“I’ll make a note to offer our support to the Coast Guard.” Pocock’s barely controlled boredom meant he was tired of Merry, but she figured the stakes were too high to let him balls-up disaster response.
“And of course, right now,” she plowed on, “we can help the situation a ton just by directing traffic on Washington Street and other pinch points—Children’s Beach is a biggie—where boat trailers will snarl intersections. It’s going to be chaos in Madaket, too, once people start fighting for ramp space to haul their vessels out of the water.”
“Right.” Pocock’s mouth furled in a snarl. He had often told Merry that Nantucket’s ban on traffic lights was ridiculous, because it forced people to manage a simple problem of urban order. Washington Street’s gridlock was a personal wound.
“NEMA will take care of setting up a shelter at the high school, and distributing relief supplies from the elementary school,” she concluded hurriedly, before he could launch into his favorite diatribe, “but they’ll need police at both places, for security.”
NEMA was the Nantucket Emergency Management Agency, an island-sized version of the federal one that coordinated disaster relief.
Pocock sighed and glanced at his watch. “That meeting’s now in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
He paused, teeth working at his lower lip. “I’m designating you notetaker.”
“Very well, sir.” Merry felt a surge of relief. At least she’d know where the gaps and problems were, heading into the storm.
“You’ll get your notes—and any resulting suggestions—to Scott Tredlow.”
“Of course, sir.”
From long habit, Merry waited for Pocock’s final word before turning to the door. This time, she counted to twenty-three while he tapped his keyboard.
“And detective?” he finally said. “Wedding or no? If disaster hits, you’re on call, just like the rest of us.”
In Provincetown, he underestimated her.
“Let’s go dancing tonight,” she said playfully, catching Matt’s wrist and swinging him around. “I brought a sundress I haven’t had a chance to wear.”
They walked from the marina up to Commercial Street, Matt and Ashley holding hands. He was third wheel again, following a few paces behind, his eyes trained on the shop windows and tourists cycling through the dusk. They followed the sound of a DJ into The Underground, where a few bodies wavered on the dance floor. He drifted toward a pool table. Matt ordered drinks. He turned his back on their whispers, the sudden shot of Ashley’s laughter. He was simmering with jealousy and longing he could neither dispel nor deny. Vodka helped a bit. So did the sound of balls clicking into pockets. The combination must have lulled his brain because when Matt touched his shoulder, he was surprised to find him alone.
“She’s gone,” Matt said tightly.
“What do you mean?”
“She went to the bathroom and hasn’t come back. What does she know? What have you told her?”
He shook his head, his mind racing. “Nothing. I swear.”
“What does she suspect?”
Everything. “Matt—”
“Come on.”
“You’re not going to find her!”
Matt turned his head, already at the door. “She’ll go back to the boat. She won’t leave all her stuff. That’s a rookie mistake—needing things too much.”
He was right, of course.
They caught up with Ash, heading the wrong way on the pier, canvas tote on her shoulder and suitcase behind her. Her cell phone was in her hand; she’d probably called a car service. He hoped she hadn’t called the police.
Ashley stopped short when she saw them. Stepped back a fraction, calculating her chances.
“I want to go home,” she said. Her voice was as plaintive as a tired toddler’s, worn out by fun. “I need to go back to work.”
“That’s not possible.” Matt slipped her phone out of her hand and tossed it into the water. Ashley made a faint mew of protest. But she didn’t try to go after it.
Matt smiled down into her eyes, gentle as death. Just as he had that first day in Long Island, when the sun still shone and only a fool would pass on adventure.
His hands circled her throat. From a distance, it probably looked like love.
Chapter Three
Tuesday morning, Peter pulled his Range Rover to a halt in front of the Mason Farms barn and found two young women in hoodies shivering beside his foreman, Rafe da Silva. Once the hurricane forecast had broken the day before, Rafe had hired a couple of construction guys to board up the farmhouse’s windows and reinforce the barn doors as much as possible. The sound of hammers and an electric saw filtered through the air now; steel ladders were propped against Peter’s second story. He glanced inquiringly at Rafe and the two women as he got out of the car.
“Pete, this is Brittany, and this is her sister, Cara.” Rafe gestured toward the pair. “They usually work with Tess at the Greengage, but I thought they could help us hunt sheep.”
The Greengage was Tess da Silva’s acclaimed restaurant downtown, the base from which she planned to cater Peter’s wedding at the end of the week, if anything was still standing once the hurricane passed.
“That’s great.” Peter offered his hand to each of the women. “I appreciate your help. We need to get our flock of merinos off the moors and into the shearing barn, but we have to find them all first. Sheep tend to stray, and they’ve got fifty acres to hide in.”
Cara glanced at the massive farm building beyond the house. “Is that the shearing barn?”
Peter shook his head. “You can’t see it from here. This barn is for equipment and offices.”
“With living quarters overhead,” Rafe added. “I’ll be sleeping there the next few nights.”
Peter’s brows rose in surprise.
“Somebody’s got to watch this place,” his foreman said. “You’re getting married.”
“Congratulations, by the way.” Brittany grinned at Peter. “We’re also your wedding staff. So, good with lamb—on the hoof, or off.”
“Thanks,” Peter said, and meant it. He turned and threw open the car’s tailgate. Ney, his mixed-breed herding dog, leapt out and pawed happily at Rafe’s knees.
“Sheep don’t stand a chance now,” Rafe said, tousling Ney’s ears fondly. “Let’s load up.”