The Great Escape (Wynette, Texas #7)(33)

He’d pulled the kayak up on shore. She sat on the edge of the dock, but she couldn’t read, couldn’t do anything except try to quell her panic. What would she do once she was back on the mainland? Where would she go?

A noise distracted her. She looked up and saw a man who definitely wasn’t Panda coming down the steps from the house. He was tall, with a large frame. The steps were wobbly and he took his time, his carefully styled light brown hair glistening with an undoubtedly expensive hair product. “Hey there!” he called out cheerfully.

Although he was good-looking, everything about him was a little too loud—his voice, the crest on the pocket of his designer sports coat, the heavy gold bracelet and big college ring any intelligent man would have gotten rid of after his frat boy days ended. “I heard Panda’s back on the island,” he said, taking in her tattoo and hair as he came toward her on the dock. “But nobody answered the door.”

“He’s not here.”

“Too bad.” With a broad smile, he thrust out his hand. “I’m Mike Moody. Big Mike. I’ll bet you’ve seen my signs.”

She shook his hand, then regretted it as the pungent scent of his cologne clung to her skin.

“Big Mike’s Island Brokerage,” he said. “Anybody who buys or sells property on this island—house or boat, big or small. Hell, I’ve even sold a couple of horses. I take care of it all.” His straight teeth had an iridescence achievable only in a dental chair. “I sold Panda this house.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“I … go by Viper.”

“No kidding. That’s some name. You’re one of the hippie girls.” Like a good salesman, he sounded more admiring than critical.

“Goth,” she replied, which was beyond ridiculous.

“Yeah, that’s right.” He nodded. “I stopped because I’ve got a boat I thought Panda might be interested in.”

Lucy was a big believer in being cooperative, but Viper didn’t share her principles. “Come back after the six o’clock ferry gets in. I know he’ll want to talk to you about it. Maybe bring a pizza along. That way the two of you can have a long chat.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Big Mike said. “Panda’s a great guy. I don’t know him well, but he seems like an interesting character.”

He waited, hoping she’d provide a few details, and Viper decided to cooperate. “He’s a lot different from the way he was before he went to prison.”

Her troublemaking didn’t go over nearly as well as she’d hoped. “Everybody deserves a second chance,” Big Mike said solemnly. And then, “Holy cripes, but you look familiar.”

While she speculated on what kind of man would say “holy cripes,” Big Mike gazed at her more closely. “You been on the island before?”

“No. My first trip.”

His gold bracelet gleamed as he stuck his hand in his pocket. “It’ll come to me. I never forget a face.”

She hoped that wasn’t true. He looked like he wanted to linger for a chat, so she nodded toward the steps. “I have some things to do in the house. I’ll walk with you.”

He followed her, and when they reached the top, he pumped her hand again. “Anything you need, you let me know. Big Mike’s services don’t stop with the sale. Ask anybody on the island, and they’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll remember.”

He finally left. She began to walk toward the house only to stop as she heard a rustle in the trees that didn’t sound as though it came from a squirrel. A branch snapped, and she glimpsed a bright red T-shirt.

“I see you, Toby!” she called out. “Stop spying on me!”

She didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t receive one.

She made a sandwich, but tossed it out after only a few bites. She sent Meg a text that revealed nothing important, then did the same with her parents. She wanted to send Ted a text but couldn’t imagine what she’d say. With hours still to kill, she wandered into the sunroom.

Three walls of dirty, square-paned windows extended in a large square bay from the wainscoting to the ceiling. Lumpy couches, wing chairs upholstered in fabrics popular in the early nineties, and scarred tables sat haphazardly around the big room. This must have been the family’s primary indoor gathering place. Built-in bookshelves displayed the detritus that ended up in summer homes: yellowed paperbacks, videotapes of old movies, board games in broken boxes held together by dehydrated rubber bands. There was something about this house she’d loved from the beginning, and her inner Martha Stewart wanted to toss out all the junk and clean those windows until they sparkled.

She picked up a ratty dish towel she’d used to wipe up a Coke spill and rubbed one corner of the glass. Most of the dirt was on the outside, but not nearly all of it. She blew on the pane and rubbed again. Better.

Cooking wasn’t the only homemaking task she’d observed during her White House years, and fifteen minutes later she was equipped with a squeegee she’d seen in the upstairs bathroom, a bucket of clean water with a few drops of dishwashing soap, and a stepladder from the pantry. Before long, she’d finished one section of the sunroom windows. She reached for a spot she’d missed, and when she was satisfied, climbed down only to trip on the bottom rung.