Читать книгу On Fire - Carla Neggers, Carla Neggers - Страница 8

L ou Dorrman tied up his boat and tossed Riley’s pink kayak onto Emile’s dock. She thanked him, hoping he’d make short work of dropping her off, then head back to the island. But he climbed out onto the dock after her. He was the local sheriff, a paunchy, gray-haired, no-nonsense cop who’d said for years that John Straker would come to a bad end. Someone was bound to shoot him, run him over or beat him senseless. That a body had turned up on the island where he was recuperating was no surprise to Lou Dorrman.

That Riley was there, too, obviously troubled him. He glowered at her. “What’re you doing hanging around John Straker?”

Her teeth chattered. The fog had burned off, leaving behind a warm, sunny afternoon, but she couldn’t stop shivering. It was nerves and dehydration—and the lingering, horrible image of the man she’d found on the rocks. Straker had made her put on an overshirt after the police had arrived. She’d had to roll up the sleeves about six times to get them to her wrists. The heavyweight chamois smelled of sawdust and salt water.

“I was having a picnic,” she said.

Dorrman nodded without understanding. “Hell of a picnic.”

“Do you have any clues about the body—who it was—”

“Not yet. There was no identification on him. The medical examiner will do an autopsy. We should know more soon.”

Riley thought she saw something in his eyes. “What is it, Sheriff?”

“Nothing. We have to do this one step at a time.” He shifted, eyeing her with a measure of sympathy. “You going to be okay? I imagine Emile’s out and about somewhere. I’ll have to round him up before too long, seeing how that’s his island.”

Last summer, it was Bennett Granger and four members of the Encounter crew. This summer…a dead body on Labreque Island. Riley pushed back the nightmare, the familiar sense of unease. “I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.” She still couldn’t stop shivering. “Sheriff, you don’t think Straker had anything to do with this, do you? I know he was shot six months ago—Emile said it had to do with domestic terrorism.”

“Domestic terrorism. Hell, that’s FBI talk. Let’s just take this one step at a time, okay? You’ll be around awhile?”

“I’m supposed to head back to Boston tonight. I have to be at work tomorrow. I was planning to visit my mother and sister in Camden on the way. I gave your deputy numbers where you can reach me.”

“All right. Go ahead. I’ll let you know if CID has any other ideas.” CID was the Criminal Investigation Division of the Maine State Police; Straker had already explained they’d handle the investigation. Dorrman cuffed her on the shoulder. “Rough day, kid. Put it behind you.”

While he sped back across the bay, Riley half carried, half dragged her kayak up to Emile’s cottage, its dark-stained wood blending into the surrounding spruce-fir forest. This was his home now, not just his periodic getaway. It hadn’t changed in years. She welcomed the familiarity of the smells and sounds, even the exposed pine roots in the path as she returned the kayak to the attached shed.

Her legs almost gave out on her, as if she were climbing Mount Katahdin instead of a few porch steps. She collapsed onto an old Adirondack chair. The wind had shifted. There wasn’t even a hint of fog in the clear September air. It was cool up on the porch, out of the sun, which only made her shivering worse.

Emile’s door was shut tight. She doubted he’d have heard the news yet. She felt acid crawl up her throat at the unbidden images of bloated flesh, pesky gulls swooping down on the hapless body.

She sprang up out of the chair. “I should have skipped that stupid picnic.”

Then Straker could have found the body on his own. Or the sea could have had it back. She struggled with the same disconcerting feeling of helplessness she’d experienced at her first whale and dolphin strandings when she was a teenager volunteering on a rescue and recovery team. Their mission was to end the suffering of animals beyond help, get the healthy ones out to sea before they died on the beaches and treat the injured, taking them back to the center for rehabilitation and, whenever possible, their eventual return to the wild. Now it was her team—but she would never get used to the death and suffering.

The man on the beach had been long past suffering.

She decided to leave Emile a note. Sympathy, commiseration, allaying her fears, venting—such niceties wouldn’t occur to him. He would expect her to continue on to Camden and Boston. He wasn’t heartless; he was simply oblivious. The urge to share her woes with him arose more from the shock of the moment than any rational reasoning on her part. She’d arrived too late to do the man on the rocks any good, and now her experience felt unfinished, as if she should do more, know more.

Would Straker dismiss the dead man and resume his isolated island life without a second thought?

She found Emile’s spare key on the windowsill and let herself in. Even less rational than wanting to cry on Emile’s shoulder was trying to get into John Straker’s mind. Time to get her things and be on her way.

But when she set off, she ended up on the side street above the village harbor, where Straker’s parents lived in a serviceable house that was at once home, shop and project. It had been in a constant state of flux for as long as Riley could remember, with gardens going in and coming out and discarded house innards piling up in the yard as various rooms underwent renovation. The glassed-in front porch served as a catchall for yard sale findings Straker’s mother planned to fix up. She was clever at fixing things up, even if she tended to underestimate the time she would require. Summer people and locals alike employed her talents in furniture restoration and upholstery—they just knew not to expect quick results.

John Straker, Sr., was a lobsterman, his pots piled up outside the garage. It was a hard, good life, and if he regretted not having his son around to share it, he would never let an outsider like Riley St. Joe know about it.

She went around back, and Linda Straker called her into her cluttered kitchen, where she was elbow deep in one of her craft projects. She had an unlit cigarette tucked between her lips. She was a strong, stubborn, imaginative woman with hair that frequently changed color—today it was brunette—and a few extra pounds on her hips.

Her son had inherited her gray eyes. They settled on Riley. “You’re here about that dead body?”

“You heard.”

“Not much happens around here I don’t hear about. Where’s Emile?”

“I don’t know. On the nature preserve, I expect. I’m on my way back to Boston.” Riley dropped into a chair; she felt awkward, as if she were twelve again and Mrs. Straker would offer her a glass of Kool-Aid. “Actually, I’m not sure why I stopped by.”

“Because you’re afraid that body’s got something to do with my son and it’s going to come back and bite you in the behind.” She took a breath, made a pretend drag on her cigarette. Her eyes were serious, experienced. “It could, you know.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s the way it’s been with John since he saw the light of day thirty-four years ago. He’s an FBI agent now, Riley. He’s seen and done things since you nailed him with that rock when you were twelve. If I were you, I wouldn’t mess with him.”

Riley fiddled with a length of twine. “Too late.”

“You couldn’t have just pretended you didn’t see that body and gone on your way?” She gave a long sigh. “No, I suppose not, and if you had, John would have known it and come after you. No way out of this one, Riley. If you’re going to go toe-to-toe with him again, don’t rely on luck. That’s my advice. Take good aim, and if you do hit him, run like hell.”

In spite of her tension, Riley managed a laugh. “I have no intention of seeing your son again, never mind throwing rocks or anything else at him.”

The back door banged open, and Straker glared in at the two women. If Riley had still had any doubts he wasn’t eighteen anymore, they would have been dispelled. He radiated hard-edged energy, the kind of raw intensity she’d expect from a man who’d gotten himself shot twice.

“Speak of the devil,” Linda Straker said, unperturbed.

He kicked the door shut behind him. “St. Joe—damn it, what the hell are you doing here?”

Riley groaned. “I’m talking to your mother. I’m allowed. Aren’t you supposed to be holed up on the island?”

“He comes into town every now and then for supplies,” his mother answered for him.

He turned to her. “I thought you quit smoking.”

“I did. It’s not lit.”

“Then what are these for?” He picked up a package of matches that Riley hadn’t even noticed and tucked them in his jeans pocket. “You’ll be puffing away the minute I leave.”

She dropped her cigarette into a brass ashtray shaped like a lobster. “There. Nazi. I deserve a cigarette after hearing you found a dead body.”

“I didn’t. Riley did.”

“You could have taught school like your sister,” his mother said, “or taken up lobstering like your father. You could have opened up a law practice in town. But no, you have to join the FBI and get shot, bring dead bodies to town.”

“That body has nothing to do with me.”

“Then it has something to do with Emile Labreque. Either way, you’ll get involved. You’ve always had a soft spot for Emile. He believed in you when no one else did. Even I had my doubts.”

“Mrs. Straker,” Riley said carefully, “just because the body was found on Labreque Island doesn’t mean Emile—”

Straker didn’t let her finish. He fingered a paper doily. “What’re you making?”

His mother bit off a sigh. “Your Christmas present. Keep your mitts off.”

“I stopped by to reassure you. I knew you’d hear what happened.” He shot Riley another nasty look, as if she’d been the one who squealed. “It’s nothing to worry about, probably just some poor bastard who fell off his boat.”

“No one’s been reported missing. You’d think—”

“Don’t think, Ma. Just let the police handle this one. And I’m fine, in case you were wondering.”

She glowered at him. “The hell you’re fine. You’ve been sitting out on that island for six months. Half the town thinks you’re a raving lunatic.”

His jaw set hard. “I’ve said my piece.”

He about-faced and walked out. Just like that. Linda Straker snatched up a huge pair of scissors. “That terrorist didn’t do half the job on him I could do right now.”

Riley judiciously said nothing.

“I’ll tell you the truth, Riley. We all breathed a sigh of relief when he went out to Labreque Island to recuperate instead of up into the spare bedroom. I’d just as soon tend a wounded tiger as him.”

Riley knew the minute she agreed with her, Linda Straker would turn on her. “Will you excuse me, Mrs. Straker?”

“Go on,” she said. “Go after him. You’re looking good, Riley—I meant to say that right off. I wasn’t sure what to expect after your grandfather’s ship went down.”

“That wasn’t his fault, you know.”

“You never know with ships,” she said, and Riley, suddenly feeling the walls closing in around her, shot outside.

She caught up with Straker in the driveway. “Where are you going?”

He whipped around. Every muscle in his body seemed tense, rigid, as if he was ready to burst out of his skin. “Back.”

“Back where?”

“The island.”

“I’ve got your shirt. It’s in my car.” She eyed him, becoming aware of a strange sense of uneasiness. His mother was right—he wasn’t the same kid she’d bloodied all those years ago. But she wasn’t intimidated. “You look as if you want to lock me in an outhouse.”

His eyes sparked, and his mouth drew into a sardonic smile. “That’s not it.”

Riley nearly choked. Bullet wounds, a six-month self-imposed exile. Women probably hadn’t been on his short list of things to do. Well, she’d walked into that one. “Are the police finished?”

“No.”

“Did you offer to help?”

“No.”

“You know, Straker, if I had a rock…” Riley didn’t go on. She’d pushed her luck enough with him. “What else are you doing in town, besides reassuring your mother?”

His eyes turned to slits. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Straker.”

“That always was your problem.”

He turned and started down the narrow street. Riley sighed. “What about your shirt?” she called after him.

“Keep it.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

“How did you get here?”

He glanced back at her. “I live on an island. I took a boat.”

“I hate you, Straker,” she called. “I’ve always hated you.”

“Good.”

She got in her car and drove in the opposite direction. She was agitated and restless and faintly sick to her stomach, and she didn’t trust herself not to run Straker over. She headed out to the nature preserve, but Emile wasn’t around. Neither was his car or his boat. She stopped back at his cottage. Same thing.

She gripped the wheel. “Well. Push has come to shove.”

It was time to head to Camden and face her mother and sister. The first time she’d spent any time with her grandfather since the Encounter, and she’d found a dead body. No way would this go over well.

Two hours later, Riley rang the doorbell to her mother’s little, mid-nineteenth-century gray clapboard on a pretty street above Camden Harbor. When the black-painted front door opened, she surprised herself by bursting into tears.

“Emile,” Mara St. Joe said, tight-lipped. “Damn him.”

“It’s not him—he didn’t do anything.” Riley gulped in air, feeling like a ten-year-old. She brushed her cheeks with her fingertips. Thank God she hadn’t fallen apart in front of Straker. “I found a dead body.”

“I know. I heard on the radio. It’s Emile’s fault. He never should have let you kayak alone.”

She whisked Riley into the front parlor. This was her parents’ first house—her mother’s first house. Two years ago, Mara St. Joe had declared she’d had her fill of living aboard research vessels and in whatever rented apartment was nearest their work. She’d grown up like that, she’d raised two children like that and she’d had enough. She chucked her puffin and guillemot research and set off to picturesque, upscale Camden, with its windjammers and yachts and grand old houses built by legendary sea captains and shipbuilders. She became a successful freelance nature writer and bought a house. For a while, Riley wondered if her parents would call it quits, but if they’d ever considered it, they hadn’t told her. Her father was free to come and go as he pleased, which seemed to suit them both. Her parents had, and had always had, an unconventional marriage.

“Sit,” she said. “Catch your breath.”

“Mom, I’m fine. It was just pent-up tension.”

“It was just your grandfather.”

She half shoved Riley onto a wing chair. The parlor was decorated in antiques and antique reproductions in rich woods and soothing colors. Her mother, Riley thought, was not a patient woman. She was taller than Riley—taller even than Emile—with dark hair streaked white and eyes that could flare with sudden bursts of anger. People said her mother, Emile’s one and only wife, who’d died when Mara was two, had possessed a similar temper. At fifty-five, Mara knew all too well the particular kind of pain her father could inflict. It wasn’t his work that drove her crazy, she’d said—it was his single-mindedness. She didn’t care if it was in a good cause, it was workaholism by any other name, and it left her out. It left everyone out.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, obviously restraining herself.

Riley shook her head. “I’m okay now. I should have called and told you. I didn’t mean for you to hear the news on the radio.”

“I had it on while I was working. Oh, Riley.” She brushed back her hair with one hand and paced; she had on jeans and a plaid flannel tunic, her writing clothes. “Emile should have known better. And John Straker of all people…” She groaned in disbelief. “My God!”

“He let me throw up in his toilet.”

Her mother spun around at her. “He’s a lunatic! Living out on that island alone the past six months. What could Emile have been thinking when he let you go out there?”

“He didn’t let me. I just went. Mom, for heaven’s sake, I’m not twelve.”

“I still blame Emile.”

Riley sank into the chair, spent. She smiled wanly at her mother. Her reaction was exactly what she’d expected, perhaps even needed. “I’m so glad to see you, Mom. Is Sig home?”

“She’s out walking. She’ll be back any minute. Come, I’ll make tea. You’ll feel better in no time.” Mara exhaled. “Damn Emile.”

She was having twins.

Sig St. Joe slipped into the enclosed back porch of her mother’s house, which she’d fashioned into her first real studio in years. She had a worktable, 140-pound cold-pressed paper, tubes of watercolors, a dozen brushes, water jars, boards—everything she needed except inspiration.

She flopped onto a studio bed she’d covered in old quilts and pillows, just like her girlhood bed in the loft at Emile’s cottage. She’d spotted Riley’s car. She couldn’t face either her sister or her mother right now.

Twins.

She was just over four months pregnant and had told no one, including her goddamned, miserable, self-absorbed husband.

Sig sighed. That was another quarter for her mason jar. She was on a campaign to stop swearing. At the rate she was going, she’d be broke by the end of the week, or she’d have to dip into her Granger money. God forbid. She’d rather wash her mouth out with soap.

She could feel the babies move. Just a flutter. Probably they were already jockeying for position. She wasn’t prepared to have one baby, never mind two. But maybe in the long run it would be easier, because she had no intention of getting pregnant again. After Matthew Granger, she was through with men.

One day she’d have to explain to her babies what a flaming asshole their father was.

Flaming jerk, she amended, mentally putting another quarter in the jar.

He was rich, he was handsome and he was convinced her grandfather should be in jail for negligent homicide. “Emile’s criminally responsible for my father’s death. Admit it.” Sig didn’t want to admit anything. She wanted Matt to work through his anger and grief and accept that they just didn’t know what had happened aboard the Encounter. No one did. The boat was at the bottom of the North Atlantic. The official investigation was inconclusive.

No, she thought, don’t go there. Thinking about the Encounter and her father-in-law’s tragic death—the tragic deaths of the four crew members—spun her around in circles. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing Matt could do, only he couldn’t accept that, at least not yet and maybe not ever.

She just wanted to bury herself in a heap of quilts and stay out here all night, pretend she was ten again, sleeping out at Emile’s with her sister. She’d felt so safe at ten. Whatever her family’s oddities, she’d never felt anything but safe with them. Now here she was, thirty-four, pregnant, estranged from her rich husband, a failure as an artist and about to be a failure as a mother.

Sig glanced over at her worktable, where another of her abandoned paintings was still taped to her large board. The porch didn’t go with the rest of the house. It had been added in one of the various renovations over the past century or so, and her mother wanted to get rid of it. She wanted a dooryard garden. Well, it made a lousy studio. The light was bad, and there was no heat. Sig knew she couldn’t work out here much longer. It was time. She had to figure out her life.

What would she do with twins?

They’d be Granger twins. She shuddered. It wasn’t as bad as bearing the Prince of Wales, but it was damned close. Maybe she just wouldn’t tell Matt about his babies. Spare him the torture of explaining to the rest of Beacon Hill that not only had he married Emile Labreque’s granddaughter, he was now providing the murderous madman with great-grandchildren.

The door from the kitchen opened, and Riley said in an unusually small voice, “Sig? Mom thought she heard you.”

“I’m here wallowing in self-pity. Come on out. Mom send tea?”

“And raisin toast.”

“Good. I’m starving.” Eating for three. She eyed her younger sister, who looked so damned tiny and smart—and something else. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

“It’s a long story. I’m okay.”

Riley set a tray on an old gateleg table their mother had found at a yard sale and painted creamy white. Sig had messed it up with watercolor spills. Splatters of cobalt and lemon, dots of purple, one big splash of crimson. She loved spills.

“You don’t look okay,” Sig said.

Riley ignored her comment and sat on the other end of the studio bed. Sig was tall and leggy, like the St. Joes. When they were kids, Emile had called his granddaughters Big Dog and Little Dog until Mara told him to stop it, he’d give them a complex. Emile didn’t understand things like complexes.

Sig blinked back sudden tears. She hadn’t seen her grandfather in a year. Not since the Encounter. “You’ve been to see Emile, haven’t you?”

Riley poured tea and placed a triangle of toast on the side of each saucer. Mara had gotten out the good china. Definitely something was up. Sig shifted uncomfortably, her voluminous dress drawing across her swelling abdomen. She realized her mistake, but too late.

Riley gasped, nearly dropping the teapot. “Sig—you’re pregnant!”

Sig managed a wry smile. “The trained scientist speaks.”

“When—how—” Riley blushed furiously, bringing much needed color to her cheeks; for a woman consumed with the doings of sea beasts of all kinds, Sig was amazed at how downright prudish her sister could be. “I mean, how far along are you?”

“A little over four months. I can feel them move.”

“Them?”

“I found out on Friday I’m having twins. I’ve been trying to absorb it ever since.” Saying it out loud didn’t make her feel any more in control of her situation. “I haven’t told a soul.”

“Mom—”

“She doesn’t even know I’m pregnant, never mind having twins. Neither does Matt. I haven’t seen him in…well, ages.”

Riley handed her tea and toast. “Looks as if you saw him within the last five months or so. He’s on Mount Desert Island. I ran into him. He made a brief appearance at one of Caroline’s dinners. He managed not to mention his vendetta against Emile.” Riley picked up her tea again. “He was staying on his boat. I would think he’s still there.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s so eaten up with anger and grief over what happened to his father….” Sig waved a hand, dismissing Matthew, all the upheavals of the past year. “I just don’t care anymore.”

The color had drained back out of Riley’s face. Sig silently chastised herself. There was no point in bringing up past horrors when obviously some new one had her sister in its grip. Bennett Granger was dead. He was one of the finest men Sig had ever known, and he and Emile had been friends and partners for fifty years. That his death had led to more tragedy and pain only compounded her sorrow.

“Where’s Mom?” she asked.

“She’s slipped off to the market. She insisted I stay for dinner. She’s cooking lobster.” But Riley didn’t seize the opportunity to proceed with her own problems. “She knows, Sig. You know she does. She’s just waiting for you to say something. You can talk to her—”

“She never wanted me to marry a Granger.”

“That’s because she was afraid you’d end up living in his shadow and indulging his whims. When she realized Matt’s a regular guy, she came around.”

“He’s not a regular guy. He’s a goddamned blueblood with too much money and not enough common sense.”

“You sound as if you hate him.”

“I wish I did. My life would be so much easier.” Sig quickly sipped her tea and bit into the raisin toast; her mother had slathered on the butter. “I said ‘goddamn,’ didn’t I? That’s another quarter for the mason jar.”

“You’ve quit swearing again?”

“I was doing pretty well until I found out I’m having twins.” She inhaled, unable to concentrate on anyone’s problems but her own. “I want these babies, Riley. I want to be a good mother.”

“You will be. You just won’t be conventional. You haven’t started smoking again, have you?”

“Not a chance. And how’re your vices?”

Her sister grinned, and some of the usual spark came back into her dark eyes. “I have no vices.”

“Ha. You’re like Emile and Dad. The seven seas are your vice.”

“My passion,” Riley amended.

“Same difference. Now, are you going to tell me why you look like absolute shit?” When Riley didn’t answer, Sig winced. “I’ve really fallen off the wagon this time. I’ve been swearing like a sailor.”

But Riley had shut her eyes, and she squeezed back tears.

“Riley…”

“I found a dead body and almost threw up on John Straker.”

“Holy shit,” Sig said. “No wonder Mom’s making you lobster.”