“Caller says bigger than a boat. Another says it’s moving. Harbor patrol is requesting backup because we’ve got about thirty people gathering and Eugene Bradshaw is threatening to swim out with his—hold on, I’m getting the exact words—therapeutic intervention equipment.”
I snorted. Eugene ran the crystal shop on Third Street and firmly believed that every problem, from arthritis to failing marriages, could be solved with the right combination of crystals and positive thinking. Last month he’d tried to heal the pothole on Harbor Street with sage smudging, whatever that was.
“On my way,” Dash said, then looked at me. “Want to come? Your coq needs another forty minutes anyway, and I might need someone who actually knows all these people.”
“You want me to be your local guide to crazy?”
“I prefer the term cultural liaison,” he said, already heading for the door.
I turned the heat down to the lowest simmer, the kind that would let the flavors meld slowly without any risk of burning. I grabbed my light cardigan. The evening had turned cool with a suddenness that made me think fall would be coming early this year.
Dash’s SUV still smelled new, the combination of leather and electronics that suggested a vehicle more accustomed to city streets than sandy island roads. But sand had already begun its inevitable invasion—grains in the cup holders, a fine dust on the dashboard that would never fully disappear no matter how much one cleaned.
“So what do you think it actually is?” I asked as we drove down Harbor Street, passing The Perfect Steep with its windows dark except for the small light I always left on, the one that made the teacups on the shelf glint like small moons.
“Last week someone called about a sea monster that turned out to be Georgia Bellington’s pool float,” Dash said, taking the turn toward the marina with practiced ease. “If you can imagine a chartreuse dragon the size of a small car, complete with silver wings that caught the wind like sails and googly eyes that somehow made it look both ridiculous and vaguely menacing. The storm had lifted it clean over her fence—we found security footage later—and it had sailed three miles across the island to traumatize a group of early morning kayakers who thought they were witnessing the return of something prehistoric.”
“Georgia was convinced the Clemmons twins had orchestrated the whole thing,” I said, remembering her standing in The Perfect Steep, vibrating with righteous indignation while clutching a manila folder she claimed contained evidence of their delinquency dating back to kindergarten. “Even after Tom Clemmons showed her the security footage of the storm launching it like a medieval siege weapon.”
Dash’s mouth twitched and his eyes gleamed with humor. It was the same expression he’d worn when Eugene Bradshaw had reported his meditation crystals stolen, only to find them in his other pants. “She came to the station yesterday with a notebook full of YouTube screenshots. Apparently the twins have been watching videos about weather patterns. She wanted to know if that constituted probable cause for a search warrant. She was completely serious.”
“Well, you traded in excitement for island life, so…”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, grinning.
The harbor came into view, and even from a distance, I could see the crowd gathered on the main dock. The setting sun painted the water copper and gold, and silhouetted against it were enough people that whatever was happening had drawn serious attention.
We parked and made our way through the crowd, Dash’s presence creating a natural path as people stepped aside like water around a stone. I recognized most of them—Howard from the bookstore with his phone held high, determined to document history in the making, the Methodist youth group kids in their usual uniform of ripped jeans and hoodies (even though it was May and entirely too hot to wear a hoodie), and Vivian Lockwood clutching the pearl necklace she wore religiously, running the beads through her fingers like worry stones. The pearls had belonged to her grandmother, who’d reportedly won them in a poker game from a Charleston madam in 1923—a story Vivian neither confirmed nor denied but told through the knowing arch of her left eyebrow whenever anyone asked.
“There!” someone shouted, pointing at the water about fifty yards out.
Something large and dark broke the surface, water streaming off it in sheets that caught the dying light. It wasn’t moving like debris. It rolled slightly, and I caught a glimpse of what looked like a massive flipper.
“Is that a whale?” I breathed, hardly believing what I was seeing.
Whales occasionally passed by Grimm Island during migration, but they stayed in deep water, visible only as distant spouts on clear days. This one was close enough that I could see barnacles on its hide when it surfaced again.
“Everyone stay back from the edge,” Dash called out, his sheriff voice cutting through the excited chatter. “Harbor patrol is en route.”
“It’s a sign!” Eugene Bradshaw pushed through the crowd, carrying what appeared to be a set of Tibetan singing bowls. His flowing white shirt and numerous crystal necklaces made him look like a new-age prophet, or someone who’d gotten lost on the way to Woodstock and decided to just stay lost. “The universe is sending us a message!”
“The universe needs to send that message from deeper water,” Dash muttered, then he said louder, “Mr. Bradshaw, please don’t?—”
But Eugene was already settling himself at the dock’s edge, arranging his bowls with the reverence of a priest preparing communion. He began to play them, the haunting tones drifting across the water.
Eugene’s singing bowls had reached a particularly ethereal note when Margaret Calhoun leaned toward her bridge club companion, her voice carrying that special island talent for whispered commentary that somehow reached everyone within a ten-foot radius. “He’s either harmonizing with the whale’s chakras or giving the poor creature a migraine. With Eugene, the line between spiritual healing and acoustic assault is remarkably thin.”
Her companion—Dolores Whitmore, Deidre’s cousin who ran the antique shop—nodded sagely. “Last month he tried to cure my sciatica with a tuning fork. I couldn’t hear properly out of my left ear for three days, and my back still hurt.”
The whale—and it was definitely a whale, I could see that now—continued its slow, confused circles. It would disappear for thirty seconds, maybe a minute, then surface again with an explosive exhale that sent spray twenty feet into the air. Each time it appeared, the crowd would gasp collectively, phone cameras clicking like a swarm of digital crickets.
“Somebody needs to help it!” This from Tommy Morrison, sixteen years old and possessor of more courage than sense. He was already moving toward his surfboard when Dash’s voice cut through the evening air with the kind of authority that could stop a charging bull.
“Morrison. Stand down.”
The command had the effect of freezing not just Tommy but every teenager within earshot. Dash had already positioned himself between the kids and the water, his presence somehow expanding to fill the space in that way certain people could—making themselves into an immovable wall through sheer force of will.
“But Sheriff—” Tommy started.
