27

At seven the next morning, I wake up feeling like things are coming into focus and life is getting under control. Zoe seems to have calmed down, we thwarted the most recent assault on the café, and we have a solid investigation underway. Soon we’ll be able to identify the culprit and turn over credible evidence to Mom—hopefully before the end of the competition. That’s going to wrap up in the next couple of days, and maybe then Dad can relax a little.

Of course, there is the little problem that Dominic is leaving in five days now, and he and I haven’t really talked about it. My gut tells me we’re supposed to talk about it. We don’t just wait until he gets in the car and wave good-bye to each other, do we? How stupid would that be?

So why am I not saying anything? Why is he not saying anything? I guess I don’t know what to say. Maybe it just comes to you. Or maybe you have to make it come to you.

But what if the wrong thing comes to you? How stupid is this? I’m getting out of this bed and going over there right now and saying something—whatever comes to me. I kick off the covers.

* * *

I dart and weave around the Moldartos’ half-filled boxes on my way to the stairs. His bedroom door is open. I smell him before I see him. It’s the smell of soap and wet hair. I pause for a second. “You dressed?”

“Hey. Come on in.”

I stick my head through the doorway and look around the room. Dominic’s wearing jeans and his T with the omega symbol on the front. There is no getting around it—the shirt is a rag, and it’s too small for him. He’s grown a foot in the past year, easily, and I haven’t seen that shirt for months.

“Might be time to retire the omega T.”

Dominic looks down at his taller, skinnier self. “Yeah. I’m throwing out a bunch of stuff. I thought I’d try it on for old times’ sake. Too small, huh?”

“Not for me.”

He smiles, peels it off, and tosses it to me. “Done. Want any of my other junk?” He reaches for a white T-shirt with Gusty’s of Maiden Rock—Home of Gusty Burgers and Lobster Fries on the front and pulls it over his head. A second after that, on goes his signature slouchy hat, right on top of wet hair. This is so him.

Dominic digs more clothes out of his closet and throws them in a box. When I see what he’s tossing, I realize how much of a Mainah he’s become: L.L.Bean fleece, storm jacket, boat shoes, plaid shirts. He drifts to the shelf where his Funko Pop collection is displayed. After studying it like a chess board, he carefully selects one.

He clears his throat. “Quinnette Boyd, please rise.”

I stand, brush some hair out of my face, and hold my hand out, palm up.

“I present you with my Sherlock Holmes Funko Pop, in recognition of your service to Maiden Rock, Maine.” He hands it to me like an Oscar.

“I’d like to thank the Academy—”

“Uh, excuse me.” He snatches it back out of my hand. “Who exactly are you thanking for this classic collectable?”

I straighten up and put my hand out again. “Okay. Okay. I’d like to thank Dominic Moldarto, and I accept this passing of the geek baton. How was that?”

“Much better.”

“But it’s too soon.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not halfway done.” He looks under his bed and pulls out a dark blue Vans shoe. “Do you see the other one of these?”

I get up and start digging around in the bottom of the closet. It’s not there. I look under piles of clothes and boxes. Not there. “Nope. I don’t see it.”

“Man, I’m going to miss that shoe.”

He’s standing there with one shoe in his hand and his wet hair curling under his cap, smelling like a shower, being so completely who he is, and I know, like I know that Moxie runs in my veins, that I am going to miss him with my whole heart.

“I don’t want you to pack,” I say, instead of I don’t want you to leave.

“I don’t want to pack, either,” he says, instead of I don’t want to leave. “Maybe we should go eat breakfast.”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“We have to catch this guy soon,” he says, instead of I’m leaving soon.

“Yep, pretty soon.” Neither of us wants to put a number on it, even though we both know it’s five days until Dominic’s gone.

We have our arms around each other’s waist as we walk down the stairs. We let go as we walk into the bright morning light. I’m calling this progress.

* * *

When Dominic and I reach the café, we spot Ella’s dad standing by his car and talking to Martin Candor. They’re in a mildly animated conversation.

“I didn’t know they knew each other,” I say.

“Maybe they don’t,” Dominic replies. “Maybe they’re just saying ‘Hey’ and talking about the weather.”

Ella walks up to us. “What? What are you looking at?”

“Your dad is talking to Martin. Does he know him?” I ask.

“No, I don’t think so.”

We watch them walk through the café door—Martin Candor, followed by Mr. Philpotts.

“Far be it from me to point out that he could be the Secret Diner,” Dominic says. “That’s another issue I’m still curious about.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask. “He’s been checked out. He’s a real architect.”

“Didn’t Ella’s dad set the contest up with the Rook River paper?” Dominic asks. “Isn’t he the one who convinced the Secret Diner to visit?”

Ella shrugs like she can’t deny it but isn’t convinced by Dominic’s theory either.

Mom waves to Martin. “Martin, you ready for a second look at a few houses?”

“Hi, Margaret. I sure am.”

He joins her at the counter, and she starts talking intently about financing, possession dates, and recent updates to wiring and plumbing.

Before we can decide whether that settles the question of Martin’s secret identity, if he is neither a crook nor a critic, Clooney reaches our table. “What’s it going to be? Special is bacon waffles with blueberry syrup.”

We all order the special, except Ben, who arrives late and orders an egg-and-bacon sandwich, a cinnamon bun, and two milks. I don’t know where he puts it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ben says through bites of bun, “about how this conspiracy might be working.”

“Go ahead,” I say.

“Well, suppose Hubert’s at the head, because he wants to get all the business in town. He has a loyal guy in Slick. He pays Slick to take care of the logistics. Slick then hires the inspector to do the dirty work—flagging violations at Gusty’s, breaking into the café.”

“So, one to ten, how much do we think the guy we saw the other night was the inspector?” Dominic asks.

I have to think hard about this. “At this point in time, based on what we know, I’m giving it an eight,” I say. “Because he would know exactly what to mess with at Gusty’s to make the café most vulnerable.”

“We need another picture of that guy,” says Ben.

“Well, then,” Dominic says, “today’s your lucky day.”