My crew was still a little hungover from the holiday weekend. I could tell by the way they walked, like they were dragging their feet through silt, spartina. Not enough coffee in the world to make things right. That’s the thing about starting work early; there’s nowhere to hide. Tired is normal, but usually after a few cups of coffee, everyone was functioning. But not that day. They were struggling, and me, always trying to be one of the guys, I pitched in to help with the cottage renovations.
They tore up the old tile and fixtures from the master bathroom while I helped Jimmy lay the new tile in the first-floor powder room. That was the most important, after all, because that’s what their guests would use. Let the still-drunks do the demo; they couldn’t screw that up too badly. But laying tile was a sober man’s job.
So we worked in tandem, Jimmy and I, in a rhythm, making up for lost time, cutting the glass tiles to fit in the corners, around the toilet, the pedestal sink. Everyone wanted glass tile and a pedestal sink in a small powder room; it’s as if it was written on some coastal manual somewhere.
When I finished, I watched with satisfaction as the other guys ferried the old crap out to the Dumpster and threw it over the side with a satisfying clunk and crash. The toilet and tub cracking. All of it hiding what was below. Three-quarters of the way filled, but that was enough for me. I called the Dumpster company and told them it was full, and if they could pick it up and take it out to the dump before tomorrow, that would be great.
I had just hung up and was walking to my car when Billy Clayton pulled up. No lights flashing, no hurry.
“Hey, Matt,” he said.
“Hey, Billy.”
I took a breath, exhaled. Didn’t want to breathe too deeply. Didn’t want to give anything away. Tried to stay as nonchalant as possible, despite my belief that this guy was a fucking clairvoyant or something. We were thirty feet from the Dumpster.
“Question for you,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“The Warners out of the cottage you let them borrow?”
“Yeah.”
It was a ridiculous question. I was sure he knew exactly where they were, when they left. I imagined him trying to stop them from leaving town, imagined Alice telling him the only way to stop her was to arrest her. But surely he knew what boat they were on. One word to the Steamship Authority could have taken care of that.
“Mind if I take a look around?”
His eyes were on the cottage next door. Not the one we were working on. Not the Dumpster out back. Was he trying to fool me with this?
“I don’t mind,” I said.
“Great,” he said and started for the front door. Walking slowly across the grass, like he wasn’t worried. Like I wasn’t gonna stop him.
“But my clients,” I called after him. “The owners of that cottage? They’d mind. Without a warrant in your hand, they’d mind quite a bit.”
He stopped, turned. I swear there was a smile on his face.
A call came in on his phone, and I watched him answer, heard his response. Another attack on the beach, but a suspect in custody.
“Well, looks like you got some bigger fish to fry,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Lots of fish this week.”
He put on his flashing lights, turned them on as casually as another person might turn on a porch light, and was long gone when they came to pick up the Dumpster.
And so was I. I left Jimmy there to wait for the Dumpster guy, so he was the one who called me and said as they were loading it up, Caroline came running up the lane and watched as they took it away. He asked if she was okay, and she said she’d forgotten something in the house.
“I told her I didn’t have the key to that one. But that you’d go through it and mail anything you found back to her. Is that okay?” Jimmy asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “If I find anything of hers, I’ll send it.”