here—petty theft, traffic violations, even drug issues—should involve altercations where lives hung in the balance.
And that was good. He didn’t want any more baggage.
What he did want was a quiet, uncomplicated summer that gave him plenty of opportunity to sit on a beach and do some serious thinking about the rest of his life.
The muffled rattling sounded suspicious.
J.C. slowed his pace as he approached the gate leading to the garden beside The Devon Rose. Since his breakfast with Burke, he’d spent the day exploring the town, including an all-important visit to the grocery store. He was ready to call it a night. But he wasn’t wired to ignore odd sounds, and this one fell into that category.
Juggling his bags of groceries, he listened. It sounded as if a metal object was being shaken.
In Chicago, following that kind of rattle into a dark alley often led him to a homeless person rooting through a Dumpster or trash can. But as near as he could tell, homeless people were rare on Nantucket.
Thieves were another story. Due to the private backyards, which were often hidden from the street by lush vegetation or privet hedges, burglars could pull off robberies without detection. According to Burke, that was one of the biggest problems in the quiet season, when many vacation homes were vacant.
This wasn’t the quiet season, however. Nor did The Devon Rose appear to be vacant. Light from an upper window spilled into the deepening dusk.
Another subtle rattle sounded, and a light was flipped on on the lower level of the house. Heather must have heard the sound, too, and was going out to investigate.
Not a good plan if an intruder was nearby.
A shot of adrenaline sharpened his reflexes, and J.C. set his bags on the sidewalk. Unlike the entrance to Edith’s backyard—a rose-covered arbor with a three-foot-high picket gate—Heather had gone the privacy route. Her gate, framed by a tall privet hedge, was six feet high and solid wood. The U-shaped latch, however, provided easy access.
Stepping to one side of the gate, J.C. lifted the latch. To his relief, it moved noiselessly. He opened the gate enough to slip through, shutting it behind him as he melted into the shadows of a nearby bush.
Any other time, J.C. would have admired the precise, geometric pattern of Heather’s formal boxwood garden, with its ornate birdbath and beds of colorful flowers that reflected a well-planned symmetry. Instead, he focused on the back of the house, where he expected her to emerge any second—and perhaps step into a dangerous situation.
He heard the door open at the same time the rattling resumed. Both sounds came from the rear. Sprinting down the brick path that bordered her side garden, he crouched at the back corner of the house and stole a look at the porch.
As he’d feared, Heather was standing in clear sight, the porch light spotlighting her.
Providing a perfect target.
Another rattle. Now he could pinpoint the source. It was coming from behind a privet hedge at the back of her property.
Pulling his off-duty snub-nosed .38 revolver from its concealed holster on his belt, he stepped forward as Heather descended the two steps from the porch. She gasped at his sudden appearance, but when he put a finger to his lips and motioned her to join him, she followed his instructions in silence. Taking her arm, he drew her into the shadows beside the house.
As he pressed her against the siding, shielding her body from the rear of the yard, he spoke near her ear. “I was walking by and heard a noise in the back.”
“So did I. That’s why I came out.”
Her whispered breath was warm on his neck, and a faint, pleasing…distracting…floral scent filled his nostrils. “It would have been safer to call the police.”
She blinked up at him in the dusky light. “This isn’t Chicago. Nantucket is safe. And you scared me to death.” She flicked a quick look at his hand. “Is that a gun?”
“Yes. And crime happens everywhere.”
“Not in my backyard. The noise we heard is probably feral cats. They’re a big problem on the island. I caught them rooting through my trash a few days ago. The cans are inside a wooden box with a heavy lid, but it’s not shutting quite right. I think one of the cats must have squeezed in again. Chester’s going to fix it one of these days.”
Heat crept up the back of J.C.’s neck. If Heather’s assumption was correct, he’d pulled his gun on a cat.
Not the most auspicious beginning for his Nantucket law enforcement interlude.
But he’d come this far. He might as well follow through. “I’ll check it out, just to be on the safe side. Wait here.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, J.C. worked his way to the hedge in back. A quick look around the side confirmed her theory. Two cats had their noses stuck under the slightly opened lid of the trash bin, while a rustling sound came from inside.
At the same time he saw them, the cats got wind of his presence. With amazing speed and agility, the two outside the bin leaped to the ground, bounded toward the privet hedge and dove through. The third scrambled out and followed his friends.
Holstering his gun, J.C. tried to tamp down his embarrassment. Accustomed as he was to finding danger around every corner, the relative safety of Nantucket was obviously going to take some getting used to.
Heather was leaning against one of the back porch posts when he emerged, arms folded across her chest. “I heard them scrambling over the wood. I assumed it was safe to come out.”
“Sorry to raise an unnecessary alarm. It was an instinctive reaction.”
“You must travel in rough circles.”
“Yeah.”
“I appreciate the thought, anyway.”
Amusement glinted in the depths of her eyes, and J.C. had a feeling she’d have a good chuckle about this later. He could only hope she’d keep the incident to herself. If she told Edith, he suspected half the island would hear about the feral felines’ caper within twenty-four hours. Burke had told him his landlord was well-connected and a better source of Nantucket news than the newspapers.
But he’d worry about that later. At the moment, he was too busy enjoying the view. Backlit by the lantern beside the door, Heather’s shoulder-length hair hung soft and full, free of restraint, the gold highlights shimmering. The light also silhouetted her willowy frame, which was accentuated by jeans and a soft tank top. Gone were the classy pearls and silk that had made her seem so inaccessible.
He had to remind himself to breathe.
Yet if yesterday he’d felt outclassed in her presence, tonight he found a different reason to keep his distance.
Heather Anderson had never been tainted by exposure to violence. In her world, cats were the biggest predators.
He, on the other hand, had spent his career dealing with the lowlifes of Chicago. And he’d been doing it for so long, he didn’t even know how to behave around a woman who was untouched
