The Harbor

Two

Perry’s waterfront bar was located on the southern end of Goose Harbor’s Main Street. Its bank of windows overlooked the docks; its barn-board walls were decorated with wooden lobster traps, fake lobsters and framed black-and-white pictures of lighthouses and Maine days gone by. J. B. McGrath nursed a beer at a small corner table. He was thirty-six, tall, lean, black-haired, blue-eyed and had a face that would look right at home on a wanted poster. He was good at undercover work, and he’d been doing it a long time. Maybe too long. That was why he was in Goose Harbor, Maine. He was on vacation. Not his idea.

No darts tonight. He’d pissed off enough locals. He was from Montana but could handle himself in a lobster boat. He was an FBI agent but argued lobstering with people who’d done it all their lives. He was a guy on vacation who didn’t have the grace to lose at darts once in a while. None of which endeared him to the good people of Goose Harbor.

Bruce Young pulled out a chair and plopped down across from him with a frosty beer glass. “Eight o’clock and nobody’s ready to kill you? Slow day, McGrath.”

Bruce grinned and unzipped his Carhartt canvas jacket. He was built like a rock cliff, a big, red-faced man with scars and nicks on his hands from working his string of lobster pots day after day. His blue eyes were so like J.B.’s own, J.B. wouldn’t be surprised if he and Bruce were distant cousins. But that was another thing—the locals didn’t believe J.B.’s ancestors hailed from Goose Harbor. They thought he’d just made that up.

J.B. hadn’t made it up. His grandmother was a Sutherland, as in Sutherland Island off the Olivia West Nature Preserve—as in Olivia’s best friend, Posey Sutherland, who ran off with drifter Jesse McGrath after World War I and ended up in Montana and dead at twenty-seven.

Her father, Lester Sutherland, disowned her.

Hence, Mr. Lester McGrath, Jen Periwinkle’s evil nemesis. A combination of two men Olivia West hated because of what they had done to her friend Posey.

“I heard some of the guys talking about setting fire to your boat. They think you’re obnoxious.” Bruce took a long drink of his beer. “I reminded them it’s my damn boat.”

“Old, wooden, practically leaking.”

“That’s a great boat. The guys said if you don’t get out of town or get an attitude adjustment, they’re going to tie your hands and feet together and throw you in the drink.”

J.B. shrugged. “Wouldn’t do them any good.”

“Uh-huh. You’re a highly trained federal agent, drown-proofed and everything.”

Skepticism had crept into Bruce’s tone. He obviously had his doubts about J.B.’s credentials, too. J.B. didn’t mind. He hadn’t produced an I.D. or really confirmed one way or the other he was with the bureau. Bruce had guessed it. His truck had backfired, and J.B., still on edge from his last investigation, had gone for his weapon—not that he was carrying one. Bruce nailed him then and there. “You a cop? A fed?” J.B. just said he was on vacation. Period.

The talk about tossing him overboard wasn’t serious—he’d invaded these men’s turf, and they were re-marking their territory, letting him know they didn’t care if he was on edge or why. He was bad company. They weren’t going to give him an inch.

“Nobody believes you’re here on vacation,” Bruce said.

“Why not?”

“You don’t look like you take vacations.”

J.B. didn’t disagree. He looked as if he’d spent the past year working on an undercover operation that had ended badly, leaving him with his throat half slit and the searing memory of killing a man in front of his own children. Not what J.B. had envisioned when he’d infiltrated a group of violent criminals who used their virulent antigovernment beliefs to justify robbery, murder and the possession and distribution of illegal assault weapons and explosive devices.

“I’m doing genealogical research on my Maine roots,” J.B. said.

“Uh-huh. You a Mainer. I like that. You ever been to Maine?”

“This week.”

“There you go.”

“My ancestors helped settle Goose Harbor in the seventeenth century.”

“So did mine.”

“You see? We could be cousins.”

Bruce wasn’t amused. “Yeah, right. Listen, Mc-Grath—” Bruce sighed, staring at his nearly untouched beer. “Christina West’s house was broken into today. The police think it was some idiot looking for cash, but I’m wondering—you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

J.B. shook his head. He hadn’t heard about the break-in. “No.”

“Because, you know, some people think you’re here because of her father’s murder last year—”

“Bruce, I’m on vacation. I know about the murder, but that’s it.”

Bruce rubbed a big hand across his face. “I know. It was stupid. I just—Chris is so damn young, and she’s here on her own.”

“What about her sister?”

But J.B. knew about the sister. Zoe West was a screwup. The rising star, the local hotshot pushed hard and fast because she made everyone else look good, too. She should have gotten her ass kicked along the way, but instead she got accepted into the FBI Academy for new-agent training. It was only natural she’d think she could solve her father’s murder—only natural she’d come unglued and fallen apart when she’d had to face his death, her aunt’s death, her own limitations, the kind of real-world experience she must have known was out there but hadn’t had to confront herself.

Zoe West had bowed out of the academy, moved to Connecticut and got herself fired from what was likely her last job in law enforcement.

A screwup.

J.B. thought of the man he’d killed. The looks on the faces of his three children. Nine, eleven and fourteen. They were horrified, furious, filled with hate. J.B. didn’t know what would become of them. Their father, a murderer and a rapist, a man who’d taught other people how to build bombs and convert legal weapons into illegal weapons, had attacked J.B. from behind, without warning, and stuck a knife in his throat, and J.B. fought back. It was self-defense. But nothing, he thought, was ever that simple.

He’d been forced on vacation by his superiors. “Take a break, McGrath. As long as you need.”

Bruce drank more of his beer. J.B. could tell Zoe West wasn’t Bruce’s favorite subject. “Christina’s just twenty-four. Zoe shouldn’t have left her here on her own. I don’t know what the hell she’s still doing in Connecticut—she doesn’t have a job. I think everyone in town’s told her about you by now.”

And everyone in town knew because Bruce had told them. “You talk to her?”

“Yeah. Made no difference. She went on about goat’s milk when I talked to her.”

“Did you tell her about the break-in at her sister’s house?”

“No. I expect Chris did, though.”

J.B. smiled. “You have a soft spot for Christina West, don’t you?”

“Up yours, McGrath.”

“She’s okay?”

Bruce’s expression softened. “Yeah. I’m supposed to bring her a new door. Want to go with me?”

J.B.’s instincts told him not to get in any deeper with the West sisters. He was in deep enough. He’d been interested in Goose Harbor because of his ancestors, but he’d actually come here because of Patrick West’s murder. His own father had died over the winter, an old man who’d loved western Montana—and yet he never would have been born there without his tragic connection to the Wests and Goose Harbor, Maine.

J.B. knew he should cut the night short and go back to his inn, but he got to his feet and followed Bruce Young out to buy a new door for Christina West.

* * *

Bruce did most of the work. Installing a solid wood door was nothing to him. J.B. finally quit pretending to help and joined Christina and her boyfriend, Kyle Castellane, in the kitchen. The West house was built in 1827—a plaque above the door said so—on a corner lot on a side street behind the town library. Yellow clapboards, black shutters, roses. Their mother had died of lupus when the girls were two and nine. It was one of the many tidbits J.B. had learned about the West sisters since he’d decided to vacation in Goose Harbor.

Christina looked agitated. She was tall, slender and usually quick with a smile, but not tonight. Wisps of long blond hair had worked their way out of her braid and into her face, which was lightly freckled and pretty, making J.B. wonder about her older sister, the ex-detective. Christina wore the white ruffled blouse and slim black pants that were her basic uniform at her café. Kyle, the boyfriend, was sandy-haired and good-looking, dressed in his habitual gray sweatshirt and khakis. He also had on a five-thousand-dollar watch. They both stood with their backs against the kitchen counter.

J.B. had on jeans, a black chamois shirt and boat shoes he’d managed to scuff up properly during his four days on the Maine coast. His sports watch cost about a hundred bucks. He’d had to buy a new band for it after he’d bled on the old one when he got his throat slit. The scar wasn’t all that visible when he wore collared shirts.

He had a feeling Christina West already knew about him, but he went ahead and introduced himself. “I’m J. B. McGrath. I’m on vacation here in Goose Harbor.”

“I heard,” Christina said. “I’ve seen you at the café a few times.”

He smiled, aware of her tension. “Hard to resist wild blueberry muffins and warm apple pie. Chowder’s good, too.”

She couldn’t muster much of a smile back at him. “Thanks.”

“You’re FBI, aren’t you?” Kyle asked.

“I’m just a guy with some time off.”

The kid didn’t like his answer. “Some people are saying you’re a phony.”

J.B. shrugged. “It’s a crime to impersonate a law enforcement officer.”

Kyle Castellane liked that answer even less than the first one. “I’d like to see some I.D.”

“Would you?”

“Yeah. Why the name McGrath? Don’t you think that’s a hell of a coincidence?”

“McGrath’s not an uncommon name.” It was a fact, but it left out the rest of the facts—that he knew why Olivia West had picked the name Mr. Lester McGrath for Jen Periwinkle’s evil nemesis. She hadn’t plucked it out of thin air. “I can’t blame people for wondering.”

Kyle wasn’t pacified. “Why did you pick Goose Harbor for your vacation?”

“Cute name.”

“I can call the local police and have them check you out.”

Christina touched his arm. “Kyle...”

“It’s okay,” J.B. said. “He can check me out. No problem.”

Her blue eyes fastened on him. “You know my father was killed last year, don’t you?”

J.B. nodded. “I do. I’m sorry.”

She swallowed visibly. “Thanks. It’s hard not having answers.” Her gaze drifted to the side door, where Bruce was almost finished with his work. “The police don’t have any reason to believe the break-in’s connected in any way to Dad’s murder.”

“Did you call Zoe about it?” Kyle asked.

“After the police left,” Christina said. “You were back at your apartment.”

Kyle, who’d rented the small apartment above her waterfront café, seemed put out. “Why didn’t you tell me? Is she on her way?”

Christina turned to him, color rising in her cheeks. “What?”

“Zoe. Is she on her way?”

“I don’t know.”

She knew. J.B. could see the lie in the way she shifted her eyes away from Kyle and looked down at her hands, in the flush that spread from her cheeks to her ears, in the increased agitation. Her breathing was shallow now, coming in quick, ineffective gulps.

Why wouldn’t she want to reveal whether or not her sister was on her way?

Bruce lumbered in from his door-hanging. “She drives a yellow Bug these days. She won’t be hard to spot.”

“She hasn’t—” Christina inhaled, wrung her hands together. “She hasn’t been back in almost a year. Cut her some slack, okay?”

“Right,” Bruce said. “Like she’d cut us any.”

“Anyway, I don’t know if she’s coming.”

The big sister sounded like a trip to J.B. He saw Bruce give Christina a pained look, as if he was suffering to see her with Kyle Castellane, and decided it was time to make their exit. “Come on, Bruce. A game of darts?”

“Nah. It’s too late. I have to be up before dawn. October’s good lobstering.” He pulled his gaze from Christina. “I’ll drop you off at your inn.”

* * *

His room at the inn had pink soap and pink-flowered wallpaper, and its four-poster bed was a first for J.B. The place was run by Lottie Martin, who had to be the sourest woman in the state of Maine. He always greeted her cheerfully just to watch her squirm. When he opened his door and saw that his room had been tossed, he knew she wouldn’t be happy.

He wasn’t happy.

It was a gentle toss, not a ransacking. If he hadn’t worked undercover for the past five years and become accustomed to imprinting on his mind how he’d left things, he might not even have noticed.

It helped that the perpetrator had spilled his afternoon tea on the carpet.

He knew he’d done tea for a reason. The daily afternoon ritual was served on the screened porch and featured three kinds of tea and an array of tiny muffins, shortbread and scones. He’d sneaked a cup of Irish Breakfast up to his room.

He knelt down. The stain was still damp.

Interesting.

The cottage-style bureau where he’d unpacked his clothes had been gone through. His empty suitcase. The stacks of books and magazines he’d picked up to while away the hours. Nothing was quite where he’d left it.

His visitor had even pawed through his bathroom.

And locked up afterward. Which required a key to the old-fashioned door.

Also interesting.

Lottie Martin didn’t strike him as the type to snoop. On the other hand, curiosity about him had risen steadily among local residents since he’d arrived in pretty Goose Harbor.

Nothing was missing. His gun was locked in his Jeep.

He left everything as it was and headed down to the front desk. Old Lottie was there in a corduroy jumper and turtleneck, her iron-gray hair pinned up in a bun that made her look like Auntie Em, except thinner. J.B. figured she’d opened the inn so she could surround herself with antiques and live in an old house. Guests were simply a necessary evil. Or at least he was.

“I heard Zoe West was back in town,” he said, then made an educated guess. “I thought I saw her car pull out of here.” He hadn’t, but Lottie Martin didn’t know that. “She’s staying here? You’d think she’d stay with her sister, wouldn’t you?”

Lottie took the bait. “She is staying with her sister. She stopped by to say hello. I’ve been friends with her family for years.”

“Did she ever work for you?”

“Just one summer.”

Long enough to help herself to a pass key. She probably had it in her old room, which meant she’d stopped at the house first and Christina had been covering for her. That explained some of her agitation. She was keeping the FBI agent occupied while her big sister searched his room to make sure his story added up. Bruce had called Christina on his cell phone from his truck to say he and J.B. were on their way with the door. The sisters could have cooked up their plan then.

He’d guess it was Zoe’s idea. While she was in full screwup mode, why not break into an FBI agent’s room?

“I spilled tea in my room,” he told Lottie Martin.

She frowned. “On the carpet?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She seemed to think he was being sarcastic. “No harm done, I’m sure.” Her teeth were half clenched as she spoke. “Mr. McGrath, I have a problem with your room. This is terribly awkward. I wanted to catch you sooner—” She paused, fixing her gray eyes on him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to check out. I found a room for you in Kennebunkport. It was no mean feat since this is peak foliage weekend. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with it.”

“You giving me the boot because of the spilled tea?”

“No, of course not.”

“Because Zoe West was here and you think I’m to blame?”

“Trouble does have a way of following her these days, but no, that’s not the reason. There’s a problem with the room, that’s all. It happens in these old houses.” She jotted down the name and number of the Kennebunkport inn and passed it to him. “I’ll pick up the tab myself to make up for the inconvenience.”

J.B. had to hand it to her. As socially inept and sour as she was, she’d just smoothly maneuvered him right out of her inn. He wondered if Zoe West had said anything to her, or if old Lottie had simply put the ex-detective’s visit, the spilled tea and the fact that her guest was an FBI agent together and decided to toss him to avoid any trouble. She must have heard about the break-in at the West house by now.

In her place, he’d probably do the same.

He took the paper with the Kennebunkport information on it. “I’ll pay my own way. Thanks. You know, my ancestors came here in the seventeenth century. Maybe we’re cousins.”

She didn’t like that any more than Bruce Young had.

J.B. returned to his room and packed up. He had no idea where he was going, but it wasn’t to Kennebunkport. Bruce’d probably put him up, but Bruce had dogs that looked as if they’d have the run of the place. Bruce was also part of whatever it was that had happened in Goose Harbor a year ago. After she’d found her father’s body, Zoe West had run into the water and waved down the nearest lobster boat. Bruce Young’s. He’d notified the Maine marine patrol.

It was a cold night, and dark, the clouds blocking out the moon and any stars. J.B. could taste the salt in the air, feel the dampness of an approaching storm. He dumped his stuff in the back of his Jeep and drove down to the docks, parking in the town lot. The small, protected harbor was mostly rockbound, lined with houses, with Main Street running parallel to the water above the docks. In daylight on a clear day, Olivia West’s house was visible on its point on the northeast edge of the harbor. According to town gossip, she’d left it to Zoe. Christina inherited money to buy the small clapboard building on the waterfront behind him, a run-down clam shack she’d converted into her charming café.

If he left now, J.B. figured he could be back in Washington, D.C., by morning. He had an apartment there. He didn’t know what he’d be doing next with the bureau, but he expected it wouldn’t involve undercover work, at least not anytime soon. There was talk of having him train new undercover agents. Yeah. He could give them pointers on how to kill a man in front of his children with your throat cut and bleeding, then how to live with yourself afterward. It didn’t matter that he’d done what he had to do, that he’d had no other choice. But wasn’t that the point? Leave yourself options. Always leave yourself options.

A puff of fog floated off the water and enveloped him as if it meant to, as if he was its target. He walked across the nearly empty parking lot to the intersection of Ocean Drive. If he turned left, it’d take him to Main Street and Goose Harbor village. Right, along the northeast edge of the harbor, past Olivia West’s house and the nature preserve named for her.

Olivia West’s house was unoccupied, sitting on its lonely point like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Bruce said Zoe kept the lights and heat on and had it cleaned once a month, but didn’t know what to do with it.

J.B. did. He’d sleep there tonight.

Bruce had also said that Olivia West had never bothered to get a lock for the porch door. J.B. could walk right in. And why shouldn’t he? Zoe West had gotten him tossed from his inn. He figured she owed him a night’s lodging.

Three

Christina paced in the kitchen and alternated between horror and delight at what her sister had done. Zoe was just relieved Special Agent McGrath hadn’t walked in while she was searching his room. She didn’t know where she’d be if he had, but it wouldn’t be in her sister’s kitchen eating hummus and red onion on pita. Lottie Martin, fortunately, had seemed content to pretend she didn’t know what was going on. She would be curious about McGrath herself, and she wouldn’t want to get in Zoe’s way.

Not that she’d found much of anything.

Knocking over the tea had nearly done her in. She was a better cop than a sneak, and she didn’t exactly have the law on her side. More to the point, no way would J. B. McGrath not remember having spilled tea on Lottie Martin’s carpet. He’d see the stain and know it wasn’t his doing.

So long as he didn’t realize it was her doing, Zoe thought she was all right. She’d slipped out, relocked the door with her pass key and managed to get out of the inn without incident.

“I can’t believe you actually did it,” Christina said. “God, Zoe, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking he wasn’t a real FBI agent.”

“If he’d caught you—”

“He didn’t. And I didn’t steal anything out of his room. Relax, I’m in the clear. Otherwise there’d be a cruiser in the driveway right now.”

“Or him. You haven’t met him.”

Zoe stretched out her legs and munched on her pita sandwich. Christina had made the hummus herself, from scratch. Over the past year, she’d added her own touches to the kitchen—baskets and brightly colored towels, gourmet gadgets, a hand-thrown pottery bowl their father would have considered extravagant. But Zoe could still feel his presence, as if he might walk in from the garden with an armload of tomatoes and chuckle at how agitated his two daughters were. He was the steadiest man Zoe had ever known. He took everything in stride. She thought she took after him, but in the days after his death, and then her great-aunt’s, Zoe knew she’d been a total madwoman.

“It’s weird being back,” she said.

“I know it must be.” Christina stopped pacing and opened a cupboard door. Kyle had taken off after Zoe returned, but promised to stop in again. “Why don’t I make us drinks? What would you like?”

“Scotch on the rocks.”

Christina grinned. “That’s easy.”

Zoe struggled to smile back. She was still thinking about that spilled tea—and the sight of Agent McGrath’s razor on the sink. She didn’t know why that got to her. “The place looks good, Chris. I can’t wait to see the café.”

“It’s great—I’m having such a good time. It’s a lot of work, but I love it.” She got out two glasses, filled them with ice and poured the Scotch, a brand she would have picked with the same care she took with everything related to food. She brought the two drinks to the table and sat down. “Zoe, I don’t know—maybe I overreacted to the break-in.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re here, I guess. It makes me think—” She lifted her glass but didn’t take a sip. “I don’t know, I guess it makes me think the break-in must be related to Dad’s death if you’re here.”

“I was fired in August. I should have come home sooner.”

“To do what?”

Zoe drank some of her Scotch. It was her father’s drink. Scotch on the rocks. Not often, and only in the evening. She didn’t really like it. She knew Christina didn’t, either. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. First things first, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t have any theories about the break-in, Chris. I’m not going to go off half-cocked. It’s been a year—”

“I know, but you haven’t been here. Zoe, I’ve gotten used to not having any answers. I’m not saying I like it, but I’ve gotten used to it.”

Zoe nodded. “You’re afraid I haven’t.”

“I know you haven’t. It’s not in your makeup.”

But Zoe wasn’t going there, reliving the nightmares and bad decisions, the confusion and grief of the past year. She took another sip of her Scotch and jumped to her feet. “You have to look at my knitting and see if you can figure out what I’m doing wrong.”

“Zoe—”

“No, I’m serious. Knitting’s a great stress reliever. I’m determined to learn. Bea Jericho took me to a yarn store in Litchfield and had me pick out a beautiful, hand-dyed yarn. Milk-gray. She insisted I’d like knitting better if I started out with yarn I loved.”

Christina shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re learning to knit.”

“Not only that,” Zoe said, “but I know how to milk goats.”

* * *

Teddy Shelton sat behind the wheel of his rusting-piece-of-crap pickup and tried to figure out his next move. He’d pulled into the town lot next to the FBI agent’s Jeep. If he leaned forward, he could see down the docks to the yacht club and the deep-water slip where Luke Castellane had his multimillion-dollar yacht. Luke’s kid had a crummy apartment above Christina West’s café. He was playing the starving artist. He’d tire of Christina once he finished his documentary on Olivia West. No question in Teddy’s mind. Kyle Castellane was a spoiled, self-absorbed little prick.

Teddy wondered if Kyle’s documentary was just a way to stir up a bees’ nest and get people focused on Patrick West’s death again. The state police investigation was still active, but people’d settled down, assumed someone from out of town had killed him. Chief West could have had terrorists plotting an attack right under his nose, and he’d never notice. Not in Goose Harbor, he’d think. No way.

Yeah, well. He’d learned. Those last minutes before he’d bled to death must have been something. Oh, shit, I should have known.

Fat raindrops pelted Teddy’s windshield. He didn’t know why he couldn’t afford a decent truck. At least he had all the weapons he wanted. Most of them, anyway. He’d like a couple more grenades. He had more flash-bang grenades than he needed—they were all noise and light and smoke, designed to distract and confuse, not to destroy. Maybe he could trade some for the kind of grenades that could blow a guy’s legs off.

He kept his personal arsenal in an apple crate in the jump seat behind him. Sometimes it’d push up against the driver’s seat. Not too comfortable on his back. But it was good to know he had an MP5 handy if some asshole tried to take him out on the interstate.

The lights on the Castellane yacht went out. It was ten o’clock. Jesus. He’d been in southern Maine a year, and still had no intention of ever keeping lobsterman hours. Luke Castellane was a notorious hypochondriac, always thinking something was wrong with him, probably because his father, Hollywood director Victor Castellane, had dropped dead of a heart attack at fifty-five. Luke’s mother died three years later. Ovarian cancer. From what Teddy gathered, they’d been total jackasses. They used to summer in Goose Harbor, and Luke had continued the tradition after he grew up, married, had a kid, divorced and turned the modest inheritance from his parents into a bloody fortune. Now he sailed up and down the coast in his yacht all summer and spent the winter at his house in Key West.

Chubby Betsy O’Keefe was living with him. Nurse Betsy. She was plain as a bucket of oats and built like a fire hydrant, but all Luke would care about was the R.N. after her name. And who else would have her? Teddy figured she was in it for the goodies.

The rain picked up. It was pounding on his windshield now. He could feel the damp cold and debated turning on the engine and getting some heat in his truck. He probably should head back to that goddamn shack he rented from Bruce Young down by the lobster pound. It was barely winterized. He wanted to tell Luke that Zoe West was back in town, but he’d waited too long and now Luke had gone night-night.

If he stayed out here much longer, Teddy knew he’d fall asleep. Then some jerk cop would roust him and maybe see the guns and shit in back. Luke had never invited him to stay in a stateroom aboard the Castellane yacht. Understandable. How would he explain why he’d hired a guy like Teddy? Even that dumb-bunny Nurse Betsy would ask questions.

Teddy turned the key in the engine and switched on the windshield wipers and the headlights, which barely penetrated the thick fog that had rolled in off the water. The docks were dead on such a dark, rainy October night.

“What the hell,” he said, shutting down the engine.

When he pushed open the door, he could hear the tide. He didn’t know if it was coming in or going out. When he first arrived in Goose Harbor, he’d tried to keep track, but soon discovered it didn’t make any damn difference. He never went on the water. Best job he could get was working at the lobster pound. He had enough claw marks from the damn lobsters to prove it. The native Mainers almost never got clawed, not like he did. His own damn fault, they told him.

He stepped onto the wet pavement and smelled the salt in the fog. The rain hit his Yankees cap. Nothing colder than a fall rain on the New England coast. He shivered, not wanting to get too wet. The kerosene stove in Bruce’s shack would take forever to heat up the place, even as small as it was.

Teddy pulled a rag out of his pants pocket and wiped the rain off the driver’s window on the FBI guy’s Jeep. He peered inside. Not much to see. No file with “Top Secret” scrawled on it. Teddy wondered where Mr. Special Agent had gone. Talking to Luke? No way. Luke was in bed with Nurse Betsy.

“Screw it.”

Teddy got back into his truck, started the engine again and drove back up to Main Street, then cruised on over to the West house. Zoe West’s yellow Volkswagen Beetle was parked out front. Kyle Castellane was getting into his black BMW. Teddy could feel the sarcasm rising up in him. Starving artist. Yeah. Kyle’d be more shocked than anyone if he knew Teddy was working for his watery-eyed pop. Luke didn’t like the idea of an FBI agent crawling around town. He’d thought it might bring Zoe back to Goose Harbor, and it had.

Just keep me informed. Do what you have to do.

That left a lot of wiggle room.

Teddy moved on down the road before Kyle’s headlights came on, not that he was worried about being seen. He was a nobody here. Fine with him. It gave him room to maneuver. If things went the way he thought they would, he’d need every inch he could get.