Fatal Disclosure. Sandra Robbins
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was brought in. We also know the woman at the Point is an artist named Betsy Michaels. We think Draper probably gave the item to her, and the police may already have it. Want us to put some pressure on her to tell us where it is?”
A smile pulled at his lips, and he reached down and set the chair upright. “Yes, but be careful. Everybody in her family works for the sheriff’s department.”
“In that case, this could be trickier. It’s going to cost you twice what we usually get paid.”
“No problem. Just get it back for me before that shipment leaves.”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
He disconnected the call and tossed the cell phone on his desk. “Betsy,” he muttered, “why did you have to get mixed up in this? It would have been better if you had stayed home this morning.”
He sat at his desk for a few moments thinking about John Draper and wishing he had killed him when he’d caught him snooping. Instead the man’s escape had put the entire drug cartel in jeopardy. When the bosses on the mainland looked for the weak link in their organization, he knew they would look to him for answers. He had to do whatever was necessary to protect himself, even sending those hired assassins after Betsy Michaels.
That decision should bother him, but it didn’t. He had too much riding on this last shipment to worry about Betsy. The Michaels family had a reputation as protectors of the island and its residents. Too bad they wouldn’t be able to do anything to help their sister. She had just come on the radar of the wrong people, and they never stopped until they got what they wanted.
THREE
After an hour of weeding the British Cemetery, Betsy began to feel more relaxed. Her time spent in the small plot the island residents held in high esteem always made her misty-eyed and thankful for patriotic men like those buried here. They’d given the ultimate sacrifice in the pursuit of freedom. Her brother, Scott, had almost met the same fate, and she thanked God every day for his life.
Kneeling beside the sign that identified the small cemetery as a piece of English soil, she patted the last pansy into the flower bed and sat back on her heels to admire her handiwork. She glanced over her shoulder at the four graves and scanned them in search of an elusive weed she had missed.
“That’s a beautiful flower bed.” The lilting drawl drifted from the edge of the street.
Betsy glanced up and into the face of two smiling women. The brims of straw hats shaded their faces, but wisps of gray hair stuck out over their ears. Sunglasses perched on their noses, and they each held one of the information pamphlets from the Island Visitors Center.
Betsy pushed to her feet and brushed the dirt from the gardening gloves she wore. “Thank you. May I help you?”
One of them pointed to the pamphlet she held. “We’re vacationing on the island and wanted to get a look at the British Cemetery. We didn’t expect to find someone working here.”
Betsy walked to where they stood and smiled. “The Coast Guard is in charge of keeping the grounds in order. I know the guys stationed on the island, so I volunteer to help them out every once in a while. My name is Betsy Michaels.”
The woman who had spoken pointed to the woman beside her. “This is my friend Miranda Walton, and I’m Lizzy Nichols. We’re retired teachers from Florida, and we’re vacationing on your beautiful island.”
“I hope you’re enjoying your visit.”
Miranda nodded. “It’s been wonderful, but this is the first time we’ve gotten over here to see the cemetery. We understand there’s quite a story behind it.”
“There is.” Betsy pointed to the pamphlets they held. “Does it tell about it there?”
Lizzy held hers up and scanned it. “A little, but there must be more.”
Miranda inched closer. “Do you know what happened to the men buried here? If you do, I’d love to hear the story.”
“I’d like to hear it, too.” The familiar voice sent shock waves rippling through Betsy’s body, and she looked past Miranda and Lizzy to Mark who stood in the street behind the women.
The visitors glanced at him and turned back to her with big smiles on their faces. “It sounds like you’ve been chosen to serve as a tour guide for us. Please tell us what happened.”
Betsy licked her lips and watched Mark stroll up to stand behind Lizzy. Her heart pounded so she didn’t know if she could speak. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “All right.”
Miranda motioned to Mark. “Young man, step up here beside us so you can hear.”
He moved closer, and Betsy cleared her throat. “During the early days of World War II, German U-boats attacked merchant ships off the eastern coast of the United States. From January to June of 1942, almost four hundred ships were sunk off our coast. That’s when the area first became known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic.”
Lizzy nodded. “My class studied about that when we covered World War II.”
“England sent a fleet of ships to patrol the shipping lanes, and the HMS Bedfordshire, was one of them. On the morning of May 14, 1942, two bodies washed up on Ocracoke, and their papers identified them as crewman on the Bedfordshire. Several more bodies as well as wreckage from the torpedoed ship followed. The island residents buried them in a spot they designated as the British Cemetery. They later ceded the land to England for all time.”
Miranda stared at the graves. “I was just a baby when my father died in the war. My mother never recovered. It’s sad to think of the families whose loved ones didn’t come home.”
“It is. But each year,” Betsy said, “representatives from England and members of our military come together for a ceremony to honor the men who gave their lives in the pursuit of freedom.”
Lizzy wiped at a tear in the corner of her eye. “What a touching story, and you tell it so well.”
Betsy darted a glance at Mark, and her heart thudded at the intense stare he directed at her.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, you do.”
Lizzy and Miranda stared at him, then looked at each other and smiled. Lizzy patted Miranda’s arm. “I think we need to be on our way. Maybe we’ll see you again.”
Betsy smiled. “I hope so, too. Enjoy your vacation.”
Neither she nor Mark spoke until the two women had walked some distance down the street. Then he sighed. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”
The tightness in her chest kept her from speaking at first, but she took a deep breath and tried again. “How did you find me?”
He ran his hand through his hair and grinned. “I couldn’t remember where you told your brother you’d be, but I knew it was a cemetery. So I asked the one person on the island who seems to know everything, and he told me.”
She smiled. “Grady Teach?”
Mark laughed, and she remembered how that sound used to thrill her.
“That’s the guy,” he said. “It seems this is one of the most visited tourist spots on the island, and now I understand why.” He stared at the graves a moment. “Listening to you tell the story of how these men died made me think of my parents.”
His words surprised Betsy. “I don’t remember you ever talking about your parents.”
“I don’t talk about them much. They died when I was twelve years old.” He took a deep breath. “But I didn’t come here to talk about that. I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Of course I’m all right. Why would you think I wasn’t?”