A Spirited Gift

“Can’t you recruit a new coffee shop?” she asked. “You’re the mayor. This is a big issue for our community. Just think of how many citizens will vote for you if you bring back their triple-shot mochas. Mad Dog can’t stand up to that kind of competition.”

“Point me in the right direction, and I’ll be all over it,” I promised. “Everyone in Duck deserves to have at least one mocha every day. And as mayor, I swear to make it happen.”

It was all silly talk, but it was exactly what I needed—a distraction. I’d expected Chief Michaels to be at the shop first thing in the morning. Instead, here it was lunchtime, and there had been no sign of him. I’d been prepared for his visit when I left the house this morning, but now my resolve about touching the gun was beginning to wear thin.

We finally decided we’d wasted enough time and paid our bills. One of Trudy’s regular clients called and asked if she had an opening for a cut and curl. Trudy rolled her pretty eyes at me as she pretended to check her empty calendar on her cell phone. “Come on in, Mrs. Flowers. I’ll make time for you,” she said.

As we walked out of the restaurant, I saw Chief Michaels talking to August Grandin at the Duck General Store. Sheriff Riley was leaning against the railing along the boardwalk.

“Looks like you have customers too,” Trudy said. “I guess lunch was good for both of us.”

I agreed with her, but my heart plummeted. I felt a little sick and my hands were shaking. I thought about just saying no and not touching the gun that had killed at least three people. I thought about calling Kevin and asking him to come and get me. I wanted to run as far and fast as possible.

Then I thought about Sandi. She hadn’t deserved to die. Her children didn’t deserve to grow up without her. I knew it wasn’t easy for Chief Michaels—let alone Sheriff Riley—to ask for my help. It had to mean they didn’t know where to go in the investigation.

“Mayor.” Chief Michaels nodded to me as I reached him.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind,” Sheriff Riley said.

“Mayor O’Donnell, I’m glad to see you,” August began. “Did you know Phil is closing the Coffee House and Bookstore? While we might get by without the bookstore, I don’t think Duck will be the same without a coffee shop. I hope you have something in mind for this.”

“I’m looking into it, Mr. Grandin,” I said. “I’ll let you know when there’s news.”

“Thanks, Mayor. You always know what to do for us.” He smiled and nodded at the two lawmen. “Gentlemen.”

“Shall we go inside?” I invited the two men in. I looked at the brown cloth bag that I felt sure held the weapon. I stiffened my backbone and told my knocking knees to cut it out. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter 42

After the three of us were inside the shop, I closed the door and locked it. I didn’t want to worry about any customers coming in. It would be just my luck to suddenly have a few stop by after not seeing a soul but Stan all day.

“Is that the gun?” I asked Chief Michaels.

“Yes.” He handed me the whole bag.

“I’m just going to sit over here and take a nap,” Sheriff Riley said with a yawn as he took a chair near the door. “I expect you know what I think of all this hoodoo stuff. If you can’t solve a case using good, God-fearing detective work, you don’t deserve to solve it.”

“Tuck, you’re not helping matters,” Chief Michaels said. “I haven’t heard any better ideas from you. But if you have one, tell me now. Let’s go track down the killer.”

“You know I don’t, Ronnie, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Then shut your pie hole and let Miss Dae do her thing.”

They both looked at me expectantly. I had a moment of performance anxiety I’d never had while finding missing change or lost cuff links. What if I couldn’t tell them anything about the murders? What if all this speculation about what would happen to me if I held the gun made me unable to see the killer?

Chief Michaels just stood there, looking at me. Waiting. Sheriff Riley sat forward and laced his calloused fingers together. Waiting.

I took a deep breath and opened the cloth bag. The cloth was shielding me from the weapon as if I were wearing gloves. I looked into the bag and wondered—feared—what the gun would show me.

The weapon was surprisingly warm to the touch. Probably still holding the heat from where the chief had carried it. I turned it over in my hands and closed my eyes.

Wild Johnny Simpson was working on a letter to the woman he loved when the door behind him opened and the killer slowly moved into the tiny room.

“You have something of mine,” the man holding the gun whispered in the quiet hotel room. “I want it back.”