Page 13 of The Last to Vanish
Sheriff Stamer walked in just then. He was in uniform, and he surveyed the room, shaking hands and greeting guests. He smiled at Marina, and I wondered if they had coordinated their visits. Whether they’d returned to whispering across the bar top after I left the tavern this morning, formulating a plan. Or if each was just drawn here by their own curiosity, no better than the trauma tourists. But then, the sheriff was here enough on his own—he’d been known to bring groceries and deliveries for Celeste, and often picked her up for the Sunday-morning service at the chapel in town.
“Hi, Abby,” the sheriff called just as Trey retreated toward the display of drinks. “Is Celeste making an appearance tonight?”
“No, she—”
But then there she was, as if manifested by his words, coming around the corner of the hall, in a flowing green tunic that brought out her eyes, transformed her to something at one with this place,with the surroundings. When you couldn’t help but remember that these were the walls she had built, the floor she had laid, on her knees beside Vincent, in prayer to something else. That there was a history inside these rooms, and every marred surface, every chosen detail. It was no surprise that her beaded bracelet matched the bowl on the end table by the window, both made from the same artist and sold at the farmers’ market on the town green on Saturday mornings.
“Glad you could make it, Patrick,” she said, joining the group, and now I was wondering if it was she who had orchestrated this. She extended her hand, and the sheriff took it between the two of his, giving her a soft squeeze, a gentle smile, before moving on.
The lobby had filled up with guests, with visitors, withus. Only Georgia was missing.
I sank back against the wall, taking in the entirety of the room, the way everything clicked and moved and connected.
There were the Shermans, cleaned up from their hike, talking with Celeste, who nodded along to their animated story.
There were the trio of room reservations who had coordinated their trip together, now gathered in a boisterous circle in front of the windows, laughing too loudly and going through their drinks at a pace that even I found impressive.
There was the small child, a rarity, hands reaching up to sort through a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. I quickly followed behind, removing the food he’d touched.
When I looked up again, Marina and Sheriff Stamer were standing in a small circle with Trey West.
Marina handed Trey a fresh glass of red wine, which he took, depositing his empty one on the counter beside him. The sheriff was patting his shoulder. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Trey still had that glazed look on his face, and didn’t seem to be contributing much to the conversation.
The sheriff quickly moved on, only for Celeste to slide into his place. I heard her welcoming him, hands clasped together,I hope you’re having a lovely stay, like she had no idea who he was.
“Abby?” A man with ruddy cheeks and an empty wineglass stepped into my vision.
It took me a moment to pull his name. “Mr. Lorenzo, how can I help you?”
It turned out,how I could helpwas by making a reservation for their group of six during peak season at peak hours at CJ’s Hideaway, which required a text to the hostess’s cell from the back office, and the luck of a cancellation.
When I returned to the lobby, eyes skimming the crowd, Trey was gone.
Sheriff Stamer ambled my way, wide stance, straight posture, like he knew he was being watched. He rested an arm on the counter, turned so he was partly facing the room while speaking with me. “I feel bad for the kid,” he said. “But he seems like he’s processing.” Even though Trey was nowhere near a kid, probably older than I was, even.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Not much at all. I told him I’d be happy to walk him through the case, if he comes by the office. Gave him my card, told him to make an appointment with Rochelle.” He smiled tightly. “I doubt he will.”
He tapped the counter twice with an open palm. “Have a good one, Abby.” And then he stopped to speak with Celeste for a moment before heading out.
I waited as the rest of the guests finished up, or at least took the hint as I started cleaning. There were always stragglers—those who waited until you officially closed up, before moving on.
Marina lent me a hand stacking the trays, and I helped her carry her supplies out to the van. “I should come more often,” shesaid, sliding the back door closed. “Better than handling our happy hour crowd, for sure.”
“You’re always welcome,” I said as she lingered in the parking lot, squinting against the lowering sun.
“You’re a good one, Abby. Celeste is lucky to have you,” she said, and I smiled, out of politeness.
Children hadn’t been a part of Celeste’s plans, and though at eighteen I had considered myself an adult, looking back, I could see how she had shifted her life to accommodate my own. Pretending Sunday dinners were part of the work arrangement, telling me things I could imagine a parent saying instead, under the guise of my job. Raising an eyebrow at me and Cory and saying, in her frank way:That’s going to get you nowhere.And she was right. Things became clearer the older I got. I was lucky to have her, and everyone knew it.
I watched as Marina climbed into the driver’s seat of the van, the wheels kicking up gravel in the lot, as she took the exit too quickly.
Back inside, I found myself alone once more, nothing but the scent of food and perfume and a tinny ringing in my ears, like the absence of something.
I hurried to wipe up the wine stains before they set in, then removed the empty wine bottles, counting as I went, for inventory. There were three full bottles still unopened, but we seemed to be missing two. Which also happened—guests taking a bottle back to their room.
I didn’t think more of it until later, when I was back at the registration desk, pulling the walking sticks from the barrel—noticing I was a count short.
