Sea Witch (20 page)

Only three days, and already she was making a space for herself in

his house. In his life.

His
life, Caleb thought, his gut twisting. Not hers.

Before Maggie came to the island, she’d had another life. They had

to deal with that, they had to get past that, before they could go on.

How else could he keep her safe?

How else could he be sure she wouldn’t leave?

He opened the door to the outer office. “Edith.”

“Chief.” She swiveled around to hand him a note. “George Wiley

says somebody took twenty-five pounds of ice from the cooler out front

without paying.”

Caleb raised his eyebrows. “Ice?”

“George is pretty upset about it.”

Caleb rubbed the back of his neck. Community relations, he

reminded himself. “Any leads?”

Edith cocked her head, as if listening to the island breeze. “I hear

Bobby Kincaid is turning thirty tomorrow. Boys might be planning a

party.”

Caleb remembered Bobby. Shaggy hair, flannel shirt, about Regina’s

age. He used to sneak beers behind his father’s garage in high school.

“Fine. I’ll talk to George, see if he’ll take payment instead of pressing

charges, before I drop by Bobby’s. I’m headed that way anyway to meet

the ferry.”

Edith regarded him over the rim of her glasses. “Planning a trip?”

Caleb forced a smile. “I want to show Maggie’s picture around.”

160

Again.

He was grasping at straws. He knew it. But he was running out of

options. Circulating Maggie’s description and photograph to the sheriff’s

office and the state police had drawn a big fat zero.

“I thought you said the pilot didn’t recognize her,” Edith said.

The pilot hadn’t. The crew didn’t.

“Maybe somebody else will,” Caleb said.

A tourist, a builder hauling lumber, a housewife back from the

mainland with her weekly shopping.

Edith shrugged. “That reminds me. Paula Schutte from Island Realty

called.”

Caleb waited. He’d already combed through the realty’s rental

records. No Margred. No Margaret. No SWF booking an island getaway

three weeks or three nights ago. Still, maybe Paula had had better luck.

“She has that list you wanted,” Edith continued. “All the property

owners who handle their own rentals?”

Not so lucky, after all. But still helpful. “Great. Tell her I said

thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank her,” Edith said tartly. “This is her hit list.

That woman is going after every unlisted property on the island.”

“That’s her job,” Caleb said. “You can’t blame a person for doing

her job.”

Edith gave him another significant look over her glasses. “Some

people don’t know when to quit.”

Caleb smiled wryly. “Guess not,” he said, and went to meet the four

o’clock ferry.

The birds came while Margred wiped tables after the lunchtime rush.

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She straightened, damp rag in hand, to watch them wheel and dip in

sudden numbers over the harbor, brilliant white against the blue. Her

heart rose, carried with them on the wind.

She liked working the front of the restaurant. Not only for the view

of the sea and to get away from the clatter of pans and Antonia barking in

the kitchen. She liked watching Hercules bask on his window ledge like a

seal in the sun and Nick, with his tongue between his teeth, coloring in a

booth.

She had spent almost seven hundred years alone, living apart even

from her mate. The humans’ interactions fascinated her. Their lives were

so short and so busy, so varied in their preoccupations and concerns. She

liked the fishermen who clomped in, tanned and tired, smelling of sweat

and the sea. She liked the older women, easing their soft, comfortable

bodies onto the padded seats, and the families standing in line for bottled

water and ice cream. She liked the young mothers, exchanging support

and advice over salads and iced tea while their babies drooled on crackers

and fists.

She watched them, the little ones, and felt a longing, an emptiness in

her belly that had nothing to do with hunger or lust.

She had never carried a child. She had scarcely ever seen one in

human form before.

Most selkies chose to whelp on the beach, living beneath the wave

until their young matured to Change. Or at least were weaned and could

survive on their own.

Babies were even more dependent than pups, Margred thought,

watching a mother buckle her bundle into its carrier seat. Helpless.

Useless, with their small, grasping starfish hands and clear, bright eyes

and wide, toothless smiles.

How lowering to realize she wanted one. A small, curled weight

against her heart with eyes as green as the sea . . . Her breasts felt heavy

at the thought. Tender.

The mother picked up the plastic clamshell cradling her infant,

calling to Regina behind the counter. “See you, Reggie. ”

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Regina waved. The tiny cross of the murdered Christ glinted on her

bosom. “Bye, Sarah.”

The tall man waiting for his change shifted, crackling his paper take-out bag. Something about the sound whispered along Margred’s nerves

like smoke. The hair along her arms stood up.

But she was distracted by the baby and the woman struggling with

the heavy door.

“You forgot your bag.” Margred scooped up the cloth bag bulging

with mysterious baby things and held it out.

“Oops.” The girl bumped the door with her hip and transferred the

carrier to her other arm. The baby kicked small, stockinged feet.

“I could carry it to the car for you,” Margred offered.

Sarah smiled. “That would be great. Thanks.”

Margred helped with the door and the bag. She watched from the

sidewalk as the girl and her child drove away, an unaccountable feeling

of loss tugging at her chest.

The silver road, a sprinkle of bright grass, and a line of steeply

pitched roofs led to the harbor. Dark masts and white sails rose up from

the deep blue swell of the sea. The wind carried the smell of the boats,

fish and fuel, and the cries of the birds that followed their wake.

Too many to count, Margred thought, watching them circle the

harbor. They rose and fell, spiraling on the wind. Calling back and forth,

almost as if they were searching for something.

Her breath caught. Searching for someone.

For . . . her?

She hurried into the restaurant, tugging on the strings of her apron. “I

am leaving.”

Regina looked up from refilling the sugar dispenser. “You feel

okay?”

163

“I am fine. I must go.”

“You have twenty minutes left on your shift.”

Margred blinked, taken aback as always by this human

preoccupation with time. She wanted to go
now
.

And then it struck her. She had been waiting for a response from

Conn for three days. What was another twenty minutes? When had she

begun to divide her existence into measurable, even increments?

With shaking hands, she retied her apron.

“Twenty minutes,” she said.

* * * *

Maggie had a body any man would notice and no man could forget.

So why the hell had nobody seen her?

Caleb rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe he should have gone

around the docks with a pinup photo instead of a head shot. But even in a

grainy photograph, sporting a bruise and a line of stitches at her brow,

Maggie’s beauty was remarkable. Memorable.

“Recognize her? Sure.” Henry Tibbetts pushed up his ball cap with

his thumb and scratched his forehead. “That’s Maggie, Antonia’s new

waitress. I thought you two were, like, tight.”

“Yeah, she does look kind of familiar.” Stan Chandler spat over the

side of his boat, the
Nancy Dee
.

Caleb waited, stifling his impatience as Stan studied the photograph.

Water slapped the pilings. Rusting ironwork stained the long, scrubbed

deck like blood. Over the water, the gulls were going crazy, like extras in

The Birds
. Somebody must have thrown out a bucket of chum.

“Lara Croft,” Stan announced triumphantly. “You know, the actress?

Looks a lot like her.”

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But nobody remembered taking Maggie on as a passenger. Nobody

admitted renting her a boat. Nobody recalled seeing her arrive on the

island.

There were other days, Caleb told himself as he drove to pick up

Maggie after her shift. There were private docks and beaches all around

the island. Somebody had given her a lift or noticed her getting on or off

a boat. She didn’t—damn it, she didn’t swim to the island, whatever she

said.

He had been too easy on her. Too careful. He couldn’t let . . .

feelings . . . get in the way of doing his job.

He pulled into the narrow lot behind the restaurant. Antonia stood by

the Dumpster, smoking a Lucky Strike.

She glared as he climbed from the Jeep. “You gonna tell me to

quit?”

Caleb wanted a drag so bad he could taste it, sweet and raw, sliding

into his lungs. “I was going to ask you to blow some smoke my way.”

“Ha.” Antonia exhaled obligingly in his direction. “Regina’s always

bitching at me to take it outside.”

“Secondhand smoke is a documented health hazard,” Caleb said,

straight-faced. He leaned in to take another hit. “You do operate a public

space.”

“It’s my damn restaurant,” Antonia grumbled.

“Which explains why you’re out here by the garbage.”

“It’s the boy,” Antonia admitted grudgingly. “Had asthma when he

was a baby.”

“And you don’t want to set a bad example.”

Antonia shrugged and ground her cigarette underfoot. “How’s the

search coming, Chief?”

165

Caleb accepted the change of subject. “It would go faster if I had

some help. I’m looking into hiring another officer. Part-time,” he added

before she could say no.

“Roy Miller never asked for help.”

“Roy Miller is in Florida. The community is changing. Growing.

We’re an hour and a half from the mainland, at least half an hour from the

nearest sheriff’s deputy. It would be good to count on backup in an

emergency.”

“What emergency? I’m not in any hurry to lose another waitress.”

“Maggie deserves to get her life back. I’m doing the leg-work on my

own, and so far we have no ID on her photo.”

“Not that I’m telling you how to do your job, but shouldn’t you be

looking for a man? The guy who hit her?”

“I would if I had a description. A reliable witness.”

“Weren’t you there?”

“I’m not a witness.” In his mind’s eye, he saw again a tall, wavering

figure turn and leap into the fire. Not a reliable witness. “I never got a

good look at the guy.”

“Hm. He’ll be from Away, I can tell you that much.”

Caleb’s attention sharpened. “How do you know? Has Maggie talked

to you?”

Antonia shook her head. “But the men around here . . . I’m not

saying there aren’t some who would hurt a woman.

They have a bad day, a bad season, they take it out on any woman

fool enough to live with them and put up with it. They don’t go after

strangers on the beach.”

“Women are more likely to be attacked by someone they know than

a stranger. Spouses, family members, neighbors. Coworkers, sometimes. I

need to know who knows Maggie. ” He glanced toward the heavy metal

door at the rear of the restaurant. “How’s she doing?”

166

“Well, she’s no cook. And you’d swear the girl never saw a cash

register before in her life. She catches on quick, though, I’ll give her that.

And she’s good with customers.” Antonia’s eyes gleamed. “Male

customers, especially.”

Caleb refused to rise to her bait. “I meant, how is she feeling?”

“Ask her yourself.”

“I’ll do that.” He limped toward the entrance.

“Where are you going?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Inside. To pick up Maggie. ”

“She’s gone,” Antonia said.

A bad feeling settled in the pit of Caleb’s stomach. Tension gripped

his neck. “Gone where?”

“How should I know? She left as soon as her shift was over.”

Antonia’s gaze was almost pitying. “Must be fifteen, twenty minutes

ago.”

“I told her I was meeting the ferry.”

Antonia shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

He knew that. Damn it.

When he found her, they were going to have a little talk about this

habit she had of disappearing every time he was a few minutes late. He

was a cop, damn it. He didn’t punch a clock like—well, like everybody

else. Maggie had to learn to accept that.