Page 65 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

I finished my coffee, took a quick shower, and changed into clean jeans and a shirt before heading out. I had a few errands to run, and I’d promised Ricky I’d stop by Harbor Lights if I had time. He’d been busy all weekend, and although I knew he’d be more than happy to fill me in on every rumor in town, I could at least bring him a coffee and pretend my visit had a practical purpose.

The weather had turned warm, and the harbor was busy with people taking advantage of the last pleasant days before autumn settled in properly. I stopped at the grocery store first, buying cat food, litter, and the other supplies I needed. Then I headed toward Harbor Lights, carrying two coffees in a cardboard tray and hoping Ricky had a break long enough to drink his before it went cold.

The salon was already bustling when I arrived. The front windows were bright with morning sunlight, and the familiar scents of shampoo, hairspray, and coffee drifted into the entrance. A woman sat beneath a dryer near the front, chatting with another customer while one of the stylists worked on her hair. Ricky was at the station nearest the window, concentrating on a client’s curls with the sort of serious expression he usually reserved for gossip he considered especially important. He spotted me in the mirror and grinned.

“If you’re here to tell me you’ve finally decided to give Josiah another chance, I’m going to need you to sit down so I can enjoy the moment properly.”

“I brought you coffee. I can take it away again.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

He laughed, finished the section he was working on, and nodded toward the small waiting area. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be all yours.”

I set his coffee on the counter and looked around while he worked. The salon was a comfortable, familiar place, with framed photographs of local events on the walls and a noticeboard crowded with appointment cards, community announcements, and flyers for the next town fundraiser. People came here to get their hair done, but they also came to talk. A haircut could take half an hour, and a color treatment considerably longer, which meant there was plenty of time for people to share news they might not have told anyone else. It was the sort of place where information traveled without anyone having to make a special effort to collect it.

A woman emerged from the back office carrying an appointment book and a stack of invoices. She was neatly dressed, with dark hair cut just above her shoulders, and she paused to greet a customer before checking the schedule pinned beside the reception desk. I recognized her as Joann Minotte, the woman who owned Harbor Lights. We’d exchanged greetings plenty of times over the years, although we weren’t close enough that I’d ever had much reason to talk to her beyond the usual small-town pleasantries.

“Morning, Max,” she said when she noticed me. “You’re not here for a haircut, are you? Ricky’s already booked solid through lunch.”

“I’m only here to deliver coffee. I value my life too much to interfere with his schedule.”

“Smart man.” She smiled, glanced at the tray, and shook her head fondly. “That boy runs on coffee and conversation. I’m not sure which he’d miss more if we ever ran out.”

“Probably the conversation. He can always steal someone else’s coffee.”

“I heard that,” Ricky called from his station.

“You were meant to,” Joann replied without turning around.

She checked the appointment book, made a quick note, and went back into the office. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the exchange, and I didn’t think twice about it. Joann was part of the ordinary rhythm of the salon, keeping the appointments straight and making sure the business ran smoothly while Ricky and the other stylists looked after their clients.

When Ricky finally had a moment to himself, he came over, picked up his coffee, and took a grateful sip. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I’m a man with a car and a few spare minutes.”

“That’s what all lifesavers say.”

I leaned against the counter while he drank. “How’s business?”

“Good. Busy, which is better than the alternative. Joann’s been trying to get us organized for the holiday rush already, and she’s got half the town booked for November.” He glanced toward the office, where Joann was talking quietly on the phone. “She’s good at that sort of thing. I’d lose track of my own head if I had to manage the appointment book.”

“You’d probably try to style it.”

“Obviously. It’d look fabulous.”

I laughed, and for a few minutes we talked about ordinary things: a new product one of the stylists had recommended, a customer who’d asked for a haircut that would have required a miracle to achieve, and the increasingly elaborate decorations people were putting up along the waterfront. Ricky asked whether I’d managed to get any writing done, and I told him I’d made progress, although not as much as I’d hoped.

“Better than nothing,” he said. “You’ve had a lot going on.”

I knew he meant Harvey’s murder as well as Josiah, and I appreciated that he didn’t press me to talk about either one. He knew me well enough to recognize when I needed a distraction rather than another conversation about how complicated my life had become.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the screen and saw Josiah’s name.

I’m following up on a few things today. I wanted to check that you’re doing alright after the last couple of days. No need to reply if you’re busy.

I read it twice, then found myself smiling before I could stop myself. There was nothing dramatic in the message, no demand for my time or an attempt to turn a simple check-in into another discussion about us. He was letting me know he was thinking about me and leaving the choice of what to do with that information in my hands.