He took a step forward and the door closed behind him. “It’s Friday,” he corrected.
Damn. Irritated that fatigue had caused her to make such an elemental mistake, she scored out Thursday and wrote Friday instead. She, for one, was looking forward to the weekend.
“Going to the pub tonight?” Kevin asked.
“No.” She glanced at him, wondered what it was about him she disliked so much. “You?”
“Probably.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Carolyn said she’d see how she felt.”
Sorcha couldn’t imagine facing that nosy, jubilant bunch just a couple of days after being attacked. She shuddered. She hadn’t told anyone about Duncan’s attack. Although, according to Kevin, she was uptight and bottled things up. And Carolyn wasn’t.
Maybe Kevin had a point.
He squinted at her, as if he sensed weakness. “You need to get out more.”
Sorcha laughed. “Yeah, I probably do.” But not with you. Maybe she was being unfair. Maybe he just reminded her of Bruce. And maybe if she lightened up on him, he’d grow on her. However, it was hard to respect a guy who rarely rolled in before eleven and who made big noises about working late but actually spent most of his time in the pub. Not that Professor Richards noticed. Her boss was brilliant, if a little spaced.
“Just because you got burned in Oz doesn’t mean you should give up men forever, you know.”
Thank you very much, Carolyn, for not knowing the meaning of the word confidante.
“Hmm.” She refrained from commenting.
“Not all men are bastards.” He gave her a self-deprecating grin and for a moment she glimpsed what Carolyn saw in him, but there was a glint in his eye she didn’t trust.
Was he hitting on her? Or being nice? She didn’t know which would surprise her more, and she didn’t want to find out.
“Look at all this junk.” She stuck a hand into the messy cupboard. “I’ll clean it out for Carolyn.” She picked up a brown paper bag and started to open it, but Kevin’s fingers clamped down on her wrist and he snatched it out of her hands.
Her lips parted in shock.
“That’s part of my research project.” He held the bag away from her. “Don’t worry.” His face was close to hers, his knee brushing her thigh as they crouched in front of the cupboard. “I’ll clean it out.” He held her wrist tight, not hurting her, but in control. “For Carolyn.” The light in his eyes was cool and assessing.
She bit her lip, not liking the way his gaze slid dispassionately to her mouth. He squeezed her wrist tighter and she tried to jerk it out of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Don’t poke your nose in where it isn’t wanted, Sorcha.”
Adrenaline flooded her veins. Escalating anger made her gaze narrow and her muscles tense. Abruptly, the door swung open behind them and they both swiveled, Sorcha nearly falling on her backside as Kevin released her.
“Sorcha, I need you to come with me. I found an article on mercury levels in penguins and—” Professor Tony Richards stared down at them and frowned. “Am I interrupting something?” His eyebrows quirked over the top of his glasses.
“No.” Sorcha scrambled to her feet, getting as far away from Kevin as she could. “No, I fed the zebra finches, and Kevin’s about to tidy out the cupboard.” She rubbed her wrist, but the memory of his touch lingered on her flesh.
“Good idea.” Prof Richards beamed at Kevin with approval. “Hasn’t been sorted out in years.” With a wink, Richards held the door wide for her to precede him into the corridor. “You may as well do the whole lab, Kevin, as you’re in early.”
Sorcha let out a sigh of relief and grinned all the way to her boss’s office. Maybe professors weren’t as absent-minded as they liked you to think.
***
An hour later Sorcha hesitated before pressing the doorbell of Uncle Angus’s house in Rodger Street just a couple of streets over from her cottage. She’d borrowed the lab truck and raced home for one of Professor Richards’s textbooks that he needed for a lecture. On her doormat she’d found a thick white official-looking envelope from her lawyer and couldn’t wait to deliver it.
After pressing the buzzer, she stepped back and gazed up at the impressive three-storey stone terrace. She knew her bad luck was holding when her aunt’s pinched features peered from behind dazzlingly white net curtains on the second floor.
The wind whistled and tugged her hair. Two doors down a couple of old ladies eyed Sorcha curiously, sweeping the front stoops of their homes.
She looked away.
This had been her granny’s house. Her second home. She should have felt welcome here, should have belonged, but didn’t.
Hearing the deadbolt slide, Sorcha fixed a smile on her face and braced her shoulders.
Eileen Logan opened the door and clamped her arms over her chest. Her hair was noticeably grayer now, molded into lacquered curls. The smell of face powder brought back vivid memories from the past.
“Sorcha.” It wasn’t a question or a greeting. Just a cool statement of fact. The woman didn’t smile. Despite her age, her skin was smooth and unwrinkled. Probably because she never smiled. A smirk tugged the corners of Sorcha’s mouth, but she held it back. Eileen Logan would not appreciate her humor.
“Aunty Eileen,” she acknowledged. In the hallway, a cat sat licking its paws. “Is Angus in? Or Robbie?”
“No.” Eileen stared past Sorcha into the street, checking who might spot her on the doorstep.
“May I come in?” For a horrible moment Sorcha thought the woman was going to refuse. She fingered the envelope resting inside her bag, edged her foot across the threshold.
Reluctantly Eileen Logan stepped back and let her pass. “Aye, but I’ve only got a few minutes before I need to get to work.”
The decor looked new. Sorcha bent and stroked the cat on the way past, turned into the kitchen at the end of the hall. New units lined the walls and the laminate flooring sparkled brighter than a Class-4 laboratory.
Sorcha felt a stab of regret. There were no reminders of her childhood here. No nostalgia. Her grandmother’s house had been wiped clean of memories.
Eileen put the kettle on, standing stiffly with her arms grasping her skinny waist as Sorcha dropped her bag onto a chair. And to think Angus had told her to come here if she was in trouble. Angus and Robbie might help her, but Eileen looked like she’d rather suck spiders. Sorcha pulled the envelope from her bag and handed it to her aunt, who took it with wary fingers. It contained the deed to her father’s fishing boat.
“I thought it was about time everything was made legal. Sorry it took so long, the lawyers were slow with the paperwork.” She hadn’t even realized she owned the trawler until her grandmother died. Sorcha had known immediately that she couldn’t keep it.
Her aunt tore open the envelope and scanned the documents, her lips silently forming the words as she read. Her expression didn’t alter, just the tightening of skin around her eyes that added to her look of perpetual bad humor.
It was now or never.
“I need a favor.” Even though Sorcha had handed over tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of fishing vessel, she faltered uncertainly.
Eileen raised her head, cocked it to one side, her lips pinched with distrust.
“I’m looking for Daddy’s journals.” Sorcha twisted one of the rings on her fingers. “Do you know where they are?”
Eileen Logan shook her head. “I haven’t seen Iain’s books since before he died.”
“Do you know what happened to them?”
The woman turned her back, getting a single cup off a hook. “I told you, I haven’t seen them.” The sharpness of her tone cut to the bone.
“Right.” Sorcha waited thirty seconds for an invite for a drink, or a thank you for the deed. The silence grew awkward, especially when the kettle boiled and Eileen still didn’t offer, just stared at her without speaking, the clock ticking loudly in the background.
“Right.”
Sorcha picked up her bag. What did she expect? “Do you know what happened to the rest of his stuff?”
Eileen set her hands on the countertop, her fingernails clawing against the surface. “Your grandmother had most of it. Angus sent you what he thought you’d want to keep.” She looked over her shoulder, her upper lip curling. “Maybe you should have asked your dad before killing him, aye?”
“I didn’t kill him.” Her pulse accelerated so fast she felt the twinge in her chest.
Hatred lit the back of Eileen’s eyes, so visceral it knocked Sorcha back a step.
“You cursed him the day you were born.” Eileen planted bony fingers on her hip and leaned toward her. “The day your mother first set eyes on him.”
Her mother? What did her mother have to do with this? And suddenly Sorcha understood. Finally she got it. Her aunt’s dislike wasn’t about her at all. “You were jealous of her, weren’t you?” The look in Eileen’s eyes told her she was right. “And because my father didn’t choose you, you took it out on me.”
“I told him she wouldn’t stay. I told him she was a slut who’d go off with the first man who looked at her. He wouldn’t listen. For all he could see the future, he didn’t see that one coming.” Her voice had risen and there was a fierce brightness glittering in her wide pupils.
“What do you mean, ‘see the future’?” Sorcha asked.
Her aunt’s lips clamped shut.
“You’re a spiteful old woman.” Hurt welled up like blood in a wound. “You were jealous and took it out on an innocent child.”
“I took it out on you.” Eileen’s nostrils flared wider with each breath.
“Why?” Hurt morphed into anger, which felt sharp-edged and hot in her stomach. All these years and the unfairness of it enraged her.
“Because even as a bairn you were an evil witch. At least they named you right—sorceress.” Eileen’s voice was brittle with spite, her accent growing thicker the more animated she became.
“Sorcha is Irish. It means bright or shining.”
Eileen’s narrow shoulders tightened and she leaned forward, shaking a finger. “You cursed your daddy and he’s dead. So don’t come around here with bribes, asking about his journals and feeling sorry for yourself, because you’ll not get anything from me. Get out of my house and don’t come back!”
Sorcha turned and stalked out.
God knew how Angus coped with the vicious scold. Sorcha only hoped Eileen got her comeuppance and—though it was petty and mean-spirited—she hoped it bloody hurt.
Chapter Thirteen
Edging through the hangar door, Ben studied the shiny midnight-white-and-orange lifeboat with a mixture of loathing and admiration. He walked deeper into the lifeboat station, wondering what made people challenge the power of the sea. Even the thought made him lightheaded. Through the rear door of the slipway the wind whipped up the waves in the harbor. He forced his feet toward the water rather than back where they wanted to go.
“Hello?” The smell of gas hung heavy in the brackish air, but he didn’t see anyone around.
“Can I help you?”
Only years of experience stopped Ben from jumping out of his skin. Turning, he surveyed a middle-aged woman in dirty coveralls wiping her hands on a rag. Bette Midler had gotten the drop on him. Then he recognized her.
“I sure hope so.” He’d never had a drawl, but he had one now. “Remember me? I was the green guy on the boat trip a couple of days ago. You saved my life.”
“Aye, I remember you.” Her bouncy curls ruffled in the wind. “I never forget a pretty face.”
He laughed. “Well, I’m looking for someone to pump for information.” He shot her his best grin, knew it worked when her eyes sparkled back at him. Running his hand over the glossy hull of the boat, he savored the smooth glide beneath his fingers. It felt like Sorcha’s skin, but without the heat. He jerked his fingers away.
“She’s a beauty isn’t she?” The woman’s eyes glowed with pride. “A 12-meter Mersey class, all-weather lifeboat. Shifts like shit off a shovel.” She put the rag down and walked around the stern to stand next to him. “What sort of information are you after?”
“Anything and everything. Name’s Ben Foley and I’m a writer doing some research.” He offered his hand. “Maybe I can buy you a drink?”
Chuckling, the woman stuck out her hand and shook his. “You can. On one condition.” Her humor was infectious.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t tell anybody you’re a writer. Just be the strong silent type. Handsome and enigmatic.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just like that, love.” She patted his arm. “It’ll drive the old biddy in the café across the road insane.”
Dipping his chin, he laughed. “Deal.”
Five minutes later, Sheila Morgan blew the top of her steaming coffee and leaned back in the wooden booth in the Scottish Fisheries Museum café. Her skin was spotted with age, hands pink from a fresh scrubbing.
“What exactly is it that you do, Shelia?”
“I’m the mechanic on the lifeboat.” She held his gaze for a moment as if searching for skepticism.
“Impressive.”
She nodded and threw a look over her shoulders to the woman who was serving a bunch of schoolgirls from behind a high counter. She smirked as the woman glanced their way.
“You have a problem with that lady?” Ben asked, leaning closer.
“That ain’t no lady.” Sheila turned to face him, her words edged with bitterness. “That’s Eileen Logan, a mean-spirited old besom.”
Sorcha’s aunt. Ben studied the woman behind the counter with a keen eye. Tall, thin, sour-lipped. “Something tells me you don’t like her very much.”
“She’s a nasty old hag.” Sheila stared into her coffee, her expression sober. “When I first moved here twenty-five years ago with my husband, Jordy—” she glanced up and met his gaze, “—Eileen Logan spread a rumor that I was messing around with other men.” She spooned sugar into her cup and stirred furiously. Then she shrugged. “I soon fixed her, and she’s never gotten over it. Now I’m too old to give a hoot.”
“What did you do?” Ben was intrigued.
Sheila snuck him a glance, a faint blush staining her cheeks. “I punched her lights out.”
“Remind me not to get on your bad side.” He took a sip of coffee, enjoying the smooth, rich taste. Eileen Logan might not be well liked, but she made damn good coffee. “What did your husband say?” It had nothing to do with the case, but Ben was curious.
“He didn’t believe her, but he died not long after and I’ve never forgiven her for trying to break us up.” She stroked her wedding band.
Ben’s mouth tightened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She nodded and gave a little sniff as if holding back tears. “He was diagnosed with testicular cancer. He lasted a year, but it got him in the end.” Pain scored her words. Even after all this time, it still hurt to have lost her husband.
Ben shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t been sure this sort of love existed. His grandparents’ marriage had been a bleak life-sentence of misery and servitude. His mother’s doomed teenage affair, some romanticized one night stand, or worse. His own relationships were sex mixed with the occasional need to eat.
True love, the urban myth, sat in front of him with big curls and plump cheeks. He reached out and squeezed her cold hand. She blinked, her cheeks blossoming with embarrassment, before she wiped her eyes on a napkin.
“Why didn’t you move back home?” Curiosity tugged at him.
“I had a good job on the lifeboats.” She withdrew her hand, picked at her cake. “And no home to go back to in Newcastle.”
No home. No family. No one to care. The subtext was loud and clear. He understood that kind of isolation.
“Hey,” he asked suddenly, “I thought the lifeboat was run by volunteers?”
“Yes, that’s true.” Sheila nodded, wiping crumbs from her lips. “But the me
chanic’s a salaried position.”
“And you’ve worked here, at this lifeboat station, for the past twenty-five years?”
“Give or take.” Sheila licked her fingers, sat back in her seat. “So what do you want to know? What are you writing about?”
Sheila seemed like a woman who’d appreciate the direct approach and he didn’t feel like conning her. Ben kept his voice low. “What can you tell me about the night Iain Logan died?”
Sheila’s gaze flew to his, her mouth opening and closing in surprise. For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer.
“One of the worst days of my life, second only to the day my Jordy died.”
Excitement stirred his blood. “What happened?”
She bent forward. “No one really knows. Angus, poor soul, and Alan Mackenzie were manning the safety line on the boat.”
“Alan Mackenzie? Any relation to Duncan Mackenzie?”
“Aye, his dad.” She took another bite of shortbread and muttered something through the mouthful that Ben didn’t catch, then carried on with her story. “Angus said the line just snapped.” She leaned even closer, her fingers playing with the sugar wrappers. “Iain Logan was swept away before anyone could rescue him. A tragedy, that’s what it was.”
Ben mulled it over. Had one of the men holding the line cut it? A convenient way to pull off a murder during a storm. Or had Iain Logan cut the line himself, committing suicide the way the police file suggested? Somehow Ben doubted it was an accident.
“What was he like?” he asked.
“Iain?” Sheila leaned back, checked her watch as if she had an appointment. “He was a doll, always a good word to say about folk. And he loved his wee lassie more than anything in the world.” She threw another glare over at Eileen Logan. “Another thing that battle-ax should be horse-whipped for is what she did to that child.”
“What do you mean?” Ben sat still and gave nothing away while inside he hummed with excitement.
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