The Boathouse (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 14)

by Vickie McKeehan

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about the girls’ night out?” Adam asked, his eyes twinkling with humor. “You could always join us.”

  Bodie got the sense that was the last thing Adam wanted her to do. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got to get Lago back home before he turns into a pumpkin. It’s time for both of us to crash on the couch. You guys take off and enjoy yourselves.”

  She watched the couple stroll off down the pier toward The Pointe, the fancy restaurant that usually didn’t start hopping until around ten. “Will you look at that, Lago? I think we did good. I think it took less than two seconds for the singer to get replaced. What do you think? Keva looked a little moony-eyed over Adam, didn’t she? I think the Malachi phase of adoration has come to its official end. Mr. Rafferty had his chance and blew it.”

  On their walk back home, Bodie breathed in the night air. It felt good to play matchmaker. Although technically Keva had taken care of that part on her own, proving, once again, love might be found in the strangest of places. But there was something to be said for karma. In this case, it couldn’t be overlooked or underestimated. If she and Keva had gone into the bar as planned, Keva would never have been standing out on the sidewalk the moment Adam sauntered by.

  Her cell phone rang. Glancing down at the display made her lips curve when she recognized Tucker’s number. Yes, he was calling from three thousand miles away. They could talk until they got sleepy wearing pajamas or nothing at all.

  There was something to be said for that warm, fuzzy feeling balling in the middle of her belly. The way it made her feel knowing someone thought she was special enough to call and talk to on a magical summer evening when the stars seemed to dance above her head. She swiped to answer the phone and decided the idea of having Tucker in her life no longer scared her silly.

  Twelve

  Resigned to driving the three thousand miles it would take to get back home, Tucker spent his days on the road and his nights pulled over at whatever motel he could find that had a vacancy. Along I-40 at the height of summer tourist season, pickings were often slim if you waited until nine or ten o’clock to hunt down a bed for the night.

  But he couldn’t afford to pull over at six like he saw other travelers doing. He pushed the limits, hoping it would get him back home sooner if he stayed on the road longer until he got sleepy.

  Dive hotels were plenty, but the cheap rooms filled up early. The first night, unable to find a place that wasn’t full up, he’d pulled into a rest area and slept in the vehicle he’d rented, a GMC cargo van that held most everything he’d been able to cram into the back from the storage unit.

  Somewhere outside Mobile, Alabama, he’d mostly stopped being pissed. But he still didn’t appreciate how the lawyer had treated the situation. Springing the additional junk on him at the last minute could have been avoided. Keeping him in the dark about the trunk and the storage locker for a week seemed downright meanspirited. If he’d known, he could’ve had the movers make a second stop after they’d loaded up the apartment.

  Still stewing, he remembered what Bodie had suggested—let it go and get back home safely in one piece. But just because it made sense didn’t mean it was easy. He could still see the glee of delight in the old lawyer’s eyes when the storage locker had come up. No wonder the guy was Joe’s legal counsel—two peas in a pod—both men seemed to take pleasure in another man’s pain.

  And let there be no mistake—spending three days driving cross country right now was a pain in the butt.

  Although sitting behind the wheel for that long did give him plenty of time to think. Not getting answers out of his dad about Tessie would haunt him. He had to find out what happened to her and who killed her. Was Joe’s death related to Tessie’s? If both cases were linked, why would anyone wait twenty-seven years to make their move?

  All the questions ran together and made him feel drowsy earlier than usual.

  On his last night, four hundred miles from Pelican Pointe, when his eyes could no longer focus on the road, he stopped at a small-town inn in Ludlow, California. He ate dinner at the motel’s adjacent restaurant and headed to bed around ten-thirty.

  After two hours of not falling asleep, he felt wide awake, unsettled. His brain couldn’t or wouldn’t shut down. He kept staring at the key ring on the nightstand. It bothered him that he hadn’t opened that stupid trunk back in Sarasota Springs to see what was inside.

  With nothing else to do, curiosity got the better of him. He grabbed his phone for light, snatched the keys off the table, then headed out to the van.

  The motel was just off the Interstate. He could hear the traffic in the distance, eighteen-wheelers whizzing by on their way to Bakersfield and beyond. But the proximity to the freeway didn’t lessen the fact that the parking lot seemed overly dark and a little intimidating after midnight. The motel and the parking lot had filled up since he’d checked in,

  Tucker had left the van sitting under the nearest light pole, but it was still a hike from his room. Since he’d loaded each box into the van himself, he’d put the trunk at the tail end. After hitting the remote to flip the locks, he hopped up and into the cargo area. Taking a seat on one of the boxes right in front of the trunk that would hold his weight, he wiped off several layers of dust on the top before sticking the key into the padlock. As he lifted the lid, he noted it was heavier than it looked. The inside smelled musty; the odor hit him in strong layers. Not knowing what to expect, he shined the light from his phone into the interior. If he’d expected a crumpled body or a hidden stash of money, he was disappointed. He stared at a surplus of more old papers and a few old photographs.

  Confused at the significance, he began to dig through the contents until the battery died on his phone. But not before he’d found some answers. He closed the lid, turned the key in the lock, and headed back to his room.

  Exhausted now, he could think of nothing more than finalizing the edges of the puzzle that would eventually lead to forming the complete picture. The past began to take shape. And it wasn’t a pretty landscape.

  Thirteen

  Bodie woke up eager to start her day because Tucker was finally due home. She fed Lago his preferred grub, took him back over to the house on San Pedro Circle where he had access to the doggie door, and managed to clock in at the Diner all before six o’clock and the breakfast rush.

  Over hash browns and Max’s omelets, a few regulars peppered her with questions about Joe’s murder and when Tucker intended to get back. They expected gritty details. But she kept telling them she didn’t know a thing about any of it. They didn’t need to know that Tucker had kept her in the loop the entire time he’d been away. They also didn’t need to know about all the late-night phone calls or the emotional roller coaster he’d endured since first stepping off that plane into Florida heat.

  Maybe that was the main reason she kept quiet and her thoughts to herself. Anything to do with Tucker, she felt deserved privacy and discretion. Instead of giving them more fodder for the rumor mill, she opted to make small talk and chatted away about the weather or the upcoming plans for a Fourth of July parade.

  But no matter how she tried to change the subject or avoid the topic of murder entirely, people batted around a slew of ridiculous notions, dredging up Joe’s history with the town. It seemed they’d moved on from the bodies at the boathouse to Joe Ferguson’s untimely demise at the hands of what had to be a hired gunman. They needed to come up with a suspect, and logic didn’t enter into the equation. If the townsfolk talked it to death, then it must mean they were actively helping solve the crime.

  By noon, Bodie had her fill with assumptions and gossip.

  But the rumors followed her from the restaurant to her cleaning job at Connie Grant’s house, where she tidied up the dishes while doing her best to avoid Connie’s constant banter. The hitman theory had firmly taken root in Connie’s warped mind. And no matter how hard Bodie tried, she couldn’t get the older woman to budge
off that idea.

  No one was more relieved to finish up the job and get away from Connie than Bodie. Hoping to get some enjoyment out of running errands before her next cleaning job, she swung by Tucker’s house to pick up Lago before heading up the hill to the lighthouse.

  Hannah managed a co-op out of the keeper’s cottage, where she sold delicious homemade jams and jellies, and homegrown fruits and vegetables harvested from the fields near the cliffs. Every restaurant owner in town supported the co-op, including Margie Rosterman. Sometimes Bodie even shopped for the Diner whenever Margie felt like delegating that task. But not today, today she was here for herself.

  Leaving Lago in the Mazda with the top down, Bodie waved to Lorna Littlejohn as she grabbed a wire basket at the door for her purchases. Volunteers usually took turns staffing the co-op and managing the checkout stand. She’d done it herself a time or two. But today must’ve been Lorna’s turn to work the register because the tall, dark-haired woman stood behind the counter, bagging groceries.

  “How’s it going, Bodie?” Lorna called out. “Kathy Ferrin brought in her artisan bread you liked so much the other day, the whole-grain variety. She baked it fresh this morning. Want a loaf?”

  “You read my mind,” Bodie said as she picked up two jars of marmalade, two jars of blackberry jam, a carton of cherry tomatoes, a bunch of asparagus, and a pound of butter lettuce before heading down the aisle to the fruits. She loaded up on bananas and little baskets of blueberries. Not knowing whether Tucker liked strawberries, she decided to chance it and tossed in a small carton of those. On the next aisle near the potatoes, she overheard Gladys Hargitay gossiping to Jill Campbell about what happened to Joe. To avoid another inquisition or weigh in on a theory, Bodie ducked behind a bushel basket of pears waiting for the women to leave the store.

  When the coast was clear, Bodie headed to the register and unloaded her basket. She waited for Lorna to ring her up. But it seemed inevitable that Prissie Gates would walk in at that very moment and strike up a conversation about Joe.

  As she carried her groceries back to the car, Bodie knew people meant well. She knew they were concerned about Tucker. She also figured that concern landed somewhere on the curiosity meter between well-meaning and nosy.

  After she and Lago ate dinner together, she dropped him off back home before heading to her regular Thursday night gig—cleaning the public library. It seemed the only time all day she’d found any solace or peace was dusting down the bookshelves.

  Even with the settlement signed between lawyers and Alex’s check safely in the bank, Bodie intended to keep her regular jobs. And without Tucker around, staying busy had prevented her from overthinking the whole thing back in Florida. As new relationships went, she had to admit she’d spent some restless nights worried about him.

  It might’ve been more than that.

  She liked working for Margie and Max. They were part of her family here. Her job at the Diner would always come first unless Landon and Shelby came through and offered her a full-time position at the garden center. Because those two deserved a steady, reliable worker who showed up on time, ready to work every day and knew a thing or two about plants.

  As Bodie sprayed furniture polish onto the last wooden desk and wiped it to a shine, she thought about Hannah, her other boss. Somewhere along the way, Hannah had become a good friend, someone she could talk to, confide in, go to if she had a problem.

  After straightening up the outer area, she realized she wasn’t sure when all these people had crowded into her life. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly when it happened. Sometimes in a tightknit community like Pelican Pointe, the smallest of events brought people together. Those get-togethers tended to blend and blur into delightful little snapshots. A birthday or shower, a girls’ night out, or coming together to support someone in need might end up brokering a long-term solution or forging a bond, all with the hum of laughter ringing in the background.

  When she’d arrived in town, Bodie hadn’t been looking for or expecting friendship. It hadn’t happened in Silicon Valley. The high-tech world could be a tough, backstabbing, hardnosed environment where the stress might kill you if you let it.

  “Thank God I got out of there,” Bodie muttered as she finished vacuuming the large rug in the entry hall.

  Every time she cleaned here, it was a little spooky, maybe because it was always at night after the place had closed down for the day.

  But she liked the quiet. No chatter or gossip here tonight.

  She could stand in the expansive Mediterranean-style foyer and daydream. It was hard to believe someone had ever called this place home. But then politicians always seemed to be loaded. The house had belonged to the former mayor, a man named Bradford. She’d heard through the grapevine that the guy had been Quentin’s uncle. And not a good guy.

  Every time she drove past the gnarly, old cypress trees and spotted the rustic balcony that ran the length of the mansion, Bodie thought of Italian villas. Or maybe a fourteenth-century castle that had stood the test of time. Wherever her imagination took her, she could enjoy the terracotta tile, the detailed ironwork, and the rich patinas from decades of sitting next to the edge of the ocean.

  No longer a private residence, the estate was used to house the library on the first floor and a school upstairs for grades seven through twelve.

  Because she always started her cleaning on the second floor, she had only to wrap up down here and head home. Since she’d been cooped up inside for three hours breathing furniture polish fumes, she yearned to get outside and enjoy the summer evening. Fanning her face, she went to open the double doors and stepped out onto the terrace. Filling her lungs with fresh air, she took in several deep breaths to clear her head. When a shadow crossed in front of her, she jumped out of her skin.

  “Almost done?” Tucker asked. “Wow. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Hand still resting over her heart, she threw her arms around his neck. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you text me that you were home? Or on the grounds?”

  “I did.”

  “Really?” She searched her jeans pocket for her phone and realized she had five unread text messages. “Sorry. I got busy and let my mind wander. I guess I didn’t hear the phone ding over the vacuum cleaner.”

  “I got in, picked up Lago in the van. My truck is still parked at the airport in Santa Cruz and will be until I get time to dump everything into the garage or rent a storage unit here. I didn’t want to take time to do that now.”

  He wrapped her up in a hug. “God, I missed you. I couldn’t wait another minute to see you, so I rushed over here because this was on your schedule tonight.”

  “You remembered my schedule?” Ridiculously pleased, she ran a hand down the side of his jaw. “I missed you, too. If you can wait five minutes for me to gather up my stuff, I’m ready to head home.”

  “Good. Because you won’t believe what I found out about my father.”

  “You mean besides the hooker being there when he died? Okay, I’ll bite. What’d you find out? Did you find proof that he cheated on your mother? Did he have a decades-long affair with a neighbor? Did he have another family in another city you didn’t know anything about?”

  Tucker laughed, letting the tension from the long trip drain away. “Please don’t make me picture that image any more than I have to. Although I do wish it had been a neighbor rather than, well, you know.”

  “If not any of that, then what’s the big news?”

  “I’m pretty sure I found evidence that suggests he committed insurance fraud in 1985. And maybe arson as well.”

  “Okay. That’s huge.”

  “Yeah. I think that’s how all this got started.”

  “What do you mean? You aren’t suggesting…”

  “Let’s just get out of here and go get something to eat. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Let’s pick up an order from Longboard’s, and I’ll explain it all over dinner. I’ll follow you home in the v
an.”

  By the time they’d reached the pizza place, at the last minute, Bodie had switched her order to pasta primavera with vegetables. That meant Tucker didn’t have to share, and he could eat the entire pie by himself.

  At her house, she got down plates and set the table. In short order, she watched him devour an entire meat lover’s pizza with pepperoni, sausage, and Canadian bacon piled together as Lago looked on, hoping to score whatever dropped on the floor.

  In between bites, he began to unpack the details of his trip. Like a puzzle, he filled in the gaps about his suspicions. “I found papers in that old trunk that indicate Dad once owned a shrimping trawler. Back in the early ’80s, he bought a boat called Stella Greer and began to fish the waters off Smuggler’s Bay. This was May 1981. The focus here should be on the timing. This was at a time when my grandfather was still running the show and doing a bad job of it. Under Granddad’s direction, the hardware store experienced major financial problems, setback after setback. According to my grandmother, during this time, Granddad barely made enough money to keep the doors open. Imagine my surprise to discover that Dad comes along and somehow manages to scrape together the money to buy this trawler at a whooping seventy grand to use for shrimping. I know because I found the bill of sale in there with all this other information.”

  She laid a hand over his because he looked like someone had punched him in the gut. “And you think this shrimping business led to murder? How exactly?”

  “I’m getting to that. You have to hear me out, Bodie. I might not have known about this for long, but the pieces fit together only if you stand back and study the history of our family, not a brushstroke but the whole thing.”

  “The big picture.”

  “Exactly. For five years, Dad owns this boat, which is amazing in itself because as long as I knew him, he never once bothered to stick his toe in the water. Odd because we’ve lived by this nice stretch of beach all our lives, and he must’ve forgotten to mention how much he loved boating and being out there on the bay. But that was part of the red flags that hit me in the face when I discovered this thing about the boat.”