No offense, p.14
No Offense, page 14
And John had assured her during the ride back to Mrs. Tifton’s that they were going to get together for a proper date—for some reason he seemed fixated on taking her for a “steak dinner”—soon. Just as soon as they could coordinate their schedules. Which, John had kept saying, wasn’t going to be that difficult.
“Unless you have a lot on your plate right now.” He’d looked—and sounded—sweetly nervous as he gripped the steering wheel. “I just have to get through Boat Safety Day. But then I’m free.”
“And learning ‘Single Ladies’ for the Snappettes,” Molly hadn’t been able to resist gently teasing him. “And solving a few crimes.”
“Well, uh, sure, those things, too.” He’d thrown her a surprisingly shy smile. “But then it’s the two of us at Island Steak House. They make the best rib eye you’ve ever tasted. You like steak, don’t you? You’re not vegan or anything, are you?”
“I am not. I like steak.” She didn’t want to point out to him that she came from a state that was known for having some of the best beef in the country. She thought it was cute that he seemed to have forgotten that. “I try not to eat it every day, but—”
“No, no. Same here. I mean, they say it’s not that great for you, or the environment. But a little every now and then for a special occasion is okay.”
Molly hadn’t been able to keep from smiling at the fact that he considered the two of them going out for a meal together a special occasion. In fact, she felt as if she’d been doing nothing but smiling since they’d kissed. Her cheek muscles were beginning to feel a little sore.
But he was just so sweet, in a gruff, manly sort of way. So she agreed to join him for a steak dinner at some as-yet-to-be determined date in the future.
And instead of sneaking out to visit him in his cruiser, she climbed into her soft-as-feathers bed, leaving it only once to peek out at him, wondering if he was thinking about her, too. She finally managed to fall asleep by watching a baking show on Mrs. Tifton’s giant guest-room television.
She didn’t wake until close to eight, when she heard Daisy’s excited barking, and Mrs. Tifton shushing her—she was taking the dog out for her first walk of the day and didn’t want to disturb Molly.
But Molly was already up and rushing to the window, only to find that John had disappeared, probably to return to his own home and get some sleep. Or at least that’s where she hoped he’d gone. When did sheriffs sleep, when crimes were committed twenty-four hours a day? This wasn’t something she’d ever bothered asking herself, but now she couldn’t help wondering. It didn’t seem fair. Poor John. No wonder he was so grumpy most of the time.
Of course, the fact that she was at the library a few hours later, as she’d been nearly every day since she’d arrived on Little Bridge, was different. The library was closed at night. She wasn’t there because people were committing crimes, but because they needed her to help find books or information they were looking for.
And, of course, in the case of Sunday Story Time, they needed her to set up the puppet theater and train table, and make sure none of the dads spilled the coffee they’d brought into the building. Food and drink as well as pets were allowed in the Little Bridge Public Library (mainly because it was impossible to stop people from bringing them in), but that didn’t mean they didn’t make messes, which Molly and her colleagues then had to clean up.
It was as Molly was busy sopping up one such spill by a particularly incompetent dad (who seemed to have added bourbon to his coffee and was lamely murmuring, “I’m sorry, Miss Molly”) that Elijah appeared and said, “Hey. Miss Molly, look what I’ve got.”
Molly wasn’t exactly in the mood for any of Elijah’s shenanigans, especially since she herself hadn’t gotten much sleep, the guests at checkout at the hotel that morning had been particularly unruly, and the volunteer puppeteer was late.
But she still had a bit of a flutter in her heart because of what had happened the night before with the sheriff. Nothing could really be all that bad when a man who was that kind and that good-looking and that talented with his hands—and lips—was interested in her. The world had a slightly rosier tinge to it this morning, so even Elijah’s antics and the coffee and bourbon spilled all over Six-Dinner Sid couldn’t bother her too much.
Until she turned to see what Elijah had in his hands.
“It’s a Leica,” Elijah said, proudly showing off his new camera. “Now I can start filming my acts. I mean, I could do that before, on my phone, but this is classier. I thought I could pick up some photography assignments, you know, with the school paper. Maybe shoot headshots for the Snappettes, or whatever.”
Molly felt as if her blood had run cold. She forgot not only her tiredness but also the warm, happy feeling that she’d been hugging to herself all morning. She certainly wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Where did you get that?” she heard herself asking Elijah, through suddenly numb lips.
He looked down at the camera. “What, this? My dad left it in a box of stuff when he moved out. I know it’s kind of old, but you’re the one who’s always telling me I need to get more involved in stuff. One of those kids in It turned into like the town historian or something. I know you loaned It to me because of the comedian character, but that other guy was kind of cool and I was thinking maybe I could—”
“Give me that,” Molly said, and snatched the camera from him.
“Hey!” Elijah looked shocked. “What are you doing?”
Molly examined the camera. Just like the one that had been stolen from Mrs. Tifton’s house the night before, it was pocket-sized and also digital. It looked very old—and very expensive.
Molly reached out, seized Elijah by the arm—noting he was wearing a black hoodie, but that meant nothing, didn’t it? Tons of kids his age wore them, even on a tropical island—and steered him toward her desk, even though rule number one of being a librarian was that you never, ever touched a patron unless they were in immediate danger or in need of medical assistance.
But Elijah was in danger, and also in need of immediate assistance . . . just not the medical kind.
“Hey, Miss Molly,” Elijah said, allowing himself to be dragged. He looked more amused than indignant. “What gives?”
Molly pushed him into the child-sized chair beside her desk. “Where did you get this camera?” she asked him again, perhaps a little too intensely.
“Whoa,” he said. “I told you. It was my—”
“Your dad’s, I know, you said that. Does he still have the receipt? Can you prove he bought it?”
“How should I know? Probably not. He bought it, like, a million years ago. What’s wrong with you, Miss Molly?”
Molly wondered herself. John had assured her last night that there was no way the High School Thief was in high school. He’d all but sworn he knew who the culprit was and that an arrest was imminent.
But here was Elijah, carrying a used, older Leica like the one stolen from Mrs. Tifton’s home, and smelling—there was no way around it—like the men’s fragrance section of a department store. He reeked.
He did not, however, smell of cigarettes. So that was one small mercy.
“Where were you last night around eleven o’clock?” she demanded.
“Where was I? Where I always am when I’m not here or at school—at home, playing Call of Duty.”
“Can you prove it?”
“What’s all this with having to prove it?” he asked. “What’s going on, Miss Molly?”
Molly sat down behind her desk, feeling suddenly tired and defeated. Not even the memory of the sheriff’s kiss or the hopeful promise of their steak dinner could buoy her spirits.
“The High School Thief struck again last night, Elijah,” she said. She probably wasn’t supposed to be sharing this information, but it would be public soon enough. Meschelle Davies would see to that. “He robbed Mrs. Tifton—you know, the lady who donated the money to build the new library? And one of the things he took was her dead husband’s old Leica camera. It was one just like this.”
Elijah looked down at the camera in Molly’s hand, not understanding. “So? What does that have to do with me?”
“Elijah, you were literally in here the other day bragging that you were the High School Thief.”
“Oh my God, Miss Molly.” He started to laugh. “Don’t tell me that you believed all that!”
Molly glared at him as he clutched his stomach, doubled over in laughter. “It isn’t funny, Elijah,” she said. “There are people in this town—people who work in law enforcement—who might, given the preponderance of evidence, come to think of you as a suspect.”
“Preponderance of evidence!” Elijah was laughing so hard that he had tears in his eyes. “Oh, Miss Molly!”
Now Molly was genuinely irritated. Some of the mothers—and even some of the fathers—were beginning to glance over at them in curiosity. Even worse, Phyllis Robinette—the woman responsible for Molly’s good fortune in finding this job in the first place—was volunteering over at the main desk (as she did most days, when she didn’t have yoga) and had noticed the commotion. She frowned at them.
“Cut it out, Elijah,” Molly whispered urgently. “It isn’t that funny.”
“But it is,” he said, wiping away his tears. “The fact that you’d believe I was the High School Thief. Oh, Miss Molly. You really are one of my favorite people ever.”
Molly had had about all that she could take. She set down the camera and reached for her telephone. Elijah continued to laugh. “Wait,” he said, chuckling. “Who are you calling? I know it’s not the po-po. Not Henry again. Please don’t say Henry.”
“No.” Molly didn’t have to consult her directory to dial. She knew the number by heart. “I’m calling your mother.”
All the humor drained from Elijah’s face. Most of the color did, as well. “Oh, Miss Molly,” he whispered. “No.”
Chapter Sixteen
John
John couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this happy. He whistled “My Favorite Things”—the Coltrane version, not the one from the movie his daughter had liked so much as a kid—as he fried up bacon and eggs for breakfast.
He didn’t have to worry about anyone nagging him for eating such fatty foods, because Katie had spent the night with a friend from her dance team and wasn’t due to return home until noon. He had the house to himself to do whatever he wanted.
And what he wanted to do was eat breakfast and think about Molly Montgomery, at least in the short amount of time he had before he had to get back to the office and figure out how to catch Larry Beckwith III.
It was as he was thinking about Molly Montgomery and the impossible softness of her skin that his cell phone rang. He glanced down at the screen, irritated by the interruption, then saw that it was Peter Abramowitz, the state’s attorney. He picked up before the second ring.
“Pete,” he said. “What’s up?”
“You tell me what’s up.” Pete sounded as casual and good-humored as always. Like any true surfer, he didn’t get wound up about things that didn’t matter, which was one of the reasons John liked him. “What happened last night?”
“Beckwith hit the Tifton house.” John chewed on a piece of bacon. “Least, I’m pretty certain it was Beckwith. I’m still waiting for Murray to get back to me with prints. But I’m sure they’ll match. I’ve got every officer on staff out combing the island for that little twit. We’ll find him, and when we do, I need you to nail him to the wall this time. I don’t care what kind of big-deal lawyers his father brings down from the mainland, I want you to put the screws to—”
“I’m not talking about that.” Pete was laughing. “I already know about that. I’m talking about you and the librarian.”
John stopped chewing. He felt suddenly cold, even though Katie kept the air-conditioning at a meticulous seventy-five degrees, far too warm for him. But his daughter, like many in her generation, was ever conscious of wasting precious resources, frightened for the planet and its imminent demise. “What do you mean, me and the librarian?”
“The new children’s librarian. The one you were macking on last night at the bar on Jasmine Key.”
Macking? John had to take a hasty swig of coffee in order to wash down the bacon, on which he’d nearly choked.
“Don’t think I didn’t see you.” Pete was practically crowing. “Everyone did. You couldn’t have been more obvious.”
“We were not macking,” John said, when he could finally speak. “Miss Montgomery—Molly—is a very kind, intelligent woman, and we were merely—”
“Jesus Christ!” Now Pete was hooting with laughter. “I’m messing with you. Not that we didn’t all see you two kissing. But I think it’s great. How long has it been since you’ve been on a date? Not since you and Christina split, right? And before that, what was it, high school? Hasn’t Christina basically been the only woman you’ve ever—”
“All right.” John was on his feet, his breakfast and Coltrane forgotten. “We don’t need to go into the details about that. Especially since nothing happened last night. I got the call about the Tifton place and took Molly home.” He didn’t feel it was necessary to fill his talkative friend in on the details about what had happened after he’d taken Molly home. “End of story.”
“But you’re gonna see her again, right?” Besides being an excellent attorney—the Beckwith case aside—Pete Abramowitz was a good and supportive friend. He’d never missed a Snappettes performance since Katie joined the team, and had brought every single one of his relatives—including his elderly mother—to the jailhouse zoo when they visited Little Bridge for the holidays. Why, yes, that is a convicted felon holding a lop-eared rabbit on his lap. Go ahead, you can pet it. “You like her, she likes you, yadda yadda yadda?”
John’s mind went back to the night before. The softness of Molly’s body as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed up against him. The little sounds she’d made in her throat as he’d kissed her. The eagerness with which her nipple had hardened beneath the palm of his hand as he’d cupped her breast.
“I think so,” he said, and then had to clear his throat. “Yes, I like her, and I think she likes me. I asked her out for dinner sometime later in the week, and she said yes.”
Pete hooted so loudly that John had to hold the phone away from his ear. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said. “Now don’t mess it up.”
“How am I going to mess it up?”
“Well, like we just discussed, it’s been a while since you dated, buddy. The rules have changed. Don’t think you can take this little librarian out to dinner and then jump her bones.”
John was horrified. “I wasn’t planning on doing that.”
“Good. Because it takes three dates, bud.”
“Before you can jump someone’s bones?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. Unless she jumps yours first.”
“How very enlightening. Thank you for this information, Mr. State’s Attorney.”
“Oh, and none of that, either,” Pete said. “None of this acting like a grumpy dad instead of your actual age. She won’t like it any more than I do.”
John was offended. “I don’t act like a grumpy dad.”
“Are you kidding me? May I introduce you to Sheriff John Hartwell? I can’t have more than one beer on a weekday. My pants are too tight. The music these kids today listen to has too many bad words. Get off my lawn.”
Although some of these sounded slightly familiar, John still felt annoyed. “I’ve never said that last one. And if you drink too much beer, your pants are going to get tight, unless you work out. That’s a fact.”
“Just try to play it cool with the librarian, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Such as jump her bones before the third date?”
“Such as text her right away. Or bring her flowers when you haven’t even—”
Fortunately, another call came through. When John glanced at the screen of his phone, he saw that it was Dr. Nguyen.
“Pete,” he said. “I gotta go. It’s the ob-gyn. She’s probably calling about the abandoned baby or her mom.”
“Talk to you later, buddy.” Pete sounded as cheerful as ever. “And keep me posted about—”
John clicked over to the other call. As was her habit, Dr. Nguyen wasted no time on social niceties. What she lacked in bedside manner, she made up for with competence.
“You can come interview the mother now if you want to, John. She’s out of the ICU.”
John was sure he knew who she was talking about, but since it seemed too good to be true, he checked to be certain. “Tabitha Brighton?”
“Correct. We got her temperature back to normal, but she’s still a little weak from blood loss. So please go easy.”
“But she’s going to be okay?”
“She’s going to be fine,” the doctor said. “Physically. Mentally? It could take a while. She’s been through a lot.”
Out of habit, he reached for his notebook. “She tell you anything? Who took the baby? Who the father is?”
“No, nothing like that. Giving birth to a baby under conditions like she did is trauma enough. Still, she asked to see the baby, and as you know, our goal, as well as Child Services’, is always to reunite mothers with their babies if we possibly can. Tabitha’s been holding her baby, and even took a stab at nursing. I consider both hugely positive steps forward.”
John grunted. “And the baby is okay?”
“Baby’s fine. Tox screens were completely clean. The mother’s were, too.”
“So she wasn’t partying while pregnant.”
“Not at all. But I’m still worried about her. She’s barely eating. And she hasn’t asked to make a single phone call, which I find unusual. You’d think someone who’s been through what she has would call someone. No one has called her room, either, or come to visit her. Part of that is because you’ve been so careful not to release any news about her to the press—but doesn’t she have any family? Or friends?”
“Yeah.” John tapped his pen against the page he had open. No cell phone had been found among Tabitha’s belongings. Beckwith had probably taken it, the way he’d taken the baby, and stashed it somewhere. “She does, but they don’t seem too anxious to get in touch. Something’s not right. Thanks, Doctor. I’ll be over there soon.”
