The Harbor. Carla Neggers
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He shook his head. “Not specifically, no. Detective West—”
“Zoe’s fine. I’ll never be a detective again.”
He got to his feet. “I’ll make my bed, pack up and clear out.”
“In a minute. First you can help me get my things out of the car.” She started for the side entry and glanced back at him. “Then we’ll be even.”
It was as much of an admission as he was going to get that she was the one who’d gone through his room last night. He walked behind her out to the side porch and down the stone walk to her VW Beetle, its back stuffed with boxes, bags and a heavy suitcase that had to be forty years old.
Zoe nodded at two knitting needles and a mass of milky-gray yarn spilling out of one of the bags. “That’s my scarf. I started with a hundred stitches and now I have seventy-seven. What do you suppose happened to the other twenty-three?”
“You dropped them.”
“Dropped them where?”
There was a glint of humor in her eyes—more gray in the late morning sun than blue—as she opened the driver’s door. “Bruce says you’re a closet eccentric,” J.B. said.
“He said that about Aunt Olivia, too. Bruce is an authority on two subjects: lobstering and the Maine coast. Anything he says on any other subject is not to be trusted.”
J.B. was still confident the flax seed and the soy powder were hers. “He says you refused to carry a weapon on duty and encouraged a Texas Ranger to interfere in the investigation into the Connecticut governor’s death.”
“I didn’t encourage him—I just didn’t stop him. And I didn’t refuse to carry a weapon—I just didn’t.” She lifted out a backpack and hoisted it onto her shoulder. “Any other questions?”
“About a million, but I’ll resist.”
She said nothing and grabbed a plastic bag overflowing with books, the top one a primer on domestic goats. J.B. watched her turn up the walk to the side door. He could almost see the demons swooping around her, haunting her, toying with her as she tried to tell herself she had to get used to the idea that she might never know who killed her father—that she might never know if telling her aunt about his murder had somehow contributed to her death.
She stopped on the side porch and turned back to him. “How much did you read of what I wrote?”
“None of it. You have lousy handwriting, Detective West.”
“That’s very decent of you,” she said quietly, unexpectedly. “Thank you.”
But he could see she knew he’d lied. He felt like a heel. She’d only picked through his underwear and his reading material, none of which he’d written himself.
After they got the last of her stuff out of her car, J.B. made his bed, packed, cleaned his bathroom and wiped down the kitchen counter and sink where he’d made tea. Then he offered to take Zoe West to lunch at her sister’s café.
To his surprise, she accepted.
* * *
Betsy O’Keefe stretched out on a cushioned lounge chair on the afterdeck of Luke Castellane’s yacht and listened to the seabirds. A lifelong resident of Goose Harbor, she still barely knew a seagull from a duck. Just wasn’t interested. She closed her eyes and welcomed the ruffle of a breeze over her. It had warmed up nicely. Almost seventy degrees. Luke had on a toasty warm-up suit, but Betsy, in elastic-waist yellow jeans and an oversize white shirt, wished she’d put on shorts that morning.
Luke hissed impatiently as he read a health article at the nearby table. He was always reading health articles. After Olivia died, he’d invited Betsy over to check his blood pressure three times a day for a week. He was worried the stress of Patrick West’s murder and all the publicity of Olivia’s death would push him into a stroke. He was in his early fifties, sandy-haired and good-looking, if a little too whip-thin from his diet and exercise regimen. Healthy as a horse. She’d had her eye on him even before that terrible twenty-four hours last fall, but even she was surprised when he took to her.
She could do worse than Luke Castellane.
His cell phone rang. He sighed—if anything did him in, it would be his natural impatience—and answered it. “Yes, what is it?” He listened a moment. “I can’t talk right now. Do nothing without my permission. Is that understood?”
He didn’t give whoever was on the other end a chance to respond before he disconnected.
“Who was that?” Betsy asked mildly.
“What? No one. A money matter. Go back to sleep.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
He didn’t reply. Olivia West had always had a soft spot for Luke. She told Betsy it was because she saw what his parents did to him. His oddities, she believed, were a direct result of their psychological abuse and neglect, and that at heart, Luke was a good man who wanted to be able to connect with other people and have healthy relationships but didn’t know how.
Olivia had left Betsy a generous sum that she’d immediately put away as her nest egg for the future. She didn’t know how long Luke would have her but didn’t delude herself into thinking it would be forever.
She swung her feet onto the deck and sat up. “I’m going for a walk. Care to join me?”
He shook his head.
“I wonder if there’s any news on who broke into Christina’s yesterday. I’m so glad she and Kyle weren’t there. He’s working like a demon on his Olivia West documentary, but I understand his materials are all at his apartment above the café, so it wasn’t in any danger.”
“No one’s interested in his documentary.”
Betsy stood up. “I suppose not. I was thinking more of vandalism or an accident.”
Stick Monroe, one of Luke’s few longtime friends, had stopped by that morning and mentioned Zoe was back. Luke seemed uninterested, but Betsy felt a stab of unpleasant anticipation, not because she didn’t like Zoe. Because they shared a secret.
I know who killed Patrick....
Poor old Olivia. To die thinking she knew the identity of her nephew’s murderer. It was ridiculous, of course, and Betsy agreed with Zoe there was no point mentioning it to anyone. Olivia had been so befuddled, and now she was dead.
Betsy told Luke goodbye and walked out onto the yacht club dock. In a week or so he’d be sailing for Florida, with various stops on the way. She thought she was invited, but she wouldn’t count on it until they were actually en route—for all she knew, Luke would ask her to stay behind in Goose Harbor.
As she walked toward the town docks, she fantasized that Luke was watching her and thinking sexy thoughts about her. Instead he was probably counting his daily fat grams or fretting about his blood pressure. She tried not to delude herself into thinking she really mattered to Luke. Only Luke mattered to Luke.
She had a sudden urge for a piece of wild blueberry pie. Christina West made the best in southern Maine. How lucky her café wasn’t a hundred yards off. Luke had commented not long ago that he hadn’t had blueberry pie in fifteen years.
His loss, Betsy thought, deciding she wouldn’t think about sugar, fat, refined flour, trans-fatty acids or calories at least for the next hour. Wild blueberries were a good source of antioxidants, but she wouldn’t even think about that. She’d just eat her pie and enjoy herself.
Luke Castellane was paying him to keep an eye on Special Agent McGrath and Zoe West, but Teddy thought he might have to go over to Luke’s fancy yacht and beat the shit out of him. Arrogant, rude bastard. Hanging up on him. Teddy just wanted him to know that the FBI agent and