Jayne Ann Krentz (22 page)

“Yeah,” Rafe said. “Some kind of bean dip.” He set down the pitcher of olive oil. He pulled the bottle of Chardonnay out of the ice bucket and poured himself a glass. “Glad you left some for me. I need it.”

Hannah and Mitchell gazed at him as though he were charming a snake. Both were uneasy. Neither wanted to make any sudden moves. He took his time, savoring the perfect balance of oak and fruit and the elegant finish of the wine.

When he was done, he set the glass down on the table very deliberately and looked at Hannah and Mitchell.

“I hear that wine is good for the nerves,” he said.

Two hours later, Mitchell put down his fork with a sigh of satisfaction. Just a few slivers of buttery pastry was all that remained of the kiwi tart.

“Where the hell did you learn to cook?” he asked Rafe. “Sure didn't get it from me. The best I can do is throw a salmon steak on the grill.”

“Took some classes,” Rafe said. “But mostly I just spend a lot of time fooling around in the kitchen.”

“Well, if this inn of yours doesn't work out, it won't be because the food is bad.”

Rafe caught Hannah's attention. He knew that they were both aware of what had just happened. Mitchell had bestowed his approval, not only on the food but on the entire inn project. She was probably thinking that she had just lost a lot of ground in her battle to claim his half of the inn. She was right.

“I need to talk to you about something important, Mitchell.” Rafe settled back in his chair and contemplated his grandfather across the remains of the meal. “Last night someone tried to drown Hannah's dog.”

Mitchell blinked in astonishment. Then he looked at Winston, who was dozing peacefully on the rug beneath the table. “Who the hell would do a thing like that?”

“I don't know,” Rafe admitted. “But I intend to find out.”

“What's going on here?” Mitchell demanded.

Nobody ever accused Mitchell of being slow, Rafe thought. “I don't know that, either, but we've concluded that it might be connected to what happened to Kaitlin Sadler.”

Mitchell gazed at him for a very long time. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“Very. There's some stuff I need to tell you before this conversation goes any further.” Rafe gave Mitchell a brief summary of events, including the talk with Dell Sadler.

When he had finished, Mitchell whistled softly. “You realize what you're saying?”

“That it's possible Kaitlin Sadler really was killed, just as Dell Sadler has always believed. And that the reason she was murdered was because she tried to blackmail someone here in Eclipse Bay.”

“Well, shoot and damn.” Mitchell sounded thoughtful now. “Yates was so damn sure it was an accident.”

“Maybe not quite so certain as he let everyone think,” Rafe said. “In addition to asking a lot of questions, he did a thorough search of Kaitlin's house and car that night. He must have had a few suspicions.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Yates was a good cop in his time.”

Hannah sipped coffee from a small cup. She regarded Mitchell very steadily. “We need a little help.”

“From me? Now, see here, just what are you two thinking of doing?”

“We're going to try to find out who Kaitlin was blackmailing,” Rafe said.

Mitchell frowned. “You want my advice? Don't go poking a stick in a hole. There might be a real nasty varmint inside.”

“The problem,” Rafe said deliberately, “is that the varmint has already crawled out of the hole. I don't think Winston was the real target last night. I have a hunch that whoever put him out there on that finger may have intended for Hannah to get caught by the incoming tide.”

Hannah snapped her head around in surprise. “Rafe, what are you saying? You never told me you thought that someone had tried to—” She broke off.

“I'm not sure that someone did try to hurt you last night. Winston may have been just a warning. But I'm not taking any chances.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. We'll deal with that later.”

“Deal with what later?” She slammed her coffee cup down onto the saucer. “Now just one damn minute. I want an explanation.”

Rafe met Mitchell's gaze and talked over the top of Hannah's simmering words. “If I said to you ladies' underwear in sizes big enough to fit a man, big high heels, Kaitlin Sadler, and some compromising videotapes that were bad enough to serve as blackmail material, what would you say?”

Mitchell's face worked. For a moment Rafe thought that he was going to explode with outrage. But abruptly the ire metamorphosed into something else. Curiosity, or reluctant interest, Rafe decided.

“We're talking eight years ago, aren't we?” Mitchell said thoughtfully.

Rafe watched him. “One way or another, you've been connected to this town for more than fifty years. Any names come to mind?”

“No,” Mitchell said immediately. “But that's no big surprise. I never paid much attention to other people's sex lives. The only one that ever interested me was my own.” He paused. “But there was someone who did keep track of that kind of thing, along with every other damn secret in this town.”

Hannah groaned. “I hope you're not going to tell us that person was Arizona Snow. It's hopeless trying to get anything out of her. She might know some secrets, but she filters them all through her conspiracy theories.”

“Wasn't thinking of Arizona,” Mitchell said. “I was talking about Ed Bolton. Owned the
Eclipse Bay Journal
for more than forty years until he sold out to Jed Steadman. Ed knew everything about everyone in this town.”

Disappointment coursed through Rafe. “I heard that Ed Bolton died four or five years ago.”

“He did,” Mitchell said in an oddly neutral voice. “Heart attack. But his widow, Bev, is still around. Lives in Portland now.”

“Do you think that Bev Bolton would know the secrets that Ed knew?” Hannah asked.

Mitchell nodded slowly. “Bev and Ed were together for a long time. Fine woman. Good marriage, from all accounts. Yeah, I reckon she'd know what Ed knew.”

Somewhere in the back of Rafe's brain something went
click
.

“How do you know so much about Bev Bolton's marriage?” he asked Mitchell.

“Bev and I get together once in a while,” Mitchell said very casually. “Talk over old times. You know how it is.”

Rafe flopped back in his chair. “Damn. How long have you and Bev Bolton been having an affair?”

Mitchell's brows bunched and quivered in annoyance. “See here, my private life is none of your business.”

“Right. Sure. Your business.”

“Bev and I go back a long ways.” Mitchell paused. “A couple of years after Ed died, I asked her to marry me.”

Rafe was astounded. “No kidding? What happened?”

“Turned me down flat,” Mitchell admitted.

“I see.” Rafe said.

“As I was saying,” Mitchell went on, “Bev and I get together whenever I go to Portland.”

“I understand.” Rafe recalled the conversation with Gabe concerning Mitchell's frequent trips to Portland. “And you've found a reason to go nearly every week for the past ten months.”

“What the hell business is it of yours? A man's got a right to his personal life.”

Rafe started to smile. The smile turned into a grin before he could control it, and then, without warning, he was laughing so hard he feared he might fall off his chair.

Winston roused himself to thrust his nose inquiringly into Rafe's hand. Rafe scratched him behind the ears and laughed even harder.

Hannah and Mitchell frowned.

“What's so funny?” Hannah asked with a bewildered expression.

Mitchell glowered. “If there's a joke here, you'd better share it.”

“The joke is on Gabe and me,” Rafe said, subduing the laughter to a wide grin. “We thought all those trips to Portland you've been taking for the past year were to get medical treatment. We were afraid you had some terrible, lingering disease you were hiding from us.”

“Huh.” Mitchell blinked, and then his eyes gleamed with secret amusement. “One of those trips last year was to see a doctor. But it wasn't because I had come down with anything serious.”

“Just a checkup?” Rafe asked.

“You might say that,” Mitchell said with a benign smile. “Happy to tell you that everything is in pretty fair working order, considering the mileage I've put on this body.”

“Glad to hear it.” Rafe realized he felt a lot lighter.

“Unless you do me in with your cooking,” Mitchell said, “Dr. Reed tells me I'm likely to be around to pester the rest of you for quite a while yet. Now, then, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I was planning to go to Portland at the end of the week. No reason I can't drive in with Bryce in the morning instead.”

Bryce arrived to collect Mitchell shortly after ten that night. Hannah stood on the front porch with Rafe and Winston, her arms folded, and watched the big SUV lumber off down the drive. It turned left onto the road, and the headlights disappeared into the night.

She braced herself. She had managed to relax midway through the meal, and later when the conversation had turned to the subject of Kaitlin Sadler's death, she had almost forgotten the awkward moments she'd experienced earlier in the evening. But now that she was alone again with Rafe, she could feel the uneasiness stealing back over her.

The unsettling question returned in a rush. Just how much had Rafe overheard of Mitchell's vow to make his grandson do right by her?

“Well, I'd call the evening a resounding success,” she said briskly. She turned away and walked back toward the open front door. “Mitchell liked your cooking, and he seems genuinely interested in helping us figure out what's going on around here. Can't ask for more than that.”

“As a matter of fact,” Rafe said, “there is one more thing.”

“You want help with the dishes?” She paused in the doorway. “No problem.”

He leaned against the railing and studied her in the yellow glow of the porch lights. “Thanks. I'll take you up on that. But I wasn't referring to the dishes. I've been doing some thinking.”

She realized that her heart was beating much too quickly. Maybe she shouldn't have had that cup of strong coffee after dinner. “What exactly have you been thinking about?”

“I said earlier that I think there's a possibility that whoever stuck Winston out on the rock last night was after you, not your dog.”

She felt the world drop away from beneath her feet. “Are you saying that you think someone actually tried to kill me last night?”

“I don't know. Maybe he just hoped there would be a convenient accident. All I know for sure is that I don't think we should take any chances.”

She chilled. “You're leaping to a very wild conclusion, Rafe.”

He straightened away from the railing and crossed the porch to stand in front of her. He gripped her shoulders with both hands. “Listen, I didn't want to scare you like this, but I couldn't come up with any other way to convince you.”

“Convince me of what?”

“That you can't stay alone in your folks' house any longer.”

“I'll think about it,” she said.

“I'm trying to be real rational and logical here. The way I see it, we've got two options. You and Winston can move in with me here or else I can pack a bag and settle in at your place. Take your pick. Either one is fine by me, but I think you'd be more comfortable here. There's more space. Hell, you can have the entire third floor to yourself if that's what you want.”

For a split second she was on the verge of a very primitive sense of panic. It was one thing to spend the occasional night together while they charted their way through uncertain waters in a relationship that might easily founder. It was something else again to actually pack up and move in here with him. She wasn't sure just what the nature of that difference was, but she knew that it was important. She tried to stall while she sorted out the implications.

“People will talk,” she said. It was weak. She knew it was weak even before she saw his brows lift.

“People are already talking,” he said dryly. “I doubt if the gossip will get any more exciting if you move in here. You can always say that you're just trying to stake your claim to your half of Dreamscape.”

It was a perfectly reasonable, eminently pragmatic suggestion she told herself. And there were more bathrooms and more space here. What if someone really had intended for her to drown last night? And she did own half of this place.

“Okay,” she said, trying to sound very cool. “I'll go back to the house and pack my things. But I think we need some ground rules here.”