The Harbor

Twenty-Six

Christina wouldn't let them in. She'd locked the café door and was down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a bristle brush. Zoe pounded on the door. "Chris! Come on. I know you're upset about something Luke said."

She didn't respond at once. Zoe, more worried than annoyed, gave her a chance to collect herself. Christina didn't like to be pushed. Finally, she got up and unlocked the door, then turned away quickly, dropping her brush into her bucket so hard, water and suds splashed out.

Zoe had seen her tears but wasn't sure J.B. had. The café smelled of cleaning detergent and looked as if it'd been scrubbed from corner to corner. Christina was on a tear.

"Chris?" Zoe's voice was gentle, and she approached her sister slowly, reaching out one hand tentatively, as if Chris might bite it. "What's wrong? What happened with you and Luke?"

"Oh, that's not important." Her back was rigid as she stared into her cleaning bucket, fat locks of hair hanging in front of her face. "I heard you were shot at. That's much more important than anything I've been through."

Zoe heard the hurt in her voice, the fear, recognized that Christina wasn't being bitter or sarcastic but trying to put into perspective whatever had happened to her. Zoe didn't move, didn't touch her. " Shelton wasn't shooting at me, Chris. I'm fine. He shot over my head to drop me in my tracks and give himself a chance to escape. He'd stumbled on Kyle-"

"That's right. My sneak of a no-good boyfriend."

Christina whirled around, her apron dripping, her ruffled blouse soaked up to the elbows. Her face was raw and red from crying. But she didn't seem to notice. She was focused only on Zoe. "Why did you come back? Maybe the first break-in was nothing-just someone looking for silver."

"Chris, we don't know that Teddy Shelton has anything-"

She refused to listen. "Kyle-Kyle never would have sneaked into Aunt Olivia's attic if you'd shown any interest at all in what he's doing. Now-" She spun back around and gave her bucket a kick, more water splashing out on the floor. "Now his own father thinks he was involved somehow in Dad's death. That bastard."

"Is that what you believe?" Zoe asked quietly. "That Kyle was involved?"

"No! How could you suggest such a thing?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm asking. Because if you don't believe it-"

Christina faced her sister again, her gray eyes dark with emotion. "I don't believe it."

"What about Kyle? Does he know his father thinks-"

"Of course. He must."

"Have you asked him?"

She shook her head. "The two of them are hard to figure out. I've quit trying." Her voice was hoarse but calmer, some of the fight gone out of her. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's afraid Luke had something to do with Dad's death, if the two of them aren't trying to protect-" But she didn't finish, squeezed back tears. "I can't-Zoe, can you understand? Can you understand that I just don't want to think about it anymore? I don't want it to be a part of me anymore. Dad's murder. Aunt Olivia. The whole mess."

Zoe nodded. "I can understand."

"I'm sorry." She spat it out, then softened. "I know it's not your fault."

"Where's Kyle now?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him. I'm sure he's feeling stupid and inadequate over what happened with you and Teddy Shelton. I'll finish up here and go look for him." She cleared her throat, quickly stepped out of a puddle she'd made, apparently not realizing she'd been standing in it all along. "What about your car?"

"We found it," Zoe said without explanation.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? One thing, anyway."

Christina attempted a smile, but it faded quickly. "Maybe we're letting Shelton spin us around until we're all nuts, and none of this has anything to do with who killed Dad."

"That's possible. We'll just have to see."

J.B. stepped forward, steering clear of the wet spots on the floor. "Let us help you finish up here," he said quietly.

Christina looked at the mess she'd made and peeled off her dripping apron, dropping it in a puddle on the floor and swirling it around with her toe like a makeshift mop. She smiled at them through her tears. "Sure. Mops and sponges are out back."

Bruce Young materialized in the doorway. "This'll be fun. I want to see an FBI agent mop a floor." His natural good humor seemed to infuse the place with positive vibes, and he walked right in and tugged on Christina's long, messy braid. "You okay, kiddo? You look like shit."

"Now I feel great, Bruce. Thanks." She rolled her eyes at him, but smiled.

He turned to Zoe. "Crappy day?"

"You could say that."

Bruce acknowledged her words with a rare display of seriousness. "Teddy didn't kill your dad. I'd bet both my boats on that, Zoe. He's just your basic meat."

J.B. retreated to the back room, got a sponge mop and a bunch of rags, returned and shoved the rags at Bruce. "Swab up some of this water.You ought to be good at that."

"Aye-aye, Captain. Hell, you armed? Were you wearing that thing last night at Perry's? No way am I playing darts with you if you've got a goddamn gun. It's loaded?"

J.B. ignored him and started mopping the floor. Christina shivered in her wet blouse but seemed more cheerful. Bruce pulled off his Carhartt and slipped it over her shoulders, and she murmured her thanks.

Zoe noticed Betsy O'Keefe down on the docks by herself and decided to try to talk to her without the FBI standing next to her. Not that Luke's rudeness was J.B.'s fault-Luke was going to be difficult with or without J.B. there.She started backing toward the door, but J.B. pointed his mop at her. "Uh-uh. You're staying put." Bruce grinned. "Whoa, the FBI has spoken. Zoe? Were you intending to give Agent McGrath the slip?" "Bruce, I swear I don't know why your father didn't throw you overboard when you were six." "Because he knew you at six and figured you'd need someone to give you a hard time when you were thirty."

Zoe could have taken that answer and run with it, but she directed her attention at J.B. "Betsy's down on the docks. I want to talk to her. Two minutes."

He nodded. "Stay in sight."

It wasn't so much an order as a reminder to use common sense. She'd been shot at once today, Teddy Shelton was still on the loose and J.B. was armed. And Zoe had a lot on her mind. J.B. would see that.

Christina stepped back onto a dry section of floor. "She's just trying to get out of helping." But she sniffled at her sister, and the earlier tension between them might never have existed. "You want me to go with you?"

"If you think it'd help," Zoe said.

"It could."

Bruce dropped the rags into the puddle of water. "I meant what I said. Teddy's a meat. He's impulsive. He doesn't think things through. But he's not bright enough to get away with murder." Bruce sighed heavily, working at the rags with his toes. "Don't you wish you knew whose side he's on?"

J.B. squeezed out his mop. "I'm not sure it matters."

"Yeah. A friend kills you, you're just as dead." Zoe touched Christina's shoulder. "Let's go."

"Tell that little fuck son of yours to stay out of my way." Teddy, parked in an out-of-the-way corner of the salt marsh south of the lobster pound, spoke in as low and deadly a voice as he could manage. He wanted to scare the hell out of Luke Castellane. Enough was enough. "He sneaks up on me again, he'll be lucky to live."

Luke was remarkably calm. "My son is an artist. He doesn't think the way you do."

"No shit."

"I didn't call to ask you to defend your actions. Our work together is done. I've already told Zoe, the FBI agent and the Goose Harbor police that I've fired you."

"That right?"

"That's right." There was that cool, snot-nosed tone again.

Teddy didn't know how long he had before the cops picked up his trail, but he wasn't letting Luke get the upper hand, take control. "I suppose now you want me to get out of town."

Luke sniffed. "It makes no difference to me, but I imagine it would be the prudent thing for you to do."

" Gooseshit Harbor. Yeah, I'd love to clear out. Last night, I smack the hell out of your jackass kid. Today, I smack the hell out of your jackass kid. What's his problem? Why's he always in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"You also shot at a former police officer."

"'Former' is a key word, don't you think?" Teddy stared out at the marsh, pretty even with the gray light and clouds. "What about maintaining the status quo? I thought that was worth a bonus-"

"Goodbye, Mr. Shelton. I'm sorry our association had to end this way. There will be no bonus."

Click.

Done. The ax had fallen.

Teddy had the Goose Harbor police, the Maine State Police, the Maine Marine Patrol, an FBI agent, an ex-cop and who knew else all out looking for him. And Luke, that rich puke, was in the clear. But he must have figured out another way to exercise control over events and make sure Patrick West's murder stayed unsolved.

Or maybe he wasn't worried about that anymore.

It was nothing to Teddy. He'd never given a damn about the Castellanes. Didn't now. The bonuses would have been nice, but he had to remember he was in Goose Harbor for one reason and one reason only-that regal bastard, Judge Steven Stickney Monroe.

Betsy extricated herself from her conversation with the West sisters as quickly as she could, too upset and on edge to trust herself not to lash out at them because of her own volatile emotions. They didn't seem to notice. They merely asked if she'd seen Kyle since he'd left Olivia's house after he'd talked with the police.

Betsy assured them she hadn't. She'd noticed the crude bandage on Zoe's wrist and shuddered at the thought of Teddy Shelton shooting at her-the thought of him possibly almost killing Kyle, of Luke being mixed up with a thug like that. Why didn't the two Castellane men understand how much she cared about them?

Zoe said she and J. B. McGrath had been to see Luke. Betsy didn't mention their argument. She didn't know if he'd forgiven her, but she'd forgiven him. He was upset because of his ridiculous, irrational fear that his son was somehow involved in Patrick West's death.

She promised Zoe and Christina if she saw Kyle, she'd tell him they were looking for him.

As she walked back to the yacht, Betsy found herself feeling sympathy for Luke, wanting to reassure him. No one should have to endure such groundless fears and suspicions. Given his unyielding hypochondria, the anxiety behind it, she guessed that he must have seized on any inkling he had about Kyle and blew it all out of proportion, the way he did a sniffle or a spot that anyone else would dismiss.

She was almost to the boat when Kyle approached her. She grimaced at his bruises and pale, grayish skin. He'd had enough shocks to last him for a long, long time. "I saw my dad. He says he's leaving tomorrow. Alone. Just him and his crew."

"We had an argument," Betsy said.

"Betsy-" Kyle shook his head, looking pained. "Never mind."

She bit down on her lower lip. "You don't think he ever meant to take me with him, do you?"

"He's an odd duck. You knew that going in."

She smiled sadly. "And aren't you relieved you're not like him? Christina West adores you because of it. The romantic, creative artist misunderstood by his difficult, philistine father-"

"All that's true, but he'd do anything for me." Kyle's voice was quiet, surprisingly mature, self-aware. "I know that."

"Do you really?" Betsy continued toward Luke's yacht, feeling steadier on her feet now. "I suppose having your father out of Goose Harbor will make it easier for you to continue your work on your documentary. He won't hinder your access to the Wests." She paused, realized the air didn't feel as cold anymore as she looked at this young man she'd known since he was a baby. "That's why you're seeing Christina, isn't it? Because she's Olivia's niece?"

"No, of course not."

"She's a good girl, Kyle. She's got simple desires. Don't use her to fulfill your own ambitions. Think about her and what she wants."

"I am. Don't worry, Betsy." He flashed her a smile, handsome and rakish even with his split lip and black eye. "You're a good soul, aren't you? Worrying I'm the rich bastard who's swept the naive small-town girl off her feet."

Betsy couldn't help herself and smiled at him. "You're awfully full of yourself, Kyle Castellane, and you always have been. You used to stand out on the dock and pee in the harbor when your mum was trying to potty-train you. We all should have known then."

He grinned at her. "That's where I have to give my old man credit. He didn't beat me for anything, not even peeing in the harbor."

Everyone in Goose Harbor knew Luke'd had terrible parents, and yet he acted as if he'd had a loving and privileged childhood, pretended the abuse he'd endured wasn't just his private hell but something that had never happened at all.

However good his intentions, Betsy doubted Kyle's relationship with Christina would last after he finished his documentary. She was part of that obsession now. In time he'd move on to a new one and forget what it was that had attracted him to her in the first place. It wasn't that he wasn't sincere-Betsy didn't doubt he loved Christina. But after his documentary, he'd move on to a new obsession, a new love, as impossible as that would seem to him now if she mentioned it.

He didn't join her on his father's boat but retreated back toward the café and his apartment.

Luke was out on the afterdeck, a surprise given the damp weather. "Mind if I come aboard?" Betsy asked softly.

"You still have to get your things."

She pushed back the hurt and joined him. He got up suddenly. "Come with me."

He took her below to the smallest of the staterooms, where he had his gun cabinet. He unlocked it silently, punching in the code to the alarm. He'd shown Betsy his modest but very expensive firearms collection once before, but she didn't care anything about guns. Luke could have guns or not have guns. It didn't matter to her. She'd never owned one, had never touched one. Since he was so meticulous about everything else, she assumed he had the proper permits. She'd never known him to shoot any of his weapons, on a firing range or in self-defense.

"The police haven't released any information they have-or don't have-on the weapon that killed Patrick West." He spoke calmly, swinging the glass-and-wood door open. "I don't know what ballistics evidence they have. The bullet could have hit bone and shattered, or it could have been dug out of him relatively intact, in which case it could tell them a great deal."

Betsy could feel her pulse throbbing in her temple. "The police would want to keep that kind of information under close wraps, wouldn't they? They wouldn't want the killer to know what they had on him. That's the way it's done, isn't it?"

Luke nodded. "To be honest, I don't know that much about ballistics or investigative procedures." He spoke calmly, clinically, but she had no idea why he was telling her these things, why he'd taken her down here. "I assume if they can get hold of the actual murder weapon, they can match it to the bullet. If they have one, of course. Short of that-well, I don't know."

"Luke. What's going on?"

He gestured at his collection. "I own two hunting rifles and six handguns, including two antiques. I sold a handgun to Teddy Shelton last September, not one of my six."

"That's legal, isn't it?"

"In this case, no. Teddy's a convicted felon. I didn't know at the time. Stick Monroe mentioned it. He doesn't know about the sale. There were other prob-lems-paperwork-"

"Is Teddy-" Betsy's lips were so dry. "Is Teddy blackmailing you?"

"No. He's a true gun nut, the kind who gives responsible gun owners-well, I don't know if I can say I'm responsible anymore. Look at what I've done. But Teddy's only interested in the weapons themselves." Luke sighed, his color off. "That's not why I brought you here. Count the handguns, Betsy."

"Luke-"

His eyes leveled on her. "Count them. Please. I want you to understand."

She did as he asked. "Five, Luke." She could hear her own breathlessness. "There are only five handguns here. You said you had six."

"I'm a health nut. I exercise and watch what I eat. I'm a control freak in a thousand different ways. I know that about myself." His tone was quiet and intense, but still unruffled, as if he were discussing a weather report. "What I am not is paranoid about other people, especially my friends and family. I don't know why-I probably should be, given my upbringing. But I have faith in them. I believe in them."

He'd never once, in their months together, referred to his childhood negatively, or to other people so positively. Betsy found she couldn't speak. Who was this man? She knew now she didn't have a clue.

Luke swallowed, looking vulnerable, ashen. "After Patrick's death last year, I discovered the missing gun. It's a Colt Python.357 revolver. It's a fine weapon."

"How long after Chief West was killed?"

"The next day. After I heard Olivia had died. I don't even remember why I checked."

"Did you report it?"

He shook his head. "No."

Betsy was silent. Her stomach ached.

"Now it's too late," he said.

She nodded. "I-I understand."

"No, you don't. You think I'm covering up for my son. I'm not. Betsy, I don't believe Kyle killed Patrick West. I never believed it."

"But you were worried the police would."

"I was worried Zoe would find out and kill him."

"Luke!"

He closed up the cabinet and locked it. "She wouldn't have. I see that now, but at the time, I was as caught up in the drama as everyone else."

She thought of the payments to Stick Monroe. "What about Stick?"

"He knows about the stolen gun. He knows I didn't report the theft to police. I should have, especially when I knew it could have been the weapon used in Patrick's murder. I paid Stick for his silence. Cash. He wouldn't take it-he says he's retired and has no intention of ratting out a friend. But I insisted. I don't know what he does with it. Tosses it in the ocean for all I know."

"He's not-you don't consider that blackmail, do you?"

Luke shook his head sadly, his disappointment palpable, as if he'd hoped she'd have figured it out by now, understood him after all. "No, Betsy. I consider it an act of friendship."

To pay a man for his silence? Betsy didn't get that. But she supposed that was Luke's whole point. That she didn't get it, didn't get him.

"Once I realized the Python was gone," Luke went on, "I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat. I was terrified that a gun I owned, legally, for the most innocuous of reasons, would end up being the murder weapon, not only in Patrick's death-"

"But someone else's," Betsy said. "You hired Teddy because you were afraid the murderer was getting ready to strike again."

Luke shut the gun cabinet and reset the alarm. "I still am."