Page 27 of Beachcomber Enemy

“Don’t worry about me. I get it. I just wanted to be clear. He kidnapped Sassy. He blew up the beach shack. He booby-trapped the pie shop. He gets no benefit of the doubt from me,” Ronnie said. Then the kid stood and went to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. “Hey we’ve got food in here. Some fruit and cheese and yogurt and bread and meat.” Ronnie turned to Dane and Shana with a grin. “We don’t have to have tequila for breakfast after all.”

It was the first time Dane had seen Shana truly smile since the explosion. Since they lost their f—cking home.

“Knock yourself out, kid.” Dane didn’t stop filling three glasses with tequila. In spite of Joe’s quiet, he knew the man would appreciate a double shot. He knew Shana needed one.

Sitting down next to her on the cot, he checked his watch. Close enough to appreciate the scent of her—roses and danger—and feel her body heat, he purposely nudged his leg up against hers. He handed her a glass and had the sudden urge to be naked and alone with her. Inappropriate because they were in the middle of a life-threatening situation.

But since when had that ever stopped them? They weren’t in danger here and now. This acknowledgment made him look at Joe and Ronnie with the strong inclination to throw them both out on the street for a few hours.

As he took a strong gulp of his tequila, he would have continued running with the notion of getting rid of the other two then seducing Shana, but suddenly she stood. Maybe she felt his horny vibes, maybe she couldn’t stand being near him anymore. Either way, her desertion put an end to his seduction fantasy.

“The press conference should be on any time now.” Shana turned on the small television and clicked it to the local news channel. He willed her to come back and sit beside him, but she didn’t. She looked at him with one of those I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-there’s-no-way-in- hell looks. He took the opportunity to stretch out on the cot, resting the half empty glass of tequila on his chest.

When the newscaster announced the press conference with the governor on the recent explosion at 9 Harbor Lane in Vineyard Haven, Joe and Ronnie took their sandwiches and stood with Shana to watch the show. Dane lasered in, hoping they’d get a few crowd shots. The press conference was set up at the site of the explosion, which was cordoned off with yellow police tape, no longer recognizable as where the beach shack once stood. A black patch of earth, a cement foundation, and random splinters of the house’s frame were all that remained.

Shit. There was no way Cap would get away with claiming they’d found the remains of two bodies in that rubble.

The camera panned across an impressive crowd of media and lookers-on to a makeshift podium with a dozen microphones where Cap and Peter stood, dressed up like they were about to march in a parade. The medical examiner stood behind them in a white lab coat looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Did you catch anything in that crowd shot?” Dane asked Shana.

“No. This damn television isn’t hooked up with a remote with pause and rewind functions.” She turned the volume up, he presumed because that was all she could do.

The newscaster announced that they were waiting for the mayor of Vineyard Haven to arrive before beginning the press conference. That’s when they switched to footage of Cap and two of his officers pulling body bags out of the wreckage.

The newscaster’s voice-over said, “Late last night it appeared that two bodies were recovered from the wreckage of the house owned by Dane Blaise, principal of Beachcomber Investigations and well known for the uncovering of a white slavery operation being run by the Martha’s Vineyard Surfing Competition three years ago. It’s speculated that the second body is that of Mr. Blaise’s partner and fiancée, Shana George.”

Dane saw the ME in the shot as they loaded the body bags into the back of his wagon. Based on the man’s body language, he didn’t like the subterfuge. He only hoped none of the newsies noticed.

As if on cue, the camera flashed to the two in-studio local news anchors and the woman, Karen Swanson, said to her cohort, Ed someone, “It’s hard to believe two bodies could survive the incineration and wreckage of that explosion, isn’t it?”

Dane felt everyone in the basement hideaway suck in a breath. Then Ed came to their rescue with his commentary.

“I can only guess that they were somehow insulated from the bulk of the damage,”

Dane said, “Remind me to send that guy a fifth of tequila when this is over.”

“Quiet. The mayor’s car pulled up.” Shana didn’t take her eyes from the television as she admonished him. “The briefing is going to start now.”

“You mean the bullshit is going to start.” Dane couldn’t help himself. He figured they had a less than twenty percent chance of convincing Whitey Nash they were dead. He was fairly certain there were some questions in the mind of at least one of the reporters—the only local reporter worth her salt, Meggie Brown. They’d had a thing for a short while years ago. Lucky for him she’d broken it off. She’d treated him well in the press ever since. But she knew him—and Shana—well.

Shana turned to him with a bland yet pointed glare. “What’s your problem?”

“Meggie Brown.”

Shana said nothing for a beat and then nodded.

“The reporter?” Ronnie said. “She likes you too much to rat you out—even if she does suspect it’s a scam.”

“I hope you’re right, kid.” Dane sat up as the camera zoomed in on the lineup of officials behind all the microphones. He rubbed a hand over his newly bald head and decided he preferred having hair.

“Shh.” Shana put one hand up, her eyes glued to the screen again. He wondered if she preferred him with hair. She hadn’t made any overt comment on his changed appearance, though she had taken it in with a small shudder of shock that he hadn’t missed. As for Shana’s new she-devil look, how could he not like it when it suited her so well? He supposed he’d be enthralled by her if she had green hair, grew horns and dressed in rags.

But since she’d arrived she’d been more purposely distant than he could handle. Shana was scary cold in her anger, focusing on Whitey Nash.

Dane would need to kill the man no matter what, to keep him from killing Shana—and to keep Whitey from driving her crazy. And he could not let her do it. He feared that would drive them both over the edge. Dane knew a large chunk of Shana’s vitriol for Whitey was all about guilt for having purposely scarred him, mutilated him the way she had. If she killed Whitey, unless it was strictly by-the-book self-defense, she’d feel even more shame and guilt. Dane could do it. He had no shame and no conscience.

The governor spoke first. It was part eulogy and part promise to put the muscle of the state police behind the investigation into the explosion and murder of his heroic friends and to bring the perpetrators to justice.