressed casually for him, in a button-down shirt and chinos with a sweater vest I was sure was cashmere. His shoes had a shine I could see even in the half-light, not a wrinkle on his custom-made shirt. But Mac had a pencil stuck behind his ear.
I smoothed my hair behind my ear, hoping he’d imitate the gesture.
Mac did. He looked at the pencil as if seeing one for the first time and put it down on a worktable. “The young woman you found—”
I shifted my weight and inhaled. Mac Macallen was the last guy I thought would be nosing for details.
He cleared his throat. “Just hoping it wasn’t anyone who’d worked here. You know how we theater people travel. After Mame, lots of the actors joined a road show, some actors left for school, some for other jobs. It’s hard to keep track of everyone.”
Mac had a warm heart for all the boys and girls of the theater. I exhaled. “I didn’t recognize her. She was…” I suppressed a shiver at the memory of her waxy skin. “Petite, my age maybe—”
Mac nodded.
“Black hair, cut very short,” I said. “I don’t know the color of her eyes,” I said carefully. Or if there were any.
Mac relaxed. “Short black hair. Well, I don’t think that’s anyone who was in the cast of Mame.”
Voices carried in from the hallway.
Mac led me to the door. “Perhaps it’s best if we both make a swift exit.”
Mac waved as I drove out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror I watched him fold his tall frame into his sporty red Mini Cooper. He was a sweet man.
Unlike Patrick Yardley. Aunt Gully’s van screeched as I swung the wheel toward the waterfront.
Chapter 10
New Salt was on the waterfront at the marina just past Mystic Bay’s historic district. Patrick and his partners had taken Ye Olde Rusty Scupper Bar and Grille and turned it into an upscale nightspot, half restaurant and half bar. Boaters could dock at the marina and stroll a few yards to enjoy fresh seafood and trendy cocktails. New Salt was jammed every night. It was Mystic Bay’s meet market.
The line to get in was out the door. I ignored dirty looks as I cut to the front. I didn’t care. Anger and adrenaline buzzed through me.
Inside, music thumped so loud the hostess had to shout. “May I help you?” She frowned at my sweaty rehearsal clothes. I recognized her from Pilates class.
“Hey, Kate.”
“Oh, hi. Allie, right? Are you having dinner here?”
“Nope. Just looking for Patrick.”
“He’s not here.” Her eyes cut to the stairs down the hallway by the bathrooms.
“Thanks, Kate.” I darted up the stairs.
“You can’t go up there!” Kate shouted.
I ignored her and the twinge in my ankle, thinking only that if Patrick had another girlfriend with him I’d throw him out the window. At the top of the stairs, I pounded on the door and threw it open.
Patrick Yardley spun around, a cell phone to his ear. His expression flashed from confusion to recognition and back again. He held up a hand but continued talking.
I was determined to keep the embers of anger fanned and not let Patrick’s animal magnetism sway me. Patrick shut the door, muffling the music and bar noise below. He threw me a puzzled look, then turned to his desk, distracting me with the long lines of his muscular back and shoulders. His jeans fit him extremely well and his T-shirt was like a second skin. No wonder Lorel couldn’t stay away.
Lowering his voice, Patrick continued his conversation, flicking through some papers on his desk.
Nervous energy coursed through me as I stalked around the room, looking for signs of female occupation.
I could see a bed through a doorway. I leaned in, not caring that I was invading Patrick’s privacy. The bed was made, a navy blue comforter smooth across it.
It was all so tidy. No women’s clothing, no cosmetics. What had I expected? Lacy lingerie tossed everywhere and a round platform bed topped with a tiger skin? My anger sputtered. If a woman were living here, there was no indication.
There was a black backpack tossed into a corner. I swung around. No yoga mat or pink running shoes by the door, just a pair of men’s black sneakers.
Everything was stripped down, with the feel of a rarely used dorm room. The only thing on the wall was a print of New London’s historic Ledge Lighthouse.
Patrick threw me a look and murmured into the phone. “Yes, yes. On the boat. I’ll be there. Don’t worry.” His voice turned cajoling. “It’s taken care of. Okay. Bye.” He slid the phone into his back pocket. For a moment he stood in profile, his chiseled jaw reminding me of Verity’s Jim Morrison poster. He grasped the edge of his desk and took a deep breath.
Patrick turned to me. “Hi, Allie. What’s up?” His eyes moved slowly from my sweaty yoga pants to my bodysuit. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Heat rose in my face. “What’s up? I just heard that you’re living with some girl, one of your servers.”
Patrick’s expression didn’t change but he folded his arms and smiled, a little crooked on one side, a little sly.
“That’s news to me, Allie. Who’s telling you this stuff?” His voice was warmer and deeper than I remembered, probably because the last time I had an actual conversation with him was in high school. His voice had a caressing tone. I could see how a woman could believe everything a man said in a voice like that.
I wasn’t that woman.
Patrick opened his arms. “Look around. As you can see, I’m the only one here. Rumors, you shouldn’t believe rumors, Allie.”
My stomach twisted. Who’d told me about Patrick’s other woman? Margot. Was she playing me for a fool? Margot lived to hurt others, but I thought she was telling the truth.
“May I remind you that you’re dating my sister? Patrick, I know Lorel wants to be with you but for heaven’s sake—” My voice shook. I hated myself when the words came out in a whisper. “Don’t hurt Lorel.”
Patrick held up his hands in surrender, but his eyes were hard. “Allie, it’s between me and Lorel. None of your business, little girl.”
He reached for a strand of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. Instead of letting it go, his fingers slid along the strand and he moved closer, too close. He looked down at me, his green eyes ringed with impossibly thick lashes, his voice low. My knees went weak. The word “smolder” slid into my mind.
Patrick leaned close to whisper, so close his breath stirred my hair. “Got it?” His voice had an edge.
I was done. I slapped away his hand. Through gritted teeth I managed to say, “Leave Lorel alone.”
By the time I was halfway down the stairs, my anger turned into remorse and embarrassment. How could I have believed Margot? I’d humiliated Lorel and myself.
By the time I pushed through the whispering crowd at the bottom of the stairs, tears blurred my vision, my face flamed. What a fool I was!
I cried all the way back to Gull’s Nest. Lorel was going to kill me.
* * *
Verity sat at the kitchen table at Gull’s Nest, a bowl of rocky road ice cream and Aunt Gully’s People magazine in front of her. She dropped her spoon into the bowl as I walked in. “Where have you been? I thought you got out of practice at nine.”
I tossed my keys on the table. “Verity, you won’t believe what I—”
Lorel walked into the kitchen carrying a coffee mug. “Believe what?” Lorel rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher.
I froze. Lorel would kill me if she knew I’d gone to confront Patrick. “Believe what I did. I, ah, evaded Leo Rodriguez. That’s right. Leo Rodriguez was at the theater,” I said.
“He wants to interview you about finding the body.” Lorel rolled her eyes. “Talk to him, for pity’s sake. Honestly, it’s like you’re allergic to publicity.”
That was Lorel—anything for
publicity. She and Margot should be sisters. They’d understand each other. “I just want to be Allegra Larkin, dancer. Not Allie Larkin, who found the dead girl on the lobster pot.”
Lorel’s phone dinged. She walked out, scrolling on her phone. Please don’t be a text from Patrick.
Aunt Gully bustled into the kitchen with an armful of kitchen towels. She pulled up short when she saw me. “Allie! You’ve been crying! It’s all been too much for you finding that girl’s body and all.”
She wrapped me in a hug. I took the towels from her arms and put them in the drawer. “It’s not the body.” I whispered. “Well, maybe it’s partly the body.” I leaned around Aunt Gully to peek in the living room. Lorel sat in Uncle Rocco’s recliner, channel-surfing.
“I just did the dumbest thing.” I lowered my voice. “I went to Patrick Yardley and told him to leave Lorel alone.”
Verity waved her spoon. “Whoo boy, she’s gonna kill you!”
Aunt Gully pursed her lips.
“I know, I should tell her what I did. I made a mess of things.” I swallowed hard.
Aunt Gully threw a look into the living room. Horses’ hooves thundered and horns blared from a battle scene on the television. That would be a tea party compared to the battle royal Lorel and I’d be having if she heard about my visit to New Salt.
“I know,” I said, “tell the truth, and let Lorel live her own life—”
Aunt Gully’s eyes softened. “Allie, you’ve had enough trouble for one day, for a week, for a year. Doctor Gully prescribes a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. And”—she lowered her voice—“not saying a word to your sister tonight.”
Aunt Gully reached into the cabinet by the sink and pulled out the bottle of her book club brandy. “Or this. Here, if you girls would like some.”
Verity and I exchanged glances. Aunt Gully’s book club brandy tasted like cough syrup with a hint of motor oil. “No, thanks, Aunt Gully.”
“Suit yourselves. Good night, girls. Get some sleep.” Aunt Gully headed upstairs.
The television snapped off. Lorel called good night. I reached for the red wine that Lorel kept stocked in the dining room breakfront. This day called for more than just rocky road ice cream.
“I’ll get the wineglasses,” Verity said.
I grabbed the carton of ice cream and a spoon. Verity and I curled up on the couch.
From the fireplace mantel, Aunt Gully’s husband, Uncle Rocco, looked down on us with his broad movie star smile. So much had changed in the year since he passed away. Aunt Gully’d used his life insurance money to fulfill her dream of owning a lobster shack.
Next to Uncle Rocco’s picture was my mother and father’s wedding photo, my dad in a suit that he still had in his closet, my mother in an ivory silk gown that had been her mother’s, little ballet flats peeping from under the skirt, the dress a bit too short for her willowy frame.
Verity patted my arm. “Aunt Gully’s right. You’ve had a bad stretch this summer.”
“I wish I could turn back the clock. Back to before I broke my ankle. Before I came back to Mystic Bay. Then I could be more like Lorel, popping in on the occasional weekend to help at the shack.” I lowered my voice. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I can help Aunt Gully. But up to my elbows in lobster meat isn’t how I saw myself after all those years of dance class.”
Verity and I finished the ice cream. No sound came from Aunt Gully upstairs or Lorel in the downstairs bedroom.
I tossed my spoon in the empty carton. “It’s actually worse than I told Aunt Gully,” I whispered. “I heard Patrick’s living with another girl, a waitress from New Salt.”
“What!” Verity shouted. She winced and whispered, “No way!”
“Why am I surprised? Why did I even bother? He’s been juggling girls since fifth grade.”
“How long do you think it’ll take for Lorel to find out you talked to Patrick?” Verity sipped her wine.
Half of Mystic Bay had been in the line at New Salt. “Not long. I’m doomed.” I thought of Patrick’s sly smile. A thought made me sit up straight. “Wait a minute. Maybe, just maybe, Patrick won’t tell Lorel I went to talk to him.”
“Because it’s probably true, he is seeing another woman.” Verity nodded. “Who told you about the other woman?”
“Margot.” I sipped my wine.
Verity grimaced. “The ballerina you lived with in Boston? The one with the stick up her—”
“Yep.”
“I bet Patrick won’t say anything. Don’t tell Lorel,” Verity said. “You might be able to escape her wrath.”
“Maybe.”
Aunt Gully’s snores drifted down the stairs. Verity and I shared a smile.
“The sleep of the just,” I said.
Verity gathered her things and left. After cleaning up, I showered and fell into bed.
For a while I tossed in the dark. Through my open window, the waves whispered on the sand of the beach, a sound that had always been comforting white noise. I pushed away images of the girl on the boat, of Patrick Yardley’s sly smile. Just when I thought I’d never be able to relax, I fell asleep.
Chapter 11
Friday, July 3
Ten o’clock! I threw back the covers. A note was propped on top of my phone. “Didn’t have the heart to wake you this morning. There’s plenty of help for prep at the Mermaid. Just come for lunch rush. Be sure to eat.” Signed “Aunt Gully” and a heart.
I ran through an abbreviated workout, showered, and grabbed a bowl of cereal. I pulled my bike from the garage and rode over to the Mermaid. By the time I propped the bike behind the lobster shed, the bell at Christ Church chimed eleven and a rusty orange Volvo took the last parking space in the lot.
I hurried inside, tied on my apron, and went to the counter. As usual, the television was on. Onscreen, Leo Rodriguez walked Mystic Bay’s Town Pier.
My mouth went dry.
“Leo Rodriguez in Mystic Bay. The town’s full of tourists eager to enjoy the charm for which this normally peaceful town is famous, but a grisly discovery earlier this week has chilled locals and visitors alike. That’s when the body of a young woman was pulled from the deceptively calm waters off Mystic Bay.”
The camera pulled in tight on Leo’s face. “They’re calling her the girl with the pitchfork tattoo.”
The camera cut to Bertha, squinting in the sun, pointing from the town dock toward Cat Island.
Leo’s voice-over played over Bertha’s image. “The young woman’s body was pulled up by Bertha Betancourt, captain of the Queenie, the morning of July second. Bertha’s been fishing these waters for over fifty years. And she’s never seen anything like it.”
“Of course I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bertha said onscreen. The image jumped where some footage had been cut. “Do you think I pull up dead bodies all day?”
The camera turned to Leo who nodded encouragingly. I could imagine what was cut out. Bertha had a salty tongue. “We just pulled her in, poor thing”—Bertha sniffed—“and called for help.”
Leo said, “Do you have any idea who the young woman could be?”
The camera turned back to Bertha. Her voice took on a tart, exasperated tone. “Of course I have no idea who she was. Never saw her before.” The film jumped here, too. “Poor thing was just some unlucky soul who fell off a boat.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?” Leo prompted.
“How else would a fully dressed girl end up in the water, I ask you.” The disgusted glare Bertha gave Leo said his ignorance was beyond belief.
“You tell him, Bertha,” a customer in a Mystic Bay windbreaker said. His friend laughed but dipped his head.
“The police have released an artist’s sketch of the young woman,” Leo continued. “They’re asking anyone with any information to contact the Mystic Bay Police Department at the phone number listed on the screen.”
The police sketch of the girl’s face flashed onscreen, the same one as yesterday. Hilda stood b
eside me and rubbed my back. Conversation in the Mermaid hushed further, as if a volume knob had turned it down. Several people craned toward the television.
I’d been too upset to see the drawing the other day. Now I stepped closer to the screen, intent.
There was another silver ear cuff in the ear I hadn’t seen. The girl’s face was broad, the large eyes wide set. Before I hadn’t noticed her high cheekbones, pert nose. She’d probably been attractive. But I still didn’t recognize her. My shoulders relaxed.
“The police released these photos of the young woman’s tattoos,” Leo continued.
The tattoos flashed onscreen. The pitchfork. The tattoo had been partially hidden under the bracelet—the word HELLION in all capitals, the E curvy.
“That’s funny,” I said. The H and E were slightly larger and lighter than the other letters. Why?
“Do these tattoos hold the clue that’ll lead us to the identity of this young woman? At Mystic Bay Town Dock, I’m Leo Rodriguez.”
The screen door banged and broke the spell. Chatter resumed.
Hilda’s big brown eyes glistened as she changed the channel to a game show. “Maybe now someone will identify her.”
After the lunch rush, I took a lobster roll and drink outside to the picnic table behind the shack. A breeze found its way from the river and cooled my sweaty neck.
Bit put a tray with a lobster roll and bag of chips on the table across from me. He flopped onto the picnic bench, his skinny shoulders slumped.
“Are you okay, Bit?”
I could hear the toes of his sneakers dig into the gravel.
“What’s going on?” I said.
Bit shrugged with one shoulder and averted his gaze.
“You can tell me anything. You know I’m not going to tell your parents.” That was one promise that was easy to keep with Bit’s no-show parents.
His chest heaved as he exhaled. “I got in trouble.”
Bit Markey? In trouble?
He turned the colorful knot-work friendship bracelets he wore on one arm. “Harbor Patrol yelled at me. I don’t want them to tell my dad. Sammy and me took his dad’s Boston Whaler over there.” Bit mumbled this last part.
Against the Claw Page 6
