Wolf Island (11 page)

He
dropped the rope and covered his face with his hands. It was
him
. Damn
him. Damn him for this. He was the only one who would have done this. A hand
gripped his shoulder, and Devlin jerked. Anson stood behind him.

“You
okay?” Anson shouted above the sounds of the storm.

Devlin
nodded. “Yeah.” He stood up and faced Anson. “Rope’s been cut. I need to borrow
one of your boats.”

“Let
the boat go for now, Dev. Water’s too rough. Storm’s supposed to let up in a
couple hours. I’ll help you get her back in then.”

“No.
I’m going now. She might be lost for good.”

Anson
cursed. “Damn it, your grandpa won’t care.”

“I
will!” It had been a gift from his grandfather, and no way was that bastard
going to make him lose it. He wanted to take everything away from Devlin, but
he was going to have a fight on his hands.

“You’re
too stubborn for your own good, boy.” Anson shook his head. “Take my inboard.
She’s a hardy little bitch.”

Devlin
nodded. “Thanks. Call Corinne at the café and tell her to make sure Abby stays
put until I get back. And call Jake, let him know what’s happened.”

“Will
do.” Anson laid his hand on Devlin’s shoulder. “Be careful.”

Devlin
ran back to the marina and over the networking dock closer to the
harbormaster’s office. He saw Anson’s boat rocking in the water. With each
swell of the ocean, the small boat rose to the top edge of the dock, plunged
downward as the ocean receded, then rose again. He leaped into the boat, and a
wave slammed the vessel against a dock piling.

Without
wasting anymore time, Dev released the mooring line and grabbed an oar. He
cranked the boat, backed her away from the dock, and turned in the direction of
the open sea. The front of the boat bounced over the waves, splashing saltwater
into his face and eyes, but he continued on toward his boat.

When
he reached the cruiser, he pulled the small inboard alongside the larger boat,
where it bumped against the side. Rubber buoys hung over the outer rim of the
boat and prevented any real damage. A metal ladder attached to the cruiser rose
up the port side. Devlin stood up with the mooring line in his hand and grabbed
the ladder’s side rails. Beneath his feet, the smaller boat bounced with every
wave that pushed against her hull.

He
lost his balance and fell back into the boat, his ribs slamming against one of
the metal seats. A jolt of pain ripped into his side, but he ignored it and
reached for the ladder. His hands slipped again. Damn it. The sea rose like a
dark beast, lashing at him with strong, watery claws before crashing abruptly
with the surging tides.

Fighting
against the swirling ocean and hard rain, he struggled to attach the mooring
line to the ladder. After a few failed attempts, he was able to secure the
line. He leaped for the ladder and, thankfully, his hands finally found
purchase. Slowly, he climbed the ladder until he reached the top and stepped
over onto the deck of the cruiser. With no time to lose, he headed toward the
bridge at the stern. He rushed up the access steps from the cockpit, went
inside, and quickly cranked the engine. With feet braced behind the wheel of
the boat, he turned her leeward so the bow faced away from the direction of the
wind.

Devlin
turned the controls to lower the anchor. He planned to leave the cruiser in
open water, but anchored so it couldn’t drift. He and Anson could come and
fetch it after the storm abated.

Abby.

He
needed to get back to Abby, but he wanted to check the boat’s galley and
sleeping quarters to make sure no damage had been done in the storm. As he made
his way down the stairs toward the galley, he noticed the faint smell of
cigarette smoke lingering in the air.

Devlin
stepped onto the lower deck and fisted his hands at his sides. Sweat broke out
on his brow. Someone had been on his boat. He checked the galley first and
found a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, crumbs scattered over the
countertop, and an empty bottle of gin.

His
father’s favorite drink.

Bile
rose into Devlin’s throat, but he swallowed it down. Cigarette butts littered the
floor, and the cabinet doors hung open. Broken dishes and glasses mixed with
the silverware strewn around the shelves and floor.

Coffee.
He smelled coffee.

His
gaze swung to the coffee maker attached to the underside of the cabinets. He
walked over quickly and laid his hand against the carafe. Warm. The coffee was
still warm. He must have just left -- or was he on the boat, hoping to get
a shot at Devlin?

Devlin
moved cautiously from the galley and made his way down the corridor to the
boat’s two cabins. He stuck his head in one door and found the room untouched.
Relief swamped him.

His
relief was short-lived. He opened the door to the main cabin and found the bed
in disarray. The sheets, dirty and wrinkled, lay wadded into a pile on the floor.
The wastebasket was jammed against the side of the bed, with more cigarette
butts littering the bottom. Devlin noticed a reflection on the glass covering a
picture that hung over the bed. He snapped his head around to a mirror that
graced the wall opposite the bed.

He
stared in horror at the words scrawled across the glass.

I’m back.

Abby.

He
had to get back to Abby. Dev dashed from the cabin and headed up to the main
deck.

He
shouldn’t have left her alone.

* * * * *

A
hard, driving wind thrust against the umbrella Abby gripped tightly in her
hands. Rain slashed around her as she plodded over the sidewalk, heading toward
the gift shop at the end of the block. The wind had grown in intensity since
she and Devlin had stopped at Wolf’s Lair, and with it, the light had begun to
fade. Abby stopped and turned her head in the direction of the marina. She saw
nothing but gray, watery images through the transparent sheets of rain.

Was
Devlin all right? Had he gotten his boat in? The harbormaster had said the boat
broke free from the dock, but she didn’t understand the look of fear followed
by temper that had crossed Devlin’s face. Abby bit her lower lip. She wanted to
run and help him, but she needed to find Miranda more.

She
turned back around and plodded in the direction of the shop. Another sound
mingled with the slosh of her feet and the rain blowing around her.

Footsteps.

Heavy
footsteps.

Chimes.
The light, metallic sound wafted through the rain-soaked air.

The
hair on the back of Abby’s neck prickled. Her heart raced. She spun, her eyes
wide, her breath shallow.

Nothing.

She
saw nothing but the rain-swept sidewalk and street. Devlin was right when he
told her she’d let her imagination run away with her. She was perfectly safe.
No one was after her. Were they?

She
turned around and trudged in the direction of the shop.

The
handle of the umbrella slid from her fingers and a gust of wind tumbled it into
the street. Before Abby could react, a hand clamped around her arm. Panic
surged into her throat and made her gasp. She heard the tinkling of chimes once
again as the hand yanked her unceremoniously through a doorway.

The
door closed behind Abby with a whoosh of wind and rain. Warmth enveloped her
chilled body while the sound of tinkling chimes drifted on the air. For a
moment, fear made her giddy, until her gaze settled on the woman standing
before her. She jerked her arm from the woman’s hold and studied her while she
waited for her heart to slip back down her throat.

She
was of medium height, with shoulder-length, graying blonde hair, light blue
eyes, and a welcoming smile on her lips. There was nothing ghostly or strange
about her. She looked perfectly normal. Chimes continued to ring, and suddenly
Abby was furious.

“I
knew you’d come. I felt it this morning,” the stranger said.

She
felt
it?

Abby
lifted a hand to her chest, where her heart thundered against her palm. “You
scared me to death. Are you in the habit of grabbing people off the street? Who
are you, anyway?”

The
woman gave her an indulgent smile. “I’m sorry. No, I don’t usually grab people,
but you were having such trouble walking in the storm. I was only trying to
help. Besides, I’ve been expecting you all morning.” She held out a hand for
Abby to shake. “I’m Catherine Good Townsend.”

Reluctantly,
Abby shook her hand briefly. “How could you be expecting me? We’ve never met.”

Ms.
Townsend’s full lips curved in a mysterious smile. “Not in the traditional
sense.” She skimmed her gaze over Abby. “You’re wet through. I was just about
to make tea. Won’t you join me? We have a lot to talk about.” She waved a hand
through the air as she turned and headed toward the back of the shop. “Go ahead
and look around. I’ll start the tea.”

Abby
watched Ms. Townsend stroll toward the back of the store. A long skirt in a
vibrant print of red and gold swished softly about her legs. Her bulky white
sweater gathered loosely at her waist, and little red beads dangled from the
hem. A trio of silver bracelets jingled on her left arm, and soft tan boots
covered her feet.

Abby
glanced about the shop. The ceiling gleamed with midnight-blue paint, and gold
half-moons and stars decorated the surface. The glossy white walls provided
contrast. Chimes hung everywhere.

She
walked over to get a closer look at the chimes. To each, there was a tag
attached, with a small picture just like the one of Alice she’d seen in the
newspaper clipping. Abby turned a tag over and read.
Fifty percent of the
proceeds from the sale of these chimes will be donated to the Alice Howard
Foundation, a nonprofit charity dedicated to halting violence against women.

“They’re
lovely, aren’t they?”

Abby
shifted her attention to Ms. Townsend. “Yes.” They were lovely when you saw
them like this rather than imagining them wrapped gruesomely around a helpless
animal’s neck. “You’re Alice Howard’s aunt, aren’t you?”

“That’s
right.”

“I’m
sorry about what happened to your niece. It must have been awful.” Abby
couldn’t imagine having a loved one die so horribly.

“Yes,
it was,” Ms. Townsend’s voice blended with a sigh.

“Is
it true you predicted her death?”

“The
tea is almost ready,” she said, ignoring Abby’s question.

Ms.
Townsend led Abby to a cramped room in the back of the shop. A desk and a
couple of chairs, along with a small refrigerator, took up one side of the
room. A kettle hissed atop a hot plate. “Have a chair.” Ms. Townsend prepared
the tea and set their cups on top of the desk, along with milk and sugar.

Once
settled, Abby thought this the perfect opportunity to ask some questions. “What
can you tell me about Devlin? I’ve tried prying some information out of him,
but he’s told me very little.” She desperately needed answers, but would the
truth reveal something she might never be able to forget?

Ms.
Townsend fixed her with a penetrating look. “He’s very closed, that one.
Doesn’t like meddlers. Of course, that’s understandable, considering the
trouble he’s had. And his family. Milk and sugar?”

“Milk,
thank you.” Here was the opening Abby had been waiting for. “What kind of
trouble?”

She
handed Abby a cup of tea lightly tanned with milk. “Look. Devlin’s family
founded this island, and most folks that live here appreciate the fact that
it’s because of them that we have homes and thriving businesses. I don’t see
any reason to dig up the troubles that family has suffered.”

Those
troubles could have directly affected Miranda. Maybe they could provide a link
to her disappearance. “My sister was here recently. Her name is Miranda Chapel.
Did you happen to meet her?”

Ms.
Townsend brightened. “Yes, I did. Lovely girl.”

“Do
you know why she left the island so suddenly?”

She
shook her head. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

This
was the first person Abby had met that she truly believed didn’t know anything
about Miranda.

There
was a set of chimes hanging by the small stove. They tinkled lightly on a stir
of air. “What was Alice like?”

Ms.
Townsend sat in the other chair and smiled wistfully. Her shoulders slumped.
Reflections of old sorrows bloomed in her eyes and creased her forehead. “Alice
was a ray of sunshine, full of mischief, but always ready to lend a hand or
comfort a friend. Her mother, Emily, and Dev’s mother were the best of friends.
Valerie Morgan and Emily were practically inseparable as young girls.”

So,
Valerie was Devlin’s mother.

“After
dear Valerie was --” Ms. Townsend sipped her tea, then set the cup back in
the saucer. “Soon after the incident, Valerie left the island and moved to
Boston. Devlin stayed behind with his grandparents, who raised him. Valerie
sold the shop to Emily. Years later, when Alice was killed, well, let’s just
say that things have never been the same.” Her voice became husky; her eyes
filled with unshed tears. “Alice was a wonderful girl. Such a terrible loss.
Terrible.”