On Fire (19 page)

“And the police would have investigated.”

“You’re an FBI agent,” Emile said. “You tell me how many criminals you’ve apprehended thought they’d get caught.”

Straker didn’t argue. Emile’s theory was sound enough, if far-fetched. And he’d asked the old man to make his best guess. If this was it, this was it. “What about Cassain? Did you encourage him to go to the authorities with his evidence?”

“Of course. He refused to listen.”

“Blackmail?”

“That’s my guess. He was getting his ducks in a row before bringing his proof to the saboteur and exacting his pound of flesh. He came to me to help solidify his theory.”

“But he didn’t give you a name, any hint of who he thought was responsible?”

Emile’s dark eyes shone with intensity. “
I
was responsible for the
Encounter.
It was my ship, my crew.”

Straker let that one go. This was no time to try to out-argue a Labreque. “You know what I mean.”

“Sam played his cards close to the chest. He knew I’d go straight to the authorities. I’m convinced he was still flailing around, figuring out his next moves.”

“And he flailed in the wrong direction and got himself killed.” Straker could see it. He gave the old man a hard look. “We’re taking your pictures to the police.”

Emile shook his head. “I need to finish what I started.”

“No, you don’t. You need to let the police do their job. Sam was murdered, Emile.”

Emile drew himself off the retaining wall, pointed
down the slope. “You have bigger problems than stopping me.”

Straker turned, and there she was, marching up from the water with her jaw set hard and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She’d spotted them, but she had the sense not to yell out.

“Nowhere to run,” Emile said lightly, “nowhere to hide.”

“You should have shot holes in her kayak,” Straker muttered.

Riley stopped between them. “Emile, Straker—what are you
doing?
” She was out of breath and talking through clenched teeth. “Emile, for God’s sake, you can’t keep sneaking around. You’re going to get yourself killed or tossed into prison for a million years.”

“I’m leaving,” he said calmly.

“You can’t leave. Your cottage—you must know what happened. They found all this firebug stuff in your woodshed. Someone’s setting you up.”

He ignored her. Straker stayed out of it. Emile was as maddening as she was, and they’d been doing this dance over a variety of subjects ever since Riley started to talk. Her grandfather pointed a finger at her. “You never mind me and listen to Straker. Follow his advice. You know about cetaceans. He knows about arson and murder.”

She inhaled. “I am
not
letting you go.”

“You have no choice.”

That didn’t sit well. She was prepared to argue her case, but Straker said, “We have a lot to talk about.”

She glared at him. “You’re not letting him go!”

“Someone sabotaged his ship and caused the deaths
of his best friend and four of his crew. You nearly died. He nearly died.” Straker sighed, knowing he must have been infected by the Labreque sense of drama, their way of looking at things. “What would you have me do?”

“Sabotage?”

She was pale, could barely get the word out. Emile seized the moment to slip off. Straker didn’t stop him.

Riley spun around, made a move to go after her grandfather. Straker touched her arm. “Don’t. You’ll just draw attention to him. He has a lot of friends up here. They’ll look after him. He left Cassain’s pictures of the engine and the evidence it was sabotaged. We need to get them to the police. Then they need to find the engine to make sure it really is the
Encounter
and not something Cassain faked.”

“Do you think he faked it?”

“No.”

“I hate this,” she said.

“I know.” Straker rocked back on his heels, eyed her and considered the various possibilities of how she’d found him. One stood out. “My mother ratted out my father?”

Riley gave an absent nod, a small smile. “She doesn’t miss anything.”

“There’ll be a battle royal over that one. Well, let’s go.”

“You go on.” She fixed her dark eyes on Straker, and he could see her fighting to be reasonable, smart, not simply to inflict her will on everyone else. “I’ll head to Boston. You can pretend I never saw any of this.”

Straker grinned. Her motives, he thought, were obvious.

“Quit acting like you know what I’m thinking,” she said.

“I do know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m just trying to be sensible and reasonable.”

“No, you’re not. You’re looking after your own skin. You’re afraid if you go to see Lou Dorrman with me, he’s going to put you in protective custody or otherwise restrict your movements. I think he would. He’s pretty much had it with you Labreques.”

“I’m going.”

Straker fought the urge to stop her, to bring her to Lou Dorrman for safekeeping. “Don’t make me regret not tying you up in my boat.”

She smiled faintly. “You’ll be in touch?”

“Count on it.”

Fifteen minutes later, Straker was telling Emile’s story to Lou Dorrman, who if he didn’t understand oceanography, did understand boats. “That’s a hell of a damned thing to do to a ship setting out to sea.”

“So is Emile off the hook?” Straker asked.

But he knew the answer. It’d be his answer, too, if this were his case. The sheriff scowled. “No. And neither are you. Sit down.”

Straker sat, and after he told his story to Lou one more time, he had to wait for the state detectives and tell it to them. They weren’t pleased with him for letting Emile go. Straker wouldn’t have been pleased, either. A seventy-six-year-old man and a trained FBI agent—he could have brought him in.

“Next time,” Teddy Palladino said, “you’d better.”

“Next time, I will. Meanwhile,” Straker said, “I think we’re giving Riley St. Joe way too much time to get herself back into hot water.”

Palladino agreed, and Straker was on his way.

S
ig plopped down on a squishy, comfortable sofa in the front room of her house on Chestnut Street, not far from Matt’s childhood home on Louisburg Square. They’d picked this house together. Although she hadn’t contributed a dime, she’d never felt it was any less hers than his—and he’d never indicated otherwise. That wasn’t how they operated. They were partners, equal, even if his bank account had more zeroes than hers.

Her babies jumped, startling her. It was their strongest movement yet. She placed a palm on her lower abdomen and sank deeper into the cushions. She’d fought melancholy during the long drive from Camden, could feel it again threatening to overwhelm her. She wanted to be plucky and resilient, but just couldn’t summon the energy.

Her gaze drifted to a framed picture of her father-in-law and Caroline at their wedding. Matt so missed his father. He was self-contained, not one for open
displays of emotion. He’d insist his actions in recent months had nothing to do with his grief, but with facts, logic, truth and justice. He and Bennett weren’t demonstrative or openly affectionate, but they’d enjoyed each other’s company.

Her father-in-law had been delighted when she and Matt had announced they wanted to marry. Bennett and Emile had been friends and partners for fifty years. “I don’t care if you know a whale from a dolphin,” Bennett had told her. “I’m thrilled to have a Labreque in the family.”

His tragic death had changed everything, shattering Matt’s world, and thus, Sig thought, her own.

She imagined her husband standing in their elegant living room in tattered jeans that hung low on his slim hips, his hair tousled, his eyes that memorable, piercing blue. He didn’t hide his intelligence, his education, his money, nor did he flaunt them.

“Hell’s bells,” Sig breathed. “You’re getting maudlin.”

She popped up off the couch and headed straight for the front door before her thoughts could get away from her, take on a life of their own. She might not be a fighter like Riley, but damned if she’d turn into a brooder.

It was warm outside, warmer than Camden would be at this time of the afternoon. She walked down to Charles Street, saying hello to a neighbor she recognized, enjoying the feel of the brick sidewalk underfoot, the sense that she was home and trying, at least, to take charge of her life.

The markets and coffee shops, the flower shop, the antique shops, were all crowded with people coming
home from work. She stopped at a small market for milk, juice, bread, coffee. Could she live here without Matt? She didn’t think so. It was difficult enough making a place for herself on Beacon Hill with him in her life. Without him, she’d probably always be known as Matthew Granger’s ex-wife.

The thought made her gasp, unable to get a good breath. She’d felt the same way in Emile’s loft with the smoke oozing up the stairs.
Matthew Granger’s ex-wife.
But that was where they were headed.

She carried her grocery bag up to Louisburg Square. Abigail would be back from Maine by now. Sig hadn’t talked to her in weeks and didn’t want to put her sister-in-law on the spot—but Matt was in trouble, at least on the edge. If Abigail had any insight into her brother’s state of mind in light of the fires, Sam’s death, the pending birth of his children, Sig wanted to hear it.

Her sister-in-law answered her front door in slim pants, her blond hair pulled back. She looked sleek and poised, while Sig felt bloated as she huffed and puffed over carrying a bag of groceries up Mount Vernon Street. Her hair hung down her back in a thick braid, and she wore one of her voluminous dresses. She felt frumpy, a little sick to her stomach.

“Sig! What an incredible surprise. Come in, won’t you?” Abigail drew her into the entry, unchanged since her father’s death, probably since her grandfather’s death, too. “How are you feeling? Have you recovered from—my God, I can’t even say it. We came too close to losing you.”

Sig managed a smile. “No argument from me.”

“And you’re pregnant.” She smiled. “With twins?”

“Lively twins.”

“I can’t wait to tell my kids they’re finally going to have cousins. Where are you staying?”

“At the house.”

Abigail frowned. “Alone?”

“It seems that way. I got back this afternoon.”

“I meant to visit you in Camden,” Abigail said. “Oh, Sig—are you sure you’re up to staying by yourself? You’re welcome to stay here with me.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Abigail seemed dubious. She was so different from her brother—more formal, more mannerly. “Let’s have a drink and catch up, shall we? Coffee, tea, whatever you’d like. Have you had dinner yet?”

“No, but the thought of food…” Sig shuddered. “A drink would be great, though.”

“Then come downstairs. You can leave your groceries right here in the hall. Is there anything we need to stick in the freezer?”

“No, it’ll be fine.”

She set her grocery bag on the floor, ambivalent about having stopped in. There were so many questions about the fire, Matt’s behavior, Riley, Emile—even John Straker and his role. Sig didn’t want to get into any of them. She just wanted Matt to come to his senses.

Abigail started down the hall. “Henry and I were just making coffee.”

“Henry’s here? Don’t let me interrupt—”

Abigail blushed, tried to cover for it. “You’re not interrupting anything. He’ll be delighted to see you.”

With that, she led Sig down a flight of stairs to the kitchen, a cozy mix of modern and nineteenth century with its brick fireplace, copper pots, granite counter-tops and cherry cabinets. Henry got up from the table, greeting Sig warmly. “Thank God you’re all right. You and Riley gave us all quite a scare.”

She smiled. “We gave ourselves quite a scare.”

“I imagine so. Have the police—well, let’s not talk about that right now. There’s fresh coffee. Can I pour you a cup?”

“I can put water on for tea if you prefer,” Abigail said. “I didn’t drink coffee during either of my pregnancies, but I doubt one cup’ll hurt someone who survived a burning building.”

Sig laughed, relaxing. “Put that way, I’ll say yes to coffee. I’ll just add a lot of milk.”

Henry poured the coffee, moving about Abigail’s kitchen as if he were comfortable there, familiar. He filled a small pitcher with milk, set it and the heavy mug on the table. “I’ll let you add your own milk. I’m sure you and Abigail have a lot to talk about. I’ll scoot upstairs for a bit.”

“That’s not necessary,” Sig said.

He held up a hand, smiled. “It’s fine, Sig. You two catch up.”

When he was gone, Abigail put her hands on her hips and scrutinized her sister-in-law. “Are you
positive
you’re well enough to stay alone? You still look pale to me. I think you should have stayed with your mother a few days at least to recuperate.”

“I’m just tired. It was a long drive.” Sig poured milk
into her coffee, sipped it. It was hot, not too strong. She avoided Abigail’s eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“Mara must have hated seeing you go off on your own under these circumstances. Wait until you have those babies, Sig. Then you’ll understand. There’s no off button when you’re a mother.”

“You were divorced when your children were young. Do you think—”

She cut Sig off with a firm shake of her head. “You and Matt are
not
going to divorce. Don’t even think about it. This is just a bump in the road. You’ll see.”

“Don’t pay any attention to me, Abigail. I’m not thinking straight. I…” She sighed. “I’m just worried about him. I wish I understood what he’s trying to accomplish.”

“Matt has a good head on his shoulders, Sig,” Abigail said gently, sitting across the table from her. “He’s not stupid. He sometimes asks a lot of the people who love him, but you have to have faith.”

“For how long?”

“For me, it’s forever. But I’m his sister.”

Sig bit her lip, refusing to cry. She’d cried too much already.

“By the way,” Abigail continued, “you must be wondering if there’s anything between Henry and me. There is. Sort of. We’re trying to be low-key because of our roles at the center, and now with Sam’s death—well, I’m sure you can understand our reluctance to become a subject of gossip and speculation.”

Sig suddenly felt enervated, as if she wouldn’t even make it back out to Louisburg Square. She drank
more of her coffee, nodded. “You’re both entitled to your privacy.”

“We’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks. Henry was very nervous at first, especially since we were beginning to see signs that some of the rawness of the
Encounter
ordeal was easing. Then it just…” She smiled, her eyes not quite meeting Sig’s. “It just seemed so natural.”

“I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to,” Sig said.

“We should probably wait until Sam’s death, the fires…” Abigail groaned, as if it were all too much to articulate. “Until this whole mess is sorted out.”

“I understand. Abigail, everyone only wants happiness for you. You’ve done so much for the center, and your family, too. Matt likes Henry, and I’m sure Caroline’s fond of him. Of course, that shouldn’t matter. You just need to follow your own heart.”

“Ah, Sig. You make everything sound so wonderfully simple. I’ve missed you.” Her expression clouded, and she leaned forward. “Sig, what do you think’s going on with Emile?”

“I wish I knew. That’s why Riley and I were at his cottage. We wanted to find him, get him to talk to the police.”

Abigail sighed, got up to pour herself a cup of coffee. “He’s always had a very fine opinion of his own abilities. I wouldn’t be surprised if he thinks he can sort out Sam’s death better than the police. Either that or he’s gone completely nuts.”

“To be honest, I’ve never been very good at figuring
out how Emile thinks. Riley’s much better. Me—I can’t even figure out what my own husband’s thinking.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Abigail returned to the table with her coffee. Sig noticed her slender fingers and manicured nails, looked down at her own unpolished, blunt-cut nails. She needed to take better care of herself. Ultimately, she realized, that was why she’d come home. Not to do her nails—to focus on her, on Matt, on their marriage, on the family they were in the process of creating.

“Henry’s waiting for you,” Sig said, struggling to her feet. “I’ll head on back. I just wanted to stop in and say hello.”

“I’m glad you did. Are you sure you won’t join us for dinner? We’re just ordering out. Nothing fancy.”

But Sig was sure, and when she walked back out to Mount Vernon, she found herself feeling a little foolish. Even in her confusion over whatever was going on with her brother, Abigail was confident, poised, well-mannered and in her element. Sig constantly felt as if she were spinning out of control. She had no plan of action, no clear course she was following. She simply responded to events as they happened.

She’d call Riley when she got back. Find out what her wild little sister was up to and whether the sparks were still flying between her and Straker. Find out if she was safe. If she’d learned anything more about Emile and the fire.

“There,” she told herself as she unlocked her front door. “You’re taking action.”

She pushed open the door, saw the shadow of a man
in the front room and screamed, her bag of groceries crashing to the floor. The milk carton split open, soaking the bag.

“Sig…” Matt stepped out of the shadows. “I didn’t know it was you.”

She was shaking, far more terrified than she would have been if she hadn’t just escaped death in Emile’s loft. Her knees went out from under her and she sank to the floor. She couldn’t stop herself. Her head spun. Her stomach lurched, and she thought she’d pass out.

Matt caught her by the elbows and lifted her into his arms. She ached to lean into him, let him take her weight, but she stopped herself, stiffening against her own attraction to him, her own need.

“Are you all right?” He sounded panicked, tortured. “Sig, what can I do?”

She had to look at him. At those blue eyes, that square jaw, that lean body. He still held her. “I’m not going to pass out. I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded, and he took her face in his hands and kissed her cheeks, and she realized he was crying. So was she. She’d started to say something, she didn’t know what, when his mouth found hers.

“Oh, Sig,” he whispered. “I love you.”

She wanted this, had dreamed of it for months. Her mouth opened to his kiss. He slid his palms over her shoulders, and she quaked when he touched her breasts, swollen from pregnancy. It had been so long. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He smoothed a hand over her lower abdomen.
“Twins. My God.” His voice cracked. “I want to be a good father, Sig. I’ll do my best. I promise.”

She covered his hand with hers. “I can feel them moving. Most of the time it’s this little flutter.”

“You’re okay? After the fire—”

“Yes.”

He kissed her again. “I remember when we made these babies. I don’t know how I’ve done without you for so long.” He curved his hand slowly back up to her breast, found her nipple, circled it with one finger as he deepened their kiss. “Just let me sleep beside you tonight.”

“And then what?”

His eyes flashed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what happens in the morning?” She fought past her longing for him, called upon all her convictions, her determination that she had to stand her ground. For her sake, for his, for their babies’ sake. “I’m expecting twins, Matt. There’s too much at stake for me. For us. I need to believe in you—I need you to believe in me.
Talk
to me. Tell me what’s going on with you, Emile, Sam. Let me in.”

“Sig…”

“No half measures, Matt. I won’t be a sometimes wife. I
can’t
be. Either you let me in, let me help you through this, or you walk out of here.” She gave him as hard a look as she could. “Or I do.”

“I love you. I’d die for you. I’d die for our babies. Isn’t that enough?”

He was so persuasive. So handsome. Her body burned with wanting him. She hated being alone. She liked having him in bed with her, liked waking up to
the rub of his beard on her, liked hearing him thrash around in the kitchen. She desperately wanted their life back. But how much could she give?