"Is that why you were at the nature preserve?"

He nodded. "I don't know, maybe I'm just bored. The guy could just be getting his act together. I'm sure the locals know about him."

"If Bruce is renting him that damn shack of his, you bet they do. My father wanted the town to condemn it. Bruce says he wants to renovate it-with a match, maybe. Burn it down, collect the insurance." She smiled, a little more genuinely this time. "Not that I'm encouraging arson or that it'd even enter Bruce's mind."

"I'm getting a cold butt." J.B. stood up from the hood. "You heading back?"

"I guess I should. I'm just getting cold out here. I suppose you don't have a bed for the night?"

"My boat. No food, either. I didn't finish my lobster roll. I like it better with a little tarragon."

"Tarragon? That's disgusting. Must be a Montana thing."

"Actually, I got the idea from a restaurant in Kennebunkport."

"One that caters to Montanans." But her humor was only fleeting, and she glanced back at her sister's café, crossed her arms tightly over her chest and shivered. "Bad guys everywhere, even here in Goose Harbor. My father tried to pretend he had it easy-no murders during his tenure as chief. Until his own."

"Zoe-"

She turned to him, the moonlight shining in her eyes. "I'm staying at Aunt Olivia's house tonight. I have to sometime or another, and my sister and Kyle-I'm not going to think about it. She said if she needs to, she'll camp out with me." She sighed, and J.B. saw how pretty she was, despite her obvious stress. "You can have your room from last night. I have a bad enough reputation with the FBI without letting one of its finest sleep on a decrepit lobster boat."

He didn't know why, but he tucked one finger under her chin. "I can tackle any bad guys that come your way."

"I'm not that out of practice, McGrath." She eased around to the driver's side of her car and opened the door, looking over it at him. "I can still tackle my own bad guys."

Nine

Somewhere-a magazine, probably-Betsy had read that sparkling wine went to the head faster than regular wine. She could believe it. She was on her third glass of an expensive champagne that Luke had chosen himself, although he seldom indulged in more than a sip or two. She was feeling the effects of the alcohol, finding it difficult to concentrate on what Luke and Stick Monroe were saying. She kept having to stifle an inappropriate giggle or yawn.

The police had been by to ask about the break-in at Christina's café. Of course, she and Luke hadn't seen anything.

Luke was concerned about Kyle, since he had an apartment above the café, but the police said neither he nor Christina had been there and nothing of Kyle's was stolen or vandalized. The café was fine, too. Just some money missing from the cash register.

Stick had dropped by a few minutes ago. It was getting late for Luke to be up, but they were all in the yacht's main salon, which was decorated in rich, buttery colors, with modern artwork and mirrors opposite the bank of windows that overlooked the harbor. The effect was an atmosphere of intimacy, elegance and style, but cost was important, too. Luke would want people to know that everything he owned was of the highest quality, the best taste, and that he could afford it. He didn't make movies like his father or catch lobsters like Bruce Young-Luke made money.

Betsy sank onto a curving sectional under the windows and had to squint to keep the room steady. It wasn't because of the ocean undulating under them. It was the champagne. She looked out at the harbor, where lobster boats bobbed gently under the starlit sky. The water was nearly still. She was struck by the contrast of Luke's multimillion-dollar luxury yacht and the rugged working boats. Each boat had its own buoys, with unique colors that identified its traps. By law they were required to display their buoy colors on their boats for others to see.

Betsy had never fit in in her hometown. Growing up in Goose Harbor, living here as an adult. She wasn't an old Yankee, a summer person, a fisherman, a part of the tourist industry. She was a nurse. Her mother had been a nurse, too. Her father had died in the very early days of Vietnam. That was the one thing she'd had in common with Olivia West-a close relative killed in war.

Luke pretended he didn't give a damn about fitting in, but Betsy thought his contempt for such trivialities was a defense mechanism. She thought he was a man who desperately wanted to fit in somewhere, anywhere. He romanticized small-town life.

She watched him pour a glass of champagne and hand it to Stick Monroe. Betsy felt the room spin a little more. Stick was definitely a man who didn't worry about fitting in. If people liked him, fine. If they didn't, fine. But it wasn't something he had to pay attention to-people generally liked him. He was handsome, successful, confident, imposing yet well-mannered, authentic. People tended not to like people who always fretted about whether or not they were liked.

Stick was saying something about Zoe West and that FBI agent. Betsy leaned forward in the soft cushions and forced herself to concentrate, placed her fingertips at her temples as if that could still the spinning in her head. Stick had on shorts and a sweatshirt in spite of the chilly evening. Betsy was almost thirty years younger than he was, but she expected he had more energy now than she did at her best, when she wasn't feeling the effects of three glasses of champagne.

"You have no idea what's going on with these break-ins?" Stick asked.

Betsy sat back abruptly at the obvious insinuation and expected Luke to throw Stick off the boat. But Luke, in khakis and a pale blue cashmere sweater, remained on his feet and didn't react heatedly. "Of course not. Why would I?"

"Kyle-"

"Kyle's not involved."

"He's Christina's boyfriend. He lives at the café."

Luke narrowed his eyes. "Are you suggesting my son could be the target of the break-ins?"

Stick shook his head. "I'm not suggesting anything."

Luke came around from the bar, his skin color a bit off. Betsy suspected the conversation was more unsettling to him than he wanted Stick to know. They'd been friends for years-both had adored Olivia West and considered Patrick their friend.

Stick let the stem of his glass slide between two fingers. "What do you know about this FBI agent?"

"Nothing," Luke said. "His name's J. B. McGrath. He rented a boat from Bruce Young. He's on vacation. He's been beating everyone at darts. He annoys people, I think."

"Kyle?"

Luke didn't answer at once. Betsy knew he wouldn't want to involve his son in a discussion about a mysterious FBI agent in town. For all his oddities, Luke did love his only child. "I don't think Kyle's had anything to do with him, frankly."

Stick drank more of his champagne. "McGrath seems very interested in Zoe."

"Do you think he hasn't been straight with everyone about his reasons for being here? Isn't that illegal, or at least unethical for an FBI agent?"

"I don't know. I just worry about Zoe." Stick smiled, almost embarrassed. "I guess I can't help it."

Betsy tried to make eye contact with Luke, but he wouldn't look at her, or simply had forgotten she was there. She had no idea where Stick was going with this conversation. He'd always treated Zoe like some kind of protégée, ever since she was a little kid and he was the well-connected, respected judge. He'd believed Zoe could do anything. When she'd been accepted to the FBI Academy, Stick said she could be the first female FBI director if she wanted to.

Betsy wondered if Zoe was a disappointment to him now that her father's murder and her aunt's death had thrown her into a tailspin. Not only did she not go to the academy, she'd run off to a small town in Connecticut and got herself fired from her police job there.