Page 12 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

He laughed, and we started walking again, but I glanced back once.

Owen was still standing there, while Harvey had disappeared into the crowd. I hoped whatever it was about, Owen got it sorted out fairly.

Friday afternoon, the festival had officially begun. The harbor was no longer merely packed. It was absolutely jammed. Music drifted over the water from the sound stage, where a sign proclaimed The Rewind Buoys were currently performing. I realized the song they were attempting was Lionel Richie's “All Night Long” when the chorus began. Children ran between booths, swinging plastic sharks and balloon swords. Someone was shouting about the crab-picking competition. A woman in front of me was arguing with her husband about whether they had already eaten lunch, while he insisted that the fried oysters they'd had forty minutes earlier were merely an appetizer.

Dixie's was doing a roaring trade. June had apparently decided that feeding half the town was her personal responsibility, which was nothing unusual save for the sheer volume of customers there right now. I spotted her through the open door, moving between tables with the speed and efficiency of someone who had done this every year for decades. She caught sight of me and pointed toward an empty table someone had just vacated.

She brought me coffee, without me having to say anything. "I let Lou know you wanted a plate of Maryland fried chicken, sweet potato biscuits, and mashed potatoes with gravy."

That was Hartwell Cove. People knew what you wanted before you did. I didn't order the same thing every time and hadn't even known what I fancied until she said that just now.

"Thanks, June."

"You feed His Highness?"

"I did, and watched him eat it. Then his next two customers cancelled, so he joined me in a look around for a bit." I wrapped my hands around the mug and looked out toward the harbor as I spoke.

Josiah was there again, because of course he was. This time, he was talking to a family who had apparently gotten turned around from wherever it was they wanted to go. Their little boy was pointing enthusiastically toward the boats while his mother looked increasingly confused. Josiah crouched down to the boy's level, listened to him, and then pointed toward the far end of the harbor.

The boy nodded seriously, and his mother thanked Josiah, looking relieved.

He smiled. It was an easy smile, warm and real, and I hated the way it made me feel all gooey and melty inside, remembering when he used to give me one very similar, but imbued with just a little something just for me.

I looked down at my coffee. I didn't want to care. I really, really didn't want to care, but watching him move through the town like he belonged here made something inside me hurt in a way I hadn't expected. This was the place he'd left, and somehow, he'd come back knowing exactly how to fit into it while I was beginning to feel a bit adrift.

I had spent more than fifteen years telling myself that his leaving didn't matter. Apparently, I was going to have to start telling myself again because Josiah Mercer was everywhere and I couldn't seem to stop noticing him.

I was halfway through my second coffee when I saw Harvey Sinclair near the edge of the harbor. He was alone this time. He checked his phone, reading something that stopped him in his tracks. For just a second, all the color seemed to drain from his face. Swallowing, he looked around sharply before he furiously typed something, stared at the screen again, and shoved the phone into his pocket.

I couldn't hear what he said, but I could see his mouth form the words as he uttered them as he turned to look toward the water. He'd said, “What the hell?” He then glanced away from the harbor, this time toward the crowd outside, then back at his phone. Whatever he'd read, it seemed to have rattled him badly. I was about to look away when he pulled the phone out again.

This time, I caught a glimpse of the screen as he moved out of the way so a group could exit the diner, coming to a stop next to my table. I could only make out just a few words, feeling guilty for indulging my nosy curiosity.

You should have left it buried twenty years ago.

Harvey went very still as he read it again, then squared his shoulders before he locked the phone, shoved it back into his pocket, and walked away, going out the door without having ordered anything.

I stared after him. Twenty years. That was a long time to bury anything, and whatever Harvey Sinclair had left buried, somebody apparently thought it was time to dig it back up.

CHAPTER FIVE

SUNDAY DINNER AT TAMMY’S

MAX

By Sunday morning, I’d decided that having Josiah Mercer back in Hartwell Cove was a lot like discovering a leak in the roof. It was an old problem I’d thought I’d dealt with years ago, and now, no matter where I looked, there it was again, threatening to ruin perfectly good parts of my life.

At least a leaky roof could be fixed with enough money and a competent contractor. I had no idea what you did with an ex-boyfriend who’d broken your heart, left town without telling you, and returned sixteen years later as the sheriff.

I put that thought aside and concentrated on getting ready for Sunday dinner at Tammy’s. It was her turn to host, which meant Ricky and I would arrive early enough to help with the preparations. The arrangement was one of the few traditions in my life that existed without requiring any particular effort on my part until it was my turn. You showed up, you helped, you ate, and you went home with leftovers if the host had cooked enough.

We’d started it a few years ago, when my mother announced she was finished cooking big Sunday dinners. She’d been feeding Dad and me for years, of course, but she’d also kept a standing invitation open to Tammy and Ricky ever since their parents retired and moved away. Tammy’s parents had gone to Washington, DC, to live with her brother John, his wife, and their kids. Ricky’s parents had settled in Florida. My mother had never wanted either of my friends to feel they had nowhere to go on a Sunday, so she’d made room for them at our table.

Then one Sunday, she’d announced she was done with the big meals.

Dad had been delighted. He’d already developed a fondness for the Sunday dinner special at Dixie’s, served in the restaurant’s dining room, where you could just about glimpse the water if you leaned the right way and nobody tall was sitting in front of you. Mom had declared that she was perfectly happy to let someone else cook for a change, and the two of them had made a habit of heading there every Sunday until they’d left in the RV.

Tammy and Ricky, however, had looked at the sudden lack of plans and decided it was unacceptable, and we’d all balked at paying restaurant prices for a Sunday meal. Don’t get me wrong, the food was wonderful, but you had to wait at least twenty minutes for a table as Dixie’s did not take reservations, and it was always the same meal. Which was fine growing up the few times we went for one reason or another, or if you always liked eating the very same thing.