Читать книгу Solving the Mysterious Stranger - Mallory Kane - Страница 5

Chapter One

“There is a pall cast over this town. Your destiny and the destiny of Raven’s Cliff are entwined like lovers.”

Amelia Hopkins tried to pull her hand away from the fortune-teller’s red-tipped fingers, but the woman’s grip was surprisingly strong.

“Maybe you haven’t heard,” Amelia said, “but the Seaside Strangler is dead and the poisoned fish are gone. Even the mayor’s daughter, who’s been missing for months, has been found alive. There is no pall.”

As she talked, she studied the woman’s face, trying to see beneath the layers of stage makeup. She was surprised that she didn’t recognize her. She knew almost everyone in Raven’s Cliff.

“I thought you were going to tell me about meeting the man of my dreams.”

Her friends Carrie and Rita had come out of the fortune-teller’s shadowy booth with promises of love and marriage, beautiful babies and happily-ever-after. No warnings of doom and gloom. No ominous, cryptic predictions.

Amelia had tried to refuse to have her fortune read. But her friends had insisted.

Fortune-tellers. Crystal balls. Palm reading. All woo-woo tricks designed to provide a moment’s distraction and to part people from their hard-earned money.

Although she’d loaned the mayor’s assistant her stage makeup case, which had seen years of use in the small dinner theater in town and had funded a large part of the boat festival, she’d refused to play fortune-teller.

She didn’t have time for such nonsense. She had a business to run.

The fortune-teller’s pale blue eyes sparkled in the flickering candlelight as she stared deeply into her crystal ball. She waved a hand near one of the candles and a faint scent of roses drifted past Amelia’s nostrils.

“Okay, I give up,” Amelia said. “Who are you? Are you in town just for the festival? Did the mayor hire you?”

The woman frowned at her before dropping her gaze back to the orb. “I am Tatiana. I do not know what you mean.” She held a hand over the ball, close—but not touching it.

Amelia could imagine sparks of electricity arcing from the woman’s hand to the crystal sphere. She was a good actress.

“Okay then, Tatiana. Hurry up and tell me about my soul mate. I’ve got to get home.”

“Word in the town is that nobody is good enough for you, Amelia Hopkins. And yet I say, you will find your soul mate. It is part of your destiny. But he is not the man of your dreams—” The fortune-teller paused. “For you, the journey to love will be a long one, and fraught with danger.” She took Amelia’s hand.

“You must prepare yourself, for death hovers over you as surely as it does over Raven’s Cliff. Your only hope is your own wit. Take care whom you trust.”

A sudden chill breeze sent shadows racing along the walls like bats and extinguished several candles. The smell of hot wax mingled with the aroma of roses.

Amelia tried to pull her hand away, but the woman’s scarlet-tipped fingers held tight.

“Remember this, Amelia. Pay heed to a dark, mysterious stranger with eyes like storm clouds and a haunted past.”

Oh, please. Sure—Raven’s Cliff had experienced more than its share of tragedy, but the deadly summer was over. Autumn had arrived. Foggy mornings and crisp, clear afternoons were a refreshing change after the sweltering, awful summer.

“Appearances can be deceiving. Look not with your eyes but with your heart.”

Amelia uttered a short laugh. That was more like it. Platitudes she could share with Carrie and Rita. “Right. Got it.”

She stood and firmly pulled her hand away. “A mysterious stranger, a path fraught with danger and deceit. Great,” she said wryly. “I can’t wait.”

Quelling the urge to wipe her hand on her jeans, she dug into her pocket and came up with a wad of twenties. Peeling off two, she dropped them onto the table.

“Nice special effects.” She turned and reached for the heavy curtain that draped the front of the booth.

“Wait!” The dozens of bangles on the woman’s wrists chimed. “That case on the table there, it’s yours. You should take it with you. Keep it close—you’re going to need it.”

So it was her makeup the fake fortune-teller had used. She grabbed up the case.

“And, Amelia Hopkins…”

She paused—only inches from freedom. “Aren’t you done yet?”

“Remember. Nobody is good enough for you.”

Amelia shook her head and pushed through the curtain, just in time to run into a solid wall of flesh.

“Oh, sorry,” she muttered, putting out her hands to steady herself as the man grasped her waist.

She pushed against him, but he held on. “Let me go,” she demanded, slightly alarmed by his unrelenting hold.

He loomed over her, dark and ominous. A few days’ growth of beard darkened his square jaw. A black wool fisherman’s cap shadowed the upper part of his face. But no shadows could hide the steely gray of his eyes.

Something flickered in those eyes—curiosity? Recognition? Then he let go of her and held up his hands, palms out. He ducked his head, letting the brim of his cap shadow the upper part of his face. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he muttered.

Amelia pushed past him.

“Ma’am, you dropped this.”

She turned.

He knelt and picked up her makeup case. She must have dropped it when he collided with her.

He held it out.

She took it, but before she could thank him, he’d turned away, moving off through the crowd. His black leather jacket strained across his shoulders, and his long legs looked powerful in black wool pants. He was taller than most of the people around him, and yet he moved with the fluid grace of a big cat.

“Amelia,” Carrie Singleton called, waving.

Amelia pulled her gaze away from the stranger’s leather-clad shoulders in time to see Carrie duck around a clown who looked suspiciously like Hal Smith, the owner of the hardware store. He blew an obnoxiously loud whistle.

Rita Maxwell laughed as she followed Carrie.

“What did the fortune-teller say?” Carrie asked.

“You weren’t in there long enough,” Rita said, eyeing her suspiciously. “You just gave her some money and left, didn’t you?”

“No.” Amelia gestured down the street in the direction the stranger had gone. “Did you see the way that guy grabbed me?”

“A guy grabbed you?” Rita asked.

Amelia gestured, but he’d disappeared into the crowd. “You couldn’t miss him. He grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. I was about to scream for help.”

Carrie glanced down the street and frowned.

Rita shook her head. “I saw you bump into someone—tall guy with shoulders out to here—but you barely brushed each other.”

“He’s probably a sailor, docked here for Boat Fest,” Rita added. “I’m sure you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen in six months.”

Amelia stared at her two friends. “I’m telling you he wouldn’t let go. And he didn’t look like a sailor. He looked like a—” A captain, she thought.

“Come on. Let’s go get an Irish coffee. I want to hear what the fortune-teller told you.” Carrie hooked her arm through Amelia’s and pulled her in the direction of The Pub—the direction the stranger had gone.

Amelia glanced at her watch. “If I have a drink, I’ll fall asleep standing up. I’ve been hawking yachts all day and my feet are killing me. I should be getting home. Dad and I have an early meeting tomorrow and we need to coordinate our talking points.”

“It’s not even ten o’clock. Honestly, you’re like an old maid sometimes,” Rita said.

“Yeah.” Carrie guided Amelia through the weathered cherrywood doors of The Pub. “The richest, most gorgeous old maid on the entire coast. Not to mention the A-Number-One party pooper.”

“Carrie, stop it.” Amelia chuckled. “I’ll have some coffee—regular, decaf coffee, but then I’ve got to go home. Hopkins Yachts doesn’t run itself. Especially not during Boat Fest—and especially not this year.” She didn’t specify that the main reason she needed to be at home was to make sure her father got to bed by eleven o’clock.

“Did you get a lot of orders at the boat show?”

“Yes. Too many. That’s what this meeting tomorrow is about. Some megacorporation wants to meet with Dad about a major contract.”

“That’s great,” Carrie commented absently as they picked their way through the crowd.

The Seafarer Boat Fest attracted a lot of people—tourists, sailors, yachting enthusiasts who came to see Hopkins’s newest designs.

Amelia felt a faint prick of guilt. Hopkins’s preview drawings for next year’s designs were a myth. There was no inspired new Hopkins yacht for the coming year. Probably only a seasoned aficionado would notice, but Amelia still felt as if they were cheating their customers.

Since her father’s heart attack a year ago, he hadn’t created one new workable design. That was bad enough. But he’d insisted that no one know that this year’s new designs were glossed-over versions from the past three years.

Even worse, this year’s Boat Fest had drawn more people than usual—many of them curiosity-seekers who’d heard about all the trouble Raven’s Cliff had experienced throughout the summer. But as was true every year, a lot were boaters looking for the latest fancy yacht.

Everywhere Amelia went, she steeled herself for the accusation she knew would come one day—Reginald Hopkins has lost it. He’s recycling old designs and calling them new.

As they pushed through the crowd toward the bar, the bartender, Seamus Hannigan, nodded a greeting. His eyes crinkled at the corners, which pulled at the scar that ran from his chin up his jawline. His gaze followed Carrie.

Amelia poked her friend in the ribs.

“Stop it.” Carrie slapped at her hand.

“Seamus is looking your way. Wink at him and get us a table.”

Rita chuckled.

“I mean it, Amelia,” Carrie said. “I’m totally not interested. I’ve never winked at a man and I’m sure not going to start now.”

But even in the dim, smoky pub, Amelia didn’t miss Carrie’s flaming cheeks. She caught Rita’s eye. “Let’s sit at the bar then.”

“There are only two seats,” Carrie protested.

“I’ll stand,” Rita said.

“I won’t be here long enough to sit,” Amelia said at the same time.

They pushed through the crowd. Amelia guided Carrie to one empty chair and shot a look at Rita. With a shake of her blonde head, Rita sat next to Carrie.

“I’ll have a decaf coffee,” Amelia told Rita, and glanced around. The atmosphere in the pub was cheerful—almost frantically so. Everyone was celebrating, and they had a right to, after the tragic summer.

The din of conversation 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 it the Cliff House. Cole glanced upward. Built into the side of a cliff, away from the lighthouse and south of the town proper, Hopkins’s house was faced with local rock. On first inspection it appeared to be a part of the cliff face. In fact, if it weren’t for the elevator that must have been added recently, the house would be all but invisible.

Cole spotted Amelia a few stores down, lit by all the Boat Fest lights. She knocked on a glass door, then entered. The Rx symbol above the door told him it was a pharmacy. He headed in that direction, curious to know what she needed from the drugstore.

What did a rich, beautiful heiress to a vast boat-building fortune need from a small-town pharmacy?

Birth-control pills? Allergy medication? Something more serious? Cole had dug up everything he could find about her, which was quite a lot. She’d lived a life of privilege and fame, being the daughter of one of the East Coast’s most famous yacht designers.

From everything he’d seen and learned, she was the very picture of health. Dewy skin, shiny, bouncy hair, unusual honey-colored eyes and a mouth that was made for smiling—and kissing.

Hell. Where had that thought come from? Sure she was gorgeous, with a supple, delicately muscled body that spoke to years of climbing on the cliffs and sailing along the rocky coastline. But he had no business thinking of her like that. She was an assignment. An innocent victim about to be caught up in a heinous domestic terrorist plot.

It was his bad luck that ever since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, he couldn’t get her out of his head or figure her out.

For instance, why had a no-nonsense businesswoman like her agreed to pose for a mildly risqué calendar? She didn’t look at all like her photos in the new Hopkins Boatworks calendar he’d picked up at the last port.

The woman in those pictures was a sexual being—sizzling in forties-style clothes and makeup. She’d been photographed in black and white, standing in front of next year’s model of luxury yacht presented in full color.

If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t believe they were the same person. Even though the woman in the calendar was definitely a turn-on, for some reason he preferred her like this. Serious, straight and trim, with her hair loose and swinging about her shoulders.

What he had to do bothered him—a lot. Enough that he’d followed an impulse he never should have considered, much less acted on. If his abrupt decision backfired, it could blow the plan that had taken months to set in motion.

And blowing the plan at this stage would be a deadly mistake.

Not to mention that he was two hundred dollars poorer, with no idea whether his money had been wasted. He’d paid the fortune-teller to embellish Amelia’s fortune.

But had she?

“Tell her to be careful,” he’d instructed the woman. “Can you somehow let her know she can trust me?”

The fortune-teller had looked at the wad of twenties and then at him. She’d frowned. “You are caught between two worlds.”

“Yeah—look, lady. Don’t tell my fortune. I know mine. Tell hers. She’s on her way here now. You just finished with her two friends.”

“No. Wait a moment. You must listen to me. You live in two different worlds, and those worlds are about to collide. You must be extremely careful or your young woman may be crushed in the collision.”

“Great.” He’d tossed another wad of twenties down and turned up his nose at the smell of spice and roses drifting up from a dish on the table. “Sounds good. I’m going out through the back.”

As he left, she’d called out to him. “Listen for my voice. I will guide you as much as possible. But only if you open your mind and heart.”

Back on the street, Cole had muttered a curse. That was two hundred dollars ill-spent. He figured the fortune-teller was already pocketing the bills and planning to get as much from Amelia as she could.

A couple passed him, walking arm-in-arm, drawing his thoughts back to the present. They glanced at him with idle curiosity.

He half turned away and pretended to light an invisible cigarette with a nonexistent lighter.

The high-school band struck up a march, and the chatter and cheers grew louder as the twelve-o’clock hour approached.

Cole’s pulse sped up. The fireworks would begin in a few minutes. He needed to be done with his task before his new buddies began theirs.

The sound of an old-fashioned bell signaled Amelia’s exit from the pharmacy. She called out her thanks to the pharmacist as the door closed behind her and the bell’s ring faded. She turned south, away from the town square.

She was going home. She walked with a bounce in her step. She didn’t know her life was about to change forever.

He followed at a careful distance, wishing he wasn’t fascinated by the way her jeans cupped her bottom and emphasized her long legs, wishing her hair wasn’t so shiny that it caught the light of the moon, wishing he was someone else—and so was she.

As soon as she left the lights of town behind and started climbing the cliff path, Cole lengthened his stride. His soft-soled boots made almost no noise on the rocky road. In contrast, her leather soles clicked loudly against the stones and gravel. She wasn’t dressed for speed, not with those ridiculous high-heeled boots on.

The sky lit up. The fireworks. Time to make his move.

In three long strides he caught up with her, just as she slowed for a glance back at the display. He wrapped one arm all the way around her, pinning her body against him.

She didn’t make a sound, just stiffened. Then she kicked and twisted, trying to break his hold.

Behind him, firecrackers cracked and rockets whistled. The sky flashed like lightning.

“Don’t use up your energy struggling. You’re going to need it.” He grabbed both her wrists in one hand and slipped his other hand around her neck from behind.

He didn’t squeeze. He just let his fingers trail along her larynx. He felt more than heard her suck in a deep breath.

“Don’t scream,” he muttered. “I can break your neck before you can make a sound.”