course. Then you can dispose of your portion as you like. The boat might be worth quite a lot.”
She opened her mouth again, then closed it, her eyes glazing in thought. “How much?”
“The market for classic wooden craft is apparently pretty lively. There are huge variations depending on a number of factors, but some fetch prices in six figures.”
“Have you seen her?” Rogan asked Camille.
“I looked there for your father yesterday, but no one was on board. Someone from a fishing boat came over and told me what had happened.”
Barney had been found by a delivery driver on Monday morning, and it was Tuesday before the police had identified him and tracked down Granger.
“Why did he want to see you?” Rogan asked.
Her face went stiff, expressionless. “He wanted to give me some things he thought I should have. I suppose he meant my father’s…effects. He said he had to talk to me but he couldn’t leave his boat for long. I was due for annual leave and it quite suited me to come north.”
“Would you recognize your father’s belongings?”
Camille shook her head. Dryly she said, “I’d have been hard put to recognize my father.”
Granger asked, “Have the police talked to you?”
“No, why? I can’t tell them anything.”
“You should check in with them all the same. If you were supposed to be meeting Dad they’ll want to see you.” Granger pulled out a notebook. “Your contact details?”
She recited them stonily, and stood up. “Thank you for explaining the situation.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Granger promised, rising too.
By the time Rogan had put down his coffee cup and started getting up she’d already left them. He sank back, watching her walk away, until he realized Granger was watching him with amused tolerance.
“Get your eyes back in your head, little bro’,” Granger told him, “and your butt out of that chair, unless you plan to stay here.” Eyeing him critically, he added, “Mind you, a second cup of coffee wouldn’t do you any harm.”
Rogan glared at him, hoisting himself from the chair. All the time they’d been talking Camille had scarcely glanced his way, her eyes pretty much fixed on his brother throughout. And Granger hadn’t even seemed to notice. Did the man have ice water instead of good red Broderick blood in his veins?
Not fair, of course. Last night he’d shown a cursory appreciation, at least, of Camille’s spectacular beauty. On the surface she was very similar to the women who occasionally, briefly, graced Granger’s life—classy, polished, composed. Like him. Only better-looking.
Inexplicably, when he followed his brother into the lobby Rogan’s heart settled somewhere near his midriff, as if he’d swallowed one of his lead diving weights.
His father had just died. It was natural to feel depressed. He ought to be feeling this way.
None of Granger’s beloved laws said he had to like it.
Chapter 3
As Rogan and Granger crossed the lobby they were waylaid by a bunch of men erupting from the private bar. “Boys!” a solidly built man flushed with beer and bonhomie hailed them. He hooked an arm about Rogan’s shoulder. “Bloody good do, this. Barney’d be proud.”
The others milled around, one in an oversize suit asking peevishly where the effin’ can was until his fellows shoved him in the right direction. Propelled back into the thick of the wake and obliged to drink yet another toast or three to Good Ol’ Barney, it was some time before the brothers extricated themselves.
“What now?” Rogan asked.
“We could check over the Sea-Rogue,” Granger suggested. “Pack up Dad’s clothes, make sure there are no perishables on board. And decide how the boat’s going to be looked after until we sort out the estate.”
“Estate? He doesn’t…didn’t…own anything but the boat, did he?”
“It’s a legal term,” Granger said patiently. “You’re probably right, but a standard clause in the will covers anything not specified, like bank accounts, bonds or other assets. He could owe money, or have some owed to him.”
“Didn’t he buy salvage rights to a wreck years ago?”
Granger laughed. “I don’t suppose it’s worth anything. The Maiden’s Prayer. She disappeared in a storm in the 1850s with no survivors, carrying passengers returning from the Australian gold fields to America with the loot from their endeavors. There were chests full of gold on board—nuggets or bars—and several thousand dollars’ worth of gold and silver coins. Not counting what passengers had in their luggage.”
“A fortune,” Rogan commented.
“If it were ever found,” Granger said dryly. “The insurance company was happy to part with the salvage rights in return for a modest cut, particularly with the new laws about historic wrecks making recovery more difficult and expensive. Dad asked me to make sure his rights were solid and there’d be no counterclaims. The papers were with his will. But it’ll take more than a maiden’s prayer to pinpoint where she went down, with practically the whole of the Pacific to choose from.”
Camille had returned to her room feeling rather dazed at the idea she’d inherited a share in a boat worth thousands of dollars. And through the generosity of a man she didn’t remember even meeting.
Although he hadn’t really left it to her, but to her father. She wondered if Barney had discussed the bequest with his mate. And if so, whose idea it had been to provide for Thomas McIndoe’s family in the event of his death.
Staring out the window at the hill behind the hotel, she dredged up what she remembered about the seaport that had thrived in the days of sailing ships and sunk into obscurity with the advent of road and rail transport. One of the old houses crowding the slope featured a small tower with a railed enclosure around it. A widow’s walk, similar to those in other historic ports around the world, from which women used to watch for their men coming home from the sea.
Like so many of those men, Camille’s father had finally failed to return. But it was a long time since his wife had given up keeping vigil for him. Nobody had been waiting and hoping to welcome him home.
For a while she tried to work while the deep rumble of male voices penetrated the floor, and loud guffaws and occasional shouts or snatches of song floated clearly through the open window.
Distracted and restless, she left the room and ran down the stairs, her hand enjoying the smoothed curve of the baluster that ended at an ornate carved newel post, then hurried across the lobby into the dazzle of the sun.
Unthinkingly she directed her steps toward the seafront and then the old wharf, eventually finding the Sea-Rogue snugged against the massive wooden piles.
Camille didn’t know much about boats, but this was a weatherworn veteran compared to the elegant yachts in front
