She really was beautiful, and it was obvious that she would grow into a gorgeous woman one day. Though the photo captured her mostly in profile, he could see Evie’s long, elegant neck, pretty skin, and nice eyes. But why hadn’t she written him? It made no sense. She really seemed to like him—the photo was proof that she’d liked him.
Suddenly, Clancy squinted. He tilted the snapshot into the light and pulled back. What the hell? There was no way. It wasn’t possible . . . was it?
To be certain, he imagined that lean and tanned body slightly more muscular and in shorts and sport sandals. Then he pictured the elegant neck and pretty eyes topped off with a spiky blond haircut.
Clancy was so stunned he forgot to breathe for a moment. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. He yanked himself out of his shock and flipped the picture over in his hand. There in the bottom right corner was his own juvenile handwriting. Evie and me, Mermaid Ball.
The years fell away, and Clancy was laughing with her, inhaling her flowery, warm skin, and making plans to go visit her in Maine over Christmas break. At least he thought it was Maine. But now she lived in Indiana and called herself Cricket.
Though it ate up a few minutes of precious time, Clancy ran to his printer and scanned the photo into his home computer. He needed a backup image in case anything happened to the original. Then he shoved the photo in the pocket of his uniform shorts, threw some dog chow in two large stainless steel bowls, and grabbed his duty belt and ball cap. Though the Sand Dollar was a short walk, he took the Jeep in case he got a request for backup. Moments later, Clancy pulled up in the no parking zone and opened the lobby door, a bell tinkling.
“May I help you, Officer?”
He quickly scanned the name tag of a small, dark-haired kid on a J-1 summer visa. He’d seen him around, and had always thought him to be polite. “Hello, there . . . Bujar. How are you this evening?”
“Fine, sir. And you?”
“Great. So where are you from originally?”
“Albania.”
“Enjoying it here?”
“Oh, yes. It is wonderful. Except I must do cleaning rooms three days a week—I like work at desk better.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” Clancy could now add Albania to his list. At this point, there were few countries that hadn’t been represented in Bayberry’s summer workforce at some point. “So, Bujar, if you have a moment, I was hoping you could help me out. I have a quick question about one of your guests.”
The kid’s dark brown eyes got big. “Yes? Yes, sir. I’ll get Mister Cosmo. Please wait.” He ran off to the office tucked behind the wall, and Clancy heard him on the phone, apologizing several times for disturbing Cosmo Katsakis during his dinner.
Within minutes, Cosmo appeared, coming from his apartment in the back. He was still buttoning a cotton shirt over his tomato sauce–stained wife beater and sucking food from his teeth. “Hey, Chief! What a pleasant surprise! What can I help you with tonight?”
No, the motel owner would never be elected Bayberry’s most eligible bachelor—or businessman of the year. Cosmo had resisted improving the motel’s amenities and furnishings, which angered his fellow Bayberry Island merchants. More than once, Clancy had been called in to officiate at a Chamber of Commerce meeting at which Cosmo referred to his fellow islanders as “communists” and told them exactly where they could stick their five-year tourism development plan.
Clancy’s aversion to Mr. Katsakis had nothing to do with his appearance or business practices, however. It was personal. In Clancy’s mind, Cosmo would always be linked to the worst night of his life. The motel owner smirked every time they crossed paths, as if to remind Clancy that he was in on the joke. Which, in a sense, he was.