Page 4 of Hook, Line and Mystery

The crunch of gravel underfoot mirrored the restlessness that churned within him. Illegal lobster poaching had become more than an environmental issue; it was a threat to the livelihood of the town’s residents. It was part and parcel of what he and Clara had vowed to protect. The poaching had become systemic and commercialized, threatening those who made their legitimate living from the sea.

“Bastards,” he muttered, the words disappearing into the wind.

The sea breeze carried the taste of salt and the faintest hint of winter’s end. The town of Badger’s Drift, with its charming façades and cobblestone streets, was preparing for its Valentine’s Day celebration, heart-shaped decorations fluttered from streetlamps and in shop windows as town residents geared up for the holiday. They festooned the town’s pavilion that sat on a rocky outcropping towards the center of town and kept vigil over the sea below.

In a day or two, there would be the annual dance and lantern ceremony—a prelude to other activities prior to the big celebration at the town square. Kit had avoided such frivolity ever since Clara’s death, but his isolation had caused his friends and those who knew him concern, so reluctantly he’d begun to put in an appearance. But this year, the festivities seemed a world away from the battle lines being drawn along the shore.

Kit paused, watching the waves roll in, relentless and unyielding. They spoke to him of the relentless nature of the sea, of resistance to those who threatened it and of the necessity to fight, even if the odds against them seemed stacked. With every crash of water against rock, Kit felt resolved to solve the mystery of who was trying to destroy the livelihood of friends and people he had known his whole life, giving him purpose. Ever since Clara died, he’d retreated into the role of researcher, isolating himself from those who cared about him. But he felt Badger’s Drift, and all those who called it home, needed him and he told himself he wouldn’t let them down.

Turning toward home, the melody of the ocean followed him, a lament for what once had been and a harbinger of what might yet be—if only he dared to listen. Kit’s home awaited, a refuge steeped in memories and solitude. As he walked, he could feel resolve begin to wrap around him like a warm coat, a familiar comfort in the twilight of Badger’s Drift.

CHAPTER3

ABBY

The following morning, Abby made her way down to The Anchored Bean Café. She’d had breakfast in the early hours of the morning at the B&B and had put in several hours of writing. Deciding she deserved a little break, she packed her laptop, found a table in the back with a great view, and now cradled a steaming mug of caffeine heaven. The smell of the delicious dark roast coffee mingled with the cinnamon-spiced air of the café. Inhaling deeply, she let the robust aroma recharge her batteries, ensuring the floodgates of her creativity remained open. Around her, the café was a veritable smorgasbord of life; the laughter and low hum of conversations acted as a lullaby to the half-developed ideas and written pages staring back at her from her laptop screen.

Her gaze drifted across the room, catching snippets of life unfolding: an elderly couple sorting through a newspaper, a mother pacifying her child with a blueberry muffin, a couple of teenagers getting lattes and finding a place to study. Abby’s eyes lingered on the maritime décor, the wooden beams overhead like the ribs of an old ship sheltering her from the February chill outside. The walls were a gallery of local history, local artists, and sepia-toned photographs whispering tales she longed to translate into words.

She could almost see framed covers of her books being added to the décor. When the hell had that entered her brain?

From the café’s waiting line, Abby heard a woman’s voice tinged with enthusiasm. “I can’t wait for Valentine’s Day this year. The heart-shaped wreaths on every door, the dance, the couples strolling by the harbor—it’s just so romantic and beautiful.”

“Pure commercial gimmickry,” a man from behind her in line countered, his voice cutting through the atmosphere like a schooner through calm waters. His cynicism hung in the air, a note out of tune with the warm ambience that permeated the café.

Abby’s fingers tightened around her mug. That voice, rich and confident, belonged to someone who didn’t just speak, but proclaimed; someone who clearly hadn’t been swept away by the charm of the festivities that surrounded Valentine’s Day in Badger’s Drift.

“Kit, come on, not everyone sees it that way.” A stout man sat up at the table to her right and pointed a finger at the other man.

She turned her head slightly, not wanting to be seen as being nosy. She was curious about the source of the dissenting opinion. The man named Kit was standing towards the end of the line with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wore faded jeans and a black sweatshirt with a marine-themed graphic. It fit snugly across his wide shoulders and was molded to his muscular frame. It was hard not to notice how his light brown hair gave him a boyish charm despite the seriousness etched into his rugged features.

More than that, she could almost feel her heart skipping a beat—a sensation that seemed to go hand-in-hand with intrigue.

“Love shouldn’t be reduced to chocolates and expensive dinners,” Kit said, his voice carrying the weight of his convictions. “It’s supposed to be about true connections, not casual transactions.”

Abby observed him. He seemed to hold the day most people reserved for expressing those connections in disdain. A stray and random thought crossed her mind: would he be as dismissive of the novels she wrote? They weren’t really stories that reflected reality, but her characters embraced not just the romanticism of love, but its true depth and meaning.

As she often did, she saw the beginnings of a story—not just in his words, but in the way his hands gave animation to his sentiments, and the blue of his eyes seemed to hold the depth of the sea itself. It was the complexity and conflict that beckoned her. The writer within couldn’t turn away from such a character—from such raw material that begged to be understood and translated into the pages in a book.

“Maybe,” she whispered, surprised to realize she’d spoken aloud, “there’s more to Valentine’s Day than you think.”

The man named Kit turned to locate the source of the voice, looking as though he meant to challenge her assertion, thought better of it, and turning away, dismissing her. Instead, his attention was drawn back to the fishermen who had moved from the frivolities of Valentine’s Day to the grimmer topic of lobster poaching.

“Damn it,” one of the fishermen grumbled, his voice a gravelly timbre that spoke of years at sea. “They’re at it again. I found another batch of traps yesterday, all of them empty.”

“Poachers are bleeding us dry,” added another, his hands clenched around his cup as if he could wring the culprits out of it.

Kit nodded. “The law’s too soft on them,” said Kit, his disdain evident in his tone of voice.

“Agreed,” said one of the other men, “We need real consequences, not just a slap on the wrist.”

The first fisherman nodded. “Lobsters are worth more than just money; they’re part of Badger’s Drift’s—all of coastal Maine’s—lifeblood.”

“That might not be too bad if the slap was inflicted by an empty lobster trap,” concluded another.

The others in the café agreed with him. Abby watched Kit, her gaze tracing the lines of tension in his face and in the set of his shoulders. This wasn’t just cynicism speaking; there was genuine concern, fear, and frustration. These men saw their livelihood being threatened with little being done about it.

She acknowledged to herself not only her respect and admiration for the fishermen in general, but for Kit in particular. There seemed to be a depth about him that formed the foundation of who he was. He was a man who seemed to be full of contradictions, and ones she wanted to explore.

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