Indelible Page 9

  Niall pulls into a parking space at the butcher shop. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

  When he returns a short time later, Jason slips a thin, silver flask into his pocket.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s illegal to have an open container in the vehicle.”

  “It’s just a few miles back to Pines & Quill,” Jason says. “We’ll be fine.”

  Seldom demanding, rarely confrontational, but a man who can hold his own, Niall says, “You can walk with what’s open, and I’ll drive with what’s closed and put it on your front porch.” His tone brooks no room for discussion.

  “Well fine.” Jason’s voice has a petulant ring to it. After removing the sack with the open bottle, Jason raises it with a huff. “Cheers!” He turns away.

  Niall heads home with an unaccustomed tight expression on his face.

  “The goddamned goody two shoes,” Jason grumbles. “What’s a couple of miles with an open container? I do it all the time.”

  I’m going to tell Libby what just happened when I get home. She may well send Jason packing, and rightly so. We’d never keep a guest at the expense of others.

  After refrigerating the items from the butcher shop, he takes Jason’s brown bag to Thoreau cottage and deposits it on the front porch. On his return, Niall finds Libby in the circular drive in front of the main house signing for a UPS package.

  “Hey, Niall. How are you?” the driver asks.

  “I’m great, Tim. How’s Mary? She’s due any day now, isn’t she?”

  “She sure is.” His chest puffs out a little more with soon-to-be-father pride.

  “Keep us posted. And please give our best to Mary.”

  “I sure will.” Tim waves as the truck follows the circular drive, then melts into the tree trunks in the distance.

  Niall lifts his hands to Libby’s dark brown hair and strokes it. He tucks a loose mahogany strand behind her ear, releasing a subtle and feminine fragrance of white jasmine, orange blossom, and a hint of sandalwood—a signature blend she created years ago.

  His hands move down her back, homing in on the precise spot. His thumbs begin a circular motion, kneading the muscles on each side of her spine until they loosen and relax, bringing a helpless moan of relief from Libby.

  “I’m sorry for what happened this morning,” Niall says.

  Unexpected laughter erupts from Libby. “You were right. Mick’s love life is none of my business.” She smiles into his smoky-blue eyes.

  After Niall relays what happened in town with Jason, they look at each other. Libby’s hackles rise, and her eyes transform to a glacial shade of blue, turbulent with storm clouds. She recognizes their commonality of thought. “We need to send him packing, but before we do, let’s talk with Mick.”

  Just then, Jason rounds the bend and staggers toward them. “Did my packages come?” He enunciates the words to cover his slur.

  “Yes, they just arrived,” Libby says, handing them to him.

  Jason gives them a plastic smile and tucks a package under each arm.

  “We know you’re anxious to get started, so we won’t keep you,” Libby says.

  “I left your bag on the front porch of Thoreau. We’ll see you at six o’clock for dinner.”

  Jason turns and walks toward his cottage. When he pauses to look back, he sees Niall and Libby watching his retreat.

  He ignores the brown paper bag on the front porch of Thoreau and walks through the door with a single focus. The contents of his packages.

  After releasing the tape with his pocketknife, he opens the first box and pulls back the wrapping to reveal his baby. His Precious. A 9mm Beretta Storm with a blued steel finish.

  Gollum-like, Jason caresses its muzzle.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Writing is about hypnotizing yourself into believing in yourself, getting some work done, then un-hypnotizing yourself and going over the material coldly.”

  —ANNE LAMOTT

  Emma inhales deeply. The air at Pines & Quill smells of blooms and earth. A ground squirrel darts toward the pathway and then back into cover. The sky blushes with the sinking sun. It’s a perfect evening. She’s the first person to arrive at the main house for dinner. Her outfit is a patterned tunic of multi-colored paisley. Its hem sweeps longer in the back, although seated, it’s unlikely that anyone will see that artful detail. Paired with black leggings and matching sandals, she makes a beautiful picture.

  Before ringing the doorbell, Emma notices its thoughtful placement—within easy reach for someone sitting in a wheelchair. The MacCullough’s have anticipated everything.

  Just then, Fran joins her.

  “You look so nice,” Emma says, admiring the lavender tailored shirt that Fran has softened by leaving the shirttail hem untucked over tan slacks.

  “Thank you. Most of my clothes are for work. I hope to add some casual pieces to my wardrobe while I’m here.”

  “Oh, how fun! Have you been to the Pacific Northwest before, or is this your first time?”

  “I’ve been to Portland, Oregon,” Fran says, “but this is my first time to Washington state. How about you?”

  “I’ve been to Seattle a couple of times, but I’ve never been this far north. It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, everything’s so lush and green. It’s quite different from the hustle and bustle of Boston.”

  “I love that town,” Emma says. “I was there a few years ago to watch one of my brothers run in the marathon.”

  Libby opens the door. “Hello. You’re right on time.”

  “Me, too,” Cynthia says, joining them. Her tea-length raspberry dress looks stunning against her olive skin tone and white hair. “Something smells like heaven.”

  “Just wait ’til you taste it,” Libby says.

  Niall hears their oohs and aahs before the women reach the kitchen. Decked out in his bistro-striped apron, he greets them. “Ladies, you look like a beautiful bouquet. I can only hope this evening’s meal does you justice.” He gives an exaggerated bow from the waist while flourishing a wooden spoon.

  “Do I detect garlic?” Fran asks, a hopeful smile on her face.

  “Yes, you do. Tonight, we’re having lemon garlic chicken paired with Sancerre, a white wine produced in the eastern part of the Loire Valley in France. But first, we’ll enjoy a few appetizers. Please make yourselves at home. While you’re seating yourselves, I’ll bring them.”

  Awake from his nap, Hemingway takes the opportunity to pop his head over the lower portion of the Dutch door.

  “Hi, big guy. It’s nice to see you again,” Emma says, rolling over to pat his large wiry head.

  All eyes, including Hemingway’s, follow the tray that Niall places in the center of the table. It’s brimming with baked zucchini cups topped with gorgonzola cheese, mini pearl tomatoes wrapped in fresh basil leaves, and Tuscan tomato-basil-garlic bruschetta topped with diced artichokes, Kalamata olives, and capers.

  The next tray he sets down has antipasto kabobs with Italian meats, cheeses, olives, and pickled vegetables skewered in bite-sized pieces, and grape gorgonzola truffles rolled in toasted nuts.

  “Oh, my blessed word,” Cynthia says. “This is the appetizer? There’s enough food here to feed an army.”

  Mick and Jason enter the kitchen at the same time.

  Libby, alone, is aware of the storm brewing behind her brother’s calm facade. She flashes him a quick, questioning glance, unseen by the others.

  Mick reassures her with an almost imperceptible nod that conveys, We’ll talk later.

  On the other hand, Jason’s glib smile resembles the cat who ate the canary.

  Both men are well-dressed in a casual style. Mick is wearing a salmon-hued T-shirt that sets off his green eyes, a sand-colored linen blazer, chinos, and topsiders.

  Jason’s navy blue shirt serves to highlight his gray eyes—pools of calculated indifference.

  With them standing next to each other, it’s hard not to make a comparison. Both men are well-groomed and r
adiate personal power.

  Mick, at six-foot two-inches, has wavy, collar-length, charcoal hair. Muscular, his demeanor speaks of quiet self-confidence and protection.

  Jason’s five-foot six-inch stature is wiry and athletic. His salt-and-pepper hair is buzz cut. His bearing conveys arrogance and aggression.

  Both men are capable.

  Wine and laughter-peppered conversation flow as the group enjoy the delicious meal.

  “Husband, this meal is cooked to perfection.” Libby raises her glass. “To great food, great health, and a great chef,” she says. Everyone around the table raises their glass, joining her toast to Niall.

  After dinner, Libby suggests that everyone relocate to The Ink Well to continue their animated discussion. Before anyone can scoot their chairs back, Jason stands up and with a curt nod, says, “I’m heading back to my cottage. I’ve made great progress on my manuscript today, and I want to maintain momentum.”

  No one seems disappointed as he strides down the hall and lets himself out the front door.

  “We’ll join you soon,” Libby says, as Mick ushers the women into the comfortable room. She turns to Niall and whispers, “What do you think that was about?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m glad he’s gone,” he whispers back.

  “Me, too.”

  With his whiptail thrashing the deep sink in the mudroom, Hemingway gains their attention. The inquisitive look on his face says, Hey, what about me?

  Libby gets him a biscuit from the jar. “No one forgot about you.” After unlatching the lower half of the Dutch door, she says, “Now sit for your cookie.” After scarfing it down, he gazes at her expectantly, hoping for another handout.

  Libby digs her fingers into his wiry mane. “I know that Jason’s not fond of you, but since he’s gone, let’s go ask the others if you can join them.”

  Hemingway gives a whole-body wag. After stroking his head and rubbing his ears, Libby taps a hand against her thigh and says, “Heel,” and they head into The Ink Well.

  “Would it be okay if Hemingway joins you?”

  “Who? That big galoot?” Mick asks, in a teasing tone.

  “Yes, this big galoot.”

  Through a chorus of “Yes,” “Oh please,” and “Of course,” Hemingway enters the room. He pauses to show off his best regal pose, eating up the attention of his feminine admirers.

  “Hemingway, be polite,” Mick says.

  On cue, the big dog sits in front of each woman, one by one, and holds out his paw.

  “Don’t let him fool you,” Mick says. “He’s as much looking for treats as he is saying hello.”

  When Hemingway gets to Emma, she strokes his head. He leans against her wheelchair waving his tail back and forth. After a short while, he eases down onto the floor, letting out a soft harrumph as he settles in.

  As the group in The Ink Well finish sharing the day’s writing obstacles and triumphs, Niall enters with a bottle of Jackson-Triggs Vidal Icewine Reserve. “I think you’ll enjoy the fruit-forward aromas of papaya, mango, and apricot in this dessert wine.” After pouring, he says, “In Italy, a meal isn’t over until something sweet, or dolce, hits the tongue. And while this isn’t Italy, it is Pines & Quill, and the same holds true.”

  With that, Libby steps around him bearing a tray of tall dessert glasses of gelato affogato. While handing out spoons, she says, “The combination of hot espresso and vanilla ice cream is delicious. Dig in before it melts. And before I forget, how did focusing on ‘Flip it Over’—last night’s card from The Observation Deck—work out while writing this afternoon? Did it help anyone?”

  “It gave me the freedom to just start,” Cynthia says. “It was like I’d received permission to dive in.”

  Fran nods in agreement. “Me, too. I picked up a thread and moved forward from there.”

  “It wasn’t quite that easy for me,” Mick says. “But once I stuck my stake in the ground, I gained traction.”

  “Before today, I thought the story had to be in sequential order. I was a bit stuck,” Emma says. “But when I swapped two chapters, the logjam let loose, and the story flowed.”

  “I’m glad it was helpful. Fran, would you like to pull tonight’s card?”

  Her enthusiastic nod was all it took for Libby to hand her the box. “I’ve removed last night’s card, so we don’t have to worry about repeats. Choose any card you’d like.”

  Fran’s fingers go straight to the back where she pulls the last card. “It says, ‘Eavesdrop.’ What on earth does that mean?”

  Libby turns to the corresponding page in the book and reads out loud. “‘If you listen to people talk, you’ll learn how to create better dialogue. Listen where people pause in their sentences and watch how their facial expressions change when they say certain words. Include this knowledge for the characters in your—’”

  “Get down!” Mick shouts, a heartbeat before an explosion rips clumps of earth from the ground, sending them like projectiles against the house. The window shatters, spewing jagged shards of glass into The Ink Well.

  Jason removes a vial from his pocket, uncorks it, and pours clear liquid into Hemingway’s water bowl. He slips back out the mudroom door the same way he entered—with practiced stealth—and darts between the night-shrouded trees to Thoreau cottage.

  As the group pours out the front door, Jason runs to them from the direction of his cottage. “What the hell happened? It sounded like there was an explosion.”

  “There was,” Mick says. “Libby, call the police. Hemingway, stay!” After illuminating the flashlight on his cell phone, he continues, “Niall, come with me.”

  Niall turns his flashlight on, too, and they walk toward a smoldering area just off the circular drive. With the combined light focused on the charred remains, Mick says, “I’m no expert, but it looks like it was a pipe bomb.”

  “Who on earth would do such a thing? And why?”

  “It was placed where no one would get hurt.” Mick’s voice is slow as he thinks out loud. “It wasn’t a large enough charge to do much damage. But big enough to draw attention.”

  Heads lift as they hear the distant sound of a siren drawing closer. “I’ll go in and open the gate for the police,” Libby says. “Come with me, Hemingway. Ladies, why don’t you come, too?

  As the women wait in the kitchen for the vehicle sensor to buzz the arrival of a squad car, their rapid-fire conversation is speculative, circling back to the same two questions that Niall asked Mick just minutes earlier. “Who on earth would do such a thing? And why?”

  Fran jumps when the buzzer sounds. Libby pats her arm reassuringly. “Between Mick and the police, they’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Mick’s lean body is silhouetted against the headlights as he walks to meet the squad car. “Hey, Dan, thanks for coming out,” he says, shaking the officer’s hand.

  “What happened, Mick?”

  “Grab your flashlight and follow me. I’ll show you.”

  After studying the gaping hole, Dan scours the surrounding area with an intense beam. Shaking his head, he says, “Even with my SureFire it’s still too dark. I’ll come back in the morning when it’s light. Hopefully, we’ll find something then. And I’ll bring a photographer with me. In the meantime, help me get this area roped off. I’ve got CS tape and stakes in the trunk.”

  After securing the area, Dan says, “You know the drill. Make sure nothing’s disturbed.”

  “I’ll keep everyone clear,” Mick says. He hears the yellow plastic rattle in the sea breeze as a stray end waves like a torn flag.

  “The wind’s picked up,” Dan says. “Let’s go inside so I can meet your guests and take their statements.”

  Mick nods toward Niall. “I believe you know my brother-in-law, Niall MacCullough.” Turning, he adds, “And this is Jason Hughes. He’s one of this month’s writers in residence.”

  After introductions are made, Niall suggests, “This could take a while. Why don’t you all sit down at the table, a
nd I’ll make coffee.”

  Before they can move, all heads turn as a wind-whipped priest blusters into the room.

  “Paddy, what are you doing here?” Niall asks, an expression of bewilderment on his face.

  “I heard on the police scanner that there was an explosion at Pines & Quill. What the devil’s going on?”

  “You heard right,” Niall says. He turns to his guests. “I’d like you to meet Father Patrick MacCullough of St. Barnabas Parish. He’s also my brother.” Niall turns back to Paddy. “I’m just about to serve coffee. Would you like some?”

  “Yes, please. But make mine Irish.”

  “I’d like that, too,” Jason says.

  An hour later, and after paying particular attention to Fran, Dan says, “The way I understand it is that none of you, except Mick, saw a flash. You heard him shout, ‘Get down!’ then heard an explosion. That’s when everyone went out the front door, where Jason joined you from his cottage because he heard the blast too.”

  They all nod in agreement.

  Dan takes Mick’s statement last. When he’s done, Mick adds what he told Niall earlier. “I think the bomb was intentionally placed where no one would get hurt. The charge wasn’t large enough to do much damage, only to draw attention. Now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, it seems like a diversionary tactic, but I don’t know why. The last time I was used in diversion, my partner, Sam, was killed.”

  Mick pauses before continuing. “As you know, I was on the police force. Five years ago, my partner and I were intercepting a high-speed drunk driver. We’d just radioed for backup when our windshield shattered. Sam was driving. He was killed instantly. The squad car smashed head-on into a bridge embankment. The chase was a diversionary tactic to draw a unit to the bridge so that an officer could be killed. That diversion allowed for a heist from the evidence room at the police station. They got away with over ten million dollars of heroin.”

  After thanking everyone for their cooperation, Dan puts on his cap and starts to leave. “I’ll walk you out,” Father MacCullough says. “I need to get back to the parish.”