Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (9 page)

It
had to be someone local, but Lucius wasn't saying.  Whoever it was, it was hard
to imagine that he would want Lucius hanging around town like this.  Especially
when Lucius's “look” generally attracted attention.  The big crooked nose, the
pocked skin, the spotty beard of blond patches along a jutting chin.  But his
eyes were the freaky part—noticeably uneven and bloodshot, the red spindly veins
like a maze of cracks on a busted windshield. 

No,
Lucius would have to go back to
Boston
tonight.  He was too
short-sighted and impulsive to stay hidden. 
Chatham
was shaping up
to be an even smaller town than they had anticipated.  Talk about a fishbowl;
it was more like a snow globe. 

Of
course, Michael had made the choice ahead of time to be upfront with the
cops—a.k.a. to hide in plain sight.  Rather than being elusive and run the risk
of drumming up speculation about the “stranger in town”—or worse, inviting
Coast Guard suspicion—he would present himself as though he were an upstanding
guy and tourist right from the start.  So far it was all going smoothly.  The
last thing he needed was for Lucius to bungle it.

Even
though Lucius wasn't admitting who his nearby contact was, Michael had a way to
keep on eye on him, if and when it became necessary.

“Now
what do you need to talk about so bad?” Michael demanded.

“Did
you get inside yet or what?”

“No.”

“What
the fuck!  Don't take your time about it, Corso.  This isn't some leisurely job
where you lay groundwork for two or three months.  We gotta move on this.”

Michael
bit back a pointless response.  There was nothing about his life that was
“leisurely” and never had been.  “Who's ‘we’?”

“You
and me—and any other interested parties you don't need to worry about.  You
just do your part, and you'll get your piece.” 

Michael
rolled his eyes.  God, he really hated working with a creep like Lucius.  But
when he was approached with this opportunity, it was just too necessary.  Of
all the times to be tapped for a thing like this, Lucius had appeared just
after Michael had cost a friend a lot of money. 
Lost the money
, was a
more accurate way to put it.  Here, his friend, Caleb, had trusted him—with
money that had been hard-earned—and Michael had miscalculated.

No
point thinking about that again now.  Though it was hard not to play it back in
his mind considering that this costly mistake was Michael's primary motivation
on this job. 

Either
way, he really shouldn't complain.  This con was unlike any other he had
attempted; it had a straightforward path and promised to be a relatively easy
gig.  If Lucius would just stop panting, hovering, and calling his cell,
Michael would be able to get shit done in peace.

“It's
been One Fucking Day,” he said now with steely calm.  “Go back to
Boston
and let me
work.  Or—you can always go back to your
employer
and tell him that
you're taking over from here.  Your choice.”

Lucius
paused.  But ultimately wasn't baited.  “Fine,” he mumbled.  “But I'll be back
soon.”

Tinsdale
was a silent kind of quiet.  The building was actually a house that had been
converted into a library.  Nicole had made arrangements to meet up with Ginger
today and start going through the materials for the Harvest Parade collage. 

The
front door opened onto a paisley patterned rug and Nicole entered.  Before her
stood a large staircase, cordoned off by a velvet rope.  Down a step to her
left was a seating area of stately furniture.

“Hello,”
Nicole called out after a moment.

She
heard a door shut somewhere and the shuffling of footsteps. 

Then
Ginger Bloomingdale appeared above her.  Her sturdy black shoes with rubbery
square heels descended the steps.  “Good morning,” she said in that soft-spoken
way of hers.  Ginger's voice seemed naturally to be just above a whisper.  “I'm
so glad you could make it.”

“Sure,
I'm happy to help, especially since this was important to my aunt.”  She let
her voice drift off before the conversation became trite or maudlin, or
tediously both. 

“It
really will help.  Otherwise Hazel or I would have to finish the lighthouse
portion of the collage ourselves.”  She unhooked the velvet rope and motioned,
a little shyly, for Nicole to follow her upstairs. 

The
second floor of Tinsdale was an open stretch of green and gold carpet, with
wooden tables and bookshelves the color of butterscotch.  A thick banister
curved around in the center, leaving an open view to down below.  The place
smelled faintly of lemon, like wood polish.

Ginger
led the way to a table that was beside a window, nestled between two tall
bookcases.  Several bound folders were stacked on top.  “I laid out some items
on loan from the Chatham Historical Society that pertain to the lighthouse. 
Let me know if you need more; I'll see what I can do to help.  Thank you
again,” she finished sweetly. 

Struck
by the difference between Ginger and her sister, Nicole blurted, “By the way,
is it just you and Hazel in that house?”  She hadn't specifically asked if either
was married, but that was what she wondered.  

For a
second, Ginger's eyes blinked wildly.  Then she said, “Now—yes.  Hazel used to
live there with her husband, Walt.  But he...” 

She
paused, pressing her lips together in a meaningful way. 

“Walt
was lost at sea nearly fifteen years ago.” 

“Oh...I'm
sorry, I didn't realize...” Nicole began lamely. 

“Of
course not,” Ginger assured her softly, “and it was a long time ago.  I lived
in
New
York
at that time with our other sister, Portia.”

“I
didn't realize you had another sister.”

“Portia
left
Chatham
when she was
twenty-four, so...we don't see her too often.”  With a wan smile, Ginger
abruptly excused herself and headed back downstairs.

Lost
at sea?
  It seemed like a natural—albeit ominous—transition to Nicole's
work.  She pulled out a chair and reached for the first folder on the stack. 

It
didn't take long to see that her aunt had only just begun on this project. 
There were notes made in Nina's distinctive handwriting—the looping, chaotic
scrawl of an artist—but the notes only went as far as the first few pages. 

In a
short amount of time, Nicole learned a lot. 
Chatham
's first
lighthouse had actually been two—twin towers built in 1808—along with a
“keeper's dwelling” that amounted to little more than a tiny shack.  After
thirty years of erosion, the wooden towers were replaced by brick.  The
infamous storm of 1870 would be their undoing, causing irreparable damage and
setting in motion their rapid decline.  It wasn't until 1877 that a much more modern
tower was constructed.  The Chatham Lighthouse was dubbed simply “Chatham
Light.”

When
she turned the flap to the next section of the binder, Nicole came upon a thick
stack of pages clipped together.  The cover sheet read: 
DIARY OF JOSIAH
HARDY II

Josiah
Hardy II was the keeper of Chatham Light during the late 1800s.  The book
appeared to be a daily log of his time manning the lighthouse.  The first diary
entry was dated
November 10, 1872
.  Out of curiosity, Nicole turned to the
last page. 
November 10, 1900
.  Wow, twenty-eight years at the same job. 

She
recalled then a quotation she had read earlier in one of these folders about
how light keepers were more than the men behind the beacons—they were also the
eyes of the town.  At the time, Nicole had dismissed the snippet as
folksy-historian blather.  Yet, if there was truth to it, it was interesting to
consider that the whole time Josiah Hardy had been “the eyes” of
Chatham
, he had also
been keeping a diary.   

***

She
had just stepped onto
Main Street
when she heard: “Hey, Nicole—wait up!” 

The
red-haired woman from the Squire—the one with the effervescent smile and
low-cut top—was scurrying toward her, balancing a bag of groceries in her arm. 

“Vickie,”
the woman said on a breath, once she halted on the sidewalk.  “We met
yesterday. 

“Right,
of course, hi.”

“I
was sorry we didn't get to chat longer yesterday.  My friend was in a hurry.” 

As
Nicole remembered, he had carted Vickie off in what looked like a jealous
snit.  That guy was only a friend? 

“You
know what?  We should do dinner!” Vickie enthused, as a grapefruit toppled over
the edge of her grocery bag and rolled into the street.  “Oh shit.”  She darted
out to fetch it, calling back, “But we should get to know each other better! 
This time of year, this town is deader than a doorstop.”  Suddenly a car honked
for Vickie to get out of the way.  “Oh get over it—stupid asshole!” she called
out as she stepped back onto the sidewalk.  Then she beamed a smile at Nicole
and belted out a laugh.  “You've gotta show people who's boss.  So what do you
think?  Dinner?”

“Um...”

“But
it would have to be at your place,” Vickie continued.  “Because my place is an
inn.  Not exactly private, for entertaining friends, you know.”

“That's
right, you mentioned your inn yesterday,” Nicole said.

“It's
a big old pile of shingles, but it's cozy.  But I wouldn't subject you to
dinner there.  Let's do it at
your
house.  I'll bring some wine and
eats, and you provide the atmosphere.  How does that sound?”

Pushy
, Nicole
thought.  When had she agreed to dinner?  Smiling, she said, “Well, maybe some
time—definitely—but the place is kind of a mess right now.”  Not quite true but
close enough, and plausible given the circumstances. 

“Nah,
that's okay!” Vickie said with a wave of her hand.  “Messes don't bother me. 
How's tonight?” 

“No...thanks,
but I really can't.”

“But,
like I said, I'll bring the food,” she insisted. 

Either
Vickie really couldn't catch a hint or she was desperate for a new friend. 
Affecting regret, Nicole shook her head and said, “I wish I could.  But I'm
still going through my aunt's things and I just have a lot going on right now. 
Can I give you a call?”

“Okay...I
don't want to push or anything...” Vickie began, her voice leveling a bit. 
“Sorry,” Vickie said, then thrummed another lilting laugh.  “Just call it
'Homecoming Queen Syndrome.'  Some habits die hard, I guess.  I still have the
need to be the social butterfly.”

“No
problem…um, I’ll call you.”  Nicole was beginning to feel like a guy at the end
of a date.  How long would Vickie drag this out?

“Sure
thing,” she said, acquiescing and backing up a step.  Her bright smile
re-appeared, though it had a slightly brittle quality now.  “Cape Town Inn,
don't forget!”  Even if Nicole had wanted to forget, events would soon conspire
against her.

With
a grunt, she gave another hard push.  But to no avail.  Nina’s hutch would not
budge.  Moments before, Nicole had been cataloging its contents when she'd
suddenly noticed a back panel was loose.  From here she could see that some
papers had fallen through the crack and were stuck between the hutch and the
wall. 

Finally,
she gave up and let out a tired breath, just as there was a knock at the back
door. 

“Hi
there,” Michael said when she opened the door.  “I wanted to return this to
you.”  Nicole took the empty tin from him. 

“You
finished the brownies?”

“Yup,
I ate all six.”

“Nice,“
she smiled.  “Tell me it was all in one sitting and this will officially be a
bonding moment.”  She opened the door wider.  “Come in.”

Once
Michael closed the door behind him, Nicole reached to turn the lock, which
brought her up close to him.  The moment was brief; she felt his body heat,
breathed a hint of his scent. 

Quickly,
she stepped back. 

“What
are you up to?” he asked casually.  “It smells good in here.”

“I'm
making a pizza in the oven.  I was just—oh!  Actually it's perfect that you're
here!  You can help me with something.” 

“Sure,”
he said in that easy way of his and followed her into the adjacent room, the
“coffee corner.”

“I
need to move this thing,” she explained, pointing to the hutch that stood
against the red brick wall.

“Okay. 
Where?”

“Just
away from the wall, so I can reach behind it.  Some papers fell out of the
back.”

With
what appeared to be no effort, he pulled the tall bulky cabinet forward several
inches.  “How’s that?”

“Wow,”
she blurted.  “I'm impressed.”