Читать книгу: «Waterford Point»
Down, girl.
Rachel stared at a man in jeans and work shirt coming down the stairs. He was about thirty-three and darkly handsome, with what looked like several drops of Native American blood in his veins. He was a good six foot two with broad shoulders, working man’s hands and startling brown eyes that, despite her better instincts, made Rachel’s heart stutter.
“There’s nothing going on that a little tried-and-true police work won’t fix.” He held out a hand. “I’m Nick Chavaree, the local sheriff. I’m staying here while my house is being…” He paused, frowned, withdrew the hand. “You look familiar to me. Do I know you?”
Rachel was pretty sure that if she’d seen him before she’d remember. He was that good-looking. “No, I don’t think so.”
His demeanor abruptly shifted from friendly to hostile. “You’re here about the murders, aren’t you?”
“Murders?”
“Don’t be coy.” He moved toward her now. “That’s why you picked this place to stay. You thought you could get some inside information from me. That’s not going to happen.”
Waterford Point
Alana Matthews
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alana Matthews can’t remember a time when she didn’t want to be a writer. As a child, she was a permanent fixture in her local library, and she soon turned her passion for books into writing short stories, and finally novels. A longtime fan of romantic suspense, Alana felt she had no choice but to try her hand at the genre, and she is thrilled to be writing for Harlequin Intrigue. Alana makes her home in a small town near the coast of Southern California, where she spends her time writing, composing music and watching her favorite movies.
Send a message to Alana at her website, www.AlanaMatthews.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Rachel Hudson —She came to Waterford Point to escape her past, and found herself caught up in someone else’s.
Sheriff Nick Chavaree —A puzzling murder investigation threatened his career, but could Rachel help him ferret out the truth…and steal his heart?
Maddie —She kept herself busy running the Waterford Inn, but what dark secret was she hiding?
Deputy Charlie Tevis —He returned to Waterford Point after an extended absence and wondered if he should have stayed away.
Mayor Bill Burgess —An officious fool who was more concerned about Waterford Point’s tourist trade than its own citizens.
Caroline Keller —The first in a string of murder victims who heard someone crying in the night.
Weeping Willow —Did her spirit come back to Waterford Point looking for revenge?
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Prologue
The crying was what awakened her.
For a moment she thought she was dreaming; the sound circled inside her head like a persistent insect, refusing to go away. But as she fully awakened, she realized that it was all too real, a muffled but unmistakable keen coming from outside her bedroom window.
She abruptly pulled herself upright and strained to hear, a vague uneasiness simmering in her chest.
Was it an animal of some kind? A bird? An injured deer?
No.
This was definitely human.
And female.
Feeling a knot in her stomach, she swung her legs around and stood, surprised by the chill of the polished wooden floorboards beneath her bare feet.
This wasn’t her first night here, and she knew she should be used to her surroundings by now. But it seemed that every time she got out of bed, she anticipated the feel of warm carpet—the carpet in her own bedroom in D.C.—only to be startled by this cold bare floor.
Padding to the window, she undid the latch and pushed it open, letting in the night air. The sound floated in just beneath the whisper of the wind—
The sobs of a broken girl.
A soul irrevocably wounded.
It came from a forest of Eastern pine that stood just forty yards away from the old house, across a rustic backyard. A thin mist hung in the air around the trees, the forest dark and foreboding.
Her heart thumped wildly as she listened to the sobs, and with sudden dread she knew she’d made a mistake coming home again.
The stories she’d heard were true.
This wasn’t make-believe. A fairy tale. A quaint little piece of local folklore. And as much as she might try, she knew she’d never be rid of her past.
It was right outside.
Haunting her.
Waiting for her in the trees.
Chapter One
By the time the ferry reached the dock, Rachel Hudson was a little queasy.
She didn’t travel well on water. Although the trip across the bay hadn’t taken more than fifteen minutes, her stomach wasn’t exactly rock solid these days, and she thought for a moment she might lose the salad she’d had for lunch.
Thank God for dry land.
Rachel had never been to Waterford Point before. Had never been to Penobscot Bay or farther north than Connecticut, for that matter. But the photos she’d seen on the internet had convinced her that this was where she needed to go. That Waterford Point was exactly the place she should be right now.
Her means of escape.
Her bastion of refuge.
An isolated fishing village-cum-tourist destination on an island off the coast of Maine, it was a place where she could forget about the chaos that had swirled around her in California and finally decide what to do with her life now that Dan was officially out of the picture.
As the ferry gate opened, she moved with the handful of homeward-bound commuters and rolled her suitcase onto the dock, looking out toward the village.
It was quite a bit larger than she had anticipated and she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend her next few weeks here getting around on foot.
As the others moved toward their cars in the parking lot, Rachel turned to the dockworker who was manning the gate. He was an elderly man with a weathered, sunbaked face, and she had no doubt that he’d spent many years on a fishing boat.
“Is there a place around here I can rent a car?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pointed toward a cluster of wooden shacks to the right of the dock. “They’re on the far side of that last building, just around the corner. You can’t miss ’em. And they’ll be glad to see you, too.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Not too many visitors around here lately, what with all the commotion.”
“Commotion?”
He shook his head then; he’d said too much. “Nothing to be concerned about. You just enjoy yourself and be sure to spend lots of money.”
He grinned, and Rachel felt compelled to push him further, but she resisted the urge.
She had come here to get her head together, not work. Work was the last thing she needed to be thinking about.
THE CAR RENTAL AGENCY was an eight-by-ten office with an efficient-looking beanpole of a kid manning the counter.
The old guy at the dock had been right. Rachel’s arrival seemed to be the high point of this young man’s evening, and he cheerfully rented her a Ford compact, which was parked along the side of the building amidst a couple dozen identical cars.
Despite his cheerfulness, there was something off about the kid’s demeanor. A nervousness behind the smile. He was trying too hard, Rachel thought, and she again found herself feeling the urge to ask about it.
But again she resisted.
He wasn’t a witness to a crime, or a convict staring out from behind a Plexiglas wall. He was an overly enthusiastic rental clerk and she was letting her natural curiosity get the better of her. What was going on inside his head was really none of her business.
She needed to relax and forget who and what she was for a while.
For the sake of the baby, if nothing else.
RACHEL’S PREGNANCY had come as a complete shock.
One night of mechanical sex—protected sex at that—did not often have such stupefying consequences, and while bearing a child was something she had dreamed of for many years, she’d always shoved the thought aside in favor of her career.
But now that motherhood would soon be a reality, Rachel was overjoyed.
Unfortunately, Dan hadn’t shared in that joy.
“You’re what?” he’d said when she broke the news to him.
She had asked to meet him for dinner, but he’d opted for a cup of coffee instead. An entire meal was too much of a commitment.
They sat in a trendy roasting house in Hollywood on a busy Tuesday afternoon and despite the lunch-time chatter around them, Dan’s voice cut straight through and hit her right in the gut.
“Pregnant,” she repeated, feeling annoyed by his reaction. “You want me to spell it for you?”
But just as he’d made it clear that he no longer loved her, Dan made it equally clear that he had no interest whatsoever in being a father, and had flat-out refused to believe that it was his child growing inside her.
Rachel knew, of course, that the baby didn’t belong to anyone else. She hadn’t slept with another man since the divorce, hadn’t even dated, for godsakes.
So whether he liked the idea or not, Dan was indeed the father.
She could easily convince him with a paternity test, but what was the point? If he had no interest in loving and caring for their child, no blood test in the world would change his mind.
Or, more importantly, his heart.
So she knew she was on her own. Not an ideal situation emotionally, but she was fairly thick-skinned and she’d done well enough in her profession not to have to worry about income for several years.
And while raising a child alone was not something she was thrilled about, she knew she could manage. Even if it meant putting her work on hold for a while.
Still, Rachel couldn’t help feeling a little lost and lonely, and she sometimes wished she had a partner to share this joy with. A man who would love her, unconditionally, and welcome her child into the world with open arms.
Good luck with that one.
THE DRIVE TO THE WATERFORD Inn took her less than ten minutes.
A large, refurbished Victorian, it stood at the end of a long block that was bordered by a hillside studded with trees. It was late in the day, and everywhere Rachel looked, those trees seemed to be shrouded in mist.
Hopefully tomorrow would bring some sunshine.
The house itself stood in stark contrast, its freshly painted pastel-blue both homey and inviting. But as she stepped out of the car and locked her door, Rachel didn’t feel welcome at all.
Sensing someone watching her, she turned to find two women staring at her from across the road as they walked together toward the center of town.
There was mistrust in their expressions, a look that made her feel instantly uneasy. Was this simply the usual locals-versus-tourist hostility, or something else altogether?
To Rachel’s mind it looked more like suspicion.
Or even fear.
The two women looked away from her now, chattering quietly as they walked. She had no idea what they were saying and didn’t really want to know.
It couldn’t be anything good.
Ignoring them, she took her suitcase from the trunk and moved up the front steps of the inn.
A moment later she was inside a quaint, old-fashioned foyer with a small reception counter on one side and shelves full of books on the other. Beyond, through a wide doorway, was a dining parlor and a polished wooden staircase that led to the second floor.
Rachel heard a faint grunt and moved up to the counter. A woman in her mid-forties was crouched behind it, searching through a low drawer, all of her concentration centered on the task.
Rachel cleared her throat and the woman jerked her head up and sucked in a breath, touching her chest in surprise.
“Oh, my,” she said. “You scared the bojangles out of me.”
Rachel offered her a sympathetic smile. “I was hoping you heard me come in.”
“I can’t hear a thing when I’m concentrating.” She gestured to the open drawer. “And I can’t seem to find my scissors, either. You wouldn’t happen to have a pair on you, would you?”
Rachel shook her head and smiled. “The one thing I forgot to pack.”
“I don’t know where they got to. Maybe in back, by my bed. I don’t like to sleep without some kind of…” She glanced at Rachel’s suitcase and frowned. “Who exactly are you?”
It was Rachel’s turn to be surprised. “Rachel…Rachel Hudson. I have a reservation?”
The woman took a moment to make the connection, then raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t get my message?”
“Message?”
“I told you not to bother coming, dearie. We’re not taking in guests for a while.”
“What? Why?”
The woman was about to respond when her gaze shifted to a spot behind the counter. “There they are!”
She reached forward and brought out a pair of sharp sewing shears.
“I didn’t get any message,” Rachel said. “And I need a place to stay.”
The woman was holding the shears just below the handle now, her fingers wrapped around it as if it were a dagger. She made several practice stabbing motions in the air, her eyes fixed on the blades. She seemed to have forgotten about Rachel altogether.
“Hello?”
The woman looked up sharply. “I know you came a long way,” she said, sounding only slightly apologetic, “but if you had any sense in you, you’d turn around right now and go back home.”
“Why?”
She lowered the scissors and leaned forward, gesturing for Rachel to come close.
Rachel hesitated, not sure the woman was all there. Then she did as she was asked and the woman whispered, “It’s for your own good, my dear. This place isn’t safe. She won’t rest until we’re all dead.”
Rachel was confused. “She?”
The woman straightened again, forgetting all about the apparent need to whisper. “You haven’t heard about her?”
“Who?”
“Weeping Willow, that’s—”
“All right, Maddie, enough.”
Rachel turned to find a guy in jeans and a work shirt coming down the stairs. He was about thirty-three and darkly handsome, with what looked like several drops of Native American blood in his veins. He was a good six foot two with broad shoulders, workingman’s hands and startling brown eyes that, despite her better instincts, made Rachel’s heart stutter.
Down, girl.
“Quit scaring the guests,” he said to Maddie. “How do you expect to make a living, chasing people away all the time?”
“She needs to know what’s going on around here.”
“There’s nothing going on that a little tried-and-true police work won’t fix.” He held out a hand for Rachel to shake. “I’m Nick Chavaree, the local sheriff. I’m staying here while my house is being…” He paused, frowned, withdrew the hand. “You look familiar to me. Do I know you?”
Rachel was pretty sure that if she’d seen him before she’d remember. He was that good-looking. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Wait,” he said, then crossed to the bookshelves. He searched for a moment, then pulled down a worn paperback that Rachel knew all too well.
A Dangerous Mind.
Her first bestseller.
Flipping the book over, Chavaree studied the photo on the back—an old one that needed to be updated—then looked at Rachel. “Tell me this isn’t you.”
“Sometimes I wish I could.”
Even after three books in the top ten, she still wasn’t used to being recognized. Most writers remain anonymous their entire lives. But she’d spent enough time on the cable networks and the morning talk shows to become something of a celebrity.
She half expected Chavaree to ask her to sign the book, but his demeanor abruptly shifted from friendly to hostile. “You’re here about the murders, aren’t you?”
“Murders?”
“Don’t be coy.” He moved toward her now. “That’s why you picked this place to stay. You thought you could get some inside information from me.”
She had no earthly idea what he was talking about, but had a feeling it explained a lot. These murders obviously had something to do with the so-called “commotion”—and probably the looks she’d gotten outside—but she wasn’t interested in finding out.
“I’m just here for a little rest and relaxation,” she said. “Nothing more.”
“Uh-huh.” Not bothering to hide his skepticism, Chavaree tossed the book on the counter, then took a jacket out of the closet. “I admire your talent, Ms. Hudson. Your books are always compelling. But I’m gonna say this just once, okay?”
Rachel frowned. “Okay…”
“You’re not wanted here. I’ve got enough problems to handle without you sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“I just told you, I’m here for a vaca—”
“Don’t even bother,” he said, then yanked his jacket on and went outside.
Chapter Two
People were often surprised when they found out what Rachel did for a living. There were dozens of successful crime writers in the world, but, with a few notable exceptions, most of them were men.
Rachel was one of those exceptions.
She had begun her career fresh out of college, after realizing that she was no longer interested in following in her father’s footsteps. Despite all the courses she’d taken in criminology and forensics, working for the LAPD didn’t really appeal to her.
Her passion lay in writing about crime. She was fascinated by the motives that lay behind the violence, the emotional histories, the family stories, the sometimes petty insecurities that led people to strike out against their fellow human beings.
All of these things factored into any good homicide investigation, but in the end, the work her father did came down to a simple who-did-what-to-whom, and Rachel knew that filing a few police reports would not lead her to a fulfilling life. Neither would walking a beat for several years just to get her detective’s shield.
So, much to her father’s disappointment, she worked as a crime reporter for a small daily newspaper in the Valley. Thanks to her college coursework and her father’s willingness to teach her the ins and outs of homicide investigation, she had adapted to the job quickly, soon moving on to the Los Angeles Tribune, then to the world of true crime books.
Her stories of murder and mayhem and family connections gone wrong now lined the shelves of libraries and bookstores around the world.
The only drawback was immersing herself in the darkest side of human nature. She heard stories told by cold, heartless men and women that would send chills up the spines of most people, and had been forced to find a way to distance herself from the horror. In the process she’d become desensitized to the violence. She was sure that this had contributed to her failures with Dan.
How could it not?
But Rachel hadn’t come to Waterford Point in search of a story. In fact, it was just the opposite; she had too many things weighing on her brain right now to be concerned with a couple of small-town murders.
After Chavaree left, she stewed for a moment, thinking she’d like to chase after him and give him a piece of her mind for being so rudely presumptuous. But when she thought about it, she really couldn’t blame him. She probably wouldn’t have believed her, either.
Instead, she spent the next several minutes trying to convince Maddie to give her a room.
“I paid a deposit,” she said. “I made a reservation. In my world that’s a contract.”
Maddie took the book from the countertop and looked it over. “In your world, huh? Out there in Hollywood?”
“And right here in Waterford Point, too. Murders or no murders.”
Maddie squinted at her. “Were you telling Nick the truth? Are you really here for a vacation or are you trying to pull a sly one on him, get close to his investigation?”
“I couldn’t care less about his investigation. I have my own problems to work out.” She gestured toward the stairs. “I’ve had a long trip and I’m tired. Are you going to give me a room or not?”
Maddie studied her a moment. “You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that. You sure you aren’t worried about the ghost?”
This threw Rachel for a loop. “Ghost?”
Her utter perplexity must have shown, because Maddie softened and said, “Child, you really don’t know anything, do you?”
“Haven’t I been saying that all along?”
RACHEL WASN’T SURE when exactly she’d made the breakthrough, but Maddie started searching again and brought out a key.
Relieved, Rachel reached for her suitcase, but the woman quickly came around the counter and grabbed it.
“Someone in your condition shouldn’t be lifting,” she said.
Rachel was only four months pregnant and while she’d certainly grown thicker around the middle, she had no idea she was showing. “Is it that obvious?”
“To the trained eye, it is. I used to work for an obstetrician over in Rockland. Only came back here to Waterford after my folks passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Did they own this place?”
“They did, indeed. In fact, the room you’ll be sleeping in used to be theirs.”
They climbed the stairs. Maddie struggled slightly with the suitcase, and Rachel felt a twinge of guilt. She was perfectly capable of carrying the thing herself, but she knew Maddie was not the kind of woman to be trifled with, and let her have her way.
“Breakfast every morning at 8:00 a.m.,” Maddie said. “No stragglers. Nothing I hate worse than serving cold eggs.”
“Okay. No straggling.”
“Nick’s the only other guest we have right now, and you’ll have to share a bathroom with him. He’s a man, and men are messy, but he does his best and I do what I can to clean up after him.”
Rachel’s own bathroom back home had clothes piled on the floor and a counter that looked like a beauty salon after a hurricane. Messy wasn’t something she was particularly concerned with.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Maddie turned to her.
“You sure you want go through with this? What with the murders and all, Waterford Point isn’t exactly the world’s number one vacation spot. You might be better off in Rockland or Searsport.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rachel told her.
Maddie shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just be thankful I’m not putting you up down the hall.” She pointed toward a closed door some distance from the stairs.
“Why?”
“Because that was Caroline’s room.”
“Caroline?”
Maddie nodded. “Came here from out of town, just like you. Little less than a month ago. Wasn’t here two days when it happened.”
“When what happened?”
“They found her in the woods out back,” Maddie said. “She was Weeping Willow’s first victim.”
This was the second reference Maddie had made to Weeping Willow and Rachel once again stifled the urge to ask for details. She could see that Maddie was deeply affected by this death, her eyes filled with the kind of fear usually reserved for very late, very dark nights.
This woman Caroline’s murder had obviously been the start of something horrible here in Waterford Point and the fact that the victim had been staying in this very house—had been found in the woods nearby—was a surprising coincidence.
It would also explain Sheriff Chavaree’s sensitivity.
Had he been living here when Caroline was killed?
That would certainly raise some concerns—un-fairly or not—about his ability to do his job, and she didn’t doubt he had been struggling with those questions ever since.
But Rachel resisted the urge to dig deeper. Had to keep reminding herself that she was not here for a story.
Throw in Maddie’s mention of a ghost, however, and she had to admit she saw a compelling mystery developing.
“I’ll tell you,” Maddie said. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to go into that room. Haven’t even made the bed. So consider yourself lucky, dear. Although, I suppose it’s bad enough you’ll even be this close. Thank goodness I’m staying downstairs.”
Unlike Maddie, Rachel wasn’t bothered that she’d be sleeping down the hall from the victim’s room. She’d gone face-to-face with serial killers and socio-paths, so sharing the house with the specter of a dead girl didn’t really concern her.
She could plainly see that Maddie was dying to keep talking about this, so she remained silent, doing her best not to prompt the woman.
This wasn’t her affair.
Maddie seemed to get the message and five minutes later, Rachel was in her room with the door locked, her suitcase unpacked and a king-size bed waiting for her to crawl into it. Her flight and the trip across the bay had taken their toll, and all she wanted to do right now was nap.
Barring those last few minutes on the ferry, her bouts with morning sickness had passed, but she found herself tiring more easily these days.
There was a time she wouldn’t have dreamed of napping.
But things change, don’t they?
Things always change.
RACHEL WAS ABOUT TO PUT her head on the pillow when her cell phone rang.
She sighed. What now?
Scooping the phone off the nightstand, she checked the screen but didn’t recognize the number. She clicked it on and put it to her ear. “This had better be good.”
“Rachel?” It was Janet Matlin, an assistant D.A. out of Los Angeles.
“Sorry, Janet, I’m a little out of sorts right now.”
“Who wouldn’t be, considering what you’ve been through. I just wanted to give you the heads-up.”
“About what?”
“Lattimore made bail.”
Rachel’s chest tightened.
Emit Lattimore was a stone-cold, unrepentant sociopath, and the subject of Rachel’s book in progress, Ladykiller—the book she had put on hold after Lattimore tried to strangle her during a contentious interview.
Lattimore’s third wife went missing over six months ago, a disappearance that became a media sensation. The more the police looked into the disappearance, the more convinced they were that he was the likely perpetrator, especially since his two previous wives had died under suspicious circumstances.
One had taken a fall down some stairs, and the other had been shot by an intruder while Lattimore was reportedly away on a hunting trip. Lattimore had been a suspect in both deaths, but there had never been enough evidence for an arrest, let alone a trial and conviction.
And it didn’t help that he was a former L.A. County medical examiner. Even Rachel’s father had worked with him once or twice.
But Rachel was convinced his luck was running out and had begun writing the book in anticipation of that inevitability. She had pressed him hard during the interview, pushing a lot of buttons, but he’d been arrogant enough to think he could outmaneuver her. She caught him in a glaring contradiction and apparently his oversize ego couldn’t take it. He suddenly snapped, leaping across the table, his face full of fury.
The memory was fresh in her mind, and she’d never forget those black, malevolent eyes boring into her, or those rough, oversize hands going for her throat. And knowing that he was out on bail after only a week behind bars didn’t give her any comfort. Even if he was three thousand miles away.
“You still there, Rachel?”
She shook off the memory. “Can’t you get a judge to consider revoking bail?”
“We’re working on it but there aren’t any guarantees. In the meantime, you might want to think about getting out of town for a bit.”
“Already done,” she said.
“Oh? Where are you?”
Rachel was about to respond, when Janet cut her off. “Wait, never mind. I don’t want to know. Just stay there for a while.”
That was certainly the plan.
The irony was that Rachel had booked this trip before Lattimore had become a threat. She had intended to use the time to finish writing Ladykiller, but that idea went out the window the moment he tried to wrap his hands around her throat. She couldn’t be objective about him anymore, and objectivity was her stock in trade.
Rachel may have been tough-skinned, but she was also human. And Lattimore scared the heck out of her.
“You think he’d actually try to come after me?”
“He’s a misogynist of the worst kind, Rachel, and you wounded his ego. But if he doesn’t know where you are…”
“Small comfort, believe me.”
“Don’t worry, we’re doing our best to keep an eye on him and I’ll be pushing to revoke. Even if we never find his wife, we at least have enough with the attempted assault to put him away for quite a while.”
“Promises, promises,” Rachel said quietly.
And promises were too often broken.
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