Page 7 of Light of Day (Sea Smoke Island #1)

Heather was surprised to learn that Luke’s boat, the Izzy C , was of the classic lobster boat design, with a low stern and enclosed cabin. It even had a pulley for pulling up traps. “Are you lobstering these days?”

“I have two traps out there, just for personal use. I tried lobstering when I first left home, but the fleet didn’t take kindly to someone new trying to horn in on their territory.”

“You’re supposed to start as a deckhand so you can learn the ropes. Then you wait for someone to die so you can take their place.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know all that. Someone could have warned me.” He busied himself in the cabin, stowing a tote bag, finding binoculars for her. He’d rowed them to his mooring with the speed and power of someone who’d grown up on the water.

“Carrie didn’t?”

She caught his quickly hidden reaction to her mention of his ex-wife.

Sally had given her a quick rundown of that relationship before Luke had picked her up.

Married two years, one child, divorced, shared custody.

Everyone had been surprised when Luke stayed on the island after the breakup.

But now they were used to him, and he generally got high marks from the islanders for his part-time parenting.

“She probably did,” Luke admitted. “I didn’t used to be the best listener.”

“How very…self-aware of you.”

“Yeah, well.” He started the engine, and Heather felt the familiar vibration under her feet and in her bones. “Some of us are born self-aware, others have to figure it out as we go.”

She had to giggle at that. “It’s never been my strong point, either. It took me lots of therapy to see how every decision I made was so I wouldn’t end up like my parents. Want me to cast off?”

He nodded, and she climbed onto the bow of the Izzy C to untie the line that tethered them to the mooring—a large neon-pink buoy marked with the name Carmichael.

As he steered the boat into the channel, she coiled and stowed the rope, then clambered off the forecastle, making sure to hold on to the railing—you never knew when a wave could rock you off your feet.

“You’ve done that before,” he commented when she reached the cabin.

“Only about ten thousand times. Summer job for as long as I can remember.” She put the binocular strap around her neck. “I’ll be on the deck unless it gets too cold.”

“Give a shout if you see anything.”

It was a sunny day, bright and clear, the sky the kind of blue that made you want to sing.

Heather found a comfortable position braced on the cushioned bench along the starboard side.

It took a moment to focus the binoculars and adjust to the gentle rise and fall of the boat as it crept slowly along the shoreline.

Heather shoved aside that grim thought and focused on scanning every rock, every granite cliff-face, pine grove, grassy meadow, and stretch of beach that passed through her field of vision.

They searched the east side first, since Gabby had been staying at the Lightkeeper Inn.

On this end, sheer cliffs soared high above the ocean, facing stubbornly into the wind and waves.

Constant surf churned against their bases, forming pebble beaches and crevices in the rocks.

Heather had heard rumors of caves in those rocks, but saw no signs of any.

Seagulls wheeled at their approach, anticipating a treat of bait tossed over the side. Cormorants posed on a reef, black wings spread so the wind could dry their feathers.

God, it was beautiful here.

As they approached the fishing end of the island, homes came into view, tucked into the woods above the shoreline.

Many had private docks, some belonging to the older fishing families, some attached to more expensive summer homes.

Over the past few decades, off-islanders had been buying more and more properties and tearing down the old homes.

For so many fishermen, the big payday of a house sale was irresistible, especially because the next generation often wanted nothing to do with the hard life of a Maine lobsterman.

Best to sell and live off the profit. The rise in property values put more and more houses out of reach for anyone who wasn’t an off-island lawyer or surgeon or financier.

That meant the year-round community kept getting smaller and smaller, and those who were left had to pay higher and higher property taxes.

Heather wouldn’t be at all surprised if her mother sold their house. The prospect made her sad, in a way, but she’d already steeled herself for the day when a huge chunk of her past got signed over to a demolition crew.

For the first hour or so of their slow-mo cruise around Sea Smoke, Heather didn’t see anything unusual.

The only flashes of color she spotted came from buoys that had washed up, tangled in kelp and stranded above the tideline.

In each cove they passed, someone was swimming, or paddling a kayak, or offloading lobster traps.

Presumably, if Gabby was stranded or lost there, she’d be able to shout for help.

It wasn’t until they reached Shell Beach that she finally called to Luke to slow down. He did so, bringing the Izzy C to an idle.

“See something?”

“It looks like a visor.” She pointed out the scrap of fabric caught on a piece of driftwood emerging from the shells like a bleached bone. “Gabby has one like it. She plays tennis.”

Her throat tightened as Luke brought the boat closer to shore.

This was bad…or was it? Maybe Gabby had just lost her visor.

But what had she even been doing out here on this strange beach?

No one came here to swim; the currents were too strong here on the southern point.

It wasn’t easy to reach, either, requiring a mile-long trek down a muddy, swampy footpath.

Growing up, Heather had been here only a few times, although those memories had really stuck with her.

The whole place had a deserted, windswept feel—almost haunted.

But sure enough, the closer they got, the more that visor screamed “Gabby.” White, with a green stripe and a Nike symbol—what were the chances that someone else had lost the exact same kind of visor out here?

Luke dropped the anchor and pulled the Zodiac they’d been tugging alongside the boat.

He rowed while she scanned the area with the binoculars, looking for any more signs of Gabby’s presence.

But the beach, as usual, was empty of any life other than a seagull perched on a log, watching them with a cocked head and a bright eye.

Running on the shell beach was like moving through quicksand. Heather was out of breath by the time she reached the driftwood. She plucked the visor off the branch and checked the inside of the strap. GR.

“It’s definitely Gabby’s,” she told Luke as he came alongside. “To me it looks like she hung it here on purpose.”

“Or maybe someone else found it and put it there so its owner would see it.”

“True. I guess that’s why you’re the constable. What?”

Luke was frowning at the visor. He pointed to a brown spot on the strap. “That doesn’t look like sweat to me.”

Heather went ice cold. No, it certainly didn’t look like sweat. It looked like blood. “Oh my God.”

“Hey hey. It’s just a small stain, it could have been from a cut or a mosquito bite she scratched. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

Heather took one of those calming in-and-out breaths people were always recommending. He made a good point. “If she was hurt, there would be a lot more blood, right?”

“Most likely.” He scanned the beach. The sunlight reflected glints of iridescence in the bits of shell, which ranged from pink to apricot to bleached ivory. Surely blood-red would stand out. But blood faded as it dried, and it might have been washed away by the tide.

“Too bad it rained yesterday,” he said.

Heather’s heart sank. Maybe there had been a trail of blood, but if so, it was gone now. On impulse, she cupped her hands around her mouth. “Gabby!” she yelled. “Are you here, Gabby? Can you hear me?”

Only the constant lap of waves hissing on the shell beach answered her. “I guess that was silly,” she muttered, dropping her hands.

“No, it’s not. She was here at some point. Let’s try the woods too.” They climbed up to the top of the beach, where tangled green clouds of wild mustard and beach peas grew. Beyond that, they entered the hushed shelter of a pine forest, its thick moss and pine needle floor cushioning their steps.

As they walked along the footpath, they called Gabby’s name and looked for broken branches, muddy footprints—anything that would indicate someone had been here recently.

“Who owns this land?” Heather asked after they’d walked for half an hour and seen nothing out of the ordinary, as long as you didn’t count the red-headed woodpecker they startled, or the tiny orange mushrooms sprouting from a nurse log.

She found it charming that Luke crouched down to take photos of the fungi.

Family outlaw, constable and wildlife photographer? Luke wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

“I believe it belongs to the Island Trust.”

“What’s that?” She’d never heard of it.

“It’s a conservation group that buys up land to keep it from getting developed. They fund the historical society too.”

“So these woods won’t ever be touched? What about the beach?”

“None of it. It’s all off limits. I believe there were environmental concerns that went into that purchase. It happened recently, but I don’t know all the details.”

Heather wasn’t sure why this information was setting off alarm bells. Conservation was good, right? “Who funds the trust?”

“I don’t know all the donors, but my family is one of them. My father contributes regularly. Part of the draw of Sea Smoke Island is that so much of it is still undeveloped. It’s in his interest to keep it that way.”

“So…not environmental concerns? More like, self-interest?”

He laughed ruefully. “If you’re trying to get me to defend my father, don’t bother. He is who he is. But I’m glad no one’s going to build out here. The mushrooms need their space.”

He showed her the photo. Dappled sunlight bathed the delicate orange stalks in an enchanted spell. Their heads dipped this way and that, as if they were sharing unearthly secrets with each other.

“Wow. Your eye is incredible.”

He looked pleased as he tucked away his phone. “You know, I think there might have been talk about this area having some historical significance too.”

“Historical? In what way?” As far as she knew, Shell Beach had never been inhabited. “Maybe a shipwreck? Could that old legend be true after all?”

A pirate ship had gone down on the rocks, some of the old salts claimed. There was treasure somewhere…which no one had ever found.

“Maybe. Would Gabby have been looking for pirate treasure?”

Heather twisted her face in doubt. “I didn’t get that impression. She said ‘shady shit,’ not ‘buried gold.’ My mom said Gabby went to one of the historical society meetings. Maybe it was about the beach.”

“That’s good. Worth following up on.”

“She also said we should check out Clyde and his buddies.”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “Because of that brawl? I’d agree, since I always thought he was a racist jerk. But it turns out the brawl started because Clyde was dating one of the sous-chefs and her brother got upset. They’re now engaged and he’s doing double shifts at the garage to afford the wedding.”

She nodded, relieved to hear that update, and they headed back through the quiet woods, their shade broken by shafts of sunlight, the occasional blue jay squawking a warning.

When they emerged from the shade of the woods, the tide had receded, exposing several feet more of the beach than when they’d arrived. They’d have to carry the Zodiac down to the water’s edge.

Heather took in a deep breath of the salt air. “I miss this when I’m in Boston. Sometimes I go to the harbor just to get a fix, but it doesn’t smell quite the same.”

Luke stood beside her, hands on hips, squinting into the sun, toward the dancing brilliant light on the ocean. “You know, Gabby probably came out here on a boat, and left the same way. That’s why we couldn’t find any trace of her in the woods or on the path.”

“So we should find out who brought her here. They might know something.”

They headed across the dunes of shells—all that remained of millions of tiny sea creatures. The reason why these shells hadn’t been crushed into sand was the point of land that curved protectively into the ocean, like a mother’s arm shielding her child from its full force.

But if the beach was so protected, why hadn’t anyone ever used this spot for anything?

She knew the currents were strong; maybe that was why.

There were other places on the island that made for better harbors.

The closest house to here was the Stollers’, half a mile down the shore, which they’d built ten years ago on virgin land.

That must have been before the area had been purchased by the Island Trust.

Halfway down the beach, Luke crouched down and moved his fingers gently through the shells.

“What is it?” Heather dropped next to him. “Did Gabby drop something else?”

He found the thing that had caught his eye and held it up. “I doubt this was Gabby’s.”

It was a button made of opalescent mother-of-pearl, roughly circular, with three tiny holes pierced through it. Its surface was weathered by time and rain and saltwater. Only a photographer’s eye could have spotted it among the shells and other ocean debris.

“Unless Gabby likes extremely vintage clothing, I think this is a piece of history right here.”