Final Settlement (8 page)

Alcott Bridges could not sleep. He pulled the covers off his bed and grabbed a worn flannel bathrobe. Pulling it over his thin frame, he made his way out of the small bedroom and into the kitchen.

He flicked on a light and checked the coffeepot. Empty. Carefully he measured out some dark brown grounds, added water, and started the machine. He took a chipped mug out of the sink, rinsed it, and poured a generous amount of whiskey into the bottom.

The coffeemaker hissed and sputtered, the rich scent of the beverage filling the room. Alcott put his mug under the dripping liquid. As soon as it was full, he took it and replaced the coffeepot. Cradling the mug, he shuffled into his studio.

Alcott was eighty years old, white-haired, with a pointed chin and watery blue eyes. His nose had a slight hook, making him appear birdlike, and his wiry frame and quick movements added to the comparison. He was arthritic, but the whiskey helped mask the constant pain. It helped with other things, too.

Like memories of Gracie.

He gazed at her portrait, hanging on the wall of his studio, and recalled one of the days she’d posed for him on the porch. He’d arranged some faded red pillows on the white wicker couch, and told her to sit there and relax. She’d complied, laughing, asking him how she could relax when she knew he was scrutinizing her every pore?

And yet she had relaxed, he thought now. She’d become almost dreamy, her thoughts a million miles away from their porch overlooking the bay. She had worn her hair to her shoulders then, and Alcott recalled that it curled in soft waves around her face. He’d managed to capture those waves in the painting, using light strokes to show the fine wisps that would not be tamed, no matter how many times she used her heavy wooden hairbrush with the special bristles. She’d been wearing a crisp white blouse, with a blue bandana tied jauntily around her neck, and the effect of the colors—red, white, and blue—had given the finished work a look of Americana, as if the artist had set out to paint something patriotic.

Alcott gazed at Gracie’s smile. Guileless, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if she knew her future would always be rosy, her heart as young and strong as it had been on that September day.

He felt his lower lip tremble and he put a shaking finger up to touch it, spilling his coffee in the process. He swore and grabbed a painting rag to mop up the mess. Guilt and shame, his ever-present companions, rose up as if revived by the hot coffee. He swallowed, and backed slowly out of the studio.

_____

The cove was nearly silent under the cold night sky.

Darby strained her ears to hear the gentle lap of the water, as faint as a caress against the smooth sand. No breeze stirred the tall spruces, no gong of a bell buoy, nor cry of a gull, marred the stillness.

The air was bracing, chilling Darby’s nose, lips, and cheeks. She shoved her hands deeper into the down coat’s pockets and lifted her head to the heavens.

There it was.

The constellation Cepheus, a box-like array of stars with a triangle on top. “King Cepheus, the promise breaker,” she heard her father whisper. Darby imagined, as she had so many times as a child, the proud Ethiopian ruler seated on his throne. She recalled the story of his downfall, of how Cepheus had betrayed the hero Perseus by breaking a promise, and how the king and his beautiful wife Cassiopeia had perished at Perseus’s hand, turned to stone by the ugly Medusa’s head.

Promises. Did they all turn out to be hollow? She thought of her parents, of their blithe assertion that they would come home from their sail on that beautiful August day. And yet they had never returned.

Minutes later Darby was back in the snug farmhouse. She made the bed in her old room with brushed flannel sheets and spread a heavy down comforter on top. She changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and checked the time. Nearly eleven p.m.—the perfect hour to call the West Coast.

The phone rang at her assistant Enrique Tomas Gomez’s house and an answering machine with his smooth voice picked up. Darby left a message telling him she’d arrived in Maine safely, and said she’d call again soon with a quick update. “I know I’ve left everything in good hands,” she said, thinking about the various deals she had underway in Southern California, “but you know me—I like to keep in touch.” She then phoned the man who kept causing her to blush—Miles Porter.

He answered in his clipped British accent. “Hallo?”

Darby pictured him with his rugged face, dark brown hair, and ready smile. Her pulse quickened. “Miles, it’s me. I’m here on the island and thought I’d check in.”

“Darby!” His voice sounded genuinely pleased. “I was just packing my rucksack with a warm Irish knit sweater from a consignment shop downtown. I figured it would keep me cozy, that is, when I’m not snuggling with you.”

A flush went up her face. “Your visit’s sounding more and more appealing all the time. Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up in Portland?”

“Positive. You’ll have all kinds of wedding-y things to do with Tina. I’ll just get myself a car and drive up. I remember the way.”

“That’s good to know. Be sure to tell me when your flight lands, okay? There’s supposed to be a little snow coming.”

“Will do. Meanwhile, how does it feel to be back on Hurricane Harbor?”

“Not as strange as it did last summer,” she confessed, realizing as she said it that it was true. “I’ve seen Tina, and spoken to Chief Dupont.” She stopped, remembering the awful fact of Lorraine Delvecchio’s death. “Miles, something terrible happened yesterday, on the Manatuck Breakwater.” She described Donny’s discovery and then her conversations with both the Chief and Alison Dyer.

Miles whistled under his breath. “Is this Alison a trusty source?”

“I think so. She doesn’t seem to have any reason to fabricate the story.”

“So what happens now?”

“The Chief thinks the Manatuck police will get right on it.” She then told him about Bitsy Carmichael’s arrival, and this time Miles laughed.

“The poor bloke! After fifteen years she comes back to grab her share of the house? Bloody hell!” He chuckled again. “For a small island, that place has more going on than San Francisco. You be sure to be careful, Darby.”

“Careful?”

“Yes. You always want to help your friends. Sometimes that big heart of yours blinds you to danger, my dear.”

“The only thing I have to watch out for is Tina making me into some big-haired bridesmaid.” Now it was her turn to giggle. “Miles, I think I’m getting punchy from lack of sleep.” She paused, punctuating her observation with an unintentional yawn. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.” His voice was throaty. “Pleasant dreams.”

Darby climbed under the flannel sheets and warm down comforter. She turned off the light and thought of Miles’s admonition to be careful.
He’s sweet to worry about me
, she thought,
but this time I can throw caution to the proverbial wind
.

She rolled on her side and let her body relax, blissfully unaware of what was to come.

_____

A knock on the door at seven a.m. brought Darby down the stairs and to the kitchen with an inquisitive look on her face. She was dressed and ready to tackle a house project, so the unexpected visitor was a surprise.

She peered out the window and saw Tina, bundled up in a bright pink coat with enormous black buttons. She was holding a paper bag and an oversized turquoise pocketbook.

“Good morning,” Darby said, pulling open the door. “How’s the bride-to-be today?”

Tina grunted and came into the warm kitchen. “Sorry to bug you so early, but I need to talk.” She thrust the paper bag at Darby. “I brought coffee and muffins.”

Darby regarded her friend with concern. “Thanks. Let me get us some plates.”

Tina pulled off her coat and black scarf and plunked down at the kitchen table. She grasped the plate of muffins from Darby, chose one, and took a big bite. After she had chewed for a few minutes, she fixed Darby with a steady look.

“Donny has called off the wedding.”

“What?” Darby pulled the lid off one of the coffees and inhaled the fresh-brewed aroma. “Why in the world would Donny do that? He’s crazy about you!”

“Apparently not. At least not the new me, the one that earns decent money at her new career. I think he’s jealous.”

“Tell me what happened.” She lifted a lemon poppy seed muffin and broke it in half. The scent of citrus mingled with the aroma of the coffee. “What exactly did he say?”

“He said that since I became an agent, all I think about is making deals. He doesn’t want to marry me anymore.” Her voice lost its bluster and she turned a troubled face to Darby. “I thought he would be back to normal today, so I went by his house a little while ago. He said that he’d thought about it some more, and that he knew it was for the best. He said—” Her voice broke. “He said that I’ve become a different person.” Her blue eyes filled with tears. “Do you think that’s true, Darby?”

“You’re the same person, Tina—kind, funny, and hardworking.” She paused. Tact was needed here: extreme tact. She made her voice gentle. “You have become kind of fixated on getting new listings. Could that be what Donny was talking about?”

“Fixated? What do you mean?”

“Obsessed.” Darby hated to be blunt, but there it was. Tina had turned into a real estate monster, the kind of agent people shun like a shark. She looked at her friend’s face. The redhead was mulling over the label.

“Donny showed me a picture of a cute beach cottage with a thatched roof in Mexico. He wants to rent it and go for the month of March. I told him no way, that March could be busy.”

“Since when is mud season in Maine ever busy?”

“Well, it could be,” Tina sounded defensive. “It’s a good month to line up spring listings, right?”

Darby put down her muffin and gave her friend a frank look. “Listen, Tina, life is short. You could stay here and maybe sign up a listing or two, but you might never get the chance to take this trip again. That man loves you and wants to take you somewhere warm, and fun, and different. Why in the world would you turn him down?”

“I don’t know!” She sighed, her face twisted in misery. “I guess I’m afraid that I won’t like it, or that I’ll miss Maine. Or that I’ll regret not making money.”

“Making money isn’t everything. And those other things boil down to fear. Going somewhere new is always a gamble, but if you approach it with the right attitude, it’s an adventure. Something the two of you will share.”

“That’s what he said.” Her voice was small. “He wants us to have an adventure.”

Darby smiled. “Well then, why not?”

Tina licked her cherry red lips. “This will sound dumb, but here goes. I’ve never been on an airplane.”

Darby wasn’t completely surprised by her friend’s revelation. “I’m sure you’re not the only islander in that situation. Does Donny know?”

“Nope.”

“Why not tell him? You guys are embarking on a new life together. You can trust him.”

“Yeah.” Tina thought a moment, and then gave a defiant toss of her red curls. “Okay, well as long as we’re talking about trust, tell me why is it you keep that nice Miles Porter at arm’s length?”

“We’re not discussing my love life.” Darby took a sip of her coffee.

“Why not? Seems to me you should take your own advice.”

Darby frowned. Was it fear that kept her from letting Miles get too close?
Am I afraid I’ll lose him?
She pictured her parents, felt the pang of their loss, and wondered if Tina was right.

“I promise I’ll be a bit braver this time.”

Tina smiled. “Okay, then. I’m off to find Donny. He’s not getting out of this as easy as he thinks.” She pulled on her coat and took her coffee. “I’ll bring him a muffin or two as a peace offering.”

“Good idea.” Darby patted her friend on the shoulder. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

“You know I will.” She paused. “Thanks. You’re a real friend.”

Darby smiled as she pulled the door closed. It felt surprisingly nice to hear those words.

_____

Hurricane Harbor’s Chief of Police slammed down the receiver of the phone, making Bitsy Carmichael jump. It was still early in the morning, by her book, and she had a touch of jetlag from yesterday’s flight.

“What the heck, Chuck! Whatever has gotten into you?”

Charles Dupont glowered at Bitsy and her flowered robe, pink puffy slippers, and matching pink lipstick.
You!
He felt like saying.
You’ve gotten into me.

He grabbed his mug of coffee and took a long swig. At least she made good coffee, he’d give her that.

“Is it work related? Or something else? I’m happy to help you.”

Then get the heck back on a plane to Las Vegas
.

“Can you share the details with me? I watch a lot of crime shows, especially
CSI
. Did you know there’s a
CSI
that’s filmed right in Vegas? I know all of the places they show—Mandalay Bay, Glitter Gulch …” She had found a file in the pocket of her robe and was now rasping it against her nails with vigor. “Some of the scenes can turn your stomach, like when they show the dead bodies with blood oozing out and stuff. You’d be sick, I tell you. But they end up catching the bad guys. Just like you, right, Chuck?”