The man from whom he had borrowed the golf cart—no charge for lawmen—eyed him distrustfully as Harris returned the key. “Find him?”
“Yeah, thanks for the directions,” Harris replied. “You ever see this guy?”
“Now and again,” the man drawled.
“Is he a weird sort?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.”
“He ever make any trouble around here?”
“Naw, he stays pretty much to hisself.”
“Island folks like him okay?”
“You need any gas before headin’ back?”
Which was as good as an invitation to leave and take his nosy questions with him. Harris had hoped to get a clearer picture of the man who occupied the haunted mansion and hid behind doors when folks came calling, but apparently he wasn’t going to get one. He had no cause to investigate further—beyond his natural curiosity as to why a man went only by his initials and what a woman in New York City was wanting with him.
He thanked the islander for the use of the golf cart.
The man spat tobacco juice into the mud. “No problem.”
Chapter 3
“Just one more picture, please, Mr. and Mrs. Reed?”
Maris and Noah smiled for the photographer who was covering the literary banquet for Publishers Weekly. During the cocktail hour, they’d been photographed with other publishers, with their award-winning author, and with the celebrity emcee. The former women’s tennis champion fancied herself an author now that she’d had a ghostwriter pen a roman à clef about her days on the professional circuit.
The Reeds had been allowed to eat their dinner in relative peace, but now that the event had concluded, they were once again being asked to pose for various shots. But, as promised, the photographer snapped one last picture of them alone, then scuttled off to catch the exercise guru whose latest fitness book topped the nonfiction bestseller list.
As Maris and Noah crossed the elegant lobby of the Palace Hotel, she sighed, “At last. I can’t wait to get into my jammies.”
“One drink and we’ll say our good nights.”
“Drink?”
“At LeCirque.”
“Now?”
“I told you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I’m sure I did, Maris. Between the main course and dessert, I whispered to you that Nadia had invited us to join her and one of the award recipients for a drink.”
“I didn’t know you meant tonight.”
Maris groaned with dread. She disliked Nadia Schuller intensely and for this very reason. The book critic was meddlesome and pushy, always roping Noah and her into a commitment from which there was no graceful way out.
Nadia Schuller’s “Book Chat” column was syndicated in major newspapers and carried a lot of weight—in Maris’s opinion simply because Nadia had ramrodded herself into being the country’s only book critic whose name was recognized by the general public. Maris held her in low regard both professionally and personally.
She was adroit at making it seem as though this sort of arranged meeting were for the benefit of the parties she was bringing together, but Maris suspected that Nadia’s matchmaking was strictly self-serving. She was a self-promoter without equal and refused to take no for an answer. Whatever her request, she extended it assuming that it would be granted without a quibble. Noncompliance to her wishes was met with a veiled threat of consequences. Maris was wise to her manipulations, but Noah seemed blind to them.
“Please, Noah, can’t we decline? Just this once?”
“We’re already here.”