Honor Bound. Julianna Morris

there?”

      “Yes—at lunch or on a break.”

      “That’s not what I meant. Why did you stop?”

      “Oh. It was Simon. He didn’t think it was safe for me and said I should stay away for a while.”

      “For a while? As if something questionable was going on—something that might be over soon?” Ben glared. “Isn’t that something you should have told the police when he got killed? Did you tell anybody?”

      She glared back. “No, because it wasn’t related to his murder. Simon said there had been fights between workers and management because of the strike, and he thought I should stay away until it was over. The strike was settled before he died. I just haven’t gone back to walking down there.”

      “Okay.” Ben made a visible effort to be calm. “Fine. What else did he say?”

      Kelly swept her hair away from her neck. “Nothing much. He spent most of his time drawing. I have a number of his pictures—he was really talented. I would bring him sketchbooks and art pencils every week or so…. I guess I hoped it would make him feel there was someone who cared.”

      Ben gave her an odd look. “People usually won’t talk to the homeless. What else?”

      She put her purse in a drawer, trying to think. Had there been anything significant in those exchanges? Their discussions seemed so trivial and meaningless now. “I…we chatted about the weather…”

      Ben rolled his eyes.

      “He drank from a bottle in a brown bag. He seemed kind and intelligent. And sad. I figured he’d once had a family and lost touch with them. He was so lonely.” Kelly sighed. She’d liked Simon and felt guilty that she hadn’t done more to help him find a decent place to live.

      “What do you know about his family?” Ben had grabbed a pen and was writing on a steno pad he’d also taken from her desk. “We haven’t tracked down a single connection, anyone to notify—nothing to tell us who he was. My detectives swear he dropped from nowhere.”

      “He had a daughter, but I don’t know any details. We discussed little stuff—it’s a nice day…how are you doing…literature and poetry…that sort of thing. He wasn’t interested in rehab or changing his life. He always cut me off if I said something about it. If I’d pushed harder…” She stopped, feeling worse than ever.

      “How about friends?” Ben tapped the pad, every inch a police officer questioning a witness. “Did you ever see him with anyone?”

      “Occasionally. He claimed to be a loner, but he must have panhandled. I mean, I didn’t give him cash and he didn’t ask for any, so where did the money for his drinking come from?”

      Ben frowned thoughtfully. “You’d be surprised at how much income these guys can make collecting cans and other recyclables. I’ll have my detectives check that angle.”

      The phone rang and Kelly picked it up, keeping her gaze on Ben. It was Detective Fairmont, asking if the “Chief” was available. She gave Ben the receiver.

      “Yes…okay…yes…” Then after a long pause, “I’ll be right down.” Ben returned the phone. He pulled a card from his pocket and scribbled on the back. “That’s my cell number if you think of anything else. Call anytime. It’s important, Kelly. Everyone deserves justice. People care who killed Harvey Bryant, but not so much about a homeless man—as if his life didn’t count and it doesn’t matter who murdered him.”

      “I know, and I wish I knew something that would help.”

      “You can never tell—the smallest shred of information could be a clue.”

      He walked out and Kelly flipped the business card to the desk, staring at it. Yet instead of the white rectangle, she saw Simon. She’d accepted his concern for her safety at face value. It had made sense—tensions were high during the strike, with Harvey Bryant refusing to pay proper benefits and bringing in nonunion replacements. Sand Point had breathed a sigh of relief when labor and management finally came to an agreement.

      It was just too bad that Simon hadn’t been more concerned for his own safety, or he might still be alive.

      CHAPTER THREE

      KELLY LEANED AGAINST HER deck railing and gazed at the horizon where a distant bank of fog obscured the line between sea and sky. Above it a trail of moonlight illuminated the shifting surface of the ocean and the white flash of waves crashing on the rocks.

      It was so beautiful.

      Moving unceasingly. Always changing. Always the same. Like the pulse of her own blood.

      She could never decide if she preferred the view by night or by day. Each was special, but at night the sea was even more mysterious, as if the walls of time had broken down, connecting her in some inexplicable way to the past and future.

      A light wind swirled and she rubbed her arms, more nervous than cold. It was stupid. She should have explained about the Deep books when Ben had called the other evening, or when he’d talked to her at the office, but she’d invented the stories from her overactive imagination and she knew they didn’t have any deeper significance.

      So what if she was the author?

      So what if she had kept it private?

      There were many reasons she’d hadn’t told anyone, including it being too much to handle so soon after losing Mitch. She’d hated being treated differently when he died—all the whispers about poor widowed Kelly, and what was she going to do, and how would she manage. The sudden silences when she entered a room were just as bad. To then publish a spicy murder mystery novel…? She’d had enough of whispers and pointing fingers during her childhood as the daughter of “that woman.” Few had seen the caring mother beyond Shanna’s revealing clothing and revolving boyfriends.

      Smutty.

      That’s how the mayor kept describing the books. Kelly had cringed when Phillip Stone publicly complained about the “suggestive” covers and content after the Gazette released their story, pointing out the similarities to the real murders and victims. As much as she’d loved Shanna, Kelly had fought her whole life not to be compared to her. She could imagine the speculation about her own sexual history if everyone knew she’d written Deep Water and Deep Sea.

      She would have to find a way to tell Ben the truth, but he’d never understand her desire for privacy or the way the secret had gotten out of hand. He’d just be mad that she hadn’t told him earlier.

      Kelly tightened her grip on the railing. She’d questioned Ben’s suitability for the job, but with the exception of Henry, there wasn’t anyone more qualified in Sand Point to locate Simon’s and Harvey’s killers. That was one thing she couldn’t fault Ben on, wanting to do his job right. He really seemed to care that two men had died so terribly.

      Frodo meowed plaintively from the screen door. She turned toward him and a strange sensation went down her back, as if she was being watched. Uneasily, she wondered if her doors were locked—something that people didn’t usually worry about in Sand Point.

      Well, not until the murders.

      Most likely it was nothing, but she went inside with a shiver. Frodo bumped against her legs, a loud purr rumbling from his chest. To his disgust she stepped over him to go check the doors. The front needed the dead bolt locked, but the one in the utility room was secure. The kitchen lights were off, so Kelly peeked through the curtain.

      A tall line of bushes separated her property from the neighbor’s and she waited for several minutes, searching the darkness.

      Don’t overreact, she ordered herself.

      Good advice.

      She was just paranoid because Ben had wanted to make sure “Griffin Bell” was safe. It was ridiculous. Nobody knew she was the author, and who would want to hurt her, anyway?