must be a lot of readers in Brandon to make a go of a privately owned bookstore these days.”
“We manage,” she said, thinking she could be just as evasive as he’d been. “What about you? Retrofitting your sloop must have taken a bundle.”
“I came into some money. I put in a 42-horsepower Westerbeke and a 130-amp alternator because of the new refrigeration compressor. It took a long time to refit her. The teak had to be matched, sanded and repaired.” He must have seen her blank stare. “Sorry, I do go on about The High Life.”
She nodded. “There’s nothing wrong with taking pride in doing something well.” She finished the last bite of salmon on her plate. “There’s a lot of fish left. Do you want to take it back to your boat?”
“I’m not into taking a gift back. Don’t you have a fridge?”
“A small one, runs on propane.” She took their empty plates inside and dished up the elderberries with a tad of honey on top. When she came outside, he was scratching Lydia behind the ears as the dog drooled on his pants.
“I thought Newfies were water rescue dogs,” he said. “She’s not really ferocious is she?”
Jennifer raised her chin. “Do you want to test her?”
He shook his head.
“She’ll take care of anyone who gives me a bad time.” Jennifer handed Rick a bowl of berries and sat down. “She’s well trained.”
“A good thing since you’re out here alone.” He began to eat the berries with a relished sigh.
“My grandmother taught me to be vigilant.”
He looked up between mouthfuls. “She must be quite a woman.”
“She was. She died four months ago.” She turned her head away.
“Sorry.”
She shrugged. “You couldn’t know.” After a time, she said, “Fog’s getting thicker. The light on your ship’s mast is barely visible.”
“Yeah, I noticed. I’d better head back.” He stood. “I’ve wanted to ask, how did you get out here? I didn’t see a skiff. Don’t tell me you kayaked out.”
“Hardly, although it’s possible. We’re about twelve miles off the coast. Sometimes I rent a boat and moor it in the cove, but this time I used Clarence’s ferry service. He’ll pick me up, and I’ll haul out trash when I leave. My cell phone keeps me in touch.”
“Good arrangement.” He glanced at his empty bowl and glass. “Can I help you clean up?”
She shook her head. “Not necessary.”
“What are you doing tomorrow? Looks like the fog will keep me moored here at least through tomorrow.” He must have noticed her tensing, for he added, “I won’t bother you, but if you need help with chores, I’m handy with a hammer or shovel.”
She swallowed, thinking of Carla’s bashed skull, but she regained her poise and replied, “Everything’s taken care of, thanks.”
After the fog swallowed his retreating figure, she walked down, checked the gate and secured the cowbell. Her trust went only so far.
A fish dinner didn’t warrant letting down her guard.
Chapter 2
Unnerved by the man’s visit, she put in a call to Joe. He’d be off his shift by now and talking to him always cheered her.
He answered immediately. “Hi, Jen. Miss me?”
“You bet.”
“Miss you too. How’s it going in Beastly paradise?”
“It would be paradise if you were here. The peregrines are back, but the eagles seem to have abandoned their nest.”
“How’s the kayaking? I….”
“What did you say? Couldn’t hear you. Static.”
“It’s your cell phone,” he said. “When are you going to get rid of that ancient thing? The new ones will give you better reception.”
“Nag.” She grinned as she said it.
“Yeah, well I care.”
“I know and I’ll get a new cell soon.”
“That’s what you always say… I….”
“What? Lost you again.”
“Hang up and save the battery.”
“I love you,” she said, then added, “Nag.”
“Ha, ha. See you in a few…. Weekend after you return we can go for a hike or something.”
“Or something sounds delightful.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll be thinking about it. Give your mutt a pat. Bye.”
After she hung up, she put on Emma Mae’s Dionne Warwick CD and swayed to the rhythm, thinking of Joe. He kidded her that her taste in music was dictated by her elders. He was right, but she noticed that he enjoyed some of the oldies too. She passed the rest of the evening reading an Agatha Christie novel and sipping red wine.
In the loft that night she awoke from a parade of haunting images: Carla’s head oozing blood; a shovel protruding from the sand; a sailboat bobbing in shallow water; Alex holding books; pages fluttering in the wind. Sweating, she rolled over and stared out the window at the gray wisps of fog hovering at the pane.
“Lydia,” she called out and was rewarded with the sound of a healthy bark. Jennifer fumbled for the large flashlight at her bedside and flipped it on. Rising, she pulled on a fleece robe over her pajamas, then slipped into mukluks before descending the circular staircase. Dampness had crept into the cabin. Downstairs she opened the damper on the wood-burning stove and put a match to the kindling. As the wood flamed, Lydia came to her side and jabbed at her mistress’s thigh with her front paw.
“It’s not playtime. You won’t be happy with the heat, but it’s too cold for me.” She unlocked the door and let Lydia out. At first Jennifer roamed the room, then stretched out on the sofa and pulled a wool throw over her. Normally, the fog didn’t bother her, although it reminded her of the night she’d found Carla’s bludgeoned body on the beach. Perhaps the appearance of the stranger and his anchorage in the bay prompted her dreams.
She castigated herself for giving in to memories of that other sodden September, and yet she understood that until her sister’s murderer was caught, she would have no peace. Like her parents, she was a victim of Carla’s demise. In the past two years since then, Jennifer’s life had spiraled out of control.
She rubbed her forehead as the image of her sister’s body sprawled in the sand, blood covering her face remained imprinted on her mind. According to the coroner, death was due to blunt force trauma to the head with an unknown wood
