On Fire(12)

           



       

"I spent Monday night at his place on Schoodic."

"Riley? Are you all right?"

She attempted a shaky smile.

"It's just been a tough few days." There was no way around it. She had to tell her.

"Abigail, I heard this morning--the body I found. It was Sam Cassain."

Abigail clutched a stack of papers with her long, thin, manicured fingers.

"That's awful. Does Henry know?"

Henry Armistead was the center's executive director, handpicked by  Bennett Granger. He'd won the board's gratitude for his impeccable  handling of the public relations nightmare the Encounter tragedy had  presented. Sam's death would give the gossip and the center's critics  fresh life--reason enough for Riley to have gone straight to him first  thing that morning.

"I don't know," Riley admitted.

"I haven't told him."

"I think you should," Abigail said with certainty. "I imagine the police  will want to talk to him about Sam. And reporters..." She took a  breath, regaining her poise. She would think of the center first.

She always did.

"We need to put a strategy in place for handling the inevitable  questions. Oh, Riley, this is horrendous. You know Sam was in Maine over  the weekend, don't you?"

Her head spun.

"He was?"

"Yes, I thought you saw him. He stopped at the house on Friday before  the cocktail party. He said he just wanted to see how we were doing."

She faltered, suddenly awkward. "Oh, dear. What if we were the last  people to see him alive? How on earth did he end up on Labreque Island,  of all places? It must have been an accident."

Riley half wished she'd taken her grandfather's cue and cleared out for a  few days. Then people could have jumped to the wrong conclusions about  her, too.

"I have no idea, and I'm trying not to get ahead of myself with  questions I can't answer. I should have talked to Henry sooner. I'll go  see him now." She hesitated, debating.

"Will you be talking to Matt? Sig knows about Sam, but I doubt she"

"I'll get in touch with him," Abigail said, briskly polite. Whatever her  opinion of her brother's marital problems, she would never say.

Riley ducked out without bringing up the topic of oddballs who might  have shown up that morning for the PTSD volunteer program. She went out  to the exhibits. No sign of Straker. The low lighting gave the sense of  being underwater as tourists, school groups and business people on their  lunch hour intermingled, checking out exhibits that ran from small  aquariums to the huge, multi story saltwater tank.

The PTSD volunteers, she knew, stayed in the bowels of the center, away  from any hint of crowds. But she didn't see Straker there, either.

Maybe his clam chowder had arrived. Riley had no desire to disturb the  rest of the group's lunch. With a huff of exasperation, she stormed  outside to collect her wits before she ventured up to see Henry.

A stiff breeze gusted off Boston Harbor, bringing with it the feel of  autumn. She wanted to be out on the water now, in her kayak, paddling  with the wind. Just imagining it helped calm her.

Straker materialized at her side, his impact like a hot gust.

"Nice fountain. Dolphins, whales, otters, seals. I like the walrus, myself.

A fountain with a sense of humor, which is more than I can say about  most of the people who work here. You're an intense group. "

"What did I do to deserve you on my case?"

His gaze cooled.

"You found a dead body on my island." "I thought you were having lunch with your PTSD friends."

"It was yuppie clam chowder. Now, a good haddock chowder with a pat of  butter and a sprinkle of black pepper--that would have had me." He laid  on his downcast accent, but Riley could see the tightness in his jaw,  the hint of tension in his eyes. They were good eyes. Alert, expressive,  as cool and impenetrable a gray as a Maine fog. She shook off the  image, wondering what had got hold of her. He went on, "I expect I owe  Abigail Granger an apology."

"For what?" "I was pretty much a jerk to her. I lied, and I put her on the spot."

"You've never apologized before for being a jerk."

He scowled.

"You're smart, Riley. But you're not sweet." He started off without a word.

"You aren't really going to apologize to Abigail, are you?"                       
       
           



       

"I might." He glanced back at her, a spark of humor lighting his face.

"You know, she's a hell of a lot nicer than you are."

"Sam Cassain stopped in to see the Grangers on Friday," Riley blurted.

He stopped. She could see his FBI-trained mind | clicking into gear.  This wasn't the mind she knew. She knew the mind that wanted to drown  her. She had to remember this wasn't the boy she'd known on Schoodic  Peninsula.

"On Mount Desert?" he asked.

He said it, dessert, the way the locals did, as in the French Mont  Desert, or barren mountain, for its hills of pink granite. She nodded.

"Abigail told me."

"Where did Cassain live? What's he been doing the past year?"

"Last I heard he was working on the docks in Portland, but he still had  his place down here--out in Arlington, I think. He hadn't settled into a  new job, so far as I know."

Straker continued on his way without comment. Riley sighed. The man  could drive her to the brink if she let him. She turned back to the  fountain. More people had drifted over for a bit of fresh air during  their lunch hour. Suddenly the idea of going back to work, trying to  concentrate, didn't appeal to her. She was restless, frustrated, still  absorbing the potential ramifications of Sam Cassain turning up dead on  La- breque Island. She wanted to find Emile--and she wanted to know what  Straker was up to next.

"Riley? I thought that was you."

Hell, she thought. Henry Armistead. He'd got to her before she could get  to him. From his grim expression, she guessed he'd heard the news.

Bennett had lured him east from California three years before to serve  as the center's executive director. He was fifty-one, handsome and  polished, and Riley, oblivious to such things herself, had heard rumors  of a budding relationship between him and Abigail Granger.

"I was just coming to see you," she said lamely.

"A little late, I'd say. Maine State Police investigators are on their  way. They want to talk to Abigail, Caroline Granger, your father and me  about Sam's death. They said they might want to ask you a few more  questions, too."

She nodded.

"I understand."

"I wish I'd known about this before the police called."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I've been preoccupied." She stopped, picturing the body lying facedown in low tide.

"I didn't recognize him. It never occurred to me..."

"It must have been a terrible moment for you," Henry said softly.

"Riley, Sam's body turning up on an island your grandfather owns..."

He inhaled. He was gray haired, formal in his dark gray suit. His dress  and manner, his sensibilities, fit with the Grangers more than they did  the Labreques and St. Joes. "I can only imagine what the police must be  thinking."

"We shouldn't jump to any conclusions just because there was bad blood  between Emile and Sam. For all we know, Sam could have been on his way  to tell Emile he'd changed his mind about the Encounter and wanted to  mend fences. There's just no telling."

"I know Emile's your grandfather, but..." He sighed.

"Well, never mind. It's obvious you have a blind spot where he's  concerned, which is understand 3 able. I just hope Emile hears the news  that the police want to talk to him, and comes in. "

"I'm sure he will. This isn't the first time he's taken off without  telling anyone. Since he's retired, he doesn't have to answer to any of  us."

Henry tilted his head back slightly and gave her a long look, the kind that reminded her who was boss and who wasn't.

"That's true. He doesn't. But you, Riley--I want to make sure your priorities and obligations are clear."

"Of course they are."

He looked dubious.

"Your sister is estranged from Matthew Granger. Sam Cassain placed  responsibility for the deaths of five people, including Bennett Granger,  on your grandfather's shoulders. Now he's dead and Emile's  disappeared."

"I was there. Henry." She kept her voice low, under control.

"I know what happened."

"Perhaps you should take the afternoon off," he continued more gently.

"We can see where things stand in the morning. With any luck, this will all have sorted itself out by then."

Riley stood rock-still, not certain where this was leading. "Henry, I have work to do. Is this a suggestion or a request?"