the key had been waiting under a flowerpot when Vince had arrived.
Marty, as he insisted Vince call him, was a friendly fellow with a ready smile, a paunch of a belly, and a reddish horseshoe of hair surrounding a shiny patch of scalp. He wore plaid flannel and carried a toolbox. You had to like a guy who wore plaid flannel and carried a toolbox. Right now he was crouching near the door, examining the lock the way a surgeon examines a tumor, and shaking his head. "You're right you know. These locks are jokes. Any twelve-year-old with a Swiss army knife could get in, if he wanted to. It just never occurred to me we might need serious locks out here. I can't even remember when there's been a break-in."
"Right," Vince said, "Nothing bad ever happens in Dilmun."
Marty smiled broadly. "It's practically the town motto." Then he sighed. "Guess we've let ourselves get a little complacent out here."
"Maybe. But we aren't even sure there was anyone in here. There's no sign of an intruder, and Holly didn't actually see him."
Marty nodded, looked troubled for a moment, opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.
Vince took note of all of it. "What?" he asked.
Marty brushed off his hands, got to his feet. "Holly ... no. Nevermind, it's not important. Look, I can get a decent deadbolt on this door for you tomorrow. Hardware store is already closed tonight, or I'd take care of it right now."
"Not a problem," Vince told him. "You want a beer, Marty?"
"Love one. Thanks."
Vince walked to the kitchenette, grabbed a beer out of the fridge for each of them, talking as he did. "I appreciate you coming over so fast. Chief Mallory must have called you in a hurry." He was in no hurry to get rid of the guy, now that it seemed he knew something about Holly Newman that he was keeping to himself.
"Nah, the chief knew he didn't have to bother. Doris called me just a little while ago."
"Oh." Vince handed Marty his beer while his brain processed the information.
"Doris is my wife Jenny's sister," Martin explained.
Vince nodded. "Holly mentioned that her uncle owned the cabins."
The man looked at him and grinned. "I'm feeding the small town stereotype, huh? That everyone's related."
Before Vince could answer, his cell phone bleated. "Make yourself at home, Marty, while I get this." Marty sat down as Vince pulled the phone out of his pocket, answering as he always did, with a terse "O'Mally."
There was a hesitation on the other end, and his skin started to prickle. Was it the same guy who'd broken in here earlier—if there had been a guy at all? Then a soft breath whispered from the phone and he could almost feel it on his ear. He was just beginning to wonder if this was going to turn into an obscene phone call when she spoke at last.
"Hi. It's Holly Newman."
He glanced toward Marty, saw the guy grinning even wider than before, and carried the phone into the kitchen. "Did you remember something more about the guy you thought you saw, Red?"
"No. I... look, my mother wanted me to invite you to the community bonfire, so I'm inviting you."
He lifted his brows. "You don't sound happy about it"
"I'm not. It's tomorrow night, down by the lake. You'll see the crowd gathering from your porch around sundown."
"And when I do, I should... ?"
"Meet us down there," she said.
He thought for a moment. It would be a good chance to poke around some more, he figured. Meet more of the locals. Dig a little deeper into the mind of the strange little redhead. "Fine," he said. "It's a date."
"No," she replied. "It's not."
The click told him she'd hung up the phone. He looked at his phone, scowling, and wondering just why Holly Newman disliked him so much. There was something motivating it, and it was connected to his case, he felt it right to his bones.
"So, you're going to the bonfire with Holly then?" Marty asked as Vince walked back from the kitchen. He was sitting on the sofa just to the left of the front door, one arm
Marty, as he insisted Vince call him, was a friendly fellow with a ready smile, a paunch of a belly, and a reddish horseshoe of hair surrounding a shiny patch of scalp. He wore plaid flannel and carried a toolbox. You had to like a guy who wore plaid flannel and carried a toolbox. Right now he was crouching near the door, examining the lock the way a surgeon examines a tumor, and shaking his head. "You're right you know. These locks are jokes. Any twelve-year-old with a Swiss army knife could get in, if he wanted to. It just never occurred to me we might need serious locks out here. I can't even remember when there's been a break-in."
"Right," Vince said, "Nothing bad ever happens in Dilmun."
Marty smiled broadly. "It's practically the town motto." Then he sighed. "Guess we've let ourselves get a little complacent out here."
"Maybe. But we aren't even sure there was anyone in here. There's no sign of an intruder, and Holly didn't actually see him."
Marty nodded, looked troubled for a moment, opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.
Vince took note of all of it. "What?" he asked.
Marty brushed off his hands, got to his feet. "Holly ... no. Nevermind, it's not important. Look, I can get a decent deadbolt on this door for you tomorrow. Hardware store is already closed tonight, or I'd take care of it right now."
"Not a problem," Vince told him. "You want a beer, Marty?"
"Love one. Thanks."
Vince walked to the kitchenette, grabbed a beer out of the fridge for each of them, talking as he did. "I appreciate you coming over so fast. Chief Mallory must have called you in a hurry." He was in no hurry to get rid of the guy, now that it seemed he knew something about Holly Newman that he was keeping to himself.
"Nah, the chief knew he didn't have to bother. Doris called me just a little while ago."
"Oh." Vince handed Marty his beer while his brain processed the information.
"Doris is my wife Jenny's sister," Martin explained.
Vince nodded. "Holly mentioned that her uncle owned the cabins."
The man looked at him and grinned. "I'm feeding the small town stereotype, huh? That everyone's related."
Before Vince could answer, his cell phone bleated. "Make yourself at home, Marty, while I get this." Marty sat down as Vince pulled the phone out of his pocket, answering as he always did, with a terse "O'Mally."
There was a hesitation on the other end, and his skin started to prickle. Was it the same guy who'd broken in here earlier—if there had been a guy at all? Then a soft breath whispered from the phone and he could almost feel it on his ear. He was just beginning to wonder if this was going to turn into an obscene phone call when she spoke at last.
"Hi. It's Holly Newman."
He glanced toward Marty, saw the guy grinning even wider than before, and carried the phone into the kitchen. "Did you remember something more about the guy you thought you saw, Red?"
"No. I... look, my mother wanted me to invite you to the community bonfire, so I'm inviting you."
He lifted his brows. "You don't sound happy about it"
"I'm not. It's tomorrow night, down by the lake. You'll see the crowd gathering from your porch around sundown."
"And when I do, I should... ?"
"Meet us down there," she said.
He thought for a moment. It would be a good chance to poke around some more, he figured. Meet more of the locals. Dig a little deeper into the mind of the strange little redhead. "Fine," he said. "It's a date."
"No," she replied. "It's not."
The click told him she'd hung up the phone. He looked at his phone, scowling, and wondering just why Holly Newman disliked him so much. There was something motivating it, and it was connected to his case, he felt it right to his bones.
"So, you're going to the bonfire with Holly then?" Marty asked as Vince walked back from the kitchen. He was sitting on the sofa just to the left of the front door, one arm
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