it was her doing, Zoe thought she was all right. She’d slipped out, relocked the door with her pass key and managed to get out of the inn without incident.
“I can’t believe you actually did it,” Christina said. “God, Zoe, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking he wasn’t a real FBI agent.”
“If he’d caught you—”
“He didn’t. And I didn’t steal anything out of his room. Relax, I’m in the clear. Otherwise there’d be a cruiser in the driveway right now.”
“Or him. You haven’t met him.”
Zoe stretched out her legs and munched on her pita sandwich. Christina had made the hummus herself, from scratch. Over the past year, she’d added her own touches to the kitchen—baskets and brightly colored towels, gourmet gadgets, a hand-thrown pottery bowl their father would have considered extravagant. But Zoe could still feel his presence, as if he might walk in from the garden with an armload of tomatoes and chuckle at how agitated his two daughters were. He was the steadiest man Zoe had ever known. He took everything in stride. She thought she took after him, but in the days after his death, and then her great-aunt’s, Zoe knew she’d been a total madwoman.
“It’s weird being back,” she said.
“I know it must be.” Christina stopped pacing and opened a cupboard door. Kyle had taken off after Zoe returned, but promised to stop in again. “Why don’t I make us drinks? What would you like?”
“Scotch on the rocks.”
Christina grinned. “That’s easy.”
Zoe struggled to smile back. She was still thinking about that spilled tea—and the sight of Agent McGrath’s razor on the sink. She didn’t know why that got to her. “The place looks good, Chris. I can’t wait to see the café.”
“It’s great—I’m having such a good time. It’s a lot of work, but I love it.” She got out two glasses, filled them with ice and poured the Scotch, a brand she would have picked with the same care she took with everything related to food. She brought the two drinks to the table and sat down. “Zoe, I don’t know—maybe I overreacted to the break-in.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re here, I guess. It makes me think—” She lifted her glass but didn’t take a sip. “I don’t know, I guess it makes me think the break-in must be related to Dad’s death if you’re here.”
“I was fired in August. I should have come home sooner.”
“To do what?”
Zoe drank some of her Scotch. It was her father’s drink. Scotch on the rocks. Not often, and only in the evening. She didn’t really like it. She knew Christina didn’t, either. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. First things first, okay?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t have any theories about the break-in, Chris. I’m not going to go off half-cocked. It’s been a year—”
“I know, but you haven’t been here. Zoe, I’ve gotten used to not having any answers. I’m not saying I like it, but I’ve gotten used to it.”
Zoe nodded. “You’re afraid I haven’t.”
“I know you haven’t. It’s not in your makeup.”
But Zoe wasn’t going there, reliving the nightmares and bad decisions, the confusion and grief of the past year. She took another sip of her Scotch and jumped to her feet. “You have to look at my knitting and see if you can figure out what I’m doing wrong.”
“Zoe—”
“No, I’m serious. Knitting’s a great stress reliever. I’m determined to learn. Bea Jericho took me to a yarn store in Litchfield and had me pick out a beautiful, hand-dyed yarn. Milk-gray. She insisted I’d like knitting better if I started out with yarn I loved.”
Christina shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re learning to knit.”
“Not only that,” Zoe said, “but I know how to milk goats.”
* * *
Teddy Shelton sat behind the wheel of his rusting-piece-of-crap pickup and tried to figure out his next move. He’d pulled into the town lot next to the FBI agent’s Jeep. If he leaned forward, he could see down the docks to the yacht club and the deep-water slip where Luke Castellane had his multimillion-dollar yacht. Luke’s kid had a crummy apartment above Christina West’s café. He was playing the starving artist. He’d tire of Christina once he finished his documentary on Olivia West. No question in Teddy’s mind. Kyle Castellane was a spoiled, self-absorbed little prick.
Teddy wondered if Kyle’s documentary was just a way to stir up a bees’ nest and get people focused on Patrick West’s death again. The state police investigation was still active, but people’d settled down, assumed someone from out of town had killed him. Chief West could have had terrorists plotting an attack right under his nose, and he’d never notice. Not in Goose Harbor, he’d think. No way.
Yeah, well. He’d learned. Those last minutes before he’d bled to death must have been something. Oh, shit, I should have known.
Fat raindrops pelted Teddy’s windshield. He didn’t know why he couldn’t afford a decent truck. At least he had all the weapons he wanted. Most of them, anyway. He’d like a couple more grenades. He had more flash-bang grenades than he needed—they were all noise and light and smoke, designed to distract and confuse, not to destroy. Maybe he could trade some for the kind of grenades that could blow a guy’s legs off.
He kept his personal arsenal in an apple crate in the jump seat behind him. Sometimes it’d push up against the driver’s seat. Not too comfortable on his back. But it was good to know he had an MP5 handy if some asshole tried to take him out on the interstate.
The lights on the Castellane yacht went out. It was ten o’clock. Jesus. He’d been in southern Maine a year, and still had no intention of ever keeping lobsterman hours. Luke Castellane was a notorious hypochondriac, always thinking something was wrong with him, probably because his father, Hollywood director Victor Castellane, had dropped dead of a heart attack at fifty-five. Luke’s mother died three years later. Ovarian cancer. From what Teddy gathered, they’d been total jackasses. They used to summer in Goose Harbor, and Luke had continued the tradition after he grew up, married, had a kid, divorced and turned the modest inheritance from his parents into a bloody fortune. Now he sailed up and down the coast in his yacht all summer and spent the winter at his house in Key West.
Chubby Betsy O’Keefe was living with him. Nurse Betsy. She was plain as a bucket of oats and built like a fire hydrant, but all Luke would care about was the R.N. after her name. And who else would have her? Teddy figured she was in it for the goodies.
The rain picked up. It was pounding on his windshield now. He could feel the damp cold and debated turning on the engine and getting some heat in his truck. He probably should head back to that goddamn shack he rented from Bruce Young down by the lobster pound. It was barely winterized. He wanted to tell Luke that Zoe West was back in town, but he’d waited too long and now Luke had gone night-night.
If
