Destiny Bay

by Sarah Abbot

  She huffed loudly. “Well, now that I understand your true motives,” she said, gathering her purse and taking her sweet time about it, “I suppose it can’t hurt.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes and opened the door, ushering her through.

  They passed through the bar wordlessly, all eyes glued to them as they wove around tables and at last, exited the building. And no wonder, thought Abby, as she imagined the racket their shouting must have made. She’d be the talk of the town by nightfall, if she wasn’t already.

  The only sound between them was the crunch of gravel beneath their footfalls.

  They rounded the building, intent on the parking lot at the rear of Rum Runner’s.

  Abby stopped, brought up short by the sight of her car. She stared at the ugly gashes that slashed each deflated tire.

  “Bloody hell!” Ryan bellowed, face contorted in rage. He turned his focus toward Abby. “I suppose you’re going to blame me for this as well?”

  Abby glared at him, arms folded across her chest, but said nothing. She had been with him the entire time, after all.

  A flash of movement snagged her attention. She turned in time to see Ryan break into a run.

  “Bartholomew,” he called. “Stop!”

  Abby saw a flash of tattered garments as Bart vanished over the stone wall edging the parking lot. She sprinted behind Ryan, eyes intent on the humped tangle of clothing—a mound of laundry on the run.

  “Wait!” she called out, waving over her head. “Please!”

  The bundle of rags came to an abrupt halt. Abby stopped short, and Ryan almost toppled over the hunched form of a gaunt-looking figure she decided must be Bartholomew.

  The mound shifted slightly. He turned to face Abby, grinning malevolently. “Wait, says she; please, says she,” Bartholomew said, in a voice as deep as a rumble of thunder.

  Abby stepped back, shivering at the palpable animosity he emanated.

  Ryan stepped in front of her. “What were you doing in the parking lot, Bart?”

  The face turned toward Ryan, eyes peering out from under the fleshy shelf of his brow bone. An uninterrupted swath of white eyebrow sprouted erratically above his eyes, shooting strands of ridiculously long hairs that entangled his lashes. “And what’s a fine fellow like yourself interested in the likes of me for?”

  “Someone slashed the tires on Miss Lancaster’s vehicle. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Bart?”

  A sneer that would have been more at home on the deck of a pirate ship revealed long, yellowed teeth. Abby grimaced as Bartholomew grinned wickedly at Ryan. “Oh, no, sir. Bartholomew Briggs don’t know nothin’ ’bout that.” The grin widened.

  Abby stepped forward. “I know you’ve been watching me, Mr. Briggs. Did you leave flowers at the cottage for me? Did you leave a note and a ring?”

  A laugh resonated as if from the bottom of a barrel. “Mr. Briggs, says she!”

  Ryan let out an exasperated sigh. “Did you see anything or anyone at the cottage, Bart?” he demanded.

  “I see the moon, and the moon sees me,” he sang, laughing heartily.

  “Get hold of yourself, man!” Ryan shook him lightly, attempting to twist the bony frame toward him, to no avail. Bartholomew seemed to shift inside his clothing, and suddenly Ryan was left grasping an empty coat sleeve.

  “Run, run, run, as fast as you can!” And Bartholomew slipped from Ryan’s grasp as cleverly as a wet trout.

  Ryan snatched after him, thrown off balance by the fact that he was holding a raggedy coat that smelled strongly of a well-used alley.

  “Stop!” Abby called, but Bartholomew was gone; he had slithered over the wall and into the shifting bracken with all the litheness of the wind.

  She looked down at her slashed tires, feeling her anger surge again.

  “We’ll take my car,” Ryan said, his hand closing on her elbow and leading her away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sheriff Harris Flynn dragged his hand down the length of his face, rubbing his bristly chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Now, you’re absolutely certain you didn’t inadvertently pack the ring along with your belongings, and then transport it along with your luggage here to Destiny Bay?” He was a huge man, about fifty pounds overweight, with a face the unhealthy red of a man on the brink of a blood-pressure meltdown. “You’re sure about that, right?”

  Abby felt something menacing rippling off his skin and pooling around her. She was unaccountably nervous around this man, and she wished she’d been able to talk about the ring to Connor.

  “Sheriff Flynn, I’ve told you, no one in my family has seen the ring in over thirty years. The insurance claim was settled long before I was born.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, and Abby tried to conceal her shudder. Was this why Deputy Flynn had rushed her out of the station the minute he heard the sheriff was on his way? If so, he obviously knew something that she didn’t—and she knew it wasn’t good. It amazed her that the two men were brothers.

  “Then how can you be sure this is your mama’s ring if you’ve never seen it?”

  “I’ve seen it hundreds of times,” she said, trying not to be intimidated by his aggressive posture. Flynn, seeming to sense her resolve, leaned in farther. “I told you, it’s the same ring worn by four generations of Rutherford women in their portraits. I was the only one who didn’t wear the ring, Sheriff, because it was no longer in our possession.”

  Sheriff Flynn eyed her through the bloated slits that passed for eyelids.

  She watched his hand, almost willing it to pick up the pen, to start writing something, anything, to show he was at least marginally interested in doing his job. “And you’re sure about that?”

  The seed of realization began to take root in her mind. Abby’s heart thudded against her rib cage as the weedlike growth burst into flourishing being in the fertile soils of her understanding. Sheriff Flynn didn’t believe her.

  “Are you suggesting,” she asked, almost too astounded to verbalize her thoughts, “that I brought the very evidence that would convict my family of insurance fraud to Destiny Bay, hung it on a nail along with a nasty note, and then raced down here to tell you all about it?”

  Flynn lifted his brows. “Are you suggesting you did?”

  An icy calm flooded through her. There was something more…something she should be putting together.

  Her eyes flitted to the glass through which she could see Ryan, leaning on a desk. Connor Flynn was seated before him. The two men were chatting amicably together, completely unaware of the fact that as they spoke, this horrid sheriff was actually doing his best to build a case against her! Oh, she would throttle Ryan for this brilliant idea.

  Then it came to her.

  “Sheriff Flynn,” she asked, “how long have you been in law enforcement?”

  He frowned at her over the laminated table, then leaned forward challengingly. “Since long before you were thought of, if you’re questioning my know-how.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, squaring her shoulders slightly. “Did you, by chance, know my mother?”

  “I was here even before the great Celeste thought of placing foot on our island,” he said sourly. “Yes, can you believe it? There was actually life here before your mama arrived.”

  Abby swallowed. She had all she needed. “Am I free to leave?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.

  He stared at her for what seemed like a small eternity. “You’re free to leave.”

  Abby rose, grasped her purse, and with as much dignity as she could muster, walked out of the room.

  From the reflection in the glass, she could see that Harris Flynn was watching her departure.

  “How did it go?” Ryan asked, jumping to his feet.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Deputy?” she asked, turning her attention at once to Connor Flynn.

  He rose from his seat, nodding. “Yes?”

  “I forgot to ask you
r brother something—I wonder if you can answer a question for me? I hate to bother the sheriff with something so small.”

  “Sure, I’ll help you if I can.”

  “Years ago—when my mother lived here—she reported a theft. Do you recall what the item or items in question were?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was a ruby ring. Had some nice gold work around it. Family heirloom, if I remember right.”

  Abby whirled and faced the sheriff, who now stood in the threshold of the door, glaring out at her. “You knew!” she said, barely above a whisper.

  Sheriff Flynn sauntered arrogantly into the room. “You got something else you need to say?”

  “You knew!” she said louder. “You were here before my mother set foot on this island, you said so yourself!”

  Ryan caught her elbow and squeezed gently. “Abrielle, maybe we should talk outside—”

  “Is this entire island in cahoots against my family?” she shouted at him. “What kind of backward place is this?”

  Ryan abruptly dropped his grasp.

  “No, let her go on, Ryan. I’d like to hear what the lady has to say.” Sheriff Flynn hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and rocked back on his heels. “As you were saying?”

  “You knew my mother’s ring had been stolen, and you discounted it. You didn’t even listen to her, did you?”

  Sheriff Flynn grinned smugly. “You want to hear my version of events? Well, here it is: maybe you grew up hearing all about the backwoods police officers who discovered your mama’s claims couldn’t hold water. Maybe you got a little bitter, dug up the ring she found when she got back to millionaires’ row, and brought it to Destiny Bay to vindicate your dear departed mama, like any good daughter would.”

  “Wait a minute, you said ‘claims.’ What other claims did my mother make?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  It was too much. Abby felt tears spring to her eyes. Just as quickly, she blinked them away. “You said my mother made claims. What were the other claims?”

  He leaned back on a desk, folding his arms over his barrel of a chest. “Can’t say as I recall. That was a long time ago, after all. Some things are best left in the past, where they belong.”

  Abby snatched the note, holding it in front of him. “Well, maybe you’ll be more interested in listening to my claims. What about the bouquet that was left for me? What about Bart peeking in my windows? What about this note? The ink looks peculiar, don’t you think? Like it could be blood? I want it sent to a lab.”

  Flynn glared at his her. “You want lab tests, you’re paying for them. And you can submit your own blood, first.”

  “Fine,” she said, “point me to the nearest syringe. My mother was right about the ring, and now some psycho wants to play head games with me!”

  Flynn’s hand came down on the desk, hard. “Your mother was a troublemaker!”

  “Let’s go, Abby.” Ryan’s grasp on her elbow was firm and insistent.

  Abby shot him a look fit to wither a rose. She stormed out of the office and burst through the door into the brisk ocean breeze.

  “Abrielle!”

  Abby kept walking, hugging her arms closely around herself to ward off the sudden chill her plummeting adrenaline had left in its wake.

  “Abrielle, will you stop?”

  Ryan loped up behind her, took hold of her shoulders. “What happened?” he asked, searching her face.

  She struggled to break free, to no avail.

  “Abrielle,” he said quietly, in a tone that made it clear he was serious. Abby stopped fighting him.

  “He didn’t believe her!” she said, feeling the stinging threat of tears. “My mother was a victim on this island, and not even the police would help her!

  “They called her names, they closed ranks against her, they turned their backs when she needed help, and now there are people who seem determined to do the same thing to me! What is the matter with you people?”

  This time, she did break free. She ran the length of Brigantine Way, turned onto Peddler’s Lane and stopped at last by a telephone pole, leaning her back against it as she chased her racing breath.

  A car motor sounded behind her. Abby squeezed her eyes shut, realizing that the car was stopping beside her.

  “Hey, Abby girl, what are you doing out here?”

  Abby heaved a sigh of relief and looked into the lowered window of Ronnie Morgan’s Volkswagen. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Ronnie. As a matter of fact, I’m looking for a ride back home.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ryan counted the seconds off in his head. He’d knocked at least ten seconds ago, and though he knew Abby was inside the cottage, she hadn’t yet come to the door.

  He braced his hands upon the door frame, struck with the realization that he would wait as long as he had to, even if it was all night. What is happening to me?

  Guilt. That’s what it was.

  He’d hurt Abby badly when he told her the truth about her mother. He’d been harsh about it. Too harsh. Then, he’d dragged her down to the police station to report these strange happenings…a decision that had led to yet another festering revelation about Celeste.

  If he’d understood Abby correctly, Celeste had gone to the police for help and they had refused her. Now, he was no fan of Celeste Rutherford, but ignoring the victimization of a young woman? That was plain wrong.

  He shifted uncomfortably.

  Hadn’t he done the same thing to Abby? Hadn’t he, in fact, actively participated in her victimization? Granted, it wasn’t to the extent of Celeste’s experience, but he had been outrageously rude to her, he had engaged her in a shouting match at Rum Runner’s and, when she first arrived, he had gone out of his way to let her know that he had his eye on her…what kind of a brute behaved that way?

  It made his stomach sour to think about it—how he’d let his bitterness and hatred consume him, devour his reason and cloud his judgment. He had been a class-A jerk.

  The door of the cottage opened. Abby glared at him. She’d been crying, and the soft curls around her face were damp, as if she’d splashed water on her face in an attempt to compose herself.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” she said curtly, turning her back on him and walking into the small kitchen.

  Ryan slipped through the door, his shoes thudding too loudly on the plank floors of the cottage. “I, uh, just wanted to let you know that Larry’s Towing took your car down to the garage. They’ll replace the tires first thing. I asked him to look it over for other signs of damage or tampering, just in case. Since it happened in my parking lot, I’ll pay for the damage.”

  Abby turned toward him, arms crossed heavily over her chest. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why’?”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Why do you care if I go to the police? Why do you care if my tires ever get replaced? Why do you care if I run off and never surface again? You hate Rutherford women, remember?”

  Ryan felt riveted to the spot. He attempted a smile. “Last I heard, you were a Lancaster.”

  “Only by half.”

  The truth hit him squarely in the chest. He didn’t hate her; he hadn’t, in fact, hated her since he’d overheard her speaking with Cora and heard his own voice. “I don’t hate you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “First I’m a thief, now I’m a liar, is it? Hate to disappoint you, but you’re wrong on both counts.”

  “Am I?”

  Damn, she is beautiful. Ryan squeezed his hands into fists, feeling the crescent-shaped sharpness of his nails digging into his palms. Things were so much simpler when he hated her. Beautiful doesn’t matter when you can’t see past the fury in your own eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re wrong.”

  “So why don’t you tell me what’s changed.” Abby crossed her arms over her chest, chin lifted in challenge.

  Tell her that he’d eavesdropped? That he felt for he
r loss in a way only another abandoned child could do? That he couldn’t keep her from wandering into his dreams or that this compulsion to be near her—even though it made him crazy—was like a sickness that had crept into the heart of him and twisted with every breath?

  “I can’t.”

  “You won’t.” She dropped her arms and walked away from him, turned on the faucet and splashed a scoop of water over her face.

  He stepped toward her, suddenly very aware of the way her tousled hair touched her cheeks, of the flush of color that stained them. “I get that you’re pissed, okay? You have every right to be. But here’s the truth of it: I don’t hate you. I tried to. I even succeeded for a while. But the simple fact of the matter is that none of this is about you.” He looked up at the ceiling, hardly believing the words that were coming out of his mouth. “I know I made your life difficult. I’m sorry.”

  The tiny breath that escaped from her lips could almost be called a gasp. He stepped forward again. “I shouldn’t have said the things I said about your mother. I had no right to speak ill of her. It won’t happen again.”

  She tilted her head at him, considering him for a moment.

  “It’s the truth. Do what you like with it.”

  He watched the extraordinary array of emotions that crossed her features; felt the stupefying realization that every word he was saying was 100 percent true, and felt, for the first time since he’d learned she was coming, comfortable with the idea of her presence; comfortable in his own skin.

  Abrielle Lancaster was the first woman who had ever had the power to make him feel otherwise.

  “Can you—can we get past it? What I said, I mean? It’s not like I expect to be pals. I just want to put out there that it was a mistake to say what I did. It’ll never cross my lips again. I swear it.” Damn, she’s beautiful, he thought again. Ryan swallowed thickly, stunned by the fact that he actually cared what she thought; that he wanted her to believe him.

  She swiped at a tear that teetered on her lashes. “I’m sorry,” she said of the tear, “I’m a mess. I’ve been on a roller coaster since I got here.” She cleared her throat and looked up at him. “I can get past it, Ryan. I can. And I accept your apology. Can you accept mine?”