Shadows on the Sand (9 page)

G
reg Barnes stood alone, staring at the damage done to the Sand and Sea. The locksmith had come and gone, but what good was a new lock on the front door when the wall was an open invitation to the crooked and the curious?

He’d called his boss to report what had happened, and with any luck he’d be gone before Josh showed up.

He sighed. Sooner or later he’d have to talk with the man. He just preferred it to be later. After all, it was imperative he go to Home Depot over on the mainland for a couple of sheets of plywood to cover the hole. What if the weather turned? What if night fell and bad guys or nosy kids climbed in? His duty as a property manager demanded he leave ASAP.

As he tried to work up the energy to get in his pickup and drive to the store, a black Cadillac Escalade pulled into the lot. He sighed again as he watched the unfamiliar car park. Another nosy tweeter?

He rubbed his forehead. Much as he hated to admit it, he hurt, but no way would he go to a doctor. Too time consuming. Maybe he should stop and let Carrie tend his wounds. Somehow thinking of her concern for him made him feel a little less achy.

He studied the Escalade. Nice car,
very
nice car. Big. Shiny. New. Much classier than the Hummer that had shouted,
“Notice me, notice me; I’m special and so’s my driver.”
Of course anyone driving an Escalade wasn’t the retiring sort either.

He blinked as Josh Templeton, sleek and buffed, climbed out, sporting
new dark glasses and an extra measure of attitude. Huh. Too late to run. And Greg would have to rethink that classier thing.

Josh strode across the lot, his hair moussed to perfection, his trousers sharply creased, the polish on his tasseled loafers getting dusty in the cinders and sand. He stopped beside Greg and studied the hole without a word, though he vibrated with anger. Even his jowls, developing in spite of his attempts to stay young forever, seemed to shimmy with fury.

Greg took a deep breath and waited with patience for the explosion. It was inevitable, and since he was the one standing here, he would be the one getting the blame. The fact that he hadn’t been the driver of the car would matter little to Josh.

Well, he could take it. He had no choice if he wanted to keep his job. On the bright side, Josh would be his boss for only two more days.

“What were you thinking, Barnes,” Josh snarled, “to let things get this out of hand?”

Greg took a minute until he trusted his voice. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. The blood, abrasions, cuts, and bruises aren’t all that major, though I was worried for a minute there when he drove straight at me.”

Josh scowled and waved the air as if brushing away a gnat. “Get over yourself. You’re fine. You screwed up. You might as well admit it.”

Greg sighed. What was the use? It was a good thing Scripture said to
love
one another, not
like
one another. He could behave properly toward Josh in an agape love, polite sort of way—his mother and Ginny had trained him well, as had the instructors at the police academy—but he couldn’t bring himself to like the man. At all. Sometimes it felt more like a case of loving your enemy.

“I did not screw up.” A bit of self-defense was appropriate. After all, he had Carrie and Blake, to say nothing of the tweeters, as witnesses.

Josh spun to him, mouth open to rebut.

Greg held up a hand. “I will not discuss culpability with you, Josh. I know what I know. I was here. You were not. Blake Winters was here too. Talk to him if you want an unbiased report.”

Josh looked around. “Where is he?”

The subtle thread of disbelief about Blake’s presence when the incident occurred angered Greg, but he held his temper. It wasn’t a war worth fighting. It was just Josh being his usual disagreeable self. “He left after the locksmith changed out the locks.”

“Like new locks are going to keep people out.” Josh swept his hand toward the hole. “It’s a highway through there.”

“It won’t be after I cover it.” Greg was proud of the even tone he managed.

Another car pulled into the lot, and a man Greg had never seen before climbed out, cell phone in hand.

“Wow! That’s impressive!” The man studied the hole. “They weren’t kidding.”

“They weren’t,” Greg agreed, knowing who “they” were.

“You okay?” the stranger asked, eying Greg’s scrapes and bruises.

A total stranger had more courtesy than his boss. How sad was that? “I’m okay.”

The man nodded. “Looks painful.”

“Who are you?” Josh demanded.

“Mac88. Who are you?”

Josh turned on Greg. “What kind of an idiot name is Mac88?”

Greg mentally rolled his eyes.

“Hey, buddy, watch your mouth.” Mac88 scowled at Josh.

“He’s a tweeter,” Greg explained. “Mac88 is his Twitter name.” Did that mean there were eighty-seven other Macs on Twitter or that he was born in 1988? Or on the eighth day of August, the eighth month?

“Facebook too,” Mac88 said.

Josh studied the lanky guy with the BlackBerry and sniffed. “I was right. He’s a twit.” And he turned his back.

Greg bit back a smile at Mac88’s outraged expression.

Josh resumed his rant. “You were in charge of this eviction; therefore, this is your fault, Barnes. I expect you to take care of all this mess. Get estimates on repairs, select the cheapest, and get this fixed by tomorrow.”

“It may take a bit longer, what with insurance and all.” To say nothing of contractors with previous commitments.

“Tomorrow!” Josh puffed out his chest, the very picture of self-importance. “The sale is finalized tomorrow, as you well know.” Josh was selling every property he owned, and he’d transferred the responsibility for the negotiations with the representative of a consortium of buyers to Greg. All Josh planned to do was show up tomorrow to sign on the dotted line—or lines, as the case may be—and collect his money.

Which explained the new Escalade. How like Josh, buying the pricey car before he had a check in hand. It seemed he’d never heard the one about “many a slip twixt cup and lip.”

“Fred will be in town early tomorrow,” Josh said as if he, not Greg, had been the one to work with Fred through the purchase process. “He’ll give you a call. Just make sure he shows at one for the meeting with my lawyers. I’ve got to go.”

And he climbed into his Escalade and went.

Greg breathed a sigh as the black car disappeared down the street. Josh always got on his nerves, had from the first time they met.

“He’s a real winner.” Mac88’s voice dripped with dislike. “I’m going to Carrie’s Café to see what’s happening there.”

Greg had never heard a more appealing plan.

I
t was midafternoon, and I was waving a relieved good-bye to the last of the tweeters, ready to flip the lock, when Greg pulled up to the curb. I pushed open the door and waited for him on the sidewalk.

“Hey, look,” one of the tweeters exclaimed. “It’s the guy the Hummer guy tried to run down.”

Greg looked pained as all eyes fixed on him. “How do they know that?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “I’d guess one of the tweeters at the Sand and Sea posted a picture of you.”

“He’s also the one whose family got blown up,” another called. “Check this link.”

Greg looked as if he’d been slapped.

“Quick!” I grabbed his arm as their heads bowed and they watched something about the event of three years ago, probably footage on YouTube. I pulled Greg inside and turned the door’s lock.

They looked up, eyes bright with curiosity. Intent on coming back in the café and getting up close and personal with the object of their nosiness, they moved as one, like kernels of caramel corn stuck in a clump.

“I’ll take another Coke,” one called as he pulled on the door, remembering my admonition about having to buy something to be admitted.

“Yeah, me too,” several said, expressions becoming those of desperate people dying of dehydration after enduring days under the blazing Saharan sun.

“And I’ll tell everyone what a wonderful place this is,” another called, holding up his iPad.

“Don’t let them in!” Lindsay called from the pass-through. As if I would. “There’s nothing left to feed them. They’re worse than a horde of locusts!”

“Sorry,” I called through the door, giving the tweeters the evil eye. “We close at two and it’s now three.”

“Not fair,” they called, looking crestfallen.

“Come back tomorrow.” I waved and turned my back.

Greg studied the swirling mass pacing outside the door, thumbs working their keyboards both real and virtual. He seemed to have regained his balance. “See the tall, lanky one? Mac88. He followed me here.”

I nodded. “Feels creepy, doesn’t it?”

He reached for his sore shoulder. “Maybe he’ll follow me to Home Depot and back, and I can get him to help me nail the plywood over the hole.”

“You’re too hard on them.” Mary Prudence came up beside me. “It’s a way of staying connected in an increasingly fragmented society.”

I laughed. “Mary P, where did you read that?”

She gave me an impish smile. “Who knows? But it sure sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Without Twitter how would we know the cops got Chaz?” Lindsay called from the kitchen.

“TV? The newspaper?” I offered.

“Yeah, but when? Tonight or tomorrow? Now we don’t have to worry about whether he got away or not. Think of the anxiety not suffered.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you would have been just one bundle of nerves.”

She grinned. “Sister of mine, you are an anachronism.”

“Anachronism. Yowzah, Linds, I’m impressed.” I looked at Greg’s face
in the light streaming in the big front window. “That box of vocabulary flash cards was worth the money after all. And you,” I said to Greg. “Upstairs so I can clean those cuts out without a national audience.”

Several of the tweeters were watching us, thumbs flying as they did so. One had his cell raised and was snapping pictures. I could just imagine their posts. Grouchy lady. Injured man. What fun they must be having.

“I washed my face.” Greg twisted away from my ministrations. He grimaced and grabbed his shoulder.

“Maybe, but you’ve still got lots of little cinders embedded.”

“They’ll work their way out. I’ve got to go get that plywood.”

I looked at him in exasperation. “If you don’t want to be disinfected, why did you come here?”

He glanced out the window at our voyeurs. “Sanctuary.”

I laughed. “Granted.”

“Should you be driving?” Mary P peered at him. “You’ve got a good-sized egg, all black and blue.”

His hand went to his forehead. “It’s not bad. I’m not concussed.”

“So says the man who can’t see the injury. Drive him, Carrie,” Mary P said. “With that shoulder he’s rubbing, he’ll need help even if his head’s all right.”

“I can manage a sheet of plywood fine.” He sounded insulted.

Mary P laughed. “I’m not impugning your manhood, you know.”

He looked unconvinced.

Drive him. Did I dare? “I have to close out for the day.” I indicated the cash register.

“Push-tush,” Mary P said. “I can do that with my eyes closed.”

She could. She’d done it for years when Carrie’s Café was the Surfside. The question was: Could I do it? Could I spend an hour or more alone with Greg and not give myself and my ridiculous infatuation away?

I glanced at him. He looked as balky as a mule on a path he didn’t want to traverse. He did not want help. Or was it
my
help he was balking at?

“When you go, Carrie, don’t forget fluorescent bulbs,” Lindsay called from the kitchen. “The one over my prep table is starting to blink.”

I glanced at my sister, who was standing in my line of sight but not Greg’s. She was grinning and making “go” signals with all her might. Ricky appeared behind her and made little wiggly movements with his eyebrows that I suspected were supposed to be suggestive but made him look like he had a tic.

One couldn’t have a secret around this place. It was mortifying. But the light bulbs were all the excuse I needed.

“It’s me or Mac88 and friends.” I pointed to the sidewalk and the milling tweeters.

Greg looked ready to protest again, then gave another shrug and another wince. With a rueful smile, he handed me his pickup keys.

I’d never driven such a large vehicle before, and the lanes on the causeway, which always felt narrow because of the age of the bridge, seemed extra snug. I gripped the steering wheel as if holding it tightly would keep us in our lane.

“Relax.”

I glanced at him. He was leaning against the headrest, his eyes closed.

“How do you know I’m tense? You’re sleeping.”

“I’m not sleeping, just resting. And I can feel your tension. The cab is crackling with it.”

“Is not.”

He snorted at my defensive lie, and a small smile curved his lips though he didn’t open his eyes.

“So tell me, Carrie Carter. Where do you come from? I know you’re not a Seaside native.”

I always hated this question. “I grew up in Atlanta.”

His eyes popped open, though he continued to lounge against the headrest. “Really? You don’t sound like a Southern belle.”