"What for?" Kyle asked. "It's not her café."
Christina didn't seem to notice his annoyance. "We had dinner at Aunt Olivia's house, and she was driving me back. She realized the café was broken into before I did. Can you believe it? Two days in a row. I feel like I'm a target!"
Bruce stepped forward. "You okay, Chris?"
She nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine." She managed a faltering smile. "You should have seen Zoe go into her cop mode. She's still got it. The local police almost choked when they saw her, but, you know, she was so good—"
"She was the best," Bruce said softly. He touched her arm. "You want a drink?"
"That'd be great."
Using his foot, Kyle kicked a chair out from under the table for her. "Have a seat, Chris. Goose Harbor's serial thief strikes again. You'd think with the FBI crawling around town, they wouldn't dare."
Bruce rolled his eyes and stepped back, firing his last dart, but too hard. It hit the board and bounced onto the floor. He glanced at J.B. "You want to go see Zoe? You need a ride?"
"I've got my Jeep."
Bruce grinned at him. "You'd think a G-man would drive something snazzier—"
"Want to meet me there?"
He shook his head. "Nah. It's not my problem." He glanced sideways at Christina. "Kyle can help her fix her door this time."
He threw a few bills on the table and grabbed the last of his lobster roll, finishing it on his way out. J.B. went over to Christina's table. "Your café's in a well-traveled location. Maybe someone saw something."
"That's what the police said—there could be a witness. I don't know, though. It's pretty quiet on the docks. It's so dark and cold—" She sniffled, looking a little embarrassed. "I don't know why I'm this upset. It's not as if anyone was hurt or there was any serious damage. There's no reason to think there's any connection—" she hesitated, then continued as if she wished she hadn't started "—with anything."
"I'm glad they didn't get into my apartment," Kyle said. "All my materials for my documentary are in the living room, right out in the open."
Christina angled a look at him. "The police think whoever did it was after cash, not your documentary." There was no sharpness in her tone. "Still, who knows. None of this makes sense. I suppose I could have caught the attention of some creep now that I'm running a busi-ness—oh, who knows."
J.B. knew what she meant. Speculation only brought more speculation, but it was always a temptation to run various scenarios. He thought of Teddy Shelton and wondered if the police would be talking to him. "I'd like to run down there and see what's what. Can I do anything for you?"
She shook her head, her smile stronger this time. "No, but thanks. Well, one thing—make sure my sister doesn't push too hard? She's bad enough when she has to play by the rules. Now she's just a regular person."
"I'll do what I can."
He left. He'd had only two bites of his lobster roll, but he wasn't hungry—or all that fond of lobster, which he kept to himself.
When J.B. got to the town docks, the police had gone. Zoe was sitting on the hood of her VW Beetle staring out at the dark harbor. It was a clear night, starlit, a sliver of a moon sparkling on the quiet water. J.B. could hear the endless whoosh of the tide. It'd be just past high tide now. He was becoming accustomed to its rhythms. Western Montana and the isolated alpine meadow his father had loved seemed far away, a part of a life J.B. wasn't even sure anymore had really been his. He'd left at eighteen and only went back for summers in college to work as a fishing and hiking guide. He landed in Washington, D.C., as a low-level state department worker, then decided on a career in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He did field work out west, then ended up back in Washington.
His life wasn't anything like Zoe West's.
He parked a little way down from her and got out, but before he'd even shut his door, the old guy, the retired judge, was on him. "Agent McGrath? I'm Steven Monroe. My friends call me Stick. I'm a longtime friend of the West family." He spoke clearly and precisely despite his clenched-jaw look. "You can count me among those who don't appreciate your attitude or your presence here."
J.B. shut his door. "Okay." Monroe didn't react. "The break-in yesterday at
Christina's house and today at her café—I think they happened because of you. I checked you out. You should be in a treatment center, not in a town where good people are trying to put a terrible experience behind them."
"I'm not getting into it with you, Judge."
"Don't hold Christina and Zoe West hostage to your personal agenda. Don't stir up trouble here so you don't have to think about what happened to you this summer."
J.B. shrugged. "Okay. Anything else?"
Monroe inhaled through his nose and tilted his head back. He had to be aware of Zoe on her VW hood, but he gave no indication of it. "You're a smart-mouthed prick, aren't you?"
"Isn't retirement fun? You can say stuff like that. It's cold out." J.B. glanced at the guy's corduroy shorts. "Your knees have goose bumps."
"Just because you're fucking FBI—"
"There it is again. What do you think? Should it be ‘you're FBI'? Or ‘you're the FBI'?" J.B. ignored the guy's hiss of irritation. "I know it's not ‘you're fucking FBI.' That's disrespectful." His voice softened. "Even from a retired judge who's just looking out for his friends."
"They've had a difficult year."
"I can see that. Need a ride anywhere?"
Monroe gave a tight shake of his head. He was white-
haired, with age spots on his face and hands, but in good shape. "I like to walk." He left without another word.
J.B. walked over to Zoe, who glanced sideways at him and smiled without any humor or obvious pleasure. "You sure know how to make friends around here, don't you, McGrath?" The temperature had dropped precipitously with nightfall, but she didn't seem to be cold. "You missed all the excitement."
"I saw Christina at Perry's." "She's okay?" He nodded. "Just upset. Kyle Castellane's with her." Only a faint lift of her eyebrows suggested Zoe
wasn't reassured. "Bruce?" "He didn't offer to fix her door this time. Went home to his dogs." "Don't feel sorry for him. Half the women in Goose
Harbor are in love with him." "All over fifty," J.B. said. She almost managed a laugh. "The café'll be fine
overnight. There's nothing to take. You get to Kyle's
apartment through the café, but he has a locked door." "Witnesses?" "I'd hoped so, but it's not looking good." She slid
down off the hood, her shirt riding up and exposing a few inches of pale midriff. "Do you have any idea what's going on? What about this Teddy Shelton character?"
"You tell the police about him?" "No. I wasn't sure—" "I'm on vacation, Zoe. I'm not on a case." "Right, your ancestors and all that." He decided this still wasn't the time to bring up his
grandmother. Zoe stabbed a toe at a loose pebble on the pavement, her shoulders hunched against the cold. J.B.
thought she looked alone, a woman with the world on her shoulders. He wondered if she'd left behind a boyfriend in Connecticut.
"Shelton spent seven years in federal prison on a weapons conviction. He got out last summer. Who knows, he could have picked Goose Harbor because he wanted to smell the ocean air after sitting in a cell." J.B. sat on the hood, placing his hands next to him on the cool metal. "I thought he might be following you." He related the three times he'd spotted Shelton.
"Is that why you were at the nature preserve?"
He nodded. "I don't know, maybe I'm just bored. The guy could just be getting his act together. I'm sure the locals know about him."
"If Bruce is renting him that damn shack of his, you bet they do. My father wanted the town to condemn it. Bruce says he wants to renovate it—with a match, maybe. Burn it down, collect the insurance." She smiled, a little more genuinely this time. "Not that I'm encouraging arson or that it'd even enter Bruce's mind."
"I'm getting a cold butt." J.B. stood up from the hood. "You heading back
?"
"I guess I should. I'm just getting cold out here. I suppose you don't have a bed for the night?"
"My boat. No food, either. I didn't finish my lobster roll. I like it better with a little tarragon."
"Tarragon? That's disgusting. Must be a Montana thing."
"Actually, I got the idea from a restaurant in Kennebunkport."
"One that caters to Montanans." But her humor was only fleeting, and she glanced back at her sister's café, crossed her arms tightly over her chest and shivered. "Bad guys everywhere, even here in Goose Harbor. My father tried to pretend he had it easy—no murders during his tenure as chief. Until his own."
"Zoe—"
She turned to him, the moonlight shining in her eyes. "I'm staying at Aunt Olivia's house tonight. I have to sometime or another, and my sister and Kyle—I'm not going to think about it. She said if she needs to, she'll camp out with me." She sighed, and J.B. saw how pretty she was, despite her obvious stress. "You can have your room from last night. I have a bad enough reputation with the FBI without letting one of its finest sleep on a decrepit lobster boat."
He didn't know why, but he tucked one finger under her chin. "I can tackle any bad guys that come your way."
"I'm not that out of practice, McGrath." She eased around to the driver's side of her car and opened the door, looking over it at him. "I can still tackle my own bad guys."
Nine
Somewhere—a magazine, probably—Betsy had read that sparkling wine went to the head faster than regular wine. She could believe it. She was on her third glass of an expensive champagne that Luke had chosen himself, although he seldom indulged in more than a sip or two. She was feeling the effects of the alcohol, finding it difficult to concentrate on what Luke and Stick Monroe were saying. She kept having to stifle an inappropriate giggle or yawn.
The police had been by to ask about the break-in at Christina's café. Of course, she and Luke hadn't seen anything.
Luke was concerned about Kyle, since he had an apartment above the café, but the police said neither he nor Christina had been there and nothing of Kyle's was stolen or vandalized. The café was fine, too. Just some money missing from the cash register.
Stick had dropped by a few minutes ago. It was getting late for Luke to be up, but they were all in the yacht's main salon, which was decorated in rich, buttery colors, with modern artwork and mirrors opposite the bank of windows that overlooked the harbor. The effect was an atmosphere of intimacy, elegance and style, but cost was important, too. Luke would want people to know that everything he owned was of the highest quality, the best taste, and that he could afford it. He didn't make movies like his father or catch lobsters like Bruce Young—Luke made money.
Betsy sank onto a curving sectional under the windows and had to squint to keep the room steady. It wasn't because of the ocean undulating under them. It was the champagne. She looked out at the harbor, where lobster boats bobbed gently under the starlit sky. The water was nearly still. She was struck by the contrast of Luke's multimillion-dollar luxury yacht and the rugged working boats. Each boat had its own buoys, with unique colors that identified its traps. By law they were required to display their buoy colors on their boats for others to see.
Betsy had never fit in in her hometown. Growing up in Goose Harbor, living here as an adult. She wasn't an old Yankee, a summer person, a fisherman, a part of the tourist industry. She was a nurse. Her mother had been a nurse, too. Her father had died in the very early days of Vietnam. That was the one thing she'd had in common with Olivia West—a close relative killed in war.
Luke pretended he didn't give a damn about fitting in, but Betsy thought his contempt for such trivialities was a defense mechanism. She thought he was a man who desperately wanted to fit in somewhere, anywhere. He romanticized small-town life.
She watched him pour a glass of champagne and hand it to Stick Monroe. Betsy felt the room spin a little more. Stick was definitely a man who didn't worry about fitting in. If people liked him, fine. If they didn't, fine. But it wasn't something he had to pay attention to—people generally liked him. He was handsome, successful, confident, imposing yet well-mannered, authentic. People tended not to like people who always fretted about whether or not they were liked.
Stick was saying something about Zoe West and that FBI agent. Betsy leaned forward in the soft cushions and forced herself to concentrate, placed her fingertips at her temples as if that could still the spinning in her head. Stick had on shorts and a sweatshirt in spite of the chilly evening. Betsy was almost thirty years younger than he was, but she expected he had more energy now than she did at her best, when she wasn't feeling the effects of three glasses of champagne.
"You have no idea what's going on with these break-ins?" Stick asked.
Betsy sat back abruptly at the obvious insinuation and expected Luke to throw Stick off the boat. But Luke, in khakis and a pale blue cashmere sweater, remained on his feet and didn't react heatedly. "Of course not. Why would I?"
"Kyle—"
"Kyle's not involved."
"He's Christina's boyfriend. He lives at the café."
Luke narrowed his eyes. "Are you suggesting my son could be the target of the break-ins?"
Stick shook his head. "I'm not suggesting anything."
Luke came around from the bar, his skin color a bit off. Betsy suspected the conversation was more unsettling to him than he wanted Stick to know. They'd been friends for years—both had adored Olivia West and considered Patrick their friend.
Stick let the stem of his glass slide between two fingers. "What do you know about this FBI agent?"
"Nothing," Luke said. "His name's J. B. McGrath. He rented a boat from Bruce Young. He's on vacation. He's been beating everyone at darts. He annoys people, I think."
"Kyle?"
Luke didn't answer at once. Betsy knew he wouldn't want to involve his son in a discussion about a mysterious FBI agent in town. For all his oddities, Luke did love his only child. "I don't think Kyle's had anything to do with him, frankly."
Stick drank more of his champagne. "McGrath seems very interested in Zoe."
"Do you think he hasn't been straight with everyone about his reasons for being here? Isn't that illegal, or at least unethical for an FBI agent?"
"I don't know. I just worry about Zoe." Stick smiled, almost embarrassed. "I guess I can't help it."
Betsy tried to make eye contact with Luke, but he wouldn't look at her, or simply had forgotten she was there. She had no idea where Stick was going with this conversation. He'd always treated Zoe like some kind of protégée, ever since she was a little kid and he was the well-connected, respected judge. He'd believed Zoe could do anything. When she'd been accepted to the FBI Academy, Stick said she could be the first female FBI director if she wanted to.
Betsy wondered if Zoe was a disappointment to him now that her father's murder and her aunt's death had thrown her into a tailspin. Not only did she not go to the academy, she'd run off to a small town in Connecticut and got herself fired from her police job there.
But Stick would never say a bad word about Zoe West, and if she wanted him to, he'd help her pick up the pieces of her career and figure out what to do next. Betsy was convinced of that.
Olivia had always been suspicious of Zoe's commitment to law enforcement and often wondered aloud to Betsy about whether her niece would stick with it or burn out before she was thirty-five. Olivia would sigh and say, then what? Then what would Zoe do? Now it seemed almost like a premonition.
"I have nothing to hide," Luke said. "If that's what you're implying."
Stick sank onto the far end of the couch, at least two yards from Betsy. He was another one who'd watched Luke grow up, summer to summer, in Goose Harbor, who'd known what wretches his parents were. Stick cupped his champagne glass in his palm, the stem between his fingers. "What about Teddy Shelton?" he asked.
Clearly caught off guard, Luke staggered back toward the bar. He placed one hand on the pol
ished wood and steadied himself. Betsy could see he was rattled. No wonder. Teddy Shelton was a creep. She frowned at Stick, but he ignored her. He wasn't the old friend anymore but the truth-seeking judge, the arbiter of justice. He was neither kind nor unkind. That wasn't his role, not at this moment. He wanted the truth and thought he'd get it by intimidating and blindsiding Luke.
"Luke's got nothing to do with that dirtbag Shelton." Betsy jumped to her feet, prompting a wave of dizziness so profound she thought she might vomit. Heat surged up through her, fierce enough that it seemed to make even her hair feel hot, but she didn't back off. "Stick, what's the matter with you, coming in here like this and insinuating Luke's done something wrong?"
He didn't spare her so much as a glance, his incisive judge-eyes staying on Luke, as if he could see right through him and read his mind. "Luke?"
"You're talking through your hat." Luke's voice was calm, but Betsy could see he was shaken, if only from the insult. If Stick Monroe thought he was mixed up with the likes of Teddy Shelton, who else did? "You don't know anything."
"Call him off, Luke." Stick spoke in a quiet, measured voice, but there was no mistaking his seriousness. "You can't control a man like Teddy Shelton. I don't care how innocent your arrangement with him sounds to you, trust me that it won't sound that way to anyone else."
Her head spinning, her hands sweaty, Betsy staggered toward the two men. "What arrangement?"
Neither answered. She might have been invisible.
Luke's nostrils flared. His lips thinned and took on a purplish tint, but Betsy hoped it was just a combination of the lighting and his emotions, usually so repressed, rising to the surface. He was such a hypochondriac that if he were in real medical trouble, he'd throw Stick out and have Betsy call an ambulance.
"Do yourself a favor and head south," Stick went on. His tone was gentle now, the calm, wise older friend giving Luke sound advice. "You're normally gone by now, anyway. No one will think twice about it. There's no point staying here any longer. Call Teddy Shelton off and leave. Then you won't have to worry about people jumping to the wrong conclusions."
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