Page 10 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

Ricky looked offended. “Does she think I steal?”

“Yes.”

“I would never steal from Dixie.”

“You once walked out with an entire pie.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was hungry, and she knew she could put it on my tab and I'd pay them later.”

I shook my head and wandered toward the front window. From there, I had a good view of the street leading toward the harbor, and the festival preparations seemed to be multiplying by the minute.

A pickup rumbled past carrying yet another stack of folding tables. Another followed with crates of bottled water. Two volunteers were wrestling with a banner that had apparently decided it wanted to become airborne, and somewhere farther down the street, somebody was testing the sound system. A burst of music came through the speakers, followed by a squeal of feedback, and then silence.

“Looks bigger than last year,” I murmured.

“Very,” Ricky agreed around a mouthful of crab cake.

I turned back toward him. “You didn't even wait.”

“I was protecting you from the disappointment of watching me eat it.”

“You're a good friend.”

“I know.”

The salon door opened again, and a woman I'd known since childhood, Mrs. Teague, came in carrying a garment bag. Ricky immediately went into professional mode, and I slipped outside. Every year, I forgot just how much work went into the festival. The Waterman's Harbor Fest and Fair had been part of Hartwell Cove for well over twenty years now, and the town treated it with the same combination of pride, tradition, and mild insanity that it applied to almost everything else.

There were crab-picking competitions, crab-cake contests, a children's fishing competition where they fished for plastic fish using magnets, live music, craft vendors, food stalls, and boat tours. There were also competitions for chowder, preserved goods, pies, and Smith Island cakes, with ribbons and golden ladles and pie and cake slice servers awarded to the winners in the various categories. And, of course, there was enough fried seafood and chowder made with heavy cream to make a cardiologist move permanently to another state.

The main stage had gone up near the waterfront, while smaller platforms were being prepared farther along the harbor for local musicians. Someone had already put out hay bales for seating, and someone else had decorated them with miniature crab signs. I had no idea who had that much spare time. Then again, I lived in Hartwell Cove. Spare time was apparently something people manufactured as we all somehow simply got stuff done.

I walked toward the harbor, stopping every few minutes because someone I knew wanted to say hello. That was another thing about festival week. You could not walk anywhere quickly, as it was crowded, and there were a lot of people who knew you. Mrs. Bell from two streets over wanted to tell me her granddaughter had gotten into nursing school. Tommy Price wanted to complain about the parking arrangements. Two of the ladies from the library wanted to know when my next book was coming out.

I told them November.

They immediately asked whether it would have a Christmas theme.

“It might.”

“That means yes.”

“It means I'm not telling you.”

They laughed and wandered off after asking me to come do a reading and signing once it was out. By the time I reached the harbor, I had already been stopped six times. I was considering hiding behind one of the crab-boil tents when I saw him.

Josiah stood near the edge of the street in uniform, talking to one of the festival organizers. He wasn't doing anything particularly dramatic. He didn't need to. He was simply present, standing there in his new sheriff's uniform, looking all calm and confident as he listened to one of the organizers talk and point toward the intersection when a delivery truck started trying to squeeze through an area that had been blocked off for pedestrians.

Josiah walked over and simply raised one hand. The truck stopped, and he spoke to the driver, gestured toward another route, and the driver nodded and moved on. A moment later, Josiah turned and spoke to one of the deputies beside him.

There was no fuss. No raised voices. No attempt to make himself important, or anything like that. He simply seemed to know what needed doing, which, duh, of course he did. He'd been an MP for several years and then a cop in Baltimore.

I hated that. Not that he'd been an MP or a cop, and not because he was doing anything wrong. That would have been easier if any of those things were true. If he'd come home arrogant or obnoxious or completely changed, I could have told myself I'd been right all along.

Instead, he looked like someone who belonged here. Like someone who had spent years learning how to take responsibility and make decisions without making everything about himself, and apparently, he was good at it while looking entirely too delicious in those uniform pants and shirt, with that bit of silver starting to show at his temples. Damn him.