customs laws or international boundaries. Smuggling was a breeze—literally, as it filled gaudy sails on blue waters. Officers couldn’t search every boat that docked at one of the marinas or anchored in the bay, even when they knew damn well some of them were here on business. Luck and tips led to the few big busts.
Ronald Floyd must have made an enemy, because a muffled voice on the telephone had set him up. Officers had waited in the nighttime shadows at the marina while the pretty white boat eased slowly in, water lapping against the pilings. Floyd himself had bounded from the bow to the dock with the first line. The Port Dare P.D. waited until the boat was tied bow and stern and the engine snuffed. Two other men joined Floyd, all wearing jeans, deck shoes and wind-breakers. They’d talked briefly, laughed. Then the spotlight froze them as a dozen police officers packing guns and a warrant surrounded them.
“Stuart cuffed Floyd,” John said slowly, remembering. “I got one of the others.”
“I didn’t make any of the arrests, but I was there.” Baxter ran a hand over his thinning hair. “So Stuart booked the guy. That’s not much of a connection.”
“But it’s something. I’ve been asking myself, why Natalie Reed’s house? Why not the one two doors down with the new sunroom?”
Baxter shrugged. “Chance.”
“Or maybe not.” Suddenly energized, John shoved back his chair. “What do you say we have a chat with some of our stiff’s buddies?”
CHAPTER THREE
NATALIE CAME DOWNSTAIRS in the morning to the sound of a girl’s laugh and a man’s deep voice.
She felt like the walking dead. She’d been able to snatch only bits and pieces of sleep from endless wide-eyed hours. She supposed she’d dreamed, but it was hard to separate unsettling scenes supplied by her unconscious mind from the gruesome images that played behind closed eyelids when she was awake. Last night, sleepless and still in shock, she had wished that today was a working day so that she would have something to do. This morning she was intensely grateful that she didn’t have to go into the office. Coaxing bad-tempered advertisers into agreeing that a check written to the Sentinel was money worth spending was beyond her in her current exhausted state. Maybe she could take Evan and Maddie down to the spit. If she found a warm, sandy spot, she could lean against a log and watch them build castles or splash in the water.
Or fall asleep at last, which wouldn’t make her much of a baby-sitter.
In the dining room, she found John and his children seated at their places at the table, which had been nicely set as if for company, with quilted place mats and cloth napkins. As a centerpiece, asters in bright colors made a casual bouquet in a cream-colored pitcher. French doors were closed against a gray, misty day.
She stood in the doorway unnoticed for a moment, feeling as if she were outside, nose pressed to the glass, looking in at a perfect family tableau. Father and children were laughing together, the affection, humor and patience so obvious she felt a pang of envy. For what, Natalie knew quite well. Stuart had squelched her first tentative suggestion that they think about having children. On their wedding day, she had just assumed…
It hurt still, remembering Stuart’s quick, thoughtless, “What the hell would we want brats for?”
She must have made a sound, a movement, because John’s head turned sharply, his grin fading.
“Good morning.” He searched her face with grave, intent eyes even as he gestured at an empty chair.
“Mom’s making bacon and eggs. She wouldn’t let us help.” A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “We’ve been complaining about how slow the service is. My tip isn’t going to be big.”
“Daddy!” His son giggled. “Grandma doesn’t want money!”
Evan McLean was a miniature of his father: russet, wavy hair, vivid blue eyes and big feet that suggested someday he’d match Dad’s size as well. Natalie wondered if John had had freckles, too, at five years old.
From the lines in his face, she doubted he’d slept any more than she had, if at all, but he had obviously just showered and shaved. His wet hair was slicked back, the auburn darkened by water. Despite the tiredness that creased his brow and added years, he crackled with energy and the grin he gave his son came readily.
“You don’t think Grandma would scoop up a buck if I left one?”
Evan looked crafty. “I bet she’d give it to me. Why don’t you leave a dollar and we’ll find out. Okay?”
“Greedy,” his sister scoffed. Maddie McLean had her mom’s blond hair and blue eyes of a softer hue than her father’s. Gawky and skinny at this age, she wasn’t pretty in a dimpled little-girl way, but Natalie was willing to bet Maddie would be a beauty by the time she was sixteen.
“Just to see,” Evan insisted.
“Uh-huh.” She rolled her eyes. “Like you’d give it back to Dad.”
Her brother bounced indignantly. “I would!” He stole a glance at his father. “If he said I had to.”
John laughed, although he still watched Natalie. “Let’s not put Grandma to the test, shall we?” The door from the kitchen swung open and he said, “Ah. Looks like breakfast is going to be served.”
“At last!” Evan said.
Carrying a plate of toast in one hand and a heaping bowl of scrambled eggs in the other, his grandmother bent a look on him. “Young man, that didn’t sound very polite.”
Even at five, he had the grace to blush. “I’m just awful hungry, Grandma.”
“Ah.” Still sounding severe, she said, “You need to learn to think ‘at last,’ not say it. That’s the secret to good manners.”
His forehead crinkled. “You mean, I can be really rude, just to myself?”
“That’s right.” A tall woman with beautiful bone structure and gray-streaked red hair cut very short, his grandmother headed back to the kitchen. Just before disappearing through the swinging door, she added, “Truly nice people, however, don’t think rude things, either.”
“Oh.” Looking very small, Evan beseeched his father. “Is that true?”
“Here’s a secret, bud.” John lowered his voice. “I can’t imagine a single person so saintly that he or she doesn’t think rude things once in a while. Just so you keep ’em to yourself, you can be a nice person.”
Maddie sat with a very straight back and head held regally high. “But you’re boys. Girls are lots nicer. Aren’t they, Natalie?”
Weary as she was, Natalie had to laugh. “Let’s see, what grade are you in? Third?”
Maddie nodded. “He’s only in kindergarten.”
So much for the illusion of family harmony she had seen like a shimmering mirage before she stepped into the dining room.
“Right. My point is, girls are lots nicer than boys at your age. I’m pretty sure boys reach their peak of awfulness in about fourth grade. But then they do start getting
