Bending The Rules: Stewart Island Book 10

by Tracey Alvarez

  Ben Harland appeared on Peter’s other side, his expression dialed to had enough of this bollocks. Ben was Noah’s friend and also Bitch Cop’s older brother. “Your boy was a grown man and a hundred-and-forty-kilo bully. He’d just assaulted my wife then went out in a dinghy while he was drunk as a skunk, preparing to vandalise my boat. Don’t let me hear you say that Piper and Noah didn’t do right by your family.”

  As a tour boat operator, Ben’s career choice didn’t encompass a how-to seminar for dealing with members of the public with diplomacy and the ability to remain calm under pressure. Whether that pressure was keeping drunk old men who wore their grief like a badge of honor calm while he convinced them to leave peacefully, or whether the pressure was caused by a suspect during a police callout, Noah’s reaction was the same.

  He moved, putting the solid bulk of himself between Ben and Peter—who’d stuck out his chest like a puffer fish, his face turning beet red. Conversations around them decreased in volume as attention switched from the everyday to the possibility of a dramatic show that would keep the Oban gossip machine churning for a few days.

  Noah kept his back to Ben, knowing he wouldn’t get stabbed in it, and stared down Peter.

  “Go back to your table, Ben. I’ve got this.” He’d spotted Ben and his wife, Kezia, when he’d first entered. Noah’s gaze, as was normal, skimmed and analyzed the crowd for other potential powder-keg situations.

  Ben blew a stream of disgusted breath out of his nose and clapped a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “If you need backup, just holler.” He stepped aside, disappearing from Noah’s peripheral vision.

  No such thing as official backup when you were the sole-charge officer on Stewart Island. As far as the long arm of the law went, Noah was it. One cop, four hundred or so year-round residents, crime rate negligible.

  Noah held out a warning finger to Peter when the older man opened his mouth.

  “Kip,” Noah said. “Bring out a couple of my usual for me and Pete. On my tab.” He met Peter’s stare and deliberately lowered his voice to a deeper pitch. “Come sit down and we’ll raise a glass to Gavin.”

  “You’re buying me a beer?”

  The edge of baffled surprise, along with a hint of sudden mollification, eased the tension spanning Noah’s shoulders. Yeah, he was springing for a beer—his usual, a nonalcoholic beer. But it wasn’t alcohol Peter needed. He just didn’t know it.

  “We remember the dead,” Noah said. “That’s the way it’s done, isn’t it, Pete?”

  “I reckon so.” The old man pinched his bulbous nose for a moment, his lower lips suddenly a little quivery. “He was a good lad, a good son that stuck by me. Not like my eldest boy, Seth. He cleared off as soon as he could. Now I’m all on m’own.”

  Peter wore a rumpled shirt with a stain on the pocket that looked suspiciously like it’d been there for days, and he smelled like a shower hadn’t made the top of today’s to-do list. Noah made a mental note to have a chat with Joe Whelan, the island’s doctor, to see if the old fella qualified for some home assistance for the elderly.

  “Did you have lunch today?”

  Peter’s nose scrunched up. “A bit of bread and butter, I think.”

  Noah angled his head back to Kip who’d set two nonalcoholic beers on the bar. “Get the kitchen to make Pete some steak, eggs, and chips, would you? He looks hungry.”

  “You paying?” Peter asked slyly. “’Cause an old man like me can’t afford to eat a slap-up meal like that too often, hungry or not.”

  “I’m paying.” And even if he wasn’t, West would reimburse Noah just for his assistance in avoiding possible damages. Plus the food would hopefully soak up some of the booze in Pete’s system. “Now, let’s sit.”

  Before you fall on your behind.

  “You’re not so bad, y’know.” Peter lurched toward his table, leaving Noah to pick up the beers. “For a pig.”

  Thirty minutes later Peter had gulped down his food like he hadn’t eaten a hot meal in a week—possibly he hadn’t—and accompanied Noah outside to his four-wheel-drive ute for a ride home. They’d had a brief but firm discussion on the choice of a lift home in a police vehicle or a blood-alcohol test back at Oban’s little police station. Peter was sober enough to make a good life choice.

  Noah made sure Peter’s safety belt was engaged and started the vehicle, wrinkling his nose as the old fella cracked off a bruiser of a fart.

  Just another day on the job.

  Chapter 2

  Green was not Tilly’s color, and she was in serious doubt over the choice to name her butt-kicking, ballsy commander with it. Considering Tilly probably looked like a hungover Kermit the Frog, she’d be quite happy to never, ever type the word green again. Green, or mustard yellow, or even the vile shade of orange from the carrot salad she’d had for a late lunch at the airport.

  The Stewart Island ferry wallowed into another trough and Tilly’s empty stomach rolled with it. Empty—because she’d already humiliatingly hurled up her salad, breakfast, and probably last night’s Thai dinner shared with her friends—and, oh dear Lord, why had she stubbornly refused the white paper bag until it was too late? Her white capri pants, which now only bore traces of mustard yellow since she’d managed to remove the carrot chunks with a whole purse pack of tissues, would never be the same.

  Tilly kept her gaze locked on the Oban wharf which had just come into view, and away from the other passengers who no doubt blamed her as puke-fest patient zero. Not guilty. She was pretty sure the kid two rows in front of her barfed first. Anyway. Guess the Auckland Harbor dinner cruise she’d been on a couple of times didn’t count toward having sea legs. Who knew?

  Small mercies that having already collected the house keys from Aunt Mary’s lawyer’s office in Invercargill she’d be out of these stinky pants and into a hot shower in no time.

  Finally the ferry docked and Tilly collected her two suitcases, dragging them along the wharf to the main road. She spied a small grocery store, and checking both ways for traffic—spoiler: there wasn’t any—parked her two suitcases just outside the store. Two cute-as-a-button girls in jeans and flip-flops sat on a wooden bench. The dark, curly-haired one counted out coins in her friend’s palm.

  “Hi, girls,” Tilly said. “Would you mind watching my bags while I do a quick shop?”

  The girls exchanged glances, and the one with her brown hair tied in pigtails closed her fist over the coins. “One dollar per bag,” she said.

  “For each of us,” said Curly Hair. “So we can buy ice creams.”

  “Businesswomen, huh?” Smothering a smile, Tilly dug into her purse and found a couple of two dollar coins. “I can respect that.”

  She held the coins over the girls’ outstretched palms and twisted her lips. “Hmmm. Maybe you better tell me your names in case you turn out to be con women instead of businesswomen and I have to call the police.”

  Pigtails laughed and nudged Curly Hair. “I’m Jade Harland and this is Zoe, who used to be Zoe Murphy but then her mum married my dad and now we’re sisters.”

  “Hi,” said Zoe. “Nice to meetcha, and BTW, the only police here is our Aunty Piper and she doesn’t work for the police anymore because she’s married to West, and they have a little girl called Michaela who is sooo cute”—Zoe whooped in a deep breath—“and Noah. Noah does work for the police and he’s a friend of our dad’s which means he’s pretty nice—”

  “And he knows us,” Jade said earnestly. “He can tell you that we’re trustworthy.”

  Tilly dropped the coins into their hands. “I believe you. My name is Tilly, so now we all know each other. I won’t be long and then you can point me in the direction of a taxi stand.”

  Tilly ducked inside the store, loaded up a shopping basket with a few essentials to last her until tomorrow when she’d assess what else she’d need, and had her purchases rung up. A plastic bag in each hand, she stepped out of the store to see a big guy in coveralls chatting with the two girls.

&nb
sp; Zoe waved her over. “This is our friend Ford.”

  “Hey,” he said. “My little mates were telling me you needed a taxi.”

  “Or an Uber,” she said. “I need to get to Weka Street.”

  The three of them exchanged conspiring glances and grins.

  “There’s no Uber in Oban,” said Ford. “But I can run you up to Weka Street, no worries. I’ll fit you in with some of the other tourists booked in for a ride to their B&Bs.”

  “Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

  Ford rolled a massive shoulder and bent to pick up both her cases, grimacing as he stood with them. “Must be some holiday you’ve got planned, lady.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he strode away from them toward a sign-painted van. Tilly said goodbye to the girls and hurried after him. After stowing her cases in the back, he slid open the van’s back door—Due South’s van, according to the signwriting, though Tilly had no idea what Due South was—and she scrambled inside to the back row of seats. Ten minutes later Ford had a carload of laughing, chattering tourists, and he pulled away from the grocery store.

  Tilly was the last one in the van after they stopped at a B&B at the end of one of the hilly roads overlooking Halfmoon Bay Harbor.

  “Come sit up front,” Ford said when he returned from lugging the single woman’s hiking backpack up to the B&B for her. “Otherwise I’ll feel like a bloody chauffeur.”

  “Um, I’m wearing eau de seasickness, I’m afraid.” She climbed up into the passenger seat beside him. “I’m a bit whiffy.”

  “You smell fine. At least, no worse than me and my eau de mechanic grease.” Ford grinned over at her.

  If it wasn’t for the shiny gold band on his left hand, Tilly might have hoped he was flirting to make her feel better. It’d been a while since a guy had, and she was a smidgeon out of practice. Pointing out she smelled like vomit probably wasn’t a great line, so thank goodness the cutie beside her was taken.

  They made polite small talk as Ford drove back the way they’d come. Past the kids’ playground situated next to the beach. Past the old school and a classic New Zealand country hotel-pub- restaurant. This was Due South, she’d learned via Ford’s commentary as they’d driven by earlier. Back past the scattering of little shops, a gallery/gift shop and a hair salon, and the wharf, the ferry still docked waiting for the next load of passengers to board.

  But the greenery, oh my goodness, the hills of native bush behind the little town in every imaginable shade…it was like an alien landscape compared to Tilly’s natural habitat of concrete and steel and if you wanted green, hey, there was Victoria Park or the Auckland Botanical Gardens.

  “Bit different from where you’re from, eh?” Ford asked as he turned into the signposted Weka Street. “Auckland, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She shot her driver a narrowed glance. “Should I be worried about a Sasquatch or a T-Rex coming down from the hills for a human snack?”

  “Might pay to keep your wits about you,” he said. “What’s the house number again? You’re staying with friends?”

  “No, not with friends.” Tilly hadn’t had time to elaborate on her final destination, and dammit, her purse with the address was on the back seat. “I can’t remember the number, but it’s the Southern Seas B&B. Do you know it?”

  Ford’s eyebrows popped up above the wraparound shades he’d slid on when he started driving. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but the owner of Southern Seas passed away last year. You can’t stay there.”

  “Mary Duncan was my great-aunt,” Tilly said. “I’m here to sort out her estate.”

  For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to admit the rest of her plans for Mary’s B&B. She might not know much—or anything—about small-town country life, but she suspected a stranger showing up to clean out a dead woman’s house ready for sale probably wouldn’t go down well.

  “That’s different, then.” Ford pulled up beside a split-level house. “Everyone’s been wondering where Mary’s relatives were. Guess you’re it.”

  “Yep.” Before she got dragged into any more of an explanation, she climbed out of the van and slid open the back door. She grabbed her purse and dug the property keys out from it.

  “Really appreciate the ride,” she added as Ford hauled her two suitcases out and carried them to the front porch.

  “Any time,” he said.

  He waited while she fumbled with the keys and found the right one to unlock the door, then he transferred her cases and shopping bags into the foyer.

  “Leave you to it, eh?” he said. “Maybe see you at the Easter Gala. It’s a big event around here. Everyone’s going. See ya.”

  He jogged back to his van and drove away.

  Tilly spun in a slow circle on the hardwood floor. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined most of the hallway, every inch of them crammed with books, knickknacks, and a thick coating of dust. She sneezed and grabbed the two shopping bags, heading along the hallway to where a dining table edge peeped out from behind a doorway.

  Aunt Mary was something of an eclectic magpie, Tilly decided as she placed her shopping bags on the kitchen counter. More dust coated the surfaces, and the whole house had a musty, unlived-in smell. She cast a look back over her shoulder toward the front of the house where she’d been told Aunt Mary had been discovered in her living room. She sucked in a deep, shuddery breath at the thought of the elderly lady dying alone, and sneezed again. Dammit.

  She shoved open two windows above the kitchen sink, which as a split-level home overlooked the sloping roof of the rooms below. Then she cracked open another window next to the back door, hooking it on the widest security setting. A breeze swept inside, stirring over her face and smelling of sea and sun-warmed earth. Different than exhaust fumes or the spicy aroma of curry from the convenient restaurant two doors down from her city apartment. Different, but nice. And if she started with getting the kitchen and one of the bedrooms wiped clean of dust after her shower, she’d have a liveable space until she could get stuck in cleaning properly.

  Tilly dragged her suitcases into a spare room with a double bed she’d discovered after opening and closing a single bedroom, a bathroom complete with a claw-foot bathtub, a laundry room, and the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made with a seashell-print comforter and her aunt’s things still on her mirrored dresser. Silly to get a lump in her throat over a woman she barely knew, but still.

  She found bath towels stacked on a shelf beside the bathtub and almost screamed “Eureka” when hot water blasted out of the shower. Ten minutes later she was once again clean, with fresh panties on, and a fluffy towel wrapped around her while she towel-dried her hair.

  A muffled crash, followed by a weird shriek, came from somewhere on the other side of the bathroom door.

  Oh, poopballs! Someone had broken into Mary’s house. Pranking kids? Or burglars? Looters? Antiques dealers hoping to find something of value among her aunt’s knickknacks?

  Tilly cracked open the bathroom door, spied an umbrella in a hallway stand, and lunged for it. She raced toward the kitchen, with the business end of the umbrella ready to shove up an unsuspecting thief’s butt.

  Only the kitchen was empty.

  Her gaze whipped over the countertops, fridge, oven, and finally the dining table, where ripped plastic bags were now spread across the surface.

  Huh?

  An indignant squawk came from floor level. Two plump, greenish parrotlike birds fought over a trail of lettuce leaves, cucumber slices, and cherry tomatoes, which were rolling around, knocked by their scrabbling claws. Upside down on the floor was the split-open plastic container her premade green salad had come in.

  “That’s my dinner!”

  The birds—whatever they were—paid her not the slightest attention and continued to squabble and flap. Then Tilly discovered two more feathered criminals. One attacked her loaf of bread, and the other squatted over one of the golden peaches she’d bought for dessert, pecking a giant hole in the flesh
and gorging its thieving little heart out.

  “Hey!” Tilly stomped barefoot around the dining table toward the birds. One of the salad thieves flapped up to the kitchen sink where he squeezed out the open window and flew away.

  “Out, out, out!” She rattled the umbrella at the other three feathery little monsters, but they just waddled away from her, their birdy claws scrabbling on the floor.

  Tilly reached the back door and flung it open. Circling around the dining table, she let out a rebel yell, herding them with her umbrella toward the exit. Two of the birds waddled faster and eventually swooped out the door, but the third—the ringleader, Tilly suspected—took his sweet time. She followed it out the back door onto the small landing and he flapped up to perch on the railing, giving her a filthy what’s your problem, lady? avian glare.

  Tilly fisted her hands on towel-covered hips and got within spitting distance.

  “Next time you break into my kitchen I’ll turn you into hot wings. You’ve been warned.”

  The bird turned on the charm with the funny drunken waddle he and his pals must have perfected to con tourists for lunch scraps. Okay, it was kinda cute but—

  A gust of sea breeze swept around the corner of the house, tingling over her still-damp arms and shoulders, and slamming a door shut.

  Uh-oh. Tilly slowly turned her back on the strutting bird. Yup. It was the back door that slammed.

  Keeping one hand clamped to the towel tucked in above her breasts, she ran to the door. Dammit to hell, it was locked. And unless she magically shrunk to green-bird size, she wasn’t fitting in through any of the kitchen windows.

  The cocky hoodlum had the last laugh as it gave one more squawk and flew away, disappearing into the trees.

  With Peter safely home sans his car keys, Noah headed back into town. A quick check of his watch—past quitting time—and he turned off the main road into Weka Street. He was about to pull into his driveway when a flash of movement in the garden two houses up from his caught his eye. He tapped the brakes, slowed, and tried to see through the gaps in the property’s trees for another glimpse. There it was again. Something pale blue and disappearing around the corner of the late Mary Duncan’s house.