Shattered Haven. Carol J. Post

family for most of the past seventy years. It had gone from her grandparents to her aunt to her cousin. Then to the investor who snapped it up from the courthouse steps five years ago, after her cousin stopped paying the property taxes. He had probably planned to hold on to it until the housing market turned around. But Allison’s cash offer persuaded him to change his mind.

      So who did the paper belong to? It wasn’t the investor. According to the neighbors, he had bought the house, then let it sit empty. Which meant her family had put it there. What did they have that they didn’t want anyone to know about? Money? Gold? Pirate treasure?

      Yeah, right. Cedar Key had never been a pirate hideout. Besides, if her grandparents had happened onto anything like that, there would be stories. Small towns were known for their gossip. Cedar Key was no different. Of all the tales about her grandparents that circulated around town, not one gave any hint of hidden treasure.

      Allison pushed herself to her feet and strode toward the kitchen. What if the numbers were clues to an unsolved crime, a way for her grandparents to get a bad deed off their consciences before they died? What if she solved the puzzle and found a body?

      No, her grandparents were a little odd—okay, from the stories her parents told, they were certifiably nuts—but they weren’t killers.

      Of course, she didn’t have firsthand knowledge. Ties had been pretty much severed between her parents and her dad’s side of the family long before she was born. Her dad had gone to law school instead of taking over the Winchester clamming business, and his parents never forgave him. Then marrying a New Englander sealed his fate.

      On two occasions, her parents had tried to mend the rift between the elder and younger Winchesters and made the trip to Cedar Key. The rift-mending excursions were a total failure. But on those two brief trips, Allison fell in love with the place. When her life in Providence unraveled, Cedar Key seemed the perfect location to start over.

      She flipped the switch on her way into the kitchen and flattened the paper against the butcher block island. Light poured from the four inverted globes of the Albany chandelier. But the random letters and numbers didn’t make any more sense there than they had in the dimness of the foyer.

      She squinted at the characters scrawled across the page. They were written with a heavy hand, and judging from the sloppiness, jotted down in a hurry:

       R45 87

       G45 165

       R2.55 282

      It looked to be some kind of code. But for what? The numbers weren’t coordinates. The forty-fifth parallel ran across the northern states, and neither latitude nor longitude went as high as 282.

      She stared at the page, trying to think outside the box. But the harder she focused, the more she drew a blank. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, the answer would come. If not, she would keep working on it.

      As odd as her grandparents had been, they were well liked on Cedar Key. And since Allison had taken back her maiden name and was once again a Winchester herself, it had given her an instant “in.” People still spoke fondly of her grandparents, even though they had been gone for years. But maybe they had harbored some secrets. Maybe there were skeletons in the Winchester closet.

      Whatever it was, someone apparently knew. If there was something of value that belonged to her family, no outsider was going to take it away from her.

      And then there was the other possibility, that the clues would lead to some kind of contraband...or worse. A knot of dread settled in her stomach. The news would travel fast, from one end of Cedar Key to the other. She knew how it worked. She had experienced it all—the sideways glances, the hushed conversations that came to an abrupt halt, the people suddenly too busy for her, people she had thought were her friends.

      She folded the paper and slid it into her purse. She needed to find a better hiding place. Contraband or treasure, someone had apparently found out and come to claim it.

      Well, he could look all he wanted. She had the clues. And she was determined to get to it first.

      * * *

      Blake sat on the deck of his Sea Ray, a glass of green tea in one hand and a Sharpie in the other, the latest issue of the Cedar Key Beacon open on his lap. Brinks lay stretched out in the sunshine, attached to a spare dock line. In another hour, it would be time to walk him again. Maybe by then Allison would be back, and he could combine the dog’s afternoon walk with her trip home. Brinks was great company, but conversation was a little lacking.

      Early that morning, he had gone fishing and caught his dinner for the next few evenings. At least, the protein portion of it. Then he had walked Brinks and gone to the gym. After that was a call to his mom. He had already been the cause of enough sleepless nights. He didn’t want to compound her worries by not staying in touch.

      He drew in a deep breath and leaned back in the seat. Eventually, boredom was going to set in. Even back home, with physical therapy and vocational rehab and the teaching certification classes the work comp carrier had put him through, there was still too much downtime, not enough activity to work off the energy coiled inside. Tough sessions at the gym helped. But they weren’t the same as rock climbing with his buddies. Or zig-zagging down Vail’s black-diamond slopes.

      He looked up from his reading to scan the horizon. Two sailboats cut through the waves, but neither were Allison’s. When he turned back toward Cedar Cove Beach and Yacht Club, the kid he had met yesterday was making his way down the dock in flip-flops, an Old Navy shirt and a pair of plaid shorts fastened a good six inches below his waist.

      Blake called out a greeting, and the kid responded with a wave. But instead of boarding the old Bayliner Cuddy, he approached, moving with that cocky swagger so prominent among teens and twentysomethings nowadays. He leaned against the nearest piling. “You staying in Cedar Key awhile?”

      “For the time being. Why?”

      “I do odd jobs. You need any work done, let me know. Name’s Terrance.” He took a swig of the Budweiser in his hand. Apparently he was at least twenty-one. Or someone was selling alcohol to minors.

      “Will do. I heard you replaced a window for Allison yesterday.”

      “Yeah.” He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. “Her house got broken into. I hope they catch the guy.”

      Terrance turned to go, but Blake stopped him. “Speaking of Allison, did you see her leave this morning?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Did she happen to say what time she was coming back?”

      “Four.”

      A little early for Brinks’s walk, but Brinks wouldn’t mind.

      Terrance lifted his beer in farewell then headed to his boat. With a cabin just big enough for a berth and toilet, the Bayliner Cuddy was built for the occasional overnight, not living aboard. But Terrance didn’t seem to mind. He was independent and supporting himself. That was probably all that mattered.

      Blake closed the paper and capped the Sharpie. He could spend only so many hours fishing, reading and exploring. So that was why he had circled two job postings in the classified section. A third he had looked at briefly, then decided to pass. Cedar Key Auto was looking for a mechanic. He was okay, but not good. Actually, when it came to gainful employment, he was okay at a lot of things—jack-of-all-trades, master of none. Except police work. That he was good at.

      Monday he would make the two phone calls. One was The Market at Cedar Key, twenty hours a week cleaning and stocking. The other was grounds work for a landscaping outfit, also part-time. He wouldn’t apply for anything that required extensive training. It wouldn’t be fair to his potential employer.

      As expected, Allison’s boat came into view at twenty till four. By four o’clock, she had docked and was telling her charter customers goodbye. Blake stood to take the newspaper and empty glass below and don some tennis shoes. By the time he had traded Brinks’s restraint for a real