Night Scents (12 page)

And do what?

Make her pack her bags and go stay with one of them. And that was just for starters. Then they'd comb the streets of Frye's Cove for whoever was harassing her, drag everything about spells and treasure out of her, interrogate Hannah, put the thumbscrews to Clate Jackson. They would be thorough and relentless.

They'd never trust her again to live out on her isolated spit of land alone.

Right now, she didn't care. She was afraid, and she wanted the bastard caught. Who would know she'd been out to Clate Jackson's yesterday? It wasn't as if she'd done any digging for treasure. Hannah had dragged Piper out there in an effort to spur her to action, to see if being back at the Frye house would jog her own memory of that night eighty years ago when her parents hadn't come home.

Piper choked back a sob of frustration and fear. Who would care what she and Hannah were up to?

She picked up the phone, dialed the police.

Hung up.

Hannah cared. Hannah cared desperately. She wanted the answers to the infamous crime that had led to her parents' death, and she was out of patience, had waited eighty years already. She believed those answers lay under Clate Jackson's wisteria.

Piper sank onto the edge of her spindle-post bed. Tears clouded her eyes. It wasn't that she herself had enough doubt of her aunt's sanity that she could imagine, if never believe, that Hannah Frye was capable of making such a disgusting phone call to get her way.

It was that she didn't know what anyone else would believe.

She brushed angrily at her tears, leaped up off her bed, and stumbled down the steep stairs. Should she call Clate? What if it had been him on the other end of the line?

But that was ridiculous. He had no reason to threaten her. He didn't even know about the treasure.

The voice on the other end of the phone hadn't mentioned treasure, she reminded herself.

She flipped on the radio and made coffee, her hands shaking as she fumbled for a filter, dumped in the fragrant grounds, filled the carafe with water. Obviously she wasn't going to call the police or she already would have by now. There was nothing they could do. They would have no more idea of who had threatened her than she did. They could view the calls as simple harassment, or even random acts, rather than a specific threat toward her.

There hadn't been a specific threat, she reminded herself. Just a general air of menace.

"I warned you."

She shuddered, getting a pottery mug down from a shelf. Hands still shaking. Heart still skidding. Not good signs. She poured her coffee and went outside in her nightgown. The sun had burned off the pale colors of dawn and a gentle breeze soothed her troubled spirit. She walked through her herb garden and out to her sloping back yard, down through her meadow—basically unmowed lawn—toward the marsh. The grass was damp and cool on her bare feet. Hot coffee splashed out over her hand as she came to the narrow path.

A few weeks ago she could have slipped through the privet and had her coffee with Hannah.

Instead, she headed into the marsh, through cordgrass, sea lavender, beach peas with their pretty pink flowers. They slapped her legs, drenching her nightgown from the knees down. Sand clung to her feet. She crossed a long two-by-four she'd laid over a wet section of marsh, then came out onto the narrow strip of beach.

The breeze was cooler on the water, not as gentle. Boat engines purred in the distance. It was just past high tide, the surf up. She drank more coffee, sniffled. She'd be all right. She'd make sense of it all. Who on earth would want to hurt her over pestering her new neighbor? Harass her, maybe. Scare her, obviously. But not actually hurt her.

It wasn't Hannah. Piper knew that, even if her aunt would be everyone else's first suspect because of her odd behavior lately. Hannah's rendition of reverse psychology, a ploy to force her niece and Clate Jackson together. Nobody was looking for Hannah's logic to make sense anymore. Piper preferred to have a stranger on the other end of the line to
anyone
she knew. Let it be someone she could have arrested, sic her brothers on, punch out herself. Not someone she knew—and certainly not someone she loved, worried about, wanted so desperately to live out her remaining years in happiness and comfort.

"I'm old, Piper. My husband's dead, most of my friends, my brother. I've had my happiness. Now I want to ensure yours."

"A hell of a way of doing it, Auntie," Piper muttered, as if hearing her own voice out loud would help calm her nerves.

"Well, good morning."

Her coffee went flying. She screamed and swung around, stopping herself just short of clobbering Clate with her mug. "Good God, you scared the living daylights out of me!"

"So I gather. Sorry. I thought you heard me. I was out on the beach taking a walk and saw you, figured I'd be neighborly and at least say good morning."

That wry tone again, half teasing himself, half teasing her. But as she brushed coffee off the front of her cotton nightgown, emblazoned with an enormous moose, she felt his scrutiny, the wryness going out of his expression. A fine mess she must be. Coffee down her front, wet from the knees down, hair unbrushed, face pale.

"All right," he said in that deceptively mild drawl. "You're telling me everything."

"What do you mean?"

"Everything, Piper, or I call your father and brothers."

"Call them about what?"

He just glared at her.

She glared back. What made him think he could squeal to her father and brothers? She set her jaw. "There's nothing to tell."

"Bullshit." Still that mild drawl. He picked up her hand and pried her stiff fingers from her coffee mug. He held the mug, and she began to shake. She couldn't stop herself. He hissed through clenched teeth. "I rest my case. Now. What the hell's going on?"

"A phone call." She sucked in a breath, grateful for the fresh sea air, the wind in her hair. "I just got a nasty phone call. It's the second time. The first was on Saturday, before you left for Tennessee."

"I remember you were disturbed about something. Any idea who it was?"

She shook her head.

"Male, female?"

"I don't know."

"Did they use your name, threaten you in any way?"

"Depends on your point of view. The first phone call suggested I stay off your property if I knew what was good for me. The second—just now—called me a bitch and said I'd been warned. Whoever it was must have known Hannah and I were out at your place yesterday."

Clate frowned, remaining silent. Piper could feel his intensity. He was barefoot, his feet covered with the white sand of the beach and marsh, and he wore canvas shorts and a black-and-gold Vanderbilt T-shirt. She noticed the thick, corded muscles in his arms and legs, a two-inch scar on his knee. His presence left her feeling raw and exposed, had her pulse jumping in a different way from the anonymous call, her nerves a jittery mess.

The breeze picked up, whipping her nightgown against her, outlining her figure in excruciating detail. She shivered when she noticed his eyes on her breasts. "You don't have any ideas, do you? The calls couldn't have something to do with you instead of me, could they?"

He shifted his gaze to her face. "Not that I know of. I won't pretend I don't have enemies."

"Personal or business?"

"I don't make those kinds of distinctions. My personal life and business life are more or less one and the same. You can't do what I do without someone ending up wanting your hide."

"Who's running the show while you're up here?"

She could tell she'd struck a nerve. "I have people I trust working for me. I'm in constant touch with my office, but—" A self-deprecating twitch of a smile. "I'm not known for taking much time off."

"Control freak?"

The smile broadened. "I've heard you Yankees are a blunt lot."

Piper laughed, which felt good mixed in with all her tension. "Sorry. It's just that local gossip has it that you're—I don't know if ruthless is the right word, but a tough businessman. I guess it takes focus and commitment and a lot of hard work to do what you do."

"It does."

"So, who knows that you bought the Frye house?"

"A few people. Not many." He gave her a long look, a half smile. "And no one knows I've been dealing with a trespassing neighbor."

Piper grinned. "You mean you didn't call home and gripe about me stealing valerian root out of your back yard?"

"I did not."

She stared out at a seagull wheeling over the marsh, and suddenly she could hear the voice on the other end of the phone, hear its fury and determination. Her throat tightened, her light mood gone. She turned back to Clate. "You know, if you were planning to build a resort out here, you'd want to get hold of my land. It'd be to your advantage. The nature preserve limits what you can do to the north. The only way you could expand would be to gobble up my land."

"Honey, if I wanted your land, I'd get it some other way besides making mindless phone calls."

He'd get her land. Not he'd try to get it. If the rumor mill in Frye's Cove was to be believed, Clate Jackson was a successful, driven businessman who didn't regard land, family, or community in the same way she did.

Her gaze drifted to a No Trespassing sign posted on a pitch pine. It said everything. "I suppose you would, at that."

"What about you, Piper?" he asked. If he'd noticed her irritation, he wasn't calling her on it. "Any enemies?"

"Me? No. Not anyone who'd deliberately try to scare me. I'm not naive. I know not everyone likes me, but I can't think of anyone—
anyone
—who'd do this to me, not out of plain hatred. There'd have to be a more concrete motive."

"Such as?"

Piper exhaled, turning her gaze back to the water. The wind was cold now, and she wished she'd thrown on a sweatshirt before heading down to the beach. Motives for harassment, for someone not wanting her messing around on Clate Jackson's land. Hannah was trying to get her to dig for supposed buried treasure and uncover the answers to one of Cape Cod's most notorious incidents. Who on earth would care? Who even knew?

Piper's immediate impulse was to lie outright and deny anything and everything. She couldn't stand to have Clate suspect her aunt or apply that hardheaded thinking of his to her claims about what she saw as a girl of seven.

But she didn't want to lie to him, either. "I can't think of any motives that make sense." That was true, as far as it went. "If I do, I'll let you know."

Clate settled back on his heels, studying her through suspicious half-closed eyes. Piper tried not to squirm. This wasn't a man who'd take well to lies, dissembling, or foolishness, a quality that no doubt served him well in business. She didn't know how her latest mission on Hannah's behalf would fit into his scheme of things, but she wouldn't expect patience or understanding.

She was accustomed to sparing the men in her life details they didn't need to know, especially when they involved her great-aunt. The Macintosh men were less indulgent of Hannah's whims. For years they'd warned Piper that her propensity for doing her aunt's bidding would get her into trouble one of these days. If she told them about the calls, they'd jump way ahead of the facts and there'd be no peace. She had no reason to believe Clate would be any different, and she didn't need a man breathing down her neck while she was still trying to sort out her options.

But to her surprise, once again he didn't pressure her to talk. "All right. If you decide you want to tell me what you know, I'll be around most of the day."

If similarly provoked, her brothers would have had a totally different reaction. Probably it would have involved dunking her into the cold tide until she talked. Piper nodded. "Thanks." She lifted the damp hem of her nightgown. "I'm a mess. I should go back up and get dressed. I didn't expect you to be out this early."

"Nice sunrise."

She managed a smile. "Yes. Are you technically on vacation?"

"No. I've got a hand in things back in Nashville. I just came up here to get a feel for the place. I'm hoping to come back for a couple of weeks later in the summer."

"Then you don't plan to stay long?"

He grinned at her. "Do I see a gleam of hope in your eye?"

Piper suppressed all thought of Russian princesses and buried treasure. "No, certainly not. I—"

He laughed. "Well, if your aunt wants more valerian root, she need only ask."

"That's a softer stance than you had when you caught me."

"I'm not at my best at four in the morning, and I did say she should ask."

Piper nodded thoughtfully, wondering how he would respond to a request from his house's former owner to dig under his wisteria.

No. She wouldn't tell him. She needed to keep things simple. In her experience, the fewer people who knew about Hannah's missions, the better.

"Well," Piper said breezily, "have a good day."

He hung back, suspicion flaring again in his eyes. "You, too."

He was not a man to go plunging in whenever suspicion beckoned. He would bide his time, observe, remember. If she intended to continue to play loose with the truth, she thought, she'd have to be careful to keep her story straight. One misstep, and Clate Jackson would swoop in for the kill.

He remained on the beach as she walked back up the path through the marsh. She could feel his eyes on her. A hot shower, clean clothes, breakfast. They'd put her back on track, and then she'd figure out what to do about the phone calls, Hannah, and buried treasure.

She was halfway through her breakfast of homemade granola, fresh strawberries, and yogurt when her telephone rang. Her heart skidded. She decided to screen the call. If it was the same jerk as earlier, she wanted his voice on tape.

But it was Hannah. Piper snatched up her cordless phone at the sound of her aunt's voice. "I'm here," she said.

"Why didn't you answer?"

"Because I'm screening my calls. Remember that weirdo who called the other day? He's bugging me again. Or she. I really couldn't make out the voice." She tried to keep her tone light, not to let her earlier panic and fear show in her voice. "Hannah, you're sure you haven't mentioned your treasure to anyone else?"