not Bruce. He was oblivious.
Bruce slowed to a crawl and stuck his head out his window. “You play darts? Come by Perry’s later. Maybe you can beat the FBI agent.”
Teddy didn’t know what to say. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll see you later.”
* * *
Zoe drove out to a market south of town and bought staples, like bread, juice, milk and cereal, then stopped at a farm store for local produce—Cortland apples, butternut squash, potatoes, carrots, fall spinach. She bought a jug of apple cider and a half-dozen cider doughnuts, eating one on the way back through the village.
She stopped at her childhood home, now her sister’s home, and let the engine idle while she gripped the wheel with both hands and thought about the break-in. Her father had insisted on locks on the doors. He was chief of police. He wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone to just walk in. He’d once stopped by Olivia’s with a lock for her porch door, but she distracted him with some other project—locks made her feel like she was in prison. One was enough. The logic of having locks on both her doors defeated her.
“Oh, Christ...”
The tears came out of nowhere. Zoe breathed in through her nose, trying to get control of herself. It’d been a year, and she still missed them both, her father, her great-aunt. They’d always been there. The rocks of her life. Her anchors. Everything they’d ever wanted in life was right here. She could talk Washington, D.C., and world events and federal law enforcement with Stick Monroe—with her dad and Aunt Olivia, it had always been about Goose Harbor.
Zoe wiped her cheeks with her fingertips and ate another cider doughnut.
Maybe if she stayed in town, she could make her peace with not knowing who’d killed her father, or why, or if Olivia’s death was in any way related.
I know who killed him.
“Ah, Aunt Olivia. Where’s Jen Periwinkle when we need her?”
Jen used her wits to distinguish good clues from bad clues—and there were always clues. The police had Patrick West’s body and the two bullets that had killed him. That was all.
Zoe pushed back her thoughts, her overwhelming sense of grief, and instead of driving back through town and fighting the leaf-peepers, she took the tangle of back streets, passing inns and summer houses, smaller homes owned by year-round locals, until she came out on Ocean Drive just above the nature preserve named for her great-aunt.
She turned onto a gravel road and drove a hundred yards to a parking area and visitors’ center amid a pine grove. This time she got out of her car. The air was cooler here, a slight breeze stirring. She looked up at the pine needles etched against the cloudless blue of the sky, heard birds in the distance—it was migrating season for hawks.
The preserve’s self-guided trails were open from dawn until dusk. Zoe found herself on the wide, three-mile gravel loop trail. She’d come out here to run ever since she was a teenager. After she’d resigned from the state police, she’d run the loop trail every day to train for the FBI Academy. She remembered how excited she was about her future, how her life had seemed to stretch before her. Now she didn’t know what would come next. It was enough to plan dinner. She sometimes wondered if that was why she’d responded to the rhythms of the Jericho farm, milking and feeding the goats, harvesting the garden. Even with knitting, she had to stay focused on the present.
She passed interpretive signs describing the wildlife and plant life, the geology of southern Maine’s curving coastline and broad stretches of beaches, the cluster of three small offshore islands with their tricky currents and narrow passages. There were benches for birdwatching and scenic views, but she didn’t stop for anything.
The bright yellow leaves of a dozen thin birch trees told her she was close to Stewart’s Cove. She slowed her pace, her throat tightening with tension, anticipation. It was late in the afternoon, and most of the tourists had left. She was aware that she was alone, possibly no one even within shouting distance.
Except for J. B. McGrath.
He was standing on a flat, wet rock that would be covered soon as the tide rose. It was about three yards from where she’d found her father.
“It’s a beautiful spot,” he said.
She nodded tightly, fighting the images of a year ago. Her father sprawled on his stomach. His blood had seeped into the wet sand and shallow water of the rising tide.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I saw your car and followed you. I came around the other way—I didn’t expect to beat you here.” His smile was surprisingly gentle. “No need for a sharp stick.”
She edged closer to the water. The wind caught her in the face, and she wished she’d worn a jacket. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to focus on the cresting waves out beyond the mouth of the small cove. J.B. didn’t move from his rock. She let her gaze settle on him, realized he was a good-looking man, rugged, sexy, undoubtedly an independent type if he’d survived as an FBI undercover agent for any length of time.
“First time you’ve been back here?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “It’s a beautiful spot. So peaceful. My father was trying to lower his blood pressure and cholesterol, so he’d taken up walking before work. But he was in uniform. CID’s inclined to think he was meeting someone, either here in the preserve or shortly after his walk. He stopped at Aunt Olivia’s that morning. She was always up early.”
“Did you have a chance to ask her what they discussed?”
“Her revised obituary. Dad thought she was morbid.”
J.B. smiled and moved off his rock, his shoes sinking into the wet sand. He joined her on the packed, dry sand of the short stretch of beach. “I understand the police don’t believe his body was moved. He was shot here.”
“The shooter could have come in by boat or by land—it wouldn’t be hard to stay concealed. At that hour, lobster boats would be out or heading out, but they’re in deep water this time of year.” She sighed, bile rising in her throat, and she wished she hadn’t eaten so much, could feel the pie and doughnuts churning in her stomach. “It’s not for me to investigate my father’s death. That was made clear to me last fall.”
“You run roughshod over everyone?”
“I just wanted answers. At first people understood, but when the investigation stalled—” She broke off, dropping her hands to her sides. “It wasn’t an easy time. In CID’s place, I’d have done the same thing. I’d resigned. I was on my way to Quantico.”
“Losing your father and aunt the way you did must have pulled the rug out from under your life. I’m sorry.” He shifted away from her, and for the first time she noticed the three-inch scar on his jaw, just below his left ear. He’d been a split second from becoming the subject of a murder investigation himself. But he glanced back at her and asked, “Teddy Shelton—you know him?”
His question caught her by surprise. “Not really. He worked at the lobster pound last summer—I think he’s renting a cottage from Bruce. Why?”
“He popped up on my radar screen today. It’s probably nothing. You must want some
