“I don’t want people to know you and I have any connection—”
“Relax, will you? You should have thought this through before you asked me to spy on an FBI agent—”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Luke hissed.
“Nurse Betsy say anything to you? She likes to have blueberry pie on the sly, you know. Probably figures you’ll think your arteries will clog just from watching her chow down.”
“Where are you now?”
“Cooling my heels. If McGrath spotted me skulking around your ex-cop sweetie, she could have, too. I’ll go on back to town in a few minutes.”
“Be discreet,” Luke snapped, condescending, irritable.
“Why’d you agree to hire me if you’re getting cold feet this fast? Jesus—”
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Shelton. I’m not afraid of either one of them. I just don’t want them meddling in her father’s murder investigation. It’ll just make matters worse and won’t lead to his killer. McGrath has no right to stir up trouble.” Luke breathed heavily, as if he might hyperventilate. “The West sisters have suffered enough.”
Right. Like he’d hired Teddy because he was worried about Zoe and Christina West’s feelings. Teddy watched the lobster boat ease on back around the point, toward the small, protected harbor. The temperature was going down, nightfall coming earlier and earlier. He could feel the bite of winter in the air. Luke’d be heading south soon. Teddy didn’t have any firm plans, but he had no intention of spending another winter in Maine.
“I think your instincts about our Special Agent McGrath are on target,” Teddy said. “The guy’s trouble. I don’t care if the old cemeteries around here are full of his ancestors, he’s here because there’s an unsolved murder.”
“It’s been bad enough having the state investigators snooping—” Luke sighed. “I should have thrown you off my boat that night you showed up here.”
Teddy knew he wasn’t referring to the night a week ago when Luke had asked Teddy to keep an eye on McGrath, and Zoe if she came back, but to a night more than a year ago. “But you didn’t, did you?” Teddy walked backward off his rock. “You sold me a gun you weren’t supposed to sell me.”
“What’s your game, Shelton?” Luke’s voice was low, not so arrogant now. A touch of fear in it. “Because if you’re playing me—”
“Relax. Go hump Nurse Betsy. I’ll stay in touch.”
Teddy clicked off. He felt almost smug—that’d teach the bastard to try to get the upper hand with him. He went back up to the cottage, a one-bedroom with cracked linoleum and cheap furnishings, and got his truck keys and headed out. He almost ran into Bruce’s truck on its way out from the lobster pound. Teddy waved. The guy was amazing. His first instinct was to like people. He was totally undiscriminating. It’d never occur to him his buddy Teddy had an illegal arsenal in the jump seat. Grenades, semiautomatic assault weapons, so-called large capacity feeding devices.
Nah, not Bruce. He was oblivious.
Bruce slowed to a crawl and stuck his head out his window. “You play darts? Come by Perry’s later. Maybe you can beat the FBI agent.”
Teddy didn’t know what to say. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll see you later.”
* * *
Zoe drove out to a market south of town and bought staples, like bread, juice, milk and cereal, then stopped at a farm store for local produce—Cortland apples, butternut squash, potatoes, carrots, fall spinach. She bought a jug of apple cider and a half-dozen cider doughnuts, eating one on the way back through the village.
She stopped at her childhood home, now her sister’s home, and let the engine idle while she gripped the wheel with both hands and thought about the break-in. Her father had insisted on locks on the doors. He was chief of police. He wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone to just walk in. He’d once stopped by Olivia’s with a lock for her porch door, but she distracted him with some other project—locks made her feel like she was in prison. One was enough. The logic of having locks on both her doors defeated her.
“Oh, Christ...”
The tears came out of nowhere. Zoe breathed in through her nose, trying to get control of herself. It’d been a year, and she still missed them both, her father, her great-aunt. They’d always been there. The rocks of her life. Her anchors. Everything they’d ever wanted in life was right here. She could talk Washington, D.C., and world events and federal law enforcement with Stick Monroe—with her dad and Aunt Olivia, it had always been about Goose Harbor.
Zoe wiped her cheeks with her fingertips and ate another cider doughnut.
Maybe if she stayed in town, she could make her peace with not knowing who’d killed her father, or why, or if Olivia’s death was in any way related.
I know who killed him.
“Ah, Aunt Olivia. Where’s Jen Periwinkle when we need her?”
Jen used her wits to distinguish good clues from bad clues—and there were always clues. The police had Patrick West’s body and the two bullets that had killed him. That was all.
Zoe pushed back her thoughts, her overwhelming sense of grief, and instead of driving back through town and fighting the leaf-peepers, she took the tangle of back streets, passing inns and summer houses, smaller homes owned by year-round locals, until she came out on Ocean Drive just above the nature preserve named for her great-aunt.
She turned onto a gravel road and drove a hundred yards to a parking area and visitors’ center amid a pine grove. This time she got out of her car. The air was cooler here, a slight breeze stirring. She looked up at the pine needles etched against the cloudless blue of the sky, heard birds in the distance—it was migrating season for hawks.
The preserve’s self-guided trails were open from dawn until dusk. Zoe found herself on the wide, three-mile gravel loop trail. She’d come out here to run ever since she was a teenager. After she’d resigned from the state police, she’d run the loop trail every day to train for the FBI Academy. She remembered how excited she was about her future, how her life had seemed to stretch before her. Now she didn’t know what would come next. It was enough to plan dinner. She sometimes wondered if that was why she’d responded to the rhythms of the Jericho farm, milking and feeding the goats, harvesting the garden. Even with knitting, she had to stay focused on the present.
She passed interpretive signs describing the wildlife and plant life, the geology of southern Maine’s curving coastline and broad stretches of beaches, the cluster of three small offshore islands with their tricky currents and narrow passages. There were benches for birdwatching and scenic views, but she didn’t stop for anything.
The bright yellow leaves of a dozen thin birch trees told her she was close to Stewart’s Cove. She slowed her pace, her throat tightening with tension, anticipation. It was late in the afternoon, and most of the tourists had left. She was aware that she was alone, possibly no one even within shouting distance.
Except for J. B. McGrath.
He was standing on a flat, wet rock that would be covered soon as the tide rose. It was about three yards from where she’d found her father.
“It’s a beautiful spot,” he said.
She nodded tightly, fighting the images of a year ago. Her father sprawled on his stomach. His blood had seeped into the wet sand and shallow water of the rising tide.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I saw your car and followed you. I came around the other way—I didn’t expect to beat you here.” His smile was surprisingly gentle. “No