I felt a little better after I freshened up and changed. After making sure JJ was still safely ensconced in my closed bedroom, I headed back downstairs and poked my head into the dining room/cafe. Everything was sparkling clean, the blankets were fresh, and Lucas had incense burning and jazz music playing softly.
The French doors were open and Lucas waited on the couch, combing Anastasia, one of our more easygoing residents, with his special cat comb. I had to smile. Just like I was always focused on my businesses, he was always focused on keeping the island’s cats and dogs well groomed and cared for. I was grateful—my residents certainly benefited from his dedication.
He looked up and smiled at me. “Ready?”
I nodded. He gave Anastasia one final run-through with the comb, then brought her into the cafe room and set her on top of one of the cat trees. She meowed her disapproval that her session had ended.
“Sorry, sweetie,” he said. “We’ll pick it up again tomorrow.”
He slipped his arm around my shoulder as we headed outside. “JJ all good?”
“He’s sleeping in my room,” I said. “He has no idea how much drama he caused.”
“That’s a good thing,” Lucas said, holding the door for me. “It would probably go straight to his head.” He waited until I’d walked out, then closed and locked it behind him, double-checking the lock. I kind of loved him for it, even though I wouldn’t think of saying that yet. We weren’t quite at that stage.
“I locked him in, just to be safe,” I said. “Do you think he’ll be mad?”
“Of course not. I’m sure he’ll sleep the whole time we’re gone.” Lucas opened the door of his Subaru Forester and waited until I’d climbed in, then closed it. He jumped in the driver’s seat, cranked the heat, and we pulled out of Grandpa’s driveway and headed toward town.
I gazed out the window, watching Daybreak Harbor drift slowly by. It was so different here in the off-season. Pitch black and mostly deserted at only seven thirty. In summer the sun wouldn’t have yet set. Die-hard ocean lovers would be catching the last waves of the day at our plethora of beaches. People would be clogging the streets, coming and going from the ferry, rushing around with ice-cream cones, dragging beach chairs behind them, desperate to get in every minute of sightseeing, beaching, and eating before they had to go back to their non-island lives. The energy was almost manic. Later, they’d boast to their friends about their glamorous summer on Daybreak.
But tonight—with winter creeping up on us, a storm looming, and the weather getting colder by the hour—the streets were desolate. The ferry only ran twice a day this time of year—once in the morning and once in the late afternoon—and most businesses were shuttered for the winter. At times, winter on the island could feel a little claustrophobic, especially if you thought too much about not being able to come and go as freely.
We passed Damian Shaw’s Lobstah Shack down the street from Grandpa’s. It was one of the summer-fare places that would remain open for limited hours. Since Damian’s place was a stand, he’d be doing takeout only, so it wasn’t a huge lift with a lot of overhead. Although he had invested in bright, blinking lights for his sign to attract people getting off the ferry. It wasn’t a bad idea, actually. There weren’t any fast-food places on our island, and people usually got off the ferry starving. They’d be attracted to his blinking lights like homing pigeons. And the food was surprisingly good for a midwesterner trying to be New England, so once he pulled them in, they’d likely return. Although running a takeout stand in the winter had to get really cold, in my opinion.
Damian had moved here last summer to fulfill his lifelong dream of living on the ocean and owning a restaurant. I wasn’t sure a lobster shack had been his primary dream, but he’d seized the opportunity when the local family who owned the shack moved off-island. He didn’t want to do something else in the off-season, so he was trying to make it work. I wasn’t sure how long that would last, but I always rooted for the entrepreneurial underdog. In my unofficial job as his marketing liaison, I’d encouraged him to put some new, hot meals on the menu, so he’d been experimenting with his chowders, adding New York style as well as New England to his offerings, and he’d also been creating some new fish plates for the winter months. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded, as he was no doubt learning. As his business had done well during the summer, I hoped he’d made enough to keep him afloat. And he’d gained some fans in the locals, which was always important. I made a mental note to stop by soon.
But all thoughts of Damian fled from my mind when I saw two figures standing near the ferry parking lot under the streetlights, in deep conversation. One of them I’d know anywhere. The giant furry leopard-print coat made it a no-brainer. And the other wore a bright red parka that had seen better days. A parka that I’d seen only hours before.
“Lucas.” I pointed, noticing my hand shook. “That’s the woman. And she’s talking to Leopard Man.”
Lucas did a double take—not at Leopard Man, but the woman. She was the anomaly, not him. Everyone who lived on the island, even our newbies, had gotten familiar with our resident Quirky Character. He’d been around since I was a kid and had fascinated me even back then, mostly because of his tail. I could never resist a good tail.
Leopard Man was so-named for his consistent head-to-toe leopard-print garb, including a giant furry (fake, of course) coat during the winter. On good days, usually in the summer, his outfit included a tail. As a kid, I thought he was the coolest, although my straight-arrow father had often been a little worried at my fascination with a man who many thought of as mentally unstable. As an adult, I still thought he was pretty cool. Grandpa did, too, though I’d only recently found out they were friends. Leopard Man spoke mainly in Shakespeare, loved cats, and was a sage of sorts, always imparting some bit of wisdom at just the right moment. On any given day he could be spotted on Bicycle Street, our main drag, hanging out people watching, maybe working in his sketchbook, striking up conversations with anyone who would listen. The tourists loved him—I think some of them thought he was part of some street show, or at the very least a marketing ploy to pique their interest.
Our local population, while they were used to him, were of two camps—one group thought that he was homeless and mentally ill, and the other set believed all of it was an act and he was really a genius hiding out behind this wacky disguise. I didn’t believe the mentally ill part for a second. The genius part I could get behind, given his apparent memorization of every play and sonnet Shakespeare had ever written. The homeless part, I had no idea. But it seemed no one knew where he lived. I wasn’t sure if Grandpa knew more about Leopard Man than he let on, although I wouldn’t be surprised. Grandpa knew pretty much everything. I couldn’t imagine that, as the former police chief and a veteran of the force for most of his life, he hadn’t made it his business to know at least a few more details about Leopard Man than the rest of us.
I was concerned now, though. What was our pal doing talking to that woman?
Lucas slowed the truck, frowning. “That’s weird. Do you think they know each other?” he asked. “Or maybe she’s asking about getting off the island?”
“Maybe. I hope so.” I slid low in the seat. “Don’t go too slow. I don’t want her to notice us.”
Lucas obliged and hit the gas again. When they were mere dots in the rearview mirror, he reached over and squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. She’s probably waiting for the next ferry. Which means she might have to wait until the morning, but then she’ll be gone.”
“I hope so,” I muttered. At this point, I’d gladly buy her a ticket myself. But still, it bothered me. I didn’t like her in the vicinity, and I didn’t like her talking to my friend.
What was she up to? It couldn’t be anything good.