Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  His feet stayed planted at the base of the front steps. With his hands in his pockets, he shrugged. “Nicole, I don't wanna get in your way or anything, but truth is—I'd been working on some repairs around here for your aunt right before she died. Outside the place, mostly. You know, fixing a loose shutter, trimming a branch back from a window, that sort of thing. I was just about to get to fixing these steps here.” He motioned downward. “Slate on the side is coming up.”

  “Oh, really? Actually, I do remember Hazel Baker mentioned something about the railing being loose.”

  “You know Hazel?”

  “We just met,” Nicole said. She left out what an utter joy it had been. “Actually, I'll be helping Hazel with a display for the Harvest Parade.”

  “So you're planning to stay in town till then, huh? That's good, that's real good. Parade's a big deal around here.”

  “Have you lived in Chatham a long time?” she asked.

  “Longer than anyone has a right to, I suppose,” he said. With that folksy humility and unassuming manner, there was something likable about Herman MacDonald, but there was also something a bit cryptic. He seemed less than comfortable around her—almost as if at any moment he was on the verge of either emotion or queasiness. “Anyhow I'd really like to finish fixing the stoop, if I could—no charge, of course—for your aunt.”

  What could she say? It was hard to decline someone with an almost wounded look in his eye, wanting to do something good. She wondered: why did he look so implacably sad?

  “If you want to, I'd definitely appreciate that,” Nicole assured him.

  “Thanks, I sure would. Glad you'll be staying for a while,” he added before turning to go.

  “By the way, is it true that people call you 'The Hermster'?” she said.

  At that, Herman MacDonald actually chuckled and turned back. “Yup. It's true,” he admitted. “But you can call me Mac.”

  Chapter Eleven

  That night Nicole divided her time unequally between what was necessary and what was incidental. She had begun going through the contents of the hallway closet on the second floor, but allowed herself to get distracted—emailing Cameron, returning her mom's call, and making brownies. Earlier, she’d packed up a tin with six brownies to give to Michael, and another tin to give to Ginger Bloomingdale.

  Earlier, she had received a voicemail from Linda, apologizing for the way she had acted the other day. “Sorry, I've just been moody lately,” Linda explained. “It's not you...hey, if you want, I could come down there some time and help you go through Nina's stuff. I’ll give you a call later this week.”

  Now she was sitting in the kitchen with her laptop in front of her; her wireless card had picked up the signal of a nearby network called “deepseafisher.”

  It was hard to believe that she had only been in Chatham for four days. In her short time there, she had already had met several people. There were the sisters next-door, Ginger and Hazel. There was Zack Hyat the Coast Guard officer, and Herman MacDonald—or “Mac”—the local handyman. Not to mention, flirtatious innkeeper Vickie Finn and her surly companion, Danny Keegan.

  As she clicked over to her favorite used books website, she found her mind drifting, and she wondered what Michael was doing right now.

  ***

  For a boat that appeared placid on the water, this one was plagued by irritating phone calls. As Michael stepped into the cabin, he dug his phone out of his pocket. He felt almost watched, the way Craig Lucius seemed to time his calls. Michael hadn’t seen him since the staged attack on the beach the night before, but the annoying guy had called three times already.

  “Where are you hiding this whole time, by the way?” Michael asked him now.

  “Don't worry about it,” Lucius evaded. “Hey—did you have to hit me so hard, asshole?”

  With a short, derisive laugh, Michael replied, “What, afraid I'm going to mess up that gorgeous face?”

  “Screw you, Corso.”

  “You wanted it to look real didn't you?” Michael said rather blandly and switched on the dim light in the cabin.

  “You didn't have to bust my mouth! You knocked a fucking tooth loose.” Lucius sounded like quite a baby all of a sudden.

  “Well keep that as a reminder. Don't get in my way and I won't have to hurt you.”

  Lucius sputtered at that. “You mean her—not me.”

  Michael said nothing.

  Talking to Lucius might actually be worthwhile if he would reveal who the third party was on this job. Clearly there was one. Lucius was a born middleman. He’d brought Michael on board, but he certainly hadn't orchestrated this operation.

  The two had met a few months ago in passing—a friend of a friend, once or twice removed. At the time, Michael had been working a con out of Hartford. (Which was why he'd recently made himself less recognizable and shaved his head.) It was a set-up that he'd run before on pool hall types, those guys you found always at one smoke-filled table or another; those who liked to believe in a camaraderie among card players, who seemed to think that the tips they got on horses or property were legitimate and effortlessly lucrative, that some secret gold mine had just opened in their path. These were men who had money but were always eager for more to hide; the types who treated the words “sure thing” like a Buddha statue. Over the years, Michael had seen how blind enthusiastic greed could make an easy mark out of an otherwise smart person. He had fallen prey to that reality himself, years ago.

  Now he preferred to operate alone, and certainly not to be in an alliance with someone like Lucius. The guy was a criminal, for chrissake. He was in a whole other league. For one thing, he had a record. From what Michael had heard, Lucius was into a bunch of illegal activities, from fencing to smuggling—and not smuggling just art.

  Maybe he was rationalizing or whatever, but the way Michael looked at himself was: he had a specific skill. He could earn people's trust, at least more of it than was wise, and without much effort on his part. And he could profit from that skill.

  Considering how abrasive and unappealing Lucius was, there was no way he’d be able to win Nicole Sheffield's trust, which was the goal right now.

  To that end, things were ahead of schedule. Once Michael had been cast as her protector, her trust and acceptance of him had been almost immediate. Still, he hated flying blind. Who's job was this, really?

  It had to be someone local, but Lucius wasn't saying. Whoever it was, it was hard to imagine that he would want Lucius hanging around town like this. Especially when Lucius's “look” generally attracted attention. The big crooked nose, the pocked skin, the spotty beard of blond patches along a jutting chin. But his eyes were the freaky part—noticeably uneven and bloodshot, the red spindly veins like a maze of cracks on a busted windshield.

  No, Lucius would have to go back to Boston tonight. He was too short-sighted and impulsive to stay hidden. Chatham was shaping up to be an even smaller town than they had anticipated. Talk about a fishbowl; it was more like a snow globe.

  Of course, Michael had made the choice ahead of time to be upfront with the cops—a.k.a. to hide in plain sight. Rather than being elusive and run the risk of drumming up speculation about the “stranger in town”—or worse, inviting Coast Guard suspicion—he would present himself as though he were an upstanding guy and tourist right from the start. So far it was all going smoothly. The last thing he needed was for Lucius to bungle it.

  Even though Lucius wasn't admitting who his nearby contact was, Michael had a way to keep on eye on him, if and when it became necessary.

  “Now what do you need to talk about so bad?” Michael demanded.

  “Did you get inside yet or what?”

  “No.”

  “What the fuck! Don't take your time about it, Corso. This isn't some leisurely job where you lay groundwork for two or three months. We gotta move on this.”

  Michael bit back a pointless response. There was nothing about his life that was “leisurely” and never had been. �
�Who's ‘we’?”

  “You and me—and any other interested parties you don't need to worry about. You just do your part, and you'll get your piece.”

  Michael rolled his eyes. God, he really hated working with a creep like Lucius. But when he was approached with this opportunity, it was just too necessary. Of all the times to be tapped for a thing like this, Lucius had appeared just after Michael had cost a friend a lot of money. Lost the money, was a more accurate way to put it. Here, his friend, Caleb, had trusted him—with money that had been hard-earned—and Michael had miscalculated.

  No point thinking about that again now. Though it was hard not to play it back in his mind considering that this costly mistake was Michael's primary motivation on this job.

  Either way, he really shouldn't complain. This con was unlike any other he had attempted; it had a straightforward path and promised to be a relatively easy gig. If Lucius would just stop panting, hovering, and calling his cell, Michael would be able to get shit done in peace.

  “It's been One Fucking Day,” he said now with steely calm. “Go back to Boston and let me work. Or—you can always go back to your employer and tell him that you're taking over from here. Your choice.”

  Lucius paused. But ultimately wasn't baited. “Fine,” he mumbled. “But I'll be back soon.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Tinsdale was a silent kind of quiet. The building was actually a house that had been converted into a library. Nicole had made arrangements to meet up with Ginger today and start going through the materials for the Harvest Parade collage.

  The front door opened onto a paisley patterned rug and Nicole entered. Before her stood a large staircase, cordoned off by a velvet rope. Down a step to her left was a seating area of stately furniture.

  “Hello,” Nicole called out after a moment.

  She heard a door shut somewhere and the shuffling of footsteps.

  Then Ginger Bloomingdale appeared above her. Her sturdy black shoes with rubbery square heels descended the steps. “Good morning,” she said in that soft-spoken way of hers. Ginger's voice seemed naturally to be just above a whisper. “I'm so glad you could make it.”

  “Sure, I'm happy to help, especially since this was important to my aunt.” She let her voice drift off before the conversation became trite or maudlin, or tediously both.

  “It really will help. Otherwise Hazel or I would have to finish the lighthouse portion of the collage ourselves.” She unhooked the velvet rope and motioned, a little shyly, for Nicole to follow her upstairs.

  The second floor of Tinsdale was an open stretch of green and gold carpet, with wooden tables and bookshelves the color of butterscotch. A thick banister curved around in the center, leaving an open view to down below. The place smelled faintly of lemon, like wood polish.

  Ginger led the way to a table that was beside a window, nestled between two tall bookcases. Several bound folders were stacked on top. “I laid out some items on loan from the Chatham Historical Society that pertain to the lighthouse. Let me know if you need more; I'll see what I can do to help. Thank you again,” she finished sweetly.

  Struck by the difference between Ginger and her sister, Nicole blurted, “By the way, is it just you and Hazel in that house?” She hadn't specifically asked if either was married, but that was what she wondered.

  For a second, Ginger's eyes blinked wildly. Then she said, “Now—yes. Hazel used to live there with her husband, Walt. But he...”

  She paused, pressing her lips together in a meaningful way.

  “Walt was lost at sea nearly fifteen years ago.”

  “Oh...I'm sorry, I didn't realize...” Nicole began lamely.

  “Of course not,” Ginger assured her softly, “and it was a long time ago. I lived in New York at that time with our other sister, Portia.”

  “I didn't realize you had another sister.”

  “Portia left Chatham when she was twenty-four, so...we don't see her too often.” With a wan smile, Ginger abruptly excused herself and headed back downstairs.

  Lost at sea? It seemed like a natural—albeit ominous—transition to Nicole's work. She pulled out a chair and reached for the first folder on the stack.

  It didn't take long to see that her aunt had only just begun on this project. There were notes made in Nina's distinctive handwriting—the looping, chaotic scrawl of an artist—but the notes only went as far as the first few pages.

  In a short amount of time, Nicole learned a lot. Chatham's first lighthouse had actually been two—twin towers built in 1808—along with a “keeper's dwelling” that amounted to little more than a tiny shack. After thirty years of erosion, the wooden towers were replaced by brick. The infamous storm of 1870 would be their undoing, causing irreparable damage and setting in motion their rapid decline. It wasn't until 1877 that a much more modern tower was constructed. The Chatham Lighthouse was dubbed simply “Chatham Light.”

  When she turned the flap to the next section of the binder, Nicole came upon a thick stack of pages clipped together. The cover sheet read: DIARY OF JOSIAH HARDY II

  Josiah Hardy II was the keeper of Chatham Light during the late 1800s. The book appeared to be a daily log of his time manning the lighthouse. The first diary entry was dated November 10, 1872. Out of curiosity, Nicole turned to the last page. November 10, 1900. Wow, twenty-eight years at the same job.

  She recalled then a quotation she had read earlier in one of these folders about how light keepers were more than the men behind the beacons—they were also the eyes of the town. At the time, Nicole had dismissed the snippet as folksy-historian blather. Yet, if there was truth to it, it was interesting to consider that the whole time Josiah Hardy had been “the eyes” of Chatham, he had also been keeping a diary.

  ***

  She had just stepped onto Main Street when she heard: “Hey, Nicole—wait up!”

  The red-haired woman from the Squire—the one with the effervescent smile and low-cut top—was scurrying toward her, balancing a bag of groceries in her arm.

  “Vickie,” the woman said on a breath, once she halted on the sidewalk. “We met yesterday.

  “Right, of course, hi.”

  “I was sorry we didn't get to chat longer yesterday. My friend was in a hurry.”

  As Nicole remembered, he had carted Vickie off in what looked like a jealous snit. That guy was only a friend?

  “You know what? We should do dinner!” Vickie enthused, as a grapefruit toppled over the edge of her grocery bag and rolled into the street. “Oh shit.” She darted out to fetch it, calling back, “But we should get to know each other better! This time of year, this town is deader than a doorstop.” Suddenly a car honked for Vickie to get out of the way. “Oh get over it—stupid asshole!” she called out as she stepped back onto the sidewalk. Then she beamed a smile at Nicole and belted out a laugh. “You've gotta show people who's boss. So what do you think? Dinner?”

  “Um...”

  “But it would have to be at your place,” Vickie continued. “Because my place is an inn. Not exactly private, for entertaining friends, you know.”

  “That's right, you mentioned your inn yesterday,” Nicole said.

  “It's a big old pile of shingles, but it's cozy. But I wouldn't subject you to dinner there. Let's do it at your house. I'll bring some wine and eats, and you provide the atmosphere. How does that sound?”

  Pushy, Nicole thought. When had she agreed to dinner? Smiling, she said, “Well, maybe some time—definitely—but the place is kind of a mess right now.” Not quite true but close enough, and plausible given the circumstances.

  “Nah, that's okay!” Vickie said with a wave of her hand. “Messes don't bother me. How's tonight?”

  “No...thanks, but I really can't.”

  “But, like I said, I'll bring the food,” she insisted.

  Either Vickie really couldn't catch a hint or she was desperate for a new friend. Affecting regret, Nicole shook her head and said, “I wish I could. But I'm still going throu
gh my aunt's things and I just have a lot going on right now. Can I give you a call?”

  “Okay...I don't want to push or anything...” Vickie began, her voice leveling a bit. “Sorry,” Vickie said, then thrummed another lilting laugh. “Just call it 'Homecoming Queen Syndrome.' Some habits die hard, I guess. I still have the need to be the social butterfly.”

  “No problem…um, I’ll call you.” Nicole was beginning to feel like a guy at the end of a date. How long would Vickie drag this out?

  “Sure thing,” she said, acquiescing and backing up a step. Her bright smile re-appeared, though it had a slightly brittle quality now. “Cape Town Inn, don't forget!” Even if Nicole had wanted to forget, events would soon conspire against her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With a grunt, she gave another hard push. But to no avail. Nina’s hutch would not budge. Moments before, Nicole had been cataloging its contents when she'd suddenly noticed a back panel was loose. From here she could see that some papers had fallen through the crack and were stuck between the hutch and the wall.

  Finally, she gave up and let out a tired breath, just as there was a knock at the back door.

  “Hi there,” Michael said when she opened the door. “I wanted to return this to you.” Nicole took the empty tin from him.

  “You finished the brownies?”

  “Yup, I ate all six.”

  “Nice,“ she smiled. “Tell me it was all in one sitting and this will officially be a bonding moment.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  Once Michael closed the door behind him, Nicole reached to turn the lock, which brought her up close to him. The moment was brief; she felt his body heat, breathed a hint of his scent.

  Quickly, she stepped back.

  “What are you up to?” he asked casually. “It smells good in here.”

  “I'm making a pizza in the oven. I was just—oh! Actually it's perfect that you're here! You can help me with something.”

  “Sure,” he said in that easy way of his and followed her into the adjacent room, the “coffee corner.”