Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) (8 page)

Her
expression right now, her dark eyes still glistening, her head tilted slightly
as she regarded him, her fingers still tense around her glass, told him she
wasn’t convinced of it now. He’d told her his story, and she clearly wasn’t
sure whether she bought it.

“I
should find another place to stay tonight,” he said, even though he couldn’t
imagine any place he’d rather be than next to Monica, his arms around her, his
head nestled beside hers atop the plush down pillows on her bed. “I guess there
are some motels down Route 1.”

She
continued to measure him with her gaze, her indecision visible in her
expression. After a minute, she said, “We have some open rooms at the inn right
now. We’re booked pretty solidly from Memorial Day weekend on, but this week
we’ve still got rooms.”

“Okay.”
Apparently, her ambivalence would allow him to spend the night close to her,
but not too close. Either that, or she wanted to fill the inn’s vacant rooms.
She was an executive there, after all.

She
insisted she wasn’t hungry for anything more, and the big bowl of chowder on
top of the tasteless ham sandwich Nolan had scared up at the police station
were enough to fill Ty’s stomach. He paid the bill and they left the
restaurant, which sat on a broad wharf jutting out into the sea. Further up the
wharf, he saw the silhouettes of a couple of commercial fishing boats docked
and rocking lazily on the gently rippling waves. No wonder the Lobster Shack
had a big sign beside its front door reading “Fresh Fish Daily.” He supposed
the chef just walked down the wharf to the boats when they steamed into port
and bought their catch right out of their nets.

Monica
remained silent as she and Ty climbed into her car and she started the engine.
He knew better than to disturb a woman when she was thinking things over, but
the tension pinching her lips and shadowing her eyes bothered him. “Are you all
right?” he finally asked.

She
managed a faint smile. “I don’t have the law breathing down my neck, so I guess
I’m in better shape than you.” The smile vanished when she added, “We’re just
so different, Ty. You bop around the country, doing this, doing that, tapping
into your trust fund and moving on. I’m the opposite. I grew up here. My family
owns a hotel. A place where people
stay.
”

He
was surprised to experience a twinge of…was it envy? The thought of actually
staying
somewhere seemed alien to him, probably because he hadn’t really had a home
since the accident. The house where he’d grown up in Pasadena had been sold and
emptied after his parents died. His grandparents had sold or donated most of
the furniture, too. Because he’d been in the rehab hospital at the time, they’d
packed what they felt he needed—clothing, books, his baseball glove, his Discman
and a few CD’s—and discarded the rest. When he’d finally been released, he’d
discovered all his other treasures—his comic books, his water pistol, his
trading cards, the sea-polished rocks he’d gathered during trips to the beach
with his parental grandfather, his Frisbee, his Swiss Army knife, the drawers
full of silly junk that meant nothing to anyone else but everything to him… All
of it gone. He’d lost his parents and he’d lost his belongings.

From
that moment on, he’d never had a home. No wonder he never stayed anywhere for
long.

Well,
it looked as if he would be staying in Brogan’s Point at least until he cleared
his name and the cops decided he was no longer a person of interest. Glancing
at Monica as she steered her car along Atlantic Avenue, the road paralleling
the coastline through town, he was struck by the odd thought that even if he
didn’t like the reason he was trapped in Brogan’s Point for a while, the
thought of spending time here appealed to him.

Not
that he expected to regain the intimacy he and Monica had shared last night.
That had been a fluke, inspired by some alcohol consumption and an ancient rock
song.

Even
so, there were worse things in life than to be stuck in a pretty New England hamlet
like Brogan’s Point for a while. Maybe, after he met with the lawyer tomorrow
morning, he could follow through on his plan to rent a bike and motor around
the region. He wouldn’t go far. He’d check in as often as necessary. It wasn’t
as if he had an electronic bracelet strapped around his ankle.

Monica
turned onto the driveway of the Ocean Bluff Inn and parked in one of the empty
spots in the lot. He hauled his duffel and laptop out of the back seat and
followed her up the steps, across the broad veranda and into the building.

The
lobby looked like something from a movie set his father might have worked on:
old, solid furniture, brass lighting fixtures, cream-colored walls, genteelly
faded rugs. The hotels he’d been to in Florida generally featured light, airy
lobbies with sleek leather or wicker furniture, and planters filled with ferns
and palms. Those hotels were painted swimming-pool blue or flamingo pink, and
they had cool tile floors. This inn, with its warm woods and golden lighting,
and the fireplaces he glimpsed in the rooms flanking the lobby, shouted that he
was no longer in the tropics. There was a permanence about the décor and the
building that housed it, a sense that if a hurricane ever did make it this far
north, it wouldn’t leave much of an impression on the inn. The place had lasted
a long time, and would last a long time more.

He
liked it.

“Hi,
Kim,” Monica greeted the young woman behind the counter. “My friend here needs
a room for the night.” She stumbled almost imperceptibly on the word
friend
.

The
clerk didn’t seem to notice. She ran an appreciative gaze over Ty, but he
wasn’t in the mood to be appreciated. If he couldn’t spend the night with
Monica, he wanted to check into a room, take a long, hot shower, and sack out.
A night of uninterrupted sleep wasn’t as appealing a prospect as a night
bouncing around on Monica’s mattress, but his body could use the rest.

Apparently
sensing no reciprocal interest, the clerk tapped her computer keyboard. “Room
27 is open. So is Room 34. Twenty-seven is nicer,” she told Ty. “It’s got an
ocean view. Thirty-four is up an extra flight of stairs and it overlooks the
pool.”

“If
34 is cheaper, I’ll take it,” he said. God knew what the lawyer was going to
cost him. No sense burning any more money than he had to.

“Great.
I’ll need a credit card impression,” she said, tapping some more on her
computer. As worked, she turned her attention to Monica. “How’s the mess at
Rose Cottage?”

“Don’t
ask,” Monica muttered. “Mess is definitely the operative term.”

“Is
it going to be fixed in time?”

“It
has to be,” Monica said, sounding exasperated. “The cottage is booked for
Memorial Day weekend. If we’ve got to work night and day to get it fixed, we
will.”

The
clerk swiped Ty’s credit card and returned it to him, along with a reservation
folder with “34” scribbled onto it and a key card tucked inside. Ty thanked her
with a nod and stepped away from the reservation desk. “What kind of mess?” he
asked Monica. They’d spent the evening focusing on him. It occurred to him that
Monica had a life, too, and things might not be gliding a smooth course in it.

She
sighed and shook her head. “A mysterious leak in one of the residential
cottages. The plumbers haven’t located it yet, even though they’ve torn apart
the wall and a bathroom vanity.”

“I
can do walls,” he said.

She
peered quizzically at him.

“Plumbing
is beyond me. But walls are easy.”

“They
can’t be that easy. The construction crews here charge a fortune.”

“I
can help. As soon as the plumbers are done, I can do the walls for you.”

She
opened her mouth and then shut it. “You don’t owe me anything, Ty.”

He
owed her everything, but even if he didn’t, he’d lend a hand. “You’ve got a
tight deadline. I’m just saying—if you need help, I can help.”

A
low, humorless chuckle escaped her. “If you’re not in jail,” she muttered.

He
didn’t take the dig personally. Grinning, he said. “Right. If I’m not in jail.”

Caleb
Solomon’s office was a long walk from the Ocean Bluff Inn, but Ty could manage
a long walk, especially after a quiet night spent in a comfortable bed. He’d
awakened early, showered again—after a week of washing beneath the spitting,
erratic spray of the Freedom’s cramped shower, he appreciated the showers he’d
enjoyed in both Monica’s apartment and the cozy third-floor room at the inn,
his current home. His clothing was wrinkled from having spent too much time
rolled up inside his duffel, but at least some of the garments were clean. He
donned fresh jeans and a button-front shirt, the most presentable apparel he’d
brought with him, and after a breakfast of scrambled eggs and rye toast in one
of the inn’s dining rooms, he slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and hiked
into downtown Brogan’s Point for his morning meeting with his lawyer.

If
the sign outside the colonial brick building that housed Solomon’s office was
any indication, the guy had two partners. “Chase, Mullen and Solomon,
Attorneys-at-Law,” it read, block letters on a classy brass plaque. Entering
the building, Ty was assailed by the aroma of fresh coffee.

After
the week he’d spent on the boat slugging down instant in the hope of a caffeine
rush, fresh-brewed coffee was as much a luxury as showers with steady water
pressure. The coffee at the inn had been good. This coffee would be good, too.
Neither would be as good as the coffee he’d drunk in Monica’s apartment
yesterday morning, but that coffee had tasted wonderful because he’d been able
to gaze at her while he’d consumed it.

Once
Ty identified himself to the receptionist, he was led to a conference room and
served a steaming cup of the beverage he’d smelled. He had barely settled into
one of the chairs surrounding the oval mahogany table when Solomon entered.
Like last night, he was wearing a suit and shirt with no tie—a navy blue suit
this time, but it looked as rumpled as last night’s suit—and he was toting his
battered leather briefcase. Ty stood out of courtesy to the two women who
accompanied Solomon: one a tall, too-thin woman wearing eyeglasses and carrying
a laptop, the other an attractive blond woman in a silky beige suit that looked
a lot pricier than Solomon’s. She carried a yellow legal pad and a fountain
pen. Solomon gave Ty’s hand a shake, then introduced the women: “This is Annie
Adler, a paralegal, who’s going to be taking notes. And this is Heather Chase,
one of my partners. She’s got better connections in South Florida than I do.”

Thank
God for the trust fund, Ty thought as he waited for the women to sit and then
settled back into his chair. Two lawyers were probably going to cost him twice
as much.

And
he hadn’t even done anything wrong. It seemed ridiculous that he should have to
hire two hot-shot lawyers to defend him when he was innocent.

They
arranged themselves around the table, the paralegal fired up her laptop, and
the receptionist brought in more coffee. Solomon didn’t seem to need caffeine.
He was already firing on all cylinders. “Here’s what we’ve got so far. Wayne
MacArthur does exist.”

“Not
on Google, he doesn’t,” Ty said. “I did a search for him last night, but I
couldn’t find anything. I’ve met him, though. He paid me.”

“He
could have been using a false name. He could’ve taken a powder. But
fortunately, he didn’t. He’s still down in Key Biscayne. And he really does own
a house up on the north end of Brogan’s Point. I talked to a couple of his
neighbors up here and they hardly know him. They said that when he’s in town,
he keeps to himself. The staff guy at North Cove Marina knows him more for his
boat than for himself. They said he pays his bills on time and never causes any
trouble.”

“Has
it occurred to anyone that maybe there
aren’t
drugs on his boat?” Ty
asked. “Like, maybe he’s just a nice guy?”

“A
nice, very rich guy who supposedly owns a few laundromats in Miami,” Heather
Chase said, giving Ty an expensive-looking smile—straight, white teeth framed
by plump, glossy lips. “A few laundromats don’t generate the kind of money that
buys a fancy sail boat and two mansions.”

“His
houses are mansions?” Ty asked.

The
pretty lawyer nodded. “His Brogan’s Point house is valued at more than
one-point-five million on Zillow. His house on Key Biscayne is closer to
two-point-five million. And the boat.”

“That
still doesn’t mean he deals drugs. Maybe he inherited his money or something.
Maybe he’s got a rich wife.” Maybe his family had been wiped out by the
spoiled, doped-up son of a movie-industry honcho who’d bought his silence with
a trust fund.

A
much bigger trust fund than Ty’s. He couldn’t afford four million dollars’
worth of real estate and an ocean-worthy sailboat that clocked in at more than
fifty thousand.

Heather
Chase clicked uncapped her pen. “Where did you meet Mr. MacArthur?” she asked.

Ty
named the Florida marina where MacArthur docked his boat in the winter.

“You
work there?” she asked.

“I’m
an independent contractor,” Ty said. “When a luxury yacht needs work, they call
me.” At her questioning look, he elaborated. “Interior repairs. Woodwork. These
yachts usually have fancy paneling, elegant dashboards, that kind of thing.
Big-mother steering wheels, oak trimmed with brass. The wood gets dinged,
cracked—you’re on a boat in a storm, sometimes stuff shifts around and bangs up
the paneling. Or the weather does a number on it. Or whatever. I work on
houses, too. Carved banisters and newels. Inlays. Moldings. Built-ins. I do
ordinary carpentry, too. But the custom jobs pay a lot more.”

“So
Mr. MacArthur knew about your work?”

“Jeff—the
marina manager—put him in touch with me. Jeff knew I could handle a run up the
coast. I’ve done a lot of sailing.”

“You’re
a jack-of-all-trades,” Solomon remarked.

“Just
a few trades.”

“You
don’t do windows?” Solomon joked. Ty drank some coffee. At Heather Chase’s
request, he provided Jeff’s last name and contact information, as well as the
names of some of the clients for whom he’d worked down in the Miami area.

“Have
you ever heard Mr. MacArthur referred to as Mr. Smith?” Solomon asked.

“No.”

“Anyone
at the marina down there called Smith?”

“I
don’t know. There could be some boat owners.” Ty shrugged.

“MacArthur
never mentioned someone named Smith to you?”

Ty
shrugged again. “If he did, I don’t remember. I mean…Smith? It doesn’t exactly
leave an impression.”

Solomon
and his colleague exchanged a look. “All right,” she said, pushing to her feet.
“Let me see what I can dig up.”

Ty
and Solomon stood as well, waiting until she left the conference room before
they resumed their seats. He might have despised living with his maternal
grandparents in St. Mary’s, Kansas, but they’d hammered good manners into his
head. If his father’s father had gotten custody of him after the accident, Ty
would never have known he was supposed to stand when a woman entered or exited
a room. He probably wouldn’t have known the importance of tucking in his shirt
and keeping his fingernails short and clean, either. His grandpa in California
had never managed to master either of those skills.

“I’ve
gotten some information from the police,” Solomon told Ty as Annie the
paralegal typed away. “Does the name Danny Watson mean anything to you?”

Ty
frowned. Unable to think of anyone he knew by that name, he shook his head.
“Should it?”

“He’s
the police informant. He was arrested a couple of weeks ago and charged with
dealing. He’d been working on a fishing boat out of Brogan’s Point, but
apparently he had a nice little side business going. He told the police a major
shipment of heroin would be arriving by boat from Key Biscayne, and then you
sailed MacArthur’s boat into port from Key Biscayne.”

“That’s
all the cops have on me? Maybe another boat’s heading up here from the Keys.”

“Maybe.
Everything the police have is circumstantial—although it was enough to get a
search warrant.”

“But
they didn’t find any drugs on the Freedom, did they.”

“Not
yet.” Solomon dug around in his briefcase and pulled out a folder, which he
opened. “Okay. This fellow, Danny Watson, said his supplier was named Smith,
and the heroin was going to be arriving on a sailboat out of Key Biscayne
sometime this week. Now, here’s our problem. If the police go after MacArthur,
he’s going to say he knows nothing about any drugs and you must have smuggled
the heroin without his knowledge. You’re saying
you
know nothing about
any heroin, and
he
must be smuggling it without
your
knowledge.
It’s a ‘he said, he said’ situation.”

“Is
there some way to trace the heroin? Like, to whoever MacArthur got it from?”

Solomon
shook his head. “I don’t know how MacArthur got his illegal cargo, and I’m not
sure we need to know that. All we need to do is get your name cleared. We don’t
have to do the police’s work for them.”

Ty
took some comfort in the understanding that his lawyer actually believed he was
innocent. At least his words implied that he did.

“Are
there people in Florida who can vouch for your character?” Solomon asked.

Ty
provided a list of names: his neighbors, his landlady, clients, Jeff at the
marina. Annie dutifully typed the names into the computer, her fingers
fluttering, the keys tapping in a gentle tempo.

“How
about up here in Massachusetts?” Solomon asked.

The
only person who knew him here was Monica. And how well did she know him? They’d
slept together—before they’d even known each other’s names. Hardly a strong
character reference:
He picked me up in a bar, we reconnected at my parents’
inn, and we screwed our heads off.

She’d
found him this lawyer. Surely that meant something.

It
didn’t mean much. Just that she’d heard the desperation in his voice when he’d
left that voice-mail message. That she’d come through for him because they’d
had a good time in bed.

Solomon
was staring across the table at him, his eyes as hard as polished black
granite. “I haven’t been here long enough to make a lot of friends,” Ty said.

“Monica
Reinhart contacted me on your behalf. I take it she knows you?”

Ty
didn’t want to drag her into his mess. “She did me a favor,” he allowed. “A
huge favor. I can’t ask anything more of her than what she’s already done.” And
if he
did
decide to ask more of her, it wouldn’t be that she attest to
what a fine, upstanding citizen he was. What he wanted to ask of her was that
she open herself to him one more time. That she climb onto a bike behind him,
wrap her arms around his waist, lean into his back, and ride away with him.
He’d ask her to spend days with him, nights with him.

He’d
ask her to trust him, to believe in him.

Hell.
He wasn’t a fine, upstanding citizen. He was a guy who roamed around the
country and sailed the ocean, who traveled because if he ever stopped, he’d
have to call wherever he was home, and he had no idea what home was anymore. He
was a guy who knew how to fix things, how to build things, how to craft things,
a guy who knew how to make a woman like Monica moan with passion.

But
he couldn’t force her to swear to Caleb Solomon, or to Ed Nolan of the Brogan’s
Point police department, or to anyone else, that Ty was a clean-living,
law-abiding gentleman. As far as she knew, he was just… A wild thing.

If
it weren’t for that song, blasting out of an antique jukebox in a working-class
bar, she wouldn’t even know that.

***

Monica
pressed her cell phone to her ear and stepped outside Rose Cottage. Inside was
a disaster: a gaping hole in the parlor wall, a displaced vanity in the
second-floor bathroom above, plaster dust everywhere, and the plumber still
hadn’t found the source of the leak. Hovering over the workmen and wringing her
hands wasn’t doing anyone any good. Nor was wondering where Ty was, what he was
doing, what was being done to him.

She
needed a break. She needed sleep, thanks to the restless night she’d endured, a
night smelling Ty’s clean ocean scent on her pillow and remembering the heat
and strength of his body, wanting that heat and strength and knowing she
shouldn’t want it. She needed perspective, sanity, a friend. “Emma?” she spoke
into the phone as she stood on the cottage’s front porch and sucked in the
fresh, mild afternoon air—air that wasn’t choked with white dust. “Are you
busy?”

“I’m
at the community center,” her best friend said. “Getting things organized for
the summer art program.”

“Can
you take a break? I’m going crazy.”

Emma
laughed. “I’m the head-case in our friendship. You’re not allowed to go crazy.
That’s a rule.”

“Then
I guess I broke the rule,” Monica said unapologetically. “Can you spare a half
hour?”

“Sure.
Wanna meet at the Faulk Street Tavern?”

Much
as Monica would love to sip a glass of wine—or, more accurately, guzzle a
bottle or two of something far more potent—she knew she couldn’t do that while
one of the inn’s guest cottages was being dismantled in search of an elusive
leak. But she could get a soft drink at the pub. “I’ll be there in two
minutes,” she told Emma.