“Christ on a cracker,how do you invest in an island?” I ran a hand through my damp hair, not caring about the engine grease. “What are the terms of the investment? What happens when Big Rafe defaults, or whatever the fuck you call it? Do they take our homes? Do they take overthe island? Can Rafe even legally take investments like that on behalf of the town without—”
“Can and have!” a voice from behind me boomed. Then in a wryer tone, added, “I can see we’ve reached the expiration date on your secret keeping, Beale. It was a fun ten minutes while it lasted.”
Beale ran a hand over his face and muttered, “Damn.”
I closed my eyes and forced myself to turn around to meet my uncle’s gaze. He was a big guy despite his age—six feet tall and as barrel-chested as Beale, with his bulk all stuffed into a navy blue T-shirt emblazoned with the wordMAYORacross the front in white letters. But where Beale and Rafe Junior were all muscle, Big Rafe had run to fat long before I’d met him. Unlike Beale, Big Rafe had black hair almost untouched by gray and dark eyes that hinted at the Cuban part of his heritage. Also unlike Beale, Rafe’s eyes glowed with acquisitive passion. There was alwaysmoreout there,betterout there, and Rafe Goodman, Senior, was gonna fucking find it.
I heaved a heavy sigh. “What are you doing this time, Rafe? And more to the point, what’s gonna happen to the rest of us when it backfires? Nice T-shirt, by the way.”
He ran a fond, protective hand over his shirt. “Disrespectful as ever, Fenn Reardon. And it’s none of your concern. It’smyjob to take care of my family. Young Rafe’s car fixed yet? He had to take my truck to do errands.”
I shook my head and told myself I wasn’t upset by his dismissal. It reallywasn’tmy business. I didn’twantit to be my business.
“Afraid not. She’s gonna need a new ignition coil as far as I can tell. Best confirm that with a real mechanic.”
Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Youarea real mechanic. Didn’t you just yesterday change the oil in Ms. Beecham’s Datsun? And figure out why Orry’s car was making that chirpy noise?”
Yeah, and it had taken me a week, working on it every evening and a whole Saturday, when it would have taken a real mechanic a fraction of that time.
“Please.” I snorted. “I’m an unemployed geologist playing at being a tour boat captain. I enjoy working on my own car, but a wrench and my dad’s old car repair manuals do not a mechanic make.”
“Sure they do” was Big Rafe’s compelling comeback. “Anyway, you’re the closest thing we’ve got.”
I snorted. Just like the Concha was the closest Whispering Key had to fine dining, and this three-ring circus was the closest thing I had to family.
I tossed my rag down onto the engine, wiped the side of my face against my shoulder, and swiped my greasy wrench on the side of my shirt.
“Anyway. Always enlightening talking to you, Uncle Rafe, but I’ve got a party going out on the boat later this afternoon, and I promised Jim I’d take him to get some paint before I left. I’m gonna go and get cleaned up.” I hooked a thumb toward the motel. “Bachelorette party coming up from Coral Gables, so the tips should be great.” Even though I’d have to throw a whole bunch of phone numbers away afterward.
“The tips are gonna be Beale’s today,” Rafe said, folding his arms. “Need you to do a favor for me this morning.”
Beale and I exchanged a look. Beale looked a little sick and a little guilty.
So he hadn’t spilledallhis secrets yet.
Damn it.
“What favor?” I demanded.
“Need you to get changed and drive to Sarasota. Immediately.”
“Sarasota? This morning? No can do. I just told you, I’malreadydoing a favor. I promised Jim Pickles I’d bring him to the hardware store, and it’s over an hour each way in traffic, even assuming the bridges are all down. Besides, what the hell’s so important in Sarasota?”
Once upon a time, eight or ten hurricane seasons ago, Whispering Key had been connected via a bridge directly to the mainland. That bridge had sustained damage that made it structurally unsound, and all these years later, the funding to repair it kept getting delayed due to environmental studies and labor disputes. Nowadays, the only land route from Whispering Key to the mainland involved driving over a drawbridge to the slightly larger island north of us, and then heading east over one of its two bridges. In early summer, with so many pleasure craft out on the water, it sometimes felt like the drawbridge was up as much as it was down, and Whispering Key was cut off from the rest of the world unless you had a boat. Or gills.
Rafe rocked on his heels, way too fucking delighted with himself. “New guest arriving this morning. You need to pick him up from the airport, since Young Rafe’s already gone to help Jim pick out his paint colors, and you’re the only one with a functioning car until you can get the parts you need for this piece of shit.” He kicked the Jeep’s front tire fondly.
“Wait. Newguest?” I glanced over at the motel like it had somehow become habitable since I walked over here an hour ago. “What kind of idiot is coming here voluntarily?”
Rafe pretended not to hear me. “Gonna put him in the west wing, second floor I think,” he mused. “Sunset view over the water.”
“The… thewestwing?” I sounded bewildered because I was. “Rafe, there’s onlyonewing, and it’s all shitty. Remember? We talked about how the plumbing is—”
Rafe waved a hand. “Mason knows he’s going to be staying in the employee quarters. It’ll be fine.”
“Thereareno employee quarters!”
“You’re an employee,” he returned mildly. “You’re quartered there—”
