"I'll let the FBI agent know," she said. "He's looking for information about the victim."
Reagan leaned in, gathering the used place setting from the space next to Cara and wiping the counter beneath before she ran the dishes back to the kitchen. The plates clattered against each other. "He probably questioned everybody in town," she said when she returned. "Don't you think?"
Exactly.
Cara stared down into her mug, willing the anxiety swirling through her brain to quiet.
"That's so sad about the Agent’s brother," Reagan said. "I hope this isn't related."
"Me, too."
A group of silver-haired fishermen shouldered their way inside, bringing the smell of bait and diesel with them. Reagan sighed and pushed away from the counter. "Off to work." Menus in hand, she headed for the new customers.
Cara finished her coffee, left cash on the counter, andheaded down the street to Pearl's Mercantile. At least Sawyer's rental was nowhere in sight. With any luck, she'd stay ahead of him in their race for clues.
The mercantile smelled like beeswax and old wood, crammed with everything from fishing tackle to handmade pottery. Pearl, tall and slender with an intelligent face wreathed in a cloud of snowy white curls, stood behind the register, sorting through a box of new inventory. She looked up when the door chimed, her weathered face creasing into a smile.
"Cara. Good to see you, hon." She caught Cara with that piercing gaze of hers. "Heard you had quite a morning."
Cara swallowed hard, careful to look somewhat stunned. "I'm good. " She shook her head slowly. "That was...something."
"Wade told me." The older woman sighed. "Sorrowful business, no matter who the man was."
"For sure." Cara moved through the narrow aisles, trailing her fingers over fishing line and canvas bags. The textures grounded her—smooth nylon, rough canvas, cool metal hooks. Casual. Just shopping. She picked up a package of coffee filters she didn't need.
"He came into the shop, you know," Pearl said. "About three weeks back."
Cara's hand tightened on the coffee filters. The cellophane crinkled. "The dead man?"
"Mmhmm. Wade showed me a photo. Dark-haired fellow. Moved like he had somewhere to be. Not like a tourist at all." Pearl set down her inventory box. "Tourists wander. They stop and look at things. This man moved with purpose. Like military, almost. Very deliberate."
Pearl had spotted the same thing she had. The dead man had moved like someone with training. Someone who knew how to assess situations, read environments, stay alert.
"What did he want?"
"Bought a map of the coastline. The detailed one with all the coves and inlets marked. Asked about the history of the marina, who'd been running boats out of here for a long time." Pearl's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Professional questions. Like he was conducting an investigation, not planning a day trip."
Cara's throat went dry. "Did he say what he was investigating?"
"No. But he asked about smuggling." Pearl's voice dropped even lower. "Wanted to know if there'd been any history of it in Haven Cove. If anyone ever got caught running contraband through these waters."
The air in the shop suddenly felt too thin.
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth. That there were rumors back in the day, but nothing recent. Nothing proven." Pearl studied Cara's face. "He seemed disappointed. Like he was hoping for more."
So far, that didn’t sound like someone on her trail. "Did he mention where he was staying?" Cara forced her voice to stay level.
"No. But I figured if he wanted privacy, he'd go up to Seafoam Lodge. That old place off the highway, tucked back in the pines. The kind of place where nobody asks your business."
Seafoam Lodge. Again.
Cara grabbed another item from a nearby shelf without looking at it, just to have something to do with her hands. A spool of twine. The rough hemp fibers scratched her palm. "Thanks, Pearl."
She paid for the coffee filters and the twine she didn't need. Outside, she stood on the sidewalk and let her brain work. The late afternoon sun warmed her face, but she felt cold inside.
Her old life whispered to her, the con artist brain that never really shut off. She could see the pattern now. The dead man had been investigating something in Haven Cove. Asking careful questions. Staying off the radar.
