The Harbor

“No.”

“You’re not involved with the investigation into my father’s murder?”

He could feel his expression softening. “No, I’m not.”

“Why Goose Harbor? Why now?”

“I was due a vacation.” He didn’t need to tell her he’d been ordered to take some time off. “My ancestors are from here. I’d heard about your father’s murder and knew it was still unsolved—I won’t say I haven’t tried to put the pieces together in my own mind.”

“But it’s not why you’re here?”

He decided now wasn’t the time to try to explain the relationship between her great-aunt and his grandmother. 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.

Six

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 Zoe West were having lunch at Christina’s Café. He was reporting back like he said he would. Wasn’t that why the asshole was paying him?

The FBI agent appeared out of nowhere and leaned in Teddy’s open truck window. Teddy didn’t rattle. He had a black tarp over his arsenal in back, an MP5 handy if he needed it. “Yeah? What do you want?”

“I thought you were having a heart attack. You’re okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“My mistake. Local?”

“Look, I’m in a hurry. I don’t have time for a chat.” Teddy didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm out of his tone, but he decided he didn’t want McGrath memorizing his license plate or lifting his prints off a coffee cup. He made himself ease off. “Thanks for checking up on me. Nice to know if I do have a heart attack, there are people around who’ll do something.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Teddy started the engine, and the FBI agent stepped back, still with his eyes narrowed and his cop look. Teddy wondered what he’d done to attract the guy’s attention. Maybe he could smell ex-cons and illegal weapons. “Heart attack, my ass.”

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. Wait for Luke to call with instructions, he guessed. He headed back through the village with its cute shops and pretty houses and took a side road down along the water just south of the harbor, veering off onto a dirt road until he came to Bruce Young’s lobster pound. The place was starting to pick up with lobster boats pulling in to turn in their catches. The tide was out. Teddy couldn’t stand the smell.

The driveway to the cottage he was renting from Bruce split off from the dirt road. Teddy shook his head when he saw its sagging roof and half-rotted back steps. Bruce was probably waiting for it to fall down so he could put up something new when he got the money together. He’d warned Teddy the place was a dump.

With a little luck, push would finally come to shove, and before he had to spend another hellish winter here, he’d be in good shape and moving on from Gooseshit Harbor, Maine.

* * *

“I thought you were on vacation.”

J.B. heard the slight surprise in Sally Meintz’s voice. He was in his Jeep on his cell phone. Sally was at her desk at FBI headquarters. Her surprise was very slight. There was a note of sarcasm in her voice, too. Not much got to her anymore. She was one of the thousands of support staff that kept the FBI and the rest of the federal government running. She was sixty, the mother of four, the wife of a retired marine officer and a by-the-book type. She didn’t like doing favors on the sly. But she would if she got talked into it, and she wasn’t a tattletale.

“I am on vacation. I just want you to run a plate for me.”

“State?”

“Maine.”

“Right. You’re there on vacation.” She’d let a little more sarcasm slip into her tone. “Give me the number.”

He gave her the license plate number of the rusting truck whose driver J.B. had known wasn’t having a heart attack. He’d spotted the truck last night outside Christina West’s house and then again this morning passing Olivia West’s house, not long after Zoe had turned up the driveway. The third strike was outside Christina’s Café at lunch.

“What do I get for doing you a favor?” Sally asked.

“My undying respect and affection.”

“I already have that. You coming back to Washington for good after this vacation of yours?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“They want to keep you from going off the deep end. God knows why. I’d let you jump.”

She disconnected. J.B. tossed his cell phone onto the seat next to him. Maybe it was a stretch to call Sally Meintz a friend. He climbed back out of his Jeep and stood in the sunlight. He could see his rented lobster boat bobbing in the water. At least no one had set fire to it overnight.

Zoe was still at the small table overlooking the water in her sister’s café, working on a massive piece of chocolate cream pie. J.B. had had a bowl of haddock chowder with her and watched the reactions of the people who knew her when they realized she was back in town. Alert, awkward, even nervous—or maybe it was seeing her with him. People probably wouldn’t mind if they both went away.

He spotted Bruce Young on the docks and walked down to join him. He had on his Carhartt and a black turtleneck as he untied his lobster boat, a fairly new vessel with all the bells and whistles—radar, GPS, a good radio, plastic-coated wire traps, lighter in weight than the old wooden traps. The knowledge and instincts of guys like Bruce still mattered, but maybe not as much as they used to.

“Been out today?” Bruce asked, not looking up from his work.

“Not yet.”

“Heard you had lunch with Zoe.”

“Fish chowder. She put butter in hers.”

“Best way to eat it. A pat of butter, a little pepper. People think she’s here to kick your ass and teach you not to toy with the good people of Goose Harbor.”

J.B. smiled. “Can she play darts?”

“Zoe? No way. She can shoot, though.”

“I camped out at her aunt’s house last night.”

Bruce grinned at him. “She catch you?”

“In the attic.”

“Good thing she doesn’t go armed anymore. What’d you want with Teddy?”

J.B. frowned. “Who?”

“Teddy Shelton. The guy in the truck. You were just talking to him—”

“Oh, him. I thought he was having a heart attack. You know him?”

Bruce lifted a thick rope into his callused hand. “I’m renting him a cottage down by the lobster pound. He does odd jobs around town.”

“He’s not from Goose Harbor?”

“I don’t know where he’s from. He showed up last summer. He keeps to himself. He tried working at the pound, but he didn’t like it.” Bruce shook his head. “Hates the smell of the ocean.”

“Why not move on?”

“Don’t know. Teddy’s not your big talker.” Bruce tossed the rope into his boat and climbed aboard. “What’d Zoe do when she found you in the attic?”

“Came after me with a drapery rod.”

“You backed down?”

“Amen.”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t want to lose a fight with a fired cop over a drapery rod.”

Words to live by. J.B. watched Bruce’s boat ease slowly out of the busy dock area and head south toward his lobster pound for another few hours’ work.

When Sally Meintz rang him back, J.B. didn’t tell her he already knew Teddy Shelton’s name. She said, “The plates are registered to a Teddy Shelton in Goose Harbor, Maine. Guess what else?” She paused, waiting for an answer.

J.B. sighed. “What else, Sally?”

“I did a little more checking while I was at it. He’s an ex-con. Served seven years in federal prison after he was convicted on charges of transfering and possessing semiautomatic assault weapons. ATF nailed him.”

“When did he get out?”

“Last July.”

He must have come straight to Goose Harbor. Three months later Patrick West was murdered. “Find out what you can about his case, okay? Thanks, Sally.”

“I like it when you say thank-you. It gives me hope for the rest of the world. What do I get for my trouble?”

“A cop-killer, maybe.”

She sighed, serious now. “That’d be worth it.”

The state and local cops had to know all about Teddy Shelton. It was a stretch to think he had anything to do with Chief West’s death, but J.B. didn’t like spotting an ex-con three times in less than twenty-four hours. Not at all.

* * *

Zoe dipped her fork into the last of the real whipped cream atop her pie and pretended she didn’t notice J. B. McGrath down on the docks. Lunch with him had been more unsettling than she’d expected. At times he seemed to be so on edge, she thought he might jump through the window—other times, she thought it impossible to ruffle him about anything. He was intense, focused, not even close to relaxed after almost a week on vacation.

But now she had to deal with Stick Monroe. Her old friend sat across from her and eyed her over his mug of black coffee. “I thought I might find you here.”

Zoe ignored his knowing tone and smiled, glancing around the crowded, charming café. “It’s great, isn’t it? I used to think someone ought to bulldoze this place into the harbor. I didn’t see the potential Christina did. She works hard, but I think she loves it.”

Stick nodded in agreement. He had on his usual outfit of corduroy shorts and rugby shirt—he wouldn’t switch to long pants until it was bitter cold. He was seventy-two but looked at least ten years younger, a fit, healthy, white-haired retired federal district court judge. His family had summered in Goose Harbor for as long as Zoe could remember. He was the last of them—he’d never married, never had kids. Everyone was surprised when he gave up his lifetime appointment and retired. But he seemed content to take long walks along the water, work in his garden and read books. He’d never been much on boating. His friends included everyone from statesmen and corporate executives to lobstermen and cops. He was brilliant, but he wasn’t a snob.

“You came back because of the break-in?” he asked.

“It was the catalyst. I was ready. I’m unemployed.”

“So I hear.”

Zoe couldn’t detect any disappointment in his tone, but it had to be there. He’d been her mentor since she was a little girl, encouraging her, opening up a broader world to her. Despite her great-aunt’s fame, she was content to stay in Goose Harbor. So were her father and sister. But Zoe had the feeling Stick had hoped for more from her than going into the FBI—following in his footsteps, maybe. Law school, U.S. attorney, federal judge. He’d never made it to the appeals court—maybe he thought she would.

Now she was a fired cop. A Quantico no-show. Jobless.

“I’ve learned to knit,” she told him, then smiled. “Sort of.”

“Zoe—”

She could see the concern in his warm brown eyes. “I’m not here to make trouble, Stick.”

“What about the FBI agent, McGrath?”

“He’s on vacation. He helped Bruce put in a new door at the house.”

Stick leaned back in his chair, his coffee untouched. “I called in a few favors with contacts I still have in Washington and checked him out. He’s a powder keg, Zoe. This vacation wasn’t his idea.”

“Something happened?”

“An ultra-right-wing, antigovernment crackpot tried to slit his throat. Almost succeeded. McGrath killed him. The guy’s three kids were there.”

Zoe winced. “That’s awful.”

“He was working undercover. I’m not supposed to tell you any of this.” Stick drank some of his coffee. It must have been cold, because he took a huge gulp, swallowed it, then regarded her with obvious concern. “Those undercover types are all nuts. You know that.”

It was one of the most persistent stereotypes in law enforcement, but it didn’t come from nowhere. Zoe set down her fork. She wasn’t hungry anymore. “What else do you know about this undercover investigation?”

“It was out west. Violent extremists constructing and trading in illegal weapons and explosive devices and plotting the assassination of local, state and federal officials. McGrath infiltrated their network over several months, posing as a buyer. It turns out a local cop was involved and tipped off the bad guys. Hence, the nearly slit throat.”

“I’d need a vacation after that, too.” Just as well he’d seen her out in the driveway before she’d come at him with her drapery rod and sense of violation and humiliation. She didn’t want to surprise an FBI powder keg. “Well, I’ll give him wide berth. What’re you up to these days, Stick?”

He smiled. “Worrying about you.”

“Ah.” She smiled back at him. “Always good to know I’ve got a judge looking out for my best interests. I’m not out of control anymore, Stick. I don’t know what’s next for me in my life, but—”

“You want to know who killed your father.”

His blunt remark caught her off guard, and she felt herself going pale. “Of course I do.”

“It’s not that people around here don’t want to know, it’s just that they can live without it. They don’t want to have to relive the grief and horror of last fall. They tell themselves it was an out-of-town drug dealer, a random act because Patrick was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He set down his mug and got to his feet, adding softly, “But not you, Zoe. You want the truth, whatever it is.”

“Maybe it was an out-of-town drug dealer.”

His gaze settled on her. He was a tall man, his skin tanned and wrinkled but not sagging. “You think the break-in at the house is connected to your father’s murder.”

“I have no reason to think anything, Stick—except that I’ve had too many milk products for lunch. Chowder, then chocolate cream pie.”

He shook his head, patient, always the one who could see through her. “Keep in touch, okay?” He kissed the top of her head. “Welcome home.”

After he left, Zoe said goodbye to her sister, who was obviously enjoying herself as she put together orders. The lunchtime crowd hadn’t dwindled. The fall foliage was at its peak, the leaf-peepers out in droves—Zoe could hear a table of seniors as they pointed out brightly colored trees along the shoreline.

She headed outside. McGrath’s lobster boat was gone. He must have left while she was talking to Stick. She walked down to the docks and squinted, picking out Bruce’s old boat up toward Olivia’s, making its way along the shore to the nature preserve and the cluster of offshore islands.

That was something else she had to do—go back to the nature preserve, to the spot where she’d found her father’s body. Today was so much like the morning she’d found him. Cool, bright, beautiful.

Maybe it could wait until tomorrow.

She and McGrath had walked down from Olivia’s. She took her time crossing the parking lot and making her way to Ocean Drive, tried to ignore the flashbacks to the countless times she’d walked this route to visit her great-aunt. She’d see her father on the way. They’d always gotten along. They’d never had any big angst-filled battles. Neither had he and Christina. Zoe didn’t know if it was because they’d lost their mother so young and it’d squeezed out all of that need to rebel, or if it was just the way he was, the way they were as a family.

When she got back to the house, she decided she’d need groceries if she was going to stick around. She pushed back the wave of loneliness, the tug of grief at the emptiness of the house, and opened windows, feeling the cool, salt-tinged breeze and hearing the ocean. She started a list at the kitchen table—then stopped.

She had to know.

She ran up to the attic and made her way to her writing nook, banging her shin on a trunk. She picked up the yellow pad she’d caught McGrath holding and felt the heat rise up from her chest to her ears.

Just as she’d thought.

There was nothing wrong with her handwriting. That liar could read it just fine.

Seven

Teddy couldn’t help it—to him the ocean smelled like a bucket of barf, especially at low tide. He couldn’t get used to it. He stood at the water’s edge of the shallow cove in front of his wreck of a cottage and watched a lobster boat pull up to the lobster-pound dock, gulls swooping around everywhere. He’d once had a gull grab a ham sandwich right out of his hand.

Luke was on the phone, bitching him out. “You moron. Betsy saw you and that FBI agent arguing.”

“We weren’t arguing. He thought I was having a heart attack.”

Luke snorted. “And you believed him?”

“No, but so what?”

Teddy walked out onto a flat, gray rock, the water around it not two inches deep at low tide. It was more or less a puddle—a tide pool, he guessed it was called. It bled into a stretch of gray mud and small, water-smoothed rocks.

“Nothing happened,” he went on. “Relax. Anybody asks, I’m watching Zoe for you, making sure she doesn’t get in over her head like last year. Because you care about her. Because Patrick West was your friend and Olivia West had a soft spot for you and you figure you owe them.”