The Harbor. Carla Neggers

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      “She’s okay?”

      Bruce’s expression softened. “Yeah. I’m supposed to bring her a new door. Want to go with me?”

      J.B.’s instincts told him not to get in any deeper with the West sisters. He was in deep enough. He’d been interested in Goose Harbor because of his ancestors, but he’d actually come here because of Patrick West’s murder. His own father had died over the winter, an old man who’d loved western Montana—and yet he never would have been born there without his tragic connection to the Wests and Goose Harbor, Maine.

      J.B. knew he should cut the night short and go back to his inn, but he got to his feet and followed Bruce Young out to buy a new door for Christina West.

      * * *

      Bruce did most of the work. Installing a solid wood door was nothing to him. J.B. finally quit pretending to help and joined Christina and her boyfriend, Kyle Castellane, in the kitchen. The West house was built in 1827—a plaque above the door said so—on a corner lot on a side street behind the town library. Yellow clapboards, black shutters, roses. Their mother had died of lupus when the girls were two and nine. It was one of the many tidbits J.B. had learned about the West sisters since he’d decided to vacation in Goose Harbor.

      Christina looked agitated. She was tall, slender and usually quick with a smile, but not tonight. Wisps of long blond hair had worked their way out of her braid and into her face, which was lightly freckled and pretty, making J.B. wonder about her older sister, the ex-detective. Christina wore the white ruffled blouse and slim black pants that were her basic uniform at her café. Kyle, the boyfriend, was sandy-haired and good-looking, dressed in his habitual gray sweatshirt and khakis. He also had on a five-thousand-dollar watch. They both stood with their backs against the kitchen counter.

      J.B. had on jeans, a black chamois shirt and boat shoes he’d managed to scuff up properly during his four days on the Maine coast. His sports watch cost about a hundred bucks. He’d had to buy a new band for it after he’d bled on the old one when he got his throat slit. The scar wasn’t all that visible when he wore collared shirts.

      He had a feeling Christina West already knew about him, but he went ahead and introduced himself. “I’m J. B. McGrath. I’m on vacation here in Goose Harbor.”

      “I heard,” Christina said. “I’ve seen you at the café a few times.”

      He smiled, aware of her tension. “Hard to resist wild blueberry muffins and warm apple pie. Chowder’s good, too.”

      She couldn’t muster much of a smile back at him. “Thanks.”

      “You’re FBI, aren’t you?” Kyle asked.

      “I’m just a guy with some time off.”

      The kid didn’t like his answer. “Some people are saying you’re a phony.”

      J.B. shrugged. “It’s a crime to impersonate a law enforcement officer.”

      Kyle Castellane liked that answer even less than the first one. “I’d like to see some I.D.”

      “Would you?”

      “Yeah. Why the name McGrath? Don’t you think that’s a hell of a coincidence?”

      “McGrath’s not an uncommon name.” It was a fact, but it left out the rest of the facts—that he knew why Olivia West had picked the name Mr. Lester McGrath for Jen Periwinkle’s evil nemesis. She hadn’t plucked it out of thin air. “I can’t blame people for wondering.”

      Kyle wasn’t pacified. “Why did you pick Goose Harbor for your vacation?”

      “Cute name.”

      “I can call the local police and have them check you out.”

      Christina touched his arm. “Kyle...”

      “It’s okay,” J.B. said. “He can check me out. No problem.”

      Her blue eyes fastened on him. “You know my father was killed last year, don’t you?”

      J.B. nodded. “I do. I’m sorry.”

      She swallowed visibly. “Thanks. It’s hard not having answers.” Her gaze drifted to the side door, where Bruce was almost finished with his work. “The police don’t have any reason to believe the break-in’s connected in any way to Dad’s murder.”

      “Did you call Zoe about it?” Kyle asked.

      “After the police left,” Christina said. “You were back at your apartment.”

      Kyle, who’d rented the small apartment above her waterfront café, seemed put out. “Why didn’t you tell me? Is she on her way?”

      Christina turned to him, color rising in her cheeks. “What?”

      “Zoe. Is she on her way?”

      “I don’t know.”

      She knew. J.B. could see the lie in the way she shifted her eyes away from Kyle and looked down at her hands, in the flush that spread from her cheeks to her ears, in the increased agitation. Her breathing was shallow now, coming in quick, ineffective gulps.

      Why wouldn’t she want to reveal whether or not her sister was on her way?

      Bruce lumbered in from his door-hanging. “She drives a yellow Bug these days. She won’t be hard to spot.”

      “She hasn’t—” Christina inhaled, wrung her hands together. “She hasn’t been back in almost a year. Cut her some slack, okay?”

      “Right,” Bruce said. “Like she’d cut us any.”

      “Anyway, I don’t know if she’s coming.”

      The big sister sounded like a trip to J.B. He saw Bruce give Christina a pained look, as if he was suffering to see her with Kyle Castellane, and decided it was time to make their exit. “Come on, Bruce. A game of darts?”

      “Nah. It’s too late. I have to be up before dawn. October’s good lobstering.” He pulled his gaze from Christina. “I’ll drop you off at your inn.”

      * * *

      His room at the inn had pink soap and pink-flowered wallpaper, and its four-poster bed was a first for J.B. The place was run by Lottie Martin, who had to be the sourest woman in the state of Maine. He always greeted her cheerfully just to watch her squirm. When he opened his door and saw that his room had been tossed, he knew she wouldn’t be happy.

      He wasn’t happy.

      It was a gentle toss, not a ransacking. If he hadn’t worked undercover for the past five years and become accustomed to imprinting on his mind how he’d left things, he might not even have noticed.

      It helped that the perpetrator had spilled his afternoon tea on the carpet.

      He knew he’d done tea for a reason. The daily afternoon ritual was served on the screened porch and featured three kinds of tea and an array of tiny СКАЧАТЬ