On Fire

“I don’t know,” Riley admitted. “I haven’t told him.”

“I think you should,” Abigail said with certainty. “I imagine the police will want to talk to him about Sam. And reporters…” She took a breath, regaining her poise. She would think of the center first. She always did. “We need to put a strategy in place for handling the inevitable questions. Oh, Riley, this is horrendous. You know Sam was in Maine over the weekend, don’t you?”

Her head spun. “He was?”

“Yes, I thought you saw him. He stopped at the house on Friday before the cocktail party. He said he just wanted to see how we were doing.” She faltered, suddenly awkward. “Oh, dear. What if we were the last people to see him alive? How on earth did he end up on Labreque Island, of all places? It must have been an accident.”

Riley half wished she’d taken her grandfather’s cue and cleared out for a few days. Then people could have jumped to the wrong conclusions about her, too. “I have no idea, and I’m trying not to get ahead of myself with questions I can’t answer. I should have talked to Henry sooner. I’ll go see him now.” She hesitated, debating. “Will you be talking to Matt? Sig knows about Sam, but I doubt she—”

“I’ll get in touch with him,” Abigail said, briskly polite. Whatever her opinion of her brother’s marital problems, she would never say.

Riley ducked out without bringing up the topic of oddballs who might have shown up that morning for the PTSD volunteer program. She went out to the exhibits. No sign of Straker. The low lighting gave the sense of being underwater as tourists, school groups and businesspeople on their lunch hour intermingled, checking out exhibits that ran from small aquariums to the huge, multistory saltwater tank.

The PTSD volunteers, she knew, stayed in the bowels of the center, away from any hint of crowds. But she didn’t see Straker there, either. Maybe his clam chowder had arrived. Riley had no desire to disturb the rest of the group’s lunch. With a huff of exasperation, she stormed outside to collect her wits before she ventured up to see Henry.

A stiff breeze gusted off Boston Harbor, bringing with it the feel of autumn. She wanted to be out on the water now, in her kayak, paddling with the wind. Just imagining it helped calm her.

Straker materialized at her side, his impact like a hot gust. “Nice fountain. Dolphins, whales, otters, seals. I like the walrus, myself. A fountain with a sense of humor, which is more than I can say about most of the people who work here. You’re an intense group.”

“What did I do to deserve you on my case?”

His gaze cooled. “You found a dead body on my island.”

“I thought you were having lunch with your PTSD friends.”

“It was yuppie clam chowder. Now, a good haddock chowder with a pat of butter and a sprinkle of black pepper—that would have had me.” He laid on his downeast accent, but Riley could see the tightness in his jaw, the hint of tension in his eyes. They were good eyes. Alert, expressive, as cool and impenetrable a gray as a Maine fog. She shook off the image, wondering what had got hold of her. He went on, “I expect I owe Abigail Granger an apology.”

“For what?”

“I was pretty much a jerk to her. I lied, and I put her on the spot.”

“You’ve never apologized before for being a jerk.”

He scowled. “You’re smart, Riley. But you’re not sweet.” He started off without a word.

“You aren’t really going to apologize to Abigail, are you?”

“I might.” He glanced back at her, a spark of humor lighting his face. “You know, she’s a hell of a lot nicer than you are.”

“Sam Cassain stopped in to see the Grangers on Friday,” Riley blurted.

He stopped. She could see his FBI-trained mind clicking into gear. This wasn’t the mind she knew. She knew the mind that wanted to drown her. She had to remember this wasn’t the boy she’d known on Schoodic Peninsula.

“On Mount Desert?” he asked.

He said it, dessert, the way the locals did, as in the French Mont Desert, or barren mountain, for its hills of pink granite. She nodded. “Abigail told me.”

“Where did Cassain live? What’s he been doing the past year?”

“Last I heard he was working on the docks in Portland, but he still had his place down here—out in Arlington, I think. He hadn’t settled into a new job, so far as I know.”

Straker continued on his way without comment. Riley sighed. The man could drive her to the brink if she let him. She turned back to the fountain. More people had drifted over for a bit of fresh air during their lunch hour. Suddenly the idea of going back to work, trying to concentrate, didn’t appeal to her. She was restless, frustrated, still absorbing the potential ramifications of Sam Cassain turning up dead on Labreque Island. She wanted to find Emile—and she wanted to know what Straker was up to next.

“Riley? I thought that was you.”

Hell, she thought. Henry Armistead. He’d got to her before she could get to him. From his grim expression, she guessed he’d heard the news. Bennett had lured him east from California three years before to serve as the center’s executive director. He was fifty-one, handsome and polished, and Riley, oblivious to such things herself, had heard rumors of a budding relationship between him and Abigail Granger.

“I was just coming to see you,” she said lamely.

“A little late, I’d say. Maine State Police investigators are on their way. They want to talk to Abigail, Caroline Granger, your father and me about Sam’s death. They said they might want to ask you a few more questions, too.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“I wish I’d known about this before the police called.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been preoccupied.” She stopped, picturing the body lying facedown in low tide. “I didn’t recognize him. It never occurred to me…”

“It must have been a terrible moment for you,” Henry said softly. “Riley, Sam’s body turning up on an island your grandfather owns…” He inhaled. He was gray haired, formal in his dark gray suit. His dress and manner, his sensibilities, fit with the Grangers more than they did the Labreques and St. Joes. “I can only imagine what the police must be thinking.”

“We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions just because there was bad blood between Emile and Sam. For all we know, Sam could have been on his way to tell Emile he’d changed his mind about the Encounter and wanted to mend fences. There’s just no telling.”

“I know Emile’s your grandfather, but…” He sighed. “Well, never mind. It’s obvious you have a blind spot where he’s concerned, which is understandable. I just hope Emile hears the news that the police want to talk to him, and comes in.”

“I’m sure he will. This isn’t the first time he’s taken off without telling anyone. Since he’s retired, he doesn’t have to answer to any of us.”

Henry tilted his head back slightly and gave her a long look, the kind that reminded her who was boss and who wasn’t. “That’s true. He doesn’t. But you, Riley—I want to make sure your priorities and obligations are clear.”

“Of course they are.”

He looked dubious. “Your sister is estranged from Matthew Granger. Sam Cassain placed responsibility for the deaths of five people, including Bennett Granger, on your grandfather’s shoulders. Now he’s dead and Emile’s disappeared.”

“I was there, Henry.” She kept her voice low, under control. “I know what happened.”

“Perhaps you should take the afternoon off,” he continued more gently. “We can see where things stand in the morning. With any luck, this will all have sorted itself out by then.”

Riley stood rock-still, not certain where this was leading. “Henry, I have work to do. Is this a suggestion or a request?”

“You’ve been walking the razor’s edge for a year. I know it’s difficult for you to accept Emile’s culpability with regard to the Encounter. It’s difficult for all of us. I’m being very straightforward with you, Riley. You’re not neutral. If you were, you wouldn’t have been on Labreque Island in the first place.”

“I took a vacation day and kayaked over for a picnic. It’s not as if—”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “I know, I know. I’m not criticizing you. You’re in a difficult position. I ask you to keep in mind how important the Grangers are to this institution. Bennett’s death and the Encounter controversy were tough blows to absorb. I’m not sure what else that family can stand before they turn their attentions elsewhere.”

And their money, Riley thought bitterly.

It was as if Henry read her mind. “It’s not just their financial support we can’t afford to lose. It’s their enthusiasm, their passion for the center’s work.”

“Abigail’s, you mean. Caroline doesn’t seem that interested in oceanography, and Matt—”

“Take the afternoon off,” Henry interrupted sharply. “And take tomorrow off if you need to.”

She nodded. Her throat was tight, dry, her voice strangled. If Henry knew about Straker and his shark-feeding, he’d probably fire her. He’d only worked at the center for three years. He didn’t understand the connections between her family and the Grangers, that losing Bennett Granger was tantamount to losing a second grandfather.

“What about the dinner tonight?” she asked.

He winced, obviously having forgotten Abigail’s bimonthly dinner for the center’s staff. “You’ll have to attend, I suppose. It would be awkward and obvious if you didn’t. Abigail understands your torn loyalties. We all know you were nearly killed on the Encounter yourself.”

“So was Emile.”

“Emile doesn’t place the same value on human life that the rest of us do. That’s the problem. That’s what led to the Encounter disaster. We all see it, Riley, even if you can’t.” Henry straightened, squaring his shoulders as if he knew he’d gone too far. “Well, I’ve been as brutally honest as I can be. Forgive me. I’ll see you this evening.”

He started out across the plaza, and Riley shook her arms and hands to loosen up the tensed muscles. Was she that blind to Emile’s faults? Her mother, her father, her sister, her boss—everyone believed his passion and dedication to his work had turned pathological. She was his last defender.

What did Straker think?

“You don’t care what Straker thinks,” she reminded herself out loud.

She went back to her office, packed up her leather tote and made it out to the parking garage before she remembered she’d come in his car. Well, fine. She’d take the T home.

Then she spotted the rusting back end and Maine license plate of Straker’s Subaru in her reserved space. Of all the nerve.

“What’re you doing, quitting early?”

His voice came out of nowhere, echoing amid the concrete. She was so startled she jumped, and suddenly he was behind her, like a mugger who’d been lurking in the shadows. He caught an arm around her middle, steadying her. “Whoa, don’t fall over.” He grinned, his eyes sparkling with self-satisfaction. “I didn’t know I’d have that effect on you. Riley St. Joe, gone weak at the knees.”

“You snuck up on me.”

“I was already here. Gossip in the shark tank had you sent home for the day. I turned my pail of fish over to one of my new buddies and came on up.” His arm lingered on her middle; she could feel his thick fingers on her side. “I figured it’d slip your mind I’d done the driving.”

“Straker, you can let go of me now.”

His arm didn’t move. She tried not to nestle into it, sink into him and let him absorb all her frustrations and fears. “You won’t faint and fall over?”

“No.”

“Throw up?”

He was enjoying himself. His arm was warm across her back, strong, unexpectedly reassuring. She sucked in a breath. “No.”

“You know,” he said close to her ear, his fingers digging just a little deeper into her side, “I think you’re the first human I’ve touched since I got out of the hospital. I’ve wrestled with a few lobsters and picked through the tide pools, but you’re the first woman—”

“Are you comparing me to lobsters and blue mussels?”

He grinned and patted her on the hip. “Nope. Not a chance. I kind of thought you’d have thorns. However, it turns out you don’t.” He laughed. “Oops, better let go. I can feel your blood starting to boil. Don’t want to burn myself.”

“Straker…”

He dug into his pocket for his car keys. “Relax. I meant boiling because you’re pissed, not boiling because you want me to do a little more than put my arm around you, although who knows.”

“I know.”

“Uh-huh.” He went around and opened the driver’s door first. “You get sent home for talking out of turn?”

“Henry Armistead doesn’t think I’m neutral where Emile’s concerned. He thinks I’m on Emile’s side.”

“Aren’t you? I am.”

“You’re an FBI agent. You can’t take sides.”

“I’m not here because I’m an FBI agent. I’m here because I’m Emile’s friend.”

“And if I get in your way?” she asked.

“You were born in my way.”

He climbed in and reached over to unlock her door. She debated getting in. She could still take the T. But if she did, Straker would just beat her home. It would accomplish nothing, except perhaps confirm for him that she was out of her mind and out of control, willing, as the saying went, to cut off her nose to spite her face.

Also, he’d assume he’d got to her with his ridiculous comments about boiling blood and that pat on her hip. Which he had, only because she’d had a hell of a day. Otherwise she’d be impervious.

She settled into the passenger seat, her eyes pinned straight ahead. She could still feel the weight and warmth of his arm. Not a good indication of her mental state. She struggled to concentrate on his reason for being in Boston in the first place. Emile. “So you don’t think Emile had anything to do with Sam’s death?”

“I have no idea.”

“But if you’re on his side—”

“That doesn’t mean I have an opinion about what he’s done or hasn’t done. He’s my friend.”

“I guess you have your ‘priorities and obligations’ sorted out.”

He glanced at her, a darkness coming into his eyes and penetrating right through her. “I do.”

Sig painted until she was bleary-eyed and her hand was so cramped she couldn’t open her fingers. She stared at the watercolor paper taped to her big board. Splashes of gold, pumpkin, fiery red, muted burgundy on a full-body wash of autumnal blue. Beautiful. Inspiring. And one or two brushstrokes away from being mud.

She collapsed onto the studio bed, the strain of standing pulling at her lower back. Her eyes burned. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. She tired more quickly. All those hormones.

She didn’t want to think. She wouldn’t think. She would drag herself back to her feet and paint some more. Turn the damned thing into a raging mess. She didn’t care.

The kitchen door cracked open, and her mother said, “Sig, I have work to do. I can’t keep him entertained forever. He’s not leaving until he talks to you.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” She flopped back against the cushions and groaned. “Okay. Send him out.”

Mara started to speak, abandoned the effort and withdrew inside, where, somewhere, she had Matthew Granger waiting about as patiently as an angry, caged tiger. My husband, Sig thought with a pang. The son of a bitch thinks he’s the only one who has problems.

She wrapped a plaid shawl over her shoulders and pulled a thick chenille throw up over her bulging stomach. It was cool enough out on her porch that Matt shouldn’t be suspicious, and he was suspicious by nature. She had no intention of bringing up her pregnancy, telling him she was having twins, when he’d popped in unannounced and uninvited, his only reason for being in Camden obvious. Sam Cassain was dead, and Emile was missing. Otherwise Matt wouldn’t have taken one step in her direction.

The bastard, she thought. The single-minded, self-righteous, self-absorbed bastard.

That’s two quarters for your mason jar, she reminded herself.

“Sig.”

That voice. She shut her eyes. It still could turn her to liquid. It had since she was fourteen, although it was years before she’d realized it wasn’t just his voice that drew her to him.

She looked up as he walked onto the porch. Well, he hadn’t changed. He was handsome as hell and so goddamned rich he couldn’t hide it even when he wore jeans and a sweatshirt. He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall, lean and angular. This was the man she’d married. The man she’d loved. The man whose babies she carried.

She summoned all her bravado and ability to lie through her teeth. “Hello, Matt. Excuse me for not getting up, but I’ve been on my feet since dawn. Mom made you tea?”

“An entire pot, yes.”

Good. If all else failed, he’d have to hit the bathroom. “What brings you to Camden?”

She hated how awkward she sounded, how formal. She’d always been able to talk to Matt, even when they were kids and he and his father and sister would sail up to Emile’s from the big Granger house on Mount Desert Island.

He crossed his arms on his chest. “You know what.”

She stifled a surge of irritation. Smug bastard. If she weren’t so obviously pregnant, she’d jump up and uncross those arms, make him stop treating her like a recalcitrant nine-year-old. “Just tell me, Matt. Don’t tell me what I know and don’t know.”

She could see the flash of anger, the tightening of the muscles in his arms. They knew exactly what buttons to push with each other, good, bad and indifferent. As if he were counting to ten to keep from exploding, he walked over to her board and eyed her painting. She wished she’d covered it, but the paint was still wet. He’d taken art history classes as an undergraduate at Harvard. He’d been to most of the world’s great museums. A damned art snob.

He glanced back at her. “It’s nice to see you painting again.”

Another gush of annoyance. She was in just the mood to take exception to everything he said. But if she let him get to her, she risked forgetting she was hiding twins. She’d end up throwing off her blanket and having at him, and he’d know. She had no idea how he’d react, and she didn’t want to find out. Not today. Not on his terms.

“I’ve been up to Emile’s,” he said. “I’ve talked to the police. Sig, if you have any idea where he’s gone—”

“I don’t.” She hadn’t seen her grandfather in months. She shared her mother’s concern he’d gone right off the deep end—but she refused to give Matt the satisfaction of driving the wedge between her and Emile even deeper. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I’d tell the police. This is their problem, not yours. They’re not going to go off half-cocked and stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

He spun around on his heels, eyes narrowed, thin, regal mouth clamped shut. He took a calming breath. Grangers didn’t lose control. “I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Sam Cassain’s death isn’t your concern. Or mine. Let the police do their job.”

“We were on Mount Desert Island last week. Caroline, Abigail, her kids, myself.” He moved closer, his gaze probing, as if he could see right through her blanket to the two babies growing inside her. “Armistead and your father were there, too. And your sister.”

“I know. So what? It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Sam Cassain showed up.”

“What?” She almost popped to her feet, but caught herself in time. “Why? What did he want? Did you see him? Riley didn’t say a word—”

“She didn’t see him. My point is that the police understandably want to know how he ended up dead on Labreque Island.” Matt was silent a moment, all his churning emotions back in check, under tight Granger wrap. “He had the good sense to resign after the Encounter. It would have been easier on everyone if your father and sister had followed his lead, too.”

“And quit their jobs? That’s absurd. They didn’t do anything wrong. For God’s sake, Riley nearly died.”

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