Читать книгу Nobody's Hero - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 12

“I MISS DADDY, TOO.”

Connie’s voice stilled the knock of Sean’s knuckles against the door. He flattened his hand. The Sheffield guesthouse was such a small place that the redhead’s voice was clearly audible through an open window. The only other sounds nearby were the birds in the trees and the wind through the pine boughs.

“And I’m sorry that I have to work so much. I’d be home with you if I could.”

“I don’t want you to be home with me.” Pippa’s voice, trying to sound belligerent, came across bruised. “I’m not a baby, Mom.”

“You’re not a teenager, either, so don’t expect to have the privileges of one. When I say don’t go near the ocean, I mean do not go near the ocean. Boredom isn’t an excuse. Neither is curiosity.” A metallic clang accompanied the words.

Sean supposed that she was banging pots and pans again. There was something familiar about that, and it didn’t take more than a moment to scan past twenty years away from home to realize why. His mother had been a pot banger, too. His wild Irish rose, Sean’s father had always said, even though the both of them had been born and raised in New England.

Connie gave Sean no maternal longings, that was for sure. Although as he listened, she continued a lecture that might have been torn from Moira Rafferty’s book. The trouble he’d caused his parents growing up—they would have welcomed his dunking in the surf and tossed his siblings in, as well—brought a wry smile to Sean’s face. He was forty, more than capable on his own, but his mother was still his mother. She’d been quite verbal about his decision to recuperate alone on Osprey Island instead of in the bosom of the noisy Rafferty household. It had been his dad who’d talked her into agreeing to supply their Arizona condo for the vacation house switch.

“From now on, you’ll have no more opportunities to disobey me,” Connie continued. “You’ll be by my side during the rest of our stay on the island. And if for some reason that’s not possible, you’ll have a babysitter. The Sheffields’ housekeeper told me she has a daughter who’s available.”

Pippa groaned.

Clang. “No complaining.”

A long silence signaled the end of the discussion. Sean knocked.

More clattering from the kitchen, then Connie’s voice. “Oh, my gosh. There he is, and I’m a mess. Look at my hair. Pippa, answer the door. And remember that you are not to interrogate Mr. Rafferty tonight. He’s our guest, not a suspect in one of your made-up mysteries.”

Sean dropped his smile as the door opened. Pippa looked at him with her eyes rounded behind a pair of wire-framed glasses. The temperature was pleasant, but she was dressed in jeans, socks and tennies, with a long-sleeved sweatshirt under the faded Camp Arrowhead T-shirt that stretched across her middle. Her hair was braided so tightly her forehead looked taut and shiny.

Sucking in a large, wet sniff, Pippa wiped a finger beneath her freckled nose. “Hullo. My mom says I have to thank you for rescuing me.”

Connie appeared and clamped her hands on her daughter’s slumped shoulders. “That, my darling child, is not the most gracious way to express your appreciation.” She squeezed then released, and Pippa fled gratefully into the shadowy interior of the cottage.

Sean held out three bottles of beer. “Wine might have been more appropriate, but this was all I had.” He hadn’t thought of making a trip to the island’s general store until it was too late.

“Thanks.” Connie took the clinking brown bottles, holding them against her breasts with one arm as she gestured him inside with the other. “I like a cold beer better anyway. But why three? One for Pippa?” She chuckled.

He entered. “Nope. Three’s what I had left from the six-pack I bought when I arrived.”

“Beer will go nicely with the clam chowder.”

There was a moment of awkward silence while he looked around. Between the thick stand of trees and the narrow leaded-glass windows, little light reached the guesthouse even during the day. By evening, it was ill-lit by the few lamps in the house, bulbs shining dully from beneath heavy pleated shades. Lurking under the homey scent of dinner was an odor of mildew, as if the cottage had been closed up for years.

Sean hadn’t seen the estate house yet, but he’d bet it was about a thousand times more luxurious. He began to wonder if Connie and her daughter were poor relations.

She must’ve read his face. “I know it’s not much, but it’s got a certain rustic charm, don’t you think?”

He nodded, considering the paint-by-number pictures framed in Popsicle sticks and the heavily scarred mahogany table as she led him through the dining area that adjoined the kitchen. They stopped at the open doorway of a living room wallpapered in a field of flowers darkened with age and water spots. The room was crowded with too much cast-off furniture, including a threadbare Persian rug and an antique hutch stuffed with mismatched china.

He looked at Connie. “How come you’re not at the big house?”

“It’s filled with guests for the party. No room for the employees.”

“Oh,” he said, getting it at last. “You’re an employee.”

Pippa, who was curled into a plaid wing chair in the corner, glanced up from her book.

“I’m the Sheffields’ garden designer.” Connie peered up at him from beneath the fluff of her bangs. She’d scooped her hair high on her head and pinned it into an attempt at a schoolmarm bun type of thing, except that her hair was too curly and had escaped in an auburn froth. She looked like a rooster. “You know about the maze, right? The garden party?”

He shook his head. “I only arrived two days ago. I haven’t been socializing much.”

Till now. On the walk over, he’d asked himself why this invitation was the only one he’d been willing to accept. As uncomfortable as it was to admit, Pippa’s loneliness had reached him. But Connie was the real draw.

“Then you may not realize that Anders and Kay Sheffield are the cream of Osprey Island society. The cream of New England, too, since it seems that they’re planning to ferry over half of the region’s population for the party. It’s this Saturday. We’re unveiling the maze that I’ve been working on for the past few years.” Connie tilted her head at him, waiting for his reply with raised eyebrows.

He nodded.

“I redesigned and refurbished the estate’s old maze from the time it was built in the 1920s,” she prompted. “Kind of a big deal. The entire island is talking about it.”

“I see.”

One side of her mouth went up. “You’re not impressed.”

“I’m sure I would be if I saw it.”

“I can wangle you an invitation to the garden party.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t come to the island to mingle,” he said, ignoring the fact that he was doing just that.

“Why did you come?” She moved out of his line of sight to put the beer bottles on the table, returning with the front of her ribbed white cotton tank sporting three damp splotches that revealed the outline of a lace-edged bra. He looked away. Then back again. Her neck and bare shoulders were slender but strong, cinnamon freckled.

“Just a vacation,” he said with a shrug. “I’m on leave from my job.”

Connie’s eyes were fixed on him, as bright and inquisitive as her daughter’s. “Which is?”

“Which is what?”

Her mouth puckered. She knew he was stalling. “What do you do for a living?” she asked distinctly.

He gave in, knowing where this would lead. “I’m a Massachusetts state trooper.”

Pippa’s book dropped to her lap. Connie said, “Oh, boy.”

“What?”

“My daughter’s been a crime hound ever since she started reading the Trixie Belden books.”

“Trixie who?

“She’s like Nancy Drew.”

Pippa scoffed. “But better.”

“Nancy Drew, huh?” Harmless. “Isn’t that sort of…”

“Old-fashioned?” Connie shrugged. “I suppose so, but my husband and I were always a little retro, not to mention poor. We haunted a lot of yard sales when Pippa was young. One day Phil brought home a set of Trixie Beldens.”

“It’s not my fault she won’t let me watch CSI,” Pippa said morosely from the corner.

“That’s much too gruesome for a ten-year-old.” Connie nudged Sean’s arm as she brushed by. “You tell her. I’ll get dinner on the table.”

He said nothing. He wasn’t thinking about Pippa and her mysteries but about Connie’s missing husband. Phil.

I miss Daddy, she’d said, and he’d first thought that meant during their island stay. But the vibe was wrong. Probably not a case of divorce, either. Her tone had been mournful, not bitter.

He looked at Pippa, considering her lonely neediness.

Was Mr. Bradford dead?

Oh, shit.

Pippa pushed her glasses up her nose. She narrowed her eyes. “Do you solve crimes?”

“Not so much. I patrol. It’s more a situation where I’m arresting suspects in the act, or right after the act.” He refused to let his mind stray to that last, fatal traffic stop. “But once in a while I land in the middle of an interesting case and I get to do some investigating.”

He’d tried to sound acceptable to a ten-year-old. Still, she sank back into the depths of the chair.

“I, uh, wear a uniform. The blue shirt and tie, the blue striped pants, the flat trooper hat. You know, the whole deal.”

Pippa squinted. “Then you must not be a detective. Aren’t they plainclothes?”

She was a smart one. He was a lieutenant. The next promotion would have been to detective lieutenant, but that was now derailed, perhaps permanently. A hard pill to swallow, given that his father had retired from the MSP with honors and that both of his older brothers and one sister were thriving in their law-enforcement careers, as well. His father wouldn’t express shame, wouldn’t express disappointment, over the way things had turned out for Sean.

But he’d felt it all the same because, no matter what the circumstances, no matter how necessary the shooting had been, there was no denying that Sean had failed. Yes, he’d gone by the book. The other man had fired first. There’d been no recourse but to defend himself and the mother and child. Still, in the back of his mind would always be the what if.

What if he’d done something, anything, differently—and prevented the fatality? What if another load of guilt hadn’t landed on his shoulders?

Pippa was waiting for an answer. “A detective?” he repeated. “No, I’m not a detective.”

“Too bad. Detectives are cool. I might want to be one.”

“Then you’d better brush up on your surveillance skills. The object is to observe without being seen.”

Pippa’s face flamed. “I wasn’t seen every time.”

He gave her a point. “And it’s hard to blend in on an island. Not enough cover.”

“Do you do surveillance?”

“I have.”

She leaned forward. “Would you teach me?”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Connie said from the doorway. Behind her, the table was set with a steaming soup tureen, a large green salad and a basket of rolls. “Absolutely not, Pippa. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Mr. Rafferty won’t be encouraging your nonsense.” She gave him a walleyed look. “Will he?”

“I…”

Pippa slid out of the chair. “Don’t call it nonsense, Mom. That’s not nice.”

“Right you are.” Connie set her hands on her hips. “Then Mr. Rafferty will not be encouraging your preoccupation. How’s that? Better?”

“You’re s’posed to support my interests.” The girl sidled past Sean, her book—a vintage edition with a blond female on the cover—clutched to her chest. “Dad wouldn’t be so mean.”

Sean caught Connie’s expression, a wince followed by relief. Maybe her husband wasn’t dead, then.

“No, your dad would have been right there with you, making up stories about what Mr. Rozenkranz kept in his locked garden shed.” Connie shared a fond smile with her daughter before glancing back to Sean. “Sorry. We’ve got issues. I’m afraid your being a cop is only going to stir the pot.”

He held up his hands. “Don’t worry. It’s not something I’m looking to talk about.”

She furrowed her brow before smiling. “Okay, then! We’ll have a nice New England chowder dinner without law and order as a side dish. How does that sound?”

“Relaxing,” he said, and meant it.

Pippa dropped into a chair with such force she rattled the utensils. “Boring.”

Connie’s smile was determined. “Excellent. Just the way I like it.”

Sean didn’t believe her for a minute. The woman couldn’t be boring no matter how hard she tried.

“I CAN’T HELP NOTICING your limp.” Connie brushed away a tree branch that threatened to spring back at her face. Sean’s hand flashed out to catch it. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Were you injured in the line of duty?”

He gave a reluctant nod. “Gunfire.”

Her eyes widened. “How horrible.”

“Yeah. Horrible.” A touch of his hand to the small of her back got her moving again. He didn’t want her watching him, especially with such a compassionate expression. “I’d stopped a car driving erratically, and the driver came out shooting.”

He paused, uncertain how much he wanted to say. “Turned out he was an ex-con with a history of drug and spouse abuse. I took a round in the thigh before he went down.”

Connie clenched her teeth. “Was anyone else hurt?”

Sean couldn’t respond. Physically, the man’s family had survived. But emotionally…? The loss of a father, even one who wasn’t the best at the job, was not something a kid recovered from easily.

Connie glanced at his face and shuddered, obviously assuming the worst.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said softly as they stepped out of the woods onto the manicured grounds of the Sheffield estate. Up ahead, Pippa trudged across a sloping lawn striated with shadows, heading toward the tall hedges of the maze. It looked ominous in the darkness, a gothic bulwark. Ornate cast-iron lampposts flanked dual entrances, on opposite sides of the maze.

“I’m trying not to dwell on the incident.” He managed to swallow what felt like a stone in his throat. The dwelling was debatable, but certainly incident was too nice a word for the horror of seeing a man dead on the pavement—killed by Sean’s gun—the wife streaked in her husband’s blood as she wailed over his lifeless body.

Luckily, Connie was no longer watching his face. Her concern was with her daughter, who turned and waved at them to hurry. “Please don’t mention the shooting to Pippa. Her imagination is already overdeveloped.”

He wouldn’t have, of course, but…

“It might do her good to realize that real police work isn’t like a schoolgirl mystery.”

“Maybe so.” Connie frowned as Pippa disappeared into the maze. “Except that she’s only ten years old and has already been through enough.”

“I understand.”

Connie started across the lawn. “Actually, no, you don’t.” She stopped suddenly and he had to pull up, his palm once more landing on her back, between her shoulder blades. He would have removed it, but she turned toward him with such a look of stark vulnerability that it was all he could do not to pull her into a comforting embrace.

A moment passed before she gathered herself to speak. Her shoulders squared. “I should have explained that my husband passed away. Leukemia. Two years and ten months ago, but Pippa hasn’t been the same since his death. Probably never will be.”

Connie’s voice was low and swift; Sean inclined his head to catch every word.

“Her sleuthing is all tangled up with Phil’s memory. He was the one who read her the Trixie books. And so this preoccupation with you…” Connie shook her head. “At first you were one of her ‘suspects.’ Now, well, I’m not sure what’s going on in her head, considering your job. But I wanted you to have some idea—a warning, I guess—of why she’s attached herself to you.”

“I see.”

“Has she said anything to you about—” Connie cut herself off. “I don’t know why I’m asking a stranger for help.”

“Am I still a stranger?”

Moonlight illuminated her face as she tilted it up toward his. Her eyes were dark green beneath her lashes, which drew spiked shadows across the curves of her cheeks. “No, I suppose not.”

He brushed his fingers over her narrow back, feeling the warmth of her beneath the thin layer of fabric. They’d had a nice conversation over dinner, speaking only of normal things, like the weather and the island, the baseball season, where they’d been raised and gone to school, how much Pippa would enjoy the fifth grade if she gave it a chance. The girl hadn’t been persuaded.

“You’ve been very nice about us intruding on your vacation,” Connie said, “but Pippa may become an annoyance, especially now that she knows your profession. I’ll do my best to keep her from invading your privacy. If she does, send her on her way. But be a little gentle about how you do it, okay?”

He looked at Connie’s solemn face with the traces of sorrow that she couldn’t hide, and he nodded.

“I’ll watch out for your girl,” he said. Then silently added and you, although if asked he’d have sworn that he didn’t want the responsibility. And that he might never want the responsibility again, even if that meant quitting his job. He’d already let down enough people to fill a lifetime of regret.

“I’d be grateful. I suppose I worry too much, but considering what happened this morning, I feel justified. Unfortunately, my work’s kept me from home too often. The trip to the island was supposed to bring us closer, but instead…” Connie sent Sean a rueful glance. “She’s latched on to you. And is still carrying that damn notebook everywhere.”

“What’s with the notebook?”

“She writes down her observations. I don’t read them.”

Sean grinned, a little. He’d been a curious child, too. Not even his mother’s threatening to snip off his nose with her sewing scissors had stopped him from poking into business that was none of his. “She’s a smart girl.”

“Too smart for her own good.” Connie stepped away and called out to Pippa, telling her not to go deeply into the maze. She glanced from the hedges to the Sheffields’ large shingle-style house and back to Sean. “Pippa’s studied the plans at home and been through the maze a hundred times since we arrived, but never at night.”

They had arrived at the entrance. The outer wall of boxwood hedges was seven feet tall, forming a solid bank in the dark. “It’s impressive.”