He sat hunched in the rigid-hulled boat Scott steered as they navigated the coastal shoreline. All around he heard the sounds of an awakening island. He spied several fishing boats on the horizon and knew they were carrying tourists out to deeper water for a day of deep-sea fishing. Gulls circled overhead, and in the distance he could see others perched on pilings along the coastline. Mark closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of the sea.
“Are you asleep?” Betsy’s teasing voice brought him out of his daydreams.
“No, just enjoying the peaceful morning. You’ve been so busy snapping pictures, I didn’t think you even knew Scott and I were with you.”
She laughed and stretched her arms over her head. “I knew you were here. Your snoring gave you away.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her, Mark,” Scott said. “Betsy’s in her own world out here. She loves to watch the birds we have on Ocracoke. On days I’m working she even comes out here and sits in one of the duck blinds to snap her photographs.”
Mark pointed to a small box-like structure on stilts anchored in the water some distance from them. “Is that a blind over there?”
Betsy nodded. “Yeah, that’s a stake blind.” She handed Mark the binoculars she’d brought along. “Take a closer look at it and you can see the ladder where hunters tie their boats before they climb inside. They can stay in there for hours and hunt. I like to sit inside and photograph the ducks and geese feeding, but I don’t come out during hunting season much. It upsets me too much to see all the beautiful birds that are killed.”
“Hey, Betsy,” Scott called out. “Why don’t we show Mark the other place you like to hang out in for your photo shoots?”
“Fine with me.”
Betsy took the camera from around her neck and put it back in its case as Scott turned the boat in a circle. The boat skimmed the water’s surface as they headed out into deeper water. The early morning sun sparkled on Betsy’s hair, wet from the saltwater spray, and excitement gleamed in her eyes.
She looked so different this morning from the girl he’d first met in Memphis. Back then, she was a young college student who had her sights set on an art career in the city. Now she was all grown up, happy and secure in her life as a painter of landscapes and wildlife on the island she loved. This woman at home on the water and along the salt marshes of Ocracoke bore little resemblance to the girl he’d known, and he liked this new and improved Betsy.
Shading her eyes with her hand, she squinted in the sun that now beat down on their heads and scanned the horizon. After about five minutes she pointed straight ahead. “There’s one, Scott.”
Her brother slowed the boat and let it drift for a minute or so before he came to a stop. The boat, its engine idling, bobbed up and down on the peaceful water. Mark looked all around but could see nothing except water in all directions.
He turned to Betsy and frowned. “What do you want to show me?”
Grinning, she threw her legs over the side of the boat and hopped in the water. To his surprise, she didn’t sink. Instead she stood, the water lapping at her ankles, and laughed. She crooked her finger and motioned for him to join her. “Come on in. You won’t drown.”
He turned to Scott, who looked just as amused as Betsy. “I don’t understand.”
“I know how you feel,” her brother said. “The first time I saw this I couldn’t believe it.”
Betsy leaned back into the boat and grabbed Mark’s arm. “I’m standing on a submerged sandbar that’s covered with a few inches of water. Get out and let me show you a curtain blind.”
He climbed over the edge of the boat and joined Betsy. The water lapped at their ankles as she led him a few feet to a rectangular concrete structure built down into the sandbar. It looked like two men might easily fit inside. “This is a curtain blind,” she said. “Hunters can climb down into this concrete box and be at eye level with the water, and the ducks can’t see them.”
“What’s that?” He pointed to a wooden frame that circled the top of the box.
“That’s a waterproof canvas curtain. The owner of the blind brings hunters out here at low tide and leaves them. As the tide rises, they just pull that curtain up to keep the water from pouring in.”
Mark’s eyes grew wide. “You mean they stay out this far from shore without a boat to get back?”
Betsy chuckled. “Yeah, but it’s not dangerous. The owner of the blind picks them up at the end of the day. Hunters who use these blinds wouldn’t hunt any other way. I understand hunting is a way of making a living for a lot of our islanders, but I hate to see our wildlife killed.” She pointed across the water, and he turned to see a wooden frame with slats floating nearby. “See that? It’s called a wing and is about sixteen by twenty-four feet with slats about eight inches apart. It’s anchored away from the curtain right now, but in duck hunting season it’s brought closer, and decoys are placed on the wooden slats. When the ducks or geese flying overhead see the decoys, they come toward them, and the hunters have a clear shot.”
Mark gazed in the direction of the shoreline, but it wasn’t visible from here. “I can’t believe you stay out here alone.”
She smiled. “This blind belongs to Milt Wilson. He brings me out here and comes back for me several hours later. I like spending time alone with the birds on the water and feel the breeze blowing salt water in my face. It brings me closer to God. I can feel his presence.”
The contentment and happiness he saw on her face made him envy what she’d found in her life, and a desire like he’d never known burned in the pit of his stomach. He longed for what Betsy had, but he knew he’d never find it. His course in life had been determined a long time ago, and it couldn’t be changed.
“I’m glad you brought me here, Betsy. It’s given me another glimpse into who Betsy Michaels is now.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. He thought she was going to respond, but after a moment she glanced back at her brother still in the boat. “Scott’s waiting. We’d better go.”
Mark followed her across the sandbar back to the boat. When they were inside, Scott turned toward shore, and Mark settled back in his seat. When Betsy had asked him to come along on the early morning trip, he’d agreed because he wanted to know more about what Betsy was like now. And he hadn’t been disappointed in what he’d discovered.
What he was going to do about that was what had him worried. He had to keep reminding himself he had a job to do and not to get emotionally involved. Something told him that wasn’t going to be easy.
SIX
M
ark had enjoyed the time he spent with Betsy and Scott on Pamlico Sound earlier this morning, but the past few hours had proved to be a letdown. After extracting a promise from Betsy that she would stay in her studio until lunch, he’d left Treasury’s house soon after their return to see if he could get a lead on the places John had frequented in the time he’d been on the island. A call to Brock had revealed they hadn’t been able to track any of his movements, and hanging out for several hours at the various gathering places for island residents hadn’t revealed anything, either.
Now, hungry and disappointed, he’d come back to the bed-and-breakfast to check on Betsy. He pushed through the back door into the kitchen and came to a stop as Betsy strolled in through the door from the dining room. When she saw him, she stopped and set down the plastic-covered canvas painting she held.
His heart did flip-flops just as it had done this morning when he watched her photographing the wildlife she loved. It reminded him of how he used to feel when she’d glance at him across the dining room of the Memphis restaurant where they’d both worked. There was no denying the old attraction had overcome him again, but he wasn’t going to give in. He took a deep breath and tried to return her smile.
“I’m back, just like I said.” He pointed to his watch. “I said in time for lunch, and it’s not even twelve yet.”
She stepped into the kitchen and grinned at him. “Good timing. I just finished what I’d planned to do this morning.”
He pointed to the painting she’d leaned against a kitchen chair. “Is that what you worked on?”
A chuckle rumbled in her throat. “Oh, no. The painting I worked on this morning is drying. This is one I finished a few weeks ago. I need to drop it off at Will Cardwell’s studio. He’s a potter, and we transport our work to a mainland gallery together. We have a shipment going out in a few days.” She glanced his way. “Do you mind giving me a ride over there since my family has seen fit to make sure I can’t leave here on my own?”
A coy smile pulled at her lips and the sight of her almost took his breath. His gaze raked her from her long, chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail past the dimples that winked at him and on to the smile that lit her dark eyes. It ended at the paint-splattered, loose-fitting smock covering the jeans and T-shirt she wore. Even with the smudge on her forehead, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
He let out a long breath. “I’ll be glad to take you anywhere you need to go. Then we’ll get some lunch.”
She reached back and tightened the rubber band holding her hair in place. “I felt safe this morning because I didn’t think anybody would know we were out on the Sound. But what about in the middle of the day? Do you think we should go out now?”
“We’ll stay where there are lots of people. The more people around, the safer it’ll be.”
She looked down at the clothes she was wearing. “I can’t go looking like this. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She started to leave but turned back. “Treasury needs some things from the Island General Store. It’ll save her a trip if we stop by and pick them up before we come back. Do you mind?”
He nodded. “Sure. We can do that. I’ll wait out back for you.”
She beamed. “Good. Be back as soon as I change.”
Fifteen minutes later Betsy walked out the back door of the house and headed toward Mark. He pushed up from leaning against the car’s fender and studied her as she approached. Most women relied on makeup to enhance their beauty, but Betsy didn’t need it. The touch of light-colored lipstick she’d applied looked just right for her. A square-shaped amethyst stone encircled with small diamonds dangled on a silver chain at the base of her throat. He remembered seeing her wear it every day when they worked at the restaurant in Memphis.
Betsy stopped next to him and wrinkled her forehead. “What’s the matter?”
He pointed to her necklace. “I remember seeing you wear that in Memphis.”
She nodded. “My mother gave it to me for my birthday not long before she died. It’s my favorite piece of jewelry. I don’t wear it as much as I used to, but I put it on today.”
His gaze drifted over her, and a grin tugged at his mouth as he reached for the painting she held. “I notice you got rid of the smudge on your forehead. You clean up real nice.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, mister.”
“That’s the way it was intended, ma’am.”
“In that case, I’ll let you buy me lunch. I’ve been working all morning and I’m starved.” Betsy opened the back door of the car and settled the painting between the front and backseats. “There, that should do it.” She slammed the door. “Let’s drop this off first, then we can go eat. By the way, where are you taking me?”
“How about The Coffee Cup? It should be crowded with locals. If you see any strangers, you can let me know.”
“Okay. But I warn you…that’s the hangout for Grady Teach. If he’s there and sees you with me, he’ll want to know all about you. He calls himself the island historian, but he’s really our biggest gossip.”
Mark chuckled and opened the passenger door for her. “I saw him holding court there this morning. He’s quite a colorful character. I heard him say he’s a descendant of Blackbeard.”
“He is, and he’ll tell anyone who will listen all about it. His stories about Blackbeard’s treasure that’s still buried on the island sends tourists out to the salt marshes trying to find it.”
Mark closed the door and walked to the driver’s side. He slid behind the wheel and swiveled to face Betsy. “Do you think he might know anything about John? Maybe he ran into him somewhere on the island.”
“It’s worth a try.”
He reached for the ignition and then drew back his hand. “Betsy, you seem different today. You’re not as defensive as you were yesterday, and you seem more at ease.”
A flush rose in her cheeks, and she clasped her hands in her lap. “I decided I had to put the past out of my mind for the time being. I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, and I don’t want to appear ungrateful. I hope you can forgive me for my snippy attitude yesterday. It won’t happen again.”
His eyebrows arched. Betsy was asking for his forgiveness? He never thought he’d hear those words from her. Then he remembered she’d said she would put the past out of her mind for the time being.
His good mood suddenly deflated. She might be trying to appear more cordial, but he had no doubt when this case was over they would be right back where they’d been before. All her old resentful feelings would return. Gritting his teeth, he put the car in gear and pulled out of the bed-and-breakfast parking lot.
“Tell me how to get to this studio where we’re taking the painting.”
She pointed to the right. “Go this way, and turn right at the second street. The studio is on the left.”
Mark followed her directions, and a few minutes later pulled to a stop in front of a rustic, two-story house. A porch wrapped around two sides of the building, and a sign that said Cardwell’s Studio and Gallery hung over the front door. Wicker rockers sat on the porch, and several patrons appeared to be enjoying a relaxing moment.
Betsy jumped from the car and pulled her painting from the backseat. “The gallery where Will and I sell our pieces is through the front door. The studio where he teaches and works is around back. Let’s go there first.”
She led him along a path that circled the house and ended at a long, narrow building that sat at a ninety-degree angle from the house. She pushed a door open and stepped into the structure.
A gray-haired man stood at one end of the room where four women and two men sat, their bodies bent over pottery wheels. The man stopped beside one woman and patted her shoulder. “You’re going to get the hang of this, Mary Lou. Like I say, it takes practice, practice, practice.”