Dance Upon the Air (8 page)

He sipped Nell's truly excellent coffee while he stood on the dock listening to Carl Macey bitch about lobster poachers.

“Three blessed days this week trap's been empty, and they ain't troubling to close it after them, neither. I've got the suspicion it's them college boys renting the Boeing place. Ayah.” He spat. “That's who's doing it. I catch 'em at it, I'm gonna give them rich college brats something to remember.”

“Well, Carl, the fact is, it sounds like summer people, and sounds like kids on top of it. Why don't you let me have a talk with them?”

“Got no call interfering with a man's livelihood that way.”

“No, but they wouldn't be thinking of it like that.”

“They'd better start thinking.” The weathered face went grim. “I went up to see Mia Devlin, asked her to put a spell on my traps.”

Zack winced. “Now, Carl—”

“Better than me peppering their skinny white asses with buckshot now, ain't it? I swear that's next in line.”

“Let me handle this.”

“I'm telling you, ain't I?” Scowling, Carl bobbed his head. “No harm in covering all my bases. Besides,
I got a look at the new mainlander while I was up to the bookstore.” Carl's pug-homely, wrinkled face folded into a snicker. “See why you're such a regular customer there these days. Ayah. Big blue eyes like that sure start a man's day off on the right foot.”

“They can't hurt. You keep your shotgun in your gun cabinet, Carl. I'll take care of things.”

He headed back to the station house first, for his list of summer people. The Boeing place was an easy enough walk, but he decided to take the cruiser to make it more official.

The summer rental was a block back from the beach, with a generous screened porch on the side. Beach towels and swim trunks hung drooping from a nylon line strung inside the screen. The picnic table on the porch was heaped with beer cans and the remnants of last night's meal.

They hadn't had the sense, Zack thought with a shake of his head, to ditch the evidence. Scraped-out lobster shells lay upended on the table like giant insects. Zack dug his badge out of his pocket and pinned it on. Might as well get in their faces with it.

He knocked, and kept right on knocking until the door opened. The boy who opened the door was about twenty. Squinting against the sun, his hair a wild disarray, he wore brightly striped boxer shorts and a golden summer tan.

He said, “Ugh.”

“Sheriff Todd, Island Police. Mind if I come inside?”

“Whafor? Timzit?”

Hungover, big-time, Zack decided, and translated.
“To talk to you. It's about ten-thirty. Your friends around?”

“Somewhere? Problem? Christ.” The boy swallowed, winced, then stumbled through the living room past the breakfast counter and to the sink, where he turned the water on full. And stuck his head under the faucet.

“Some party, huh?” Zack said when he surfaced, dripping.

“Guess.” He snagged paper towels, rubbed his face dry. “We get too loud?”

“No complaints. What's your name, son?”

“Josh, Josh Tanner.”

“Well, Josh, why don't you rouse your pals? I don't want to take up a lot of your time.”

“Yeah, well. Okay.”

He waited, listened. There was some cursing, a few thuds, water running. A toilet flushed.

The three young men who trooped back in with Josh looked plenty the worse for wear. They stood, in various states of undress, until one flopped down on a chair and smirked.

“What's the deal?”

All attitude, Zack calculated. “And you'd be?”

“Steve Hickman.”

Boston accent, Zack concluded. Upper-class one, almost Kennedyesque. “Okay, Steve, here's the deal. Lobster poaching carries a thousand-dollar fine. Reason for that is that while it's a kick to sneak out and empty the traps, boil up a couple, some people depend on the catch for their living. An evening's entertainment to you is money out of their pocket.”

As he lectured, Zack saw the boys shift
uncomfortably. The one who'd answered the door was flushing guiltily and keeping his eyes averted.

“What you had out there on the porch last night would've run you about forty down at the market. So you look up a man by the name of Carl Macey at the docks, give him forty, and that'll be the end of it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Does this Macey put a brand on his lobsters?” Steve smirked again, scratched his belly. “You can't prove we poached anything.”

“True enough.” Zack glanced around the room, skimmed faces. Nerves, a little shame. “This place rents for what, about twelve hundred a week in full season, and the boat you've rented puts another two-fifty onto that. Add entertainment, food, beer. You guys're shelling out 'round about a grand apiece for a week here.”

“And pumping it into the island economy,” Steve said with a thin smile. “Pretty stupid to hassle us over a couple of allegedly poached lobsters.”

“Maybe. Even more stupid not to come up with ten bucks each to smooth things over. You think about that. It's a small island,” Zack said as he started for the door. “Word gets around.”

“Is that a threat? Threatening civilians could result in a litigious action.”

Zack glanced back, shook his head. “I bet you're pre-law, aren't you?” He strolled out, back to his cruiser. It wouldn't take him long to hit the right spots in the village and make his point.

Ripley walked down
High Street and met Zack in front of the Magick Inn. “Lobster Boy's credit card got hung up at the pizza place,” she began. “Seems the circuits were down or whatever and he had to dig for cash to pay for lunch.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. And you know, every video they wanted to rent was already out.”

“Hell of a thing.”

“And I hear all the jet skis were already reserved or out of order today.”

“That's a shame.”

“And continuing in a series of bizarre coincidences, the AC in their rental just up and died.”

“And it's a hot one today, too. Supposed to be muggy tonight. Bound to be uncomfortable sleeping.”

“You're a mean son of a bitch, Zachariah.” Ripley rose on her toes and gave him a quick, smacking kiss on the mouth. “That's why I love you.”

“I'm going to have to get meaner. That Hickman boy's a tough nut. The other three'll fold fast enough, but he'll take some more persuading.” Zack swung an arm around Ripley's shoulder. “So, are you going into the café for some lunch?”

“I might be. Why?”

“I thought you could do me a little favor, since you love me and everything.”

The long whip of her ponytail bobbed as she turned her head to look up at him. “If you want me to talk Nell into dating you, just forget it.”

“I can get my own dates, thanks.”

“Batting zero so far.”

“I'm still on deck,” he countered. “What I was
hoping is that you'd tell Mia we're handling the lobster boys, and not to . . . do anything.”

“What do you mean, ‘do anything'? What does she have to do with it?” Ripley stopped, her temper flaring. “Damn it.”

“Don't get riled. It's just that Carl said he'd talked to her. I'd just as soon it not get around that our resident witch is cooking up a spell. Or whatever.”

To keep Ripley in check, Zack tightened his grip on her shoulders. “I'd go in myself and have a word with her, but the lobster boys should be coming along in a few minutes. I want to be standing here, looking smug and authoritative.”

“I'll talk to her.”

“You play nice, Rip. And remember it was Carl who went to her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She shook off his arm and marched across the street.

Witches and spells. It was all a bunch of nonsense, idiotic hooey, she thought as she breezed down the sidewalk. A man like Carl Macey ought to know better. Stirring up a bunch of silliness. It was all right for the tourists to buy all the Three Sisters lore—it was one of the things that brought them over from the mainland. But it burned her butt when it was one of her own.

And Mia encouraged it, too. Just by being Mia.

Ripley swung into Café Book and scowled over at Lulu, who was ringing up a customer. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs. Pretty busy today.”

“Yeah, she's a busy little bee,” Ripley muttered and headed up.

She spotted Mia with a customer in the cookbook
section. Ripley bared her teeth. Mia fluttered her lashes. Simmering with impatience, Ripley strode into the café, waited her turn, then snapped out an order for coffee.

“No lunch today?” Flushed with the bustle of the noon crowd, Nell poured out from a fresh pot.

“Lost my appetite.”

“That's too bad.” Mia cooed from behind Ripley. “The lobster salad's particularly good today.”

Ripley merely jerked a thumb, then marched behind the counter and into the kitchen. She jammed her hands on her hips when Mia strolled in after her.

“Zack and I are handling the problem. I want you to stay out of it.”

A bowl of top cream was less smooth than Mia's voice. “I wouldn't dream of interfering with the law of the land.”

“Excuse me.” Nell hesitated, cleared her throat. “Sandwiches. I need to make them up.”

“Go right ahead.” Mia gestured. “I imagine Deputy Fife and I are nearly done.”

“Just save the smart-ass comments.”

“I do. I store them up just for you.”

“I don't want you doing anything, and I want you to tell Carl you didn't do anything.”

“Too late.” Enjoying herself, Mia smiled brilliantly. “It's already done. A very simple spell—even someone with your fumbling abilities could have managed it.”

“Cancel it.”

“No. Why does it concern you? You claim not to believe in the Craft.”

“I don't. But I know how rumors work around here. If anything happens to those boys—”

“Don't insult me.” All humor fled from Mia's voice. “You know very well I'd do nothing to harm them, or anyone. You know, that's the heart of it. That's what you're afraid of. Afraid that if you opened yourself to what's inside you again, you wouldn't be able to control it.”

“I'm not afraid of anything. And you're not pulling me in that way.” She pointed at Nell, who was struggling to keep very busy with sandwiches. “You've got no right pulling her in, either.”

“I don't make the pattern, Ripley. I just recognize it. And so do you.”

“It's a waste of time talking to you.” Ripley stormed out of the kitchen.

Mia let out a little sigh, her only sign of distress. “Conversations with Ripley never seem particularly productive. You mustn't let it worry you, Nell.”

“It has nothing to do with me.”

“I can feel your anxiety all the way over here. People argue, often bitterly. They don't all solve the conflict with fists. Here, now.” She moved behind Nell and rubbed her shoulders. “Let the worry go. Tension's bad for the digestion.”

At the touch Nell felt a trickle of warmth melt away the ice that had balled in her belly. “I guess I like both of you. I hate to see you dislike each other.”

“I don't dislike Ripley. She annoys me, frustrates me, but I don't dislike her. You wonder what we were talking about, but you won't ask, will you, little sister?”

“No. I don't like questions.”

“I'm fascinated by them. We need to talk, you and I.” Mia stepped back, waited for Nell to pick up the completed order and turn. “I have things to do this evening. Tomorrow, then. I'll buy you a drink. Let's make it early. Five at the Magick Inn. The lounge. It's called the Coven. You can leave your questions at home if you like,” Mia said as she started out. “I'll bring the answers anyway.”

I
t went
pretty much as Zack had expected. The Hickman kid had to flex his muscles. The other three had folded, and Zack expected Carl to get his money from them the next morning. But Hickman had to prove he was smarter, braver, and far superior to some dinky island sheriff.

From his place on the dock, Zack watched the rented boat putt along toward the lobster traps. He was already on the wrong side of the law, Zack mused, nibbling on sunflower seeds. Boating after dark without running lights. That would cost him.

But it was nothing to the grand that the little defiance was going to cost the college boy's father.

He expected the kid was going to give him some trouble when he hauled him in. Which meant they'd both be spending a few hours in the station house that night. One of them behind bars.

Well, lessons learned, Zack decided, lowering his
binoculars and reaching down for his flashlight as the boy began to haul up a pot.

The scream was high and girlish, and gave Zack a hell of a jolt. He switched on his light, shot the bright beam of it across the water. A light fog crept over the surface, so that the boat seemed to bob in smoke. The boy stood, the trap gripped in both hands, the look on his face as he stared into it one of sheer horror.

Before Zack could call out, the boy flung the trap high and wide. Even as it splashed into the water, he was tumbling in.

“Oh, well, hell,” Zack muttered, peeved at the prospect of ending his workday soaking wet. He stepped to the end of the dock, scooped up a life preserver. The kid was doing more screaming than swimming, but he was making some progress toward shore.

“Here you go, Steve.” Zack tossed the preserver in. “Head this way. I don't want to have to come in after you.”

“Help me.” The boy flailed, swallowed water, choked. But he managed to grab the flotation. “They're eating my face!”

“Almost there.” Zack knelt down, held out a hand. “Come on up. You're still in one piece.”

“My head! My head!” Steve slipped and slithered onto the dock, then lay there on his belly, shuddering. “I saw my head in the trap. They were eating my face!”

“Your head's still on your shoulders, son.” Zack hunkered down. “Catch your breath. Had yourself a hallucination, that's all. Been drinking a bit, haven't you? That, and some guilt got to you.”

“I saw . . . I saw.” He sat up, laid shaking hands on
his face to make certain all his parts were there, then began to shake in stupendous relief.

“Fog, dark, water. It's a tricky kind of situation, especially on a couple bottles of beer. You're going to feel a lot better when you give Carl that forty dollars. In fact, why don't we go get you cleaned up, get your wallet, and go by his place now? You'll sleep better for it.”

“Yeah. Sure. Right. Okay.”

“That's fine.” Zack helped him to his feet. “I'll take care of getting the boat back, don't you worry.”

That Mia, Zack thought as he led the unprotesting boy away from the water. You had to give her credit for creativity.

It took
a while to calm the boy down, then to calm four boys down once he'd taken Steve back to the rental. Then there was Carl to deal with, and the boat. Which was probably why Zack ended up nodding off at the station house just before three
A
.
M
.

He woke two hours later, stiff as a board and annoyed with himself. Ripley, he decided as he stumbled out to his cruiser, was taking the first shift.

He meant to drive straight home, but he'd gotten into the habit of swinging past the yellow cottage at the end of his shift. Just to make sure everything was as it should be.

He made the turn before he realized it, and saw the lights in her windows. Concern as much as curiosity made him pull over and get out of the car.

Because the kitchen light was on, he went to the
back door. He was lifting his hand to knock when he saw her standing on the other side of the screen, a long, smooth-bladed knife gripped in both hands.

“If I tell you I was just in the neighborhood, you won't gut me with that, will you?”

Her hands began to tremble, and her breath exploded out of her as she dropped the knife on the table with a clatter.

“I'm sorry I scared you. I saw your light as I was . . . hey, hey.” When she swayed, he bolted through the door, gripping both her arms and lowering her into a chair. “Sit. Breathe. Head down. Jesus, Nell. I'm sorry.” He stroked her hair, patted her back, and wondered whether she would just keel over on the floor if he jumped up to get her a glass of water.

“It's all right. I'm all right. I heard the footsteps. In the dark. It's so quiet here, you can hear everything, and I heard you coming toward the house.”

She'd wanted to run like a rabbit in the other direction and keep going. She didn't remember picking up the knife, hadn't known she could.

“I'm going to get you some water.”

“No, I'm all right.” Mortified now, she realized, but all right. “I just wasn't expecting anyone to come to the door.”

“Guess not. It's still shy of five-thirty.” He sat back on his heels when she lifted her head again. Color was coming back, he noted with relief. “What're you doing up?”

“I'm usually up by—” She jumped like a spring as the oven timer buzzed. “God! God!” With a half laugh she pounded a fist on her heart. “I'm going to be lucky to survive till sunrise at this rate. My muffins,” she
said and got up quickly to take them out of the oven, slide the next batch in.

“I didn't realize you started so early.”

He could see, now that he looked around, that she'd been at it a while. There was something simmering on the stove and smelling like glory. A huge bowl of batter sat on the counter. Another bowl, covered with a cloth, was beside the stove. Still one more was on the table, where she'd obviously been mixing something before he'd scared ten years off her life.

Ingredients were lined up, as organized as a marching band.

“I didn't realize you worked so late.” She calmed herself by cutting shortening into the flour for her pastry dough.

“I don't usually. I had a little project to finish up last night, and when it was all said and done, dropped off in my office chair. Nell, if you don't give me a cup of that coffee I'm going to start crying. It'll embarrass us both.”

“Oh. Sorry. Um.”

“You just keep on with what you're doing there. Cups?”

“Cabinet to the right of the sink.”

“Want me to top yours off?”

“I suppose.”

He poured a cup, filled hers as it sat by the sink. “You know, I don't think these muffins look quite right.”

With the bowl tucked in the crook of her arm, she turned. Her face was a study of alarm and insult. “What do you mean?”

“Just don't look quite the thing. Why don't you let
me test one for you?” He gave her a quick, boyish grin that had her lips twitching.

“Oh, for heaven's sake. Why don't you just ask for one?”

“More fun this way. No, don't bother. I can get it myself.” He plucked one out of the pan, burned the tips of his fingers. As he tossed the muffin from hand to hand to cool it, the scent told him it was going to be worth it. “I've sure got a soft spot for your blueberry muffins, Nell.”

“Mr. Bigelow, Lancefort Bigelow, prefers my cream puffs. He said if I'd make them for him every day, he'd marry me and we'd move to Bimini.”

Still grinning, Zack broke the muffin in half, treated himself to the fragrant steam. “That's pretty stiff competition.”

Bigelow, a confirmed bachelor, was ninety.

He watched her stir the dough, form it into a ball. Then she emptied the muffin pan, set them to cool on a rack while she refilled the cups. When the timer buzzed again, she shifted trays, went back to roll out her pastry dough.

“You've got yourself a real system,” he commented. “Where'd you learn to bake?”

“My mother—” She broke off, realigned her thoughts. It was too easy in the quiet kitchen, with all these homey smells, to get overly comfortable and reveal too much. “My mother liked to bake,” she said. “And I picked up recipes and techniques here and there.”

He didn't want her to stiffen up, so he let it pass. “Do you ever make those cinnamon rolls? You know the ones with that sticky white icing?”

“Mmm.”

“I make them sometimes.”

“Really.” She began to cut the dough for tarts and glanced back at him. He looked so . . . male, she thought, leaning back on the counter with his ankles crossed and a mug of coffee in his hand. “I didn't know you cooked.”

“Sure, now and then. You buy these tubes down at the market. Then you take them home, rap them against the counter and peel the bun things out, cook them, and squirt icing on the top. Nothing to it.”

It made her laugh. “I'll have to try that sometime.” She went to the refrigerator, took out her bowl of filling.

“I'll give you some pointers on it.” He drained his cup, set it in the sink. “I guess I'd better get home, and get out of your way. Thanks for the coffee.”

“You're welcome.”

“And the muffin. It was just fine.”

“That's a relief.” She stood at the table, methodically spooning filling into the center of her rounds of dough. When he stepped toward her, she tensed a little, but continued to work.

“Nell?”

She looked up, and filling slopped out of her spoon when he put his hand on her cheek.

“I sure hope this doesn't put you off,” he said, and leaning down, he laid his lips on hers.

She didn't move a muscle. Couldn't. Her eyes stayed open, locked on his. Watching, as a deer might watch when pinned in the crosshairs.

His lips were warm. She registered that. And softer than they looked. He didn't touch her. She imagined
she'd have leaped out of her skin if he'd laid his hands on her now.

But it was only his mouth, light and easy on hers.

He'd prepared himself for her to be annoyed, or disinterested. He hadn't expected her to be scared. That was what he felt from her, a rigid anxiety that could easily bloom into fear. So he didn't touch her as he wanted to, not even a gentle brush of fingers down her arms.

If she'd stepped back, he'd have done nothing to stop her. But her absolute stillness was its own defense. It was he who stepped back, and kept it light despite a gnawing in the gut that was more than a stir of desire for her—it was a cold fury for whoever had hurt her.

“Seems I have a soft spot for more than your muffins.” He tucked his thumbs in his front pockets. “See you later.”

He strolled out, hoping the kiss and the ease of his leaving would give her something to think about.

He wasn't going
to get any sleep. Resigned to it, he thrilled Lucy by taking her for an early-morning swim in the inlet. The romp, and her sheer foolishness, worked off a good portion of his stiffness, and his frustration.

He watched Ripley finish her run on the beach and dive into the surf. Dependable as sunrise, he thought as she cut through the waves. Maybe he didn't always know what went on in her head, or how it got there, but he rarely had to worry about Ripley Todd.

She could handle herself.

Lucy ran out to meet her as she started back, and the two wet females had a wrestle and a race. They both joined him on the upper porch, Lucy to flop down in delighted exhaustion, and Ripley sucking on a bottle of water.

“Mom called last night.” Ripley flopped down herself, on one of the deck chairs. “They made it to the Grand Canyon. They're sending us six million pictures that Dad took with his digital. I'm afraid to start the download.”

“Sorry I missed the call.”

“I told them you were on a stakeout,” she said with her tongue in her cheek. “They got a kick out of the lobster caper. Any updates?”

“Oh, yeah.”