Chapter 5
The lunch rush at Reagan's Saltwater Grill consisted of exactly seven people, which in Haven Cove terms qualified as packed. Cara slid onto a stool at the counter, positioning herself with a clear view of the door.
Reagan appeared with coffee before Cara could ask.
She was thirty-four but looked younger, with the kind of natural beauty that didn't need much help—thick blonde hair pulled back in a practical bun, clear skin that had seen plenty of sun but wore it well, and sharp green eyes that missed nothing.
Her apron bore evidence of the chowder special.
"You look like you need this more than usual," Reagan said, setting down the mug. "Rough morning?"
Cara wrapped her hands around the warmth, feeling the ceramic heat seep into her cold fingers. "Did you hear about the body on the beach?"
"Honey, everyone's heard." Reagan leaned against the counter, lowering her voice even though the nearest customer was three stools away. "Terrible thing. Just terrible."
"I think he came into my bakery a few weeks ago." Cara kept her tone carefully neutral. Concerned neighbor, not amateur investigator. "Dark hair, medium build. Ordered coffee and sat for a couple hours asking questions about the town. Obviously, I couldn't help much."
Reagan's expression shifted to thoughtful. "I bet he made the rounds. There are lots of people like Pearl and Mrs. Henley who'll talk your ear straight off about The Cove."
Exactly. And he'd probably checked in at the diner. She didn't want to ask, but this was too important not to. "I took a picture of him. The body, I mean. Is it okay if I show you? It's fine if you'd rather not..."
Reagan gestured at Cara's pocket. "I'm not squeamish."
Cara pulled out her phone and swiped to the first shot of the body. The screen felt cold and smooth under her thumb.
The other woman leaned closer, squinting. "I think that's him. Yeah, I remember him. Came in here too."
Cara's pulse quickened, but she kept her face calm. "Did he say anything? About why he was here?"
"Asked about boats. Wanted to know if there were any charters available and how long folks had been running them.
Stuff like that. I figured he was here planning a guy's fishing trip, like they do.
" Reagan refilled Cara's mug without being asked.
The rich coffee aroma mixed with the scent of fried fish and sea salt drifting from the kitchen.
"But then he started asking about town history.
Who'd been here longest, that kind of thing. "
Same questions he'd asked at the bakery. The man had been looking for something specific. Or someone.
"Strange questions for a tourist," Cara said.
"Totally." Reagan wiped down the already clean counter, the rag making soft squeaking sounds against the laminate.
"He didn't have that tourist vibe, you know?
They all wear fleece and complain about the rain.
This guy was watching everything. Reminded me of those insurance investigators who come through sometimes. "
Or a private investigator. Or a journalist. Someone digging into Haven Cove's past.
"Did he mention where he was staying?" The question came out too quickly. Cara took a sip of coffee to cover her urgency. The liquid burned her tongue.
Reagan shook her head. "Didn't say. I assumed the Inn, but Martha would've mentioned it if he'd been there.
She tells me everything." A pause. "You know, if someone wanted privacy around here, they'd probably head up the 101.
That Seafoam Lodge about fifteen miles north.
Real run-down place, but they take cash and don't ask questions. "
Cara filed that away and considered the route. Fifteen miles. Secluded. Cash only. Exactly where someone conducting a discreet investigation would stay.
"I'll let the FBI agent know," she said. "He's looking for information about the victim."
Reagan leaned in, gathering the used place setting from the space next to Cara and wiping the counter beneath before she ran the dishes back to the kitchen. The plates clattered against each other. "He probably questioned everybody in town," she said when she returned. "Don't you think?"
Exactly.
Cara stared down into her mug, willing the anxiety swirling through her brain to quiet.
"That's so sad about the Agent’s brother," Reagan said. "I hope this isn't related."
"Me, too."
A group of silver-haired fishermen shouldered their way inside, bringing the smell of bait and diesel with them. Reagan sighed and pushed away from the counter. "Off to work." Menus in hand, she headed for the new customers.
Cara finished her coffee, left cash on the counter, and headed down the street to Pearl's Mercantile. At least Sawyer's rental was nowhere in sight. With any luck, she'd stay ahead of him in their race for clues.
The mercantile smelled like beeswax and old wood, crammed with everything from fishing tackle to handmade pottery.
Pearl, tall and slender with an intelligent face wreathed in a cloud of snowy white curls, stood behind the register, sorting through a box of new inventory.
She looked up when the door chimed, her weathered face creasing into a smile.
"Cara. Good to see you, hon." She caught Cara with that piercing gaze of hers. "Heard you had quite a morning."
Cara swallowed hard, careful to look somewhat stunned. "I'm good. " She shook her head slowly. "That was...something."
"Wade told me." The older woman sighed. "Sorrowful business, no matter who the man was."
"For sure." Cara moved through the narrow aisles, trailing her fingers over fishing line and canvas bags. The textures grounded her—smooth nylon, rough canvas, cool metal hooks. Casual. Just shopping. She picked up a package of coffee filters she didn't need.
"He came into the shop, you know," Pearl said. "About three weeks back."
Cara's hand tightened on the coffee filters. The cellophane crinkled. "The dead man?"
"Mmhmm. Wade showed me a photo. Dark-haired fellow. Moved like he had somewhere to be. Not like a tourist at all." Pearl set down her inventory box. "Tourists wander. They stop and look at things. This man moved with purpose. Like military, almost. Very deliberate."
Pearl had spotted the same thing she had. The dead man had moved like someone with training. Someone who knew how to assess situations, read environments, stay alert.
"What did he want?"
"Bought a map of the coastline. The detailed one with all the coves and inlets marked.
Asked about the history of the marina, who'd been running boats out of here for a long time.
" Pearl's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Professional questions.
Like he was conducting an investigation, not planning a day trip. "
Cara's throat went dry. "Did he say what he was investigating?"
"No. But he asked about smuggling." Pearl's voice dropped even lower. "Wanted to know if there'd been any history of it in Haven Cove. If anyone ever got caught running contraband through these waters."
The air in the shop suddenly felt too thin.
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth. That there were rumors back in the day, but nothing recent. Nothing proven." Pearl studied Cara's face. "He seemed disappointed. Like he was hoping for more."
So far, that didn’t sound like someone on her trail. "Did he mention where he was staying?" Cara forced her voice to stay level.
"No. But I figured if he wanted privacy, he'd go up to Seafoam Lodge. That old place off the highway, tucked back in the pines. The kind of place where nobody asks your business."
Seafoam Lodge. Again.
Cara grabbed another item from a nearby shelf without looking at it, just to have something to do with her hands. A spool of twine. The rough hemp fibers scratched her palm. "Thanks, Pearl."
She paid for the coffee filters and the twine she didn't need. Outside, she stood on the sidewalk and let her brain work. The late afternoon sun warmed her face, but she felt cold inside.
Her old life whispered to her, the con artist brain that never really shut off. She could see the pattern now. The dead man had been investigating something in Haven Cove. Asking careful questions. Staying off the radar.
And now he was dead.
David Sawyer had been investigating something too. Asking questions. Following leads.
And now he was missing.
The connection was obvious. Dangerous. And heading straight toward her carefully constructed new life.
She was halfway down the block when Pearl's voice called out behind her.
"Cara, wait."
She turned. Pearl stood in the doorway of the mercantile, holding something small.
"I just remembered." Pearl walked over, holding out a business card. The white cardstock looked crisp against her weathered fingers. "He gave me this when he was asking all those questions. In case I remembered anything else."
Cara took the card. Her hand didn't shake. Years of practice.
Marco Ruiz Private Investigator Portland, Oregon
The words blurred. Then sharpened. Then blurred again.
"Cara?" Pearl's voice came from far away. "You alright, hon? You look pale."
"I'm fine." The lie came automatically. "The FBI agent will want to know this. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you.”
“Of course, he would.” Pearl agreed and headed back inside.
Cara walked back to the bakery on autopilot. Her legs moved. Her lungs pulled air. But inside, her brain was screaming.
Private investigator.
Someone had hired him. Someone with resources. Someone looking for something in Haven Cove.
Or someone.
She climbed the stairs to her apartment, each step feeling like wading through water. Inside, she locked the door. Checked the windows. Drew the curtains.
Then she pulled out her phone and stared at Gabe Sawyer's business card. Her thumb hovered over the phone.
Lord, I don't know what to do. If I tell him, he'll dig deeper. If I don't tell him, someone might die.
What if David Sawyer is still alive? What if this information could save him?
The prayer steadied her.
She couldn't let an innocent man die because she was afraid.
She dialed.
"Sawyer."
"Agent Sawyer, this is Cara Sweet." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I have information about the victim. Pearl at the mercantile believes his name was Marco Ruiz. He was a private investigator from Portland."
Silence on the other end. She could hear him processing, shifting gears.
"How did you learn this?"
"Pearl at the mercantile. I went to get some string. And coffee filters and we got to talking.” She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stop babbling. “He gave her his business card three weeks ago when he was asking questions around town." She paused. "I thought you should know."
"Appreciated."
He hung up.
Cara set down the phone and stared at her hands. They weren't shaking.
But they should be.
She knew how investigations worked. PIs specialized in checking peoples’ backgrounds. So whether he’d been sent to Haven Cove to find Carly Reid or not, he could have been looking into Cara’s background.
She had to find out what the man discovered before Gabe Sawyer did.