In the Waning Light (13 page)

“I’m good. And you’re looking wonderful. How’s Mr. Tibbo?” Just the mention of her old elementary school principal’s name sent Meg hurtling back through a wormhole in time.

“That’s his shop next door.” Rose motioned to a tiny door recessed into an alcove adjacent to The Mystery Bookstore. Above the door hung a wooden plaque that said
SHELTER BAY STAMPS
.

“I’m now a philatelist’s widow,” she said with a grin. “Albert travels the world in search of the elusive missing watermark, or rare collection. And when he’s home, he’s poring over his finds in the store.”

“And Henry?”

“Henry married Lori-Beth Braden. They still live in town, and I’m so grateful for it. He’s VP of Kessinger-Sproatt now. Tommy took over his dad’s old company and has been growing it aggressively since. Best news of all is that Henry and LB are making us grandparents in a few days.” A smile creased her face. The genuineness in this woman, the kindness in her eyes, it cracked something free in Meg. She felt welcome, and the sensation caught her by surprise.

“Congratulations—I’m so happy for you all,” she said, affection warming her heart. That some lives had actually turned out well in Shelter Bay was good to know. It took the edge off her own fears about coming back here.

Wisps of Rose’s hair blew free of her chignon as she touched Meg’s forearm. “Would you do us a favor, Meg, could you come give us a talk—about the new book? I started a book club a few years ago. It’s called the Armchair Sleuths and Philosophers Society.” She flushed a little. “Several of us are wannabe scribes, too. And we love, love, love true crime. We’re currently reading
Sins Not Forgotten
, and with you now writing the Sherry Brogan story—” Her flush deepened. “I mean, I . . . I heard on the news—”

“I’d love to,” Meg said.

Rose clasped her hands together. “Oh, that would be so wonderful! We meet every second Friday afternoon at four, really informal. Coffee, pastries. Between ten to fifteen of us. Would this Friday work for you?”

“Nothing I’d like more.”

“Thank you! And do bring Irene. I haven’t seen her in a while. I . . . I’ve been meaning to visit her at Chestnut Place, but—”

“I’m sure she’d be delighted.” Meg picked up her bags. “I’ll see you Friday, then.”

“This is so exciting, Megan, and so good to see you back home.”

Home.

She stood there a moment, in front of The Mystery Bookstore, loaded with bags, the sea wind rippling her hair, a yin-yang of feelings wheeling through her. It was like coming full circle, back to this little shop where she’d spent so much of her youth. Now here her book was, after she’d traveled so far, and she was giving a talk. Back home.

See? I knew it wouldn’t be too hard. You read far too much into everything, Meggie. You need to lighten up.

Much easier to be you, Sherry.

I’m dead, Meg.

Lori-Beth folded the new, pale-yellow baby jumper and smoothed the soft fabric with the palm of her hand. She put it in the drawer, carefully, with the others. As she moved, currents of air stirred the unicorn mobile above the crib, and reflective strips made stars and rainbows dance around the walls.

Her haven. This room. All the planning. Her reason for being. So soon now she was terrified it might not actually happen. Her dream—a baby girl of their own. Atop the dresser was the last ultrasound image. She touched it gently with her fingertips. They had initially opted to keep it a surprise, the baby’s sex, but then she couldn’t stand it any longer. She was glad they knew. She’d been able to choose the soft pink and lavender pastel palette for the room. They planned to name her Joy.

Henry stepped into the room. He’d been working from home this morning.

“I’m off to the office.” He had his briefcase. He kissed her on the cheek.

“Where’d you go so early this morning?”

“A walk.”

“You never go for a walk in the morning.”

He met her eyes. Something made her want to take back the question. But then he offered his easy smile. “I want to get back in shape,” he said. “If we’re going to be parents—I want be around for a long time, for Joy.”

She said nothing.

Trepidation entered his soft brown eyes. “Are you all right, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I heard on the radio that Meg Brogan is writing a book about the Sherry murder. She’s back in town to talk to everyone.”

“I know.”

“Does that worry you?”

He moved hair back from her brow. “And why should it worry me? It’s got nothing to do with us. I’ll be back by six, okay?”

“I was in Meg’s class. You and Sally were in Sherry’s. It has everything to do with us. All of us. The whole town. There was before the murder, and then after. Everything changed.”

After the murder Sally started to drink. After the murder she was driving drunk with me in the car, and caused the wreck that put me in this chair . . .

“Meg is not interested in us, honey. She’ll want to talk to the key players. Not every single person who was at school with one or the other of the Brogan sisters is going to warrant a feature in her book.”

“Not a whole bunch of us left in town, either. Kinda limits the pool.”

Her husband’s features changed. Tension shifted. The unicorn mobile tinkled, suddenly spinning the other way, sending the stars hurtling backward all around the room. Quietly, eyes lancing hers, he said, “What’s really worrying you, LB?”

“It’s . . . I . . . I just wish the baby would come. I just want her here, in my arms. It’s . . . it’s making me anxious.” She took in the room. “We’ve been ready, planning for so long . . . I’m just scared.”

“Scared of
what
?
”

“That it won’t happen. That something will go wrong.”

“Nothing is going to go wrong, LB. Here, look at me.” He hooked a knuckle under her chin. “Nothing. Understand?”

“There could be a last-minute medical issue. There—”

“Every parent-to-be deals with the exact same worries. It’s normal. And the odds are stacked highly in our favor. Holly is young, healthy. Strong. All test results have been perfect. She’s had all the requisite sonograms, the birth coaching, the nutrition. And you’ll be there.”

She swallowed.

“Why don’t you go and visit Holly this afternoon—see how she and the baby are doing? It’ll set your mind at ease.”

She nodded.

“Want me to take you?”

“No. I can drive. Or, Sally can.”

He kissed her on the mouth. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

She wheeled her chair to the window and watched her husband go down the path to his MINI Cooper, briefcase in hand. She thought of the strange phone calls last night, the snippets of Henry’s side of the conversation she’d overheard. Henry’s sneaking out in the morning. Dark thoughts serpentined through her mind, things she didn’t want to even begin to entertain.

What would she do if her own husband somehow jeopardized her chance to be a mother? What else did she have in her life that took her beyond this chair? What, other than becoming a mother, could possibly give her the same purpose, meaning?

CHAPTER 11

Blake wheeled his truck into the marina driveway, Noah beside him in the passenger seat. He’d made a commitment to ferry his son to and from school instead of leaving him to catch the bus, at least until things normalized. Before picking up Noah today, he’d been unable to stop himself from swinging by Millar’s garage and having a word with Ryan and Peggy Millar.

No one was going to fuck with his boy, least of all Ryan Millar.

Peggy had the grace to be embarrassed, and sorry that her kids had overheard something she’d said to her husband. She promised to have a word with Alex and Jamie, without revealing the fact Blake had been by. Or he’d be toast with Noah.

Ryan, however, had told him to piss off. Only a wuss kid hit girls. Blake had come within a hair’s breadth of punching the bastard’s teeth out himself. But he’d be nothing if he couldn’t be an example to his son. So he’d backed off, but not without warning Millar he’d be eating dirt along with his words if he wasn’t careful. Electricity still crackled through his blood from the encounter, his heart beating a rapid metronomic drum in his chest. What worried him more were the words Ryan had yelled after him as he’d stormed out of the garage.

And you better keep that Brogan woman of yours in check, too, or things could go to shit around here . . .

As they came down the driveway, he saw a silver Wrangler Rubicon, all shiny and contemporary-chunky, parked near the marina building. Cali plates. A man in a parka was walking along the dock. Dark hair. Skinny black jeans. Fashionable shoes, black coat. Artsy. Recognition slammed through him.

“Looks like we have company, Noah,” he said quietly, putting the truck in park.

“Who?”

“Your uncle Geoff from California.” Blake got out of the truck, wary. “Go take your stuff inside. I’ll bring him in.”

“Why can’t I come?”

“Noah.”

He stomped off.

Blake started down the gangway.

“Hey,” he called out as he neared.

Geoff spun around. For a moment the Sutton men just stood there, taking each other in, the old sign up on the marina building still hesitantly flicking its faulty pink “B.”
Bull’s Marina
. Their dad gone. Yet the broken history hung between them all, and over this place.

Blake came forward, hugged his brother, emotion, conflict crashing through him. He stood back. “So, what brings you home? Meg? Her book?”

Your fear that I’m going to divulge your secret . . .

Geoff inhaled deeply, shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, nodded toward the marina buildings. “Noah’s grown.”

His brother was looking fit, tanned, sporting a small goatee and fashionably cropped hair. He looked like he’d come into his own, which is more than Blake could say for himself. He turned and followed Geoff’s gaze. Noah was watching them from inside the Crabby Jack windows, his little face like a pale ghost.

Geoff raised his arm high, waved.

Noah waved shyly back.

“I wanted to see him again. And you.” Another deep, almost shaky breath. “Shit, I should just spit it out. I’m getting married.
September. I’d like you both there, and I wanted to ask you in person.”

“Whoa . . .
what
?”

A smile slowly curved Geoff’s lips. “Yeah. Funky, huh.”

“I . . . shit . . .
really
?” Blake couldn’t help the smile that took over his face, the sudden flush of happiness through his heart. “Who?”

“Nate Fischer. My housemate. He’s an architect, runs his own business from home. We’ve been living together five years now.”

Blake lowered himself slowly onto a dock pylon. He stared up at his brother.

“The guy who answered the phone?”

Geoff nodded. Silence hung for several beats. Water chuckled under the dock.

“Why’d you never tell me?”

Geoff snorted, looked out over the ocean. “I figured you just knew. Dad did.”

And Blake suddenly heard his father’s voice, the gruff refrains of their youth . . .

I’m gonna teach you to hunt, use a gun like a man, Geoff . . .

Man up, for chrissakes, what d’you think you are, a fucking pansy?

And what’re you going to do with an art degree? Become some fartsy-wuss who can’t work for shit?

Blake’s mind spiraled back yet further, to the storm-tossed night he’d found Geoff in the boathouse, bleeding from the head, his face sheet-white, his skin sheened in sweat.

The ways in which we deceive ourselves . . . the stories we tell others to hide from our own truths . . .

Perhaps he had always suspected, or even known this about Geoff. But back then, it was out of the realm of his experience, not something you spoke openly about. Only now did he see the full picture, the dark intent behind his father’s physical and psychological abuse of his older brother. And sorrow rose in his throat. Remorse. Regret for not having wised up to this earlier. But he now also understood, on some level, why he’d always tried to stand between his father and Geoff. And why he’d so easily covered for Geoff that night of the murder.

“That day on the spit,” Blake said quietly. “That’s how this all ties back, doesn’t it—and why you wouldn’t, or won’t, talk about it? You were meeting someone that day. That’s why you didn’t want anyone to know you were there.”

Geoff nodded.

The dock creaked and moved suddenly beneath their feet. Both Geoff and Blake turned to see Noah coming toward them.

“We’ll talk later,” Blake said softly.

“Uncle Geoff?” Noah said, his green eyes wide.

Geoff dropped instantly to his haunches.

“Hey, buddy. You
do
remember me? Come here, let me give you a hug.”

“Megan!”

She whirled around at the strident sound of a familiar voice.

Tommy Kessinger stood on the opposite sidewalk. Unmistakably him. All strapping six foot two of him. He covered the distance across the street quickly with a stride that still screamed star athlete. The football physique, the dense, sandy-blond hair, the broad shoulders, square jaw, electrical smile, it was all still there, just matured, which made him even more handsome, more real. He sort of stole Meg’s breath.

“Tommy, my God, how
are
you?” she said, clutching her bags as he reached her sidewalk. “I was going to call you today.”

“Good, I’m good. I heard you were back.” He bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome home, kid.” Meg’s heart crunched at the words, at the warmth in his smile. “Been hearing for years now about how famous you’ve become, and engaged, too, what did they call him—most eligible bachelor on the planet?”

She laughed, and it felt wonderfully free in the salt wind and sunshine.

“Here, let me help you with some of those.” He relieved her of half her bags and gave her a long, measuring look. “You’ve come a long way from the black-haired punk waif, Meggie-Peg,” he said, using Sherry’s nickname for her. Hearing it was a punch to her chest, a reminder of how Tommy had almost been family, an older brother.

“I haven’t sported the punk look since I was fourteen. And I’ll concede, it wasn’t one of my finer periods.”

He chuckled heartily. “Where are you parked?”

“Next to the church.”

He walked with her.

“So, how long have you been back in Shelter Bay, now?” Meg said. “I always expected to see you on the big screen, NFL superstar and all that.”

He laughed. “Just over fifteen years now. I never quite got over that early injury in my career, then my dad asked me to help out with the construction company, so I quit school, learned on the job, and he handed over the reins in full about five years ago.”

“Looks like you’re doing well. I’m seeing the Kessinger-Sproatt logos everywhere. Even on the contractors’ trucks in my driveway this morning.”

“It’s good.”

“And Emma?” Meg said.

“We divorced years ago.”

She stalled. “I had no idea.”

“How could you have? You never came home. Never returned our calls.”

“Tommy, I’m sorry. I—”

“Hey. No worries. I get what you were going through. It wasn’t destined to work out with Emma and me. We’d bonded over the loss of Sherry. Married, had a daughter, Brooklyn—she’s seventeen next week, can you believe it? But there was just too much baggage between us. Bottom line, I suppose, is that we never made a proper go of it because Sherry’s ghost always lay between us.” He smiled, a little ruefully, and they resumed walking.

“You remarry?”

He was silent for a moment. Meg glanced up at him.

“Deliah,” he said. “I lost her in a boating accident. Three years ago now.”

“I’m so sorry, Tom—”

He waved it away. “Nah. I don’t want sympathy. She was the light of my life—we had good times, and no one can take away those memories.”

“So . . . a widower, too. Wow.”

“Actually, I married again. About eight months back.” Tommy’s features turned serious. “I can imagine what it must look like, Meg. I . . . I like the company of a woman, a partner in my life. It’s part of who I am. But—” There was a bit of a catch to his voice. “I still miss her—Sherry.” He glanced up at the sky for a moment, then met her gaze again. “Stupid, huh, those first relationships, how they kind of never let you go.” Her mind kicked instantly to Blake. “And there you have it.”

They reached the parking lot, and he raised his brows at the sight of her rig. “This yours?”

“My office,” she explained, beeping the lock. She opened the back door, loaded her bags into the truck. He followed with the rest of them. “You heard that I’m going to write a book on Sherry’s case?”

“I did.”

“You okay with that?”

He smiled. “Would it stop you if I wasn’t?”

“Probably not.”

His smile deepened to a grin. “I didn’t think so. I get why you might want to do it, Meg. Therapy in a way, I suppose.”

She looked away for a moment. “I suppose, although I hate to admit it.”

“Word is that you might be remembering things from the attack.”

“I’m getting tiny bits more.”

“Like what? A face?”

“It’s more a sensation. Words that were yelled. A familiar voice, perhaps. I think that being here, going through it all again, could help tease something out. Would you honor me with an in-depth interview, Tom? Talk about Sherry. That day. How your life was with her before, and after.”

He regarded her for several long beats. “Sure,” he said, taking a card out of his pocket. “I’d be happy to. Here’s my number. Call my assistant and she’ll block me off a good chunk of private time. You can come around to the house. It’ll be more conducive to talking there.”

“Thank you so much. Everyone’s been pretty hostile about the book thing.”

“I’d like to talk about it. And it really is good to have you home, Meggie.” He gave her another quick kiss and enveloped her in a hug. “Until later, then?”

“Gotcha.”

She climbed up into the driver’s seat, and was about to pull the door shut when he said, “I’m giving a big bash next Friday night, at the Whakami Bay Yacht Club. The new yacht basin is part of our development down there. It’s Brooklyn’s birthday, and we’re using the occasion to kick off a fund-raiser for Dave Kovacs—he’s thrown his hat into the ring for sheriff come the November elections. You remember Dave?”

“I ran into him the day I opened up my house. He told me to give up on the Sherry story, or else.”

Tommy laughed. “I guess he thinks it might mess with his campaign. He’ll be fine. This story—
our
story—has an end, if a poignant one. Dave’s father fought for justice. So did your dad. In his way. The bad guy went down. We can spin this. Dave will come around. Everyone will be there Friday night, on stage, so to speak. From there you could arrange more interviews, just chat with people about the past?”

“I’d love to come.”

She hesitated before closing the truck door. “It’s good to see you, Tommy. To have someone on my side with the book.”

He gave her a little salute, and again, she was thrust right back to childhood.

As she drove off, she glanced up into the rearview mirror. He was standing there on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, just watching her drive away.