Maria Agnelli steps down from her tall chair and stands, all four-foot-eleven inches of her poised for battle. “Someone is messing with us, Holly, and it all started when these blasted pirates got here.”
Holly can’t help but nod in agreement, and her mind instantly jumps to Bonnie and the cantankerous Sinker McBludgeon. Her entertaining discovery of Brian under the bushes that morning has been the most lighthearted part of the pirates’ visit so far, but she isn’t sure why one of them might be trying to turn their island into Swiss cheese.
“I can see the correlation,” Holly allows, trying to be fair. “But why would a bunch of guys from Winter Park and Tallahassee come all the way down here to dig in the sand? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“I know why,” Maria Agnelli says wisely. “Buried treasure, that’s why.”
The crowd leaps to action again, tossing around wild tales of Billy Bowlegs Rogers and his chests of gold and treasure. Cap adds what he knows about the legends of markings on trees and sunken pirate ships. Holly puts her fingers to her temples and presses lightly; she really needs another cup of coffee.
“I’ve never heard any rumors about buried treasure on Christmas Key,” Holly says firmly. “I feel like that’s the kind of thing my grandfather might have mentioned had there been any stories about pirates ever coming here.”
“Look, no disrespect, Mayor,” says Cap. “But maybe these guys know more than you do about this topic. They probably spend all their free time trying to figure out where the treasure is buried, and obviously there’s some squirreled away here that we don’t know about.”
“That sounds like hogwash!” Heddie Lang-Mueller says, but her German accent makes the w in ‘hogwash’ sound like a v. Holly smiles at her across the table.
“You might call it hogwash, but think about it,” Cap says. “What if they’re really into this pirate business? What if they intend to pillage our island while they’re at it?”
“They aren’t very nice,” Bridget adds, her face reddening as the crowd turns to look at her. She’s still standing by the door with Jake, her legs sticking out from under a floral skirt that barely covers her assets. On top of that she’s wearing a denim shirt with snaps and a white baseball hat. “I think that guy who’s always hitting on Bonnie tried to give me scurvy at the bonfire last night.”
Looks of confusion are exchanged all over the shop, but Bridget’s comment doesn’t really matter, because the seed of distrust has already been planted.
“Listen,” Holly says, standing up. “This is getting ridiculous. We have a group of visitors here paying good money to hold an event on our island. Most of them are play-acting this pirate fantasy on the weekends after spending their weeks as high school teachers or accountants. They aren’t here to hurt us or steal from us—this isn’t the sixteenth century.”
Holly’s eyes rake through the crowd; some of the faces are starting to look more neutral and less accusatory.
“But we need to figure out where these holes are coming from. They’re dangerous,” Cap says, leaning back in his chair and shoving his hands under his armpits. His presence is imposing anyway, but when he speaks with purpose, the chatter stops and all eyes go to him. “The newest ones are along December Drive on the north side of the island, Holly. If you take Ivy Lane up to December, you can run along the road and see that a bunch of holes have popped up overnight.”
“I’ll go check it out,” Holly promises. “I’ve been trying to fill in the holes myself when I find them, but this is getting to be a bigger job than I’m equipped for.”
“I’ll come along and help,” Jake offers, raising a hand. “I’ve got a shovel and an hour to kill.”
“Thank you, Jake,” Holly says formally, not looking at Bridget. “Now,” she turns back to the crowd, “are we good for the time being? I’d like for us to finish out this long weekend with our guests and have everyone feeling both safe and hospitable. Can we do that?” In truth, what she wants to say is that everyone needs to be on their best behavior, but because being mayor is sometimes like being an elementary school teacher, she chooses her words carefully and aims for positivity over blatant redirection.
People are nodding. Some look unconvinced, but most have returned to their coffee and breakfast pastries.
“Good,” Holly says to herself, heading for the counter. She really does need that coffee.
“I see them—just up there,” Holly points, holding her paper to-go cup in one hand. She’s left her cart behind in the B&B’s sandy lot and ridden along with Jake in his police cruiser to find the new holes. They’ve got two shovels in the storage bin on the back of Jake’s cart.
Sure enough, as Jake pulls off the unpaved road and parks next to a sand dune, they can see a string of holes. The craters zigzag across the street crazily like the footprints of a drunken giant.
“This mystifies me,” Holly mutters to herself. “I really don’t think this is the pirates.”
“Then what do you think is going on?” Jake gets out and grabs the shovels. He meets Holly on the passenger side of the cart and hands one to her. As she takes the shovel from him, her hand brushes against his; he doesn’t seem to notice.
Jake is already focused on filling the holes and Holly ends up talking to his back as he walks away. “I don’t know what I think yet,” she says, “but it seems pretty far-fetched that we wouldn’t have heard about Christmas Key having a pirate history. I honestly feel like that would’ve come up at least once in all the years I’ve lived here.” She sets her coffee in the cup holder of Jake’s cart and follows him over to the first hole.
“It wouldn’t be the first time your grandparents kept important information to themselves,” Jake grunts, spearing the sand with his shovel and heaving the first pile into an empty hole. He’s obviously alluding to the fact that Frank and Jeanie Baxter had chosen to keep the existence of Frank’s illegitimate son a secret. Holly gets that it’s salacious and interesting, but it’s also her family that he’s talking about, and she doesn’t like it.
“You know what, Jake?” she says, setting the tip of her shovel in the sand and resting against the handle while Jake works. “I think the hat is dumb.”
“What hat?” Jake stops digging and frowns at her. He’s already broken a sweat filling the first hole.
Holly realizes that she’s jumped from a perfectly reasonable topic of conversation to an emotionally loaded one, but it’s too late to turn back now.
“Bridget’s. The baseball hat.” She points at the Yankees cap sitting on top of her own head. “The hat is my thing.”
Jake rolls his eyes and moves on to the next hole. It’s far enough away that Holly has to take her shovel and move closer to him in order to carry on the conversation.
“You don’t have a trademark on girls wearing baseball caps, Holly.” Jake dumps a shovel full of sand over the next hole and looks at her with annoyance. “Are you going to help me here, or what?”
“I’m trying to help you,” she says. The words spill out of her mouth like vomit and taste just as bad. “I think you’ve punished me enough.”
“Punished you? How? For what?” Jake walks over to her, the shovel held tightly in one hand. Holly can see the veins of his arm as he grips the wooden handle. “Why is this even about you?”
Holly dips her chin, letting her baseball hat hide her face as much as possible. She knows she’s gone too far, and the anger in Jake’s eyes confirms it.
“I’m not trying to punish you, Holly. We broke up. You said you didn’t want to marry me, and then you drove the point home by sleeping with some guy who showed up on the island, like, a month later.”
“It was more than a month,” she says in a small voice, knowing that this won’t help her case.
“Whatever. You moved on, and now I have. That’s not punishment,” he says, jamming the shovel into the sand. “That’s life.”
Holly’s been waiting to get Jake alone like this so she can talk to him, but she never imag
ined it going like this. She nods slowly, her eyes fixed on the scuffed toes of her gray Converse. Jake is right—about all of it.
“Listen, you should be doing this. You’re the mayor, and I’m just a police officer,” Jake says, walking back to the cart and tossing his shovel into the storage bin with a clang.
“What?” Holly spins around, staring at him as he climbs into the cart. “But mayors don’t do construction.”
“Neither do cops,” Jake says with a smirk. “And if we’re going to split hairs, I think road improvements fall more within your purview than mine. Have fun.”
Jake pulls away from the sand dune and swerves to miss the remaining holes. His cart disappears around the bend in the road, leaving a cloud of dust and sand swirling in the morning sunlight.
Holly walks over to the nearest hole and stares at it for a minute, silently cursing her own inability to simply keep her mouth shut. With a sigh, she starts to fill the hole with sand.
Chapter 6
Buckhunter is squatting on the roof of his bungalow when Holly pulls into her driveway that afternoon.
“How do, Mayor?” he shouts out to her, removing the cigar he’s smoking from between his teeth.
“I do just fine, Buckhunter. What’s going on up there?”
“Thought I’d get a better view of the hole-digging bandits from up here,” he shouts. “I can’t sleep at night thinking about pirates tearing up my island.”
“Really?” Holly almost laughs out loud.
“Nope. Couple of shingles blew loose the other night and landed in my yard.” He holds up a hammer with the hand that doesn’t have a cigar in it. “I’m just fixin’ stuff.”
“Where’s Fee?” Holly leans across the bench seat of her cart to grab her purse. She hasn’t seen Fiona much lately, and they’d only waved at one another during the bonfire the night before.
“She’s got some harebrained idea about swimming from Key West to Cuba,” he says, jamming the cigar back into his mouth and positioning a nail over a shingle. “Says she needs to get out in the water every day to work on her endurance.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you just said Fiona wanted to swim from Key West to Cuba. There must be something wrong with my hearing.” Holly stands in the grass of her uncle’s house, looking up at him as he taps the nail in smoothly with his hammer. Fiona has a great figure, but she isn’t big on working out. In fact, Holly and some of the older women on the island are known to walk the beach together once a week, and Fiona doesn’t even like to get out of bed early for that.
“Yep, that’s what I said.” He grabs another nail and holds a different shingle in place.
“But, why?” A hesitant gust of wind blows through the trees and rustles the leaves and palm fronds. As it reaches Buckhunter, the breeze lifts three of his shingles and sends them flying across the gabled roof; they land on the grass near Holly’s feet.
“Damn,” Buckhunter says. “I needed those.”
Holly sets her purse down and gathers the shingles. “Want me to come up there?” she offers.
“I’m not sure you’re the kind of gal who belongs on a rooftop,” Buckhunter says with a wink.
“I just spent the day filling fourteen holes on December Drive,” Holly says, holding up her hands to show Buckhunter the blisters she got from the wood-handled shovel. “I can probably manage the roof.”
Buckhunter whistles at her raw, red palms. “Did you do that alone? You should have asked for help,” he says, moving over to the edge of the roof to hold the ladder steady for her.
“Yeah, I’ll remember that for next time.” She tucks the shingles into the back pocket of her shorts so that she can hold on to the sides of the ladder with both hands as she climbs the rungs. “So why is Fiona swimming to Cuba? Iris and Jimmy know how to make fried plantains and arroz con pollo. She doesn’t need to breaststroke all the way to Havana for that.”
Buckhunter leans forward and offers Holly a hand as she reaches the top of the ladder. “She’s raising money for the hospital she worked at in Chicago. I think it’s for the cancer center. Her cousin just passed away, and she wants to do her part. She’s been pretty upset,” he says with a grunt, pulling Holly up so that she can sit next to him on the slanted roof.
“Fiona just lost her cousin?” Holly says, sinking into a sitting position. “I didn’t know. We haven’t had much time to talk lately.”
“So she says.”
Holly turns her head to look at her uncle. They’re sitting so close that their shoulders nearly touch. “Is she mad at me?”
Buckhunter chuckles. “No. I don’t think so. Life is busy, kid—she gets that.”
“Oh. Good.” Holly turns to look back out over the family property. “You can see a lot from up here,” she says, pointing to Cinnamon Lane and over at the beach to the left of the property.
“Yep,” Buckhunter confirms. “Sure can.”
“So how is Fiona raising money by swimming ninety miles through shark-infested waters?”
“Getting sponsors. Carrie-Anne and Ellen have signed on, and I think she’s asked her family to do the same.”
Carrie-Anne and Ellen choose a different cause each month to donate to with the funds they earn from their themed items at Mistletoe Morning Brew. Their support doesn’t surprise Holly.
“Maybe she should call Coco and see if some of her bored housewife friends want to pitch in. They’ve all got money to burn,” Holly says, bumping into her uncle lightly with her shoulder. They haven’t heard from Holly’s mother in a while, and neither is sure where she stands at the moment in terms of her plans to sell the island. Their three-way ownership of Christmas Key is basically all that’s stopping Coco from turning it into a giant waterpark, and even the intervention of her lawyer hasn’t helped to further her cause with Holly and Buckhunter.
“Let’s not poke the sleeping beast,” Buckhunter says with a gruff laugh. “She’s hibernating in a cave somewhere up in New Jersey. Probably wise to leave her be.”
Holly wraps her arms around her legs, pulling her knees to her chest. “So what do you make of all this pirate talk?” She shivers as the breeze picks up again.
Buckhunter puffs on his cigar, filling the air with sweet-smelling smoke. “Bupkis,” he says definitively. “This island is full of imaginative old timers and a few mildly-cracked young people,” he says, his gray-blonde goatee twitching as he holds back a grin. “These dudes in breeches and velvet coats are just here for a good time—nothing more.”
“What if that good time really does include hunting for some treasure we’ve never heard of?”
Buckhunter shrugs. “What if it does?”
“Then it feels like we’re being robbed.”
“But we aren’t. Treasure buried by pirates doesn’t belong to any of us.”
He’s right—as usual. The thing about Buckhunter is that he can joke around and tease you until you want to punch him, but when he gives advice it’s always solid.
“So we should just ignore their digging and keep filling the holes?”
Buckhunter squints out into the treetops. “I think you should keep filling those holes, Mayor,” he says, sticking his cigar between his teeth and reaching for one of Holly’s hands. He turns it over and examines her palms. “But maybe wear some gloves next time, huh?”
As soon as Buckhunter finishes his roof repair and heads off to open up Jack Frosty’s for happy hour, Holly sends Fiona a text.
She’s humming along to the Pet Shop Boys on her stereo and folding a pile of laundry in the kitchen when her phone buzzes on the wooden tabletop next to the stack of hand towels. Yep. Swimming to Cuba. Must have lost my mind.
Holly snaps a green t-shirt in the air and folds it in half, then in half again. She sets it on top of a pile of clothes and picks up her phone. Want to be my date for the gathering at Jack Frosty’s, or will that derail your training and conditioning?
Pucci’s bark pulls her attention out to the front porch. The door is open to the
cool January evening, and the smell of a tropical winter filters through the house.
“Whatcha barking at, boy?” Holly coos, phone in her hand as she bends over to scratch Pucci on the head. He’s standing at attention, ears perked up. His bark rings out again into the twilight of the evening, and suddenly Holly would rather close the house up than have it wide open. She takes a step back and pats her thigh, hoping Pucci will follow. “Come on, let’s go in,” she says. Pucci barks again, this time more insistently. “What, Pooch?” she asks, sliding her phone into the back pocket of her shorts. “What is it?”
There’s a rustle in the trees near Buckhunter’s house, and Holly’s head whips in that direction. His windows are dark. Pucci is crouched at her heels, and he lets out a low growl. Holly wraps her arms around her body and clears her throat.
“Who’s there?” she calls into the near-darkness. “Brian?” She hopes that the harmless, wayward pirate has just wandered back to her side of the island again. “Is that you?”
In response, a branch snaps loudly and Holly jumps back. Pucci has the opposite response and he springs forward, leaping from the top step of the porch and scaling all three stairs like he’s clearing a hurdle. Before Holly has a chance to react, she hears a man’s voice and a commotion from the trees on the side of Buckhunter’s house.
“Ouch! Get off me!” The leaves rustle loudly as Pucci lunges at the unseen visitor. “Shoo! Get away!”
Holly doesn’t recognize the voice, but the gravelly sound and the low pitch both conjure up the image of an older man. She rules Brian out.
“Pucci!” Holly shouts, taking one step down and forcing herself to be brave. “Pooch!” She hopes that Pucci has at least gotten a jaw full of pant leg and that he’s holding their guest hostage. “Whoever you are, you’d better show yourself.” Holly holds her cell phone in the air. “I’m calling Officer Zavaroni now, and he’ll come over here immediately. It’ll be better for you in the end if you just come out.” She’s shaking, but manages to hold her voice steady.
The Edge of Paradise: Christmas Key Book Three Page 4
