The Harbor - Carla Neggers

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first to eastern Montana, then west to a beautiful alpine meadow outside of Bozeman. That was where she had her son, it was where Jesse became a lawman, and it was where she died of a fever when little Benjamin was only seven years old. Jesse was killed a few years later in a shoot-out when he interrupted a bank robbery.

      Benjamin—J.B.’s father—went to live with a schoolteacher in Bozeman. Olivia West paid for anything he needed. She even offered to have him move to Maine where she would see to his upbringing in his mother’s hometown of Goose Harbor.

      J.B. knew because he had the letter. He had all of Olivia West’s letters to the friend who’d run off and left her behind. He’d found them when he’d cleaned out his father’s cabin after he died over the winter. They were bundled together in a trunk that he didn’t know if Benjamin McGrath, western Montana hunting and fishing guide, had ever opened.

      Oh, Posey, can you believe I sold a book? You’ll read it, I know. Please don’t take offense at my villain, Mr. Lester McGrath. I couldn’t resist.

      Lester Sutherland moved to Boston not long after his daughter ran off. There were no Sutherlands left in Goose Harbor. Olivia hadn’t liked Posey’s father, and she hadn’t liked Jesse McGrath. She’d made that clear in her letters.

      J.B. noticed his tea had gone cold.

      He headed back inside for more tea and a closer inspection of the house where Olivia West was born, lived her entire life and died. What the hell, he was practically family.

      * * *

      Zoe had apple coffee cake with her sister at the café and then sat with a cup of coffee at a small table overlooking the harbor and tried to pretend her life was normal. It felt so normal, being back in Goose Harbor, watching the activity on the docks. As the sun came up and the morning wore on, there were more tourists and pleasure yachts. The lobster boats were out in deeper water where the catch was plentiful this time of year.

      Christina was too busy behind her glass-front counter for chitchat. Her café was just what Zoe had expected. White tables and blue linens, milk-glass vases with yellow mums, watercolors by local artists on the walls, a constant flow of people. Christina and her waitstaff all wore black bottoms, white tops and blue aprons.

      The food was wonderful. Zoe remembered how Chris would get up early even as a teenager to make wild blueberry pancakes and set the table with their mother’s white bone china.

      Finally, Zoe gave up her table and headed back outside, welcoming the cool breeze blowing in off the water. She debated checking with the local police about the break-in yesterday, but she knew better. They wouldn’t have anything.

      She wondered where Agent McGrath was. The lobster boat he’d rented from Bruce was tied up at the dock. Christina wanted her to talk to him and find out what he was doing in Goose Harbor—cop to cop, she said, as if an FBI special agent would tell Zoe anything.

      With any luck, he’d decided to continue his vacation elsewhere.

      Then she noticed a Jeep with D.C. license plates parked in the town lot and gritted her teeth. No. Special Agent McGrath was still in Goose Harbor.

      She got into her car and drove out along Ocean Drive, her stomach constricted, the apple coffee cake churning, her fingers in a death grip on the wheel as the road edged along the water. She could see it was choppy out on the ocean. She rolled down her windows and heard the waves and the wind, smelled the salt and tried not to cry.

      Until she was in her late nineties, Olivia would walk from her house to the docks almost every morning. She said walking helped her think, helped a story to simmer. There was a famous picture of her leaning on her cane above the rocks on Ocean Drive. It had run in papers all over the country on her ninetieth birthday.

      She hadn’t died in peace. She’d died thinking she knew who’d murdered her nephew. Tortured because she couldn’t produce the name.

      Zoe blinked back tears and turned up her aunt’s paved driveway. She hadn’t expected to inherit the house. Olivia was meticulous in putting her affairs in order, but circumspect—Zoe hadn’t known she would inherit the house and the rights to Jen Periwinkle, Christina a trust fund for Christina. They split the modest trust fund meant for their father. Olivia had willed the bulk of her estate to the nature preserve and her other favorite charities. She’d lived frugally and had a decent portfolio, but she’d given away money all through her life and was never enormously wealthy.

      The brown-shingled 1890s house stood on the rockbound point as it always had. All that was missing were the pots of mums Olivia put out every year. And Olivia herself. Zoe parked in the driveway and climbed out, still not used to the reality that the house was hers now. She could sell it for a fortune. It’d buy her more time before she had to get a job, but that seemed like the classic long-term solution to a short-term problem. She had to get her life in order first. Then she could decide what to do with her aunt’s house.

      Using the key on her key chain, she unlocked the side door and walked into the small entry between the kitchen and the front room.

      Someone was here.

      She stepped into the kitchen and noted the used tea bag on the counter, felt the still-warm kettle on the stove. Whoever it was could have their own key or have come in through the porch door, which didn’t have a lock. Getting one had been on Zoe’s to-do list for a year. But the door was seldom used, and not having a lock for it hadn’t been a problem in a hundred years.

      Had Christina let someone stay here and forgotten to mention it in the excitement over the break-in at her house?

      “Hello? Anyone home?”

      Zoe checked the front room, but there was no sign of anyone. The porch door was shut tight. Maybe Christina had let Bruce loan a room to someone. Maybe Betsy O’Keefe had moved off Luke Castellane’s yacht and needed a place to stay. Zoe doubted a burglar would have fixed himself a cup of tea, but stranger things had happened.

      She started up the steep stairs to the second floor. There was no sound of the shower running. No snoring. Nothing unusual.

      She called again, keeping her voice cheerful. It had to be someone she knew. “Hello, anyone home? It’s me, Mama Bear. Someone’s been eating in my kitchen....”

      At the top of the stairs, the door to the biggest bedroom across the hall was open, and she saw the unmade bed. “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed, too,” she muttered, not so loud, and stood in the doorway.

      It wasn’t anyone she knew.

      Heaped on the floor was the opened, soft black suitcase she recognized from her tour of Special Agent McGrath’s room at the inn last night.

      Just what she needed.

      She wouldn’t put it past Lottie Martin to toss him out for the spilled tea. Hell of a nerve, though, to help himself to a room here. Bruce could have given him the go-ahead, but still.

      Zoe returned to the hall. She supposed she had no business talking about nerve since she was the one who’d spilled the tea in the first place. She’d have to find him, figure out what was going on and take it from there.

      What if McGrath was the one who’d broken into Christina’s house yesterday?

      At this point, Zoe was willing to entertain any and all possibilities. Barely twelve hours back in Goose Harbor and things were already a mess.

      She started for the stairs but noticed that the door to the attic was cracked and stopped still. A jolt of adrenaline shot through her. Oh, no.

      It had to be the wind. McGrath couldn’t be in the attic. Anywhere else, but not there.

      She tore open the door and ran upstairs, and only when she got to the top did she think—did she really want to confront a nosy FBI agent? What if he was a phony?

      The stairs ended in the middle of the attic, with no rail or wall around the stairwell. There was a window at each end of the huge open space. It was filled with boxes, trunks, old furniture—what anyone would expect to find

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