Page 13 of Hook, Line and Mystery

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Martha snorted, her arms crossing defiantly. “Something’s up, and it’s hurting our waters. It’s bad for everybody.”

A jolt of urgency coursed through Kit, his mind swiftly recalibrating from the echoes of personal loss to the immediacy of community threat. Here was a mystery that demanded his attention. He could focus on it and harness the restless energy of his grief that had reasserted itself in the front of his mind.

“Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it if it’s true,” Kit murmured, half to himself, half to Joe.

Joe nodded and followed his gaze toward Martha with a slow nod of compassion.

“You know it’s true. Empty traps and dwindling populations. It’s not good. Anything affecting the sea and its inhabitants affects us all.” Joe’s voice was a low rumble, like the distant rolling thunder that promised a storm.

The thrum of conviction drowned out the animated discussion between Martha and the others in the café. Dealing with his own emotions wasn’t something he could really wrap his head around, although talking with Joe had helped. But the poaching issue was a tangible enemy, something he could confront head-on, unlike the nebulous grief that seemed to cling to his soul.

“Marine life is suffering enough without thieves stripping the sea bare,” Kit said.

Joe grunted in agreement, his eyes flicking toward the window where gulls wheeled against the backdrop of an overcast sky.

Across the room, Lowrie smoothed the fabric of his tweed jacket, the picture of nonchalance. Yet, there was something in the way his gaze lingered on Martha, a calculation behind the affable smile that didn’t sit quite right with Kit. Lying just beneath the surface and genteel charm was a sharp-eyed businessman who saw Badger’s Drift as his personal bank account. He talked a good game and hired locals, but Kit just didn’t quite buy it.

“Martha’s right. Somebody is stealing from us. Lobsters missing from traps? Kit says the populations are dwindling. There’s nothing natural about any of it.” Joe said, lowering his voice so that only Kit could hear him. “Somebody who doesn’t give a damn about the fishery is bleeding us dry.”

“Why isn’t the Department of Marine Resources or the Marine Patrol trying to help us?” asked another of the men who’d lost a whole day’s catch to the poachers.

“Because we can’t prove anything.” Kit responded.

“We can tell there were lobsters in those pots, and now they’re gone. What more proof do they need?”

“Knowing and locating evidence to find and convict someone are often very different things,” said Kit.

He stood up, chair legs scraping softly against the wooden floor. The Anchored Bean had often been a refuge, a place to nurse wounds old and new. The café’s cozy walls no longer held comfort, but instead signaled a call to battle, beckoning him to take up the cause.

“Keep an eye on the waters for me, will you, Joe?” Kit asked, knowing the answer.

The fisherman simply nodded; a silent warrior ready to watch the tides.

Leaving money on the table as a generous tip for Martha, Kit stood and nodded to her as she stood behind the counter. He stepped toward the door, each footfall literally a step in the right direction. The door swung open, the chime announcing his departure as Kit crossed the threshold, leaving the warmth of The Anchored Bean behind.

Outside, the salty, frigid February wind struck at him, carrying small shards of ice crystals to remind him that there were two questions to be solved: first, who was threatening the town by poaching the lobster at an alarming rate, and second, was he ready to let go of the past in order to embrace the future? He didn’t yet know the answer to either, but he was determined to find out.

CHAPTER7

ABBY

Abby stepped over the threshold into the hushed, book-lined sanctuary of the library in Badger’s Drift. The fragrance of musty books permeated the air, an olfactory echo of the countless fingers that had turned their pages and brought back the memory of innumerable hours spent in similar sacred places. It was a symphony for her senses: the faint creaks of aged wood underfoot, the soft rustling of paper, the sight of leather-bound spines standing sentinel on shelves and the touch of embossed titles beneath her fingertips.

She resembled an elegant wraith amongst the stacks, her tall, curvy frame cloaked in worn, comfortable jeans and a loose-knit, olive-colored sweater over a black lace camisole—the muted colors a soft backdrop against the endless texts. The jeans hugged her hips, soft from many days spent in contemplation before her typewriter and numerous washings. Her tawny hair cascaded in gentle waves past her shoulders, held back with a tortoise shell headband.

Wandering through the aisles, Abby let her fingertips graze the book bindings, feeling the pulse of stories long told by other writers in days gone by. Each title whispered promises of secrets nestled within their pages, and she absorbed the silent allure, a dialogue of souls between reader and writer. She loved old libraries with their wooden shelves and dim lighting. There was nothing wrong with modern libraries of steel, glass, and light, but they didn’t call to her the way the libraries of another age did. It was here she felt at home—here that she had spent so much of her childhood.

“Can I help you find something?” the librarian asked, her spectacles reflecting the soft glow of the reading lamp.

Abby paused, looking up as she withdrew her hand from the memoirs of an adventurous sea captain. “I’m just browsing, thank you,” she replied, the corners of her mouth turning upward in a quiet smile.

The librarian nodded, her own hands caressing the returns that awaited re-shelving.

The deeper recesses of the library beckoned, and it was there, nestled in a forgotten corner, that Abby discovered an alcove that housed an antique maritime book and a collection of vintage nautical things. The pages of the book were yellowed with age, but the tales they held of briny deeps and tempestuous love were timeless. She sank onto a cushioned chair, the book cradled in her lap, absorbing the essence of each word.

As she read, a storm of recognition surged within her. These stories, with their raw depictions of passion and peril, mirrored the complexities of her own heart—its shipwrecks and its sanctuaries. These were the very elements she yearned to infuse into her novels, reminders of why she had left academia and chosen to make a living weaving romance from the threads of human experience.

Her thoughts drifted to Kit, to last night when they’d made passionate love. His touch had been electric, the sex alternating from dominant and feral to gentle and caring—all of it mind blowing. She remembered the intensity in his blue eyes, mirroring the untamed ocean he so cherished.

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