Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense)

Home > Other > Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) > Page 17
Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) Page 17

by Jill Winters


  Portia Bloomingdale had always been more rebellious than her sisters—which wasn't difficult considering how staid both Hazel and Ginger were. Perhaps because of the age difference, Portia had never formed a strong connection with either one. Or, perhaps because she was the baby of the family, she was overindulged, spoiled—and her older sisters had resented it. According to Vickie, their mom, Rosemarie, had spent a portion of money she'd made from her cookie business to buy the house on the corner of Main Street and Old Harbor Road, which was now Tinsdale Library. Apparently, the house had once been intended for Portia. At the time, Hazel was married to local schoolteacher Walt Baker and living in the Orchard Street house with her mother and Ginger. And Portia had just been drifting with no real direction. Rosemarie had purchased the house for Portia as a way to keep her in Chatham.

  Although the property had been intended for Portia, the deed was never put in her name and Rosemarie died before Portia ever became the true owner. In Rosemarie's will, she left everything to her eldest, Hazel, the most responsible, the strongest, and the one Rosemarie must have believed would be most judicious and practical in the way things were divided and spent.

  The problem with Hazel was that she could be unbearably opinionated. Even her husband, Walt, had very little presence when his wife was beside him. Her way was the right way, the one way. Ginger, being more passive by nature, was able to accommodate Hazel's personality well, but Portia locked horns with her older sister constantly. In fact, Hazel had even threatened to evict Portia from the house on Main Street unless she kept it neater.

  Finally, Portia left Chatham, without even leaving a note.

  It wasn't until about ten years later that Ginger and Hazel heard from their little sister again. Apparently, Portia had wound up in New York City and become determined to break into the ever-vague “entertainment business.” After years of failed attempts, waitressing jobs, and dumpy apartments, Portia had come up with a desperate notion—a scheme really. She returned to Chatham. Returned to the home she'd grown up in, in which Hazel and Walt still lived with Ginger, and life looked just as she left it. Ostensibly she'd come looking for a reunion or reconciliation, but Portia was really after something else. The family's most prized possession: their mother's secret recipe for the Ginger-Hazelnut-Butterscotch-Biscuit. Convinced that Hazel had it under lock and key at the house, Portia wheedled her way into the sisters' graces to search for it.

  While Ginger was welcoming to Portia, Hazel regarded her more suspiciously—despite even Walt's encouragement to forgive and forget. During Portia's brief visit, she spent a lot of time coaxing Ginger to move out, telling her of the life she could have apart from domineering Hazel.

  Ultimately, the tension between Portia and Hazel culminated when Hazel caught Portia snooping in the attic room, trying to pry open a sealed antique chest. Hazel had accused her sister of theft and kicked her out. On her way, Portia again urged Ginger to make her escape. Probably she had done it more to hurt Hazel than to help Ginger. Either way, it was barely a few months later when Ginger picked up, took a bus to New York City, intending to move in with Portia and begin a new life.

  Regrettably, as rumor had it, Hazel was not entirely incorrect about their younger sister. After several months of living with Portia, Ginger came to realize that the woman truly was an irresponsible, unreliable flake. Opportunistic and even dishonest.

  The problem was, how could Ginger just come back? When she had left Chatham, she had turned her back on Hazel—according to Hazel.

  Hazel had warned her that if she went to live with Portia, Ginger would be making an irrevocable choice against the family's legacy. The statement had been ripe not only with emotional implications, but financial ones, as well. Yet Ginger had gone anyway.

  “So how did they patch things up?” Nicole asked Vickie now.

  Vickie shrugged, splashing a few drops of her wine on the rug with an outward gesture of her arm. “I'm not sure how they smoothed things over. Except that, well, when Ginger came home it was soon after Walt Baker disappeared. He was lost at sea, you know.”

  Nicole nodded.

  “And I guess Hazel really needed her so all was forgiven. Who knows?”

  “So Portia never got her hands on the recipe?” Michael said. Vickie shook her head.. “And Hazel never went public with it? Cut a deal with Nabisco or the girl scouts or whoever buys cookie recipes?” His tone was more than a little skeptical.

  Again, Vickie shook her head. “I mean, everyone assumes Hazel has it somewhere, but nobody really knows,” she remarked, slightly slurring the word really.

  “And nobody knows what ever happened to Portia?” Nicole asked.

  “They don't talk about it. Like I said, this all happened a long time ago. I guess Portia could have come back to Chatham at some time since then. Who knows?” Haplessly, Vickie shrugged. “Maybe she dropped off the face of the earth like Walt Baker. Stranger things have happened, I guess.”

  Suddenly curious about the type of man who would drop to one knee and ask Hazel to be his bride, Nicole said, “What was Walt Baker like, anyway?”

  Lovesick fool? Martyr in training? Glutton for punishment?

  “He seemed nice enough. Kind of wimpy and quiet. Hazel pretty much bossed the guy to death—oh! Sorry...bad choice of words.”

  Surprising everyone then, Todd spoke up. His tone was earnest, serious. “Sometimes a man can love a difficult woman. Love her with everything he has,” he added slowly, deliberately, and there was no missing the hidden personal meaning here. It was about as hidden as a purloined letter, or a Buick in a field. “Sometimes it's against all reason,” Todd continued, looking intently at his wife, “but he loves her anyway. And he will do anything to keep her happy.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Danny Keegan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for Vickie to arrive. She was supposed to go to some dinner and then meet up by Oyster Pond afterward for their usual. No way she'd want to screw out here though; the weather was getting colder everyday. Which was why he was keeping his car warmed up, the heat on, the radio going—so Vickie wouldn't have much left to complain about when she finally showed up. Idly, he picked up the brown envelope on the passenger seat beside him, and peeked inside. No need, really. He knew exactly what was in there, because he had put it there himself. Hopefully this would end Vickie's obsession with that guy, Michael—and she could get back to focusing on him.

  A few white lies, no biggie, Danny thought to himself with a smirk. Hell, it was funny, really. Here Vickie had asked him to use his cop connections to find out everything he could about Michael King, and instead, he'd used the station computer to create a phony “inquiry” document. The form itself looked so damn official, Vickie wouldn't even question anything that was printed on it. And Danny had drummed up some good stuff.

  Not for nothing, but he had tried to find out some information. Except he quickly realized what a pain in the ass it would be when about seventy listings turned up for the name “King” in the Boston area. Was Danny supposed to search harder, make a few calls even...? Get real. He wasn’t about to spend his own time researching some guy who was passing through town. Fuck that. Vickie wanted “information” on Michael King? Fine. Danny would give her plenty of information. So what if he'd made it all up?

  Now he snickered to himself, thinking of what he'd come up with. He'd even thrown in some real goody-goody shit, which would definitely turn her off. Vickie got off on bad boys.

  Just then a light flashed over his dashboard. He turned. Vickie was pulling up beside his car. She shut off her engine and cut her lights. Nice, Danny thought, nodding. After he was done “reporting his findings,” he doubted that Vickie would want anything to do with Michael King.

  ***

  Later, when they were alone, Michael and Nicole compared notes at the kitchen table.

  “Before we get started—I'm sorry—but what is the deal with Todd?”

  “Tell me about it!” Michael
agreed right away. “Is that guy the most castrated wuss of the century or what?” He'd almost said worse than “wuss,” so he supposed he was making some improvement with his foul mouth around Nicole.

  Thoughtfully, she folded her hands, pressed them to her chin. Her green eyes narrowed in concentration. Michael's mouth quirked a little; she was so damn pretty. He hadn't realized just how much so until now. Especially her lips, natural and lush and pink, and her eyes, lit up, looked almost electric. “I have to give Vickie credit. She wasn't as libidinous as last time. Though she did give you that super long hug goodbye at the end. And Todd just stood there like it was normal!”

  “The hug's the least of it,” Michael said. “I get the feeling she can barely stand the guy.”

  Recapping the Bloomingdale history, both Michael and Nicole agreed that it didn't seem connected to Nina. “And I can't believe for a minute that Aunt Nina is trying to lead me to some secret recipe,” Nicole added. “Because even if she did have it or know where it was, she would never steal something from someone else.” Firmly, Nicole shook her head. “No—I must have misunderstood the clues. Maybe Nina wasn't leading me to the Bloomingdale sisters, after all. I just don't know.” She sank her chin into her hands.

  As if sensing she needed a pick-me-up, Puddle trotted over from her dog-bed and stretched up toward Nicole's lap. “Oh...hi, sweetie, you want to come up?” Michael couldn't help but smile as he watched Nicole pick up the dog up tenderly, like she were a child.

  “Michael reached out and rubbed Nicole's shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Is it possible that we're looking at this from the wrong angle?”

  “Of course it is!” she admitted freely.

  He grinned. “What I mean is—maybe it's not so much something your aunt is trying to tell you, but somewhere she's trying to lead you.”

  “Wait, what's the difference?” Nicole asked, then realized. “Oh...you mean physically? Like leading me to an actual destination?”

  “Yes, exactly. Maybe the clues are more like points on a map, and whatever revelation is at the heart of all this is an actual thing that is hidden somewhere. Hidden by your aunt and meant for you to find.”

  Nicole tilted her head. “Why would you say that?”

  Cautiously, Michael backed off. He couldn't afford to come on too strong now or Nicole might suspect that he had his own interest in this puzzle. With a simple shrug, he said, “It just occurred to me. Remember that story you told me, how a couple of kids found some ancient coins buried underneath the old lighthouse?”

  Slowly nodding, Nicole said, “Yes, of course. Except that was a fluke. It was pirates' treasure The boys practically stumbled upon it.”

  “But it was buried treasure nonetheless,” Michael pointed out. Gaining momentum, but staying cautious, he continued, “Let's look at what we have. We've got a handful of letters and some possible references to Nauset Beach.”

  “To the Three Sisters lighthouse—”

  “But maybe it's not the three sisters part that your aunt intended you to focus on. Maybe it was the lighthouse part. If you think about it, the clues about Nauset weren't really about Nauset Beach itself, but about the light tower that was moved from Chatham. Ultimately, it still comes back to Chatham.”

  Blinking widely, Nicole considered this. “So...you think Nina may have been trying to lead me to the Chatham lighthouse?”

  “Well that's what your whole research project for the parade is about, isn't it? The lighthouse and its history? Maybe she hid something there that she couldn't come out and say directly. Maybe where the North Tower used to be, or something like that? Hey, it's worth a shot.”

  In truth, Michael had no idea if the painting was hidden in or around the lighthouse on South Beach, but he sure as hell couldn't find it in the house. And so far, he'd been given no reason to think the Bloomingdale sisters held the key to where it was hidden.

  Clearly intrigued, Nicole looked at him with curiosity, even a spark of mischief. “A buried treasure...” she mused. “It just seems—oh my God! I just remembered something!” Abruptly, she hopped up, passing Puddle to Michael. “Hang on.”

  She disappeared for a couple of minutes.

  When she returned, she had a slip of paper flying in her hand. “I forgot all about this. Nina's lawyer gave it to me at the reading of the will.” She handed it to Michael to read:

  Nicole, when you girls were little, I told you stories of castles and pirates and buried treasure. It wasn’t all make-believe. It turns out that there are pirates and there is a treasure—but the treasure is a house. You'll know what to do.

  “Treasure,” Michael repeated, studying the note, “'The treasure is a house.'”

  Excitedly, Nicole gripped his shoulder. “I'd just assumed that Nina meant this house here, because of what it's worth—in money and in memories. But if you think about how cryptic the other clues are...well, it seems possible that 'house' in this case actually alludes to—”

  “Lighthouse,” Michael finished, then glanced up at her. “Wanna check it out?”

  Again, Nicole hesitated, appearing reluctant. “I don't know. I mean...if Nina knew something was hidden in the lighthouse, why not also underline the passage about the boys finding the ancient coins? And what about the letters written in the margins? We need to be practical here.”

  “Why?” Michael said, setting Puddle on the floor and rising from his chair. Now he stood a good eight or nine inches taller than Nicole. He was going to have to take charge without making it too obvious. “We're talking about buried treasure, not a Roth IRA. Toss practical out the window.”

  A laugh slipped out of her; she reached up and hugged him. Taken a little by surprise, Michael grabbed onto her, held her tightly.

  “You're right,” she said, her mouth against his shoulder. “Let's check it out.” Tipping her head up, she welcomed his soft, passionate kiss. As their mouths broke apart, a thought occurred to her. “Oh—but the only thing is, the Coast Guard station is right next to the lighthouse. That whole stretch of South Beach is Coast Guard property now.”

  “Shit...that means it's guarded at all times.”

  “Unless...”

  “Unless?”

  “I think I know a way.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  It was a chilly, sunlit morning. The ocean lapped noisily at the foot of the beach.

  “Thanks again, Zack. I know I just kind of showed up.” Walking alongside Zack Hyat, Nicole climbed the stone path that led to the lighthouse.

  “Sure, it's no trouble,” he assured her and spared another glance back at Michael, who trailed a couple of steps behind.

  Nicole and Michael had arrived before early that morning. They’d barely gotten a few yards across the grounds before two officers emerged from the station and came toward them. Officiously, one had asked how he could be of help, while the other all but blocked their path. Only after Nicole had smiled sweetly and mentioned Zack Hyat's name had the officers relaxed their approach.

  “I decided to take you up on your offer for a lighthouse tour,” Nicole had explained. As far as Zack knew, Michael was just coming along as a friend.

  Now Zack took the hefty ring of keys off his belt. Abruptly, a cold wind cut across Nicole’s cheeks, and sent a violent shiver through her. Hugging herself, she stole a glance at Michael. The keys clanged as Zack set them to hang in the lock and pushed the door open. The hinges squealed, followed by the metallic vibrating thud of the door shutting behind them. The tower was dark. Walled in brick, it held an intrinsically lonely quality. A coiled iron staircase stretched up from the cement floor to the sky. “Let's go to the top,” Zack said with an affable smile. “After you.”

  Agreeably, she preceded Zack on the stairs, while Michael deliberately trailed last.

  “Nicole...”

  Both she and Zack turned back.

  Clutching the iron railing, Michael said, “I don't think I can do it.” He tried not to sound like a pussy—of course it was hard not to
when you were faking vertigo on a ten foot drop.

  “What's wrong?” Nicole said. “Dizzy?”

  “Yeah. You go on up. I'll wait down here.”

  “Really?” Zack said, obviously surprised. “That's a first.”

  Michael backed down the steps until his feet hit the hard concrete floor. “I don't do good with heights. It's okay, you two go.”

  Nicole said, “All right, if you're sure. We won't be too long.”

  When she continued to climb the stairs, Hyat reluctantly followed. He probably thought it was weird, but at the same time, it wasn't like there was any obvious “mischief” someone could be up to at the base of the tower. The space appeared, for the most part, desolate and bare.

  When the two had reached the top and stepped into the lantern room, Michael busied himself. Occasionally, he heard snippets of Nicole's conversation with Hyat, echoing down below. Snippets like: “Wow...what a view...” And: “How often does the Coast Guard give tours?” And he could hear Hyat's voice saying things like: “You can see Stage Harbor Light from here.” And: “Down there is Monomoy Island. It's a wildlife preserve now, closed to the public.”

  For the most part, Michael stayed focused on his search. But Jesus, it was disappointing. Austere was a fancy term for this hole. To the right of the staircase was a brass bin of some kind. It was fluted, standing a foot tall and thickly tarnished. When Michael looked inside of it, he found nothing except a gauzy net of cobwebs. With one hand he tried to lift the bin, but it wouldn't budge. With two hands he pulled again to see what was underneath. It finally gave with a sharp scrape on the concrete. He winced. Waited. Listened.

  Nothing.

  Relieved, he proceeded. Bending down, he tipped up the barrel and took a look. Vaguely, he could make out a black ring etched on the cement, but when he ran his hand over the surface, all he felt was solid cement. No give, no change in texture, no cracks. No leads here.

 

‹ Prev