Элизабет Чандлер - The Back Door of Midnight

“Did he ever tell you about someone vandalizing his boat?”

“No.”

“Spray painting his truck?”

“No.”

“Setting fire to the grass at the top of his driveway?”

“No! I had no idea he was having trouble.” I felt badly, as if I should have somehow known and helped him out.

“Are you psychic?” the sheriff asked.

I straightened, surprised. “No.”

“Keep your cell phone charged and with you.”

Because I couldn’t sense danger? Did one statement follow on the other?

“Tell Iris that I’ll be coming around to check on how she’s doing and that I know she wants William back as soon as possible.”

“Okay.”

He handed me his card. “Call me. Any thoughts, any questions, any worries. Any time.”

“Thanks. There is one other thing. Uncle Will liked to hunt.

I went through the house, but I didn’t see any guns.”

“He kept them locked up in his pickup. Legally, I can’t remove them; illegally, I took the key. Do you want it?”

“No. But thanks for doing that.”

I asked him for the lawyer’s phone number and address, which he wrote down, then I asked for directions to Jamie’s, feeling as if I needed strong coffee and carbohydrates to think through what I had just been told.

“Go for the day-olds,” the sheriff advised.

I nodded. “Half price and just as good.”

“Exactly.” He got a funny look on his face, then laughed. “I told you that.”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

ELEVEN A.M., AND it was already hot and humid. I took Water Street over to High, passing a marina, a crab house, and a municipal park, thinking that being close to the river, I’d catch what little breeze there was. High Street, which ended at the river, was Wisteria’s “Main Street.” On the first block above the intersection with Water were large homes bearing plaques with the words “Historic Landmark.”

Beyond that block were smaller houses, many of them converted to shops and restaurants.

I found Jamie’s place, Tea Leaves Café, on the fourth block up from the water in a long building that had been built as a series of windowed storefronts. After buying six fresh doughnuts and an iced cappuccino, I snagged a seat by the window. It was a comfortable kind of place, with an old tile floor and wooden tables and chairs painted in a rainbow of colors, none of the sets matching. At the back of the café were two cases displaying bakery items, salads, and yogurt.

I watched a girl about my age waiting on customers. I wished I were her, working a summer job in a place that seemed friendly — and normal.

Sipping my cappuccino, I gazed out the window at the people walking by, eyeing a family with little kids, suddenly missing Jack, Claire, Grace, and Mom so much that I started to sniffle. I pulled out my cell phone. I could call. I could call and — ruin their vacation? Even if I said everything was fine, my voice might give me away. Instead, I’d text Mom later on and tell her that Wisteria was “interesting.”

I dabbed at my nose, then saw a guy standing on the curb across the street, looking in my direction. He was tall, wearing slick sunglasses and a preppy-looking shirt, its sleeves rolled up neatly to the elbows, as if he were working an office job. He smiled a gorgeous smile. I surveyed the sidewalk on my side of the street, then turned to look behind me, wondering who he was smiling at. When I turned back, he pointed in my direction. You, he mouthed, and lifted the shades. Zack.

The traffic light changed, and he started across the street, as if he was coming to Tea Leaves. I felt a thump-thump inside my rib cage and realized suddenly that it was my heart. He came through the door and flashed me a grin.

Then he joined a girl and guy at a table across the room.

The girl, the crying girl, the hot costar.

I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed her — I was probably ogling the baked goods — for she was straight out of Drama Club at my old school, the kind of person who was on stage even when she wasn’t. A table of tweens watched her with awe as she talked with Zack and the other guy. The other guy had brown hair streaked with peroxide and close-set eyes with brows rising toward the center. A smile would have made him cute in a quirky way, but his mouth was a long straight line.

Pulling my eyes away from the three of them, I got out my map of the town and the sheriff’s map to the burn site, trying to focus on what I was here to do. I’d call the lawyer, find a food store, look for“ Hi, Anna.”

I glanced up. “Hi. . hi.”

“Zack,” he said, as if I might have forgotten his name.

I nodded. “Zack Fleming.”

He smiled, not only with his mouth, but with his amazing eyes.

“The sheriff told me your last name.”

That got rid of the smile.

“Saving this seat for anyone?” He assumed I wasn’t and sat down.

“So. . so you spoke to him,” said Zack.

“Just now.”

“Was he helpful?”

“In what way?”

Zack hesitated. “In whatever way you need help.”

There was something about the tone of his voice. He was worried.

“Yes and no.”

He waited for me to say more. His friends at the other table were watching us closely.

He tried again. “Have the police learned anything new?”

“I doubt it.”

“So what did McManus say?” he persisted.

“Nothing much more than you did.”

Two can play this game, I thought. I didn’t trust him.

Worse, I didn’t trust myself not to be suckered in by those deep-as-a-quarry, understanding eyes. I looked out the window.

When I glanced back, he was eyeing the maps I had spread in front of me. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

I shrugged and studied High Street again. “A lot of things.

A grocery store, a muffler shop, my aunt’s lawyer, a murderer.”

His hand rested on mine. “That’s a big list,” he said gently.

I pulled my hand away. “Yes.”

“It must be really hard for you.”

I looked him in the eye. “Not as hard as it is for Aunt Iris.

And not half as hard as it was for an old man whose property was being vandalized by spoiled kids.”

Zack sat back in his chair. There was a guarded expression on his face.

A quick glance told me the girl and guy at the other table were still watching us intently. “Do your friends lip-read?” I asked.

Zack turned, then nodded at them. I didn’t know what that gesture meant. Maybe he was telling his friends yes in response to some question they’d asked; maybe he was just acknowledging the fact that they were staring at us.

Turning to me again, he said, “I’ve got to get back to work,” then rose and left the café.

I shrugged off his abruptness. When he was gone, I gathered up my stuff and walked toward the small waterside park I had passed earlier. I found a bench close to the river and put in a call to the lawyer’s office. Her secretary gave me an appointment for three that afternoon, plus directions to a food store and a local gas station, one that would fix mufflers. I was feeling better now, more in control, working down my list of things to do. For a moment I relaxed, gazing out at the river, listening to the clink-clink of a line against the mast of an anchored boat. I watched a sailboat tack, its triangle of white shifting, becoming dazzling against the blue.

Suddenly, I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I turned around.

He was sprawled under a tree, the guy I had seen at Tea Leaves, the one sitting with Zack’s girlfriend. I turned back to the river. It’s a park, I reminded myself; people come here to sit and gaze at the river. But I felt uneasy. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was here because I was.