Page 37 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

“You're not interrupting,” Ricky said. “We're all just discussing how the town has managed to solve your murder case before breakfast.”

A few people looked embarrassed. Josiah's mouth tightened, but his voice remained even. “I'd appreciate it if everyone remembered that rumors aren't evidence. If you have something you actually saw or heard, tell me or one of my deputies. Otherwise, please don't spread stories that could hurt someone who's already dealing with a terrible situation.”

The room quieted properly this time. Josiah turned toward Tammy. “I wanted to check whether either of you remembered anything else from last night.”

Tammy shook her head. “Nothing new. I've been thinking about it, but I don't want to invent something just because I wish I'd noticed more.”

“That's sensible. If you do remember anything, call the office.”

He looked at me next. “Max, I need to arrange for you to retrieve your car. The parking area is outside the secured perimeter, but I want you to check in with a deputy before going in. The area behind the bandstand remains off-limits.”

“Of course. I was going to call.”

“Give the office a call before you head over, and we'll make sure you can get to your vehicle without interfering with the investigation.”

“Thanks.”

For a second, neither of us said anything. I remembered him standing in my living room the previous evening, telling me the truth he'd withheld for fifteen years, and the way he'd looked at me before leaving. I wanted to ask whether he'd slept, whether he was alright, whether telling me had relieved anything or only made it harder to carry. Instead, I swallowed the questions and said, “I hope you find out what happened.”

“So do I.” His gaze held mine for a moment longer. “Take care of yourself, Max.”

Then he nodded to Ricky and Tammy and left, taking the room's attention with him. As soon as the door closed, the conversations started up again. I felt heat creep up my neck and busied myself with my coffee, hoping no one had noticed how intently I'd been watching him.

Ricky looked at me through the mirror. “Well, that was subtle.”

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say he looks exhausted.”

“You were about to say something about him driving me home.”

Ricky's eyebrows rose. “Oh, so he did?”

I groaned, pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, and wished the floor would open up and swallow me. Tammy laughed beside me, which was not the sort of support I'd been hoping for.

“I'm surrounded by traitors,” I muttered.

“Friends,” Ricky corrected. “You're surrounded by friends who are very interested in your personal life.”

“That is not better.”

By the time I left Harbor Lights, the story of Harvey's murder had crossed the few steps to Dixie’s and returned with several new details that hadn't existed when I walked out the salon door. I knew this because I went into the diner for another cup of coffee, and found June behind the counter looking as though she'd already spent the morning breaking up arguments over what had happened and who was responsible.

“Max, sweetheart,” she said, setting a mug on the counter for me. “You look like you could use this.”

“I could use about six of them.”

“Then you'd be vibrating until Thursday.”

I took the coffee and slid onto a stool. The diner smelled of fried onions, fresh coffee, and the chowder Lou had started for lunch. Ordinarily, it was one of my favorite places in town, a comfortable refuge where the worst thing anyone had to worry about was whether the crab cakes would sell out before noon. Today, every table seemed to have an opinion about Harvey Sinclair.

A pair of men near the window were discussing Owen Price's business troubles. At the next table, a woman insisted Harvey had been about to announce some major change at the bank. Two regulars at the counter were arguing over whether the police had questioned everyone at the festival or only those who'd been near the bandstand.

June set a small plate of toast in front of me.