she was ripping it out of the wall and replacing it with one that didn’t make her want to tear her hair out.
She shoved the box back into its hiding place and rushed downstairs. Was the front door still locked? Why hadn’t she checked it after the intruder had left? Why hadn’t she put clothes on? All good questions. She wished she had answers for them. She glanced out the front window. A silver-white car she didn’t recognize sat parked beside the fence. She pulled the robe lapels closer together and peered through the screen.
Lawrence Finch stood on the porch. His face always gave her a start. Pale green eyes bulged beneath a wide, protruding forehead. Wisps of graying blond hair fluffed across his scalp. A series of tiny scars spread like tentacles across his temple to his right cheek, twisting the shiny skin around his right eye as if it were covered with plastic wrap.
He saw her before she could draw back, and she had no choice but to open the door.
“Miss Maguire.” His thin lips curled into a smile. She’d never been able to place his accent. New York? New Jersey? Some place up north, with enough of a sneering, patronizing edge to make the locals suspicious.
“Mr. Finch.” She tightened the belt on her robe. His gaze dropped to her chest.
“I’m looking for Sean. Is he home?
“No, but I expect him any minute.”
“We came to extend our condolences.”
“We?”
Another man, shorter and stockier than Finch, stepped into view. “I don’t think you’ve met my business associate, Peter Mendoza.” Mendoza grinned. The glint off his gold front tooth sparkled in the waning light.
“I hear my friend Harlan Spannagel won't be working for you anymore,” Finch said.
“Friend?” Morgan laughed. “You're kidding, right?”
Harlan had never made any bones about his dislike of Lawrence Finch. Finch had lured their apple pickers away with salaries Sean couldn't begin to match. The honeybee shortage, resulting in a severe lack of fruit tree pollination, had lowered the apple crop by over forty-percent, enough to sink even the most successful orchards. Without Harlan to run interference, Maguire Orchard couldn't hold on much longer. And Finch knew it.
“Well, thanks for the heartfelt sentiment,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She tried to close the door, but Finch's reflexes were swift. He held the screen open and jammed his foot in the gap.
“I think you’d better leave.” Morgan tried to keep the tremor out of her voice.
Finch’s steely gaze held hers. The scarred green eye quivered in its socket. “We’d like to talk to you, Miss Maguire.”
Mendoza crossed a beefy arm over his chest. “Yeah, too bad about old Harlan. Now that your watchdog's permanently muzzled, and you can’t find nobody to pick them apples, I reckon you'll have to think about selling.”
“And I reckon you might want to think about replacing that gold tooth. It makes you look...greedy.”
Finch shot Mendoza a warning glance, then smiled at Morgan. “I’m sure when your family's had a chance to get over the shock of Harlan’s passing, you'll realize it would be in your best interest to reconsider my offer.” He paused. “But take your time. I wouldn't want you to regret your decision.”
“That sounds like a threat.” Morgan looked at Mendoza. “That was a threat, right? Didn’t it sound like a threat to you?”
Mendoza grinned.
“You're only postponing the inevitable,” Finch said. “Before this is over—and one way or another, it will be over—you'll be on your knees begging me to buy this place.” He smiled again, showing a long pair of incisors. “That’s something I think I’d like to see—you on your knees.”
“I’m sure you would,” Morgan said. She reached behind the door. Her fingers skimmed past the flashlight hanging on a hook and curled around the metal baseball bat in the umbrella stand. “But right now, I'm asking you to leave.”
“What if Mr. Finch don't
She shoved the box back into its hiding place and rushed downstairs. Was the front door still locked? Why hadn’t she checked it after the intruder had left? Why hadn’t she put clothes on? All good questions. She wished she had answers for them. She glanced out the front window. A silver-white car she didn’t recognize sat parked beside the fence. She pulled the robe lapels closer together and peered through the screen.
Lawrence Finch stood on the porch. His face always gave her a start. Pale green eyes bulged beneath a wide, protruding forehead. Wisps of graying blond hair fluffed across his scalp. A series of tiny scars spread like tentacles across his temple to his right cheek, twisting the shiny skin around his right eye as if it were covered with plastic wrap.
He saw her before she could draw back, and she had no choice but to open the door.
“Miss Maguire.” His thin lips curled into a smile. She’d never been able to place his accent. New York? New Jersey? Some place up north, with enough of a sneering, patronizing edge to make the locals suspicious.
“Mr. Finch.” She tightened the belt on her robe. His gaze dropped to her chest.
“I’m looking for Sean. Is he home?
“No, but I expect him any minute.”
“We came to extend our condolences.”
“We?”
Another man, shorter and stockier than Finch, stepped into view. “I don’t think you’ve met my business associate, Peter Mendoza.” Mendoza grinned. The glint off his gold front tooth sparkled in the waning light.
“I hear my friend Harlan Spannagel won't be working for you anymore,” Finch said.
“Friend?” Morgan laughed. “You're kidding, right?”
Harlan had never made any bones about his dislike of Lawrence Finch. Finch had lured their apple pickers away with salaries Sean couldn't begin to match. The honeybee shortage, resulting in a severe lack of fruit tree pollination, had lowered the apple crop by over forty-percent, enough to sink even the most successful orchards. Without Harlan to run interference, Maguire Orchard couldn't hold on much longer. And Finch knew it.
“Well, thanks for the heartfelt sentiment,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She tried to close the door, but Finch's reflexes were swift. He held the screen open and jammed his foot in the gap.
“I think you’d better leave.” Morgan tried to keep the tremor out of her voice.
Finch’s steely gaze held hers. The scarred green eye quivered in its socket. “We’d like to talk to you, Miss Maguire.”
Mendoza crossed a beefy arm over his chest. “Yeah, too bad about old Harlan. Now that your watchdog's permanently muzzled, and you can’t find nobody to pick them apples, I reckon you'll have to think about selling.”
“And I reckon you might want to think about replacing that gold tooth. It makes you look...greedy.”
Finch shot Mendoza a warning glance, then smiled at Morgan. “I’m sure when your family's had a chance to get over the shock of Harlan’s passing, you'll realize it would be in your best interest to reconsider my offer.” He paused. “But take your time. I wouldn't want you to regret your decision.”
“That sounds like a threat.” Morgan looked at Mendoza. “That was a threat, right? Didn’t it sound like a threat to you?”
Mendoza grinned.
“You're only postponing the inevitable,” Finch said. “Before this is over—and one way or another, it will be over—you'll be on your knees begging me to buy this place.” He smiled again, showing a long pair of incisors. “That’s something I think I’d like to see—you on your knees.”
“I’m sure you would,” Morgan said. She reached behind the door. Her fingers skimmed past the flashlight hanging on a hook and curled around the metal baseball bat in the umbrella stand. “But right now, I'm asking you to leave.”
“What if Mr. Finch don't
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