Stella, Get Your Man. Nancy Bartholomew
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made the town sound really beautiful. I thought I’d come visit, maybe run into him again.”
Tom’s attention switched back to me. “He doesn’t know you’re here?”
I tried to look embarrassed. “Well, no. You see, we met in a park two years ago in…New York, Central Park, and well, somehow we just started talking. He said I should come to Surfside Isle and look him up if I could, but…”
I looked down at my hands and bit the inside of my cheek thinking I should’ve taken up acting.
“I feel so stupid. See, he gave me his card and I lost it.”
Tom laughed, a rich, deep chuckle that made Marti look up from her place behind the window.
“You lost it? So you just came here looking for a guy who lives somewhere in Surfside Isle but you don’t know where? What’s his name? And why did you wait two years?”
I kept my head down. “I don’t know,” I murmured. “I can’t remember his name. You see, I was dating someone and so I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I kept thinking about him, I don’t know why, and when Glen and I broke it off, I suppose I…oh, I know, it’s stupid!”
Tom almost fell off his chair laughing. Marti slid chili and corn bread up onto the window’s counter and walked through the door to join us.
“What’s so funny about that?” she asked. “You mean to say you never met somebody, looked into their eyes and felt they could be the one? And then something happens and—” she snapped her fingers “—just like that, they’re gone and you never got a chance to see what was there. That never happened to you?”
Tom looked right into Marti’s eyes and smiled. “Yes,” he said. “And I made a resolution about that kind of thing. I don’t waste opportunities anymore.”
The force of Tom’s intensity seemed to radiate into the room, filling it with feeling and unspoken emotion. If it had been a two-by-four, the realization couldn’t have hit Marti any harder. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and she turned bright red.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh!”
I watched my chili grow cold in the pass-through window behind her for a long minute as Marti and Tom stood staring at each other, oblivious to anything and everything but their own, newly created world. It was Marti who dropped back into the reality of the moment and realized where she was.
“Your chili!” she said, practically throwing the bowl from shelf to counter.
“Thank you!” I scooted back as the bowl slid toward me, sloshing dangerously.
Marti picked up a rag and began swiping furiously at the counter between us, ignoring Tom.
“You don’t remember his name?” she asked.
I shook my head. The chili was hot and deliciously spicy. I’d almost lost interest in Mia Lange and her brother. Almost.
“What’s he look like?”
I choked. What the hell did he look like?
“Well, he’s about forty, I’d say, and um…well, you know…cute…average height, great eyes.”
I shoveled chili into my mouth and avoided eye contact. They had to think I was a total ditz. I couldn’t even describe him to them. Fortunately, Marti and Tom were too wrapped up in each other to pay too much attention to me. They tried, but I knew they were just waiting for me to leave so they could talk.
They made a halfhearted attempt to review the café’s regulars. By the time I’d finished the corn bread, they agreed that they hadn’t seen any “cute” men in their forties who lived year-round in Surfside Isle, but they did know how to direct me to my rental house.
I left with a clear idea of where I was heading, but the sinking feeling that finding Mia Lange’s brother would be no easy task.
My cell phone rang as I started the car.
“You buy bait?” Jake asked without preamble.
“No,” I answered. “Did you really think anyplace would be open this time of year?”
Jake sighed. “There are no problems,” he said, “only solutions. That’s why I’m calling. I stopped a while back and took care of it.”
In the background I heard Nina yell, “I told him it could wait!”
“Well, you can buy all the bait you want, but you’re not fishing until we find our client’s brother.”
Jake snorted. “How hard can that be? A small beach town can’t have too many regulars.”
I rolled my eyes and visualized myself punting him like a football out into the surf off Surfside Isle.
“We’ll be there soon,” he said. “We’re just crossing the bridge. How’s the house?”
“I don’t know. I’m just pulling up in front of it now. You’ll see for yourself in about twenty minutes.”
I rolled slowly down Forty-eight Street and pulled into the driveway of a small, brown-shingled cottage. The street was desolate. A few houses, including the neighbor to the left of our house, had lights on, but that was it. No one moved in front of the windows, no one walked down the sidewalks, nothing passed under the few lonely street lamps.
“The neighbor on the right has the key,” he instructed.
“The neighbor on the left,” I said.
Jake sighed. “She said right.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” I snapped. “See you when you get here.” I closed the phone, cut the engine and got out of the car before he could call back.
“Do I look like I need supervision?” I asked the car. “I didn’t think so!”
I walked across the short frozen brown grass to the house next door, a large blue-shingled thing that looked more like a series of boxes than someone’s cozy beach cottage.
I started up the steps, saw a white envelope with Aunt Lucy’s name on it, and stopped. Inside was the key. I looked back up at the house for signs of life, saw none and shrugged.
“That was easy,” I muttered. “No muss, no fuss. Guess they didn’t want us waking them up.” I looked at my watch. It was barely after nine. “Old people,” I sighed.
I walked back to the Buick, grabbed my purse, my gun and my keys. I took a long look up and down the deserted street. The sound of the surf pounding the shore behind me and the scent of salt air couldn’t override the silent alarm that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
I whipped around and thought I saw the slats on the neighbor’s blinds drop quickly back into place. I stared hard at the darkened window but saw no further movement.
“You’re seeing things,” I muttered. “You’re like a kid scared of the dark. Get a freakin’ grip!”
I walked up the narrow concrete walkway to the house, climbed the steps to the glass-enclosed front porch and fit the key into the lock. I stopped, listening to the sounds of the vacant house before fumbling for the light switch. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the creaks and squeaks of a windblown beach cottage.
I flipped on the lights, stepped inside and locked the door behind me. I was standing in a cozy, beachside cottage that could’ve been furnished by my grandparents. Overstuffed recliner, blue tweed couch, braided rag rug and knotty-pine walls. Someone had hung café curtains with cheery, yellow rickrack in the kitchen, and a large rectangular table with mismatched vinyl-covered chairs took up the eat-in area.
“Homey,” I said out loud.
Still, I found myself reaching to pat the Glock tucked securely behind my back as I walked through the rest of the house. One bedroom and bath downstairs that would do for