LITMIR.BIZ

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occasionally yielded up a coherent sentence fragment, most involving the mayor. Amelia closed her eyes and listened.

      “—ought to be kicked out of office. He took kickbacks while people were dying from the fish poison.”

      “—older folks are convinced the curse is back.”

      “—got to admit he stepped up—”

      “—then I said there’s no such thing as ghosts—”

      “Well, I feel sorry for him. He almost lost his daughter.”

      Amelia’s heart ached at the reminder that while the town was celebrating, her best friend Camille, Mayor Wells’s daughter, was lying helpless in a coma.

      No matter what the mayor had done, he loved his daughter. Amelia knew that. He’d just let his greed get the better of him.

      The townsfolk were divided—either condemning him for taking bribes or forgiving him because he’d done it for his only child.

      He’d tried to make up for his actions. He’d worked hard to beef up Raven’s Cliff’s annual Seafarer Boat Fest to celebrate the end of the nightmarish summer.

      The television mounted over the bar was tuned to the local news station. They were replaying Mayor Wells’s speech from earlier in the evening. His face looked pale and drawn, and his smile seemed pasted on as he praised the townspeople for their bravery and expressed sorrow for the four lovely young women who had died at the hands of the Seaside Strangler.

      As he mentioned their names, their photos flashed on the screen. Amelia hadn’t known Rebecca Johnson or Cora McDonald, and had only met Angela Wheeler once, but Sofia Lagios was Detective Andrei Lagios’s baby sister. Seeing her fresh, beautiful face sent a pang of sorrow through Amelia’s heart.

      As the mayor’s prerecorded voice encouraged the townspeople to enjoy the fireworks show, Rita pressed a steaming mug topped with whipped cream into Amelia’s hands.

      A cheer rose above the low murmur of voices in The Pub. Quite a few people stood and raised their glasses to the TV.

      Amelia followed suit then took a sip. Irish whiskey. She frowned. Rita had handed her the wrong mug.

      At that moment a pair of stone-cold gray eyes caught her gaze.

      Eyes like storm clouds. It was him. The stranger who’d run into her. He held a beer. Instead of raising his glass to the TV and the crowd, he saluted her.

      She wanted to look away—ignore him. But he was a man who could never be ignored. Her first impression of him still held—he wasn’t a sailor, not even a first mate—if he were on a ship, he’d be the captain.

      Pay heed to a dark, mysterious stranger with eyes like storm clouds and a haunted past.

      The fortune-teller’s words echoed in Amelia’s ears. She shivered.

      As if he could read her mind, he nodded, such a brief gesture she might have imagined it, then his wide, straight mouth tilted slightly at one corner. He saluted her again and lifted his glass to his lips.

      A hand touched her shoulder.

      She started.

      “Amelia. You’re jumpy tonight,” a familiar gravelly voice said.

      “Uncle Marvin, you sneaked up on me.” Amelia smiled at her father’s friend and mentor. Marvin Smith wasn’t her uncle, but he’d been like a father to her dad after his parents died.

      “How are you doing?”

      Marvin sighed. “I’ll be fine when the town is back to normal. Is your dad around?”

      She shook her head, ignoring the beguiling urge to look back in the direction of the gray-eyed stranger. “He’s at home, still recovering from that flu bug. I wouldn’t let him come. Mrs. Winston is keeping him supplied with chicken soup and hot tea.”

      Marvin shook his grizzled head. “Is he going to be able to meet with those people tomorrow?”

      Amelia almost smiled at the derision in his voice. Those people were a highly respected maritime organization who wanted to commission a fleet of fishing vessels from Hopkins Yachts.

      “He’ll be ready,” she said airily. She wanted so badly to tell Uncle Marvin about her dad’s illness, but Reginald Hopkins wasn’t willing to let anyone know about his heart attack and his resulting inability to design a new yacht. Not even his beloved mentor.

      She looked at her watch. “I need to get home. We’re getting up at six o’clock to make the trip into Bangor for the meeting.”

      Marvin’s thick brows drew down as he scowled. “Well, tell Reg to take his medicine and I’ll see him soon.”

      Medicine. “Oh, no! I forgot.”

      She reached around Carrie and set her mug on the bar. “I’ve got to find Frank. I was supposed to pick up a prescription refill this afternoon.”

      “Frank’s still at his shop.” Marvin jerked a thumb toward the south. “I saw him in there just a little while ago. He said he had a couple more prescriptions to fill before he turned in.”

      “Great. I’ll see you later, Uncle Marvin.” She put a hand on each of her friends’ shoulders. “Girls, I’ve got to run to the pharmacy before I go home. I’ll talk to you two tomorrow, okay?”

      “Amelia, wait!” Rita stood and caught her forearm. “The midnight fireworks show is going to be better than the earlier one. Stay and watch it with us.”

      “I can’t. I’ll see it from the cliff house.” Amelia gave Rita a hug and pressed her cheek against Carrie’s. “Have a good time.”

      She glanced at her watch as she pushed through the crowd. Eleven-thirty. The street was packed with people waiting for the fireworks. Tired children drooped in their laughing parents’ arms. Teens and adults alike filled the air with the din of noisemakers and whistles, and even some of the town’s most prominent citizens sloshed beer and shouted welcome to tourists.

      Looking down the street, she saw lights in the pharmacy’s window. Thank goodness Frank was still working. He usually closed up at 9:00 p.m. She supposed he’d stayed open because of the festival.

      Her dad was completely out of his arrhythmia medication. If she didn’t get his prescription tonight, neither of them would make the meeting tomorrow. He couldn’t miss a single dose, or his heart would start beating too fast to pump blood. And without blood flow to his heart, he’d die.

      COLE ROBINSON SET his half-full beer mug down on the table. Amelia Hopkins had left The Pub. He’d seen her mahogany-colored hair swinging as the heavy wood door closed behind her.

      “Hold it, Robinson,” his tablemate growled. “Where d’ya think you’re going? You haven’t finished your beer.”

      “None of your business,” he growled right back. “I’ll see you later.”

      “The excitement’s just about to get started. We’re supposed to be ready to—you know, as soon as the fireworks start. Leader said so.”

      Cole pulled the brim of his cap down. “Yeah? Well he gave me my own orders.”

      “Your own—?”

      Cole pushed past another couple of sailors and headed out the door. He ducked his head and stuck his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket. Hunching his shoulders, he tried to appear inches shorter than his six-feet-two as he glanced up and down the street.

      He’d been in town two days, following Amelia Hopkins, getting to know her habits. He’d already figured out she was a workaholic.

      She’d spent at least twenty-four hours of the past forty-eight down at the boatyard below the architectural phenomenon that was Reginald Hopkins’s house. The locals called

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