Nobody's Hero. Carrie Alexander

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      CONNIE WAITED UNTIL they were seated at the dining table with their lunch—toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches—before she started in with the inquisition. Pippa was expecting it, and took a huge bite when her mother said, “All right. Tell me what happened.”

      “Mmph, mouth’s full.”

      “I’ll wait.” Connie speared a dill pickle out of the jar. The juice speckled the table’s watermarked wood surface, and she swiped it up with a paper napkin.

      The Sheffields had installed Connie and her daughter in a somewhat ramshackle, long-forgotten guesthouse, as all the bedrooms in the main home were reserved for their VIP guests. Small and dark, the cedar-shingle house was hidden out of sight, in the woods not far from the front gate. The accommodations were summer-camp rustic, with thin, sagging mattresses, balky plumbing and flyspecked screens, but the privacy was wonderful. Constant exposure to the Sheffields worked Connie’s last nerve. Anders Sheffield was an entitled snob with morality issues, and the lady of the manor was too unsure of herself to give him the boot up the butt that he deserved.

      Connie had thought that the guesthouse setup was ideal. She’d be close enough to keep an eye on her daughter, even while she worked. It appeared she’d been wrong.

      Pippa swallowed and went in for a second bite.

      “Pippa.”

      She put the sandwich down. “Yes, Mom?”

      “Were you at that man’s house?” Connie was certain about one thing—her daughter wouldn’t lie. Pippa’s good conscience and the tendency to blush beet-red had always given her away. She’d learned not to even try.

      “Not in it,” Pippa said. “But I was nearby.”

      “Did you follow him?”

      Her daughter’s face was inching toward her plate as her shoulders caved inward. Gradually, over the past several years, Pippa had become more secretive and self-contained. Emotional conflict bothered her. She’d picked up the habit of cowering whenever she couldn’t physically retreat.

      “I guess so,” Pippa whispered.

      Connie winced, remembering the accusations she’d flung at the stranger. “Why?”

      “I was observing him.”

      The notebook again. Connie sighed. “Pippa, I’ve warned you about that habit….”

      The girl’s head shot up. “I was bored! I read all my books. There’s nothing to do here.”

      “I said you could go for a short walk. That didn’t mean spying on strangers.” Connie would have normally considered Pippa’s spurt of temper and the venture outdoors to be promising. These days, it was tough to raise a child to be both bold and cautious.

      Connie chose her words carefully. “This island may be small, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe for a young girl to be wandering around alone. Still, I want you to have fun here. Kid-type fun. You are not to get up to any of your Trixie Belden and the Mystery of the—the whatever mischief.”

      “Oh, Mom. Please? There’s lots to see on the island. I won’t bother anybody.”

      “Especially not that man.”

      Pippa sighed. She was good at doing that, in a way that made Connie feel like a tyrant.

      “All right, Pip. I’ll do my best to make some extra time for us to try a few island activities.” Connie bit the pickle in half with a satisfying crunch. “But I want you sticking with me up at the garden for the rest of the day.”

      Pippa kicked the table leg. “Will I have to dig? Ugh.”

      “No, you won’t have to dig. You can play in the maze if you like. As long as I know where you are.”

      “Okay.” Pippa was fascinated by the maze; she’d studied the plans from their first inception, until Connie had drawn up an extra copy for her daughter to trace out the solution with her markers.

      Pippa gave her a toothy smile and returned to her sandwich. She was like her mother that way—running hot and cold at the turn of a tap.

      An only child, Connie had been smothered and pampered by her parents. As a result, she’d developed a strong need for freedom and independence, but also a hair-trigger temper. In her adult years, she’d been forced to learn to control her emotions and act as the rock of the family, particularly during the final years of her marriage. Even so, Philip had often teased her that she was only a dormant volcano, ready to burst forth at the first rumbling provocation.

      She’d certainly gone off on Pippa’s stranger. He must be feeling rather scorched.

      Connie pressed two fingers between her closed eyes. She couldn’t seem to remember exactly what the man looked like, beyond an impression of a lean body with wide shoulders and a fringe of dark hair sticking out from beneath his bandanna. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses. She’d taken that as shady, but maybe she’d been wrong.

      She didn’t want to encourage Pippa’s surreptitious sleuthing, especially after the “Case of the Locked Garden Shed” had led to a policeman showing up on her doorstep back home. Unfortunately, her own curiosity about the stranger was suddenly on a par with Pippa’s.

      Connie shoved aside her paper plate. “All right. Tell me. What did you find out about him?”

      Pippa dropped the cheesy crust she’d been nibbling. “He came on the nine-fifteen ferry. I first saw him yesterday, when we were having breakfast at the harbor. Want me to get my notebook? I made lots of observations.”

      Connie had noticed her scribbling away at the time, but had overlooked it. “That’s not necessary, Pippa.” She picked up her can of diet soda. “Did you get his name? I should probably make a point of apologizing since it seems that he’s not quite the degenerate I believed him to be.”

      “I didn’t find out his name on my own, but he told me.” Pippa looked sorry about that. She took pride in her growing ability to ferret out information. Too much pride. “It’s Sean Rafferty.”

      Sean Rafferty, Pine Cone Cottage. Connie filed the info away before popping the top of the soda. She licked the fizz from her thumb. “And was he alone?”

      “Yep. He says he’s on vacation.”

      Connie’s eyes narrowed. “How long did you two talk?”

      “Only a minute. He knew I was following him and he told me to go home.” Pippa frowned. “He didn’t act like a vacationer.”

      “How does a vacationer act?”

      “Happy. I think Mr. Rafferty is sad. Or maybe sick.”