All That Glitters

by Mary Brady

  She started to speak, but so did he.

  “Go on. I’d love to hear all about it,” she said first and then she sat up straight and rested her spoon on the plate beside her soup bowl.

  “In the early 1800s Patrick McClure came to the newly formed United States to avoid the English taxes. Immigration didn’t help his wife, Fanny McClure, as she died in childbirth, leaving McClure with two children under a year old and the need for a new wife. My direct ascendant was Fanny’s firstborn son.”

  He continued to speak in the staccato voice of a museum docent or tour guide, someone who had delivered the information over and over, but he was speaking so she kept quiet.

  “McClure had four children with his second wife, one a dark-haired stepson now proven to be the child of Liam Bailey for which the town was named. The three others were most likely McClures. They all had flaming red hair as he did. The dark-haired son has two descendants in the town. Daniel MacCarey, an anthropologist from the university and married to the owner of a restaurant here. The other, Heather Loch, who runs the town’s museum in the original church.”

  “The church is a museum?”

  He nodded as she lifted her spoon for more soup.

  “What does Heather Loch look like?”

  “Sixties, a mass of gray hair. You can’t miss her.” His lips curved gently, and the emotion she read into the smile said, fondly.

  He glanced at her still smiling and she almost coughed up pea soup. Wow. Nice smile when he wasn’t being all businesslike. Electric. As quickly as her mind fired up with thoughts of Zachary Hale the real man, not monster, the smile changed to a frown. Had he seen the flicker of interest on her face?

  Had she really felt it? What were they talking about? Oh, yeah, the church and the gray-haired woman. “I saw her when I drove into town. I thought she was an apparition standing in the doorway of the old church.”

  “She’s guarding the museum from the storm.”

  “Against a hurricane. How could they let her stay there? It’s too close to water.”

  “Without a doubt, more than one person tried to talk her into leaving. Police Chief Montcalm most likely sent a squad car for her.”

  “And she told them the church has stood two hundred years and it would stand another two hundred.” Addy might interview that woman, for color if nothing else.

  “Something like that.”

  He looked directly at her when he spoke. Almost as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes gleamed a soft golden brown, matching his hair. Oh, he was a package.

  This was not the evil billionaire she’d expected. Could it be the beard?

  She dismissed the notion. Zachary Hale was sly, slick and treacherously dangerous. He had created false accounting records and a trail of phony investment reports, then he put his name on them and sent them off to the SEC, Securities and Exchange Commission, as proof of his extraordinary ability to make fortunes for people.

  She cleared her throat. “About the McClures. Do you know much about them?”

  “Patrick McClure seemed to be in the right place at the right time and in the right circumstances.”

  “The woman needed a husband.”

  “And McClure, Irish immigrant or not, needed a wife. The situation was urgent or the second richest man in town would not have chosen such a bridegroom for his daughter.”

  “So the first Mr. McClure came by his fortune in the new world through this woman in need?”

  “Colleen Fletcher McClure insisted her father set the two of them up in the home her lover had built. And when her father died, insisted the town’s name be changed from South Harbor to Bailey’s Cove.”

  The more he spoke, the more his voice became animated. Addy found herself leaning in, captivated.

  She pushed away from the table, took the dishes to wash them in the sink.

  “Has your family always lived in Bailey’s Cove?” If she sneaked in a question close to his personal life, he might not notice. If this one worked, she’d sneak one in about his life in Boston.

  When he came to stand beside where she busied herself drying the lid to her bowl, she became a picture of innocence.

  He turned and with one hand on the edge of the sink, he leaned in toward her almost as if he’d kiss her. His light brown eyes with golden flecks stared clearly into hers.

  He leaned in closer and Addy sucked in a breath.

  “I know what you’re doing and I’m going to ask you nicely to stop. Once.”

  Then he straightened and strode away to the fire and sat on the sofa near where his phone and computer rested on the wooden coffee table.

  He’s not who you think he is? The voice in her head insisted.

  * * *

  ZACH’S GRANDFATHER HAD told him his good nature would get him into trouble one day. And that day had come, in spades, four weeks ago, and now it just seemed to keep coming in the form of a reporter he wanted to toss out on her ear. He would, too, when it was safe, or at least he’d drop her off at the dry-goods store that doubled for a bus station.

  His phone no longer had a signal, so he opened his tablet to check for communication from Morrison and Morrison.

  The Wi-Fi wouldn’t connect either.

  When he left Boston, he had planned on hunkering down to think. Hadn’t planned on Adriana Bonacorda. Admirable in her willingness to persist.

  A flicker in the shadows told him the uninvited guest was loitering nearby.

  He powered down his computer and slid it into his briefcase.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said as she tried to push her bushel of blond curls behind her ear. “I wanted to see if you were willing to sit down and speak with me some more.”

  He pressed back against the cushion and studied her. She wore slim black jeans that were showing their age and a pale pink tank top under a faded black one. The tail of her sweater didn’t bother to come to her waist, but the rolled collar hugged the back of her neck in a sensuous manner and dropped to her midriff, accentuating her full breasts. She wore a sloppy old pair of wool socks on her feet as her once red moccasins now sat in the breezeway most likely curling up toe to heel as the leather dried and contracted.

  The way her hair frizzed out around her head in a halo of blond almost made him smile. With her wide-set deep blue eyes and her generous mouth she carried the look off well. Her small chin jutted perfectly at the end of sharp jawbones and the color on her high pink cheekbones evened out the proportions of her features. Gave them a kind of perfection.

  She looked to be in her late twenties, about a hundred and twenty pounds, and she might be a natural blonde, rare, but not unheard of.

  “I won’t talk about anything south of the Maine border.”

  The lines of her mouth tightened, but she dipped her chin once and invited herself to sit on the sofa with him but nearer the fire.

  “What kinds of things do you do when you’re here in Bailey’s Cove?” she said, asking, he thought, as open a question as possible.

  He could list a few, but nothing she could use to build a story against him. He wondered when this reporter had last been interested in the truth.

  The wind whistled and roared as he sat and tried to decide what to tell her, how best to lead her away from anything involving Hale and Blankenstock.

  “This is a quiet town, struggling,” he said softly.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t get to see much of Bailey’s Cove.”

  He imagined her clinging to the wheel of her car, trying not to panic beyond the ability to function. Blue eyes glued to the centerline. Butt nearly lifted from the seat in anticipation. He wondered just how crazy she was.

  Locking her in a closet might be best for both of them.

  She lifted one eyebrow at him. “I was too busy chasing you.”

>   He relaxed into press mode. She wanted to play casual, to get inside his armor with lightness and charm. Good for her. She wouldn’t be any good at her job if she didn’t pull out all her weapons.

  She would find his armor had hardened recently. He was ready for whatever she had.

  Liam Bailey. He’d throw her the pirate. Nothing she couldn’t get at the local museum, hell she’d get a well-embellished version at the local bar.

  “Over two hundred years ago, a privateer landed out there in the harbor. Ol’ Liam liked what he saw and returned several times to seek shelter from the storms and from those who would hang him for his deeds, or so the story goes.”

  “He was a scoundrel?”

  Did the lift of both her eyebrows mean “like you”?

  “Many sea captains were.” He gave her deadpan in answer. “Bailey established a settlement here with men from his ship and a few women they had enticed north from the Boston area.”

  “That must have been interesting.” The overly friendly smile on her face softened to something less predatory.

  “He called the settlement South Harbor.”

  The new softness in her expression made her eyes glow, her face beautiful.

  Another branch clattered against the side of the garage.

  “Oh,” Addy cried and her hand flew to her throat as the wind howled and shrieked. “Sorry, South Harbor? Wait, if Bailey was a privateer, he was a pirate. I suppose people come here all the time looking for buried loot.”

  Everyone went to pirate eventually. She went quicker than most. “They did in the early, middle and late 1800s, several times in the 1900s, and even in this century, but no one was ever sure there was any looted treasure to be found. He never flaunted his take. Explained that his money for building the settlement came from personal wealth and spending long years on the high seas collecting a captain’s salary.”

  “He called the town South Harbor?”

  “Most likely after the village where he grew up. He fled Ireland to get away from what he considered English tyranny. The speculation is, he dropped the u from Harbour as a sign he was finished with the empire.”

  “Is the story about his illegitimate son fact or fabrication?”

  “Fact, based on DNA. Are you questioning the heritage of the child or asking if he kept the treasure hidden from his lover?” He knew she was asking the questions because she was a reporter, but he admired the interest with which she asked them. This conversation had content that didn’t have to do with business of some sort. Something he rarely got these days.

  “The latter, I guess. What do you believe?”

  He believed that under different circumstances the two of them might have friendly conversations and that he might like them—a lot. “I believe there is treasure buried right here, beneath our feet.”

  For a moment of incredulity she looked down, as if perhaps she could see the gold or feel it beneath her toes. Then she gazed sharply up to where he sat. “Liar.” Her chin flicked up without apology.

  He smiled. He’d forgotten how much fun it was to be entertained by meaningful conversation—conversation that wasn’t designed to secure an investment or to divert unwanted attention. “Most of the town has been dug up at one time or another by treasure hunters.”

  “You are a master of diversion.”

  And she could read him. He had to give her that one, though. Diverting was his specialty. Channeling the river of investors toward Hale and Blankenstock was the magic he performed on a daily basis. He never suspected, and that might make him a half-wit, that Carla Blankenstock was doing her own diverting.

  Adriana Bonacorda hurried on to offer. “Um, so do you think we should get a pair of jackhammers and start digging up the garage floor? Or should we go over to the house and dig there?”

  “Please leave the house alone, but you’re welcome to dig up the garage as long as you don’t harm the three centuries of transportation used by myself and my ancestors.”

  “That old car made it up the hill to this house? How?”

  “Backwards.”

  She sat forward in excited anticipation, her interest real. “Expound, please.”

  He couldn’t help but smile again. “The car is a Model T. The gasoline tank is under the front seat of this model and feeds by gravity to the engine.”

  “So to keep the gas flowing you have to turn it around and back it up hills?”

  “To keep the gas going to the engine, and in reverse the car is more powerful.”

  “Sounds like a design flaw.” Her lips pursed. They looked soft and inviting.

  “Innovative and cheap. That made it possible for the cars to be commercially manufactured and available to the working class across the nation.”

  Consternation crossed her features for a moment. “What was it like not to have the infrastructure—”

  A distant crack and then a bang reverberated through the space of the loft.

  He knew in an instant what the sickening sound was.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “STAY HERE.” HALE’S sharp command and the adamant flip of his hand pressed Addy into the couch’s firm cushions as he raced toward the door. He paused long enough to slip on a pair of ratty deck shoes and soon the door slammed and he was gone.

  He did not leave silence behind.

  The storm gnashed and gnarled as though it might be bringing the end of the world. The flickering flames of the fire seemed to grow dimmer and the raging outside louder.

  Addy leaped to her feet to chase after Hale, but stopped so short she had to catch herself to keep from pitching forward onto her nose. She returned to the coffee table and stared down at the abandoned tablet peeking out of the briefcase and mobile phone. Were they password protected? Could she guess the password?

  She shoved her hands in her pockets.

  How low had she slipped? She dropped to the couch and reached for the tablet and stopped. She felt like pond scum.

  Whatever Hale was facing out there, maybe he needed help and like it or not, she was all he had right now.

  Wherever he’d raced off to, perhaps there was a story there.

  “Hurricane Harries Hale” or “Harold Blasts Billionaire.”

  She huffed out a breath. Pond scum was way too good for her. Maybe this man had a high slime factor, but she hadn’t seen it here in Bailey’s Cove. What if her sister was wrong? What if she needed to reserve judgment until she knew for sure? She had failed to pick up on the signs, failed to recognize that smart, instinctive voice inside her head last time. She had to know for sure. But she also needed to keep her opinions out of the facts and her dirty-rat detector on high.

  She raced after him. In the breezeway she stopped and pressed her face against the cross-taped windowpane. A lightbulb high on a pole outside flickered wildly in the wind. The strobe effect gave off enough light to see some of the front yard and Hale wasn’t there.

  The window in the opposite direction showed an outbuilding with a light in front and no Hale in sight.

  She called his name into the house and got no response, only the incessant screaming of the wind.

  If he had gone outside he was, above all else, crazy. For a moment she considered her squishy red mocs and then slipped off her bulky wool socks and slid on the wet shoes.

  From the line of hooks across the wall of the breezeway, she nabbed a jacket that, though several sizes too large, looked waterproof. Then leaning with all her weight, she struggled to open the door to the outside. The wind caught hold of the door though and slammed it shut on her as if she wasn’t there at all.

  Relenting, she backed away. She had to find him and not because her story about him would be enhanced, but because she had already grown fond of the old place with all its history. She might not be a Mainer, but she had grown
up in a town steeped in the importance of remembering from whence one came. And like the man or not, this house represented the history of early Maine and should not be abandoned to a storm.

  Shedding her dripping coat, she rushed into the house. In the empty kitchen, she grabbed flashlights from the basket on the table and ran. The parlor was deserted and the dampened sound of the storm didn’t help her figure out where he had gone.

  “Zach,” she hollered. “Zach.”

  Was he upstairs?

  Addy rushed up the steps, following the harshness of the wind until she came to the room with the four-poster bed.

  A pile of things sat outside the door. A blue tarp, some short pieces of lumber and a small ladder, the kind that formed an A when opened up. Zach must have put them there.

  As she stepped in, she stood paralyzed by the horror of what she saw in the flashlights’ beams. A hole in the wall extended nearly to the floor and reached up the ten feet or so through the ceiling into the attic above. Plaster, shingles and splintered wood were scattered across the room.

  The force of the tree crashing into the room had shattered a beam. One end had dropped, pinning the braided rug on the other side of the bed to the floor.

  The pretty flowered ewer and bowl lay in pieces on the rug on this side of the bed. The walnut washstand with the granite top upon which the pitcher and bowl had sat had been knocked over and was getting drenched. The photograph of Millie must be somewhere in the mess.

  And she was alone in the room, alone with a storm.

  After another moment, her feet became unglued and she hurried to place the flashlights where their beams would shine best on what she needed to see, and then she flew to the four-poster bed being splattered with damaging rain. She tugged and shoved for only a couple moments before she had to give up. She’d never be able to move the heavy bed out of the direct path of the storm.

  She grabbed her stuff and tossed it in a pile in the dry, undamaged hallway. Then she did the same with the bedding that included an antique quilt and feather pillows. She tugged the cotton mattress and had to settle for folding it in half and dragging it away from the rain as well as she could.