Page 30 of Blue-Eyed Jacks
Oh.Wow.
Too much to unpack.Except… “How do you know about the towel thing?”
Another smile, this one quirked off to the side and devious.“Mom had theJoy of Sexon the coffee table for as long as I can remember.”
“Huh.”
His eyes twinkled with mirth.“She also had a fully illustrated Kama Sutra.Wanna see how much I remember?”
“You’re dangerous.”
His grin shot wide.“I try.”
Chapter 9
Little Deer Island, Maine, July 23, 2008—Jackson
The old fishing town hadn’t changed much.Hank, the town manager, had less hair, but the same wobbly hand wave and toothy smile as strangers drove past.I leaned out the open window and sent him a low wave back, with a “Hey-ya, Hank,” to let him know I wasn’t an out-of-towner, despite the out-of-state plates.Maybe he was just friendly or somehow remembered me, but he waved back strongly with recognition.
I turned right onto a pothole-filled road that cut across the center of the little island.There was a lighthouse at the end of the two-and-a-half mile road, and if you turned south a mile before that, lay one of the most well-kept secrets I knew.The fishing shack was formerly a home.In its time, it was likely filled to the brim with screaming kids, tired lobstermen, and frazzled mothers.But now it sat empty most of the year, except for the rare tourist brave enough, or cheap enough to deal with the antique stove, leaky roof, and overflowing hodgepodge of Maine fishing memorabilia.“Brace yourself,” I warned Kate, “it ain’t pretty.”
I’d left the care of the property with the neighbor.She was a cantankerous witch, who squatted on one of the best ocean views I’d ever seen.There was a closer neighbor on this little dirt road, and he was the island’s version of police.Not that he did much more than settle dock access squabbles or arrest the occasional drunk tourist.Because of that, he was also one of the few badge-wearing assholes I actually liked.
The door screeched on its hinges.The place smelled musty and kind of fishy.It looked much worse than I remembered.“Shit.”
“Who owns this?”Kate eyed the three-quarters of a century-old tongue-and-groove walls and the piles of yellowed magazines.
“Technically or legally?”
She shot me a look that was easy to interpret as, “I’m going to murder you, Jackson.”
“Technically, the island nature preserve.But legally?A corporation that maintains the upkeep of the buildings.”Not that it truly maintained anything.It paid Crystal Dawn Hunnebaker a stipend to make sure the old shack didn’t fall down.And Crystal Dawn didn’t do repairs.She bitched for more money every year.Then, promptly spent that money on pot, not upkeep.I was thinking of firing her.
“Who owns the corporation?”
“Technically or legally?”
She threw up her hands.“I can’t with you!”
“Maybe after I work my tongue up your pussy again, you will?”
That earned me a glare.
“Aw come on, you liked it.”She did.You can’t fake moans like that.
Kate sighed.“If the corporation can be traced back to you, I’m fucked, and not like last night.It would be in ways I wouldn’t enjoy, okay?”
“It won’t be.”
This time, the sadness and the doubt in her eyes spoke to a much longer, more complex statement than was decipherable.But I felt it.Deep in my gut, I knew the fears she was trying to hide from me by obscuring it with anger.
And that was another thing.I wanted to dig deeper and find out more about her and the secrets she locked behind silent walls.
“How do you know it won’t be traced to you?”
“Because, technically, John Hardy, the local sheriff, owns the company, along with your new landlord down the road.”I pointed to the darkening traildownhill toward the cove.“John’s is that farmhouse next door.Crystal’s house is about seven hundred yards away.”
“Crystal?”Her eyes narrowed.
