2

Theresa lumbered over to me, each step pulsing with pent-up aggression. A frizzy mane of poorly dyed platinum hair completed her leathery look. The harsh skin and hair tones made it hard to judge her age, but I put Theresa in her late forties. I knew her vaguely from the monthly Movie Club meetings my aunt Noreen hosted, but we’d never spoken.

When she reached me, I had to crane my neck to look her in the eyes. I was tall, but Theresa was built like an industrial refrigerator. 

She eyed my wet and sandy appearance with blatant disdain. “Did you roll across the beach?”

Whoa…This lady was rude.

“All part of the job.” I kept my words light and jaunty, enjoying the flicker of uncertainty that crossed Theresa’s mahogany visage. “You wanted to speak to me?”

Theresa jutted her powerful jaw, bulldog-fashion, and yanked a cigarette from behind her ear. “You sure you’re Eliza Donati’s sister?” she demanded between puffs. “She’s good-looking.”

Her words jerked me like whiplash. Most days, I ignored unfavorable comparisons to my beauty-influencer-turned-actress sister. Today, I was stressed, dirty, and wet. The last thing I needed was yet another reminder that plain old me had the temerity to share Eliza Donati’s DNA. I took an instinctive step away from the smoke and the smoker. “Did you stop me just to hurl insults?” I demanded, not bothering to disguise my impatience. “Or did you have another reason for wanting to chew the fat?”

Theresa glanced over her shoulder at the line of food trucks. “Not here,” she barked. “Walk with me.”

The woman’s biting delivery doused me like an acid bath. I itched to tell her to take a flying leap off the end of the pier, but I sensed an impending job offer, and I wasn’t in a position to turn down work. After all, I didn’t need to like my clients, right?

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll walk and talk, but only if you promise to get to the point pronto.”

The woman’s beady eyes pulsed with malice, but she grunted in assent. 

“So,” I said once we were out of earshot of the food trucks, “what’s this all about?”

Theresa thrust a meaty hand into her pocket and withdrew a crumpled envelope. “I want you to find out who’s sending me threatening letters.”

A stirring of excitement coaxed me out of my bad mood. “May I see?”

She handed me the envelope, and I examined it with care. It was a standard size with Theresa’s name and address typed in capital letters. It bore a Galway postmark and yesterday’s date. There was no return address.

“When did you receive this letter?”

“This morning. I have my letters delivered to the post office on Main Street, and I stop by every day on my way to work.” Theresa glowered at the envelope still in my hand. “That was with this morning’s delivery.”

Raindrops splashed onto the paper, making the ink run. I shoved the envelope into my skirt pocket before the rain made it illegible. “I’ll read the letter when I’m indoors. How many of these have you received?”

The woman shrugged. “I’ve stopped counting. Must be at least twenty at this stage.”

I arched my eyebrows. “So many? How long has this been going on?”

“Six months, give or take.” She uttered the words with a weariness that was at odds with her aggressive stance.

“Have you shown any of the letters to the police?” I asked. “You sound genuinely worried.”

Theresa’s nostrils flared. “No way. I don’t like the Guards. Can you sort this out for me or not?”

“Not without more details. Why don’t you fill me in at my office after I clean up?” I indicated my muddy legs. “We’ll talk over coffee.”

The woman took another drag on her cigarette before answering. “Awful stuff, coffee,” she said on the exhale. “Do you have tea?”

I made a mental inventory of the contents of my office. “I have Darjeeling tea bags.” A gift from a former client, currently gathering dust on a filing cabinet.

Theresa sniffed. “I prefer Irish breakfast.”

I swallowed the caustic retort that sprang to mind. “I’ll see if the café can spare some.”

“That’s right.” My companion’s lip curled. “Your agency is upstairs from the Movie Theater Café, isn’t it? I’m sure your aunt will be delighted to see me.”

“She welcomes you to the Movie Club meetings,” I reminded her. “Like other restaurant owners, Noreen’s not thrilled about the competition from the summer food trucks, but she’s not part of the committee that wants to ban you from the island.”

I’d witnessed tension between the food trucks and the local eateries last summer, my first living on the island. This year, with the bad weather keeping tourists away, the strain had morphed into outright hostility.

“Noreen Doyle’s not the worst of the bunch,” Theresa conceded grudgingly.

“Do you suspect a disgruntled restaurant owner is behind the anonymous letters?” I asked. 

The woman snorted. “That’s one theory.”

“Do you have another?” Given Theresa’s prickly personality, I imagined she rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.

“No,” she muttered after a pause, not convincing me for a second.

I regarded her carefully, but I gleaned nothing more from her closed expression. She suspected someone, but I’d need to earn her trust before she’d confide in me. Given her bluntness, she had to have a reason for clamming up now, but what? “Have any of the other food trucks received threats?”

“Not that I’ve heard.” Theresa shrugged. “I keep to myself.” In other words, she wasn’t friendly with the other seasonal restaurateurs. I’d need to talk to them and find out if anyone had a particular problem with her.

We lapsed into an awkward silence as we covered the remaining distance to the café and my office. While we walked, Theresa finished her cigarette, and I tried to figure out why this truculent woman had asked for my help instead of turning to the police. Did she have a record? Or had she lodged a previous complaint and not been satisfied with the result? I’d check with Liam. Having a boyfriend who was a police sergeant was mighty handy for a private investigator.

Assuming the threatening letters were written by an unhappy restaurant owner, and not one of her fellow food truckers, why had Theresa been targeted? Had her brusque personality antagonized someone into making personal threats? Or was she one of many food truckers to receive anonymous mail? When I spoke to the other truck owners, I’d need to verify that Theresa was the only one to receive anonymous letters. I’d also poke around to see if anyone knew about her personal life. My gut told me I’d get nothing out of her on that subject.

Our route took us past the library and across to Smugglers Cove’s principal thoroughfare. Officially known as Greer Street, after a former mayor, it was called Main Street by the islanders, and I’d followed their example. The Movie Theater Café was located on Main Street, wedged between a greengrocer and a newsagent. A few years ago, my aunt had renovated the island’s former movie theater and transformed it into a café inspired by her passion for classic movies. The café occupied the lower level of the building, and Movie Reel Investigations had its lone office in the cinema’s old projection room.

We soon arrived at the café. I held the door for Theresa and ushered her inside. The place was packed, and my aunt and two waitstaff were busy taking and serving orders.

“Go on up,” I said to her, gesturing to the stairs that led up to Movie Reel Investigations. “I’ll grab a teabag from behind the counter and follow you.”

I snagged a sachet of Irish breakfast blend from Noreen’s extensive tea collection and jogged up the stairs to my agency. When I reached the landing, Theresa stood frozen in the doorway, a hand to her mouth. Her deep tan paled from mahogany to red oak. Although her large frame blocked my view, her body language told me something was very wrong.

A cold dread seeped into my bones. “What’s happened?”

Theresa turned in slow motion, finally allowing me a glimpse into the office. “Murder,” she whispered. “Someone’s been murdered.”