Kale closed his cell phone. Things at Conner and Sons were still rolling along smoothly without him. He didn’t like spending this much time away from work, but it was the only way he could keep up with his new project. This time of year, Saturdays, sometimes Sundays, were required to prep for the coming season. He should be doing his part.
Sarah Newton paced the chief’s office, annoyed that they were being made to wait yet again by a member of law enforcement.
That was the other thing about people from New York. They thought everything had to happen now. Life here didn’t move at that pace. Patience was more than a virtue; it was a way of life. Like waiting for the snow to finally melt away for the last time each spring. Slowly hauling up a lobster trap, each turn of the hydraulic lift increasing the anticipation of a rich catch. Watching the sun slowly sink into the deep blue sea at the end of the day.
She wouldn’t understand any of that.
Learning to appreciate those things was the only way he’d kept his sanity after his father’s accident.
Long-buried emotions attempted to surface. He pushed them away and immediately adjusted his attitude. Coming back here and following through on his responsibilities had been the right thing to do. No regrets.
People like Sarah Newton wouldn’t understand that level of commitment. They lived for the moment.
He followed her movements back and forth in the room. Maybe he wasn’t giving her enough credit. Her life was ... different from his. That was all. She had no family obligations. She apparently poured everything into her work. Ultimately, she was free to make her own choices. She could live her life the way she chose.
Maybe that was the appeal. He envied her freedom.
But he didn’t regret his choices. He couldn’t regret doing the right thing.
As he watched her, he wondered about the demons that drove her. Last night he’d gotten a glimpse of a vulnerable side. But only a glimpse. She was strong. Determined and deeply committed to accomplishing her goal here. What would it be like if that fierce determination was focused on a connection with another human being? Images of frantic sex acts transposed themselves in front of his eyes.
Kale blinked. What the hell was he doing?
Lucky for him, Chief Willard strolled into his office smelling of winter, cold air, and chimney smoke. “Sorry for the wait.” He propped a smile into place and closed the door behind him. “I’m pleased to finally have the opportunity to meet you, Ms. Newton.” He looked from her to Kale and back. “What can I do for you today?”
She glanced at Kale to see if he was going to start. He motioned for her to go ahead. This was her theory; he wasn’t about to take her glory—or her derision when the chief dismissed her hypothesis with fact. Kale had had a chance to think about the scenario, and he felt certain that the chief, as the one before him, had investigated any anonymous gifts. Maybe they didn’t do things around here the way they were done in New York, but things got done just the same.
Maybe if Kale stopped thinking about what a great ass Sarah Newton had, his conclusions would come to him a little faster and save the trouble of bugging the chief.
“Rachel Appleton received a dozen red roses from an anonymous sender this morning,” Newton informed the chief. When that didn’t get the hoped-for reaction, she added, “The message on the card was ‘Deepest regrets.’”
The chief seemed to consider the news as he leaned against the closed door, the file he carried clutched in both hands. “Did you check to see if all the cards with all the flowers and the mountain of other gifts were signed? Seems to me that would be the only way your suggestion might be relevant in some way or another. Wouldn’t you say?”
Frustration sketched itself across Newton’s face, demonstrated itself in her posture. “There’s a vase exactly like it sitting on the counter at the Gerard home. Wouldn’t you say there’s a strong likelihood the card will read the same way?”
The chief flicked a glance in Kale’s direction.
“We looked through the kitchen window,” he explained, resisting the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot as he’d done back in Sunday school when asked to stand and respond to a question to which he didn’t know the answer. As he had then, he tried not to look as guilty as he felt. His job was to keep Sarah Newton out of trouble, not to let her run unchecked through the village.
“All that means”—the chief pushed away from the door and moved around behind his desk—“is that someone wanted both families to be aware of their concern.”
“So you’re not going to check it out.”
This wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. No, an outright accusation. Kale looked from her to the chief, braced for an explosion.
“The fact of the matter is, we’ve already checked it out.” He reclined in his chair, gestured for the two of them to have a seat.
Kale waited to see if Newton would accept. She didn’t. So he stood.
“And?” she prompted.
“The deliveries were made by two different floral services. So you know”—he laid the folder he’d been holding on his desk—“there were seven anonymous gifts sent to the Gerard family. So far there’ve beenfour to the Appletons. Deputy Brighton is monitoring any contact with the families.”
That blew her theory full of holes. “None of these anonymous gifts,” Kale ventured, “have any connection to the murders twenty years ago?” He knew the answer before he asked the question. He’d been in on the briefing in the beginning. Aspects of possible connections had already been considered. But he wanted her to hear that.
Willard shook his head. “There are some similarities, that’s true. But, so far, there’s no reason to believe the two are connected.”
“You don’t think it’s strange”—Newton leaned forward and braced her hands on the front of his desk—“that the victims twenty years ago received the same flowers with the same note from an anonymous sender, and now that exact scenario is playing out again?”
