My mother had never locked the barn when I was still living here, and I knew for a fact her habits hadn’t changed.
Arthur was the one who spoke next. “What happened?”
“I snuck inside, trying to be all quiet and everything. But then, I heard a sound. Something hit the floor at the back of the barn...near the side door,” Mateo said, meeting my eyes. “That’s when I realized someone else was in there.”
“My mother? She was already in the barn?” I asked, even though I already knew that wasn’t true, based on what Jo had told me. Clare had gone out there after they’d seen Mateo going in.
“No. Someone else.”
“Did you see him?” I asked.
“No. But Miss Clare did. She came in through the side door. She must have seen the person ’cuz she called out. There was no answer. But then, I heard furniture getting shoved around. Like whoever was in there was trying to get out in a hurry.”
“So what did you do?” Bernie asked.
Mateo paused, breathing hard. “I panicked. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve helped her, but I freaked. I didn’t want to get caught, so I ran. I just ran.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ocean
* * *
Wednesday afternoon and Rainbow Reef Books was buzzing like a beehive on espresso.
George had warned her when she arrived that two tour buses were coming into town from the casino. Summer hadn’t officially begun, but the tourists clearly weren’t consulting calendars.
Once the retirees had started streaming in, the aisles got crowded, and George got busy.
Ocean had been parked behind the counter ever since. Sixty solid minutes of flipping endlessly through publisher catalogs looking at young adult and fantasy titles.
Listening to the chatter around her, she was beginning to understand why George Pappas was the backbone of Arthur’s business. Today, she was seeing a whole new side of him. He didn’t just know everything; he was quick-witted, funny, and he blended mild sarcasm with helpfulness perfectly.
This explained why he and Arthur got along so well. Dry humor and a deep knowledge of books apparently formed the foundation of their bromance.
From her post behind the counter, Ocean watched him work the floor like he was doing improv on stage. Each customer fed him a new setup, and each response on his part was delivered with deadpan flair.
Customer: “Do you feature any books by local Connecticut authors?”
George: “Half the town tries to write novels. The other half tries to read them. Come with me.”
Another customer: “And uplifting reading recommendations?”
George: “You mean, a novel where no one dies tragically? Got it.”
Customer: “Any books on local history and nature?”
George (smiling): “Yes. But...spoiler alert. The local historians mostly start with, It used to be woods.... But I’ll show you what we have.”
A woman in a red hat wandered in. “I’m not much of a reader. Actually, who am I kidding. I don’t read at all. What do you recommend for my eleven-year-old?”
“Therapy?” George offered, then quickly backpedaled when she didn’t react. “Just kidding. Graphic novels. This aisle.”
A half dozen tourists, several clutching doggie-bags smelling like fries, cornered him by the counter.
“Do you have book-related gifts?” one of them asked.
“We’ve got everything from bookmarks to mugs that basically scream, I’m silently judging you.”
