Page 80 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

Not everyone had waited for me to finish. A few customers who'd been sitting in the waiting area slipped out once Joann had gone, clearly eager to share what they'd witnessed. I couldn't prevent people from talking, but I could make sure I had the names of those who might be important witnesses before they disappeared into the rest of Hartwell Cove.

I preserved the relevant body-camera footage and made a note of the time of the arrest and the statements Joann had made. Her confession didn't mean the rest of the case could be put aside. We still had to document the evidence properly, follow up on the financial records, and make sure the account she had given us could be compared with what we already knew.

By the time I finished, the salon had settled into an uneasy quiet. Joann's staff had appointments to get through, but the conversation that had filled the room earlier had dwindled to whispers. I thanked them for their cooperation and stepped outside, taking a moment in the fresh air before returning to the day's work.

I still needed to follow up on the check, obtain a copy for evidence if I couldn't secure the original, and trace the transactions from twenty years ago to establish where Harvey had used the ill-gotten money and how he'd profited from it. I also needed to make sure Simon was informed of his father's death investigation taking a significant turn. He'd been reluctant to reopen the past, and I couldn't assume he'd take the news well.

Before I left the area, I stopped at Dixie’s for a quick coffee. I hadn't eaten since early morning, and the smell of fresh coffee was enough to remind me that I'd been running on little more than habit for hours. The diner was busy, with a few Sunday regulars occupying their usual tables. I recognized two women from Harbor Lights sitting apart from each other, each deep in conversation with someone else.

They'd been among the customers at the salon, and I suspected they might have heard more than they'd told me so far. I didn't want them comparing memories or trying to agree on a shared version of events. I approached each table separately, explained that I needed a formal account of what they'd heard, and asked them to return to Harbor Lights when they were ready so I could speak to them individually.

Neither woman seemed surprised. One looked worried, while the other appeared almost relieved that someone official was taking the matter seriously. They agreed to come back with me, and I finished my coffee before we left.

With the two women following me out of Dixie’s, I returned to Harbor Lights to finish documenting the remaining witness accounts. It was barely noon, and my Sunday dinner plans were already in ruins. I needed to make sure Joann was processed, inform Simon of the arrest, and follow up on the financial records. I had a feeling this case would still be following me in the week ahead, and that there was more to learn about what Harvey Sinclair owed the people he'd left behind, even once this particular case was finished.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A FUTURE WORTH HOLDING ON FOR

MAX

This week, it was Tammy’s turn to host our weekly Sunday dinner, so I arrived at her house around eleven that morning, ready to help with the cooking. Ricky was already there, sleeves rolled up and looking far too pleased with himself for a man who had been entrusted with the vegetables rather than the stove.

Tammy had planned a proper Sunday roast with a roasted chicken, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, glazed carrots, and sweet potato biscuits, followed by Smith Island cake for dessert, which she’d spent a good part of Saturday making, first shopping for the ingredients and then baking and frosting. The kitchen smelled of herbs and roasting meat, making my mouth water. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on the glass pitcher Tammy had set aside for the iced tea she wanted us to have with lunch.

Ricky stood at the counter with a vegetable peeler in one hand and a potato in the other. A chopping board sat in front of him, along with a respectable pile of carrots and green beans. His expression suggested he was making a heroic sacrifice on behalf of the entire household.

“I hope you appreciate what I’m doing here,” he announced as I came through the kitchen door. “I’m performing at least six essential culinary functions.”

“Peeling, chopping, mashing, setting the table, fetching things, and making tea?” I asked.

“Exactly. A lesser man would have demanded hazard pay.”

“A lesser man might also have tried to cook the chicken.”

Ricky gave me an offended look. “I know my strengths, Max. I also know that Tammy has made it abundantly clear that the main course is not one of them.”

“Tammy has a kitchen to protect,” she called from the other side of the room, where she was checking the chicken. “And I have no intention of spending Sunday afternoon scraping the results of one of Ricky’s experiments off my oven.”

“I made one unfortunate casserole,” Ricky protested.

“You set off the smoke alarm.”

“The alarm was being dramatic.”

“The casserole was charcoal.”

I laughed and washed my hands before joining Tammy at the counter. Ricky returned to his potatoes, muttering about how little appreciation there was for artistic talent in the culinary world. I helped Tammy check the stuffing and get the chicken settled for roasting, then turned my attention to the potatoes. Ricky took over peeling and chopping, eventually moving on to the carrots and green beans. He was also responsible for getting the tin foil from the pantry, filling the pitcher with tea, and setting the table. When the potatoes were ready, I took charge of mashing them, while he hovered nearby offering advice no one had requested.

“You know,” he said, watching me work, “there’s a delicate balance between creamy and lumpy.”

“Yes, and you’re standing on the wrong side of it. Please put the plates out.”

He sighed as if I had crushed his dreams, but he did as he was told. By the time the chicken was ready to come out of the oven, the table was set, the iced tea was chilling, and the vegetables were prepared. Tammy had the main course under control, and Ricky had managed to contribute without endangering the house or us risking gastric distress. We considered that a definite win.

We sat down to eat a little after one, with the roast chicken in the center of the table and the bowls of vegetables arranged around it. The skin was golden and crisp, the stuffing fragrant with herbs, and the biscuits warm enough that the butter melted as soon as I split one open. The iced tea was cold and refreshing, just what we needed after spending the morning in a warm kitchen.

Ricky took his first bite and closed his eyes in theatrical appreciation. “Tammy, I want you to know that I would happily marry you for this chicken.”