Carrie Alexander - Count on a Cop Page 7

  CHAPTER SIX

  A SOFT FOG HUNG at the edges of the harbor and surrounding streets. Connie felt as though she and Pippa were walking into a watercolor painting as they descended the hill toward Lattimer’s General Store. Except this painting had sound effects. The lap of the waves on the pilings and rocks was punctuated by the clanging buoy and the gulls’ raucous cries as they wheeled above the arriving ferry. Its horn cut through the misty morning postcard scene.

  “There’s the first boat,” Connie said. “Let’s hurry.”

  She took Pippa’s hand and swung it as they sped up to beat the crowd of incoming tourists. She was pleased that her daughter was still young enough to enjoy a public display of affection from her mom. Some of Pippa’s classmates were already acting like teenagers, with skimpy outfits, cell phones, designer purses and the snotty attitudes that often seemed like a required accessory. Every day that Pippa stayed a little girl was a precious thing.

  Connie gave her daughter a brief, hard hug as they climbed the wooden steps into the store. As soon as the maze job was through, she’d devote all of her time to Pippa. “The Sheffields have invited us to stay over in their guesthouse for as long as we like, after the party. Do you want to? I can put off my other clients for an extra three or four days.”

  Pippa bounced up and down. “Yay!”

  “We’ll do everything together—clamming, hiking, picnicking.” They entered the store and waved to the proprietors, Edgar, a gruff old salt, and his equally taciturn wife, Lou. “We can rent bikes and take a kayak lesson and sleep late…” Invite Sean over, Connie added impulsively at the first sight of him standing near the cash register. He was not her reason for extending their stay. But he was a pretty big bonus.

  “Can we have a clambake, like the B.W.G.s did on Cobbett’s Island?” B.W.G. stood for Bob-Whites of the Glen, Trixie Belden’s club of mystery mavens.

  “I don’t know about that,” Connie said, distracted by the butterfly wings batting around her hollow stomach. She wanted to blame them on lack of nourishment. Low blood sugar. Party nerves. Anything but what it was. She couldn’t accept that Sean might be the rare man she needed, but hadn’t been looking for. Not yet.

  Pippa spotted Sean and bounded over to him. “Hi, Mr. Rafferty.” She poked her nose into the basket he’d rested on the edge of the counter. “What are you buying?”

  “Pip, that’s intrusive.” Connie hurried over and caught her daughter by the braids, using them to steer the girl toward the aisles jammed with a variety of goods, from just-picked fruit to leather shoelaces. “Here’s our list. Go shop.”

  “Morning, Pippa,” Sean said easily. “Connie.” His slight grin tilted to one side. “I picked up a dozen blueberry muffins at the bakery next door. Someone told me they were good.”

  “So are we,” Connie answered. “I mean, getting the muffins.” The fresh baked goods would sell out fast as soon as the day-trippers disembarked the ferry and swarmed Suzy Q’s. “We’re planning to go and sit on the harbor wall with our breakfast. Want to come?”

  Sean slid his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and took the brown bag of his groceries, the white box from the bakery and a tall, lidded paper cup. Even the Lattimers, who avoided the mainland and its newfangled inventions like the plague, had seen the profit margin in charging double for a latte as opposed to an ordinary coffee. Finally he said, “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  Connie blinked.

  An instant later, Sean winced. “Sorry.” He replaced his basket in the stack by the door. “That didn’t come out right. What I meant was that I’m free to linger over muffins with you and the gulls for as long as I’d like.”

  “Not if the gulls have anything to say about it.” Feeling ridiculously giddy at his warmer response, Connie turned away. “I’ll get Pippa. We’ll do our grocery shopping later.”

  In minutes they were sitting with their legs dangling over the stacked-stone seawall, choosing muffins from the bakery box. Connie doled out napkins and a bottle of juice for Pippa, who’d plopped herself in the middle and was chattering to Sean about digging for clams.

  “You look for the bubbles in the sand. But I don’t know, I think I’d rather dig up a diamond than a slimy old clam. Trixie and Honey did, but that was in the Wheeler’s gatehouse, not at the beach.”

  “I doubt a diamond would turn up.” Sean rubbed a finger over his top lip, trying not to smile. “But maybe you’d find an ancient gold coin if you were very, very lucky. There are shipwrecks in these waters.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” Connie said with a laugh. “Anyway, given the level of income along Cliff Road, a diamond ring lost on the beach is more likely than a pirate treasure.”

  Pippa flipped open her notebook to the first page, where she’d written down all of the Trixie Belden mystery titles and made checkmarks by the ones she’d read. “The Mystery of the Ghostly Galleon is number twenty-seven. I don’t have that one yet.”

  “We live our life according to Trixie,” Connie said to Sean over her daughter’s head.

  “Right,” he said, still mystified by the obscure references to the girl detective. He angled to read the notebook’s rippled cover. “Pippa Bradford’s Book of Curious…?”

  Scowling, Pippa clutched it to her chest. “Observations.”

  Connie squeezed her coffee cup. Don’t tease her, Sean. Please don’t tease her. Pippa took herself seriously and was gravely disappointed in adults who dismissed her interests as silly and childish. Even her mother walked a fine line between discouraging and encouraging, particularly in Pippa’s eyes.

  “Observational skills are very important to a detective.” Sean pointed at the wharf. “Study that scene for sixty seconds, Pippa. Then close your eyes and tell me what you saw.”

  “I’ve done this game before, lots of times. Time me.”

  Sean raised his watch. “Go.”

  While her daughter stared intently at the activity on the wharf, Connie broke off a chunk of muffin and popped it into her mouth. She could feel Sean looking at her, but she kept her face turned toward the sea. Sunshine danced on the water.

  Too soon, she told herself. Too fast. She’d moved quickly with boyfriends before her friendship with Phil had grown into romance. That was what she should be looking for—if she looked at all—not an instant attraction.

  Sean was holding out a plump blueberry muffin. “Have another.”

  She realized hers was already gone. There were crumbs all over her sweater. “No, thanks,” she said, brushing them off. “I’m finished.”

  Finished? Not even. For a moment, she’d almost had herself convinced she was a goner, and with very little encouragement from Sean. But what did she really know about him, except that he was kind to children and on the right side of the law?

  “Time,” he announced. “All right, Pippa, close ’em and tell me. I want details.”

  “Oh, boy.” Pippa squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “The ferry is named The Blue Jenny and its serial number, or whatever you call it, is SRG1855F. A man in a green shirt and jeans was coiling the ropes on the dock and there were two boys with fishing poles…”

  Pippa rattled on. Sean kept nodding. Connie shut her eyes. She tilted her face as if she were simply basking in the sun. Inwardly, her mind was racing.

  Details? I’m thirty-three and a widow. I have a little house with a big mortgage, a daughter who is finally coming out of her shell and a business that keeps us afloat, but just that, even though my prospects are good.

  She glanced at Sean. Maybe even very good, if I don’t get too far ahead of myself.

  I miss my husband. I’ll always miss him. But I have to admit that there’s something about Sean, something that reaches inside and twists me into knots every time I look at him.

  Mothering instinct, she tried to tell herself. For all his competence and control, he was a wounded bird.

  But she knew that wasn’t it, not entirely. There was no decent explanation except
plain and simple attraction, whether or not she was ready for it. So why not count the next few days as a time to enjoy herself? After working so hard, she was entitled, and there’d be plenty of time for Pippa after the garden party, as she’d planned.

  There was no rule that said she had to fall in love with the first man since Phil who gave her Houdini knots. Especially one who’d made his preference for solitude clear.

  “Not bad,” Sean said, sounding as though isolation was the last thing on his mind, “but can you stand up to questioning?”

  Misgivings tugged at Connie. Stand up to questioning? I’d rather not. Because then I’d have to admit that I once had a husband who was brave and kind and loving and there’s no way on God’s green earth that I can ever replace him.

  The knots tightened briefly before giving way. Certainly not with Sean.

  Unaware of her inner turmoil, he went on, addressing Pippa. “What color are the boat buoys tied to the pilings? What about the bait bucket? How many smokestacks does the ferry have?”

  “How many? One, of course! I think it’s one.” Pippa’s face scrunched in concentration. “The buoys are…blue. The bucket is white.”

  “Take a look.”

  “They’re red,” Pippa blurted. “Red stripes. But I was right about the stack and the bucket.” Her head bobbed. “How’d I do?”

  “Better than average.” Sean’s eyes went to Connie. “I should have tested your mom, too. But I don’t think she was concentrating as well as you.”

  Pippa giggled. “Were you, Mom?”

  Connie’s cheeks felt warm, like a beacon of guilt. “My mind wandered.”

  “You should practice like me, in case you’re ever a witness to a crime and have to testify in court.”

  “I’m not planning on that, honey, but if it should happen I’ll cope. My vision’s twenty-twenty.”

  “Pippa’s right,” said Sean. “Most eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable.”

  “See, Mom?” Pippa scrambled to her feet, brandishing her notebook. “I’m gonna go to the wharf and look closer. Can I, Mom?”

  “Yes, you may, as long as you promise to keep out of the way of the fishermen.”

  Sean watched Pippa skip away before he turned and squinted into the sun. “She’s got spirit. My dad would say it’s the ginger hair.”

  Connie blinked. Sean was right. Pippa was more like her old self since they’d come to the island. As a mother, she was thrilled with the change, but…

  “Phil used to call her Pippa Pepperpot.” Connie used her husband’s name deliberately. To keep him present. To remind herself. And Sean, also, if he thought it would be easy to take on a widowed mother and child.

  He probably hadn’t.

  “Cute.”

  Connie glanced at Sean. “Thanks, anyway, for not giving her the brush-off.” She crumbled the remains of her daughter’s muffin and tossed it to the gulls. They converged, squawking greedily. “My mother keeps asking when Pippa’s going to play with fashion dolls or dress hair like the other girls.”

  He took out a pair of sunglasses. “Is that what girls do?”

  “Most of them.” Connie leaned forward on her arms to watch the water lap at the wet mossy stone. His sunglasses made her nervous again; she couldn’t tell where he was looking. “I was a tomboy despite my mother’s best efforts to turn me into a china doll.” She swung her legs. “I liked dodgeball and street hockey and digging in our garden with my dad. I was so disappointed to get figure skates for Christmas when I dreamed of being the first girl to play in the NHL.”

  “I lived for hockey as a kid. Did you play kick the can?”

  “Till nightfall, and sometimes longer, if my mother didn’t realize I was still out.” Connie’s smile thinned. “Pippa stays indoors too much.” She’d clung to her father, especially in his last few years, then holed up like a wounded animal after he’d passed on. “That’s why I thought this trip would be good for her.”

  “I guess it was.” Sean gestured. “Look at her.”

  Out on the wharf, Pippa was in the middle of the action, walking and talking with a man who lugged a lobster trap toward the ramps that led to the moored boats. Probably looking for clues to pirate ships or smuggler’s bounty.

  “Yeah,” Connie breathed. She blinked away a film of tears. That—her daughter—was what she should be concerned with. Not an island flirtation. “Look at her.”

  After a minute, Sean said, “She can come by my place anytime.”

  The offer was startling. Connie blinked hard, supposing that he felt sorry for them. “Thanks and all, but you might want to reconsider. You do realize that you’ve become Pippa’s hero, right? She might not leave you alone.”

  “I already said, I’m no hero.” He softened the bluntness. “At least I don’t seem to be her suspect anymore.”

  Connie chuckled even though Sean’s curt denial continued to bother her. Why did he recoil? Was it only because of what had happened on his job, or was it a personal issue, too? “I’m not guaranteeing that. Pippa sees mysteries everywhere.”

  And Sean, solitary and less then forthcoming, was potentially a good puzzle to solve. Maybe more for Connie than her daughter, despite her best intentions.

  She knew he hadn’t fully dealt with the shooting incident, so feeling less then heroic made some kind of sense, given his burden of guilt. Still, she suspected he’d been more of one than he allowed.

  Someday, if they ever got to really know each other, she would share her hard-earned knowledge that the mental recovery always took longer than the physical. But that it helped to have a hand to reach for, a steady arm to lean on.

  She pulled up her legs, remembering how she’d felt shattered from Phil’s death, even after she’d dragged herself out of bed and gone on with the outer trappings of life, much to the relief of her family and friends. “I ought to go and collect Pippa so we can head home. I’ve got work waiting.”

  Sean helped her to her feet. “I’ll get this,” he said, collecting the remains of their breakfast.

  Connie dusted off the seat of her khaki cargo pants, wishing she’d packed nicer clothes instead of practical ones. The pants weren’t stylish. They made her look a little too squat and lumpy, but the extra pockets were handy on the job. The rest of her wardrobe was equally hopeless. She’d lost the impulse to dress “cute.” The one nice outfit she’d brought along was Lena’s.

  At the wharf, she and Sean crossed paths with the Sheffields. Connie made introductions.

  “We’re on our way to our yacht,” Kay said in her pinched “lady of the manor” voice. On several occasions, Connie had heard her slip and yell at the staff in a down-home Texas accent. “Going shopping on the mainland. I simply must have a few new things for the weekend events.”

  Anders twisted a heavy platinum watch at his wrist, bored. “Women.”

  “Oh, Andy,” Kay chided. “You know you love to indulge me.”

  “You like to indulge yourself.” He glanced at Connie. “I hope the rest of that pile of gravel will be out of the way by this afternoon. We have more guests arriving.”

  “I’m having the last of it spread today at the center of the maze. As we speak, in fact.” She’d given orders to Graves to oversee the workers she’d hired, knowing he couldn’t be counted on for the physical labor. “I’m just about to head off to check on the progress.”

  “The garden must be perfect.” The wind caught at the silk scarf Kay had tied around her hair. “We’re holding a dinner party this evening at Peregrine House. Please come, both of you.” She ran an appreciative eye over Sean. “Cocktails and nibbles at eight. We’ll watch the sunset from the widow’s walk, then go downstairs for a casual buffet dinner.”

  Sean muttered something that sounded like a refusal, but Kay insisted. “You must be there. We’re always desperate for fresh faces on this boring old island, and besides, Connemara needs an escort. You’ll do very well.” She glanced at Connie. “Don’t you agree?”

  Ander
s hurried Kay away before Connie and Sean were forced to answer. She half expected him to back out, but he turned to her with an amused expression.

  “Connemara?”

  “Oh, that. My full name. I guess Kay thinks it sounds more impressive or something. She can be pretentious.”

  “She tries hard to be,” he observed, watching the Sheffields pick their way toward the marina, apparently squabbling as they went. Kay’s raised voice briefly caught on the wind. “Don’t accuse me when you’re the one who gave away my…” She tried to flounce off but could only totter down the ramp in her high heels. Their yacht was anchored in deep water, and they would have to take a launch to reach it.

  “She’s going to gouge holes in the deck with those shoes,” Sean commented with a trace of disdain.

  “There’s Pippa.” Connie waved to her daughter on the wharf and called, “Time to go!” Reluctantly, Pippa put away her pen, closed the notebook and trudged toward them.

  “About the dinner party.” Connie kept her hand up, shading her eyes. Sean’s head turned. Behind the dark lenses, he was apparently studying her. Her stomach, full of blueberry muffin, still managed to flutter. “You don’t have to go.”

  “I’ll pick you up a few minutes before eight, Connemara.” His smile deepened the hollows below his cheekbones. “My good old Irish da’ would never approve of me ditching a girl named after a district of the Emerald Isle.”

  PEREGRINE HOUSE was an immense structure covered in cedar shingles weathered to a soft dove-gray. With a massive central hall, double wings and a widow walk on the mansard roof, it loomed over the southeastern cliffs, offering a spectacular overview of the Atlantic side of the island, from the high point of Whitlock’s Arrow toward the southernmost bay of the harbor.

  Leaning over the railing of the widow’s walk, Sean scanned the thick forest that hid most of the village from view. Feeling rather grumpy about his impulse to play Connie’s gentleman escort, he said, “I’d feel like a king, too, if I lived here.”

  Connie glanced away from Anders Sheffield, who’d greeted her and Sean with a bluff hello and handshake before dismissing them. “The master of all you survey?” she asked lightly.