When I let myself into the café, I found Meara and Muffy there, staring out the windows. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“I wish I knew,” Meara said. “Was hoping you had some idea.”
I joined them at the window to get a better look at the center of all this activity. “Why would I know?”
“Let’s see,” Meara started, holding up a finger. “You’re from this town, you know the people here, and you have a complicated history with our neighbor, who seems to be directing this project.”
“I wouldn’t call it a complicated history. I haven’t seen him since I was a kid.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Muffy said. “Having history with the guy automatically volunteers you to go find out when the crane will be leaving.”
“Me?” I yelped.
“Customers didn’t mind finding parking on Market Street this weekend because they knew we were open and enough people were waiting in line to serve as the social proof that hoofing it down here would be worth it. But if customers can’t see past the dump trucks and backhoes to the café, they’re not bothering with us today.” Meara glanced at me. “Find out what’s going on and when it will be over.”
“I made extra cookies because they were the first to sell out,” Muffy said. “So many cookies. But now this.” She waved a dish towel at the window. “I’m gonna cry in the walk-in if we end the day with three hundred double-chocolate olive oil cookies.”
“Go,” Meara said to me. “And try to be nice this time.”
“I’m always nice.” I shuffled toward the door, more than a little outraged. “He’s the one who’s not nice.”
“Beth will tend to your feelings when she gets in this afternoon,” Meara said. “Until then, we’re focused on outcomes.”
She didn’t give a shit. She’d throw me to the teenage bully wolves if it served her marketing strategies.
Ugh, that wasn’t true. Meara was like that one strict teacher everyone dreaded but who ended up being the unquestionable best. She gave a shit but only when you earned it.
It didn’t take long to find Beckett. He stood near SPOC’s main entrance, phone glued to his ear as always and wearing another fancy vest with a dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. A Black man in a suit leaned up against the building as he read a newspaper. I waved to them, saying, “Good morning” as I approached.
Beckett glanced over his shoulder at me with a scowl before pacing away toward the dock.
“Any idea what’s going on here?” I asked the guy with the paper.
“Not a clue.” He frowned at the headlines then asked, “Is basil lemonade on the menu today?”
“All month.”
He pumped a fist. “Excellent. I’ll be over when this guy stops being so interesting.”
“Interesting?” I repeated.
He was shorter than Beckett the Broody Beast but then again, everyone was shorter than him. But this guy, he was attractive. Nicely dressed. Dapper, if that word still existed. Great smile too. And he liked our lemonade. I liked this one. I approved.
He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”
Behind me, a throat cleared. “I see you’ve met Agent Price,” Beckett said.
“Agent Price,” I said to the man, smiling. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Sunny Du Jardin.”
He tucked the newspaper under his arm. “I know.”
That froze the smile on my face. It was weird that he knew my name, right? Super weird. “Oh.” I glanced at Beckett, who seemed mildly amused. “Okay.”
“Agent Price is with the FBI. He’s following me around in case I let slip my mother’s location or any other stray details of the money laundering operation that was based out of the oyster bar. All of this is unlikely to occur since I know nothing. That has yet to deter him.”
I opened my palms at my sides, expecting to find a dog waiting there before remembering I’d felt well enough to leave them at home today. “What—um—sorry, what are you talking about?”
Beckett crossed his massive arms over his chest and flicked a bored glance between me and his phone as he took a few steps away from the restaurant’s entrance. Even though I wanted to dig in my heels and make him come to me, I followed him across the driveway, edging around lumber and steel rods and workers in hard hats.
