The Witch's Bones Page 3

  From the moment she saw him, Martine had this unsettling feeling of familiarity. How could she possibly know him? But he reminded her of someone. Someone major. Someone important. As he continued to make his way in her direction, she realized exactly who it was.

  It had been many years since her junior high school English class had discussed the myths of the Greek and Roman gods, but she remembered drawings and statues of Poseidon. And here he was, right in front of her. Beard, shoulders, chest . . . of all her recent frantic sightseeing in Oyster Cove, nothing had prepared her for an encounter with a Greek god.

  The odd thing was, he seemed determined to encounter her, and Martine might have known why immediately, if she had more awareness of how truly pretty she was. But her thick crown of curly black hair, golden brown complexion, and huge, deep sparkling eyes were making quite an impression. The young man walked straight up to her and planted himself just inches away. And then . . . what a smile. He looked at her soaked clothing and nodded approvingly, as he launched into a good-natured rant.

  “You want to hear one of the dumbest laws ever conceived? You’re not allowed to be in here with your street clothes on. Did you know that? I think the rationale is that they’re very heavy and increase your drowning risk. But I think we all have the right to choose our own risks, and I suspect you agree. Paradoxically, we’re also not allowed to swim here without any clothes. Which is just a bit puritanical, don’t you think? I mean, I realize it’s a family beach. But shouldn’t there at least be a private little cove for some healthy skinny dipping?

  “Too many clothes. Not enough clothes. Way too many rules, that’s what I say. Why are we listening to all of these bureaucrats? Keep your dog leashed. Why shouldn’t they enjoy a day of freedom at the beach, just like us? I gotta admit, I break that one all the time. Which I think you totally get, because I can see that you’re a woman who makes her own rules. You know what they say about rules?”

  There was something about his air and his uncensored babble that freed Martine up to ramble likewise. “Unjust laws exist. Shall we obey them, or shall we transgress them at once?”

  The Greek god looked thunderstruck. “You know, busting out Thoreau is usually something people save for the third date.”

  “I think he was talking more about slavery, though, than skinny-dipping. Although if any of the transcendentalists had been a nudist, it would have been him.”

  It had been over eight years since Martine had been on her last date, but the look of gleeful intrigue on his face seemed unmistakable. An especially large wave crashed into them, threatening to knock Martine to her knees. But her new friend grabbed her firmly in what almost felt like an embrace, had it not been justified for emergency purposes.

  As Martine closed her eyes to blink the splash of water out of them, she was startled by the most vivid vision of this young man kissing her. A really long, intense kiss. What was up with that? She barely knew this guy and she really wasn’t the kind to indulge in those kinds of wild fantasies. Of course, it had been a really long time since she had been involved with anyone. Maybe it was the euphoria. Maybe it was the motion of the ocean. In any case, she needed to get back onto dry land and compose herself.

  As they headed back to shore, a black Labrador started barking frantically at them.

  “That’s Ahab,” her new friend explained. “He’s not as fond of the water as his namesake. He worries that I’m going to get in trouble. He’s worse than my mother.”

  As they exited the water, Martine could see a lovely young woman with three small children heading in their direction.

  “That’s my family. And I suspect they have snacks. Would you care to join us?”

  A wife and kids! How could Martine have misread his signals so badly? No, she would most definitely not like to join them. Geez. What had she been thinking?

  “Enjoy your . . . snacks,” she said tersely over her shoulder as she strode away quickly.

  Every inch of her clothes was dripping wet. She settled on a patch of hot, dry cement to wring out as much water as she possibly could without actually disrobing. It was still a very hot day, and in half an hour, she would probably be completely dried out.

  Of course, she was subjected to Mr. Greek God and family busting out the picnic cooler and luxuriating in their oceanside feast. Well, good for him. Clearly, he was a family man, and he had found a woman who’d supplied him with all the rug rats he needed.

  She certainly would not have been a good match for him, given her aversion to the burdens of family obligations, the irritating demands of children, and her general unfitness for large sociable groups. It just wasn’t her thing. Why, then, was she feeling so bummed out when she hadn’t really been in the market for a Greek god in the first place?

  Now, what did he think he was doing? He was headed right for her, with Ahab bounding after him. Plus, a wobbly two-year-old toddling in his wake. Why hadn’t she just left when she’d had the chance?

  He handed her a paper plate topped with two oatmeal cookies. “It just occurred to me that when I said that this is my family, I should have clarified that this was my sister, my niece, and my two nephews.” He looked carefully to see if there was a reaction of relief, and Martine reluctantly gratified him. “Even Ahab doesn’t belong to me. Although he thinks he does.”

  The two-year-old had reached them and looked intently at Martine. She gave him a big smile, which prompted him to come in close, turn around, and plop right into her lap. He twisted his head and gave her a big toothless grin.

  “That’s Crew. He’s a big, shameless flirt. C’mon, dude, I saw her first.”

  Crew leaned back against Martine’s chest, perfectly at home. In a quirky flash of her imagination, Martine saw an image of the baby’s face, only it was matured to where he appeared to be about five or six years old. How odd.

  Crew’s uncle shook his head at his presumptuously friendly nephew. “You’re the worst wingman ever. Next bar night, I’m leaving you at home. Now, I think it’s time that we left Ms. . . . Ms. . . .?”

  “Cadet. Martine Cadet.”

  “Left Ms. Cadet in peace. I am Morgan, by the way. Morgan Beaumont. So, Cadet. That sounds rather military.”

  “It’s French.”

  “Oh, French! Well, I know how the French say goodbye.” He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on both cheeks, which Crew promptly tried to imitate.

  “Haitian French,” Martine clarified, a bit taken aback by the more intimate kiss that again flashed before her eyes.

  “Ah. My bad. So how do the Haitian French say goodbye to their new friends?”

  “With great suspicion.”

  Morgan was hooked. “Got any plans for the Fourth? No? Meet me here for fireworks. I’ll bring the food. Seven o’clock sound good? Right here, okay?”

  Martine’s reluctant smile was the only confirmation required. Morgan scooped Crew up into his arms and whistled for Ahab to follow them back to the family picnic.

  A date!

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next day, after a reassuring follow-up call with Dr. Svenson confirming that the bloodwork was all coming up healthy, Martine sheepishly asked to be passed over to Ruby, the only other young woman she really knew.

  “You know, I haven’t had to go out regularly in a long time, so all of my clothes are pretty old, and I just noticed that you and I are about the same age and that your clothes are pretty nice, and maybe you could tell me where some good places to go are?” Martine rambled sheepishly.

  “Oh, absolutely. Are you free at four o’clock today?”

  “Don’t you have to work?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Dr. Svenson told me that it was our highest priority to make sure that transplant patients had a healthy mental and physical transition after the operation, and I’m pretty sure that includes wardrobe emergencies.”

  “I don’t know that I would call it an emergency.”

  Ruby thought for a moment about Martine’s bagg
y, comfortable, blandly neutral, and slightly threadbare items. “Maybe we should get started at three o’clock.”

  Ruby wasn’t Oyster Cove’s biggest fashionista, but she was a very helpful guide nonetheless. She knew were all the affordable boutiques were, and she was a pretty good judge of what was most flattering for Martine, who hadn’t been clothes shopping in almost a decade.

  Through the changing room door, Ruby asked nonchalantly, “So, how have you been feeling since the operation? Everything going okay?”

  “It’s perfect. My legs are working perfectly. The pain is gone. It’s like a long nightmare finally ended. I mean seriously long. I can’t ever remember a time when I wasn’t at least a little sick. And now, look at me.”

  “Well. Why don’t you come out here so I can do just that?”

  Martine made her shy appearance in a bright pink flirty party dress, not entirely comfortable with how downright cute she was looking. She was a hacker, for heaven’s sake, not a model.

  “Very nice. I’m going to have to insist that you buy that outfit. I mean, I know you work at home and don’t need a lot of dressy things, but every once in a while, we all have special occasions, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “So, I was just wondering . . . have you noticed anything strange lately? Have you seen anything strange, felt anything strange, or has anything weird happened that was hard to explain? Anything?”

  “Strange, like how?”

  Ruby really wanted to know whether any of Lilith Hazelwood’s formidable powers had passed on to Martine, but she didn’t wish to alarm her. “People or things, doing things, saying things, feeling things that you wouldn’t have expected. Any hard to explain phenomenon?”

  Martine looked away, embarrassed. “Actually . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I did get asked out on a date.”

  This wasn’t the supernatural occurrence that Ruby had been fishing for, but it was almost an even bigger surprise, and certainly an exciting development.

  “Sweet. What does he look like?”

  “This is gonna sound pretty ridiculous, but . . . you know those Greek mythology pictures? Poseidon, the god of the sea with his huge beard and his broad shoulders. That’s what he looks like.”

  “You met a Greek god. In Oyster Cove. You step out of your apartment for one week, and you meet a Greek god! I’ve been signed up with a dating service for two years, and I never met anything approximating a Greek god. Okay, now I’m starting to see the inspiration for getting some new clothes. Bikini next.”

  Martine had been feeling a little silly about her wardrobe quest. It was a relief to be around someone who understood her dilemma. And someone she could talk to about Morgan. They became so absorbed in their clothes hunt and girl chat that she forgot Ruby’s very odd line of questioning.

  *****

  Back at home, surrounded by a mountain of new purchases, she quickly turned her computer on to check any email messages and to tie up loose ends for her latest clients.

  Now, Martine had herself once or twice been the target of another hacker. It was a strange and infuriating experience. And it looked as if today was going to be another one of those occasions. Her email screen of messages dissolved to a blank screen, which then transformed into a local news broadcast. It was a very jarring experience.

  “Tragic news coming out of the Fourth of July weekend. The owner of a popular yacht rental company, Theodore Kingston, was found dead in his home this morning from a single gunshot wound to the head. It is believed that the wound was self-inflicted, and there appears to have been a suicide note written on the computer in front of him. In other news . . .”

  Interesting. The Destroyer was dead. The man who’d caused so much misery and aggravation with all of his negative online reviews had killed himself. But why? He had an extremely successful business. He had to be profoundly unhappy about something, but what? Well, that was a shame, but she had bigger personal problems to wrestle with right now. Such as, what had just happened her computer? Who had put a bug in her computer, and how was she going to get the bug out?

  Thankfully, the screen soon faded back to her email account. And it never reoccurred for the remainder of the evening. Still, it was worrisome, as she couldn’t locate the cause of the problem. Or the motivation. What a lame hack.

  While she bustled around her apartment putting the new things away, and trying on a few of them again, she reflected that hanging out with other people wasn’t as unpleasant as she had remembered it to be. Morgan and Ruby were both pretty interesting company. Admittedly, she was probably overly influenced by an emotional reaction to regaining her health and her legs. It wouldn’t do to lose sight of how truly annoying most people actually were.

  Still, the future was looking rather bright.

  Except for Theodore Kingston.

  *****

  Millionaire suicides don’t happen all that often in Oyster Cove. Martine was fully expecting the story to be front-page news in the local papers, and probably the Boston paper as well. No doubt, it would be the talk of the town.

  But nothing could’ve been further from the truth. The front-page headlines were all about Fourth of July events. That was to be expected. But there was no mention of Mr. Kingston. Not at the bottom of the page. Not on the second page or the third page or anywhere in the paper. Nothing in the Boston paper. But there had been news coverage of this yesterday morning. Certainly, it would’ve reached the papers by now.

  She knew someone who would know all about the story, someone she owed a visit to, in addition to a whole bunch of gratitude. She dropped in on a very surprised, very delighted Jeremy Todd at his legal office.

  “Martine! You look wonderful. I dropped in on Dr. Svenson to ask him how things had gone, and he said that it couldn’t have gone better, which I can now see for myself.”

  “Jeremy, if it hadn’t been for you . . . if you hadn’t helped me out—”

  “My pleasure. My very great pleasure. So, is everything going well? Any problems? Strange side effects? Unforeseen weird side effects?

  Martine wrinkled her brow. “No. Things couldn’t be better. Except I also wanted to express my condolences for the death of one of your clients, Mr. Theodore Kingston.”

  “Theodore Kingston? Theodore Kingston is dead? How? When? How did you know he was one of my clients?”

  “The same way that I know everything that I know. I just had my eye on him for a while.”

  Jeremy had already grabbed his phone and was dialing a number. “Can’t imagine what your eye was doing on my client. Where did you hear about this? Oh, hello, Mr. Kingston. So happy to hear your voice. Yeah, yeah, I know it was me who called you. I just wanted to double-check with you about . . . about . . . that whole arcade deal. Just wanted to make sure that you hadn’t changed your mind about that.”

  All the while, Jeremy was giving Martine the evil eye as he tried to make it through this awkward conversation. “Yeah, I don’t think it would’ve gotten much tourist business. They really do want to spend their holidays indoors. So . . . good call. Talk to you soon. Bye-bye.”

  Martine was seriously confused. “So, what you’re trying to say is, that your client is alive.”

  “Very much alive. And thinking that his attorney is a bit of a loon. If I weren’t so happy to see you on your feet, I’d be ready to wring your neck.”

  “I guess it could’ve been a prank. But I know those broadcasters. It was a real, actual broadcast. Anyway, I guess I just need to take a closer look at my computer. Something has gone screwy.”

  “Well, now that you’re on your feet, you’re going to have to have lunch with me and the mayor one of these days.”

  “Oh, I forgot—just one degree of separation away from the mayor! Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work, and have a good Fourth.”

  “You too, kiddo.”

  Just as Martine made her exit, Jeremy’s words floated back to her—unforeseen weird side effects. Hadn’t R
uby been blathering on about something to that effect? What on earth were they getting at? It was a bone marrow transplant, not electroshock therapy.

  *****

  On the Fourth of July, apparently, Greek gods like to tone down their allure with T-shirts and cargo shorts. It wasn’t really working. Morgan looked even yummier than the treats he had brought. Those included homemade guacamole, tasty turkey meatballs, tiny little teriyaki drumsticks, potato salad, and some peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, possibly the best cookies Martine had ever tasted.

  “Are you claiming that you cooked all of this?” she asked skeptically.

  “I confess—the drumsticks are from my sister. And that’s my mother’s potato salad. But the guacamole, the meatballs, and the cookies are all me. Which is more of a feat than you might think, given the size of my kitchen.”

  “Oh, do you live in one of those small studios?”

  “No, I actually live on a boat. Yeah. I’m a boat guy. Why pay rent, right? When you can live in a house that lets you float away, travel up and down the seaboard, and rock asleep at night like a baby. Do you . . . like boats?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been on one. Not that I can remember. My parents . . . died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. How did they die?”

  “It was a propane explosion.”

  It didn’t take long for Morgan to figure this one out. “On a boat.”

  Martine nodded.

  “Well, I sure have a special talent for a putting my foot in it. I should have been a contortionist. Or . . . what’s another job that pays you for blurting out idiotic things?”

  “I don’t think there’s actually a big market for that skill.”

  “So, I guess I have to stick with my current job.”

  “And what would that be?”