Carrie Alexander - Count on a Cop Read online

  “A monster?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrows.

  “A child molester.” A spade was a spade, even if it was in the hands of a resentful gardener like Graves.

  “That’s good, because…” Sean inclined his head toward the front of the house.

  Connie groaned. “Pippa? Not again.”

  Pippa had still been sleeping when Connie had left the house to meet the early ferry. She’d set out cereal and a note on the kitchen table, instructing the girl not to wander off beyond the Sheffield estate. Since it was a big estate with much for an inquisitive girl to explore, she hadn’t been overly worried when she’d found Pippa gone when she’d returned. For all her curiosity, Pippa was too cautious to get into dangerous situations.

  At least, she had been.

  While Connie’s mind had raced, she’d also been staring at Sean, cataloging his features and build as if she might need to identify him in a lineup. The shoulders she remembered. Above them, his face was handsome, if gaunt. He had a good, strong nose and jaw. A sprinkle of gray in the clipped hair. His eyes were a solemn gray-blue, not dark the way she’d remembered.

  She dropped her gaze, then blinked, appreciation turning to apprehension. “Why are your jeans wet? You’re soaked to the skin!”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Pippa’s okay, but she was caught out by the tide. I hauled her in.”

  “Pippa…was in the ocean?”

  “No, she was on a rock.” He conceded with a nod. “And briefly in the water.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Sitting on your front step. Seeing as she was following me again when it happened, I think she’s afraid to face you.”

  “Afraid?” Connie’s head jerked back. “Because I’m the monster?”

  “Maybe a tigress,” Sean said with a small smile.

  Connie resisted the urge to let out a low growl. Pippa was safe, that was the important thing. If there was anyone to blame, it wasn’t Sean and it wasn’t Pippa. It was her.

  “PIPPA, PIPPA. WHAT WERE YOU thinking?” Connie’s hands shook as she pulled a towel off the shelf. She clenched the length of terry cloth taut, then enfolded her daughter’s shivering body. “I said over and over that you were not to go near the ocean without supervision. You’ve never disobeyed me so badly before. When I think what might have happened…”

  Don’t think it. She’s safe.

  Pippa bleated from the depths of a fervent hug, the third or fourth since her mother had rushed her inside and up to the bathroom for dry towels and a hot shower. “Oh, Mom.”

  Connie set Pippa back, knowing that despite her own culpability she must scold the girl. Mete out some sort of punishment. But that could wait.

  “I’d rattle your bones if you weren’t already shaking like a drowned kitten.” Connie swept aside the mildewed shower curtain and cranked on the tap. “In you go.”

  Pippa stared, the towel clutched under her chin.

  “Privacy.” Connie bit her lip, remembering that her daughter was ten and growing up fast. No longer a little girl. But not a big one, either. “Right. Stay in the shower until the hot water runs out. I’ll go brew you a cup of tea.”

  “Tea?” Pippa made a face.

  “Hot chocolate, then, if I can remember how to make it when I’m so shook up.”

  “It’s just chocolate and milk, Mom.”

  “Don’t be a smarty-pants. You’re in for it, you know. I’ll have to ground you.” But she already had, in effect, and that hadn’t done any good. Before there could be a punishment, she’d have to find out why Pippa had disobeyed, what she’d hoped to gain.

  Sean Rafferty.

  He might know. Connie had left him on his own when she’d rushed Pippa inside.

  He’s probably gone, she told herself as she descended the cottage’s narrow steps with a couple towels in her arms. A glance out the stairwell’s porthole window revealed no sign of him, but then she found him sitting at the dining table, perched damply on the edge of a ladderback chair, his face pinched white. He looked as though he couldn’t figure out why he was still there.

  Suddenly, Connie knew nothing except that seeing him had eased her worry. As wary and edgy as he came across, she was instinctively comforted by his presence. Go figure.

  “Towels.” She thrust them at him. “You’re shivering.”

  He stood and draped one around his shoulders, ignoring the wet denim clinging to his legs.

  “Well,” Connie said, pulling away her gaze. “Pippa’s taking a hot shower. For a minute there, I was worried about hypothermia.”

  “She was chilled through, but the walk home warmed her up. I kept her moving. I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Sean rubbed his arms vigorously. “Since you’ve got everything under control, I’ll leave.”

  “No, please stay. I’d like to talk to you.” Connie put her hand on his arm to urge him down into the chair, then pulled away when the renewed warmth of his skin and the firm muscle beneath it came as a pleasant shock.

  She rubbed the prickly hair on her forearms as she headed to the fridge. Holding a half-gallon container of milk and a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup, she turned back to Sean. “Will you come to dinner tonight? I’d like to—” Breathe, dammit! “—express my gratitude to you.” Despite the inappropriate timing, there was no denying she was aware of all sorts of things she’d like to do with him.

  “That’s not necessary,” he said in a grave tone, and she dearly hoped he hadn’t been reading her mind.

  Her laugh sounded rusty. “Hey, c’mon. You rescued my daughter from the briny brink. A home-cooked meal is the least that I owe you.”

  He glanced away, raking a hand through his hair. It had dried into short porcupine quills. “It was nothing.”

  “It was huge. You’re a hero in my book.”

  His face contorted. Only for a millisecond, but she noticed.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?” She bent and clattered the pots and pans in the drawer under the electric stove more than she had to, then tossed her hair as she straightened. She shot him a smile over her shoulder. “Are you modest? Shy? Secretly a Mr. Limpet?”

  “What’s a Mr. Limpet?”

  She poured milk into a saucepan. “A character from The Incredible Mr. Limpet. You don’t know the movie?”

  He shook his head.

  “We watched a lot of oldies with Pippa when she was little,” Connie explained. “Mr. Limpet was a favorite. Don Knotts played a wimp who turned into a heroic fish wearing glasses. The fish was animated.” She paused, considering. “It was better than it sounds.”

  Sean rubbed a finger above his upper lip. “I’m not a wimp or a fish.”

  Connie grinned. “Not even a heroic one?”

  “No.”

  “Seriously, though,” she said and squirted the syrup into the milk. Not the best recipe for hot chocolate, but it’d do in a pinch. “What about dinner?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She saw the beginnings of his frown and rushed on. “Sharing a little companionship won’t hurt you. The island can be a lonely place. That is, assuming you are alone?” She stopped stirring. “Would there be a Mrs. Limpet?”

  “Pippa didn’t tell you?”

  “I neglected to interrogate her.” On that point.

  “I’m here alone.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wincing slightly. “There’s no fish wife.”

  With a chuckle, she resumed stirring. “Then you can come over. About six? Just so you know, I’m not promising a gourmet meal. My purpose is to find out exactly what happened with Pippa this morning.”

  “Then I can save you the trouble. What happened is that Pippa was spying on me again.”

  “I told her not to,” Connie interjected. “Very firmly.”

  He nodded. “Even so, she followed me out to Whitlock’s Arrow, on the north end. Apparently she climbed down to the shore after me, then was stranded on a rock when the tide came in.” H
e rubbed his leg. “I didn’t notice her until it was too late, or I’d have sent her home right away.”

  “What were you doing at Whitlock’s Arrow?”

  She got a shrug. “Walking. Exploring the shore.” He met her eyes. “In complete innocence.”

  “I didn’t intend to accuse you of anything. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with Pippa. You seem like a normal sort of guy.” Normal? Maybe. “What’s so intriguing about you that she’d break the rules and—” she exaggerated for his benefit “—risk my wrath?”

  Connie knew why he intrigued her—no mystery in that at all. In the fourteen years since she’d hooked up with Philip when they were both sophomores in college, she may have forgotten how strong the first sweet rush of attraction could be. But she was recognizing it now.

  Sean’s gaze took in her face, her hair. “Do you have a lot of wrath?” he asked, bemused.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. Her scalp tingled. “My temper has been known to flare.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right. I remember now.”

  She snorted. “Hey, wait a minute. I wasn’t completely off the mark about that.” She tilted her head toward the ceiling as the sound of drumming water ceased. “A mother’s got to be diligent, nowadays.”

  Sean retreated. “You’re right, of course.”

  Connie poured the hot chocolate into a mug. “Want some? You got wet, too.” She stared at his clinging jeans. “Shoot. I should have offered you a change of clothing, and instead I’m entertaining you with plot summaries of old Disney movies.”

  He waved her off. “Thanks, but I’m not fitting into any of your gardening togs. I’ll go home to change.” He dropped the towels on the back of the chair and moved to the front door, which still stood wide-open.

  She followed. “I want you to know that I realize how lucky we were that you were there to rescue Pippa. If you hadn’t seen her…If you hadn’t acted quickly…Well, that’s too horrible to consider. Words of gratitude aren’t enough.” She grasped the edge of the door. Swallowed the lump in her throat. “Pippa and I are indebted.”

  “A thank-you is enough.” Sean stooped and picked something up off her doorstep, using his left hand. The knuckles of his right pressed hard into his thigh.

  With a wince, he straightened and extended his hand. “You and Mr. Bradford owe me no more than that.”

  He thought there was a Mr. Bradford? Connie didn’t wear a wedding ring, although that was because of her job rather than her marital status. She might have immediately explained that her “we” was a family of only two, but she was distracted by what Sean had handed her.

  Pippa’s sodden notebook. The answer, perhaps, to all of Connie’s questions, even if she couldn’t possibly read it without her daughter’s permission.

  “Thank you.” She clutched the tablet to her midriff, even though it was cold and smelled of seaweed. She needed to hold on…to something.

  Sean gave a short wave and strode down the path to the main road. Even with the pronounced hitch in his step and his damp, wrinkled clothing, he cut an admirable figure in the dappled sunshine—proud, angular and so very capable of the heroics that he denied.

  Connie took a deep breath and pushed down the damnably persistent tide of attraction. She’d explain about Phil later, when and if Sean returned at six to take her up on the dinner invitation.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “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.”