Shadows on the Sand (3 page)

Clooney pointed at a muffin, and I placed one on a dish for him. He broke off a chunk, then glanced back at Andi. “She tell you about that fool Bill?”

I grinned at his disgruntled expression. “She did.”

“What is it with girl children?” he demanded. “I swear she’s texted the news around the world.”

“She thinks it’s a compliment—her knight defending her.”

Clooney and Greg snorted at the same time.

“Slaying a dragon who’s threatening the life of the fair damsel’s one thing,” Greg said, actually looking at me. “Decking a kid for saying hi to a pretty girl is another.”

“Your past life as a cop is showing,” I teased.

He shrugged as he turned another page of the paper. “Old habits die hard.”

The door opened again, and in strutted the object of our conversation. I knew it had to be him because, aside from the fact that he looked like a very tanned football player, he and Andi gazed at each other with love-struck goofy grins. I thought I heard Lindsay sigh.

Andi hurried toward the kitchen with an armful of dirty dishes from booth four. She squeaked in delight as Bill swatted her on the rump as she passed. Clooney stiffened at this unseemly familiarity with his baby. Mr. Perkins tsk-tsked his disapproval.

“Can I have breakfast now?” Andi asked when she reappeared empty-handed.

The wait staff usually ate around ten thirty at a back booth, and it was
ten fifteen. We were in the off-season weekday lull between breakfast and lunch, and the three men on their stools were the only customers present. I nodded.

Bill looked toward the kitchen. He appeared overwhelmed at the prospect of food, unable to make a selection. He draped an arm over Andi’s shoulder as he considered the possibilities, and she snuggled against him. Clooney’s frown intensified.

Bill was a big guy, and it was clear by the way he carried himself that he still thought of himself as the big man on campus in spite of the fact that he was now campusless and unemployed. As I studied him, I wondered if high school football would end up being the high point of his life. How sad that would be. Clooney drifted through life by choice. I hoped Bill wouldn’t drift for lack of a better plan or enough ability to achieve.

Careful, Carrie
. I was being hard on this kid. Nineteen and undecided wasn’t that unusual. Just because at his age I’d already been on my own for three years, responsible for Lindsay, who was six years my junior …

Bill gave Clooney, who was watching him with a rather sour look, a sharp elbow in the upper arm and asked, one guy to another, “What do you suggest, Clooney? What’s really good here?”

Clooney’s relaxed slouch disappeared. I saw the long-ago medal-winning soldier of his Vietnam days. “You will call me ‘sir’ until I give you permission to call me by name. Do you understand,
boy
?”

Bill blinked. So did I. Everyone in Seaside, no matter their age, called him Clooney.

“Stop that, Clooney!” Andi was appalled at her uncle’s tone of voice.

“Play nice,” I said softly as I realized for the first time that I didn’t know whether Clooney was his first name or last. I made a mental note to ask Greg. As a former Seaside cop, he might know.

“R-E-S-P-E-C-T, darlin’.” Clooney gave Andi an easy smile. He gave Bill a hard stare. “Right, Bill?”

Bill blinked again. “Y-yes, sir.”

Andi took her beloved’s hand and dragged him toward the back booth. “Ignore my uncle. He’s having a bad day.” She glared over her shoulder at Clooney, who grinned back at her.

“She’s got spunk, that one,” he said with pride.

“How’d she end up living with you?” I’d been longing to ask ever since Clooney showed up with Andi just before Labor Day and asked me to give her a job. I did, and I guess I thought that gave me the right to ask my question.

Clooney disagreed because he said, “I think I’ll have one of your amazing Belgian waffles with a side of sausage.”

“I’m on it.” Lindsay headed back to the kitchen before I said a word. “Got it, Ricky?”

“Got it.” Ricky tested the waffle iron with a flick of water. He smiled as the water jumped and evaporated. He was a handsome kid with dark Latino looks of the smoldering kind, a young Antonio Banderas. Unfortunately for him, his smoldering looks appeared to have no effect on Linds.

Another victim of unrequited love.

Andi came to the counter and placed an order for Bill and herself. I blinked. We could have served the whole dining room on less.

Mr. Perkins eyed me. “Are you going to make him pay for all that? You should, you know.”

True, but I shook my head. “Job perk. He’s cheaper than providing health benefits and not nearly as frustrating.”

“So say you.” Clooney settled to his waffle and sausage.

I watched the parade of laden plates emerge from the kitchen and make
their way to the back booth, making me reconsider the “cheaper” bit. Andi took her seat and stared at Bill as if he could do no wrong in spite of the fact that he leaned on the table like he couldn’t support his own weight. Didn’t anyone ever tell the kid that his noneating hand was supposed to rest in his lap, not circle his plate as if protecting it from famished marauders or little girls with ponytails?

“Look at him,” Clooney said. “He’s what? Six-two and over two hundred pounds? Jase Peoples is about five-eight and one-forty if he’s wearing everything in his closet.”

“Let’s forget about Jase, shall we?” Andi’s voice was sharp as she came to the counter and reached for more muffins. “The subject is closed.”

I grabbed her wrist. “No more muffins. We need them for paying customers. If Bill’s still hungry, he can have toast.”

“Or he could pay.” To Mr. Perkins a good idea was worth repeating.

Andi laughed at the absurdity of such a thought.

Ricky had left his stove and was leaning on the pass-through beside Lindsay. “Four slices coming up for Billingsley.”

“Billingsley?” I looked at the big guy as he downed the last of his four-egg ham-and-cheese omelet. With a name like that, it was a good thing he was big enough to protect himself.

“Billingsley Morton Lindemuth III,” Ricky said.

“I should never have told you.” Andi clearly felt betrayed.

“But you did. And you got to love it.” Laughing, Ricky turned to make toast.

“He hates it,” Andi said.

I wasn’t surprised.

Greg drew in a breath like you do when something terrible happens. We all turned to stare at him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He was looking at the front page of
The Press of Atlantic City
. “Jase Peoples.”

“What?” I demanded.

Clooney grabbed the paper and followed Greg’s pointing finger.

I could see the picture and the headline above it: “Have You Seen This Man?”

C
looney began to read aloud:

Clooney interrupted himself. “I’d think lots of twenty-five-year-old guys didn’t come home to Mom and Pop on Saturday night.”

There were general grunts of agreement from Greg and Mr. Perkins.

“But he’d been gone for several years,” I said. “I imagine they were afraid he’d taken off again.”

“Keep reading,” Lindsay ordered from her listening post.

There was a moment of silence. Then we all turned as one and looked at Bill, who had walked to the counter as Clooney read.

He stared back, his face white.

Clooney made a growling noise deep in his throat. “You need to contact the cops, boy.”

Bill stood and held his hand up in front of him as if to ward off Clooney’s words. “I don’t have to do anything. I didn’t make him disappear! I’m not going to the police.”

Andi flew to his side. “He didn’t do anything wrong! I know. I was there.”

Greg stood, pinning Bill with his gaze. He might no longer be a cop, but at the moment, that authority sat easily on his shoulders. “Someone will give details of the fight, including your name, Bill, if it hasn’t been done already. It’d be good if you went to the police on your own rather than wait for them to come looking for you.”

Bill stared back, bristling with attitude. “I gotta go. I got”—he seemed to be searching for a word—“
stuff
to do.” He made for the door.

“Bill!” Andi bolted after him.

“Later, cupcake.” He pushed the door open, intent on escape.

She followed him outside and grabbed him by the arm. He turned. They stopped in front of the picture window where we could see them. He stared down at her, one unhappy camper.

“What?” I could read his lips with ease.

She spoke to him with urgency, her hands flashing.

His frown deepened, and he said something that displeased her. One hand went to her hip, and she poked him in the chest with the other. I had to admire her chutzpa.

He grabbed her by the wrist, and she flinched. She tried to pull free, but he held on, leaning down and yelling in her face.

Clooney was off his stool faster than a runner off the blocks at the sound of the starter’s pistol, Greg right behind him, but Bill was already moving. He pushed Andi away with enough force that she stumbled and almost fell. He strode away without a backward glance.

Clooney shoved the door open, his angry gaze on the retreating Bill. “You ever touch her in anger again, kid, and you’ll answer to me!” He reached for Andi. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

She ducked away and glared at him. “Stay out of it, Clooney.”

Her unexpected anger sparked his. “Fat chance of that!”

“I can handle him!” She pushed past her uncle and made her way back inside, rubbing her wrist.

Muttering to himself, Clooney followed and caught her by her apron strings. “Let me see!”

She held out her arm with an impatient sigh. “I’m fine.”

He ran his fingers over the bruise already forming. “No, you’re not.” He grabbed her in a hug. “Stay away from him, honey. He’s a bad one.”

“He’s not,” she said, her anger gone, her voice teary. “He’s just upset.”

“No matter how upset a man is, he never manhandles a woman,” Mr. Perkins announced from his stool.

Andi rolled her eyes.

Clooney growled agreement. “If he comes near you again, I’ll have to teach him a thing or two.”

Andi pulled away and glared at her uncle. “I don’t want to hear anyone talking against him.” She grabbed his arm. “I mean it, Clooney.”

He folded under her angry look. “Yeah, yeah.”

She turned to Mr. Perkins. “Got that?”

She stared at him until he said, “Yes, I got it.”

She nodded, then ruined her defense by rubbing her wrist as she stalked off to hide in the ladies’ room at the back of the dining area.

The café door opened, and a pale couple entered. I walked to them, smiling. “May I help you?”

“We’re looking for Carrie Carter.”

“That’s me.” I upped my smile.

The man looked quite ill, his skin gray, his eyes bloodshot and circled with deep violet. He gave a halfhearted smile that faded quickly to sadness. “We’re Joe and Margaret Peoples.”

Jase’s parents! I lost my smile. Had they come to tell us what had happened to Jase? If their expressions were anything to judge by, the news wouldn’t be good.

“Please, have a seat.” I ushered them to table one, glad the café was almost empty.

“We’re sorry to bother you.” Mrs. Peoples was pale too but in the way of someone who was troubled, not ill. She folded and unfolded a tissue with nervous fingers. “We just want to ask some questions. If it’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay”—I slipped into the third chair at the table—“though I don’t know how I can help you.”

Margaret was lean to the point of gauntness, and I wondered how much of her build was due to worry over Jase when he’d been missing the first time. For a mother, that was more than enough to put you off eating.

But why would anyone run away from nice people who cared for him?

“They’re trying to tell us he went back to that cult.” Joe’s concave chest puffed up, indignant at the thought. “But he didn’t. I know he didn’t.”

Greg slid into the fourth chair at the table. “How do you know that, Mr. Peoples? What makes you so sure?”