Camino Winds (Camino Island #2)(35)
Noelle liked the idea of Mercer reading the manuscript first. No one would suspect her. “Did you and Mercer spend any time together?”
“No. She has a new boyfriend, Thomas, and he was in the way. You’ll like him. Cute boy.”
“Can’t wait. So you have a trip planned. Let’s hear it.”
“Well, we’ll do the service tomorrow, then leave Sunday morning for a little road trip through Napa. Lunch with Rodney on the mountain. There’s a new winemaker, remember that Lance cab that blew us away?”
“Of course.”
“We’re pen pals now and I promised him a visit. Then we’ll make our way to Oregon and the Willamette Valley to taste some new pinots. Sound okay?”
“Sounds marvelous. Sounds like you’re happy to be off the island.”
“Yes, and I’m happy you’re here. The island’s a mess and it won’t improve much while we’re away. It’s quite depressing, Noelle. It’ll take years.”
“We’ll survive. Poor Nelson.”
“I know. We’ll give him a proper send-off tomorrow.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MIRACLE DRUG
1.
Two more storms followed Oscar, both frightening early on but ultimately duds. Both fizzled over the Atlantic and turned north to places ignored by the storm trackers. Oscar himself brought heavy rains to the Bahamas before breaking up and limping away as a mere tropical depression. When he was gone, the satellite maps were clear for the first time in weeks. Maybe the season was over.
By the end of August, the island was busy again, though the routines were different. Early morning brought supplies and contractors, as opposed to hotel employees, and throughout the day the eastbound traffic over the bridge was diesel trucks, more FEMA trailers, more machinery for debris removal. Westbound traffic was a steady caravan of large industrial vehicles hauling an endless collection of storm damage to bulging landfills on the mainland.
School openings were delayed for two weeks, then a month. One by one, the downtown shops and cafés opened. On Saturday, August 31, almost four weeks after Leo, Bay Books reopened with a flashy party that lasted the entire afternoon, even into the night, and included clowns and stories for the kids, caviar and champagne for their parents, a jazz band, and a late afternoon barbecue on the upstairs veranda with a bluegrass combo and two kegs of beer.
Over its twenty-three-plus years, the bookstore had become the center of downtown Santa Rosa. Bruce opened the doors himself each morning at nine and offered coffee and pastries to the early customers. It stayed open until ten each night, long after all other retailers had called it a day. On Sunday mornings, there were homemade biscuits to go with the newspapers from New York, Washington, Chicago, and Philadelphia, and it was often difficult to find a seat in the second-floor café. Bay Books hosted many author and literary events and a crowd was all but guaranteed. The upstairs shelves were on wheels, and when they were shoved back the floor could seat a hundred. Bruce used it primarily for author readings, but also for book clubs, children’s hours, lectures, student groups, art exhibits, and small concerts. It was a rare day when there was not a gathering of some sort.
The store’s reopening, with its atmosphere of worn rugs and saggy shelves and neat stacks of books in every corner, was soothing to its loyal customers. “Bay” had survived unscathed and was ready for business, so life goes on. The worst was behind the island.
2.
The investigation proceeded at a languid pace that surprised no one who was concerned with it. After several attempts, Bruce managed to get Captain Butler on the phone for an update, but learned little. There were a lot of fingerprints to compare, and that process was moving along with nothing important to report. The Hilton had finally responded with the unsurprising news that no one named Ingrid Murphy had been registered there before the storm. In fact, no one with that name had ever stayed in a Hilton on U.S. soil. Its surveillance footage had either been lost or destroyed, but the company was still searching. Beyond that, Butler had nothing to offer, at least not to Bruce. He implied that he knew more than he could report, but, as always, his vagueness sounded phony. Bruce and Polly conferred by phone. She had not heard from the authorities and was frustrated by the lack of communication.
Bruce talked to Carl Logan, the chief of police, but he was unconcerned. As usual, there was immediate friction between the locals and the state boys, and since the state had assumed jurisdiction there was little Logan could do. He seemed to prefer it that way. Besides, he was trying to run his police department from temporary quarters and all nerves were frayed. During a second call, Logan said, “Come on, Bruce, this is going nowhere.”
“You think it was murder, Carl?” Bruce asked.
“What I think doesn’t matter. If it was a crime it’ll never be solved, not by Butler anyway.”
“If it was a crime,” Bruce repeated to himself afterward. He was mumbling a lot by late August because his two co-sleuths had left the island. Bob was on a lake in Maine waiting for the leaves to turn, while Nick was back at Wake chasing coeds and counting the days until he pursued serious studies in Venice.
3.
The day before Bay Books reopened, Mercer and Thomas had arrived on the island eager to examine the cottage. Larry met them there and gave a quick rundown on the damage, which was slight. A new roof was a good idea, though the current one was good for another year or two. He had already replaced the gutters, one shutter, one window, and a screen door. He had met with the insurance adjuster and they had lined up a contractor to replace the boardwalk to the beach. All in all, the cottage had survived in good shape. A half a mile to the north, a four-story rental had partially collapsed and would soon be razed.