My Secret to Tell (9 page)

I give him a couple of treats and lock him back in his cage before heading to the sick bay to visit any recuperating critters. Dr. Atwood’s vet tech, Joann, is here taking notes on the sleeping toy poodle across the room. She crosses to a German shepherd mix with cockeyed ears and a freshly sewn gash down his neck.

“Is this the one Dr. Atwood rescued?”

“Found him in an alley like that. The gash was probably six inches long.” Joann shakes her head and checks his food. “He still needs a name.”

Deke does most of the naming around here. If it were left to the rest of us, we’d just start picking from the phone book after a while, but he always comes up with something clever. The dog rests his chin on his paws and looks up at me with weary eyes, one ear flopped over.
I feel you, buddy.

“So what do you think?” Joann asks. “Punky? Floppy?”

I think there’s a reason Dr. Atwood leaves the naming to Deke. But instead of saying that, I reach through the wire bars and gently rub the bridge of the dog’s nose. He closes his eyes but still seems tense.

“Sarge. Let’s call him Sarge,” I say.

She chuckles and measures some antibiotics into a syringe. “When Dr. Atwood rolled this one into surgery, I wasn’t so sure. He’s got that mean look about him. Like he’s up to no good. Some dogs just look that way, I guess.”

Some people too.

Joann looks at me out of the corner of her eye, and I know where this is going. She’s got gossip. And I have a feeling I’m not going to like the topic today.

“You look fit to burst, Joann,” I say, knowing she’ll tell me one way or the other.

“Oh, I am. I
am
. It’s about the situation with the Westfields.”

I pick up a few stray paper towels and spray down one of the stainless steel counters. “I don’t know much. He’s doing better. They’re moving him to a physical therapy facility soon.”

“No, no,
everybody
knows that.” She waves me off, hanging her clipboard on a hook. She comes close to me, her nose wrinkling. “I’m talking about the rumors about Deacon.”

My heart punches out a hard beat. “What about him?”

“Dr. Atwood told me Wednesday that Deacon was taking time off, and then the sheriff turned up yesterday, right in the middle of the adoption rush. He was asking all kinds of questions.” She drops her used needle in the sharps container.

“Questions about Deacon.” My voice is a dead thing, but my heart’s running rabbit-wild.

“Yeah. He didn’t say anything, of course, but it sure looks like Deacon had a hand in it. The sheriff kept hinting around that we should all keep our eyes open and be careful.”

I scrub the counter harder, gritting my teeth. The sheriff isn’t just building a case—he’s lighting torches and handing out pitchforks. Deacon was right. He’s going to go down for this.

If I was sure he did it, that would be okay, but I’m still not convinced.

“Deacon’s a lot of things, but I can’t imagine him violent,” I say. “Can you?”

Joann steps back, nods too quickly for me to believe her. “Oh, sure, but you never really know a person, do you?”

“I guess not.”

Sarge yelps in his cage, and I rush over, making soft noises as I push his water closer. “You pulled those stitches, didn’t you, buddy?”

He laps the water, then gently bumps into my hand, and I laugh, scratching his ears.

“You have a way with him,” Joann says. “That one can be a real turkey.”

“He’s just hurting is all.”

Joann refills a tub of cotton swabs with a laugh. “That’s why I keep saying you should think about veterinary school.”

“My mom’s pretty set on doctor or lawyer. It’s a family thing,” I say with a smile.

“A veterinarian is a doctor,” Joann points out.

“My mom doesn’t see it as the same. She’s got tunnel vision,” I say with a rueful laugh.

“Mamas always do.”

Maybe, but probably not like mine. Still, even if she did support me again in marine biology or veterinary medicine or whatever, I’m not sure I’d take it. Beaufort has plenty of vets, so there’s a good chance I’d have to move. Who would Mom have left then? No one, that’s who.

When I head out, the heat’s stickier. It lingers in the grass and turns liquid thick in my lungs. I’m tempted to duck into the Cru for an iced mocha or maybe head home and stand over an air-conditioning vent. But I can’t shake the conversation with Sheriff Perry out of my head.

He’s so focused on Deacon, he could miss something. The injustice of it picks at me all the way down the block. If they don’t investigate this properly, someone could end up getting away with it. Deacon’s an easy suspect, but is he actually guilty?

Would Perry notice either way?

I find my way to the Westfield Charters dockside office again. I’m not sure what I’m thinking. Is there going to be some clue lying on the deck of one of the boats? It’s ridiculous.

The boats are up and running with tour times on the dry-erase board, but there’s no one in the office. A sign on the window informs customers the ticket booth will reopen at one o’clock. I check my phone.

Twenty minutes from now.

Would there be anything in the office? Any sort of proof? I doubt someone’s going to leave a pair of blood-spattered boots behind, but maybe there’s a note on a time sheet or some sort of disciplinary charge that might give someone motive.

God, it’s
such
a long shot. But it’s better than no shot at all. If something assault-related jumps out at me, I’ll call Joel so he can report it. If not…no harm, no foul, right?

Heat rushes into my cheeks at the idea of snooping, but I have a key for tidying up and checking supplies. It’s hardly breaking and entering. I’ll pop in, see if they’re low on batteries or tape. Maybe sweep the floor if the broom hasn’t ended up on one of the boats.

Cold sweat trickles down my back as I unlock the door. I close it behind me, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. It’s a tiny, dark box of a building, no bigger than a bathroom. The heat seems to push the walls closer, and a potent mix of fish and brine taints the air. A row of yellow slickers hangs on the far wall, and a few thermoses and lunch bags litter the bench beneath that.

There’s a counter with a locked register that they usually prop on a tall stool in the open doorway. I don’t blame them. I couldn’t imagine sitting in this sweatbox taking money through the small dirty window beside the register.

Standing around isn’t comfortable, so I straighten the time sheets right away and then pick up stray pens while my heart beats twelve million times a second. This was a bad idea.

Okay, calm down and stick with the plan.

There’s no broom to sweep with and no cleaner for the counter, so I inventory supplies. Pens look fine, and there are no busted batteries for the handheld radios on the bigger boats. I crouch down to check the box under the register. I see plenty of tape and two stacks of tickets. It’s official. There’s nothing left for me to do.

I shove the box back, but something snags and catches on the shelf—paper, I think. A receipt?

I slide my hand over the bottom of the box, finding a partially crumpled Post-it note. There’s a heavily inked square around a series of handwritten numbers.

11 46’01.91—64 24’29.24—Call EM

I squint at it closer. That’s my initials. Emerson May. It could be a lot of initials, I guess, but it still gives me the creeps.

I draw my finger across the numbers, trying to figure out what they are. The format looks familiar. International phone number? Account number? No, wait—I know this.

It’s coordinates. Longitude and latitude.

So, what, a good fishing spot? Maybe. I don’t remember much about longitude and latitude, but I could swear Beaufort’s latitude is roughly thirty-four. So what the heck is this for? Because I doubt anyone’s taking a charter boat through twenty-three latitude lines on a four-hour fishing trip. Either way, I doubt anyone’s missing it.

I tuck the paper into my back pocket and stand up just as the door thumps open and shuts behind me. A shadow closes off the little light in the room, and my breath lodges in my lungs like glue.

I smell him before I see him. Tobacco. Fish. Sweat. My stomach sloshes as I turn, a large silhouette filling the room. My gaze darts from the red-brown chest to the mouth full of silver-capped teeth, lingering on a column of blue-black tattoos on a leathery arm.

“You lost, little girl?”

I take a step back. Hit a wall. There’s nothing around me but walls.

Don’t panic.

Don’t. Panic.

I force myself to look him in the eye. “I’m not lost. I’m checking supplies.”

“You’re Joel’s girl, ain’t ya?” Thorpe asks me.

I don’t respond, because it’s pretty obvious I’m not applying for a job to swab decks. But he’s stalling, letting the silence stretch. He wants me uncomfortable. I can see it in his eyes.

I glance at the edge of the door behind him. I can’t get there, but I could scream. There’s got to be a thousand people on the waterfront right now. Someone would hear me. Still, sweat slides down my back and between my breasts.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His laugh is an oil stain in the putrid air. “I seen you around here with Chelsea. Looking for Deacon, I bet.”

I force my shoulders back. “Nope, I’m checking supplies. And I’m all done.” I move for the door, and he dodges to block the few inches available to me, jiggling his keys in his left hand. Adrenaline surges, burning behind my ribs.

“You sure you don’t want me to leave the pretty boy a message?” he asks, putting his keys back and tapping his fingers on the register. They don’t look bruised anymore.

He stops, left hand reaching for the pen on the clipboard to sign himself out. The look he gives me feels filthier than the business end of the boat mops. I tug at the edges of my skirt.

It hits me when he’s scrawling out his time. Thorpe is left-handed. And his left hand isn’t bruised. It was his
right
hand.

My heart sinks. I think I’m looking at the alibi Sheriff Perry was talking about. Even if he somehow lied about being down in Morehead City, he probably wouldn’t have beaten someone half to death with his nondominant hand.

“Cat got your tongue?”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Maybe he didn’t hurt Mr. Westfield, but this man is a walking bad intention. I need to get out of here.

“Excuse me. Please.” The Southern manners polish is gone from my tone now. My voice is firm. I keep that purposeful eye contact too, the kind that promises I won’t be an easy target. I will fight.

“I could help you check those supplies,” he says, gaze dragging down to my skirt. “I could help you in a lot of ways.”

My hands clench into fists.

And the door to the office swings wide.

“Mr. Thorpe?” Joel’s voice booms into the room like divine intervention. “Step outside this minute.”

My whole body unclenches. Thorpe disappears from the doorway as commanded, and light and freedom pour in. I bolt outside on rubbery legs, passing both men as I gulp in one deep breath after another. I find a free bench by a nearby parking lot and sink onto it, my vision going gray at the edges.

Am I going to pass out?
No.
That’s absolutely not happening. I concentrate on the boats in the harbor and the heat of the sun on my shoulders. I’m fine. Safe. I say it over and over in my head until my breathing starts to slow.

While I’m remembering how to move air like a normal person, Joel speaks to Thorpe outside the office. I can’t make out what either of them is saying, but Thorpe loses several notches on the formidable scale getting dressed down like this. My stomach squirms seeing him nodding over and over. Three minutes ago, he was sniffing around me like a hungry coyote. Now he’s a kicked puppy? Maybe he
is
desperate to hold this job.

Eventually, Joel heads inside the office—I’m guessing for the previous day’s receipts. With the sun behind me, I must be camouflaged, because Joel wanders right past me. I call his name, and he turns back with a smile, walking over to join me on the bench.

“I’m so sorry, Eddie. I generally don’t dismiss employees without Daffy’s permission, but I’d be more than happy to make an exception.”

“It’s fine. He didn’t actually do anything. Just tried to intimidate me.”

Joel sighs, watching Thorpe climb on board the boat where Charlie is mopping. “Men like Kevin Thorpe weren’t given many tools in their lives. They tend to use a machete when a pair of tweezers would do. Probably exactly how he ended up in trouble in the first place.”

“What was he in jail for?” I give him a look when he hesitates. “Joel, you and I both know criminal records are public. I could get it online if I wanted.”

Joel hesitates for a moment before relenting. “Assault. He served three years in the state penitentiary after a bar fight. He’s got a temper when he’s drinking, but he’s in AA now. We haven’t had trouble with him until today. What exactly did he do?”

I shake my head. “Just your typical ‘whatcha gonna do, little girl’ crap. It was creepy.”

He frowns. “When Daffy gets to feeling a bit better, I’m going to discuss this with him. I hired him for his son CJ really. But I don’t want him hassling anyone.”

“Does he run tours alone?”

“Never. Everyone goes with a partner. It’s safer that way.”

I look at Thorpe now, scrubbing hard in the blazing sun. My stomach is still sour from our encounter, but in the light of day, I wonder how bad it was. Would he have actually done anything? I was scared out of my mind—I could have blown the whole thing out of proportion.

“How old is his son?” I ask.

“Nine,” Joel says, sounding distracted. “I need to ask you—did he make any threats or touch you in any way? If he did, it’s my responsibility to report that to his parole officer.”

And then his parole officer will send him back to jail. For what? Leering? What he did was gross and
vaguely
threatening. But I don’t know if I can send him to jail for being icky. Not with him spraying out coolers that reek of dead fish while I spend most of my paid working hours answering phones at a mahogany desk.

“He just spooked me,” I say, rubbing my arms with both hands. “I shouldn’t have been in there anyway. I was just trying to keep an eye on supplies.”

“You’re a kind girl.” He pauses to arch a brow at me. “But I’ll be talking to Daffy about that gentleman all the same. We need to keep a much closer eye on things.”

“Please don’t bring it up until Mr. Westfield is well,” I say. “How is he anyway?”

Joel brightens. “Much better. He still doesn’t remember too many details, but perhaps that’s for the best.” His smile tightens, and I can practically feel the Deacon-shaped elephant between us. “He’ll be moving to a rehabilitation facility up in New Bern tomorrow.”

“Oh, that soon?”

“Yes, and I’ll be honest, I’m feeling a bit guilty about not being able to be there.”

“Why? What’s up?”

Joel frowns. “Mr. Trumbull.”

I turn sideways on the bench to face him, pushing my windblown hair out of my eyes. “Everything is set up for him. I double-checked his supplies, and we’ve got an order for food and water to stock in the coolers, mostly nonperishable. What else could he want?”

“You did beautifully, but this isn’t about those arrangements. He has other business interests here. He and his wife live in the mountains near Asheville. I’m supposed to leave today to come up for a conversation.”

“Must be
some
business. You don’t strike me as a hiking kind of a guy, Joel.”

“You’ve got that right.” His smile goes a little devilish, and my heart twinges. It’s so much like Deacon. “Can you keep a secret? A business secret?”

“Of course.”

He tugs at the cuffs on his shirt. “Even from Chelsea. This is all still up in the air, and I don’t want her worrying or getting excited if nothing comes of it.”

I slap the bench between us with a laugh. “Joel, tell me already!”

His eyes twinkle as he leans in. “Mr. Trumbull isn’t just a renter. He might be an investor. One that could put Westfield Charters into the black for good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trumbull’s a real angler. Sport fishing. Being a business man, he started to add up the potential dollars of all those tourist runs. We got to talking about Westfield Charters, and soon enough, I’d reeled in my own catch. He’s interested in an expansion.”

“Wow,” I say. “Expansion. But where? You’ve kind of tapped Beaufort and Morehead, right?”

“Up the coast, in the Duck, Corolla area.”

I suck in a breath. “Big money up that way.”

His smile goes wide. “Real big. Daffy has been so worried about college, about the future. I don’t want to breathe a word, because these things can fall through easily, but if it comes together…”

“Wow,” I say again. “And here I thought you came to Beaufort for the quiet life.”

It’s Joel’s turn to laugh. “Oh, I love the quiet life, but I’m a lawyer. I like money too.” Out on the water, Charlie and Thorpe are still spit-polishing that boat. “You know, Dink won’t even consider college. He thinks the business can’t afford to be without him. And Chickadee is planning on loans. This could change that, give them a little padding. Maybe even give Dink the push he needs when it’s all sorted. So if Trumbull calls, be discreet and treat him well.”

My heart swells a little, pricking my eyes with tears. Maybe he’s not so convinced Deacon’s guilty either. If he was, he wouldn’t talk like this about the future, would he?

Joel’s ears go pink, and he rubs his head, looking like he’s not sure he should have said anything. “You’ve really got to keep that one close to the vest, Eddie.”

“I will. I promise.”

“If I head to Asheville tonight, will you be able to hold down the fort? Maybe check the messages once or twice? Things are slow with Daffy out—but just in case something comes up.”

“Of course. You should definitely go.”

“I’m not sure what reception will be like in the mountains.”

I wave that off. “It’s no trouble at all.”

Joel rolls his shoulders back with a sigh. “There’s one more thing. I should warn you that Chickadee spoke with Sheriff Perry. She mentioned you in connection with Dink.”

My spine stiffens. Mentioned? Sold me down the river might be more accurate.

“The sheriff was already by on Friday,” I say, turning back to look over the water. “He seems pretty convinced Deacon is behind this.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Beaufort has a fine police department. The truth will come out.”

I want to ask him what his version of Deacon’s guilt is, but I bite my tongue. Maybe Joel’s right. The truth will come out.

“Chelsea was too hard on you,” Joel says. “I hope you can forgive her for that. She promised to spend the entire day at the inn. I’m hoping a little rest will get her back to normal.”

“We can hope.”

Joel pats my hand. “So how is Dink? Have you seen him since the hospital?”

“I haven’t.” I sigh, watching an older couple walk past with bags from the Fudge Factory. “The sheriff asked too, but I honestly don’t have a clue where he is.”

Joel nods. “I wish I could just talk to him. Do you have any idea where he might go?”

I’m grateful I don’t have to wrestle with telling him. It’s easier not knowing. “He
was
at the cemetery, but I don’t think he’ll keep going there. I’ll call you if I run into him though.”

“I’ll be waiting for that call.” He stands up, squeezes my shoulder lightly. “I’ll do what I can to help him. Make sure you tell him I said so when you see him.”

“I might
not
see him, Joel.”

“You will. You always do.” Joel takes his time striding away.

I take a deep breath, letting the sun soak in. Out on the water, a golden retriever is pacing back and forth on the bow of a fishing boat. His owner tosses a tennis ball, and he leaps into the water. I grin, watching him paddle back and forth.

Thorpe and Charlie stop mopping on their boat, their gazes following Joel down the boardwalk. I stiffen, reminding myself that Thorpe is left-handed, staring at the bruises on his right hand to confirm. He’s not guilty. He’s not.

But then he slips something to Charlie, and cold fingers crawl up my spine. It’s a Post-it note, lime green.
Exactly
like the one in my pocket that I totally forgot until now.

I force my shoulders down. Okay, back up the bus. Charlie is a decent guy. For all I know, that’s a customer name. A girl’s phone number. Hell, an order for a bacon cheeseburger at Clawson’s. Still, there’s something about the way they’re watching Joel, something hateful.

Thorpe offers another one of his filthy grins to Charlie, and my arms drop heavy to my sides. What happened to the kicked puppy look? Guess it’s all different when the boss isn’t checking in.

Charlie tucks the paper Thorpe gave him into the back of his jeans like it’s a dirty secret. Maybe it is. Alibi or not, maybe I’m missing something big.

• • •

I leave the bench like a hunted animal, my eyes darting behind me until I’m sure I’m out of sighting distance. I should have said something about what I found, but I was so flipped out about Thorpe. I could call Joel now, but what am I going to say? I’ll have to admit to snooping, and since both of these notes could be nothing, I’ll wind up looking paranoid.

Nice as he is, Joel is my
boss
. Me looking sane and reasonable in front of him is pretty nonnegotiable.

I head to the shade of a cluster of live oaks near the shops and restaurants, my knees loose and weak. The foot traffic is light today, so I lean back against the rough bark of one of the trees and feel myself go steady.

Okay. This isn’t a crisis. Not yet. The coordinates and the paper could be coincidence. The bag-of-snakes feeling in my belly might be left over from the visit with the sheriff. All of this could be absolutely nothing. Or not.

Could be. Might be. Too many what-ifs and maybes. I rub my forehead where I can feel the stirrings of a wicked headache.

I pull up a map website on my phone and load the coordinates in. The map adjusts and reveals a spot in the middle of the Caribbean. I look at it and shake my head. What kind of coordinates are those? Third sandbar to the right and straight on till morning? I try again, double-checking each number. The same random location in the Caribbean shows up.

I need someone to think this through with me.

Mom’s not even a possibility. After the sheriff visit, if I started going all Sherlock on her, she’d have a nervous breakdown. Dad’s probably out on some random dock selling some random boat thing, and I’m trying to stay away from Deacon. That leaves Chelsea.