to make the same mistake twice, especially now knowing that she was a woman deep in grief over her missing, likely dead husband. But . . . the fact that her missing, likely dead husband could possibly be her missing, likely dead, possibly murdered husband gave Anders a certain level of motivation to seek her out. If anyone would know about Tom’s disappearance—and if there was anything nefarious about it—it would most likely be his wife.
Jeffrey motioned to Anders’s uneaten chicken fingers. “You sure you don’t need anything else?”
“Actually, I do,” Anders said. “Is there anywhere else to stay out here besides that motel?”
Chapter 8
Pearl Olecki stood at her kitchen counter whisking the waffle batter in her smallest mixing bowl with more vigor than necessary. She hadn’t slept more than two hours last night—or any night since the town gathering on Wednesday— tossing and turning in her heated irritation. A cell tower. A cell tower! How could anyone think a Lord-knows-how-tall metal contraption would be a good idea on their tiny island? Talk about an eyesore. Not to mention the radiation. Was everyone suddenly OK with getting cancer? If she wasn’t a good Christian woman, she might have hoped that cancer would befall Steve Parrish for even bringing up the idea. Bad enough he brought that developer over here months ago who suggested they open a bar for the tourists—a bar!—and now this. Who needed a cell phone? Her landline had worked perfectly well for the past sixty years, thank you very much. And Internet? Well, anyone could just go down to the Blue Point market anytime they wanted to send an email (though what the point of that was, when one had pen, paper, and a post office, was beyond her). Mailing a letter never killed anybody. But cancer did. It sure enough did. She yawned, the action momentarily cutting into her thoughts, and she realized just how tired she was.
Fortunately, she only had three guests this Sunday morning— a couple from the mainland celebrating their twenty-sixth wedding anniversary, and the Mormon boy who dropped in unexpectedly late yesterday afternoon inquiring about a room. Thank goodness BobDan told Shirlene, who told Lady Judy, who called Pearl to warn her that he was in town. She also thought, in general, it was quite considerate of them to wear those short-sleeved white shirts, so they were immediately recognizable.
Proselytizers rarely made the trip out to Frick Island, mostly because, Pearl thought, ninety-nine percent of the island was already Christian, belonging to the Methodist church, even if they didn’t all make it to the Sunday service as often as Pearl thought they should. In fact, Pearl couldn’t remember ever meeting one, but she did open the door to a World Book Encyclopedia seller years ago, and that was three hours of her life and nine hundred dollars she would never get back. That was why she made Harold check the boy in and give him the short welcome spiel and tour of the house, just to be on the safe side. She didn’t know how much he was selling those Books of Mormon for, but she knew she couldn’t afford them.
The one thing she did know about Mormons was that they didn’t drink coffee. She couldn’t remember where she had read that—probably in one of those expensive encyclopedias. Either way, she was proud to show her sensitivity to his religion by not even offering it that morning when she was pouring for the anniversary couple.
Piper banged in the back door. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, hurrying over to where her apron hung on the wall. “Tom likes to sleep in on Sundays, and I forgot to set my alarm.”
“It’s alright,” Mrs. Olecki said, still whisking vigorously, and not batting an eye at the mention of Tom. Not anymore, anyway.
“Mrs. Olecki?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I think that batter is . . . mixed.”
“Oh! Well, it sure is,” she said, pulling the whisk out and tapping it on the side of the bowl. The waffles certainly wouldn’t be as fluffy as usual, but she hoped they didn’t come out like bricks. “Could you warm up the vanilla maple syrup?” she said, looking over her shoulder only to realize Piper was already headfirst in the fridge, pulling out the fresh berries and then the syrup.
Pearl turned back to her batter, opening the waffle iron next to the bowl, the metal hot and ready. But just as she lifted the ladle to pour the first scoop, she heard it.
A scream.
And