CHAPTER EIGHT

 

Morgan had not been exaggerating when he spoke about how small and modest his cable station was. It was literally the size of a basement with a couple of side rooms that would hold a washer, dryer, sink, and basement pantry very nicely.

There were three broadcasters, four camera personnel, the weather guy, and Morgan, the sole producer. With such a shoestring staff and budget, their broadcast was surprisingly high-quality. Martine doubted that anyone watching it could imagine the modest circumstances behind it.

“So, Jack,” Morgan asked, “Martine and I are going sailing. How’s the weather going to be this afternoon?”

Jack shook his head vigorously. “You’re not gonna want to get too far out. Big, big rain expected. Major. By four o’clock at the latest. Make sure you head in long before that.”

“Four o’clock. Gotcha.”

“As they were walking out, Morgan said, “Jack’s forecasts are so way off the mark. Ninety percent of them are absolute bunk. But he was the weather guy when I first bought the station, and good meteorologists in a town this small are pretty hard to come by. So if it rains by four o’clock today, I should give him a raise for besmirching his good reputation. Kinda doubt it though.”

“It’s kind of cool, having your own station and deciding what stories to cover. It suits you.”

“I think the family is slowly starting to figure that out. It is a kick, I gotta admit. And, not to be too ghoulish, but it really gets exciting around here whenever there’s a local murder. That’s happened more times recently than you’d imagine. But the most recent high-profile death, Theodore Kingston, that also got a lot of interest, even though it was a suicide rather than a murder. He was pretty rich, which always makes for a big story. Poor guys who kill themselves—not so much.”

“What about a suicide that turns out to be murder?”

“You got some come inside track?”

“I know Theodore Kingston’s attorney, that’s all. A lot of things aren’t adding up. Or, at least, they aren’t adding up to a convincing suicide.”

“Look at you. Ms. Detective. You can tell me all about it on the boat.”

*****

There were many ships larger than The Magellan in the marina. But with its gleaming dark hardwood trimmings and classic design, Martine couldn’t imagine a prettier boat.

Sailing is one of those things that looks really, really fun. And it sort of is. But before you get to the fun, there’s a whole lot of work involved, as Martine soon discovered. She had to take a crash course in boat design, navigation, knots . . .

“In the five percent possibility that my weather guy knows what he’s talking about, we’re gonna hug the shore. But we can head pretty far south, almost to the state line,” Morgan explained.

Before they set sail, Martine remembered the sunblock. Good thing, because as Morgan sheepishly admitted, he had completely run out. They used Martine’s lotion to slather themselves head to toe, and Morgan required a little assistance in covering his broad back. It was all Martine could do to restrain from volunteering to do his chest. Because that would be weird, right?

The fun part eventually came, holding the steering wheel and skimming through the choppy waves like a dolphin. Morgan stood right behind her with his hands lightly on the wheel, letting her do most of the steering. It was unclear whether it was a safety precaution or just an excuse to stand so close to her, which she didn’t mind a bit.

“We can put down anchor soon and give ourselves a rest—have a bite to eat, or even take a little nap. You’re probably a little tired after all that hard work. So, if you . . . felt need of a nap, that would be totally cool. I wouldn’t mind joining you.”

Martine turned around, and Morgan scrambled as the wheel was completely back in his control. She needed to look him in the eye. “A nap, eh?”

“A sweet rockin’ boat is a very nice place to take a nap. But I absolutely do not want to rush you into . . . taking a nap. I mean, the other night when you said that you had been in a wheelchair for so long, and in your apartment for so long, I figured that it’s been a long time since you were involved with anyone.”

“It has. A long, long time. In fact, it was high school. I had two boyfriends, if you want to call them that. They didn’t last very long. Just a couple of months each. And . . . quite frankly, I was never all that anxious to get involved after that. I mean, maybe I’m the only one who thinks this but . . . I think sex might be a bit overrated. It just wasn’t . . . all that.”

“Okay, I hear you. But I hope you’re willing to entertain the possibility that by the time most men are in their late twenties, they have learned quite a bit in the intervening years since their awkward, ignorant sixteen-year-old moves.”

“I am willing to entertain the possibility and to be entertained by that possibility.”

Morgan’s eyes grew big and hopeful. Unbeknownst to him, he had a very sexy, explicit premonition working in his favor. But Martine wasn’t sure whether this was the boat ride, or maybe it was some future boat ride that was fated to be their first time.

“What’s for lunch?” Martine asked, trying to remember the details of her vision.

“Mini turkey burgers, some sweet potato fries—those are really good—and . . .”

“Strawberry tarts?”

“How did you know? You been sneakin’ a peek in the refrigerator? So, you’re ready to eat?”

“Not now. We could eat after.”

“After . . .?”

“After our nap.” Martine smiled encouragingly. The afternoon’s menu sealed the deal. There’s no point in fighting fate. At least, not when it involved Morgan’s well-muscled backside and a desert of strawberry tarts.

Not to mention—exactly what is it that men have learned about sex by the time they’re in their late twenties? She didn’t mind finding out.

 

*****

Martine found herself at the drugstore again, ready to buy another bottle of sunblock for future boat adventures. She and Morgan had completely emptied the first. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be all that long until their next boat trip. She had certainly had her skepticism about sex turned on its head. There are times when it’s good to be wrong. That afternoon’s “nap” had turned out to be all that . . . and a bag of sweet potato fries.

She was accosted excitedly at the cash register by the hopeful lottery player.

“I was so hoping to find you. I owe you everything. I’m so happy. I’m so grateful to you. Ten thousand dollars. You gave me the exact lottery numbers, and I have ten thousand dollars. That’s exactly what I needed. It’s rent for six months. It’s the answer to my prayers. I don’t know how you were able to do it. But this is one gift I can’t question. I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“Guessed the right lottery numbers?” a voice muttered behind them. “That is a rare talent. One that shouldn’t go to waste.”

Martine whirled around to find Christopher Milner, the businessman who’d first wanted Theodore Kingston to join him in his arcade venture and was now trying to convince his nephew to do the same.

“Sometimes, you just get lucky,” Martine said nonchalantly.

The happy lottery winner grabbed Martine’s hand and pumped it up and down in gratitude. Martine immediately foresaw that this truly was the beginning of better, more prosperous days for her. It was just the little bit of help she needed before landing a new office job and some real security.

“I’m a great believer in luck myself, Ms. . . .?” Mr. Milner said.

“Cadet.”

Before she could pull away, Mr. Milner grabbed her hand for a very long, sweaty handshake. Long enough to see that his future was dim, grim, and well-deserved. He was being sentenced to twelve years in prison for a wide variety of the illicit activities of a con artist—forgery, extortion, and bribery. Martine pulled her hand away in disgust.

“Excuse me. I have to . . . Wash my hands . . . get back to work.”

“Till we meet again.”

Coming from a criminal, it sounded more like a threat than a friendly farewell.

*****

Martine was to see Mr. Milner far sooner than she ever would have liked, albeit from a distance. Early the following day, on her morning walk through town, she spotted Milner and Brady Kingston discussing some earnest matter in front of the bank. In all likelihood, Mr. Milner was making another pitch for his arcade business and trying to draw Brady in.

But there was no arcade business. It was just one of Mr. Milner’s many scams of take the money and run. And though Martine had no fondness for Brady Kingston, he probably deserved at least a warning not to throw his money away. Martine hovered in a nearby doorway until the other two parted company and then hurried up to join Brady.

“Brady. Yes, it’s Martine, Jeremy Todd’s . . . associate. I just thought that you had the right to know that Mr. Milner is not on the level with you. He’s a scam artist with a long history of criminal offenses, although he hasn’t been charged with most of them yet. You’re only going to lose money if you go into business with him. I just thought you should know.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Although I wasn’t about to rush anything. I’m totally cash-strapped until I can sell my house, and that could take several weeks. But he was making it sound like a good investment, so I guess you helped me dodge a bullet.”

“Cash-strapped? But you’re about to get $1.8 million for the yacht business. That will tide you over pretty nicely until you sell the house. In fact, even if you never sell the house.”

It was odd, but it was almost as if that big impending payday had slipped Brady’s mind. “Yes, yes. That is going to keep me going for quite some time. Big money. Which reminds me that I should probably head home right now.”

“Look what we have here,” contractor Gavin Ramsey said incredulously. Neither Martine nor Brady had seen him approaching. “Just the fellow I needed to see. The thief who stole his own uncle’s valuables and let someone else take the fall for it, and let someone’s life and business be ruined for it, and just kept his mouth shut.”

“Yeah, I can see how you might be upset about that. I’m sorry. My uncle should never have written that ugly review. He was a grouch, that was for sure. And he didn’t have any proof, so he never should’ve blamed it on you.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say? You’re sorry? That it’s all your uncle’s fault? Well, he’s dead. And I’m in the poor house. You know how much money I made last year? A hundred grand. And this year, twelve thousand dollars. Mostly family and friends trying to give me a handout. That’s eighty-eight thousand dollars missing from my life that the Kingston family owes me. And I intend to get it out of you, one way or the other.”

“I don’t have that kind of money. All I have is my uncle’s house and a tiny bit of cash. Besides, I didn’t take anything from anyone. I didn’t take eighty-eight thousand dollars from you. That’s not on me.”

Martine had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from suggesting that after Brady received $1.8 million from the sale of the yacht business, it would be an easy and kind gesture for him to throw a little monetary gift in Gavin Ramsey’s direction as a show of apology for his uncle’s cruelty.

“Oh, I fully intend to sue Theodore Kingston’s estate for damages. So don’t spend all the money before I get my share.” He looked at Martine with irritation. “So, you’re good friends with this guy now? This thieving piece of scum?” Shaking his head, he stormed away.

Martine shrugged. “It’s not the worst idea in the world. I mean, what’s the different between $1.8 million and $1.712 million? It’s probably nothing to you but a lifesaving difference to him. It’s just good karma, don’t you think?”

Brady seemed lost in thought. And Martine was not the only one who wanted to weigh in on his financial matters. Naomi Webster approached the two of them, looking quite nervous but also determined.

“Brady. I just wanted to ask you to reconsider the sale of your uncle’s yacht business. It’s a valuable asset that could yield income for you for many years to come. The rest of your life. And it’s a business that you know how to run, although there might be certain changes that you need to make in how you conduct your business—”

“I’ve already agreed to it. It’s a done deal. In fact, it’s gonna go down in just an hour. I’m going to transfer over the ownership to Mr. Brooks, and he’s going to give me all this money, and I can’t back out of it now. That’s just the way it’s going to be.”

Again, Martine had to wonder about Naomi Webster’s profound interest in a young man who she claimed was only a church acquaintance. Not to mention that he was the nephew of a man who had been portrayed as an annoying harassment at her workplace. She should be keeping her distance from the family with a 10-foot pole, not offering financial advice. It was almost as if it was in her financial interest for Brady Kingston to hang on to this business. Why should that be?

As Brady and Naomi argued over the soundness of his impending transaction, Martine received a text from Jeremy Todd. As luck would have it, he was going to meet Brady at the Kingston residence to oversee the wire transfer. He was hoping that she could drop by as well. She texted back that she was with Brady, and no problem.

There’s actually kind of a vicarious thrill from watching someone have $1.8 million dollars deposited into their account. It’s a pleasant fantasy to imagine one’s own bank account being so transformed. If only this windfall was being given to a more deserving recipient. Still, anything that could shed a little insight into Brady’s psyche and motivation might prove to be helpful.

*****

Mr. Brooks was in a boisterously good mood. He brought his own attorney, and they conducted the wire transfer from a small laptop they brought with them. Jeremy didn’t seem very satisfied with the sales papers.

“This covers the six yachts, but there’s no mention of any loose assets on them—alcohol, food, supplies. It seems that should be more comprehensive. Also, what about your clientele list, Mr. Kingston? That is an asset that will be of considerable value to the new owner, but there’s no provision for it here. It seems this bill of sale was rather hastily conceived. I’m sure it would benefit from a few more days of hashing out some pertinent details.”

Mr. Brooks shrugged breezily. “Never sweat the little details, that’s what I always say. Besides, I have implicit faith in Brady’s goodwill. I’m sure that we can accommodate one another as need be in the future. I may even need to rely on him as a consultant, since I’m new to this business.”

“If he’s still in town. I believe you were thinking about leaving, weren’t you, Mr. Kingston?” Jeremy asked.

“Oh, no, I meant eventually. No time in the near future. I mean, where would I go? There’s no place like home.”

“Weren’t you planning on selling this place?” Martine asked.

“Well, this place, yes. This house is too big for just me. And it’s full of sad memories, you know. So yeah, I’m probably going to sell this house. But Oyster Cove? For sure, this place is home. For sure.”

“If you were my client, there would be one too many loose ends here for my tastes. But, as long as you both know what you’re agreeing to, then full steam ahead,” Jeremy said.

After that, it was just a matter of Zachary Brooks’s attorney accessing his account, Brady providing his account number, and then a quick wire transfer, fewer than five minutes from start to finish. Afterward, Zachary and Brady shook hands, and Zachary and his lawyer made a triumphant exit.

“How does it feel to be rich?” Martine inquired.

“Oh, you know.”

“No. I have no idea. It must feel kinda sweet.”

“Sure. Sure it does,” Brady said absentmindedly.

Could it be that the sobering loss of his uncle actually inhibited his enjoyment of this influx of big cash? Could it be that his encounter with contractor Gavin Ramsey had instilled any sense of guilt or responsibility in him? Had his encounter with Naomi Webster been a damper on his spirits, and why? Martine didn’t consider herself to be excessively materialistic or wealth obsessed, but geez. Where was the champagne?

*****

After several admonitions not to run up any more trees, Martine decided that she would give Mr. Lucky in the park another chance. After having been cooped up for so long, the smell of the fresh air and the grass were still highly appreciated novelties for her.

But perhaps life was just a little too complicated right now, and hiding away might have been a wiser choice. In any case, she was not at all pleased to see con artist Christopher Milner sit down on her park bench.

“Well, aren’t you the nosy Nancy? Had a little chat with Brady Kingston, did you? Talked him out of going into business with me, did you? He was leaning in my direction and about to make a very lucrative investment.”

“Lucrative for whom?” Martine asked.

“You just cost me a fortune. But I’m a reasonable man. Sometimes. I’m going to give you an opportunity to make amends. I’ve been checking you out. Oh, you’re not the only hacker in town. I’ve got my connections. I know that you’ve been seeing a psychiatrist, and I even got a little sneak peek at your psych exam. You can see the future, which makes you crazy.

“But you predicted those lottery numbers for that woman. You actually can do it. You have this amazing psychic ability to see the future. You’re not crazy. You’re priceless. And there’s no one in a better position to put some money in my pocket—the same money that you talked Brady Kingston out of giving me.

“You helped that lady win the lottery. You can do the same for me. You will do the same for me. And I’m going to want to win a whole lot more than ten thousand dollars. I want next Thursday’s Super Power Ball.”

Mr. Lucky did not appreciate Christopher Milner’s threatening tone and waved his long claws at him, in an angry swipe, with a yowl.

“Lousy cat. Okay, why don’t we mosey over to the drugstore right now? And then, you do what you do best, and your debt to me will be fully discharged. But don’t forget for one minute that I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

Trying to help good people is one thing. Trying to help this slimy character went against everything that Martine believed in. She was an ethical hacker. She also intended to be an ethical witch.

*****

Martine dutifully went to the drugstore, laid hands on the ticket dispenser, and provided Milner with a list of six numbers that he received with glee. She would have three or four days before Thursday’s Power Ball drawing and Milner’s disappointment—make that rage—which would buy her a little time. Not that she had a plan for him. She didn’t have a plan for anything! Her new abilities were starting to overwhelm her, and she really needed someone to talk to.

While Martine really wanted to school Dr. York on securing the privacy of patient records better, that would involve giving up a little too much detail about the recent complications of her life and her own hacker expertise.

But for other reasons, she actually didn’t mind having another session scheduled with Dr. York. She was being pulled in a lot of directions, not only by the slimy Mr. Milner, but by all of her visions of the future. Was it her duty to prevent all bad things from happening to anyone? Or since bad things are a part of life, was she simply supposed to step aside and leave human action and fate to themselves?

“I know that you don’t believe that I can see the future. If anyone had said to me that they could see the future just a month ago, I, too, would have thought they were crazy.”

“I don’t think that you’re crazy. That’s a phrase that we generally frown upon.”

“You think that I’m . . . disturbed. Or confused. Or delusional. Fine. Whatever you want to call it. You don’t think that I can actually see the future. But if you could just indulge me for one moment. What if I could? What if you could? What if you could see that something really bad was going to happen to someone? Is it always the right thing to try to step in and prevent it?”

“Something bad such as . . . what?”

“Such as someone being threatened with a gun. Or someone attempting to strangle me. Although that’s not really an actual question. I’ve already figured out that I’m going to do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. But what? Aside from hiding in my room forever? Should I be telling people whom they can trust? Although, I’ve already done that one too. And I earned a really unpleasant enemy.”

“Okay, I want to go over all of these visions of yours, one by one, but what I want you to keep in mind is that each one of them represents an anxiety in your life. They are like dreams, which are manifestations of the subconscious. Except yours are happening while you are awake. Now, this vision of guns and being strangled. Sometimes, they can stem from childhood memories. Sometimes even from games the children play with toy guns and pretending to hurt one another, except when you are a child, you take the threat very, very seriously. And you can carry that anxiety inside you for an entire lifetime.”

Oh, brother. The psychobabble was torturous. And yet, how could you blame Dr. Emily York for having a typical, and under most circumstances, commendable grasp on reality? How else could these premonitions possibly be interpreted by a sane doctor?

They walked out of the building together, which was perhaps a lapse of protocol on Dr. York’s part. It was a possible compromise to her patients’ privacy if they should be seen speaking to a psychiatrist. Which is precisely what happened.

Morgan was quite familiar with Dr. York. After his uncle had died, his family had been so traumatized that all had been recommended for grief counseling. It had been over ten years ago, but he still recognized Dr. York, who had held therapy sessions with Morgan’s mother for nearly a year after her brother had died.

But what was Martine doing with her? Martine was in therapy? But she seemed so healthy, so grounded, so utterly cool. But she had certainly gone through some seriously rough things in life—losing family, battling illness, and being confined to a wheelchair. It just didn’t seem as if she was carrying the trauma of those earlier events with her. But maybe he was just oblivious or insensitive. Maybe she had some problems. Maybe big problems.

This was more than a little worrisome. After all, this was the woman he intended to marry.

*****

Every Thursday night during the summer, there were major live dance events in the town center called Smooth Nights. And since the Beaumont family had discovered how deficient Martine’s dancing background was, they were all insistent that Morgan take her to as many of these dance evenings as possible.

It was a popular event held in a huge outdoor plaza. It felt as if half the town where there. Martine and Morgan noted with pleasure that the season was going to wrap up in a few weeks with a Motown evening. They certainly weren’t going to miss that.

Tonight’s theme was one especially designed to bring out the couples, old-school love classics. Corny, sappy songs that were right up Grandma Clara’s alley. The kind of songs that used to make Morgan’s eyes roll if he ever stopped to listen to the lyrics.

Tonight, as he held Martine cheek to cheek, he was thunderstruck with the wisdom of these songs. That’s exactly what love felt like! It all made him completely forget about his questions and reservations about seeing her with the psychiatrist. Martine was healthy and perfect and beautiful and one of a kind. And just like the song said, he only had eyes for her.

Martine saw that this was just the first of many, many dances together, one of which would be on a moonlit beach as they sang to one another. To think that two months earlier, she had still been in a wheelchair!

*****

After the dancing, they headed straight over to Morgan’s parents’ house. They had promised to stop by for dessert at the end of the evening.

“I can’t even have you to myself for one single evening,” Morgan groused. “We’re just lucky that they didn’t insist on coming to the dance with us.”

“I don’t know why they like me so much. No, I’m not just fishing for compliments. I seriously have never been a people person. And for the last two years, I’ve practically been a hermit.”

“And now, Grandma wants to stuff you with food. Mom wants to . . . okay, go over wedding venues with you. I told her we haven’t gotten that far. But my family is insane, and you should be forewarned. My little brother tells me about some ancient Middle Eastern tribe where if one brother dies, the other brother is obligated to marry his widow. He considers that news you can use. He’s got a bit of a crush on you, in case you hadn’t noticed.

Piper’s in heaven, ’cause she thinks she has a new sister. Sailor and Bay are ecstatic to have a new aunt. And Crew is certain that he’s your favorite. I probably didn’t do a good job of adequately warning you about my family. They are single-minded, and they are relentless. They want more family, more family, and still more family. They want me to be fruitful and multiply. And those expectations used to really get on my nerves. But now, as premature and heavy-handed as they are . . . well, I’m not really bothered by it. How about you?”

“I feel like I just stepped into the 1880s and went on a hayride with a young man and returned home to find a preacher in the living room, ready to perform the ceremony. This is all moving at super top speed for me, but . . . no, I guess I’m not bothered by it either.”

Morgan wrapped his arms around her, and they rested together, their foreheads touching, the enormity of their future now a shared vision.

*****

It was a loud, raucous evening over at the Beaumonts’. They always liked to have a big get-together a couple of days before Remy and Anchor went out on one of their major five-day, big crew trips. They insisted that Martine and Morgan demonstrate their dance moves of the evening. Morgan’s father presented Martine with a CD of Latin music that he thought would be extremely useful in developing her salsa moves.

“Show her the blueprints,” Grandma Clara insisted.

“No blueprints. No blueprints,” Morgan protested.

“What blueprints?” Martine inquired.

“Well, the plan has always been to build a house for Morgan and his family at the edge of our property. And those things take time—building permits, laying the foundation, not to mention getting the right plan together. So, even if he doesn’t need the house right now, there’s no harm in getting started. So, we’ve put together a few alternate floorplans and were hoping to solicit your opinion about them. I mean, we’re getting everyone’s opinion, so why not yours?”

“Especially hers. It only makes sense for a young woman to make decisions about her own—”

“Grandma! Don’t think I won’t wrestle you to the ground, because I will,” Morgan threatened.

“And just exactly what makes you all so sure that I need to be consulted about these blueprints?” Martine challenged them.

This was greeted with collective smiles, sly grins, and even a few tears.

“Because of the way that he talks about you. There’s no doubt in his mind. And so, there’s no doubt in ours either,” his mother said earnestly, blinking back the tears.

This was a pretty momentous occasion, one that would have sent Martine running for the hills if she hadn’t seen so many blissful and appealing premonitions of her destiny with Morgan. Why fight it?

This effusion of sentiment led to a big round of hugs, everyone wanting to welcome Martine into the family. What a far cry from her years of being shut inside her lonely apartment. She had sometimes likened her condition to a prisoner condemned to solitary confinement. But it was a punishment that she had inflicted on herself, a lonely isolation of her own making. And she was done with it. She was really kind of digging the idea of being part of a family.

But the moment soured very quickly. Her embraces with Meryl and Remy Beaumont revealed the heart-shattering images of two parents standing over graves at the cemetery, clinging to one another and sobbing uncontrollably. Her hug with eighteen-year-old Anchor showed a terrified young man trapped in a torrential storm at sea, the awareness dawning on him that he was about to face his own death. And Martine’s hug with Piper revealed a young Coast Guard rookie who had broken all safety procedures to take a boat out to find her brother and had gotten caught up in a storm that defied all human control.

The Beaumonts chalked Martine’s quiet, changed mood up to being overwhelmed by warm emotions. How could they even guess that their family was about to be shattered beyond all recognition? Their youngest two children were about to die.