The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel (9 page)

W
hat he wanted wasn’t near the top of any of the boxes, of course, so Clancy had to dump their contents onto the living room floor. Once he pulled out all the trophies and set them on the fireplace mantel, he went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. When he returned, his dogs were using his memorabilia as a wrestling mat.

“Fellas! Off!” The two large dogs froze. Tripod was on his back, his pale belly exposed, his three remaining legs sticking straight up in the air. Earl’s chocolate brown butt was aimed toward the ceiling and his elbows were on the floor, and his wide, expressive eyes revealed his guilt. Tripod seemed oblivious as always, eyes crazy, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

Clancy couldn’t help but chuckle at his companions. A few years back, Duncan had christened them Dipshit and Doofus, which he thought was a bit harsh. But adopting those two rescue dogs had been one of the best decisions he’d ever made. Somehow, it made perfect sense that Barbie couldn’t stand them. The world sorts itself out in mysterious ways. Hard-hearted Barbie was long gone and these two loving, harebrained creatures made him laugh and smile every damn day.

He placed his coffee cup on an end table and picked
a spot on the floor away from the spilled contents of the boxes. “All right. Come on over.” Both dogs spun and twisted, trying to get traction on the slick papers, and eventually piled into Clancy’s lap—two hundred pounds of in-the-moment happiness. He rubbed their ears and scratched their backs and roughhoused with them for a few minutes. “I know I’m not around much this week, but hang in there, all right? Now, listen up. I need to find this damn photo and get some sleep. Okay by you?” Clancy gave them each one last scratch and pointed toward the back of the house. “Outside. Dog door.”

They happily clambered down the bare pine hallway and squeezed themselves through the cutout. The heavy plastic flap closed behind them.

Clancy started in on the mess scattered in front of him, deciding that he might as well organize as he searched. Clearly, Mona hadn’t been overly choosy about what she decided was worth squirreling away for posterity. Clancy found programs from elementary school band recitals, science fair honorable mentions, his kindergarten report card, and his first communion photo from Our Lady of the Isle Catholic Church. But some of the junk was highly entertaining, like an essay he wrote for Mrs. Schmidt’s third-grade class with this unique title: “A Mermaid.” His essay read, “The mermaid is dum and ugly. The legend is really stuped.” Clancy tossed the wide-ruled paper into a box, somehow proud that, though his spelling had improved, his opinion of the mermaid hadn’t changed much in the last twenty-five years.

He uncovered several track ribbons, including a handful from his junior varsity year, and one for his third-place finish in the ten-thousand-meter event at the state high school championships. He found a bunch of shells and sea glass, and a drawing he’d done of his family when he’d been in fifth grade. He stared at it for a moment, deciding it was both sweet and sad. Everyone was standing on the deck of his dad’s old Bermuda sloop, ready to head out for a day sail. His father loomed large
over the family the way he always had, and his mother had Duncan pressed into her side, like she was afraid he’d be blown over by the wind. Clancy had drawn himself smiling and making peace signs while Rowan had a bratty look on her face. All in all, fairly accurate, he’d have to say.

That was the year Clancy turned twelve. Flynn Fisheries was still hanging on and the mansion was still their private home. But soon, everything would change. In a few years the fishery would close, they’d open the house as a bed-and-breakfast, and his parents would begin arguing over whether they should sell the family home and acreage to hotel developers. Though it was no longer an issue—thanks to Ash’s plan to restore the Safe Haven and build a marine research institute on a piece of the land—his parents couldn’t find a way to stop arguing. It was as if they couldn’t remember any other way of communicating.

Clancy tossed the drawing into the box he’d designated for school stuff, and kept going. It took about ten minutes, but he spotted it. It was a color photo his mother had taken with her auto-focus 35 mm camera. His dance partner was exactly his height and equally lean, her brown hair hanging loose down her back, just as Clancy remembered. He studied the picture, examining the dynamics of it. They were laughing, the girl arched away from him just enough that they could look into each other’s eyes. Clancy had managed to pull her close on the dance floor, holding her hand against his chest while slipping his other arm around her waist.

Not bad for a fourteen-year-old. Not bad at all.

At that instant, he remembered her name.
Evie.
One look at this picture and his mind was filled with the sound of the word.

Evie.

The rush of memory and emotion came on so hard and fast that he had to laugh at himself. No wonder he’d forgotten her name—he’d buried it on purpose so he wouldn’t have to remember how much he had loved her.

But there she was in the photo, beautiful in a pale yellow sundress with thin straps and decoration around the bottom. She had on a pair of those hideous, but popular, jelly shoes. He found something fascinating in the delicate curve of her face and the shape of her chin. Clancy popped to a stand and took the photo into the kitchen, where the light was better.

She really was beautiful, and it was obvious that she would grow into a gorgeous woman one day. Though the photo captured her mostly in profile, he could see Evie’s long, elegant neck, pretty skin, and nice eyes. But why hadn’t she written him? It made no sense. She really seemed to like him—the photo was proof that she’d liked him.

Suddenly, Clancy squinted. He tilted the snapshot into the light and pulled back. What the hell? There was no way. It wasn’t possible . . . was it?

To be certain, he imagined that lean and tanned body slightly more muscular and in shorts and sport sandals. Then he pictured the elegant neck and pretty eyes topped off with a spiky blond haircut.

Clancy was so stunned he forgot to breathe for a moment. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. He yanked himself out of his shock and flipped the picture over in his hand. There in the bottom right corner was his own juvenile handwriting.
Evie and me, Mermaid Ball.

The years fell away, and Clancy was laughing with her, inhaling her flowery, warm skin, and making plans to go visit her in Maine over Christmas break. At least he thought it was Maine. But now she lived in Indiana and called herself Cricket.

Though it ate up a few minutes of precious time, Clancy ran to his printer and scanned the photo into his home computer. He needed a backup image in case anything happened to the original. Then he shoved the photo in the pocket of his uniform shorts, threw some dog chow in two large stainless steel bowls, and grabbed his duty belt and ball cap. Though the Sand Dollar was a short walk, he took the Jeep in case he got a request for
backup. Moments later, Clancy pulled up in the no parking zone and opened the lobby door, a bell tinkling.

“May I help you, Officer?”

He quickly scanned the name tag of a small, dark-haired kid on a J-1 summer visa. He’d seen him around, and had always thought him to be polite. “Hello, there . . . Bujar. How are you this evening?”

“Fine, sir. And you?”

“Great. So where are you from originally?”

“Albania.”

“Enjoying it here?”

“Oh, yes. It is wonderful. Except I must do cleaning rooms three days a week—I like work at desk better.”

“Can’t say I blame you.” Clancy could now add Albania to his list. At this point, there were few countries that hadn’t been represented in Bayberry’s summer workforce at some point. “So, Bujar, if you have a moment, I was hoping you could help me out. I have a quick question about one of your guests.”

The kid’s dark brown eyes got big. “Yes? Yes, sir. I’ll get Mister Cosmo. Please wait.” He ran off to the office tucked behind the wall, and Clancy heard him on the phone, apologizing several times for disturbing Cosmo Katsakis during his dinner.

Within minutes, Cosmo appeared, coming from his apartment in the back. He was still buttoning a cotton shirt over his tomato sauce–stained wife beater and sucking food from his teeth. “Hey, Chief! What a pleasant surprise! What can I help you with tonight?”

No, the motel owner would never be elected Bayberry’s most eligible bachelor—or businessman of the year. Cosmo had resisted improving the motel’s amenities and furnishings, which angered his fellow Bayberry Island merchants. More than once, Clancy had been called in to officiate at a Chamber of Commerce meeting at which Cosmo referred to his fellow islanders as “communists” and told them exactly where they could stick their five-year tourism development plan.

Clancy’s aversion to Mr. Katsakis had nothing to do with his appearance or business practices, however. It was personal. In Clancy’s mind, Cosmo would always be linked to the worst night of his life. The motel owner smirked every time they crossed paths, as if to remind Clancy that he was in on the joke. Which, in a sense, he was.

It had happened during festival week three years before. Clancy had asked Cosmo to open the door to room forty-seven. Inside was Clancy’s wife, Barbie, knockin’ flip-flops with a tourist. The image was forever burned into Clancy’s corneas—Barbie’s spandex mermaid costume crumpled on the floor while a naked man in a jaunty sea captain’s cap rode her like she was high tide.

The next morning, Clancy had the very bruised tourist in custody for assaulting an officer and purchased Barbie a one-way ferry passage back to the mainland. Her parting words had been, “I hate this ridiculous island! There’s one week of fun, and the rest of the year I’m bored out of my skull! I’m going back to Boston where I belong!”

Separation papers were drawn up that week. Within two months, the divorce was final and the sea captain had wisely dropped the idea of filing police brutality charges.

In an attempt to lift Clancy’s spirits and help put the whole disaster behind him, his dad had taken him to the Rusty Scupper Tavern for a pint. Frasier had raised a glass in his honor.

“She wasn’t good enough for ya, son. Besides, you’ve dodged the menopause bullet, and that makes you a lucky, lucky man.”

Right on cue, Cosmo smirked. “Let me guess, Chief Flynn. You need me to open up another door for you? I didn’t know you had remarried.”

Clancy glared at Cosmo, making sure he saw his complete lack of amusement. “I need to ask a few questions about Cricket Dickinson, one of your guests.”

“Dickinson?” Cosmo let his eyeglasses fall down the
bridge of his nose so he could see the computer screen. “Yeah. Adjoining rooms. Fourteen and sixteen.”

“Two rooms? For an adult and young child?”

“A . . . who? Now, hold on.” He clicked a few keys on the computer. “They checked in yesterday . . . paid cash for the whole week in advance . . . This don’t make no sense.” He looked up over the rim of his eyeglasses at Clancy. “I don’t know what’s going on with this reservation, but I swear that’s not who I rented these rooms to last fall. I always require a credit card on file but there’s nothing here, just a copy of her license. Something’s not right.”

“I’d have to agree with that,” Clancy said. “I’d like a printout of that license if you don’t mind.”

Cosmo clicked a key and the printer whirred to life. He resumed his perusal of the computer screen. “This had to be a reservation for a party of four originally, because I have a rule—a minimum of two people per room rule during festival week. No exceptions.”

“So what happened?”

Cosmo suddenly lost enthusiasm for the issue, and shrugged. “What do I know?” He retrieved the black-and-white page from the printer and handed it to Clancy. “I’m an old man and half the time I can’t even find my own wallet. Computers don’t make mistakes, right? So I guess I don’t remember so good. As long as the bill is paid, I got no problems.”

Clancy decided he’d be coming back for a chat with his new Albanian friend when Cosmo was otherwise occupied.

“Well, thanks for your help, Mr. Katsakis.”

“I don’t want no trouble here, Chief. I run a nice family operation, no funny business—well, most of the time, that is. But I don’t need to tell you that.”

Clancy tipped his cap and walked out of the lobby, feeling Cosmo’s smirk burning through the back of his uniform shirt.

*   *   *

There was a knock at the door. Evelyn jumped off the bed and ran to press her eye to the peephole. Though it was difficult to get a clear look in the glare of the security light, it was obviously a young woman. Maybe one of the motel maids.

She unlatched the chain lock and cracked the door open, putting a finger up to her lips. “Shhhh. My nephew is asleep.”

“Oh.” The girl tried to peek inside.

Evelyn blocked her view, suddenly uncomfortable. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The girl smiled. “Did I wake you, too?”

Evelyn glanced down to see she was wearing nothing but a stretchy camisole and pajama shorts. Okay. Now she was irritated. “It is almost ten p.m., and families with children are asleep by now. What did you say you wanted?”

She reached in the pocket of her khakis and handed Evelyn a business card. “I’m Hillary Hewes, editor of the
Bayberry Island Bulletin
, and I’m here to interview you and your boy about the near-drowning at the dock today.”

Evelyn felt her jaw fall open. She pushed the card back into Hillary’s palm. “Sorry. Not interested.”

“I already have the police report.” She produced a smug little wobble of her head. “Don’t you want to add your side of the story? Maybe get your photo in Friday’s festival week wrap-up edition?”

“My side of the story?” Evelyn laughed sarcastically. Shit. They should have left on the last evening ferry as she’d planned, but Jellybean had been so worn out and grumpy that Evelyn decided they’d leave first thing in the morning instead. Huge mistake.

“If you’d prefer, I can interview you on camera. I’m a freelance broadcast journalist, too, trying to break into the big leagues, you know?”