“Well, that was terrible,” John said, as he and Marguerite exited Tabitha Brighton’s hospital room.
Marguerite smiled. “What’s the matter, Chief? You don’t like picking on defenseless young girls?”
“I wouldn’t call her defenseless.” He thought of the way Tabitha had spewed Larry Beckwith’s counterculture BS. “But I didn’t like doing it, anyway.”
“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it. Come on.” Marguerite elbowed him chummily. “Let’s go look at the baby. That might cheer you up. Seeing a happy, healthy newborn that we had a part in saving always cheers me up.”
Visiting Baby Aphrodite did cheer him up, a little. Especially since the baby was swaddled in a blanket with bright yellow ducks on it—one of the many donated by the public, the nurse explained. The baby’s mother—Tabitha—had directed that most of the rest of the donations be given to the island’s shelter for battered women and children.
This cheered John even more. It meant that though Tabitha hadn’t yet realized how thoroughly she’d been brainwashed by Dakota, she was at least somewhat civic-minded. This was a sign that she could still be saved.
It was later in the day when he received another piece of good news—at least good to him—though it came from a surprising source. Murray—who generally refused to work on Sundays, as that was when Sheriff Wagner had always allowed him the day off to visit his in-laws in Key West—shuffled into his office and said, “Chief.”
John looked up from his deputies’ reports that no sign of Dylan Dakota or his followers had been found anywhere in all of Little Bridge and gaped at the head of his tech department. “Murray. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been here since Friday.” Murray looked like it, too. His uniform was rumpled, his face unshaven, and his glasses in need of cleaning. “I hope you’re going to approve the overtime.”
John frowned. “Of course, especially if you’ve got anything good.”
“Oh, I got something good, Chief. At least, I think you’re gonna think it’s good: Dakota’s hair is all over that sweatshirt they found at the widow’s house last night.”
John raised an eyebrow. He’d been expecting this, but it was still good to hear. “Hair as in more than one?”
“Either the guy is going bald or someone gave him a haircut while wearing it. I’d go for the former. Of course, I’m talking a microscopic match only. We won’t have DNA for a while. I’m guessing it will be the same, though. But that’s not all.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nope. The primary prints on the box the librarian found the baby in? They’re his.”
John nearly dropped the cup of coffee he’d been holding. “What?”
“That’s right.” The deep lines on Murray’s face crinkled into a smile. “It was a bitch because there were so many prints on it, but I managed to isolate a couple of Dakota’s right where someone would be holding a box like that if, say, they were carrying a baby in it from the new library to the old one.”
In a million years, John never thought he’d want to hug his chief crime scene tech, but he had to hold back an urge to do so now.
“Murray. That is great. Just great. Overtime approved.”
Murray was still grinning. “Thanks, Chief. Anything to nail this guy. Can you imagine, abandoning a little baby like she was trash?”
“No,” John said, going from smiling to frowning in a split second. He was actually feeling a little choked up, and not only over the prints. Murray was finally coming around to his side from Sheriff Wagner’s. “No, I cannot. Thanks for this, Murray. Thanks for skipping your in-laws this weekend to help with this. We might actually nail Beckwith this time—if we ever catch him, that is.”
Murray nodded and turned to go. “I hope so. And to be honest, skipping my in-laws is not exactly the biggest sacrifice.”
John laughed just as his phone chimed that he had a text. He checked it, expecting to hear from Katie. She had dance practice all day, but they were supposed to catch up that night over dinner together.
It wasn’t Katie, however.
Hi, John, it’s Molly. I found something I need to show you. Can you stop by sometime today?
His heart rate sped up. Pete had told him to cool it and not blow things by seeming overeager.
But she was texting him. Not even twenty-four hours since they’d last seen each other, she was texting him, and asking him to stop by. It was okay for him to do so, wasn’t it?
Of course it was. Pete was wrong. They were adults. There were no rules. Were there rules?
He knew there were laws, of course, and what to do about people who broke them. But this was different. Certainly there weren’t really rules like Pete was saying, about texting back too quickly, and the jumping of bones (Lord, how he hated that expression) by certain dates, and all of that. That was simply unbelievable.
Although, to be honest, Katie had shared a few things about dating in high school, and all of them had sounded just as unbelievable as the things Pete had shared. They had sounded so awful, in fact, that John had instituted a rule of his own, and that was that Katie wasn’t to date anyone until college.
But she had only laughed at him and said, “Oh, Daddy,” and done precisely as she liked. So that had been a failure, much as his own dating life had been until now, so clearly he knew nothing.
But that was high school. This was the adult world.
Quickly, he texted Molly back that he had to finish up some things (Pete would approve of this) but could meet her in a few hours.
A text bubble appeared. She was texting back!
Great. I’ll be helping out at the inn. Can you meet me there?
Of course he could. The inn was on his way home. And the good thing about the inn was that it had a bar. They could have a drink (surely she was allowed to drink while on check-in duty), and that would almost be like a date. A quick date, but it might count as their second.
And then when they finally managed to meet for the steak dinner, that would be their third—
No. No, he was not playing Pete’s game.
See you there, John texted back.
Of course, for it to count as a date, he had to pick up flowers on his way over, even though Pete had warned him against doing this.
But Pete didn’t know everything. Pete was John’s age, yet had never been in a relationship lasting longer than four months, so how were his rules working out for him? John knew from experience that women liked flowers, and also felt that Molly deserved flowers after everything she’d been through, finding an abandoned baby and its mother near death.
The only problem was that it was Sunday, so the island’s only flower shop was closed.
But that wasn’t a problem, because John knew from having dealt with a credit-card fraud case at Island Blooms that the Morettis, the flower shop’s owners, lived in a sweet little cottage behind the store, while also owning several apartments above it.
So he banged on their door until they answered it and bemusedly agreed to open the shop and allow him to buy a nice bouquet of daisies. Not roses, because that would be overkill, and Molly seemed like the type who would like daisies.
While there, he also queried the Morettis about the availability of an apartment for the new children’s librarian. It was ridiculous for Molly to have to work two jobs just to afford to live in Little Bridge, and the Morettis were known as being conscientious landlords, who kept reasonably priced, if fairly small, apartments.
“Molly’s very quiet,” he assured them, though in actual fact he’d found Molly to be quite loud when expressing her opinions, which she did quite often. “And she works for the city, so her income is steady.”
This piqued Mrs. Moretti’s interest. She said they happened to have a tenant they were kicking out of one of their one-bedroom apartments at the end of the month. “Rent never on time, and the parties!” She shook her head in disgust.
“Why didn’t you call me?” John asked. Excessive noise without a permit was considered a breach of the peace in Little Bridge.
Mrs. Moretti shrugged. “Call you every night? What would be the point? Anyway, he’s leaving now. We can take your girlfriend.”
John felt himself blushing. “She’s not my girlfriend. Like I said, she’s the new children’s librarian, and since the hurricane, as you know, affordable housing has been very—”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Moretti laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “We know. She’s not your girlfriend, but you’re bringing her flowers. We understand very much.”
John, still blushing, had them wrap the daisies in plain brown paper—he didn’t want the bouquet to look too over the top—and left after thanking the Morettis profusely. By the time he arrived at the Lazy Parrot it was happy hour, and the guests who’d already checked in were lounging around the pool with margaritas and cocktail plates.
“Hey, sexy policeman,” one of the lady guests said to him as he walked by, looking for Molly, who hadn’t been at the front desk. “Are those flowers for me?”
“No,” John said flatly. “And I’m with the sheriff’s department, not the police. These flowers are for Molly Montgomery. Have you seen her?”
“Oh, John!”
He saw a woman wearing a florescent-green beach cover-up with matching flip-flops waving to him from across the pool and realized it was Joanne Larson, one of the Lazy Parrot’s owners. He approached her, grateful to be getting away from the woman who’d called him a sexy policeman.
“Hello, Joanne,” he said, when he reached her. “Molly texted for me to meet her.”
“Yes, I know.” Joanne was holding a tray of something beige smeared on cucumber rounds. “She told me. She’ll be right back. She’s helping a new guest with their luggage. Fish dip?”
John shook his head. He felt another spurt of irritation at the unfairness of the situation. A librarian shouldn’t need a side hustle just to afford her rent.
Of course, if he convinced Molly to leave her live-in job at the hotel and move in to the Morettis’ apartment, that would leave Joanne and Carl Larson shorthanded. The only solution he could see was to find them a new night manager. He wondered if Deputy Swanson, the officer who’d been so blithe about his tardiness in responding to the alarm at Mrs. Tifton’s house, would care for the position. He certainly wasn’t cutting it in law enforcement. Maybe his true calling was in hospitality.
“So Molly tells me you’re going to be dancing in the mother-daughter Snappettes performance,” Joanne said, helping herself to one of her own hors d’oeuvres.
John attempted to smile.
“Yes. Yes, I am. I’m really looking forward to it,” he lied.
“So am I,” Joanne said. “I’ve already bought tickets for Carl and myself, and all of our friends, too. We can’t wait to see it. It’s going to be a hoot and a half! Are you going to wear an actual Snappette uniform?”
“The, er, costume decisions aren’t up to me, so I’m not sure. I’m certain whatever it is will be very tasteful.”
“Oh, I hope not,” Joanne said. “We all want to see you in a Snappette uniform. That’s what we’re paying for, really.”
“Wait, what are we talking about?” one of the nearby guests wanted to know.
“He’s going to be dancing for charity with the high school cheerleading squad,” Joanne said, pointing at John.
“It’s a dance team,” John corrected her.
But no one cared. Everyone on the poolside deck was staring at him appraisingly, all of the ladies smiling, the men confused.
“In a dress?” one of the men asked, looking appalled, though he himself was holding a drink that contained a pink paper umbrella.
“Shirtless, I hope,” one of the ladies said, winking at John suggestively.
“Where can I get tickets?” one of the other ladies asked from the hot tub, nudging her friend.
“It’s not till next month,” Joanne said.
“I don’t care,” the guest responded with a cackle. “I’ll extend my stay, especially if there’s a chance he’ll be doing it shirtless.”
John was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Now hold on,” he began, because he’d learned at his four-hour sexual harassment workshop that the objectification of women could also happen to men—even law enforcement officers. It was also no less harmful, even though it was occasionally reinforced by first responders themselves, like those hose draggers over at the fire station and their ridiculous yearly calendar. “Let’s—”
“John!”
Thank God Molly had finally appeared, wearing a flowy white sundress and looking as fresh and as welcome as rain after a hot day.
“Hello,” he said, forgetting Joanne and her guests and everything but Molly and her radiant smile. Then he remembered something else. “Here. I brought you these.” He handed her the flowers.
Molly gasped as she took them from him. “Daisies!” Molly cried. “They’re beautiful! And my favorite. How did you know?”
He didn’t know how he’d known. He just had. He wasn’t at all surprised to have been right.
He was surprised, however, when Joanne and all of her guests (the women, anyway) let out a collective “Awwww.” He wanted to jump into the pool, sink to the bottom of the deep end, and not come out until he’d either drowned or they’d all gone away.
“How beautiful,” Joanne said, setting down her tray of fish dip and taking the flowers from Molly. “I’ll put them in a vase for you. You and John go visit.” When Molly hesitated, Joanne waved her impossibly long, florescent-green nails at her. “Go on. I got this!”
Molly laughed and took him by the hand, leading him away from the pool and toward a thatched tiki bar beneath the outdoor stairs she’d taken last night to get to her room.
“Here, let me get you a drink,” she said. “What’ll you have?”
“Beer is fine.”
“Beer it is.” She slipped behind the bar and pulled out a bottle from an outdoor mini fridge. “Do you want a lime with that?”
“God, no.”
She laughed again and passed him the beer. “Sorry about that,” she whispered, nodding toward the still-gossiping guests, many of whom continued to look in their direction. “You know how it is. This place is like Disney World to them. Everything in Little Bridge is an attraction—including the locals. Seeing me with a man who’s brought me flowers is a bit like seeing the guy who plays Goofy without his head.”
He looked at her. “I don’t think they see you as Goofy. Maybe one of the princesses, like Cinderella.”
“Oh, and are you my handsome prince, here to rescue me from a life of drudgery?”
Damn. He’d put his foot in it again. “I didn’t mean—that wasn’t what I—I meant because you’re so—”
She laughed again, and reached out to lay a hand upon his wrist. “John, I was kidding. I wouldn’t mind being rescued from having to wash so many towels. But I couldn’t ask for cheaper rent or a more centrally located place to live, and Carl and Joanne really do need the help.”
John nodded, thinking to himself that this would be a bad time to tell her about the apartment over the flower shop. Then it really would look like he was trying to rescue her.
Instead, he said, changing the subject, “So, you texted that you had something to show me?”
“Oh, yes.” She reached beneath the bar. “I’m afraid you’re not going to like it very much, though.”
“Go ahead.” He sipped his beer, feeling extremely contented. It was nice simply to be in her company, even with a dozen pairs of eyes watching their every move. The waterfall by the side of the pool and jets in the hot tub were making a relaxing splashing sound, and the blossoms on the night-blooming jasmine had already begun to open and release their intoxicating scent. If he didn’t have to go home to see Katie, he’d happily hang out here all evening.
“One of my patrons brought this into the library today,” Molly said, bringing a digital Leica out from beneath the bar. She must have noticed his expression change, since she added, quickly, “Don’t worry, it’s his father’s, not Mrs. Tifton’s. The time and date stamps on the photos on it prove it. That’s why I wanted to show them to you, though—the photos that he took on it last night. You’re not going to like them, but you need to see them.”
Now John was beginning to feel less relaxed. His beer forgotten, he leaned forward against the bar to peer into the camera’s display screen as she switched it on. “Why am I not going to like them?”
“Because,” Molly said. “They’re of Katie. Katie and the High School Thief.”
