The Harbor - Carla Neggers

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was standing on a flat, wet rock that would be covered soon as the tide rose. It was about three yards from where she’d found her father.

      “It’s a beautiful spot,” he said.

      She nodded tightly, fighting the images of a year ago. Her father sprawled on his stomach. His blood had seeped into the wet sand and shallow water of the rising tide.

      “What are you doing here?” she asked.

      “I saw your car and followed you. I came around the other way—I didn’t expect to beat you here.” His smile was surprisingly gentle. “No need for a sharp stick.”

      She edged closer to the water. The wind caught her in the face, and she wished she’d worn a jacket. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to focus on the cresting waves out beyond the mouth of the small cove. J.B. didn’t move from his rock. She let her gaze settle on him, realized he was a good-looking man, rugged, sexy, undoubtedly an independent type if he’d survived as an FBI undercover agent for any length of time.

      “First time you’ve been back here?” he asked quietly.

      She nodded. “It’s a beautiful spot. So peaceful. My father was trying to lower his blood pressure and cholesterol, so he’d taken up walking before work. But he was in uniform. CID’s inclined to think he was meeting someone, either here in the preserve or shortly after his walk. He stopped at Aunt Olivia’s that morning. She was always up early.”

      “Did you have a chance to ask her what they discussed?”

      “Her revised obituary. Dad thought she was morbid.”

      J.B. smiled and moved off his rock, his shoes sinking into the wet sand. He joined her on the packed, dry sand of the short stretch of beach. “I understand the police don’t believe his body was moved. He was shot here.”

      “The shooter could have come in by boat or by land—it wouldn’t be hard to stay concealed. At that hour, lobster boats would be out or heading out, but they’re in deep water this time of year.” She sighed, bile rising in her throat, and she wished she hadn’t eaten so much, could feel the pie and doughnuts churning in her stomach. “It’s not for me to investigate my father’s death. That was made clear to me last fall.”

      “You run roughshod over everyone?”

      “I just wanted answers. At first people understood, but when the investigation stalled—” She broke off, dropping her hands to her sides. “It wasn’t an easy time. In CID’s place, I’d have done the same thing. I’d resigned. I was on my way to Quantico.”

      “Losing your father and aunt the way you did must have pulled the rug out from under your life. I’m sorry.” He shifted away from her, and for the first time she noticed the three-inch scar on his jaw, just below his left ear. He’d been a split second from becoming the subject of a murder investigation himself. But he glanced back at her and asked, “Teddy Shelton—you know him?”

      His question caught her by surprise. “Not really. He worked at the lobster pound last summer—I think he’s renting a cottage from Bruce. Why?”

      “He popped up on my radar screen today. It’s probably nothing. You must want some time here on your own. I’ll see you around.”

      Zoe didn’t stop him. She’d get his Teddy Shelton story out of him later. He walked back up to the trail, falling in with a trio of seniors, and she didn’t move until they were out of sight. Then, shivering in the chilly ocean air, she sat on a three-foot boulder and watched the tide slowly roll in, the two smallest islands visible offshore, just the northern tip of the largest, Sutherland Island, visible. They were mostly rock and evergreens, but their rugged look was deceptive. Their thin soil actually made them very fragile, easily damaged by careless hikers and kayakers. Luke Castellane’s father, Hollywood director Victor Castellane, had bought Sutherland Island years ago—the nature preserve wanted to add it to its onshore acreage.

      Zoe stared at the short stretch of beach, not breathing, seeing herself a year ago when she realized there was no hope, her father was dead. She hadn’t known if the shooter was still nearby, if she was in danger, but she hadn’t been able to make herself respond like a law enforcement officer—it was her father dead before her.

      She could still feel the water seeping into her running shoes as she ran out into the cove, screaming at a lobster boat down toward Sutherland Island. It turned out to be Bruce Young’s.

      It occurred to her then and had stuck with her for the past year that her father’s murder had something to do with her. Was she supposed to find his body? It was no secret she ran in the preserve. Had she told him something in the weeks before that ultimately got him killed? Had a case she worked on when she was with the state police come back to haunt not her, but her father?

      In the first weeks of the investigation, the state detectives had looked into all those possibilities. But there was nothing—no lead, no potential lead—that connected back to her.

      So, what about Teddy Shelton?

      She doubted it took much to pop up on McGrath’s radar screen, but still.

      She leaped suddenly up off the boulder, as if she’d been bitten by a spider, but it was just nervous energy, restlessness. She’d spent the last two months milking goats and knitting. Why hadn’t she come back here sooner? She was convinced now, just as she was a year ago, that the answers to her father’s murder didn’t lie outside of Goose Harbor. They were here, in her hometown.

      I know who did it....

      Then again, maybe she was letting herself be misled by a dying old woman’s ramblings.

      “Damn.”

      She took a breath and walked back up to the trail. The three-hundred-acre preserve was her aunt’s legacy, as much as her Jen Periwinkle novels were. Olivia had had a long, good life. It was some consolation. Her father’s was cut short, in midlife. He hadn’t even had a chance to fight back. For him, Zoe’s only consolation was that he hadn’t suffered—the coroner said he’d most likely died almost instantly.

      The first murder in Goose Harbor in thirty years.

      She glanced back at the cove, the afternoon light waning as the tide washed over the sand and rock. There were worse places to die.

      J.B. wasn’t in the mood for darts. He sat at a round table with a good view of Perry’s ancient bristle dartboard and wood-shaft darts and drank his iced tea. He was staying away from alcohol. His judgment was off enough as it was. What the hell was he doing, getting involved with these people? He should leave and check into the Kennebunkport inn that Lottie Martin had recommended. Finish his vacation somewhere else.

      Zoe West had gotten to him. She wasn’t out of control like he was—she had such a tight rein on herself, it was a wonder she could breathe. It wasn’t the picture he’d formed of her based on the stories about her from last fall. He knew about post-trauma reactions. Flashbacks, sleep problems, anger, irritability, numbness. She’d pushed herself. She’d pushed everyone.

      He thought of her standing in the cove where she’d found her father’s body. She still had no answers.

      Bruce plopped down next to him with a beer. “I’m having a lobster roll and calling it dinner. You?”

      “Sounds good.”

      Bruce put in their order and settled back in his captain’s chair. He’d once insisted that the antique lobster pot on the wall had belonged to his great-grandfather. J.B. never knew when Bruce was pulling his leg and when he was playing it straight.

      His expression darkened when Kyle Castellane entered the waterfront restaurant with two young women J.B. had never seen before. They all sat at a table behind Bruce and J.B., and Kyle snapped his fingers at a middle-aged waitress. She walked over and carded him. She had a broad Maine accent, and J.B. thought

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