Perfect Partners

The vast majority of the boats were clearly working craft. Fishing vessels of all sizes made up most of the small fleet.
    Everything from small aluminum outboards to large commercial trawlers bobbed in the water. Many of them needed paint, but all of them appeared neat and orderly. Nets and lines and a variety of gear were stacked on the decks. Letty wrinkled her nose at the smell of fish that hung in the air.
    “So this is Echo Cove,” she said into the heavy silence that had persisted between Joel and her since they left the motel.
    “Yeah.”
    “It’s not a very large town.”
    “No, it’s not large.”
    “Copeland Marine must be one of the main industries.”
    “Biggest company in town. There’s a commercial fishing outfit that works out of here, but it’s small compared to Copeland.”
    Letty thought about that. “Then Copeland is the largest employer in town.”
    Joel slanted her an unreadable glance. “Yeah.”
    Letty said nothing more as they walked the rest of the way to the restaurant. She did not know what to make of Joel tonight. He had seemed to change this afternoon when they had driven through town.
    Tonight she was aware more than ever of the tension deep within him. It seemed to be growing and coiling, drawing him as dangerously taut as a nocked bow. She had a hunch this would be one of the nights when he would want to run at one o’clock in the morning.
    But from what she could see, there was no place to run here in Echo Cove.
    Five minutes later Joel opened the door of the Echo Cove Sea Grill. The restaurant sported a huge neon fish on the roof and boasted a marina view. A large roaring fire blazed on the stone hearth that dominated the entrance area.
    Letty smiled at the hostess. “The Thornquist party. I believe Mr. Victor Copeland is expecting us.”
    The hostess, a heavily made up woman in her early forties, was wearing a dress that was a size too small for her ripe figure. Her hair was the color of straw and had been teased to a fare-thee-well. She glanced at Letty, but her gaze skipped immediately to Joel.
    “Mr. Copeland said he was expecting only one guest,” the hostess said, still staring at Joel.
    “There’s been a last-minute change. I hope that won’t be a problem.” Letty watched the hostess with some irritation. The woman obviously could not take her eyes off Joel. For his part, Joel had lost interest after a short nod of greeting. He was scanning the dimly lit lounge, which was just off to the right.
    “Uh, sure. Sure. No problem.” The hostess plucked a second menu out of the stack. “I’ll have one of the busboys grab an extra chair.” She stared at Joel again. “Excuse me, sir. Do I know you? You look awfully familiar.”
    “Blackstone,” Joel said calmly. “Joel Blackstone.”
    The hostess’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well, I’ll be darned. I thought it was you, Joel. Marcy Stovall. Remember me? I worked at the bowling alley when you were in high school.”
    “I remember.”
    “What in the world are you doing back here—” Marcy broke off abruptly. When she continued, her voice started to rise. “Wait a second. You’re here with Ms. Thornquist? You’re going to have dinner with the Copelands tonight?”
    Joel smiled without any warmth. “Looks like it.”
    “Holy shit,” Marcy breathed. “This should be interesting.” She jerked her gaze back to Letty. “This way, please.” She led the way into the dimly lit eating area.
    Letty shot Joel an angry, baffled glance. “What is going on here?” she whispered.
    “I used to live here in Echo Cove. Guess I forgot to mention it.”
    “I guess you did,” she snapped. “What in the world…?”
    But it was too late to grill him further. Marcy came to a halt beside a table for six that had been set for only four. Two men and a woman were already seated.
    The older man dominated the table by virtue of sheer bulk. He was a mountain of a man who seemed to be composed of equal parts muscle and fat. His gray suit strained across his huge midsection and was equally tight across his massive shoulders. He had pale eyes that were nearly lost in his florid, heavily jowled face. As Letty approached, he lumbered to his feet, smiled genially, and held out a hand the size of a side of beef.
    “Miss Thornquist? Victor Copeland. I was sorry to hear about Charlie Thornquist’s death. Never met him personally, but we did business together.”
    “Thank you,” Letty murmured as she briefly lost her