A Case of Christmas (5 page)

when they’d only known each other for two weeks. To continue to hold a grudge over

being dumped by a guy you’d only slept with a dozen times was probably unreasonable,

possibly obsessive, and undoubtedly poor sportsmanship.

Shane said, “You tried to get me to incriminate myself.”

“No, I did—well, okay. Yes. I did,” admitted Linus. “We both know that’s how it’s

done. It wasn’t personal. I didn’t know you when I took the job. And you’d have done the

exact same thing in my place. Right? You do the same thing when you’re setting up a

sting operation. You have to.”

“I don’t run sting operations on people I’m getting involved with.”

“I wasn’t getting involved with you.” Linus stopped. “Shane…”

It was distracting and disconcerting the way he kept registering every time Linus said

Shane
. Even lying in an icy puddle of water he’d noticed, had felt a snap of surprise,

maybe even pleasure that Linus had remembered his name.

Which was idiotic because he too remembered the names of the principals in all his

investigations. “Believe me, I get it,” Shane said. “I was just a job for you.”

Linus winced. “At first, yeah. Of course. I had never met you, and what I knew of

you was…you were suspected of stealing a very valuable antique. I know that you’re still

pissed off…insulted at the idea that anyone would suspect you, but that’s the reality. The

Fallons suspected you, and their suspicions did not seem unreasonable to my bosses at

MetMu. It was my job to find out if you did rip us off. I went into it thinking you might

be a bad actor. But my investigation cleared you. Completely. Totally.”

Everything Linus said was true. It was not reasonable to remain angry over this, and

yet Shane was. No…unfortunately it wasn’t only that he was angry. He was still—and

this was what bugged him most—hurt. Which was so ridiculous, so out-of-character for

him. He was not emotionally clingy. He always tried to end things before they got sticky,

part ways on friendly terms.

But then it was easy to be friendly when you were the one who wanted out.

Stick to the facts. Building relationships, forging temporary and artificial bonds, was

a key part of pulling off the kind of investigation Linus had been hired for. Shane had

been in Linus’s position many times, the only difference being that the people he had

helped to incriminate themselves were actually crooks.

And he hadn’t slept with any of them.

Even so…

“Fair enough,” Shane said.

Linus looked surprised and then relieved. “Yeah?”

Shane shrugged. “Like you said, it wasn’t personal. It’s the way the game is played.”

Linus offered a tentative smile. Norton’s smile. Shane felt a pang.

Linus said, “Well, and it wasn’t
all
a game. I did really—”

Uh, no. No. Shane did not want to hear this. Did not want Linus to throw him a bone,

award him a consolation prize. He did not need Linus feeling sorry for him. He could

deal with the fact it had been strictly business on Linus’s part—which was to say, it had

been painful at the time, but nobody had to know that but himself.

“Sure,” Shane said. “Me too. The fact is, my reaction was solely based on the shock

of seeing you again after all this time.”

Linus frowned.

“It was a difficult time in my li—career, and your leaving without explanation

became part of that general confusion. But now I have the explanation. And, as you say,

you were only doing your job, and ultimately, your actions helped me get my job back.”

“Okay, now you sound like Mr. Spock,” Linus said. “All I’m trying to say is, it

wasn’t
only
—”

“Live long and prosper.” Shane closed the door.

He had put away the groceries, changed into dry clothes, and was just settling his

weary head on one of the sofa’s pancake-like throw pillows when, once again, someone

knocked on the door.

“Honest to God,” Shane muttered, rising and making the now familiar trek to the

front door. The hospital emergency room had seemed quiet and peaceful compared to this

place.

He opened the door, and one of Santa’s elves stood on his doorstep.

Negative. Recalibrating…

Green parka, green turtleneck, green trousers, green and red Christmas socks… He

recognized the round face and Friar Tuck hairdo of the driver of the golf cart that had

flattened him forty-five minutes earlier.

Okay, in fairness, he’d hit the golf cart first.

“Hi,” Shane said. It was more question than greeting.

“Oh good! You really are all right,” the man said. “I was worried.”

“I’m okay. Thanks for your concern.”

“I brought a peace offering.” A plump, freckled hand held up a bottle of whiskey.

“That’s nice of you, but it’s really not necessary.” The bottle was thrust toward him,

and Shane took it reluctantly. He glanced at the label.
Highland Park Dark Origins
.

“It’s the least I can do. I’m Bradley Hupert. I live two houses up.” Hupert pointed

right. “Or two houses
Hup
as I always like to say.”

God save me. And if you can’t save me, at least let the end come mercifully quick.

“Very good,” Shane replied. “Well, this is really kind of you…” He glanced again at

the silver and white label on the black whiskey bottle. All the way from the Orkneys.

Could you even buy something like this at a local liquor store?

“I really should have introduced myself a long time ago,” Hupert was prattling on

over the rush of water pouring off the roof. “You’re usually only here for a day or two,

and by the time I notice, you’re gone again. We—Betty and I—used to be good friends

with the Laceys. Ed and Linda. We were inseparable. The Four Amigos, we called

ourselves. Oh, we used to have some fine times together. Then Linda passed away in ’91,

and Betty followed two years later. It was just me and Ed.”

“I see,” Shane said. And he did. Only too well.

“Then Ed went. So suddenly. I didn’t even know he was sick.”

Rain was hitting right in the center of Hupert’s pink and gleaming bald head. A

steady, shining stream dripping down either side of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said reluctantly.

Hupert offered a woebegone smile.

Shane glanced down at the bottle of whiskey. 750ml, the exact weight of social

obligation.
Don’t do it. You’ll never get rid of him.

“Did you want to come in?” Actually what Shane said was, “
Would
you like to come

in?” Because it was obvious Hupert did, and because even five years in the FBI couldn’t

entirely eradicate his early social training.

Hupert’s face lit up. “That’s very kind of you. I sure would.”

He stepped over the threshold, looking around with pleasure that turned to utter

astonishment. “You haven’t changed anything!”

Largely true. Shane had bought the cottage fully furnished after the death of the

previous owner. The real estate market had been at rock bottom, and the next of kin were

in Seattle with no desire to sort through, let alone ship, a lot of old and battered beach

house furniture.

“Not a lot,” Shane agreed. “As you’ve noticed, I don’t get down here as often as I’d

like.”

“It looks exactly the same.” Hupert, moving like someone in a dream, seemed drawn

to the small fireplace with its white, round stones and flagstone hearth. Two leather

chairs, arms worn soft and shiny with time and use, sat on either side. He absently patted

the back of the nearest chair like it was a friendly animal.

Shane had changed a few things. He’d donated Ed and Linda’s clothes to the Avalon

Hospital Auxiliary’s Unloved Gift Shop. He’d replaced all the bedding and linens. That

was about it. He viewed the cottage’s furnishings much as he would have any vacation

rental.

“Many’s the time Ed and I sat right here, talking.” Hupert smiled at Shane, but Shane

thought it was the memory of old times that Hupert was seeing. “We’d drink and talk and

argue into the wee hours. We’d tell each other the old stories about pirates and

shipwrecks and sea monsters.” His gaze went to the not terribly good oil painting of a

galleon over the fireplace. “A lot of ships went down in these waters. Quite a few of the

Manila galleons. The
San Sebastian
, the
Santa Ana
, the
Santa Marta
, the
Nuestra Senora

de Ayuda
, the
San Augustin
. We never got tired of talking though we’d both heard the

same stories a million times.”

Yeah, Shane could believe that. But his innate curiosity kicked in. “How long have

you lived on the island?”

Hupert’s attention snapped back to the present. “Must be forty years now. Of course

we didn’t live here full-time back then. Betty and I lived in Long Beach. Ed and Linda

were in the Valley. He was in the aerospace industry. We’d all sail out on the weekends

for the beach and barbecues.” Hupert’s gaze fell on the bottle Shane held.

Shane sighed inwardly. He didn’t want a drink. He wanted a nap and breakfast.

Mostly he wanted a nap. The morning had been exhausting and unexpectedly stressful.

But he could see Hupert was lonely, and he felt sorry for the old guy.

“Do you think it’s too early to open this?” That was a rhetorical question because

yes, at ten thirty in the morning it was too early for anyone but a raving alcoholic or a

twenty-year-old. Which was pretty much the same thing.

Hupert, mopping his damp head with a handkerchief, beamed. “The sun must be

over the yardarm somewhere!”

Shane started for the kitchen, but Hupert said, “That globe in the corner is what

you’re after.”

And sure enough, the sixteenth-century Italian replica Old World globe did, when

the top half of the earth was raised, turn out to be a minibar with an assortment of wine

glasses and tumblers.

That discovery supported Hupert’s story of many hours spent in the Lacey cottage.

Not that Shane really doubted it, but he was in a profession that made you naturally

skeptical.

He poured a couple of fingers of whiskey into a short tumbler. “If I have ice it’s from

the Pleistocene. Did you want water with yours?”

“Oh no,” Hupert said. “That’s perfect right there.”

Shane handed Hupert his glass, splashed a little of the single malt into his own glass.

Painkillers and booze were a bad mix, but a sip or two wouldn’t hurt. He preferred his

with water though, and he stepped into the kitchen to add a drop.

When he returned to the living room, Hupert was reaching for the ship in a bottle

sitting on one of the pair of dark bookcases framing the fireplace. He jumped just a

fraction at Shane’s return.

“The
San Sebastian
,” he said, wiping his hands on his trouser leg like a guilty little

kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Right. You mentioned the
San Sebastian
earlier,” Shane said.

“Did I? Are you interested in California history, Mr.…?”

“Donovan,” Shane said. “But call me Shane. Yes, history is an interest of mine.” He

eyed Hupert thoughtfully.

Maritime history was not his field, but he did know that the Manila galleons had

been the workhorses of the Pacific, treasure ships often loaded with gold and silver,

precious stones, ceramics, and luxury textiles. At least two, possibly four such galleons

had gone down in the waters of the Channel Islands. That wasn’t legend, it was fact.

Hupert made himself comfortable in one of the squat chairs and sipped his drink. For

the next twenty minutes, he chatted almost without pause about the island and how it had

changed over the years. Shane nursed his whiskey and mostly listened.

At last Hupert said in an offhand way, “It’s nice to see everything the way Ed left it.

All his books and… I suppose you must have got rid of all his papers though?”

“What kind of papers?”

Hupert looked vague. “Oh…just papers. He used to write a column for the
Catalina

Islander
. He was always talking about writing a book one day.”

“Is that right? About what?”

“This island of ours has a rich and colorful history.”

“It does. The Spanish were here in the 1500s, I think? Isn’t Santa Catalina supposed

to be one of several possible burial sites for Cabrillo?”

“Yes. That’s right.” Hupert smiled. It was a guileless sort of smile.

Shane said, “These waters were a haven for pirates at one time, weren’t they?”

Hupert stopped beaming. “Yes, that’s true.”

“I haven’t seen anything resembling a manuscript,” Shane said. “But I’ve only

started sorting through Lacey’s papers.”

Hupert’s eyes widened. “Then you
are
sorting through his files?”

Shane shrugged noncommittally.

“Are you an author, by any chance?”

“No.”

“You don’t look like a teacher.”

Shane smiled. “Don’t I?”

“Maybe you have something to do with the movies? We used to get a lot of movie