See You at Sunset

by V. K. Sykes

  They held a peaceful silence for a few minutes as they watched the sun sink slowly over Portland, throwing gorgeous streamers of orange, pink, and purple to color the sky. A gentle northwest breeze heralded the arrival of crisp, clear days ahead. Holly inhaled deeply, loving the salty tang of the coastal air.

  Living in downtown Boston, she missed that clean scent. She did not, however, miss the pungent smell of lobsters, fish, and bait that was so much a part of Seashell Bay life. As thoroughly as Lily hosed down Miss Annie’s deck at the end of every fishing day, that funky scent still lingered. Holly had no affinity whatsoever for the lobstering way of life, something that influenced everyone on the island, even those who didn’t work directly in the trade. It always made her feel like a bit of a Seashell Bay fraud, which was probably why she’d overreacted to Frenette’s snarky comment at the Lobster Pot.

  Despite her mainland sensibilities, she adored the island, and her family and friends meant everything to her. Still, she felt like she was on the verge of drifting farther away from her roots. The move to New York would be a game changer in her life and would bring consequences she could barely guess at—for herself, for her aunts, and even for the store.

  And then, of course, there was Micah. She’d lain awake for hours after he left last night, tossing restlessly. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she’d wanted to have sex with the deputy. Badly. She’d wanted nothing more than to drag the wonderful hunk upstairs to her bedroom and have her way with him all freaking night.

  It wouldn’t have taken much dragging either. Not with what she’d felt going on below his belt. She’d killed herself not to let it show, but that impressive contact had pretty much stolen her breath. And it had tempted her like nothing in a long time.

  Yeah, you totally forgot about your boyfriend then, didn’t you? Remember him, Jackson Leigh?

  She really had no reason to feel guilty about Jackson. Though they weren’t exclusive, Holly hadn’t slept with anyone else since they’d started dating. But she’d bet the bank that Jackson had. After all, they only saw each other every few weeks, and the guy was a total player. It was one of the reasons she’d decided to move to New York, so she could figure out once and for all if she wanted some kind of future with the guy.

  Morgan gave her a gentle poke on the shoulder. “Don’t you guys wish we could do this all season? Once a year isn’t nearly enough.”

  “Amen to that, sister.” Lily raised her can of iced tea in a toast. “For me, Casco Bay, a beautiful sunset, and hanging with the two best women on the planet—it just doesn’t get any better than that.”

  “Not that we want you to feel any guilt for leaving us, Holly,” Morgan said sardonically. “Not one tiny bit.”

  “There’s no point since I’m already drowning in it,” Holly said, unable to hold back a sigh.

  Lily frowned. “Come on, you know we’re just teasing you. You’ll come back in your own time. It may take a while, but you will someday. Just like Aiden and Ryan.”

  “Because escape can only be temporary, right?” Holly said. “The lure of Seashell Bay always sucks you back in.”

  “But not just yet, huh?” Morgan pulled the corners of her mouth down to make a sad face. “How does it go? If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere, it’s up to you, New York, New York,” she sang.

  Holly shook her head. “You make it sound almost like a funeral dirge. But I really do have to give it a try, guys.” She’d staked everything on this once-in-a lifetime chance to make it to the top echelon of her profession.

  Lily gave her bare leg a pat. “We understand, darling. We wish like crazy that you were here, but we really do understand.”

  Their understanding and acceptance just made her feel worse. Weepy, even. What the hell was wrong with her?

  Time for a subject change.

  “Let’s talk about the store for a minute,” she said. “I spent most of the day thinking about some improvements we could make. God knows I had plenty of time in between serving the rare customers.”

  “Something that will bring it into the twenty-first century, hopefully?” Morgan said.

  “For sure,” Holly said. “Tinkering isn’t going to be enough to make the store profitable again. The orientation needs to change, especially if Night Owl sets up shop.”

  Lily looked thoughtful. “Are you thinking in terms of something other than a general store?”

  “You know general store is just a quaint name for it, Lily. It hasn’t been that for decades, if it ever was. It’s a convenience store and not much different from Night Owl, at least in essence. Just smaller, dowdier, and with less product.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Lily said. “Dad told me it used to carry hardware and fishing supplies and some fabrics too. But that was way back when. Before your aunts took it over, I think.”

  “Now it’s basically a convenience store with a little tourist stuff thrown in,” Morgan added. “Like those incredibly ugly lobster T-shirts.”

  “I love those shirts!” Lily said indignantly.

  Holly knew her pal wore them regularly, as did many islanders.

  “I’m sure Night Owl will carry the T-shirts and other cheapo tourist stuff too,” she said. “The bottom line is that our store needs to look different and be different. It can keep selling some of the same things that Night Owl and the seasonal store carry, like basic groceries, beer, and wine, but it needs to give people access to some products they can’t get unless they go all the way to Portland. Especially the tourists who are going to show up once the resort gets going. I guarantee they won’t want tacky stuff.”

  Holly pulled her feet down off the rail and sat up straight, feeling more enthusiastic. This was what she was good at—figuring out how to make business thrive. “Night Owl isn’t about catering to the tourist trade, other than supplying them with chips and soda and cigarettes. To be different, we need to give people stuff they can’t find anywhere else on the island. And if they come to our store to buy those things, they might even end up getting their beer, wine, and groceries there too.”

  “Huh,” Lily said. “So you’re thinking about focusing on tourists? That would be a sea change.”

  “I know,” Holly said. “I can’t deny there would be some risk.”

  “I can see your point though. There definitely are going to be a lot more tourists, and most of them should be pretty well-off.”

  “Exactly. Take souvenirs and gifts. There’s not much worth buying on the island right now, so tourists do that kind of shopping on the mainland. What if we were to start sourcing and selling some quality goods by Maine artisans? God knows there are enough of them.”

  The idea had formed when Holly thought about the local Blueberry Festival. Every year at that event, a couple of dozen artists and craftspeople—almost all from off the island—set up tents and booths for the weekend. They produced and sold quality goods ranging from paintings and photography to jewelry, glass, leather, and woodworking. Those artisans always did a brisk trade at the festival, and most came back year after year. What if her aunts made their goods available in the store all year long? It could become a real showcase for artists and artisans from around the state.

  “It sounds good, as long as Florence and Beatrice could source and manage that kind of inventory,” Morgan said. Her expression, however, registered doubt.

  Holly had been thinking about that. “I’ll help them as much as I can when I’m here, and I could do some work remotely too. And don’t forget how shrewd Florence has always been in dealing with suppliers.”

  “What are you thinking of getting rid of so you’ll have room?” Lily asked.

  Holly had a tentative list in her head. “The gas pump has to go, for starters, though that’s not a question of space. It should go because it’s a relic and an eyesore, and there’s not that much profit in it. Night Owl is going to take most of that business anyway.”

  “All true,” Morgan said. “I can’t tell you how many
times I’ve felt like kicking the hell out of that cranky old pump. I swear it’s older than I am.”

  “Ha! It’s probably as old as Gramps,” Lily scoffed.

  Holly didn’t think she was exaggerating by much. “That horrific DVD collection has to go too. And the T-shirts.”

  “Not the T-shirts!” Lily protested.

  “Stay with me, sweetie,” Holly said, patting her hand. “As for groceries, I’m going to suggest cutting back to not much more than half the floor space. We should continue to carry most of the basics but stock only a couple of bestselling brands of each product.”

  “I bet some of the regulars will be pissed off that they can’t buy their favorite brand of detergent,” Morgan said.

  “They’ll get over it. In truth, they probably buy most of that stuff in Portland at Hannaford’s or Costco anyway. Our store should mainly be for people who run out or who don’t want to shop in the city on any given day. People like that can’t expect to have a full range of brands. We’re not a supermarket.”

  “Logic, I like it,” Morgan said. “But people on Seashell Bay get pretty emotional about this sort of thing. As much as I hate to admit it, we are pretty resistant to change.”

  “Time to get with the program, buttercup. It’s that or the store goes belly-up,” Holly said. “I’d like to put in a deli bar too, with a focus on high-quality meats and cheeses and fresh sandwiches. And I’m even thinking about a commercial espresso machine.”

  “Seriously?” Morgan said.

  “Sure. You can’t get a good cup of coffee on this island. A lot of tourists and day-trippers go into withdrawal when they can’t get their daily latte or macchiato. It could be a real win for us.”

  “That’s going to change, because they’ll be able to get good coffee at the resort,” Lily said, sounding apologetic. “The restaurant will have an espresso machine. Aiden and I figured people would go crazy without it.”

  Damn. Holly hadn’t thought about that. “Okay, but still, when those folks are out and about, they might drop in the store for coffee, don’t you think? Plus there are the day-trippers who may not even go near the resort.”

  “I think your ideas are really creative and make a lot of sense,” Morgan said. “Sure, there’s risk, but we all know something significant needs to be done.”

  “I agree,” Lily said with a decisive nod. “It may be risky, but look at Aiden and me. We’re throwing everything we have into the ecoresort. Sometimes you have to listen to your heart and just go for it.”

  “Ryan and I will help promote the store to the tourists and kayakers at the B&B,” Morgan said. “We’ll make sure everybody knows where they can buy the good stuff while they’re on the island.”

  “We’ll do the same thing at the resort too,” Lily said. “In fact, we can put the store’s info in our brochures about things to do on the island.”

  God, no wonder she loved this place so much. No matter what, your friends and neighbors had your back.

  She relaxed into her chair and put her feet back up on the rail. “Thanks, guys, you’re the absolute best. I can’t tell you how much your support means to me.” She paused for a moment. “Now, I don’t suppose you’d like to help me get my aunts on board with the plan, would you?”

  Because that would be the most difficult hurdle of all.

  Chapter 8

  Micah had spent yesterday interviewing the island’s teenagers and college-age kids. Unfortunately, it had all added up to a big fat zero. Nobody owned up to seeing Justin Gore or anyone else with prescription pills. Time after time, the kids sang from the same songbook—that Justin was troubled and angry but probably wouldn’t have the guts to break into somebody’s house. Nor would any of the other kids.

  And that was probably all true. Most parents on the island kept a pretty close eye on their kids and tended not to put up with a lot of crap when trouble did crop up.

  So yesterday evening Micah had retreated to the rocking chair on his front porch to put back a couple of beers and think hard about where to take the case. One obvious group of suspects was the construction crew at the resort. There were at least thirty guys on-site at this stage of construction, and almost all of them came from the mainland. At the very least, he should check their whereabouts on the day of the burglary.

  He was just now finishing up interviews with the first batch of workers in the makeshift lunchroom at the construction site and had a dozen more to go. He was focusing on the ones under forty, leaving out the handful of older guys on-site, at least for now. Aiden had made it clear that Micah was to receive full cooperation from the staff.

  Opening the door to the lunchroom, assistant site superintendent Mike McGee ushered in a rough-looking dude with a scraggly beard and hair that hung down almost to his shoulders. The guy gave Micah a resentful stare as he took off his hardhat and raked a grimy hand over his flattened black hair. Both his arms were covered in ink, with the tattoos running up under the sleeves of his black T-shirt. Dragons seemed to be his preferred artistic theme.

  “This is Jace Horton,” McGee said.

  “Thanks, Mike. Have a seat, Mr. Horton.”

  Horton thumped down onto the gray metal chair.

  The guy’s personnel file contained only three sheets of paper. Jace Horton was twenty-nine years old, lived in South Portland, and had worked at unskilled construction jobs since high school. He’d started to work at the resort site in February.

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” Micah said. “Should only take a few minutes.”

  Horton shrugged.

  “Where were you on Tuesday between eight in the morning and five thirty?”

  “Right here,” Horton said in a bored voice. “I started work at seven thirty and I didn’t leave until five thirty. Got a couple hours’ overtime. That’s been happening a lot lately.”

  The answer was so quick and thorough that it sounded rehearsed. “Okay, we’ll check your time cards just to confirm that,” Micah said. “Did you leave the site at any point before quitting time?”

  Again, Horton didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I went to my buddy’s house to eat lunch and have a beer. He’s got a car.”

  “How long were you off-site?”

  “Half an hour. That’s what we get for lunch, and the fucking foreman watches us like a hawk.”

  “You go there a lot?”

  “Often enough. Can’t drink beer on the job, right? We’re out here busting our asses all day, and a guy gets thirsty for a cold one. Who doesn’t want to get away from the job for a few minutes if he gets the chance?”

  “Sure. So what’s your buddy’s name?”

  “Logan Cain. We’re on the same crew.”

  Micah lifted Horton’s file. Cain’s was next in line. He slid it open and scanned the top sheet. “So Cain lives on the island.”

  “Yeah, maybe three minutes from here.”

  The address was Fortune Lane, a dead-end road in the middle of the island. The house was a well-maintained and nicely furnished rental cottage owned by Sally Christopher. Micah remembered Ryan telling him that a laborer and his girlfriend had recently rented a cottage.

  “Anyone else there when you guys had lunch Tuesday?”

  Horton shook his head. “Nope.”

  Micah made a note to ask Griff Turner to run a criminal record check on Horton, as he had for another guy he’d interviewed. The simple fact that Horton had left the site on the day of the burglary made him a suspect.

  “So, Mr. Horton, you ever run into trouble with the law? Any arrests?”

  “Long time ago,” Horton finally said after a long pause. “Just some juvie stuff, and that doesn’t count.” He paused again, as if deciding whether to say more. “And there was a bogus conviction for possession of stolen goods.”

  “Bogus?”

  “Totally. I was just keeping some stuff for a friend. Doing him a favor. It was all bullshit.”

  Micah would check that out. “Okay, that’s it for now,” he said, gett
ing up.

  Horton shrugged again, then lazily pushed up from the table and strolled out. It was weird that the guy hadn’t even asked why he was being questioned. In Micah’s experience, it was usually the first question people raised when confronted by a cop. Most of the other workers had asked immediately.

  Horton’s buddy, Logan Cain, strode in a few seconds later, a smile on his deeply tanned face. According to his file, Cain was only twenty-five, but Micah figured he looked more like thirty. Unlike Horton, he was big, well groomed, and what most women would no doubt call good-looking, with dark, spiky hair and a small silver ring in his left ear. The guy had an easy smile and the confident swagger that suggested he didn’t spend any lonely nights unless he wanted to.

  Unlike Horton, Cain had no visible tattoos, but he had plenty of muscles and his hands were covered in nicks and scars.

  When Cain extended his hand, Micah gave it a solid crunch. The grip elicited a blink and a quick, indrawn breath, as if Cain were surprised. When a guy looked that laid-back going into a police interview, it always raised Micah’s antennas.

  He started off with questions about Cain’s background. The guy had grown up in Bangor, went to community college there, and then worked construction in two other Maine cities before landing in Portland a year and a half ago. During last year’s bad winter, he’d been laid off. When Micah asked him how he’d found the Seashell Bay job, he said Horton—whom he’d met on a previous job—had told him about the opportunity. He’d worked at the resort since February, and in May had decided to rent a cottage on the island. He liked the slow pace of Seashell Bay and had convinced his reluctant girlfriend to give it a try, even though she had to commute by ferry to her job in Portland.

  “You’re a lucky man to live here, Deputy,” Cain said with a friendly smile.

  “Tell me what you did on Tuesday,” Micah said, putting a little steel into his voice.

  Cain closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. “It was another long day with a couple of hours’ OT. After work I went straight home, had a beer, helped the girlfriend with dinner, and watched a little TV. Same old, same old.”