At Risk (21 page)

“Yes’m, and I can make my letters too.”

“Seriously, Jack, this is really nice.”

“Everything a pirate could ask for.”

“And you live on board?”

“Pretty much,” he replied. “I still store a lot of stuff at Mom’s, but I never did need much room. It suits me.”

The tide was going out, and they were able to anchor close to a lighthouse where Liz pulled in her first tog within five minutes of dropping her line. The fish was well over the legal limit and fought for all it was worth.

Conceding the contest and saying they only needed one fish, Jack pulled anchor and motored north to a secluded spot well out of the channel. The two shared icy beers and great sex on the deck in the early heat of afternoon.

When Liz came out of the tiny shower clad in her new bathing suit, Jack had already cleaned and filleted the fish. “I’ll just fry two of these up,” he said, “to go with lunch. There’s more beer in the fridge, or soda or bottled water if you prefer.”

“I’ll have water. One beer is my limit. At least out here.”

“Too bad some of our paying clients don’t feel the same way. Pop says we could take half of them to Rick’s Crab Shack and let them drink themselves silly and they wouldn’t care if they ever got their lines in the water. Most don’t want the fish if they do catch them.” He rolled a fillet in flour and sprinkled it with pepper and lemon salt. “Dig me a spatula out of that drawer, will you, babe?”

Liz pulled open the cabinet drawer and picked through the cooking utensils and tableware. “I wish my kitchen was—” She stopped in mid sentence as a block of ice formed in her throat. She stared at the object in her hand and took a step backward.

She was holding an oyster knife, the blade razor-sharp and shiny, a knife so new that it still bore a price sticker from Dover Hardware.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jack asked. “See a ghost?”

Liz dropped the knife back into the drawer and, suddenly cool, rubbed her upper arms briskly. “No, no ghosts.” She felt a rush of blood suffuse her throat and cheeks.

“That’s not the oyster knife that killed Tracy,” he said. “The cops found that one under her.”

“I know,” Liz said, feeling ridiculous. “I’ve got at least three of the damned things in my house.”

His eyes narrowed. “But not new ones?” He swore softly as he pulled the frying pan off the burner. “You’ve lost it, Lizzy. Now you think I’m the murderer?”

“No, I don’t think that,” she snapped back. “I picked it up and . . .” A faint frisson of doubt lingered in her mind. “You’re right. It was a moment of temporary insanity.”

“Wayne killed Tracy. When the cops catch up with him—if he’s not already dead—he’ll admit it.”

She sank onto the bench on the other side of the small, built-in table. “But if Wayne killed Tracy, he’d have no reason to make my life miserable.”

“You told me that you were certain you knew who your stalker was.”

“I do, and I don’t.” She covered her face with her hands. “It’s complicated, Jack. There’s stuff . . . It’s just too eerie. You remember old Buck Juney?”

Jack nodded. “Crazy as a love-struck opossum.”

“I keep thinking about him. He used to follow me, you know. All one summer, he kept leaping out of hiding places and scaring me half to death.”

“He’s got to be long gone. No one’s mentioned him for . . . Shoot, Lizzy, he was gone before you and I started hanging around together. Pop said he probably drowned in that leaky rowboat. He’d take it out on the bay in all kinds of weather.”

“It must be finding Tracy that makes me like this,” Liz said. “I’m not usually a basket case.”

“Nope,” Jack agreed. “At least, you weren’t.” He crossed to the drawer and fished out the spatula. “If the fillets are black on the bottom, it’s your fault, not mine.” Returning to the stove, he turned the fish and pushed the pan back over the heat.

“I guess I could help by setting the table,” Liz offered. She found paper plates and forks and knives. “Napkins?” She opened a narrow cabinet door, noticed a laptop on the floor, and reached for it. “Wow. I’m impressed. Is this a Dell?”

“Yes.” Jack motioned for her to leave the laptop alone. “It’s mine, and I’m paranoid about anybody touching it.” His tone was sharp and carried a thread of unease.

“Sorry.” She closed the door. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Napkins are over the fridge.” He shrugged, attempting to cover the guilty expression in his eyes. “I guess you’re not the only one who’s wound too tight, babe. Pop messed with my last laptop, spilled a beer on it, and frigged it up big time. It took me days to get tax records out of it. This one’s more expensive and—”

“I had no intention of—”

He put his arms around her. She stiffened, but he didn’t let go. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “I’m a screw-up and a jerk. Forgive me?”

“This isn’t going to work,” she said.

“What isn’t going to work?” He kissed her eye-brow and the tip of her nose. “Tell me that this hasn’t been fun.”

“It has.”

“And tell me that you aren’t going to let one stupid remark ruin last night and today’s fishing trip.” He looked into her eyes. “I’m trying, babe.” His lips thinned. “You can play with my laptop. Hell, you can dance on it if you want.”

“No, thanks.” She took a deep breath. “We’re not the people we were. Things change.”

“Not inside. You may have a title and an important position at the college, but you’re still Lizzy Clarke of Clarke’s Purchase.” He released her and flashed the Rafferty grin. “And you still can eat your weight in fried fish.”

“Which reminds me,” she said, trying to ease the tension between them; “you owe me ten bucks.”

“Tarzan not know what Jane talk about. Ten bucks too many deer to trade for one small fish that jump into boat. Maybe five bucks, one doe.”

“Jane hungry,” she lied. “Feed woman, then talk about ten bucks Tarzan owe her.”

As Jack cut the engines to enter the mouth of the harbor, Liz saw a fourteen-foot bass boat motoring out. “Look,” she said. “That’s Cameron Whitaker.” The grad student was alone in the boat and obviously struggling to keep the aluminum craft with the powerful motor on a straight course.

Jack rested a hand on the throttle. “Wonder how much wake he can take.”

“Behave yourself.”

“No, seriously,” he replied, straight-faced. “I could run him down. I’ve got a million dollars in liability, and no one could prove it wasn’t an accident.”

“That isn’t funny,” she said, but it was funny in a sick way. For an instant, she considered what a perfect ending it would be for Cameron Whitaker, a man who’d bragged that he’d never fished in his life and considered the sport one step above cockfights and dwarf tossing.

Cameron recognized her and waved. Liz didn’t see a pole, net, or tackle box in the bottom of the boat. Cameron was wearing a camera case around his neck, and on the seat beside him was what could only be binoculars.

“Slimy little bastard,” Jack said. “Come on, babe. Let me do the world a favor.”

Liz squelched a desire to give Cameron the finger and turned away. Jack was definitely a bad influence. Next she’d be mooning passersby and chewing wads of Red Man tobacco.

“Wonder what kind of sightseeing he’s up to,” Jack said.

“I can guess. If he knows what’s good for him, he’d better stay away from my farm. I’ll turn Heidi loose on him.”

“Oh—I can’t run over the asshole, but you can make dog chow out of him.”

“Better yet, I’ll take pictures of him sneaking around my house and send him up on a stalking charge.”

“That would be nice. Pretty boy wouldn’t last a week in Smyrna.”

She touched Jack’s arm. “You . . . I mean, no one . . .” She trailed off, unable to ask if anything terrible had happened to him in prison.

“Me?” Jack smirked. “The trick, little lady, is to be the baddest, craziest sonofabitch in the unit. Besides, I was in for attempted murder. Most of the other inmates were scared of me. With good reason.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was prying again, wasn’t I?”

“It’s not an experience I care to repeat. Or one I care to talk about.” He pointed. “There’s Mom. On the dock.”

Nora was waving.

“Wonder what’s up,” Liz said. Her first thought was that something was wrong. She hoped it wasn’t Jack’s dad. Arlie had a bad heart.

Jack nosed the bow of the
Dolphin III
gently into the slip. He put the engines in neutral and motioned for Liz to take the wheel, then climbed out on the bow and tossed his mother a line. Nora snubbed it expertly to a mooring post. Liz turned the wheel gently, and the vessel glided against the row of tires that acted as bumper guards and came to a halt.

“Pop okay?” Jack called to his mother. Obviously, he’d been thinking along the same paths as Liz.

“He’s fine,” Nora replied. “They found Wayne Boyd.”

Jack threw her a second rope, and she fastened that as well. “Shut it down,” Jack called to Liz.

She came off the bridge, and Jack stepped onto the dock and helped her ashore. “What did you say about Wayne?” she asked Nora.

“A tourist with a metal finder was hunting for coins on Big Stone Beach. He found Wayne, or what was left of him, washed up on the sand.”

“Drowned?” Jack asked.

Nora grimaced. “Who could tell after that long in the water? Rumor has it that the crabs had been at him.”

“That’s more than I wanted to know,” Liz said.

“I imagine that will wrap up the murder investigation,” Nora said. “Most folks suspected that Wayne killed Tracy all along. Killing hisself left their baby an orphan, but the little one’s better off without a father like that.”

Liz felt a rush of relief. She supposed she should be ashamed of herself, but if Wayne was guilty and he’d committed suicide, the students at her school wouldn’t have to look over their shoulders every day.

“Want to come for supper?” Nora asked Liz. “I’m cooking up some clam chowder, corn bread, asparagus and dumplings, and strawberry pie.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Liz said. She didn’t add that supper wasn’t high on her list of priorities with thoughts of Wayne’s demise fresh in her mind. “But I’ve got to prepare finals for my students. I should have worked on them today, but Jack twisted my arm.”

“If I remember, the last time he twisted your arm, you cold-conked him with a lunchbox,” Nora replied with a grin.

Nora had twisted her hair up into a bun today, but stray locks had come loose and were curled around her face and neck. She wore patched jeans cut off at the knees, a red checked shirt, and not a dab of makeup. Liz hoped she’d look as full of life at sixty-three as Jack’s mom.

“I was ten years old,” Jack protested. “Do you have to keep bringing that up?”

“Shows you were an uncivilized troublemaker as a child,” Liz said.

“What about you?” Jack said. “Knocking a playmate senseless is proper behavior for a young lady? All I was doing was showing you a wrestling move that—”

“That George used on you,” Nora said. “He called this morning. He wants you to send him some cigarettes.”

“Smoking’s a nasty habit,” Jack said. “He should quit.”

“And you should go visit him,” his mother said. “No matter what he’s done, he’s your brother.”

“It’s you he wants to see, Mom. And Pop.”

“That place gives me the creeps,” Nora replied. “When they slam those cell doors, I want to run for the wall.”

“I’m not too crazy about those steel bars, myself,” Jack agreed. “If I never see them again, I’ll be just as happy.”

Nora motioned to her blue compact, still parked in the lot where Jack had left it. “Do you still need my car?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’m going to drive Liz home. I think she’s had enough sun for one day.”

“Did you bring me any fish?” Nora asked.

“There’s more than half of a tog left, but Liz caught it.”

“Take it and welcome,” Liz said. “I’ll probably just have a salad for supper.”

“I’ll accept your fish in trade,” Nora answered with a quick smile. “Jack, you just come by the house and get a pint of chowder and a slice of pie for Liz to eat tonight. Fair’s fair.”

“What about me?” Jack teased.

“Liz is giving me fresh tog. If you want supper, you can come around early enough to finish painting the front porch. I’m not running a boardinghouse for grown sons, you know.”

Jack groaned. “You see how she treats me? Makes me wonder if I’m really her child. When I was little, she used to say that I was a stray orphan who came to dinner and just stayed.”

“Oh, you’re a Rafferty, all right,” his mother retorted. “Tongues as sweet as honey, all three of you.” She glanced at Liz. “You wouldn’t think it, to look at Arlie now, but he cut a wide swath when he was young and frisky. He could talk his way out of anything and make up lies so smooth the Pope would swallow them hook, line, and sinker. I always said, ‘Arlie, if you put those tales on paper, you’d never have to fish again. You could write a book and we’d all be rich as Solomon.’ ”

Jack was unusually quiet as he drove Liz home after they had cleaned up the boat and gassed the
Dolphin III
in preparation for the next trip. Nora’s ’99 Toyota was compact, but neat, and Liz supposed that it must get better mileage than her own four-door sedan.

“I’ve been thinking about getting another car,” she said to Jack. “An SUV or a pickup, something that will pull a boat.”

“Planning on giving up teaching and fishing full time?”

She laughed. “Not likely. But Katie and I need a boat. There’s always been one at Clarke’s Purchase. The dock looks lonely without a boat tied there.” She tried not to think of the derelict vessel she’d found there a few days ago.

“I’ll ask Mom,” Jack said, keeping his eyes on the road. “She knows every boat in the county, who’s selling, and who’s had their boat in the shop for engine work. Unless you’re looking to buy new.”

“No, definitely a used one. I’d rather not go to a dealer.”

“I hear you,” he agreed. “You know, George’s sixteen-footer is sitting in the shed. He doesn’t have more than a hundred hours on the Mercury engine. It’s got a good deep hull, what you need for this bay.”

“Do you think he’d consider selling?”

“Maybe. He don’t need it where he’s at, and by the time he gets out, there may be no fish left to catch.”