Page 21 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

Ricky gave me a pointed look.

“Not a word,” Tammy warned as she reached us.

“I haven’t said anything,” I replied.

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking that your shoes look uncomfortable.”

“They’re perfectly comfortable.”

Ricky snorted. “You changed them because you want to flirt with the wedding coordinator.”

Tammy’s cheeks colored. “I changed them because my other shoes were pinching.”

“Sure.” He dragged the word out sarcastically, and she rolled her eyes in response.

I took pity on her before she could launch into a detailed defense of her footwear choices. “Have you seen him yet?”

She tried to look casual. “Not yet.”

Ricky’s grin widened. “She’s been looking.”

“I have not.”

“You checked the bandstand, the committee tent, and the path by the harbor.”

“I was looking for someone.”

“The wedding coordinator.”

“Ricky!”

He laughed, and Tammy shook her head, but her good humor returned quickly enough. We settled into a spot where we could see the stage without being in the middle of the thickest part of the crowd. The band had finished its sound check, and the musicians were taking their places while people moved closer to the dance area.

The evening had become properly festive. The lights reflected off the dark harbor water, and the air carried the mingled smells of food, salt, and damp earth from the grass beyond the paved paths. Somewhere behind us, a child pleaded for one last turn on a small ride, while a couple nearby argued cheerfully about whether they should buy another bag of kettle corn for the drive home.

I was beginning to relax when I noticed Harvey again. He was standing near the far edge of the bandstand, no longer talking to the committee member. He looked toward the stage, then checked his watch. A moment later, he turned and disappeared behind the temporary structure.

I frowned. Something about the way he moved bothered me, though I couldn’t have said exactly what. Perhaps it was the memory of his expression on Friday, or the way he’d looked around as if he expected someone to approach him. Perhaps I was simply allowing the ominous text to color every ordinary thing he did.

“Max?” Tammy asked. “You alright?”

“Fine. I thought I saw someone I knew.”

She followed my gaze, but by then Harvey was out of sight.

Ricky looked toward the stage. “Someone from the bank? Because wasn’t that Harvey Sinclair over there?”

“Yes. I’m pretty sure it was,” I said.

Harvey had been a busy little bee, it seemed. I wondered if it was the same committee member I’d seen him with a little earlier myself. Before I could ask Ricky whether he’d noticed anything else, the bandleader stepped up to the microphone and announced that the final set would begin in a few minutes. The crowd responded with applause and a scattering of cheers, and people began moving toward the dance area.

Tammy turned toward the stage, her earlier search for the wedding coordinator temporarily forgotten. Ricky was already debating whether we should get another round of snacks before the music started. I let the conversation carry me along, but the uneasy feeling remained. Something had been bothering Harvey Sinclair all weekend. I had seen it myself. And now, with the festival nearing its final hours, I couldn’t stop wondering whether the person he’d been looking for had finally found him.

The first notes of the band’s opening song rang out across the harbor. Couples moved onto the dance area, and a cheerful ripple of applause passed through the crowd. Tammy nudged Ricky, who immediately offered her his arm with an exaggerated flourish.

“Come on,” he said. “If we’re going to dance, we should do it before my crab cake catches up with me.”