Catherine Coulter: Riptide

“I don’t think so. Now, I don’t want you to be able to trace this call. I will say it once more: The madman who shot the governor is out there and I’ve told you everything I know about him. Everything. I never lied to you. Never. Goodbye.”

“Ms. Matlock, wait-”

She hung up the phone, aware that her heart was pounding deep and hard. She’d done her duty. There was nothing more she could do to help them.

Why didn’t they believe her?

She had dinner that night with Tyler McBride at Pollyanna’s Restaurant nearly at the end of West Hemlock, on a small curved cul-de-sac called Black Cabbage Court.

She said over their appetizer, “What’s with the names in this town?”

He laughed as he speared a cold shrimp, dipped it in horseradish, and forked it into his mouth. “Are you ready for this? Okay, there was this rumor that began floating around in 1912 that Jacob Marley Senior found out his wife was sleeping with the local dry-goods merchant. He was so upset that he poisoned her, and that’s why he renamed all the central streets after plants that are toxic.”

“That’s amazing. Any proof of it?”

“Nope, but hey, it makes for a good tale. Maybe he was a closet Borgia, who knows? I think my favorite is Foxglove Avenue. It runs parallel to West Hemlock.”

“What are some more?”

“There’s Venus Fly Trap Boulevard, which runs parallel to West Hemlock to the north, Night Shade Alley, that’s where my gym is, and Poison Ivy Lane, just to the south of us.”

“Wait, isn’t the Food Fort on Poison Oak Circle?”

“Yes. Since I live outside the center of town, it’s just Gum Shoe Lane for the likes of me. However, since you’re in Marley’s house, you get his pièce de résistance-Belladonna Drive. Even better, you’re not in a big house next to all the peasants, no, you’re out there all by yourself, surrounded by all those beautiful trees and just that narrow driveway to get to you.”

She was laughing as she said, “Why did he name his own street Belladonna Way?”

“That’s supposedly what Marley Senior used to poison his unfaithful wife. Pollyanna’s Restaurant is on Black Cabbage Court. That’s the name for this plant in Indonesia that’ll kill you with a single lick. It evidently has this sugary-sweet smell and taste, and that’s how it gets its victims.”

She was laughing when a man came up to their table and said, “Hello, Tyler. Who’s this?”

Becca looked up at the older man, who had lots of white hair, a good-sized belly, and a big smile. He said, frowning down at her, “Hey, you look familiar, you-”

“I’ve known Becca for nearly ten years, Bernie. We were at Dartmouth together. She got tired of the rat race in New York City and decided to move here. She’s a journalist. You want to hire her for the Independent? ”

She hadn’t gone to see Bernie Bradstreet for the simple reason that it had dawned on her that she didn’t have any legitimate ID and now her face was plastered all over TV. She just sat there, smiling stupidly, not knowing what to say. She’d forgotten to say anything to Tyler. She was a fool.

Very sharp gray eyes focused on her. He held out his hand, with large, blunt fingers. “I’m Bernie Bradstreet.”

“Becca Powell.”

“You write what? Crime coverage? Weddings? Local charities? Obits?”

“None of those things. I mainly write human interest articles about strange and wonderful things that are all around us. I try to amuse people and perhaps give them a different perspective on things. I’m a luxury for a newspaper, Mr. Bradstreet, not a necessity. I’m the last sort of frill a small newspaper needs.”

She’d whetted his appetite. Just great. He said, a brow arched, “Like what, Ms. Powell?”

“Why feta cheese and glazed pecans taste so delicious in a spinach salad.”

“I suppose you went into all sorts of folklore, nutrition information, stuff like that?”

“That’s right. For example, with the feta, pecans, and spinach, it all has to do with a chemical reaction that zings the taste buds.”

Bernie Bradstreet looked too interested. She drew back, lowered her eyes to the napkin Tyler had tossed beside his plate.

Tyler said, “Dessert, Becca?”

She said, grinning up at Mr. Bradstreet, “Yep, that’s what I am, dessert for a newspaper. I’m low on a priority list, very low.”

“No,” Tyler said. “I mean real dessert. Coffee and dessert for you, Bernie?”

Bernie couldn’t stay. His wife was at the far table with one of their grandkids. “They make special hot dogs for kids here,” he said; then, “Why don’t you drop by with some of the articles you’ve written, Ms. Powell? Actually, bring me the feta cheese article.”

“I didn’t bring any of them with me, sir, sorry.”

Tyler gave her a look but didn’t say anything. But his eyes had widened just a bit. He’d finally realized that this was the last thing she needed. Good, she thought, she was out of it. But no, he just ruminated awhile, looking at her, then said, “All right, write me up one-whatever topic you like-not over five hundred words, and we’ll see.”

She nodded, wishing the guy was more hard-nosed. She watched him walk back to his table, stopping at three more tables on the way. She looked at Tyler and raised her hand to stop him. “No, I can’t work for him. I don’t have any ID I can use. I doubt he’d want to pay me in cash.”

“Damn,” he said. “I didn’t think of that. I just finally realized that the more he saw you, he just might put you together with the Rebecca on TV.”

“It’s okay. I’ll write up an article or two and give them to him, tell him to see how the readers like them, then we can talk. He shouldn’t get suspicious then. I don’t need the money. I’m not going to starve. It’s just that I do need something to keep my mind busy.”

“Are you any good with computers?”

“I guess I’m what you’d call a functional genius, but a technological moron.”

“Too bad. Since I’m a small-time consultant, I don’t need any frills, either.”

The night was clear and warm, with just a slight breeze off the Atlantic. The stars were brilliant overhead. Becca stood by Tyler’s Jeep, staring up at the sky. “Nothing like this in New York City. I could get used to this real fast, Tyler. Too bad you can barely hear the ocean from here. The briny smell is fainter, too.”

“Yeah, I found I missed it so much I had to move back, and so I did just a couple of years after I finished my master’s degree. But you know, more and more young people leave and stay gone. I wonder if Riptide will still be here in another twenty years or so.”

“There are lots of tourists to boost the economy, aren’t there?”

“Yes, but the entire flavor of the town has changed over the past twenty, thirty years. I guess that’s progress, huh?” He paused a moment, staring up at the Milky Way. “After Ann went away, I thought I wanted to leave Riptide and never come back-you know, all the memories-but I realized that all of Sam’s friends are here, all the people who knew Ann are here, and memories aren’t bad. I can work anywhere, and so I stayed. I haven’t regretted it. I’m glad you’re here, Becca. Things will work out, you’ll see. The only thing is winter. It’s not much fun here in January.”

“It’s not much fun in New York, either. We’ll see what’s happening by January. I don’t understand about your wife, Tyler. Did she die?”

She wanted to take it back at the look of pain that etched lines around his mouth, made his eyes look blank and dead. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s all right. Of course you’re curious. Everyone else in town is.”