Close to the Bone

8

After lunch with Henry, Cate drove to Stan Irish’s home.

She had recognized the address. There was no need for her to use GPS on the island because she had a permanent road map in her head. Stan’s location was among a string of rural farms halfway between the town of North Sound and Harlot Harbor. As she drove she called Daphne Conan, Becca’s mother. Missing the ease of the Bluetooth connection in her vehicle back home, she wore earbuds with a mic.

As the phone rang, her mind drifted back to the lunch she’d enjoyed with Henry Powers, and she acknowledged that something subtle yet electric had started between them. To her surprise, she wanted more. That thought stewed in her brain for a long moment. An attractive, smart man. Why not? A smile curved her lips. Her recovery time on the island was becoming more than she’d expected.

“This is Daphne.”

“Hi, Daphne. My name is Cate Wilde, and I’m a special—”

“I’ve been expecting your call, Agent Wilde. Rex called me this morning.” The woman’s tone implied that Cate had waited too long to call. “Do you know if you found Becca?” Her voice cracked on her daughter’s name.

“We haven’t been able to confirm yet. The ferry has been down—”

“You don’t need to explain. I lived there for several years. Things always move slower on island time and then come to a grinding halt when the ferries break down. I assume your forensic specialists are on the mainland.”

Cate exhaled. “Exactly.”

“A county deputy sent a photo of a jacket and bracelet that were found with the remains. I didn’t recognize either one.” Plates clinked in the background. “This makes me think it isn’t her.”

“We’ll have a definitive answer for you as soon as possible,” Cate said, hating the vagueness of her statement. No matter how much she wanted to, it would be wrong to share Henry’s strong suspicions based on the teeth.

Daphne’s laugh was forced. “I see nothing has changed in how FBI agents speak to grieving parents.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Conan. I wish we had results already.” Cate cleared her throat. “I wanted to ask you about Dustin—”

“He’s a sneaky little shit.”

Cate blinked at Daphne’s bitter tone. “Can you clarify what you mean by that?”

“Several times I caught him stealing our booze during his visits. He was underage. I had some small jewelry pieces and expensive pens disappear too.”

“Oh.” Cate wondered why Daphne had allowed him to drive Becca around if she didn’t trust him.

“His parents let him run wild. He got fired and was prosecuted for stealing from his employer here in New York. He still owes them a lot of money.” She snorted. “Rex was the only one who would give him a job. He always had a soft spot for Dustin.”

“You think it was a mistake for Rex to hire him?”

The line went silent. “Not exactly,” she finally said. “I’m glad Rex isn’t alone in that behemoth of a house, even if it is with that pissant nephew. And I smile when I think of Dustin stuck there on the island. I’m sure it’s a prison for him. He thought of himself as a bit of a player here in New York.” Her laugh was a cackle. “Now he’s a player with no one to show off to except fish and those tiny deer.”

Cate smiled in spite of herself. “He wasn’t in town when Becca disappeared, correct?”

Daphne sighed. “He wasn’t. And even though he was a self-centered little jerk, I think he enjoyed his older-brother role with Becca. Your next question is if I think he’d hurt her, and the answer is no.”

Cate scrambled for another question. “I’m surprised you and Rex are still married,” she said. “Many marriages wouldn’t survive.”

“I still love my husband, Agent Wilde.” Daphne’s voice had softened. “The loss of Becca has changed both of us, and I hope once we have an answer that he’ll return to the man he used to be. If he knows what happened to Becca, I think he’ll be able to leave that giant house.”

Remembering the author’s comment about feeling empty off the island, Cate wondered if that was possible.

“Investigators always ask about money—I’ve had a lot of interviews since Becca vanished,” Daphne continued. “They want to know if we stay married for financial reasons. I’ve been Rex’s literary agent for nearly thirty years. Our relationship started as a working one, and I could divorce him tomorrow and be very comfortable.”

The two women spoke for a minute longer before Cate ended the call. Daphne had been more forthcoming than she’d expected. She mulled over the quick conversation.

Dustin owes money?

Daphne had shared the name of his angry employer. Could there be a connection between the missing girl and her cousin who owed money? Becca had disappeared two years ago. It was a stretch, but she’d call the employer anyway. It spoke to Dustin’s character.

Cate slowed her vehicle, checking address numbers on posts along the side of the road. Stan Irish’s address was on a prominent sign. HOME OF THE CHEERFUL COWS WHO CREATE WIDOW’S ICE CREAMERY ORGANIC ICE CREAM.

“Ice cream, cows, and sex offenders,” she muttered as she took a hard right onto the dirt road that led to the dairy farm. The rough road passed between two pastures dotted with cows. How do you recognize a cheerful cow? They all looked bored.

A hundred yards later she spotted multiple corrals attached to a low, long barn. Off to the right sat a small ranch home with an ancient VW van and a large Ford pickup in front. She parked between a corral and the van, amused at the hundreds of stickers that decorated the van’s back. Many were faded and peeling, looking almost as old as the van. Several said Widow’s Ice Creamery: Organic Bliss.

Cate didn’t hate the tagline.

Getting out of her vehicle, she noticed she was the subject of curious examination by two cows as they poked their noses through the railings. She patted their fuzzy heads, avoiding the wet noses. Here were the cheerful cows the sign promised. The cows appeared sincerely interested in her, following every move with large brown eyes.

Reluctantly leaving her fans, she walked up to the small house, and her stomach started to spin. She frowned, wondering if something had been wrong with her burger. The nausea grew stronger as she moved up the stairs to the porch. Do I need to go home?

She took a deep breath, feeling sweat start to prickle under her arms. Underneath her coat she was burning up. I’ll talk to him quickly and go.

Confusion swamped her brain, and her hand seemed to lift in slow motion to knock on the door.

My fist. Rapping on the wood.

Her vision tunneled as fear slammed into her.

Shots. Blood. Stephen.

It’d been a small home and porch just like this one. No worries. A simple interview.

Which had ended in Stephen’s death.

The door opened before she could knock again, and reality stopped her from spiraling into a full-blown panic attack.

A tall, smiling man stood in the door. No gun. Not threatening.

Her panic receded a little further.

That’s him. She’d checked Stan Irish’s driver’s license photo. He wore a cap with the name of his dairy farm, a rough work jacket, and rubber boots, clearly on his way to get some work done. His smile was infectious and felt genuine. Maybe it’s the owner who makes the cows cheerful.

“Good afternoon. What can I do for you?” His voice was surprisingly high pitched for such a large man.

The lilt in his voice slowed her heart rate, and her world came into focus.

“Stan Irish?” she croaked.

“That’s me.” Still smiling.

Trying to hide her measured breathing, she showed her ID. “I’m Special Agent Cate Wilde. I have a few questions for you.”

The smile vanished. “What happened?”

“We’re reinvestigating the disappearance of Becca Conan.”

“The author’s daughter. I heard about it when I moved here.” He took a deep breath. “And you’re here because I’m registered.” His eyes were flat, emotionless.

“Standard procedure,” Cate said, watching him carefully for signs of anger or attack. “When exactly did you move to Widow’s?”

“The August after she vanished. People were still talking about it.”

“You own an ice cream shop?”

“Yeah. In Bishopton. Gets good tourist traffic from the ferries in the summer.”

“Did the ice cream shop open that August too?”

He gave her an odd look. “No, opening a business takes time. I came here in August on a whim from South Carolina, with a goal of getting as far away from that state as possible. I had no idea what I was going to do when I arrived, but I knew right away I wanted to stay. I’m close to the end of my ten years, but I’ve wasted too much time feeling sorry for myself. When I realized there wasn’t a decent ice cream shop on the island, I decided to make it happen. Widow’s Ice Creamery didn’t open until last spring.”

Cate knew the ten years referred to the time period that he was required to register as a sex offender. That meant he’d been around twenty-seven when he was convicted. She’d read his history. He’d claimed he hadn’t known the girl was under eighteen; her mother had said otherwise.

She was mostly satisfied that Stan hadn’t been on the island before his permanent move. She’d dig up his rental and employment records to confirm.

“What’s going on?”

Cate turned around to see a young woman tromping up the steps.

Very young.

She wore rubber overalls with boots and a jacket like Stan’s, looking as if she’d been mucking out the barn. Her wavy blonde hair was divided into low ponytails, and her wide-set brown eyes were curious. She had a dirt smudge on one cheek.

“I’m Cate Wilde. I had some questions for Stan about when he started his ice creamery.” The girl’s young appearance made Cate curb her full explanation.

“I’m Clover. The ice creamery has been open since last spring.” The girl moved next to Stan, and the scent of marijuana floated by Cate. “Have you been there?”

“Not yet. I haven’t been to Bishopton in a while.”

Clover nodded in understanding. “It’s for tourists.”

“Do you live here?” Cate asked the girl. Stan was silent, entranced by Clover. He likes them young.

“Yeah. Stan gave me a job when the shop opened. It was love at first sight.” She took his hand and returned the enamored gaze.

She looks young enough to be his daughter.

“I convinced him we needed our own cows so we’d know exactly what went into the ice cream. That’s when we started the dairy.”

“It was a good idea,” Stan agreed. “We actually make more from selling the organic milk than from the ice cream.”

“But the ice cream shop is more fun,” Clover chimed in. She looked at Cate. “I’m working on a tequila-and-lime ice cream recipe. A little salt makes it incredible.”

“Ummm . . . how old are you?” Cate couldn’t hold back the question.

Clover scowled. “I’m twenty. I don’t drink the tequila. I just make stuff with it.”

That wasn’t my point. At least the relationship is legal. Still . . . he’s thirty-six.

“That ice cream sounds . . . interesting.”

Clover’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “I’m trying a whole line of flavors based on cocktails.” She winked. “I’ve tried adding pot, but I can’t get it to work right.”

“Maybe make an extract?” Did I just say that?

She screwed up her face in thought. “Yeah . . .”

“It was nice meeting you. I wish you continued luck with your business,” Cate said to Stan. He could explain her visit to Clover. Cate didn’t have the heart to tell the flower child the real purpose.

On the drive home, she imagined a life where she only worried about ice cream and cows.

It sounded peaceful.

The craving for ice cream was enough to make Cate take a long detour to Bishopton.

Besides, she was curious about a business where someone like Clover took a primary role.

It was almost dark as her vehicle followed the road’s forested switchbacks nearly down to sea level. The little town of Bishopton spread to the east of the ferry station. Clover was right that the town was for tourists. The lucky business owners who had shops close to the ferry station were guaranteed a booming summer business, which helped carry them financially through the slow winter. The islanders who lived along the east coast of the island shopped in Bishopton year-round; otherwise Cate would expect most of the businesses to close for the season.

The ferry dock looked lonely without a huge ferry in port. During the winter the ferry came every other day, and during the summer it made two trips a day, dumping tourists on the island. Cate slowly drove through Bishopton. Admittedly it was a cute and charming town. Wooden sidewalks, homey storefronts, and well-maintained landscaping. She spotted the ice creamery tucked between two larger buildings and easily veered into a street parking spot. An impossible maneuver during the summer high season.

Pleased the store was still open, Cate stepped inside and started as she recognized the waiter and waitress from The Little Garden. They held hands as they peered into the ice cream case. The tall, gaunt man and the smaller, curvy waitress made an amusing sight. Behind the counter, a bored teenage boy waited patiently for the couple to make up their minds. Cate scanned the board of flavors. All the basics were available, but she assumed Clover’s influence added the odd ones. White chocolate curry, buttered popcorn, sweet corn with basil, and avocado mint chip.

“Oh . . . hello!” Naomi had spotted Cate, and her cheeks plumped as she grinned.

“Hi, Naomi . . . Milton,” Cate said and smiled. “I’m Cate, by the way.”

“Cate is the one who asked me about police activity,” Naomi explained to Milton, who nodded solemnly. “I started asking around, and sure enough, it turns out they found bones on Ruby’s Island!” she whispered loudly, gazing from Cate to Milton. “Pam at Shiny Objects had all the details.” Her eyes glowed as she shared the gossip. Milton sighed and gave Cate a one-shouldered shrug, no doubt used to Naomi’s chatter.

“That’s what I heard too,” Cate said, enjoying her incognito role.

“Do you know what they did with the bones?” Naomi asked in the same loud whisper.

The teen employee pulled out his phone and leaned against the back counter, seeing his chatty customers weren’t ready to order.

“Ummm . . . I heard the coroner has them and will get them to the mainland when the ferry is back.” Cate tried to look as excited about the gossip as Naomi. It wasn’t possible. “Have you heard any rumors about who it is or what happened?”

“Well,” Naomi stated with authority. “That author who lives on the island . . . his daughter has been missing for a few years.” She leaned closer to Cate, her eyes animated. “He’s a loner, rarely leaves the island. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done something to her . . . or that nephew of his. I don’t like him at all.”

“What’s wrong with the nephew?” Cate whispered conspiratorially.

“His credit card was declined at the restaurant, and ohhhhh, you should have seen how angry he was. You’d think I’d done it on purpose.”

“He is a spoiled jerk.” Milton spoke for the first time, still sounding as formal as when Cate had met him that afternoon.

Naomi nodded enthusiastically. “Milton had to escort him out.”

“Are you going to order?” the teen asked, still on his phone, his thumbs tapping rapidly.

Naomi and Milton turned back to the counter, and Cate exhaled. Acting was hard. The couple ordered a vanilla and a normal mint chip cone. They said—Naomi said—goodbye to Cate as they left. Cate stepped forward and eyed the small tubs behind the glass. This would be her dinner. “A scoop of white chocolate curry.”

“That’s the best,” the teen mumbled as he scooped it up.

Driving home, with one hand on the steering wheel as she ate her cone, Cate agreed.