Beyond the Misty Shore (2 page)

Before she died, had Carolyn changed? Had she been capable of change? Maggie’s mother insisted Carolyn had but, disappointed once too often, Maggie remained cautious and held her doubts. Still, she’d promised her mother she’d solve the mysteries surrounding Carolyn’s death and find out what really had happened to her. After all her mother had been through, Maggie hadn’t the heart to refuse her, and Carolyn, for all her faults, had been family. That alone, without the promise, made uncovering the possibly ugly, surely embarrassing, truth Maggie’s responsibility. It helped that she wasn’t going into this blind to Carolyn’s flaws. Hoping for the better but prepared for the worst, she would keep the deathbed promise her mother had made to Carolyn’s mother when Maggie had been twelve. And now that her mother had recovered well enough to again be on her own, Maggie would do her family duty.

To Carolyn’s credit, she had been a master manipulator but never a thief. The police had insisted she’d stolen the Seascape painting, but it had to have been that MacGregor man. He was the hotshot famous artist with the world-class connections. Carolyn had just loved him. She’d been about to marry him. And if not for him, why would she have gone to Maine? From her address book and personal correspondence, she hadn’t known a soul in Maine.

Questions tumbled through Maggie’s mind. She couldn’t answer them any more now than when Carolyn had been killed two years ago. A traffic
accident,
they’d said. But had it been? Really?

Maggie didn’t know, but she intended to find out. The painting was here. Carolyn had worked here. Tyler James MacGregor’s work was sold here. And Maggie’s answers would come,
starting here.

Trembling inside, she steeled herself then walked over to the man who still stared at the painting. “Good morning.”

He turned, looking dazed, and smiled, as if a little embarrassed at having been caught dreaming. “Hello.”

“I’m Maggie Wright.” She hitched her purse strap up on her shoulder and extended her hand. “Carolyn Conners was my cousin.”

He looked surprised, but clasped hands with her. “Bill Butler.”

“I’d like to ask you some questions about her, Mr. Butler. Actually, about her and Tyler James.”

“Tyler James?” Bill Butler cocked his head, looking even more surprised and now a little suspicious. She nodded, and he added, “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the artist, other than information that’s common knowledge.”

“It isn’t the artist I’m particularly interested in,” she confessed. “I’m more concerned with T.J. MacGregor, the man.” It was a calculated response. One meant to let Bill Butler know she knew of the artist, but also of the man who in the art world dropped the use of his surname. Hopefully, that insider tidbit would encourage Bill Butler to open up to her—without forcing her to open the family closet door and expose skeletons she’d really rather keep hidden.

A flicker of recognition shone in his brown eyes. He lowered his lashes and glanced down at the floor. “I know a little about him.”

“I understand your reluctance to discuss one of your artists, Mr. Butler. Especially one of T.J.’s fame and reputation, but, I assure you, my interest is strictly personal. I’m not sure if you know it, but T.J. and Carolyn had been engaged.”

“Yes, I was aware of that.”

“Then you know she died two years ago.” A droplet of rain dislodged from Maggie’s hair and trickled down her cheek. She brushed at it. “A few of the circumstances surrounding her death are, well, frankly mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” He arched a brow. “Then why have you waited so long to check them out?”

Valid question. And one, thank goodness, she’d anticipated. Still, something in his stance warned her to be honest. She gave him another once-over. Did she dare to ditch her rehearsed spiel?

“Until now I wasn’t free to investigate.” The truth. Another gut-instinct-based, calculated risk. One she prayed she wouldn’t regret. “My mother suffered an injury right at the time Carolyn died, Mr. Butler. A severe injury that required extensive therapy. If you couldn’t be in two places at once, wouldn’t you give priority to the living?”

Silence.

Had she blown it already? Her palms grew sweaty. She dragged them down her soggy raincoat and let him see the concern in her eyes. “Please, I just want... I
need
to know what happened to her.”

“I heard it was an auto accident.”

He wasn’t going to help her. Maggie’s stomach muscles constricted, and her determination compressed with them. “I heard that, too. I also heard a painting was in her car.” Squeezing her purse strap, she lifted her chin. “Carolyn was burned beyond recognition and the car exploded, but that painting wasn’t damaged in the least. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

He didn’t look at her, but shrugged. “It’s a big world out there, Miss Wright. Strange things happen in it.”

Stepping back, he sat down on the bench and slid her a compassionate glance, then propped his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. “I’m sorry about your cousin, but I get the feeling you think T.J. was somehow involved with her death.”

Too transparent! Fighting the instinct to stare at his shoes to avoid his eyes, she held his gaze, but she couldn’t make herself outright deny his suspicions. She’d never been good at deception, and she’d been worse at half-truths. Had she been crazy to think she could pull this off?

He pursed his lips, thoughtful. “For whatever comfort it might be to you, my being here proves T.J. wasn’t involved.”

Her heart pounded a strong, hard beat that thumped in her temples. “I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t.” He looked away, back at the painting. “But I imagine you soon will.”

Confused, sensing sadness in his tone, Maggie started to ask for an explanation, but her gaze drifted to the painting he’d been studying. Her thoughts dissipated. A sense of calm and serenity and peace she hadn’t known since she was little and became suspicious at the goings-on at home seeped from the painting into her pores. Her insides warmed and a sense of balance, of rightness, flooded her.

The painting was of a house atop a hill near the shore. But not this shore. Nowhere in the South. The painting’s shore was rugged and rockbound. She appreciated art, but never before had she reacted so vividly or intensely to it and, though she couldn’t begin to explain it, she sensed something special about this painting. Something that whispered to her and lured. Something...
magical.

She glanced down and read the signature:
Tyler James.

The discreet brass plate attached to its frame:
Seascape Inn.

“Oh God.” Her knees went weak. “That’s it. That’s the painting.” Shaking, she leaned back against the column for support and forced her gaze back to the man. “It’s in Maine, isn’t it?”

Bill Butler sighed. He’d seen her reaction before—everyone who lived in Sea Haven Village had seen one like it at some time or another. Still, he didn’t know quite what to make of Maggie Wright.

She was pretty, about thirty, he supposed, with shiny red hair that hugged her shoulders and green eyes that at present pleaded with him. She was about as tall as his wife, Leslie, who topped out at his shoulder and long ago had mastered that tell-me-what-I-want-to-know look Maggie Wright leveled on him. She wanted answers, but should he give them to her? She’d lied to him.

He’d known it the second she’d said she wanted to know about T.J. the man. Her face had flushed red, she hadn’t met Bill’s eyes, and the pulse in her throat had begun pounding against her skin. Leslie’d had that same look thirteen years ago when she’d assured him she wanted to move from California to Sea Haven Village so he could build the Fisherman’s Co-Op and be close to his Uncle Mike.

Yes, Maggie Wright had lied. And she radiated that hell-hath-no-fury glow he’d learned to respect all those years ago. She suspected T.J. was involved in her cousin’s death, and proving it was her bottom line.

If only she knew the truth.

Bill resisted shaking his head. Ridiculous. If it weren’t, he’d be home fishing, not here doing T.J. a favor. Well, doing T.J. a favor, plus being paid by T.J. to come. Bill would’ve made the trip anyway, but with fish prices being down the extra money certainly would come in handy—which, he supposed, was why T.J. insisted on paying for the favor. A man capable of that kind of caring wouldn’t be involved in anything shady. Would he?

He might. T.J. was in trouble. But what world-class artist who couldn’t paint wouldn’t be in trouble? Carolyn’s death was tied up with
that
somehow, though Bill couldn’t peg the connection—other than as a side-effect of T.J. having lost his fiancée. Loss could do terrible things to a man’s mind. And the way T.J. was living up at Seascape wasn’t helping either. Keeping himself locked in the Carriage House, sitting on the cliffs and staring at the ocean for hours on end...

Well, the man might be suffering from guilt, but guilt at having something to do with Carolyn’s wreck? Ridiculous. And, yet, if T.J. somehow had been involved, even indirectly, that would explain his guilt feelings... and his blacking-out episodes.

Bill grimaced, feeling like a traitor. How could he even fleetingly doubt T.J.’s innocence? “T.J. didn’t have anything to do with your cousin’s death, Miss Wright.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just... know.” How could he not know? He’d watched the man suffer and struggle for nearly a year, trying to come to terms with his losses. Difficult to tell what all went on in T.J.’s mind—he held his feelings close to his chest—but Bill strongly suspected, and Leslie agreed, that Carolyn was but one of the losses that had sent the man into a tailspin. Bill also maintained the opinion that it would take a professional to help T.J. untangle his emotions and get him back to flying straight. A professional, or a miracle.

“That house”—Maggie pointed to the painting—“is in Maine, isn’t it?”

From her doubt-riddled expression, the woman didn’t believe him. She’d already tried and convicted T.J. Guilty. Bill chewed on his lip and considered his options. Never would he be so foolish as to think he could tell any woman her opinion on anything. There were things a person had to learn firsthand, and trust ranked among them. Living with Leslie had taught him that too. But he could see to it that Maggie had the opportunity to learn the truth.

He reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out his business card and a pen, then wrote Miss Hattie’s name and phone number down on the back of it. “It’s in Maine.” He passed the card to Maggie Wright. “The innkeeper’s name is on back. You’ll need to call and let her know you’re coming.”

Maggie looked at him, her eyes wide and round. “How did you know I intended to go to Seascape? I—I only just decided.”

Bill shrugged. Her bewildered look, he’d also seen before. “Just a hunch.”

Groggy, his head aching like the devil,
T.J. groaned and opened his eyes.

Something bright white blinded him. He squinted and saw it was Miss Hattie’s hankie. She stood over him, flapping the scrap of lace as if the cold wind whipping over the granite cliffs weren’t strong enough to revive him without her personal assistance. Bill Butler’s whopper-telling, tall, lanky, eleven-year-old, Aaron, stood next to her, his breath fogging the air. They both looked worried.

“Hey, Mr. James.” Aaron blinked, his eyes bright in his warm cocoa face. “Did ya fall and bust your head on the rocks?”

This was
not
a dream. He was still here in this godforsaken place.

Frustrated at yet another failure, T.J. looked at Miss Hattie. Her apron showed in the gap of her unbuttoned coat. It whipped around, molding with her dress to her plump calves. A blueberry stain near the pocket looked wet. He’d interrupted her making her morning muffins... again.

Miss Hattie stopped flapping her hankie and pressed it into her coat pocket. “Are you all right, dear?”

Her kind green eyes looked worried, and he hated seeing that, but he couldn’t do a thing to ease her concern. He was plenty worried himself.

Reaching beneath his hip, he pulled out a stone that was digging into his side. His head ached like hell. So did his back. He pursed his mouth to tell her he was anything
but
all right—and he would have told her—had he not been looking at her.

The wind teased her white wispy curls that had come loose from her bun and sneaked out from under her blue woolen scarf to frame her tender face. Round and soft and lined with wisdom, it was chafed red by the wind and cold. A woman in her seventies had no business being out in this damp breeze. Miss Hattie thought she was invincible and if he’d reminded her that she wasn’t, she’d only scoff, so he didn’t. But he couldn’t bellow at her either. It’d be like giving hell to Mary Poppins or the good fairy.

“I’m fine.” Unfortunately, he’d live. T.J. frowned and rubbed at the back of his head, pressing against a lump the size of a goose egg. Pain shot through his skull, and he winced. “Just fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look a bit peaked. Doesn’t he look peaked, Aaron?”

Aaron twisted his mouth and studied T.J. “Uh-huh, he surely does.” He squinted up at Miss Hattie. “He looks just like Mrs. Johnson when Mr. Johnson dozes off in church.”