Arsenic with Austen (26 page)

“Of course.” Emily felt a pang at being such a poor hostess, but then Marguerite had essentially invited herself at what she knew was not a relaxing time for Emily. And anyway, Marguerite had encouraged her to pursue a relationship with Luke—how could she do that without spending time with him?

*   *   *

The harbor was on the far south end of town, where the beach ended and Tillamook Bay began. Rough-shingled houses of fishermen clustered on the east side of the highway, which ran close to the marina. At this midafternoon hour, boat traffic was light; the fishing boats had gone out in the early morning and returned before noon, while most of the pleasure boats had gone out some hours before and would not return till near sunset.

Luke parked the patrol car, and they strolled along the dock. Emily breathed in the marine atmosphere, the rank but exhilarating compound of salt water, paint, and fish; the incessant cries of the gulls and the slow slap of waves against boat hulls. The fishing boats and motorboats did not much interest her, but she loved the sleek lines of the sailboats, their elegance and grace, their promise of freedom. She hadn't been out on one since her last summer in Stony Beach—with Luke. She stole a glance at him—the smile playing about his mouth told her he was remembering too. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed.

They stopped in front of a large, crudely lettered sign that read,
JOES BOAT'S. RENT BY THE OUR OR DAY
. Emily longed to grab the errant apostrophe and place it in
Joe's
where it belonged; but the missing
h
was nowhere to be found.

Lounging next to the sign on a rickety wooden chair was a man for whom the term
old salt
might have been invented. Emily wondered whether he cultivated the image: navy peacoat, leathery skin, a few wisps of white hair under a filthy cap, pipe clenched in his blackened teeth.

“Hey there, Joe,” said Luke. “How's business?”

Joe extracted the pipe from between his teeth and stared at it as if the pipe had spoken rather than Luke. Then he replaced it in his mouth and spoke around it. “Can't complain, can't complain. Tourists get stupider every year, but I can't complain.”

“What've they done now?” Luke winked at Emily as he leaned back against the railing opposite Joe.

“Couple yesterday took out my best sloop, the
Marianne,
and didn't get back till almost dark. Coulda wrecked her. Came back today, but I said no way—go rent from Sammy.” He jerked his head toward a younger man washing the deck of a small boat fifty yards away. “He don't care what kind of idiots take his boats, long as he gets their money. Told 'em that to their face.” He gave a wheezy chuckle. “If looks could kill.”

Luke shot Emily a sidelong glance. “What'd this couple look like? Did they give a name?”

Joe snorted. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith. If they were married, I'll eat my hat.” He chewed on his pipe, eyes on the horizon. “Fella was tall, dark, movie-star type. Even had on one of them whaddyacallits 'round his neck.”

“An ascot?” Emily put in.

“That's the bugger. Gal was a looker, though.” He sketched an hourglass shape with his hands. “Blonde. Little scrap of a skirt over a bikini.” He whistled. “Some legs.”

“What time did they go out?”

“Latish. 'Round about this time, I guess.”

“Have any gear with them?”

Joe lifted his cap to scratch at his bald scalp. “Lemme see now.… Gal had a basket, like one o' them fancy picnic baskets, all fitted out. Couple bottles of champagne sticking out the sides. Guess that's what kept them so late.” He wheezed again.

“Was the man carrying anything?”

“Some bag. Towels and such, I reckon.”

“Athletic bag? Blue with a white swoosh on the side?”

Joe squinted into the lowering sun. “Now that you mention it, believe it was. Matched his jacket and pants.” He wheezed so hard, Emily was tempted to thump his back. “Said to myself, ‘Now, there's a fella knows more about lookin' like a sailor than bein' one.'”

“Why'd you rent to him if you didn't think he could handle the boat?”

Joe shrugged. “Said he had experience. Anyway, I need the money. Savin' up to retire. He wrecks the boat, I get the insurance. Can't lose either way.”

Emily wondered what that retirement would look like. For many men, playing around with boats was the dream retirement they saved up for as they slaved in an office for forty years.

Luke clapped the old man on the shoulder. “Thanks a bunch, Joe. Have one on me.” He slipped a five-dollar bill into the pocket of Joe's ancient shirt.

“Don't mind if I do.” He hauled himself to his feet and shuffled off in the direction of a decrepit tavern at the far end of the marina.

Luke turned to Emily. “Looks like you were right. I'd take that description of Brock to a lineup any day of the week.”

She nodded. “I wonder who the woman was? I haven't seen Brock with anyone other than Marguerite.”

“Who knows? Good-looking blonde doesn't narrow it down very far. Anyway, it's Brock we're after. If he wants to mix business with pleasure, that's his affair.”

“I wonder. I keep getting the feeling there's a brain behind all this that's better than Brock's.”

“Could be, but a good-looking blonde?”

“Brains are approximately evenly distributed among genders and hair colors, Mr. Clever Policeman. Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield were both well-endowed with brains as well as their more obvious assets.”

“Point taken.” He put his hands on her waist and smiled. “I guess I thought redheads had a monopoly on the brains-and-beauty combo.”

She gave him the kiss he was clearly asking for. “I guess you're forgiven.”

He returned the kiss with interest and then said low in her ear, “Can I tempt you into my lair this evening? We could look on Netflix for that pirate movie.”

Emily's body longed to say yes, but her conscience shook a stern finger at her. “I can't, Luke. I promised Marguerite I'd be home for dinner, and I really should stick around after that. I've been neglecting her all day.”

He sighed, pulled her tight against him and then let her go. “Rain check?”

“Rain check.” She hadn't made any promises about when he might cash that rain check in.

 

twenty-six

“What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister! They meant to take a long drive this morning … I wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day. Oh! it does happen very often, I assure you—but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as lieve be tossed out as not.”

Captain Wentworth to Louisa Musgrove,
Persuasion

The next morning, Marguerite demanded to go sightseeing. “I have seen your so-lovely house and your beach, but nothing else have I seen. I look on the Internet and see there is much cheese made in this Tillamook, yes? It is
sans doute
inferior to
le fromage français,
but I will taste it nevertheless. You will take me to the Blue Heron and the Tillamook Cheese Factory, and then we will drive to the lighthouse at, where is it, Cape Meares, yes? I wish to see this lighthouse and this so-peculiar octopus tree. Then I will consider you have done your hostess duty. I have done my duty as cat whisperer, so then I shall think about going home.”

Emily didn't greatly mind. There seemed to be nothing more she could do to help Luke at this point, and she was quite fond of cheese and lighthouses herself.

The cheese factories left Emily satisfied, with plenty of delicacies to take home, and Marguerite smug in the confirmation of the superiority of French cheese. The drive to Cape Meares was lovely, first following the outer edge of Tillamook Bay and then turning inland through rolling forested land, tending gradually uphill to the fingerlike promontory that held the lighthouse. They parked at the base of the finger and walked downhill along the trail to the tip, stopping to admire the views of ocean and spruce forest along the way. Marguerite was disappointed not to see any whales, but the oddity of the Octopus Tree, a gigantic spruce with multiple trunks that spread out at the base before soaring skyward, seemed adequate compensation.

Emily steered the PT Cruiser out of the parking area and back along the access road to the main highway. Marguerite, replete with cheese and fresh air, dozed beside her. Soon the road took a sharp dip off the height of the promontory. Emily put her foot on the brake as the car began to accelerate. Nothing happened.

She pumped the brakes. Still nothing. She shifted into second gear; the engine whined but continued to accelerate. The sour taste of panic rose in her throat as she gripped the wheel. She'd had the car checked over just a few weeks ago, before she left Portland. What could be wrong?

The road curved gently, with little oncoming traffic. Her knuckles went white as she concentrated on keeping the car on the pavement. There was no shoulder to speak of; if she swerved from the asphalt, she would shortly find herself up close and personal with a towering spruce.

She'd been going about forty miles per hour when she started the descent. From the corner of her eye she watched the speedometer climb to fifty, sixty, seventy. The road bore more sharply to the right—a curve she would, for choice, have taken at forty. Her pulse whooshed in her ears as she careened around the bend. But up ahead—oh, blessed relief, the road took a final dip and then headed uphill again. If she could just make it through that dip without bouncing off the road, she'd have gravity on her side. She'd have a chance.

The wheels stayed on the road as she jounced across the dip at seventy-five, then zoomed up the other side.
Let this hill be long enough to slow us completely.
The slope was much less steep on this side, but longer. Down to sixty, fifty, forty. At the top of the hill a turnout led into a grassy area that sloped up from right to left. Her mouth dry with relief, Emily steered into the turnout, shoved the gearshift into first, then made a sharp left turn, ran the car up onto the grass, and yanked on the emergency brake, praying the car would stop before it hit the trees.

When she thought the steering wheel would crack from the pressure of her grip, the Cruiser finally skidded to a halt with the front bumper kissing up to a giant spruce trunk. The bumper might be dented, but at least Emily and Marguerite were not.

Marguerite awoke, sputtering. “
Qu'est-ce qui se passe?
Where are we?”

“The brakes failed. We could easily have been killed. You just slept through the most brilliant bit of driving you were ever likely to see.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Marguerite put her hand to her chest, rolling her eyes. “I came here to relax. If I had wanted this kind of adventure, I would have gone to the Alps!”

Emily rooted in her purse till she found her cell phone. Luke's insistence on the hated device now seemed providential. With shaking fingers, she punched in his number.

“Holy crap!” he said when she'd told him what happened. “Where are you?”

She gave him her location as best she could.

“I'll be there as quick as I can. You're not hurt?”

“No. Just shaken up.”

“No ambulance then, just me and a tow truck. Take about half an hour, though—you okay for that long? I could send someone from Tillamook a lot faster.”

“No, I'd rather have you. We'll be okay.”

“Better get out of the car, just in case.”

“Right.” She hung up and opened the door, then leaned there until her legs stopped shaking enough to walk. She and Marguerite found a fallen tree to sit on a few yards away from the car. But Emily couldn't stop her teeth from chattering, though the day was warm.

Marguerite cast a shrewd glance at her, then went back to the car and opened the back doors and the trunk. She came back with a ragged wool blanket and wrapped it around Emily's shoulders.

After a few minutes the shaking subsided, and Emily felt limp and exhausted. She sagged against Marguerite's shoulder. Would Luke never come?

Then suddenly he was there, raising her to her feet and holding her tight, murmuring unintelligibly into her ear. She must have fallen asleep. She'd been in hell, reliving the terrifying descent in her dreams with a series of endings, each bloodier than the last. In Luke's arms she was at peace.

*   *   *

Luke directed the tow truck to his favorite garage in Tillamook and drove Emily and Marguerite home. Emily dozed again through the drive. Luke got her settled in the library with a blanket and a cat, then asked Katie to bring in some cocoa. After a few sips, Emily had revived enough to talk.

“When's the last time you had your brakes checked?” Luke asked.

“Couple of weeks ago. They were fine.”

“So we're looking at deliberate sabotage.”

“Looks like it to me.”

Luke stood and paced the length of the room. “You could've been killed today. Somebody is out to get rid of you. The fire wasn't enough to scare you off, so the next step is murder.” He stopped in front of her and frowned down into her face. “Emily, I want you to go back to Portland. Stay with Marguerite for a while—you shouldn't be alone.”

“What good would that do? If they're that set on getting rid of me, they could do it just as easily in Portland. Maybe easier.”

“Well, you might be right about that. But I've got to do something to keep you safe.” He scrubbed his hands over his stubble of hair. “Come stay at my place.”

Emily raised an eyebrow at him.

“I'm not suggesting … I mean, I've got a spare room if you want it. I'm just thinking, they wouldn't dare try anything if you were with me.”

“But I can't be with you twenty-four-seven. You've got a job to do.”

“You can come to the office. Ride around with me. Hell, I could even deputize you now—nobody could call you a suspect when you're obviously a victim. You'd have to be crazy to fix your own brakes.”