Page 18 of No Offense

“—sheriff, right.” Meschelle rolled her expressive dark eyes. Molly knew that Meschelle was of West African descent because she’d written about it before in the paper. Her skin was as smooth as silk and she wore her hair braided and piled on top of her head out of deference to theheat. She chose a piece of tomato-smeared flatbread from the basket. “Fine. Tell me about the baby.”

Molly gave what she considered a highly detailed but also touching account of how she’d found Baby Aphrodite. By the time she’d finished, the dozen oysters that Meschelle had ordered had arrived, and Meschelle had eaten four of them. She didn’t look very impressed by Molly’s story.

“What’s going on between you and the sheriff?” she asked.

“What?” Molly nearly choked on the oyster she was swallowing. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

“I mean you talk about him a lot. And then you agreed to pay for this lunch, all because you want to know about the Sunshine Kids.”

“What does my interest in the Sunshine Kids have to do with the sheriff?” Molly felt her cheeks beginning to warm. But that was probably because of the wine, and of course the cardigan.

Meschelle reached into her purse, which was a stylish rattan basket, from which hung dozens of brightly colored tassels. “Here, you can read the story I wrote about them last year for the alternative paper we used to have here. It went under due to people on this island having no interest in reading dissident viewpoints. TheGazettewouldn’t let me write about the Sunshine Kids because they didn’t want the tourists getting wind of them.”

Molly took the sheaf of papers Meschelle handed to her. “Why?” she asked breathlessly. “Are they dangerous?”

Meschelle shrugged. “Not particularly. Just annoying. Your sheriff sure seemed to think so. I interviewed him about them, and he called them, and I quote, ‘The most frustrating group of individuals I’ve ever dealt with in my entire career in law enforcement.’”

Molly flipped excitedly through the pages Meschelle had handed her, noting that there were several full-color photos of Sheriff John Hartwell in uniform squinting off into the distance. He looked handsome, but generally disapproving. It was an expression Molly recognized.

“Whoarethe Sunshine Kids, exactly?” she asked.

“What they sound like. A bunch of kids.” Meschelle dug into the bowl of mussels in white wine sauce that the server had just slid in front of them. “High school and college dropouts, mostly, from up north who come down for the winter to enjoy our warm weather here in Florida, the Sunshine State. They’ve fought with their family or gotten kicked out of school for whatever reason, and now they’re living on the road, usually in a big group.”

“Safety in numbers,” Molly murmured.

Meschelle gave her a stern look over the garlicky mussel she was lifting to her lips. “Now don’t go feeling sorry for them, Molly. That’s another reason the sheriff can’t stand them—none of them are suffering from mental illness or drug addiction, like so many of the homeless you see in your library.”

“Displaced persons,” Molly corrected her.

“What?”

“At the library we don’t call them homeless. We call them displaced persons.”

Meschelle rolled her eyes. “Whatever. These kids aren’t ‘displaced persons.’ I interviewed a bunch of them for my article, and they all had plenty of cash—including credit cards. They live the way they do by choice. They’re kids, remember. They think it’s romantic—like Jack Kerouac inOn the Road. They think they’re sticking it to the man by not paying rent—only they’re not camping. Instead, they sponge off someone else’s electricity and Wi-Fi... and mortgage. Read my article, it’s all in there, especially about how much they worship their unofficial leader, Dylan someone.”

Molly flipped to another page and saw the photo of a handsome, dark-haired boy with a well-groomed goatee, a smattering of tattoos, and extremely large ear gauges. “Dylan Dakota?”

“That’s him. He thinks everyone should go back to living off the land, like the Native Americans. Only the Native Americans have disavowed him and the entire group for cultural misappropriation and implying that land is anyone’s for the taking, and presumably for always managing to crash in a place that has AC and running water, and then leaving it trashed.” Meschelle dipped a piece of flatbread into the broth of the mussels. “Last year Sheriff Hartwell caught Dakota and a bunch of other kids living in the old MTV house on Stork Key.”

“Where they filmedSpring Break-A-Thon?” Not that Molly would ever watch such a show—well, not more thana few episodes. But the teens in her old library had talked about the hit reality sensation nonstop.

“Yeah. Since the show moved on to filming elsewhere, the owners have been renting it out to tourists, but when it’s not booked, it just sits empty. So Dylan and his gang reasoned they were doing society a favor somehow by breaking in and living there themselves, and of course completely wrecking it. I could never quite understand the logic, but they basically did the same thing to that house that they did to your library.”

Molly shook her head. “Why weren’t they arrested?”

“They were. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. But because they’re wealthy, their parents hired fancy out-of-town lawyers, and they got off with fines—especially since they’re juveniles, except for Dakota. He’s a little older, but from some kind of superrich family up north. His lawyer managed to get the charges against him dropped entirely. I thought the sheriff was going to have a stroke.” Meschelle reached toward the silver ice bucket sitting in a stand at the end of their booth, pulled the wine bottle from it, and refilled Molly’s glass. “Girl, you are the easiest interview. You’ve basically confirmed that the sheriff thinks the Sunshine Kids are back, and that they’re the ones who trashed the new library.”

Molly nearly choked again, midgulp. “I didn’t!”

Meschelle laughed. “You did. But don’t worry, I’m gonna make out like I didn’t hear it from you. I have other sources I can squeeze. Some of those deputies on the sheriff’s staff are so dumb, they can be bought for a single beer over at the Mermaid. But because I feel bad about what a pushoveryou are, I’m not going to make you pay for this lunch. We’ll split it.”

This was a relief, because even though Molly was saving a lot by not having to pay rent, her salary did not stretch to cover two-hundred-dollar lunches. Still, she didn’t like being thought of as a pushover. She preferred to think of herself as curious. Isn’t that what led most librarians into the profession in the first place—their love of books and thirst for knowledge?

It was only as the two women were signing their checks that Molly heard someone call her name and looked up to see merry little Mrs. Tifton standing at the end of their booth, her dog, Daisy, in her arms.

“Molly! Meschelle! Oh, you don’t know how happy I am to see you two girls!”

Daisy gave an excited little bark. Only service dogs were allowed in Little Bridge restaurants, except when it came to Daisy. This was not because Mrs. Tifton was so rich or Daisy so well-behaved, but because her owner was so generous and well-liked.