it only took her a few hours to sort through everyone’s letters and magazines, Shari entertained herself between customers with a variety of crafty projects. She’d gone through a lengthy knitting phase one winter until virtually everyone on the island had a hat. And a scarf. And mittens. And an afghan. She’d also tried her hand at watercolor painting, calligraphy, origami, cup stacking, and for a short while, internet poker, until she realized the money part was real. Now she seemed to be doing something with glittery beads and a glue gun.
“Hi, Shari. What do you have there?” I scanned the room for a plate of treats as she held up a coaster-size, cone-shaped piece of thick fabric gloriously adorned with pink and gold rhinestones.
“Pasties,” she said, beaming. “Isn’t this one pretty?”
I halted in my tracks. “Um, yes. Why are you making pasties? Please tell me they’re not for Mr. and Mrs. O’Doul.”
She giggled. “Of course not. They’re for exotic dancers. I’ve started selling them online. You’d be amazed what some of these girls will pay for customized pasties.”
“I’m already amazed. That is certainly a niche market.”
Shari’s smile was infectious. “This one gal, Vixen—although I suspect that might not be her real name—has asked me for an entire line inspired by all the major holidays of the year. I’m not entirely certain what to do for Yom Kippur, but I’m always up for a creative challenge. Would you like a brownie?” She set aside her tray of beads and got up from the chair.
“Yes, I would love a brownie. Is there any mail for me?”
“I think there are some catalogues. Why are you carrying your shoes? Isn’t it a little cold for going barefoot?” She moved behind the tall counter, where a long row of wooden mailbox slots lined the wall. She’d worked here for so long that most of them weren’t even labeled. She just knew where everybody’s mail went.
“Emily made me wear them, and they’re too big.” I sounded like a sullen teen, as if my sister had done this to me on purpose. She hadn’t, of course, but I needed to blame someone. Most days I would have told Shari all about the cute guy and my pseudo-Cinderella moment, but I was sort of embarrassed, and not in the mood to get into the details. Pretty soon I’d consider the whole encounter funny, but at the moment, not so much. Knowing this town, she’d hear all about the incident by the end of the day anyway. I hadn’t noticed any of the locals paying attention to me or my disobedient footwear, but few things happened on Main Street that were not discussed at length in living rooms all around the island by nightfall.
The bell jingled again, and a short, stocky man in a rust-colored suit entered. He had a smattering of pale hair across his head and dark, beady eyes that darted around the room before landing on me like a pinch to the arm. I’d never seen eyes like that before. I’d also never before encountered a suit with such wide lapels, unless it was while watching old cop shows from the 1970s with my dad. Did they even make polyester anymore? His smile was lopsided as he grinned at us with his yellowish teeth and closed the door firmly behind him.
“Good afternoon, lovely ladies. How are you on this fine day?”
“Just fine, and yourself?” Shari said, leaning her elbows on the counter. I set the shoes down and slipped them on. It wouldn’t do for yet another tourist to see the new mayor barefoot. Even this guy with his questionable sense of style.
“I’m fantastic, thank you. I’m hoping you can help me out. I’m looking for some information.” His voice was loud and fast and strident, like a used car salesman trying to convince a reluctant buyer that a beat-up old Buick was really the ride they wanted. “Just a little information is all.”
“Okay,” Shari answered politely. “What kind of information?”
He pulled a couple of business cards from his pocket and handed one to each of us. They were flimsy and looked homemade. I could even see the perforation marks around the edges, and the logo was rudimentary and ill-conceived . . . B.S. INVESTIGATIONS.
“I’m Bill Smith, private investigator from Miami, Florida.”
“Private investigator?” Shari glanced over at me.
“Yes, from Miami, Florida,” he said again, as if that were significant. “I’m looking for a man.”
“Oh, honey, aren’t we all?” She smirked at me knowingly. Her errant