Piper sat at her picnic table with a cup of coffee, her portable telephone, and her binoculars. She thought she'd spotted a piping plover in the marsh from her bedroom window. It was an endangered species, distinguished by its unique, twisting flight, and it was rigorously protected on Cape Cod. Enough reason to breakfast outside. The glorious morning only added to her satisfaction. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, sunlight sparkled on the quiet bay, shorebirds plundered the marsh for food, bees buzzed in the flowering herbs around her. She'd planted ordinary, innocuous culinary herbs: several kinds of thyme, mint, basil, tarragon, oregano, sage. Nothing remotely poisonous. Sage supposedly was good for female complaints, but she just used it for stuffing.
She sipped her coffee, wishing she hadn't thought of Hannah. Not yet, not before her second cup of coffee at least. She'd had a good night's sleep. No predawn forays into her neighbor's yard for medicinal herbs or buried treasure. Even Hannah couldn't have expected her to dig for treasure last night. If Clate Jackson had caught Piper two nights in a row, there was no doubt in her mind he'd have her explaining herself to Ernie down at the police station.
After her yarn-dyeing class had let out last night and she'd cleaned up her studio, she'd pondered a delicate course of action that would manage to satisfy Hannah without further fueling people's concerns about her mental health. Without her aunt breathing down her neck, her sense of urgency almost palpable, Piper could think.
What she'd thought, quite simply, was that it wouldn't be smart to head next door with shovel in hand and start digging willy-nilly for buried treasure that might not even exist.
She snatched up her binoculars and scanned the marsh. She had a busy afternoon and evening ahead, but her morning was hers. She could head into town and sneak into a quiet corner of the library, away from prying eyes, and look up newspaper accounts of the shipwreck that had killed her great-grandparents. Maybe there'd be some long-lost hint that Caleb Macintosh really had rescued a Russian princess and Hannah's memory wasn't a fairy tale, a ploy, or a trick of her mind.
Her telephone rang, startling her. She picked it up, the binoculars still in place. "Hello."
"Stay off Clate Jackson's property if you know what's good for you."
She dropped her binoculars. "What? Who is this?"
"Do it."
The voice was muffled, gravelly. Piper felt a stab of fear and started to say something, but stopped when she heard a click and a dial tone.
She switched off her phone and stared at it. What the hell was that all about? Her hands shaking, she pressed the on button, hit the memory button for Hannah's number, and snatched up her binoculars while the phone rang. Her heart raced. Who would want to make such a call?
Hannah answered after four rings.
"That wasn't you, was it?"
"Who wasn't me? Piper? What's wrong?"
She ran a trembling hand through her hair. "I just got a weird phone call. I'm okay."
"Tell me about it."
Piper wanted to. A few months ago she would have, without thought or hesitation. Now, she reconsidered. "It was probably nothing. I should have listened to Andrew and Benjamin and never put my name in the Yellow Pages. I'll talk to you later."
"Piper—"
"Gotta run. Bye, Hannah. Love you."
She gathered up phone, coffee mug, and binoculars and charged inside, adrenaline still pumping. All right, so Hannah wasn't above sending her out for valerian root at the crack of dawn to force an encounter with Clate Jackson. She would never do anything deliberately to terrify Piper, just to encourage romance between her and the man of her destiny.
Unless Stan Carlucci was right and Hannah really was unbalanced.
Piper stopped in the middle of her keeping room, wide boards under foot, dried herbs and flowers hanging from exposed beams. What if it had been Clate Jackson on the other end of the phone?
No. That was absurd. He'd told her right to her face to stay off his property. Why be sneaky about it?
An associate?
"Geez," Piper breathed, "I'm losing it."
She grabbed one of the handmade baskets hanging amidst the bunches of herbs and flowers. The first of the strawberries were ripe. She'd planned to pick them this morning and make a batch of open-kettle jam, and that was just what she would do.
"Stay off Clate Jackson's property."