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?”
Chapter Nine
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 pa
uses 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.
She’d be my first choice if she hadn’t thrown me under the bus in a fit of grief-induced psychosis. A trio of seagulls flies overhead, and I close my eyes, listening to their cries. What’s the big secret she doesn’t want me knowing? God, there’s so much I don’t get about that. About the way she’s been acting in general.
This isn’t the time to hold grudges, so I call her. It rings six times before her voice mail picks up. I try again, and it’s straight to voice mail, so she denied the call.
Still pissed then.
I take a breath and force myself to lift my chin. In thirty minutes, I’m supposed to hit Clawson’s with Seth, and I’m not going to be torn to bits about this the whole time. Still, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to eat a burger either.
I fire off a quick text to Seth, who’s all too willing to swap out Clawson’s for the Cru. Good. Coffee I can definitely do. I head in that direction, forcing myself to keep a slow and steady pace to calm down.
The Cru is a dark, quiet hodgepodge of a restaurant with a deli counter on the left and a full-service bar around the corner to the right. It’s also the only place in town to get a seriously good cup of coffee. Summer mornings are a madhouse, but we’re lucky enough to have one of the long comfy couches in the back tonight.
I wipe down the rim of my coffee cup with my napkin while Seth dives into his ham and cheese sandwich.