“I’d like to go back by midnight,” Phil said, then turned to Shep. “I’m in the middle of a painting that I’ve promised to a client, and I’d like to finish it tomorrow.”
“Of course. It’s only eight o’clock; we have plenty of time. Shall we have coffee and brandy in the owner’s cabin?” Shep asked.
“What a good idea.”
Shep gave the steward instructions, and they finished dessert.
The captain came into the saloon. “Your coffee and cognac are waiting in the owner’s cabin,” he said.
“Any further sign of our visitors?”
“They went past us into the inner harbor, and we haven’t seen them since, so I assume they’re at anchor there.”
“What sort of boat was it?”
“A Hinckley motor yacht, a 43, I should think.”
“Did you get her name?”
“No, but a crew caught sight of her hailing port: Wilmington, Delaware.”
Shep nodded. “Thank you, Tim. We’ll call when we’re ready to go ashore.”
“Ah, Mr. Troutman, the owners think it would be better if you remain aboard the tender. A crewman will take Ms. Grant ashore and see her to her door.”
Shep started to object, but Phil interrupted. “It’s all right, Shep. I’ll be in good hands.”
“Oh, all right. This security business is beginning to get boring.”
After dessert, they made their way down to the owner’s suite, where they found a silver coffee service and a bottle of cognac with two crystal snifters sitting on a mahogany cart at bedside.
“Oh, how beautiful!” Phil enthused. “Is there a head?”
“One for each of us,” Shep said, pointing. “That’s yours.”
She excused herself, and when she came back fifteen minutes later she was wearing a terry robe. She tossed another on the bed. “I believe this is for you,” she said, and busied herself pouring coffee and brandy while he undressed and got into the robe. They drank their coffee sitting up in bed, and then she took away the cups.
“The service is pretty good around here,” Shep said.
“And we’re only getting started,” she said, shedding her robe and tugging at his.
They kissed, and it turned into a long one. Soon, they had finished their cognac and were naked in bed. From there, things improved — from good to better.
They were asleep in each other’s arms when there was a rap on the cabin door.
“Yes?” Shep called out.
“Sir, it’s a quarter to twelve. The tender is ready whenever Ms. Grant is.”
“She’ll be there shortly,” Shep said, starting to get dressed.
“You’re not coming ashore, are you?” Phil asked.
“I’ll accompany you to the town dock, and the crewman can escort you from there.”
“Whatever you’d like,” she said.
“I’d like to take you home with me,” he said. “It’s not far.”
“Next time.”
They shoved off from the boarding ladder a few minutes later and headed into Woods Hole. Shep noticed that there was a Winchester lever-action rifle mounted next to the steering station.
“What’s that for?” Shep asked the crewman.
“Pirates,” the young man said.
“Do you encounter them often?”
“Well, a boat just followed us out of the inner harbor and is holding back in our wake.”
Shep looked back. There was no moon, and it was a cloudy night. He could see nothing.
The crewman hopped out and secured the lines. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said.
Shep kissed Phil good night and sent her ashore. He collapsed into a chair and pondered for a few minutes what an unexpectedly good evening he had had. Then he sat bolt upright. He heard something that sounded very much like a pistol shot ashore.
Shep grabbed the Winchester, checked to be sure it was loaded, and leapt off the boat onto the dock. He hit the boards running, just as he heard a woman scream and a man shout something.
He remembered from his street map where Phil’s house was, and he could see a sign over the door at the end of the street that read: grant. As he ran another shot rang out, and the sign shattered and fell in pieces.
Shep looked up. He could have sworn that the shot came from above him. He caught sight of a man leaping from one roof to the next, a gun in his hand. Shep leaned against a brick wall and took aim as the man stood still and looked around.
Shep’s first shot spun the man around, then he disappeared below the building’s parapet. Shep ran up the street and found Phil and the crewman huddled in the entry to a shop across the street from hers.
“Back to the boat,” he said. “Both of you go ahead, and I’ll follow with the rifle.” They ran back toward the town dock, while Shep walked back a few yards searching the rooftops for any sign of the shooter. Satisfied that they weren’t being followed, he turned and followed them back toward the dock. The engine was running when he leapt aboard.
Back to Breeze,” he said to the crewman. “Phil, are you all right?”
“I don’t have any holes in me, if that’s what you mean,” she said.
“That’s what I mean. You’ll be staying with me tonight.”
Twenty-Nine
For the next two hours they were besieged by half a dozen motorboats and their occupants — various members of the coast guard and two or three police forces. Finally, a uniformed cop with stars on his collar brought them a bloody handkerchief in a plastic bag.
“This is good news,” the cop said, holding it up. “It proves you’re not crazy. There was a man up there on the roof, but he took the rest of his blood supply with him, and he could be anywhere, asea or ashore, at this point. We’ll send it off for a DNA match.”
The captain saw the visitors all off the yacht, then came to Shep. “I know you’re tired, but I think our best move is to get you to your dock, now, in the middle of the night. The wounded guy is not feeling well, and somebody has to take care of him, and the police have to speak to everyone aboard the Hinckley, so we have a window to escape.”
Shep looked at Phil, who nodded. “Right, let’s go,” she said.
They left Hadley Harbor quietly, at idle speed, then, in deeper water, were headed home at twenty-five knots, with a crew stationed at the radar, watching out for stray boats.
Less than an hour later, they were walking up Shep’s dock toward the house, where no light burned.
“Nobody home,” Phil said.
“My dad is there,” Shep replied.
“I thought he was dead?”
“Not really. We just want the world to think so. Me, too, for that matter.”
They came to the back porch, and as Shep was tapping in the security code, a flashlight suddenly played over then.
“State your name and business,” a deep voice said, over the sound of a shotgun being racked.
“I’m Shepherd Troutman, and the lady is Ms. Grant, my guest.
“Good evening, Mr. Troutman. Miss. We thought you were sleeping aboard.”
“I’ll tell you about our evening in the morning,” Shep said, “but right now, we’re very tired.”
“Of course, go right in, sir.”
Shep took Phil upstairs to the master suite and showed her to her dressing room and bath. “Would you like a nightshirt to sleep in?”
“I never sleep in anything,” she said.
That turned out to be true, except in his arms.
The following morning they had breakfast in bed. “Do you have a friend in Woods Hole who can get into your house?” Shep asked.
“A woman comes daily to run the shop, while I paint.”