lifted a thick rope into his callused hand. “I’m renting him a cottage down by the lobster pound. He does odd jobs around town.”
“He’s not from Goose Harbor?”
“I don’t know where he’s from. He showed up last summer. He keeps to himself. He tried working at the pound, but he didn’t like it.” Bruce shook his head. “Hates the smell of the ocean.”
“Why not move on?”
“Don’t know. Teddy’s not your big talker.” Bruce tossed the rope into his boat and climbed aboard. “What’d Zoe do when she found you in the attic?”
“Came after me with a drapery rod.”
“You backed down?”
“Amen.”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t want to lose a fight with a fired cop over a drapery rod.”
Words to live by. J.B. watched Bruce’s boat ease slowly out of the busy dock area and head south toward his lobster pound for another few hours’ work.
When Sally Meintz rang him back, J.B. didn’t tell her he already knew Teddy Shelton’s name. She said, “The plates are registered to a Teddy Shelton in Goose Harbor, Maine. Guess what else?” She paused, waiting for an answer.
J.B. sighed. “What else, Sally?”
“I did a little more checking while I was at it. He’s an ex-con. Served seven years in federal prison after he was convicted on charges of transfering and possessing semiautomatic assault weapons. ATF nailed him.”
“When did he get out?”
“Last July.”
He must have come straight to Goose Harbor. Three months later Patrick West was murdered. “Find out what you can about his case, okay? Thanks, Sally.”
“I like it when you say thank-you. It gives me hope for the rest of the world. What do I get for my trouble?”
“A cop-killer, maybe.”
She sighed, serious now. “That’d be worth it.”
The state and local cops had to know all about Teddy Shelton. It was a stretch to think he had anything to do with Chief West’s death, but J.B. didn’t like spotting an ex-con three times in less than twenty-four hours. Not at all.
* * *
Zoe dipped her fork into the last of the real whipped cream atop her pie and pretended she didn’t notice J. B. McGrath down on the docks. Lunch with him had been more unsettling than she’d expected. At times he seemed to be so on edge, she thought he might jump through the window—other times, she thought it impossible to ruffle him about anything. He was intense, focused, not even close to relaxed after almost a week on vacation.
But now she had to deal with Stick Monroe. Her old friend sat across from her and eyed her over his mug of black coffee. “I thought I might find you here.”
Zoe ignored his knowing tone and smiled, glancing around the crowded, charming café. “It’s great, isn’t it? I used to think someone ought to bulldoze this place into the harbor. I didn’t see the potential Christina did. She works hard, but I think she loves it.”
Stick nodded in agreement. He had on his usual outfit of corduroy shorts and rugby shirt—he wouldn’t switch to long pants until it was bitter cold. He was seventy-two but looked at least ten years younger, a fit, healthy, white-haired retired federal district court judge. His family had summered in Goose Harbor for as long as Zoe could remember. He was the last of them—he’d never married, never had kids. Everyone was surprised when he gave up his lifetime appointment and retired. But he seemed content to take long walks along the water, work in his garden and read books. He’d never been much on boating. His friends included everyone from statesmen and corporate executives to lobstermen and cops. He was brilliant, but he wasn’t a snob.
“You came back because of the break-in?” he asked.
“It was the catalyst. I was ready. I’m unemployed.”
“So I hear.”
Zoe couldn’t detect any disappointment in his tone, but it had to be there. He’d been her mentor since she was a little girl, encouraging her, opening up a broader world to her. Despite her great-aunt’s fame, she was content to stay in Goose Harbor. So were her father and sister. But Zoe had the feeling Stick had hoped for more from her than going into the FBI—following in his footsteps, maybe. Law school, U.S. attorney, federal judge. He’d never made it to the appeals court—maybe he thought she would.
Now she was a fired cop. A Quantico no-show. Jobless.
“I’ve learned to knit,” she told him, then smiled. “Sort of.”
“Zoe—”
She could see the concern in his warm brown eyes. “I’m not here to make trouble, Stick.”
“What about the FBI agent, McGrath?”
“He’s on vacation. He helped Bruce put in a new door at the house.”
Stick leaned back in his chair, his coffee untouched. “I called in a few favors with contacts I still have in Washington and checked him out. He’s a powder keg, Zoe. This vacation wasn’t his idea.”
“Something happened?”
“An ultra-right-wing, antigovernment crackpot tried to slit his throat. Almost succeeded. McGrath killed him. The guy’s three kids were there.”
Zoe winced. “That’s awful.”
“He was working undercover. I’m not supposed to tell you any of this.” Stick drank some of his coffee. It must have been cold, because he took a huge gulp, swallowed it, then regarded her with obvious concern. “Those undercover types are all nuts. You know that.”
It was one of the most persistent stereotypes in law enforcement, but it didn’t come from nowhere. Zoe set down her fork. She wasn’t hungry anymore. “What else do you know about this undercover investigation?”
“It was out west. Violent extremists constructing and trading in illegal weapons and explosive devices and plotting the assassination of local, state and federal officials. McGrath infiltrated their network over several months, posing as a buyer. It turns out a local cop was involved and tipped off the bad guys. Hence, the nearly slit throat.”
“I’d need a vacation after that, too.” Just as well he’d seen her out in the driveway before she’d come at him with her drapery rod and sense of violation and humiliation. She didn’t want to surprise an FBI powder keg. “Well, I’ll give him wide berth. What’re you up to these days, Stick?”
He smiled. “Worrying about you.”
“Ah.” She smiled back at him. “Always good to know I’ve got a judge looking out for my best interests. I’m not out of control anymore, Stick. I don’t know what’s next for me in my life, but—”
“You want to know who killed your father.”
