Page 3 of Hook, Line and Mystery

She’d come a fair distance. He could tell by the way she trudged up the porch of the bed and breakfast with her suitcases in tow. The door swung open as if the building itself recognized a kindred spirit in need of refuge. Kit snorted at his own sentimentality. It was far more likely that DeeDee had seen her guest arriving and was opening the door to welcome her. She was pretty and Kit realized it had been a long time since he’d been drawn to the sight of a woman. He chuckled—the sound hollow and bereft of all warmth. Kit shifted, the old wooden planks beneath him creaking in protest as he turned back to the sea.

Leave it be. Curiosity killed the cat.

Something drew him back to stare at the porch. She was no longer visible, so Kit looked to the horizon, expecting to see nothing. He was not disappointed.

Shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, Kit headed up the worn path of the hillside, moving with a familiarity bred from years of traveling this same path in all kinds of weather. Badger’s Drift unfolded behind him –its picturesque main street was dotted with local businesses, restaurants, and quaint cottages. Strewn throughout the actual town itself were large green patches nestled amidst iron urns of wildflowers, plants and vines, and the town’s over-the-top decorations for Valentine’s Day.

Bah. Even when Clara had been alive, he’d never understood the allure of a holiday created for selling chocolates, cards, and expensive dinners. Love was about something far deeper and deserved more than tacky hearts and tawdry depictions of some half-naked cherub with a bow, arrow, and wings.

“Morning, Dr. Johnson,” called a voice from the marina below where most of the slips were empty and waiting for the hard-working fishermen and their boats to return.

“Morning, Frank.” Kit smiled, recognizing the lobsterman’s sturdy silhouette against the dock.

“Damn seals got into my traps again.” Frank grumbled as he came to stand beside Kit on the old observation deck—his annoyance carried on the wind like a kite without a string.

“Can’t blame them for trying.” A wry smile touched Kit’s lips as he spotted a harbor seal bobbing in the water, watching them with a mixture of suspicion and glee.

Spotting the same seal, Frank said, “Any day now, he’ll be asking for a share of the catch.” He laughed with a mixture of frustration and acceptance.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Kit with a smile.

“It had better be the damn seals. If there’s a poacher and I get my hands on him, I’ll be using parts of him for bait.”

Kit frowned, shaking his head as he continued toward the lighthouse. He didn’t think Frank would actually kill someone, but he wasn’t absolutely sure of that. Poachers threatened the livelihood of the fisherman. Any poacher being caught by the fishermen before Marine Patrol arrived would most likely end up in a hospital—and Kit couldn’t blame them. He wasn’t a fan of vigilante justice, but with Marine Patrol stretched so thin, he could certainly understand it.

For the past few months talk around town had been of poachers and the upcoming celebration of Valentine’s Day, which seemed an odd mix. Most had agreed that there was a concentrated and organized operation poaching and delivering their booty to who knew where. Maine’s Marine Patrol, the enforcement group that oversaw the fishery, was dedicated to arresting and prosecuting the culprits. The problem was that the fishermen needed relief and justice sooner.

The poachers had made a huge, negative impact on the fishery. Lobster traps were being systematically and repeatedly looted. The poachers were pretty brazen, often hitting the same set of traps. Kit hadn’t shared with the locals what he had with both the state’s Department of Marine Resources and the Marine Patrol: a notable decline in the local lobster population and not just those of a legal size or sex. The poachers appeared to be taking females with eggs for both meat and roe. Taking them out of the ecosystem could devastate the fishery to a point it might take years to recover.

As he neared the lighthouse, the sound of the waves crashing into the shore was combined with an endless canvas of blues and greens, topped with whitecaps. Sea creatures of all sorts lived their lives within water’s frigid embrace and gulls wheeled overhead, squawking with the untamed spirit of the coast. In the distance, a pod of dolphins danced gracefully amongst the undulating waves.

Kit hovered at the edge of visibility, his light brown hair trying to escape his snug knit cap. He could now see DeeDee and her guest standing just outside the door on the porch, bathed in the fading light of the setting sun. Kit exhaled a long-held breath—a memory long thought dead rearing its head—the ghost of a feeling he’d managed to shove down into his own depths and denied for far too long.

“Welcome to the Lighthouse Bed & Breakfast,” came the warm voice of DeeDee Hicks. Her dark hair in its messy bun was lightly frosted with silver that always reminded him of moonbeams glinting in the darkness. DeeDee extended her hand in welcome.

“Thanks, DeeDee,” the visitor said, taking DeeDee’s hand and shaking it. The visitor’s voice was softer, more cultured and refined—a sharp contrast to the more robust and rough timbre of the innkeeper. “I’m Abby.”

Abby.He liked it as he rolled the name around his mind. It was feminine yet substantial as if the woman could hold her own in a squall without losing what it was that made her female. It flowed like a melody over the ocean’s hum—a whisper of something new, or perhaps long forgotten.

“Abby. I’m so pleased to have you here! I think it’s wonderful that you’re an author.”

Kit smiled. So he had been right.

“Jessica Murdoch lives here in town,” DeeDee continued, “but she wrote her latest bestseller here at the B&B.” DeeDee beamed as she gestured towards the panoramic view. “Badger’s Drift is steeped in love stories, ghost stories, and mysteries—tragic, joyful and unending. Why, just over there...” Her hand directed Abby’s attention to a large rock formation that lay just inside the harbor as her voice was caught by the wind and tossed toward the horizon so that Kit couldn’t make out the tales of star-crossed lovers and hidden treasures that she spun. No matter; he’d heard them all.

Kit stood, watching from his secluded vantage point, the observer in him noting details—God, he sounded like a damn stalker. But something about the way Abby leaned forward, her expression seeming to mirror the passion in DeeDee’s narrative, combined with the gentle curve of her smile as it tugged at the corners of her mouth, drew his attention to her. She was dressed simply and practically. Her clothing looked elegant and real and seemed to belie the soft curves of her sturdy frame.

For the first time in years, his cock tightened. Kit had begun to think the damn thing didn’t work much anymore. But Abby didn’t just provoke a physical reaction; there was an emotional one as well as if things were shifting—some part he’d thought long dead coming back online. He shook his head, repressing the lopsided grin that had tried to emerge. An attraction to a beautiful woman was a luxury he couldn’t afford—a distraction from his work and the memories he harbored like sacred relics. There was a clear and present threat to the industry that supported so many of the town’s residents and that was what deserved his time and attention.

As the sun began to set, it painted the scene with hues of nostalgia and regret. Kit listened—the cadence of DeeDee’s voice telling tales of love lost and found amidst the ebb and flow of the waves. He should have found it enchanting, entrancing even, as did most people. Instead, each word seemed to snip at the stitches he’d sewn to try and mend his broken heart, etching a bittersweet ache into Kit’s bones. He shook his head, dispelling the romantic drivel that seemed to be shrouding him.

Another voice—a benediction of the past—vibrant and full of dreams wove its way through his memories, weaving tales of their future, dissolving into nothing when a rogue wave had snatched her from the deck. Clara, who’d stood by his side, her laughter mingling with the seagulls’ cries, her eyes alight with shared purpose. Clara, who was nothing more than a ghost with her pale blonde hair a halo in the sun, just as her touch was a phantom sensation on his skin. They’d had such grand dreams and plans, but fate had been capricious and cruel as it often was, dashing those plans and dreams against the rocks—another shipwreck in the harbor.

Kit turned away, the vestiges of indifference and sorrow settling over him like the evening fog. A part of him lingered on the porch, caught between the allure of what might be and the gravity of all that had been. His steps were silent as he retreated, the melancholy embrace of isolation pulling him back to the comfort and solitude of his home.

The beacon of light from the top of the lighthouse pierced the twilight with its steady rhythm. It was meant to guide ships safely to shore, yet for Kit, it only underscored the vast expanse of darkness that lay beyond its reach, a reminder of the solitary path he’d chosen for his own.

Kit’s gaze lingered on the revolving beam of the lighthouse, a blinking sentinel against the encroaching night. He shook his head to dispel the haunting images of Clara that clung to the edges of his consciousness. With a deep breath, he turned his focus to the present—the pressing concerns that tethered him to the here and now.

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