favorite people. Despite his eccentricities and our significant age difference, he’d always treated me as an adult, as an equal. He’d also been the one to sit with me after my mother’s funeral, and his kindness that day was something I’d never forget. I’d adored him ever since.
“I don’t think I scared him away, Dmitri. I think he just didn’t want to help me. Thank goodness for Gertie. Say, have you met the new bartender? Apparently, he works here now.” The why didn’t anyone tell me? was obvious in my inflection.
Dmitri was upright once more and nodded, tossing his hat onto one of the tables. “We have met. The kid makes a good gin and tonic. I’ll have another, by the way.” He held up an empty glass, and I saw a chance to implement my first policy change.
“How about we hold off on the cocktails until after the meeting.”
Dmitri walked to the bar and set the glass down before turning back to me.
“You expect me to sit in that tiny room and listen to Vera VonMeisterburger drone on endlessly about our fruit bat shortage without having a bit of anesthetic in my system?” he asked.
“Vera’s bat shortage crusade is not on today’s agenda.”
“It was never on Harry’s agenda, either.” He lifted his glass again, shaking the ice and winking at the new bartender. What had he said his name was? Oh yes. Leo. Leo, the tall, dark, handsome good Samaritan/bartender.
“I intend to stick to the agenda,” I said firmly to Dmitri, then looked at Leo with my stern teacher face. “Hold off on the cocktails, please. Nothing but soft drinks for at least an hour.”
“You got it, Mayor,” he said, picking up another glass to dry.
Dmitri shook his head, his forehead furrowing in a mild scowl. “Kid, you don’t work for her. You work for Clancy McArthur, the owner of this fine establishment, and never in his life would Clancy deny a patron a refreshing libation. Especially if that patron had to listen to . . . Why, hello there, Vera!”
I heard the door open, and the scent of mothballs and camphor assailed my nose as the Trillium Bay librarian bustled inside, a well-stuffed, purple canvas bag over her shoulder. Her nearly white hair was woven into two uneven braids that hung to her ample waist. If Dmitri was my most favorite person, Vera was my least favorite. In fact, with just a few exceptions, I suspect she was everyone’s least favorite. Few on the island had escaped her wrath at one time or another, and an overdue book was enough to trigger her laser-beam glare. It burned through your skin like a flamethrower. We’d all been scared to death of her as kids, and somehow it was the kind of fear one never outgrew.
“Good afternoon, Dmitri. Madam Mayor.” Everything about her demeanor said severity, until she turned and spotted the new guy. Her face transformed into a sublime gaze of appreciation. “Why, hello there,” she purred. “You’re new. What’s your name?”
I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Vera had that kind of instantaneous impact on people. “Leo. Leo Walker. You must be Mrs. VonMeisterburger.” His smile stayed steady, if a little forced, and kudos to him for remembering that mouthful of a name.
“That’s Miss VonMeisterburger, Mr. Walker,” she said coquettishly, running an age-spotted hand down one skinny braid. “So nice to meet you. Are you the new bartender?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Can I offer you something to drink? Iced tea? Lemonade?”
She didn’t bat a lash. “Dewar’s. Neat. Care to join me?”
He didn’t bat a lash, either. It was impressive. I’d seen grown men tremble under her stare, but he was cool as a professional gambler bluffing with a pair of threes. “Perhaps another time, ma’am. I never drink on the job.”
The door opened again as other city council members ambled in, effectively saving Leo from any further disturbing advances from our frisky librarian. There was June Mahoney in floral pants that stretched across her vast backside like an entire field of poppies. She was a longtime archnemesis of my grandmother, Gigi. They’d recently called a truce to the generations-old feud, but it was fragile, sure to topple at the slightest insult. Behind her was Olivia Bostwick, all ninety-five pounds of her, most of it in the form of a helmet of curls circa 1975. She’d been the longtime nemesis of my sister because Emily had broken the heart of Olivia’s son about a thousand years ago.