But it’s good to know you’re keeping up with the goings on around town. Shows you’ve got some interest. That’s a good thing.” She patted again. “Now, cultivate it.”
“I’m an auto mechanic. One step away from a bartender. I hear things whether I want to or not.”
“Well, it’s still a place to start.” She patted his hand one last time, then slid her arm free. “You’re not so brooding and quiet as you try and make us believe. I mean, look at the two of us, having ourselves a nice little chat. See? It wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
He’d rather eat fire ants. He’d also sorely underestimated his placement on Miss Alva’s to-do list. He’d have to put a stop to that before it went any further, but at the moment, he couldn’t come up with a solid game plan, other than to send her on her merry way as soon as possible.
“Thanks again for the jelly roll,” he said by way of responding. “I should get back to work.”
She turned her attention back to the Volkswagen. “I don’t recognize this one from anyone on the island.”
“Not a local. Just someone passing through, having a bit of bad luck.”
“Not so bad as all that if she found you.” Alva looked through the side windows, then glanced at the license plate. “Oregon. Long way to be passing through. Looks like she’s got a goodly part of her worldly possessions with her, too.”
“How do you know it belongs to a woman?” Dylan asked, bemused despite himself.
“Not too many men I know would drive a powder blue Beetle Bug. Although, they say they’re a bit odd up there in the northwest, so, who knows.”
Odd, Dylan thought. That’s one way to put it.
“Only ever knew one person from Oregon. Newcomer. Beavis Chantrell.” Alva smiled fondly. “She was certainly a colorful one, so perhaps there’s something to it. You know, she used to do costumes in Hollywood for some of the big movie stars? Then she left there and designed for the show girls in those big, fancy Vegas reviews. Came out here with a fella, some young slick. Card shark if you ask me. Never did trust him. Pretty sure he cheated the time or two we played poker, though I couldn’t catch him red-handed at it.
“I was so happy when she stayed after he moved on, opened up her little shop. We were fortunate to keep her, we were.” Alva sighed. “My Harold’s suits never fit so well as when Bea took her hand to them. And the things she could do to spruce up an old hat, I tell you. You could always count on her to let you know if there was trouble brewin’, too. I miss her.”
Dylan knew Miss Bea had lived on Sugarberry close to twenty years, before passing away last winter. Of course, anything less than a few generations of island occupancy labeled a person a newcomer. Bea had been a bit of an odd duck, but a beloved one, near as he could tell. He hadn’t known her personally, mechanics not being in much need of tailoring shops, and she’d pedaled a bicycle around the island, never owned a car. Of course he’d heard about her being a bit . . . unusual, always knowing things she shouldn’t be knowing. Everybody knew about it. Folks would go to her, trying to find out about their futures. Far as he knew, she wasn’t any kind of fortune teller, or certainly had never advertised herself as one, but it didn’t keep folks from talking or seeking out her advice from time to time.
He supposed he had a soft spot for the misfits of the world, though she seemed to have made her way better than most. Still, he’d been sorry to hear it when she’d suffered a mild stroke a little over a year before. He knew it had left her unable to run her shop. Last he’d heard, she’d moved to a senior care center over on the mainland, where she’d remained until her passing.
The shop had sat empty until the cupcake crew had taken over the space to add on to their existing business. The island had been buzzing about the grand opening of the new place for months. Some were happy about it and the increased interest it might bring to the island, some were grousing that increased traffic and tourists were not something Sugarberry should be courting, that it was doing just fine on