Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series) (10 page)

“Wonderful,” Sarah said. “We’re looking forward to it.”

“Bring your appetites!” Emily added.

After Emily left and all the food-talk had spoken to their bellies, Sarah and Hannah made a quick dinner of scrambled eggs and home-fried potatoes. A find in the refrigerator’s crisper yielded a green pepper and an onion which they chopped up and added to their concoction. Not bothering with setting the table, they perched themselves at the island and sipped a crisp Chablis with their meal.

“So, just to recap”—Hannah twirled her goblet by its stem, casting a languid gaze on the undulating liquid in the bowl of the glass—”next Saturday we go to The Melrose at three. All six of us. Thank God Ian’s parents aren’t in town or we’d need a friggin’ bus.”

“It’ll be fun,” Sarah said. “You’ll see.”

Deciding a lazy night was in order, they chose to watch a movie while propped against a cluster of pillows on Sarah’s bed. Over the years this had become a mother-daughter ritual.

A spy thriller, the movie required more attention than they had to offer. Halfway through Hannah conked out. The sight of her daughter in repose, angelic face innocent and blissful, made Sarah’s heart swell.

She pulled a soft, nubby throw up over the girl and switched off the television. Closing her bedroom door softly behind her, Sarah maneuvered the staircase to the main floor of the inn to turn off the lights and double-check the door locks.

As she approached the front door she spotted the tab of a familiar-looking paper poking in from under it. Emotion zinged through her; but this time instead of a burst of fear, the feeling was a distinct surge of rage. She yanked open the door and tugged out the envelope.

The paper was the same, as was the capitalized printing. To no surprise, inside was one sheet of identical stationary.
“Meet me at the Pier House 9:00 PM on Monday night. I’ll explain everything. But come alone.”

Her body quaked and she couldn’t stay still. Someone had sneaked onto her porch again tonight. The intrusion and her privacy’s violation fueled her anger. If these damned notes really had nothing to do with Benny Benedetto, then who the hell was responsible? This had to stop. Now.

She grabbed her windbreaker from the hall closet before peering down at her feet. Her cotton socks would never do for a sprint down the avenue. She stifled an urge to swear aloud.

She needed to go back upstairs to retrieve her sneakers. That would require finesse in order to not awaken Hannah. There was no way she could explain a late-night walk to her daughter or risk causing her to question the motive. But she was going, damn it.

Sarah gingerly ascended the stairs, pausing at each step. Her windbreaker would not cooperate. With each movement the scratchy fabric sounded with a loud zip-zip. She knew removing the jacket while she was halfway up the stairs would be too noisy, yet she needed shoes.

She had a new idea. She descended the stairs she’d already climbed, her arms extended out from her body like wings to remedy the fabric-on-fabric racket.

Dashing back to the coat closet, she crouched onto her hands and knees, feeling her way in the dark interior of the space. At this point she didn’t even want to turn on a light, the darkness suddenly becoming a blanket of security.

Her fingers found the wicker basket of work clothes she used when gardening. She found her rubber boots.

Sarah donned the pink floral galoshes, slipped her pink-handled trowel into her jacket pocket to use as a weapon if she needed it, and squeaked and zip-zipped her way to the front door. She opened the door carefully and slipped outside.

Making her way down Tidewater to Ocean Avenue, she clomped like a Clydesdale. She was totally unsure of where she was going. All she knew was that she had to do something. She wasn’t going to just sit home and “ignore” these letters like the PD had advised.

She thought of Benny Benedetto and his arrogant assurance that the town police were right in dismissing the problem. She’d do this on her own. Somewhere in this dark night was a person who’d put a second letter under her door and, damn it, she was going to find them.

Chapter Seven

Sarah made her way to the boardwalk. Her windbreaker billowed out from her frame like a kite, doing little to keep her body warm.

She spied the glow of lights dotting the row of homes, thinking all the people in their little town were nestled and cozy and feeling safe. Meanwhile somebody kept sticking notes at her door.

The wooden walkway sounded like a hollow drumbeat under her boot-clad footfalls. Up several yards ahead she caught a glimpse of a figure in shadow walking rapidly away from her. Before allowing herself to mull the idea, Sarah reached a hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew the trowel then broke into a clippety-clopping jog, her heart pounding.

The figure stopped and turned toward her and she slowed her pace. Suddenly every episode of every cop show she’d ever watched flashed through her mind. What did the pretty female television detectives do in such circumstances, usually right before a commercial break?

Common sense told her to run like hell away from this dark place and this lone figure. But her feet had turned to lead and she stood affixed to the boards.

The figure approached her and she sucked in a cold, misty breath. She wielded her weapon, the little shovel’s point aimed right at the stranger.

One more step in her direction revealed his face as it came into view under the beachfront lantern’s beam. She could not speak. It was Benny. Even as he came closer she remained mute.

“Going gardening?” he asked.

“What?” She regarded the tool in her hand. “No. What are you doing out here all alone at night?”

“I was just going to ask you the same thing.” He pointed to her galoshes. “Expecting rain?”

She was pissed now. “I just grabbed whatever I could find so I didn’t waste time. I’m going to find out who’s putting notes under my door. Enough is enough.”

“Notes?”

“Yes, notes, plural. Another one tonight. Interesting, Benny, that you’re out here. And you appeared to be walking really fast, almost running really. Running away from something?”

He blew out a long breath of air. “I jog regularly. Really, Sarah, I have nothing to do with either of your notes.”

“Well, I guess I’ll find out on Monday night, won’t I?”

“Why Monday night?”

She pulled the note out from her pocket and jutted it in his direction. He took it from her and held the paper under the glow of the street lamp.

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t write this.” He lifted his gaze. “But I do think you should mention it to the police. Just so they know. And, whatever you do, do not go to the Pier House to meet this clown.”

Sarah snapped the paper out of his grasp and shoved it back in her pocket. “I’ve already tried the police, remember? Now I’m going to do it my way. I am going to the Pier House to have it out with whoever this is.”

“I strongly suggest you don’t.”

“I’m going.”

“At least don’t go alone, Sarah, for God’s sake.”

“I’m not scared.” She was lying. All of a sudden, she
was
scared. But, she wouldn’t let that stop her.

“And what are you planning to do if this guy tries to pull something? Are you going to plant flowers on him?” He pointed to her trowel.

She turned to leave. “Good night, Benny.”

“It’s not wise to—”

She clomped away, the sound of her rubber boots drowning his words.

****

Back in the cottage, Benny went straight to the kitchen and pulled a large bowl out of a cabinet. He lined the counter with his needs, rubber spatula, whisk, the clacking set of stainless steel measuring spoons, the glass measuring cup.

Banana bread. That was what he needed to do—bake something. He eyed the browning, freckled bananas dangling limply on their hook. The little brown dots reminded him of the sprinkling of freckles across Sarah’s nose.
Christ man, stop.

He peeled the fruit, freeing it of its skin, then began to work. Pulverizing the bananas with the potato masher felt good. His heavy hand turned the fruit into pulp. With each thrust of the implement, he began to feel better, more relaxed.

Damn that screwball woman.
It wasn’t his problem if she got herself killed being an idiot. His time to worry about such things was behind him. It had been the one thing he detested most when he was on the force—morons trying to do his job. How many well-intentioned civilians wound up in the emergency ward, or worse? He couldn’t count.
Shit-for-brains, all of them.

A half a stick of butter melted ten seconds in the microwave slipped easily off the dish into the mixing bowl. He cracked two eggs against the rim, torpedoing the shells into the trash can several feet away. He measured the sugar, leveling the cupful with the flat edge of the spatula, and then whisked the ingredients with gusto.

This chick was asking to get her ass kicked. Screaming for it, really. Was it any of his concern if that was just what she got? He whipped his hand around and around, applying pressure to his effort, whirling the batter precariously close to the rim.

When the project was complete he slid it into the oven, set twenty-five degrees lower than the recipe called for based on his too-brown strudel from the other morning. He set the timer.

He put all the dishes into the sink, almost enjoying the clatter it made. With the faucet at full throttle he filled the marred porcelain vessel with sudsy water. He poured himself a cup of stale coffee, nuked it in the microwave and burned his lip while tasting to see if it was too hot. It was.

Damn it to hell.
The image of Sarah Grayson, wacky rain boots on her feet, shielding herself with a piece-of-shit little tin shovel meant to dig holes for flower seeds planted itself in his brain, took root.

He gulped his coffee, still too hot and numbing. He waited for the oven timer to go off, knowing way before the banana bread was golden and springy that he was doomed.

He had to follow Sarah Grayson to the Pier House on Monday night.
Damn it to hell.

Chapter Eight

The Pier House bustled with patrons, the seating on the back deck nearly at capacity. Sarah and Gigi followed the young hostess to a table at the far end of the veranda. They were seated beside a vinyl window inset of the canvas tenting used to shield the space. Luckily, their table was positioned near a propane heater that bathed them in a blast of warmth.

“Cozy,” Gigi said, eyeing the limited space between tables. “Can’t believe there’s nothing available inside on a Monday night. There should be this many men here on Ladies Night.”

“There’s an NCAA tournament game on tonight. Lots of Villanova fans in Ronan’s Harbor,” Sarah mused. “Look, the bar out here is packed too. All guys staring up at the TV’s.”

“I did notice the guys at the bar,” Gigi said, raising a coy shoulder.

“Down girl. Without a basketball in your hands, you’re as good as invisible.”

“Fear not,” she said skimming the laminated menu, her voice nonchalant. “I’m already smitten.”

Sarah felt a tug inside her chest. She remembered her offhand comment in the flower shop that Gigi could go after Benny when this mess was over. “Please don’t say you’re referring to Mr. Benedetto.”

“Go after your sloppy seconds? No thanks.” Gigi laughed, but then stifled herself when the waitress appeared.

They ordered red wine and burgers. The moment the waitress trotted off, Sarah leaned in. “Well?”

“Calm down, Sarah. It’s Mickey Nolan.” Gigi sighed like a teenager. “It’s always been Mickey Nolan.”

The wine arrived in time for Sarah to take a swig and swallow the words that fought to escape her mouth.
Not him again,
still rang in her ears though.

Sarah didn’t trust Mickey and she didn’t believe his promises about his never-ending separation from his wife nearing its end in court. How many times had the guy made an excuse about why there’d been a delay in the divorce?

Each time Gigi fought against her feelings, did her best to get angry, and pushed him away until he had a firm court date. And each time he floated back into her life riding on sugary promises that never panned out.

“Make that go away,” Gigi said, pointing a finger at Sarah’s face.

“What?” Sarah asked.

“You’re not talking, but you’re wearing the mommy face. Don’t. This time he means it, Sar. His divorce is definitely going to happen.”

Sarah tried to undo her expression but she could feel it on her face like too much pancake makeup. She leaned one elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “And you believe him this time because?”

“Because he’s taking me to Vegas.”

Sarah sat up. “Why?”

“To celebrate, of course. As soon as the judge signs on the dotted line, we’re booking the trip. Mickey likes the hotel with the canals running through it.”

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but thankfully their dinners arrived brimming and hot in red plastic baskets. She took a big bite of her burger, filling her mouth.

“So,” Gigi said, swallowing then taking a sip of her wine. “When this mystery person shows up at nine, what’s the plan? Am I sticking around? You want me to go up to the bar and just wait while you talk to him?”

“Maybe,” Sarah said. “But, stay nearby. You know, just in case.”

She checked her watch then surveyed the view outside the window. The beach was dark, but enough light from the lanterns along the beachfront boardwalk lit a portion of the white sand and she could see people strolling along the boardwalk, mostly two-by-two.