She nodded dully, and waited for him to turn around and head back down her narrow, isolated road before unfolding the letter.
The name on the letterhead was vaguely familiar, that of a Bostonian who summered in Frye's Cove. The letter was addressed specifically to Clate, at his offices in Nashville. It outlined the basic history of the Frye house. The building itself, she thought, not the people who'd lived there. In 1886, the letter noted, the house had been moved from its location on the Frye's Cove green to its present location.
Ammunition for the review boards. He'd need more. The environmental hurdles alone, especially with so much protected salt marsh on his thirty-acre parcel, would probably stymie any major development plans. She wasn't automatically opposed to any and all development. She did believe, with Cape Cod already facing so many problems as a result of its past mistakes, many of them made by her own ancestors, that any new development should be well conceived, in harmony with the land itself.
But that wasn't the point.
The point was, this letter was addressed to Clate Jackson.
Stuffing it into the pocket of her new cotton-linen cardigan, she marched into her back yard and down along the path, through grasses and beach peas and bayberry, to the edge of the marsh and through the break in the privet. The long, long June day was slowly settling into evening, the sun low in the sky, shorebirds arcing in over the marsh for whatever food they could find. The wind had died down, and there was a stillness, a peace, that seemed to come only at this hour, before dusk.
She spotted a figure out across the lawn, just beyond the grape arbor that had been the first Mrs. Frye's pride and joy. Every fall, Hannah used to let Piper pick all the concord grapes she wanted, and she'd make jelly and conserves to her heart's content. Doubtless, Clate wouldn't want a grape arbor in his resort. Maybe she wouldn't warn him about the poison ivy growing in its midst.
"You're getting ahead of yourself," she warned, half aloud. She didn't have the facts. Clate deserved a chance to explain.
But when she waved to him and he didn't wave back, she could feel a spark of anger. Irritated, she wouldn't have to think about loving him, about her house, about Hannah, about anything except how annoyed she was, how white hot. A resort. She didn't care if that was what he did, a function of who he was. She didn't care if he planned to get around to telling her after her own troubles had eased. If he'd lied to her, he'd lied. Period.
Of course, he could have a good explanation.
"Hey, Clate!" She waved again, and picked up her pace as she crossed the lawn. "I've got something to ask you!"
No response. How could he not have heard her with no wind, no competition from birds, traffic, anything? With the tangles of grape vines, poison ivy, and brush, she couldn't make him out clearly. Maybe he was absorbed in his task and just hadn't heard.
"Clate!"
She hated being ignored.
The closer she got, the less sure she was about what she'd seen. Or thought she'd seen. Now he'd dropped out of her line of vision altogether. She looked back over her shoulder, up to the Frye house on the rise above the bay, its pristine lines familiar to her, comforting. He wasn't on the terrace. No one seemed to be around at all.
She took a step backward, debating. She hadn't actually seen the man's face. She couldn't think of anything—body shape, hair color, clothing—that specifically made her think he was Clate, except that he was there, on his posted property.
Biting the inside corner of her mouth, she decided to retrace her steps back to her house and regroup. Maybe she was just paranoid after yesterday, but the vicious, determined voice of her caller sounded in her mind. "Bitch."
Yes, a quick retreat was the prudent option.
"Not so fast."
The voice came from among the pines, and before she could move, Paul Shepherd ducked under a low branch and emerged into the open. "Just stay right there, Piper."
She gaped at him. "Paul? What're you doing out here?"
"I wish you hadn't come." His voice was small, filled with regret. "Now it's too late."
"Too late for what?" She was mystified. What was he talking about? "It's not Stan again, is it? Look, Hannah didn't leave him that tincture of bistort and agrimony—"
"No, she didn't. I did."
Piper went still. "You?"
"I wanted people to think she was crazy, out of control. What did Stan call her? A menace. It suited my purposes."
"Your purposes being—oh, geez. You're the caller. You—"
"Yes, me, Piper. Surprised?"
She nodded. She had to buy time. She had to get away and get help and never mind the jumble of questions assaulting her. Why? How? What did Paul Shepherd care about an eighty-year-old Cape Cod mystery, about buried Russian treasure?