Upon a Mystic Tide (38 page)

“Southern Pride
is Thomas Boudreaux’s yacht, Miss Hattie,” John said. “He’s missing, too—same time as Dixie. They were engaged, according to some sources, and he’s a prime suspect in Dixie’s kidnaping.”

“Or her elopement, whichever the case may be,” Bess chimed in.

“There’s still doubt?” Miss Hattie paused sewing, her needle midair, and looked at John.

“The FBI talked with a few of her friends who insisted Dixie was eloping with Boudreaux, but her mother, Elise, believed she’d been kidnaped.”‘ John paused to hike a kink from his shoulder. “Dixie had told Elise that Boudreaux had been too possessive. He was pushing Dixie to marry him, and she’d agreed because she was afraid of him. As soon as she figured out how to gracefully get away from him, she intended to do it.”

“Hmmm, she must have been very young, to try that type maneuver.” Miss Hattie slid out of her rocker then over to the cabinet where she poured two cups and a mug of steaming hot coffee. “Why did Dixie fear him?”

“I read his case report,” Bess said, watching Miss Hattie bring a cup to her and then set the mug onto the table before John. She’d already claimed a man with hands the size of John’s needed something more substantial than a fragile china cup to sip from, and he did seem more comfortable holding the burgundy marble mug. “Boudreaux had a long history of episodic violent behavior. Not a nice man.”

Miss Hattie retrieved her cup, then settled down into her squeaky rocker. “He sounds dangerous.”

“He was.” Bess frowned. “Nothing has been found on him, either, has it? Not since back then?”

“No, it hasn’t.” John blew into his mug. Steam lifted from it and swirled in the light shining down from the overhead fixture.

“Dixie might have been wise, being wary of him.” Bess dragged a fingertip around the rim of the salt shaker, near the floral centerpiece. “Those type of personalities have a lot of triggers, and rejecting him could have set him off on a tangent.”

“She was young, too,” John said. “Far too young to be dealing with violent men or to be contemplating marriage. Boudreaux was violent, but he was also charming and slick—a lot like Miguel.”

“Jonathan,” Bess warned. “There’s no comparison between those two men. Miguel is not violent, nor is he slick.”

“Sorry.” John’s eyes twinkled. “Old habit.”

He wasn’t sorry at all. “Uh-huh.” But he was jealous of Miguel, all right. To the bone jealous. Bess shouldn’t, but there was a nasty part of her that totally enjoyed it. It proved Jonathan wasn’t indifferent toward her. His love cost too much. His hatred rankled. But both sat easier on her shoulders and in her heart than his indifference.

Miss Hattie sipped from her cup, then set it near her glasses on the fireplace ledge and looked at John. “This doubt about whether she was kidnaped or eloped must have created a lot of difficulties for you in trying to solve the case.”

“It has,” Jonathan said. “A lot of them.” He tapped the curve of the mug handle with his thumb. “I believe she was kidnaped. Bess agrees with the FBI, that Dixie eloped.”

“Oh my. Sounds a lot like Lucy and Fred Baker’s angel discussion.” Miss Hattie sighed. “Spirited, at times.”

“I’m sorry, darling.” Bess gave John’s hand atop the table a gentle squeeze. “I know we disagree on this, but I swear my position has absolutely nothing to do with questioning your judgment.”

He frowned. “We said no games, Bess. That was the agreement.” He slid his gaze pointedly to Silk, curled in a ball at Miss Hattie’s feet.

“I’m not playing games. To me, it’s a logical deduction. Well, a likely deduction. If Dixie was kidnaped, Boudreaux kidnaped her for breaking their engagement. Anyone else would have demanded a ransom. And if Boudreaux kidnaped her, wouldn’t he come back for the money now that Elise is dead?”

“Unless Dixie refuses to claim it. Or can’t claim it,” John agreed.

Even thinking that she might not be able to claim it hurt him; Bess could see it in the shadows in his eyes. Hadn’t she thought the same thing? That Dixie could be dead? Why should she think John so shallow that the idea wouldn’t have occurred to him? Lord, but Bess had been arrogant. “If Dixie were alive, I’d think she’d have come home to claim her inheritance. I mean it’s ludicrous to believe a money-grubber like Boudreaux would walk away from all Elise’s money, unless
 . . .
” her voice trailed.

“Unless?”

Bess met John’s gaze. “Unless
he
were dead.”

“Or Dixie was.” John gazed off into the black hole of the fireplace, looking as if he wished he’d built a fire there anyway. “Logical, and possible—provided Boudreaux and/or Dixie knows Elise is dead.” John sat back and stretched out his legs. “I know all the evidence points to an elopement, Bess, but Elise knew in her heart Dixie was kidnaped. A mother knows these things about her child. And we know Dixie was alive four months after the kidnaping. Samuels made a positive ID on her at Dockside three days afterward and again four months later. He said Dixie and a man fitting Boudreaux’s description had left on Southern Pride heading for Nova Scotia.”

“Positive ID?” Bess frowned. “Was he absolutely sure? No margin for error?”

“He described her amulet, honey. We both know there are only two like it in the world.”

“Amulet?” Miss Hattie put her sewing down.

Bess nodded. “When Dixie was born, her father had matching ruby amulets made for her and her mother. They always wore them.” Bess turned to Jonathan. “Darling, you did bury Elise with hers, didn’t you?”

He nodded.

“Of course you did.” Bess looked back at Miss Hattie. “If this Gregor Samuels described the amulet, then it must have been Dixie. Or a woman matching her description wearing it. Most likely Dixie. I can’t imagine her willingly taking off that amulet.”

“She wouldn’t,” John agreed. “Neither would Elise.”

Miss Hattie stilled for a long moment, lifted her gaze ceilingward, and didn’t so much as breathe. Then she refocused, letting her gaze drift between Bess and John. “I don’t want to interfere, my dears, but—”

“Please, Miss Hattie,” John said, sounding desperate. “If there’s anything you can suggest that will help, I’d love to hear it. I want
 . . .
” He slid his gaze to Bess. “Solving this case is
extremely
important to me.”

“Something happened here a long time ago which might or might not be useful.”

“Miss Hattie, you’re sounding awfully mysterious.” Bess leaned closer to John and rested her hand on his thigh. He cupped her fingertips with his palm and just being close to him eased her apprehension.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Hattie said. “If they were en
route to Nova Scotia, then they had to come by here. May I strongly suggest that you two talk with Hatch about this? He knows more about the sea and the goings on in it than any other man alive.”

John shrugged. “I’d planned on checking with the Coast Guard to see if they have any records of a
Southern Pride—”

“Bah,” Miss Hattie grunted. “Hatch was born and raised in that lighthouse, Jonathan. The Coast Guard comes to
him
for information, dear.”

Seeing that this ranked important to Miss Hattie, Bess squeezed John’s thigh. “We’ll talk to him first thing in the morning, Miss Hattie.”

“Can we bribe you into making some blueberry muffins to take to him?” John gave her a winning smile. “He’s promised us a tour of the lighthouse, but only if we bring him some of your muffins.”

“No bribery is needed. I’d be delighted to make the muffins.” She tilted her head. “Vic probably would enjoy some, too.”

“Is he any better?” Bess asked, rubbing John’s thumb with her forefinger.

“A few more days of bed rest and he should be fine. If he misses the Scottish festival and gets cheated out of doing the Highland Fling with the MacInnes twins, he’s going to be challenging to live with for the next year.”

Miss Hattie stood up, then rinsed her coffee cup at the sink. “It’s time to turn in. I’ll see you children in the morning.”

“Good night, Miss Hattie.”

“’Nite,” Bess said.

The phone rang, and Miss Hattie waved. “It’s for you, Bess.”

Bess hiked her brows at John.

“Don’t ask me. She just knows.” He shrugged, then stood up. “And don’t forget our agreement. We sleep—”

“I won’t,” Bess interrupted him, then lifted the phone. “Seascape Inn.”

“Bess, my angel.”

“Hello, Miguel.” Bess’s gaze locked with John’s.

“I’ll see you upstairs,” he said stiffly.

Bess nodded, and he left the kitchen, looking so angry a black cloud might as well have been riding shotgun over his head. Silk, the little traitor, dogged his heels.

“You sound upset, Angel. What’s wrong?”

“I got fired a while ago.” She twisted the phone cord around her index finger. John had looked pretty upset. For a day that had been beautiful until twilight, it’d sure gone to hell in a handbasket since.

“I’m afraid it’s just as well,” Miguel said. “That’s why I’m calling.”

Bess frowned. What had she missed? “Why?”

“To tell you that the station has been sold.”

“Sold!
Damn
it, Miguel, I asked you not to do it. I even said please. Why did you—? Oh, never mind. I don’t even want to know.” She slammed the phone onto the hook, then snapped off the lights.

By the time she got to the stairs, her muttering had turned to mumbling and the frustrated tears burning her eyes had started to fall. How could he do this to her? After she’d asked him not to? After she’d explained how humiliated she’d feel if he did? Some friend.

Like a homing pigeon, she headed straight for John’s room and shoved open the door without so much as a cursory knock. It was dark, and he evidently was already asleep. In the old days, she’d have miserably slunk off to her room and cried her heart out alone. But these weren’t the old days. For six more days, she had a husband with strong arms and big shoulders, and, damn it, he was going to wake up and let her use them.

“Jonathan? Wake up.”

“I’m not sleeping, Bess. I’m fuming.”

“Great. Terrific.” She stubbed her toe on a box, cursed it, then, at the side of the bed, crawled over John. Snuggling down beside him, she sniffled.

“You’re crying?” He reached for the lamp.

She grabbed his arm. “Don’t. Please.”

“Bess, honey, what’s wrong?”

“What isn’t?” she wailed. “Oh, I thought I wanted to talk about this, Jonathan, but I don’t. I just want you to hold me while I have a good cry.”

“What did that bastard do to you?”

“I might kill him,” she muttered. “No, I’m going to kill him. I just have to decide how. Slowly. Definitely slowly.”

“You don’t go around killing men, darling.” John wrapped his arms around his wife. Whatever Santos had done had knocked her to her knees. John might just kill the bastard for that himself. “If you did, I’d have been dead a long time ago.”

“Well, I should.” She curled her fingers against his chest, letting their tips drift through his hair. “He humiliated me, Jonathan. After I begged him not to—” She let out a deep sob, then shuddered.

She’d
begged?
Bess? Impossible. Asked, maybe. But not begged. No way. “What did he do?”

No answer. Just another sob.

And another.

And still another.

John gritted his teeth. The man was definitely going to die. Never in all their years had John seen Bess so upset. He turned on the lamp. “I asked you, what the hell did he do?”

“Don’t you yell at me, Jonathan Mystic.”

“Then answer me and I’ll shut up. How did Santos humiliate you?” She had to love the man. Had to. Otherwise she’d never be this hurt.