"I have a few calls I need to make," she said.
"Would you excuse me? I won't be long. Then we..." She swallowed, unusually nervous.
"Then we'll talk more."
"Sure."
The time out would give him a chance to consider how much was left unsaid among the Labreques and St. Joes. He set his cup and saucer on the gleaming butler's table. Mara had gotten out the good china. He felt like a nineteenth-century ship captain home for a spell with the womenfolk.
She claimed Sam Cassain had stopped by late last week merely to say hello, not to drive the wedge between her and her father deeper; not for old times' sake; not, apparently, because he knew he was about to be killed.
Straker didn't disbelieve her. He thought there was more.
The front door banged open, and Riley burst in. She'd changed from her work clothes to jeans and a high-tech hiking top that delineated the shape of her breasts probably more than she'd want him noticing. Or not. She scowled.
"I should have known I'd find you here."
"You did know. That's why you came."
That didn't sit well. She stormed around the living room. The long drive and long days had taken their toll. This was bluster.
Fatigue.
Even buried anguish. She flew at him, her jaw set hard.
"Where's my mother?"
"Back in her office. She had some calls to make. Sig's gone for a walk." He sat back on Mara's handsome couch, which wasn't particularly comfortable.
"It's been a rough few days for them, too."
She gave a tight nod.
"I know. They won't admit it, but they're worried about Emile. They don't want to see him in over his head."
"That goes for you, too."
She sank into a wing chair and kicked her feet out in front of her. He could see some of the frustration and anxiety wash out of her now that she was in a safe place, with people she cared about and who cared about her, even if he was among them.
"I'm sorry," she said abruptly, without looking at him.
Straker made no comment.
"I shouldn't have gone along with Henry's suggestion that you could be a stalker. It was... stupid." She rubbed her forehead, not because she had a headache, Straker reasoned, but because she hated admitting she was wrong.
"He's upset with me for finding Sam's body, for bringing you onto the scene last night and enraging Matt. He offered me a chance to throw you to the wolves, and I did."
"You were trying to save your own neck?"
She nodded, obviously not proud of herself.
Straker picked up his teacup. "I thought it was because I'd kissed you and you were scared of what came next."
"I wasn't scared then," she said.
"And I'm not scared now, because nothing comes next."
She slid off her chair and poured herself a cup of tea from Mara' schina tea service, then sat back down. She still hadn't met his eye.
"Then you had cold feet," he said.
"You only get cold feet when you stop yourself from doing something you deep down want to do or know you need to do." Now her eyes lifted, zeroed in on him.
"So that leaves cold feet out."
No, that left cold feet in. But Straker decided not to push her.
She'd had a lot of time to think things over on her solitary drive up to Camden. "Armistead tell you to get out of town?"
"To lie low is more like it." She sipped her tea, which was only lukewarm. "I want to find Emile before he runs afoul of the wrong people."
Afoul? Maybe it was the antiques and the nineteenth-century atmosphere, Straker thought.
"What makes you think you won't run 'afoul' of the same people?"
She set her teacup in its saucer.
"I know how to shoot."
"Jesus Christ," Straker breathed.
"All this mess needs is Riley St.
Joe armed to the teeth. Did you slip a gun into your backpack? "
"No, I don't even own one. You're the FBI agent. You must have all kinds of guns."
"Riley. Forget it."
She refused to give up.
"I can always use tranquilizer darts."
"Sit back," he said softly.
"Tell me about your work."
"I don't want to tell you about my work. I want to find Emile." "What does the director of recovery and rehabilitation for the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research do?"
She sighed. Her dark eyes fixed on him.
"I know what you're doing."
"If I were a dolphin," he said, "would I want Riley St. Joe to rescue me?"
It worked. She gave another sigh and started. She explained the basic philosophy of the center's recovery and rehab program, the constant search for funds, the training and mobilization of volunteers when there was a mass stranding, the ongoing research.
Straker tried to pay attention to her words, but it was her manner that captivated him--her passion, her common sense, her dedication.
This was work she loved. Work she could never give up. He'd once felt the same way about his own work, but not in a long time.
Mara St. Joe joined them in the parlor. A pair of reading glasses hung from her neck, and she fingered them nervously as she greeted Riley.
"John said you'd be along. Did you have much traffic?"
Riley shook her head, a tiny spark in her eyes all that suggested she didn't like the idea of him predicting her movements.
"I'm sorry I didn't call ahead."
"There's no need. You're always welcome here." Mara dropped her glasses, but didn't seem to know what to do with her hands. She seemed unusually ill at ease, even for someone whose daughter had recently found a dead man.
"Riley, we need to talk. I have something I--something you deserve to know."
Graceful exits weren't one of his strengths, but Straker got to his feet.
"I could use some air. I'll take a walk around the block."
Mara seemed relieved. Riley just seemed confused, as if she couldn't imagine what her mother might tell her that she didn't already know.
Straker had a policy of avoiding mother-daughter conversations whenever possible. It was bad enough when his own mother got him by the ear and sat him down. Hadn't done that in years, not for lack of provocation.
He ran into Sig halfway down the front walk. The clouds were moving out over the water, the sky clearing.
"I see Riley's arrived," she said.
"She boot you out?"
"I took my cue."
Her face clouded, and she nodded with understanding. She was breathing hard from her walk, her cheeks red from exertion and the stiff breeze, but she wasn't winded.
"Then she's telling her. Damn. I think I'll sneak around back. You want to join me?"
"That depends."
"Then you don't know," she said.
He remained silent.
"I thought you came up here because you knew."
"To be honest," he said, "I haven't thought much about you St. Joe women until Riley came screaming into my cottage about a dead body and threw up."
Sig's eyes narrowed on him. She'd combed her hair and braided it, put on comfortable shoes. At the right angle, she didn't look pregnant in her flowing dress. She was artistic, creative, intense in ways different and less obvious from her scientist sister, mother, father, grandfather. And Straker could see her debating what to tell him, wondering if she'd said too much already.
"You have no reason to trust me," he said.
"It's not that. I just don't know if it's my place" -- "Sig, a man is dead, murdered. Your grandfather is missing. Even if what you have isn't directly're 3 lated, if you think it might help me figure out what's going on, stop it from escalating, then you should tell me. If not, feel free to keep it to yourself. "
She licked her lips, bit down hard.
"Is it about Sam Cassain?" Straker asked.
"He stopped here last week."
Tears glistened in her eyes, spilled almost immediately onto her cheeks. She flicked them away with her fingertips, as if furious.
"I can't stand it--I cry at the drop of a hat. " She made a valiant attempt at a smile, gave up before it had formed.
"My mother and Sam had an affair."
"Damn."
"I know. It happened just before she bought her house here. It didn't last. Sam was never Mom's type, and vice versa. I guess my parents almost split up-the affair was their wake-up call to make changes, which they did." "What happened when he stopped by last week? What did he say? How long was he here?"
She shook her head, eyes lowered.
"I don't know what he said. I stayed in my studio. He left after about twenty minutes."
"And Riley doesn't know," Straker said.
"I'm sure Mom's telling her now."
"Who else knew?"
"Everyone," Sig said bluntly.