His voice was deep and slightly raspy, as if it'd been dragged over sharp rocks a few times.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because you got me thrown out of my inn."
"What? I did no-" She stopped herself. Why make a denial? Why lie? He hadn't asked a question or demanded an explanation. No point in painting herself into a corner. "I'll see you downstairs in the kitchen."
"As you wish."
Right. As if she had any control over the situation. She took her drapery rod with her, about-faced and headed back to the stairs, just missing falling into the stairwell and ending her return to Goose Harbor with a broken neck-which would have served her right.
Five
J.B. made his way down the attic steps thinking Zoe West must have known she wasn't dealing with a real threat or she'd never have come after him with a drapery rod. Either that or she'd gone more off the deep end as a cop than even he'd expected.
He debated packing up his stuff before heading down to the kitchen, then decided not to keep ex-detective West waiting. She had a right to be pissed at finding him in her attic, but he didn't feel bad about it. At some point in her not-too-distant past, she'd decided to resurrect Jen Periwinkle. He'd read the first chapter on her yellow pad. He knew she'd written it because she'd put her name at the top of the first page in neat block letters. It was pretty good. Her Jen Periwinkle was a little older than Olivia West's Jen Periwinkle, and she had a boyfriend. A young FBI agent. J.B. got a kick out of that. No sign of Mr. Lester McGrath in what he'd read.
He'd watched Zoe West drive up to her aunt's house in her yellow VW and could have alerted her to his presence at any time, but he hadn't. Not very nice of him, but she had searched his room. He figured she deserved to find him in the attic.
She had her kick-ass cop face on when he joined her in the kitchen. She was standing with her back to the sink and her arms crossed. He noticed she had more flecks of gray in her blue eyes than her sister did; she wasn't as tall and her blond hair was shorter. She didn't have as many freckles. With the little shirt and pants and the ankle bracelet, she didn't look as if she'd ever carried a gun. J.B. suspected that was pure prejudice on his part, but there it was.
"I'd like an explanation," she said. "An explanation of what?" No reaction. "Of why you're here." "In Goose Harbor or in your house?" "Both." He pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, keeping an eye on her. "I'm in Goose Harbor on vacation, and I'm in your house because I figured you owed me one for pawing through my room."
"Your name's J. B. McGrath?" "Jesse Benjamin McGrath." "And you are with the FBI, right?" "I was trying to keep a low profile, but yes. Do you want to see my credentials?" She gave a tight shake of the head. "I understand your ancestors are from Goose Harbor." "That's right." "McGraths?" "No."
"You know that Jen Periwinkle's evil nemesis is named McGrath?"
"He's fictional," J.B. said. "I'm not."
She muttered something that sounded like "more's the pity," then dropped her arms to her sides. "You had nothing to do with the break-in at my sister's yesterday?"
"No."
"You're not involved with the investigation into my father's murder?"
He could feel his expression softening. "No, I'm not."
"Why Goose Harbor? Why now?"
"I was due a vacation." He didn't need to tell her he'd been ordered to take some time off. "My ancestors are from here. I'd heard about your father's murder and knew it was still unsolved-I won't say I haven't tried to put the pieces together in my own mind."
"But it's not why you're here?"
He decided now wasn't the time to try to explain the relationshio between her great-aunt and his grandmother. He shook his head. "Not specifically, no. Detective West-"
"Zoe's fine. I'll never be a detective again."
He got to his feet. "I'll make my bed, pack up and clear out."
"In a minute. First you can help me get my things out of the car." She started for the side entry and glanced back at him. "Then we'll be even."
It was as much of an admission as he was going to get that she was the one who'd gone through his room last night. He walked behind her out to the side porch and down the stone walk to her VW Beetle, its back stuffed with boxes, bags and a heavy suitcase that had to be forty years old.
Zoe nodded at two knitting needles and a mass of milky-gray yarn spilling out of one of the bags. "That's my scarf. I started with a hundred stitches and now I have seventy-seven. What do you suppose happened to the other twenty-three?"
"You dropped them."
"Dropped them where?"
There was a glint of humor in her eyes-more gray in the late morning sun than blue-as she opened the driver's door. "Bruce says you're a closet eccentric," J.B. said.
"He said that about Aunt Olivia, too. Bruce is an authority on two subjects: lobstering and the Maine coast. Anything he says on any other subject is not to be trusted."
J.B. was still confident the flax seed and the soy powder were hers. "He says you refused to carry a weapon on duty and encouraged a Texas Ranger to interfere in the investigation into the Connecticut gov-ernor's death."
"I didn't encourage him-I just didn't stop him. And I didn't refuse to carry a weapon-I just didn't." She lifted out a backpack and hoisted it onto her shoulder. "Any other questions?"
"About a million, but I'll resist." She said nothing and grabbed a plastic bag overflowing with books, the top one a primer on domestic goats.
J.B. watched her turn up the walk to the side door. He could almost see the demons swooping around her, haunting her, toying with her as she tried to tell herself she had to get used to the idea that she might never know who killed her father-that she might never know if telling her aunt about his murder had somehow contributed to her death.
She stopped on the side porch and turned back to him. "How much did you read of what I wrote?"
"None of it. You have lousy handwriting, Detective West."
"That's very decent of you," she said quietly, unexpectedly. "Thank you."
But he could see she knew he'd lied. He felt like a heel. She'd only picked through his underwear and his reading material, none of which he'd written himself.
After they got the last of her stuff out of her car, J.B. made his bed, packed, cleaned his bathroom and wiped down the kitchen counter and sink where he'd made tea. Then he offered to take Zoe West to lunch at her sister's café.
To his surprise, she accepted.
Betsy O'Keefe stretched out on a cushioned lounge chair on the afterdeck of Luke Castellane's yacht and listened to the seabirds. A lifelong resident of Goose Harbor, she still barely knew a seagull from a duck. Just wasn't interested. She closed her eyes and welcomed the ruffle of a breeze over her. It had warmed up nicely. Almost seventy degrees. Luke had on a toasty warm-up suit, but Betsy, in elastic-waist yellow jeans and an oversize white shirt, wished she'd put on shorts that morning.
Luke hissed impatiently as he read a health article at the nearby table. He was always reading health articles. After Olivia died, he'd invited Betsy over to check his blood pressure three times a day for a week. He was worried the stress of Patrick West's murder and all the publicity of Olivia's death would push him into a stroke. He was in his early fifties, sandy-haired and good-look-ing, if a little too whip-thin from his diet and exercise regimen. Healthy as a horse. She'd had her eye on him even before that terrible twenty-four hours last fall, but even she was surprised when he took to her.
She could do worse than Luke Castellane.
His cell phone rang. He sighed-if anything did him in, it would be his natural impatience-and answered it. "Yes, what is it?" He listened a moment. "I can't talk right now. Do nothing without my permission. Is that understood?"
He didn't give whoever was on the other end a chance to respond before he disconnected.