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CHAPTER TWO
SEAN SURRENDERED WITH his hands up. “Uh, hey. It’s not what you think.”
“Pippa?” the woman called. “Pippa, are you all right?” She aimed a finger at Sean before heading toward the overgrown trail. “Don’t you dare move. I want to talk to you.”
Sean remained frozen. She said talk the way his mother used to, when he and his brothers had been raising hell in the neighborhood and she’d resorted to threatening them with a talk from their father. The talk was usually a scolding, sometimes followed by a licking when the crime had been particularly heinous.
The girl had reappeared. “Jeez, Mom. Why are you yelling?”
So her name’s Pippa, Sean thought, but his gaze was on the mother. With the wild red hair and the fighting attitude, she was the spitting image of her daughter. Except that the chubbiness around Pippa’s middle had migrated in different directions in the mother, giving her an hourglass figure on a petite frame.
The woman gripped her daughter’s shoulders. She bent to stare into the child’s downcast eyes. “Are you okay, Pippa? Did this man try to hurt you?”
Pippa looked up with an owl-eyed blink. Her lower lip stuck out. “No, Mom.”
“We only talked,” Sean said.
“You talked?” The mother wheeled on him. “What are you doing, talking to a ten-year-old girl in the middle of nowhere? There’s something fishy going on here.” She looked ready to tear his head off with her hands, but she swallowed hard and turned back toward her child. “I’m warning you right now, buster. Stay away from my daughter.”
“That’s fine.” Sean flicked his chin toward the girl. “You be sure to tell her to keep away from me, too.”
The mother had Pippa in a headlock, crushed to her bosom. She threw him a look. “You can bet on that. And I’ll also be talking to the Jonesport police about strange men who prowl the woods looking for…” She snorted. “Conversation.”
Sean was running short on patience, but he jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and retreated a few steps so he wouldn’t appear threatening. “I only followed her because—”
“Then you admit it.” The mother clutched Pippa even tighter before abruptly releasing her. “Run up to the house now, Pip. I’ll be along in a minute.”
Pippa hesitated, grimacing as if she wanted to speak up. “Okay,” she finally whispered, then turned and ran off.
The mother advanced on Sean, her hands clenched and her chest heaving. He couldn’t help admire her ferocity, even if it was directed at him. He was Irish; he liked a woman with spirit. And the flaming hair didn’t hurt, either.
“Do I get to explain before I’m condemned?” he asked.
She tossed her head back. “Go ahead. Try and worm your way out of it. I know what I saw—you creeping after my little girl, glancing around to be sure no one was watching.”
He supposed he might have appeared furtive, although he was positive he hadn’t crept. “I followed her only to see that she got home safely. I swear on my honor, that’s all there was to it. No harm intended.”
“Right.” The woman folded her arms, regarding him skeptically. “And what about the ‘talk’?”
“I caught her following me through the woods. She was lurking around my cottage, too, yesterday and this morning.”
The woman’s eyes flickered, betraying the slightest hesitation. “I’m sure. So you’re blaming the victim?”
“There’s no victim here. You keep your daughter away from me, and I’ll stay away from her.”
“You’re claiming that Pippa was at your house?” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Why would my girl be interested in you?”
“How should I know? You’re her mother.”
She frowned.
“Maybe it was some kind of game.”
“I…” The woman drew in a breath, lifting her chin an inch higher. She couldn’t have been taller than five-two, at least ten inches shorter than Sean. “I’ll speak to her.”
He nodded. “Good.”
Her mouth thinned. “That doesn’t mean I believe you.”
“You don’t have to, as long as your daughter tells the truth.”
“Pippa doesn’t lie to me.”
Sean hoped not. “If you want me…” to apologize for your tirade, perhaps “…I’m staying on the west side, at Pine Cone Cottage, just off Shore Road.”
“Wonderful.”
She offered only the one sarcastic word, with no name, so he nodded and walked away, certain they’d meet again. Presumably under better circumstances. Osprey was, after all, a very small island.
CONNIE WAITED UNTIL they were seated at the dining table with their lunch—toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches—before she started in with the inquisition. Pippa was expecting it, and took a huge bite when her mother said, “All right. Tell me what happened.”
“Mmph, mouth’s full.”
“I’ll wait.” Connie speared a dill pickle out of the jar. The juice speckled the table’s watermarked wood surface, and she swiped it up with a paper napkin.
The Sheffields had installed Connie and her daughter in a somewhat ramshackle, long-forgotten guesthouse, as all the bedrooms in the main home were reserved for their VIP guests. Small and dark, the cedar-shingle house was hidden out of sight, in the woods not far from the front gate. The accommodations were summer-camp rustic, with thin, sagging mattresses, balky plumbing and flyspecked screens, but the privacy was wonderful. Constant exposure to the Sheffields worked Connie’s last nerve. Anders Sheffield was an entitled snob with morality issues, and the lady of the manor was too unsure of herself to give him the boot up the butt that he deserved.
Connie had thought that the guesthouse setup was ideal. She’d be close enough to keep an eye on her daughter, even while she worked. It appeared she’d been wrong.
Pippa swallowed and went in for a second bite.
“Pippa.”
She put the sandwich down. “Yes, Mom?”
“Were you at that man’s house?” Connie was certain about one thing—her daughter wouldn’t lie. Pippa’s good conscience and the tendency to blush beet-red had always given her away. She’d learned not to even try.
“Not in it,” Pippa said. “But I was nearby.”
“Did you follow him?”
Her daughter’s face was inching toward her plate as her shoulders caved inward. Gradually, over the past several years, Pippa had become more secretive and self-contained. Emotional conflict bothered her. She’d picked up the habit of cowering whenever she couldn’t physically retreat.
“I guess so,” Pippa whispered.
Connie winced, remembering the accusations she’d flung at the stranger. “Why?”
“I was observing him.”
The notebook again. Connie sighed. “Pippa, I’ve warned you about that habit….”
The girl’s head shot up. “I was bored! I read all my books. There’s nothing to do here.”
“I said you could go for a short walk. That didn’t mean spying on strangers.” Connie would have normally considered Pippa’s spurt of temper and the venture outdoors to be promising. These days, it was tough to raise a child to be both bold and cautious.
Connie chose her words carefully. “This island may be small, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe for a young girl to be wandering around alone. Still, I want you to have fun here. Kid-type fun. You are not to get up to any of your Trixie Belden and the Mystery of the—the whatever mischief.”
“Oh, Mom. Please? There’s lots to see on the island. I won’t bother anybody.”
“Especially not that man.”
Pippa sighed. She was good at doing that, in a way that made Connie feel like a tyrant.
“All right, Pip. I’ll do my best to make some extra time for us to try a few island activities.” Connie bit the pickle in half with a satisfying crunch. “But I want you sticking with me up at the garden for the rest of the day.”
Pippa kicked the table leg. “Will I have to dig? Ugh.”
“No, you won’t have to dig. You can play in the maze if you like. As long as I know where you are.”
“Okay.” Pippa was fascinated by the maze; she’d studied the plans from their first inception, until Connie had drawn up an extra copy for her daughter to trace out the solution with her markers.
Pippa gave her a toothy smile and returned to her sandwich. She was like her mother that way—running hot and cold at the turn of a tap.
An only child, Connie had been smothered and pampered by her parents. As a result, she’d developed a strong need for freedom and independence, but also a hair-trigger temper. In her adult years, she’d been forced to learn to control her emotions and act as the rock of the family, particularly during the final years of her marriage. Even so, Philip had often teased her that she was only a dormant volcano, ready to burst forth at the first rumbling provocation.
She’d certainly gone off on Pippa’s stranger. He must be feeling rather scorched.
Connie pressed two fingers between her closed eyes. She couldn’t seem to remember exactly what the man looked like, beyond an impression of a lean body with wide shoulders and a fringe of dark hair sticking out from beneath his bandanna. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses. She’d taken that as shady, but maybe she’d been wrong.
She didn’t want to encourage Pippa’s surreptitious sleuthing, especially after the “Case of the Locked Garden Shed” had led to a policeman showing up on her doorstep back home. Unfortunately, her own curiosity about the stranger was suddenly on a par with Pippa’s.
Connie shoved aside her paper plate. “All right. Tell me. What did you find out about him?”
Pippa dropped the cheesy crust she’d been nibbling. “He came on the nine-fifteen ferry. I first saw him yesterday, when we were having breakfast at the harbor. Want me to get my notebook? I made lots of observations.”
Connie had noticed her scribbling away at the time, but had overlooked it. “That’s not necessary, Pippa.” She picked up her can of diet soda. “Did you get his name? I should probably make a point of apologizing since it seems that he’s not quite the degenerate I believed him to be.”
“I didn’t find out his name on my own, but he told me.” Pippa looked sorry about that. She took pride in her growing ability to ferret out information. Too much pride. “It’s Sean Rafferty.”
Sean Rafferty, Pine Cone Cottage. Connie filed the info away before popping the top of the soda. She licked the fizz from her thumb. “And was he alone?”
“Yep. He says he’s on vacation.”
Connie’s eyes narrowed. “How long did you two talk?”
“Only a minute. He knew I was following him and he told me to go home.” Pippa frowned. “He didn’t act like a vacationer.”
“How does a vacationer act?”
“Happy. I think Mr. Rafferty is sad. Or maybe sick.”
“What makes you say that?” Connie asked, although as soon as the comment had come out of Pippa’s mouth, she’d realized that she’d had the same impression. Despite the wide shoulders, he’d been gaunt. He hadn’t smiled once, even to reassure her when she was frantic and overprotective.
“Well, he limps. And he’s restless. He ate his lunch standing up.”
“Oh, Pippa. Were you looking in his windows?”
Pippa’s head drooped. She gave a little nod.
“Good grief. That’s so wrong I don’t even know what to say to you.” Connie set the soda can down with a clunk. She waved Pippa away. “Go on, wash up and get ready to come to the maze with me. You’re staying within my sights for the rest of the day, young lady.”
Connie took a few quick bites of her sandwich, regretting that she’d asked the questions and reignited her daughter’s imagination. As well as her own.
She was on Osprey Island to achieve a garden design that would put her on the map. She had no time to become involved in one of Pippa’s imaginary mysteries, especially a puzzle that might as well be titled The Secret of the Handsome Stranger.
THE NEXT MORNING, Sean made his second attempt at the walk to Whitlock’s Arrow. The brisk salt air was invigorating, and by midmorning he was negotiating a tricky path down the cliffside to the shingle beach. Up top, he’d come across an island old-timer who’d offered directions, warning that while the close-up view was worth the trip, it was potentially dangerous once the tide came in.
Despite a few hairy moments when he slipped on the slick rocks, Sean landed safely on the beach. He sat on one of the outcroppings to rest his injured leg while watching the blue-green waves beat at the craggy stones of the point.
After a while, the constantly changing patterns of spume and the fecund smell of the tide lulled him into forgetting about himself. The shore was a world in itself, private except for the sightseers who appeared at the edge of the cliff to pose for photos. Some of them shouted into the roar of the surf, setting off the gulls and cormorants that speckled the rocks.
When the tide turned, Sean got up to go back. Along the way, he took a few extra minutes to explore the tidal pools formed by the water’s recession. The microcosms of ocean life were more fascinating than he expected.
He’d been born and raised and gone to college in cities, then moved several times around Massachusetts during his career as a state trooper. He’d never much considered the rugged appeals of the country. After a marriage prompted by his girlfriend’s pregnancy, vacations to Cape Cod with baby Josh in a soppy diaper and Jen complaining about her sunburn had been about as rural as he’d gotten.
He’d made the trip to Maine strictly out of desperation. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it. He hadn’t expected that the respite would truly help him recover.
Minutes flew by while he watched crabs scurry over the rocks and the delicate but sturdy anemones bob in the water of the tidal pool. Seaweed spread green tentacles through the shallows. Snails left glistening trails on the stones. He touched the elaborate white designs drawn on the black rocks, then licked at the crystalized sea salt left on his finger.
Only when he put a foot down wrong and his running shoe plunged into icy water did he realize how much time had passed. The tide was rising rapidly, already turning several of the formerly accessible rocks into mini islands of their own. He moved from stone to stone, traversing rivers that foamed white with each crashing wave.
A plaintive cry stopped his scramble up the cliffside path. He looked back the way he’d come, but saw only a white gull diving into the sea.
“Over here!”
He shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the ocean. Huddled, shivering and wet, stranded on a steeply slanted rock that had become surrounded by the rising tide was the girl, Pippa. Sean’s blood turned cold. There was no way for him to swim out to rescue her without being beaten bloody on the rocks by the incoming surf.
CHAPTER THREE
“DON’T MOVE!” HE SHOUTED, although clearly Pippa had no intention of moving. Flattened against the stone, she flinched each time the thunderous waves crashed and sent spray high into the blue sky. She was somewhat sheltered from the surf by adjacent jutting rocks, but her position grew more precarious every minute. The water crept higher, swirling with dangerous currents.
Sean shielded his eyes and searched down shore for help. He’d spotted a beached dinghy maybe a half mile away, but gave that up as useless. There was no time. Not even to climb the cliff in hope of finding tourists nearby.
A length of frayed rope lay twined among the stones on the beach. He grabbed it and backtracked, working out a route to cross the slippery stones. Several times he waded through the frigid water. Soon he was plunging in, swimming the gaps from rock to rock. Each time, the icy shock of it stole his breath and sapped another portion of his strength as he fought against the treacherous pull of the current. By the time he pulled himself onto the rock that brought him as close to Pippa as he could get, he was numb through.
The waves surged past Pippa’s sheltered position and battered him full on. “Can you catch the rope?” he called, knotting a loop.
Her face was stark white, her lips almost blue. “I th-think so.”
