The Sweetest Summer: A Bayberry Island Novel (13 page)

“Gotcha.” Clancy kept at his paperwork.

Chip continued. “The rain kept people off the beach and streets and sent them into the taverns, so it was a controlled chaos.”

“Sounds good.”

That’s when Clancy’s brain nudged him, telling him to pay attention to something that had just been said—not by Chip, but by someone on the news. He looked up to see a Massachusetts congressman by the name of Richard Wahlman in tears on live TV, talking about his kidnapped daughter. Clancy turned up the volume.

“My heartbreak is that I only just met her. Tragically, her mother was killed by a drunk driver, and that’s when I learned she left a child behind. DNA testing shows she’s mine. And now I have lost her before I had a chance to show her how much I love her.”

“Oh, crap!” Chip started for the door. “I forgot about that alert!”

“All I ask is that if anyone, anywhere, has seen Evelyn McGuinness with my precious and innocent daughter, please contact the FBI immediately.”

“Uh, Chief?”

Clancy held his palm toward Chip. “I gotta hear this. Hold on just a second.”

The news host laid it on thick. “First let me say that we are keeping you and Christina in our thoughts and prayers and hope the suspect is found soon.”

“Thank you.” The politician touched his wife’s leg as if asking for support.

“I know this is an indelicate question, Congressman, and forgive me, Mrs. Wahlman, but do you worry about how this will affect your reelection bid? Your opponent has been trailing significantly in the polls, but with this kind of shocking revelation about your sexual relationship with a—”

“I’d prefer not to talk about my campaign right now and instead focus on finding my daughter.”

The congressman’s wife grabbed his hand with both of hers and broke the awkward silence. “As you know, Richard has recently undergone open-heart surgery. Finding out he had a daughter and then having that child abducted . . . well, that would be extremely difficult for anyone, let alone someone who has charged back from the brink of death.”

“So you
are
abandoning your reelection plans?”

“I didn’t say that,” Richard snapped. “I said I’m not here this morning to talk about politics. I’m here because my little girl has been taken across state lines by someone with absolutely no right to do so. I want her home safely.”

“But your campaign . . .”

“That’s it. I’m done.” The congressman tore off his mic and left the set, his wife following behind.

Clancy turned off the TV, heavy dread already lodged in the pit of his stomach. He had a bad feeling—nauseatingly bad.

“You need to see this!”

Clancy had known Chip a long time, and he was a reliable sort. When Chip’s voice got squeaky, it meant something really important was going on, and his voice just went up a full octave.

“This FBI alert came in about twenty minutes ago, specifically for Nantucket, the Vineyard, and Bayberry. I can’t remember the last time we’ve been included in one of these.”

Clancy knew what was coming.

“The congressman’s kid! The child-custody BOLO out of Maine. They think she might be here!” Chip handed him a printout.

Before he read the first word, it was obvious. Maine. Child. Secrets. Lies.

Evie’s a kidnapper.

His eyes raced over the alert, immediately drawn to the photos. First, there was the suspect, with those pale green eyes, lovely lips, and the soft brown hair. Evelyn H. McGuinness, age thirty-two, of Bridgton, Maine was described as Caucasian, five foot nine, one hundred twenty-eight pounds, no identifying tattoos or scars. They’d used a post-race photo from the New York Marathon for identification, both a close-up of her face and a full-body shot. She looked exhausted but triumphant in that picture. And she wore the exact same model of running shoe he’d seen on “Cricket.”

Next, he looked at the photo of the victim. Chris was no pirate boy with a buzz cut. She was a girl with wispy brown curls pulled back with barrettes. Christina G. McGuinness, age four, of Bridgton, Maine, was Evelyn’s niece. She also was Caucasian, and three feet four inches tall, about forty-three pounds.

Clancy’s chest burned with confusion. He didn’t want to read any more, but he did, hitting only on the words that jumped out at him:
violation of court-ordered custody ruling . . . car recovered . . . Logan remote parking lot . . . dummy plate and tag . . . security video footage . . . altered appearance . . . short blond hair . . . facial and body recognition software identified the suspect . . .

Clancy jumped to his feet and spun around, not sure what he was looking for, but aware that it sure as hell wasn’t in his office. Dummy plate and tag? That was awfully sophisticated.

“You okay, Chief?”

Fuck, no, he wasn’t okay.

He continued reading.
Additional video . . . boarding
the MBTA red line train with the girl . . . exiting at South Station . . . may have boarded a Peter Pan bus to Woods Hole, Massachusetts . . . possibly intending to travel via ferry . . . current location unknown
 . . .
may be traveling under the alias “Cricket Dickinson.”

Clancy raised his eyes from the paper and stared at Chip, his thoughts circling around his next step. What would it be and how would he do it?

“Wouldn’t it be wild if she’s here?” Chip’s face lit up and his voice went even higher. “I mean, think about it. What better place to hide? Just put on some costumes and run around with all the other whacky people—who’s gonna notice? I bet you she and the girl are here, right under our noses!”

Clancy’s brain spun too fast for his mouth to catch up, but Chip was absolutely correct.
Right under our noses.
There had to be a back door out of this situation, a hidden exit, some way he wouldn’t have to do what had to be done, but he didn’t see it. Clancy was a police officer, sworn to uphold the laws of the State of Massachusetts and the municipality of Bayberry Island, and bound to standards of mutual assistance and cooperation with all federal agencies. He had no choice but to take Evie into custody. And why was that concept such a big deal, anyway? Clancy might have been crazy about her years ago, but he barely knew her now. And a warrant was a warrant, right?

And yet . . .

“What time is it, Chip?”

He checked his phone. “Six forty-four.”

“Are the ferries running on schedule?”

“We haven’t received notice of delays on any of the lines.”

“Good. Good.” Clancy sorted it out in his head—if the first ferry Evie could possibly catch pulled in at seven thirty and left at eight, that meant he had just over an hour to figure out what he was going to do. With Evie. With his duties. With his principles.

His heart told him the sweet, fun, and affectionate girl
he met eighteen years ago must have her reasons, and might very well have done nothing wrong. But that wasn’t his call. Guilt or innocence was determined by a judge or jury. His only responsibility was to accept that some judge, somewhere, believed there was enough evidence to support a felony warrant. His sworn obligation was to arrest and detain the subject of that warrant.

But, damn. He had an unshakable feeling that taking her into custody would be the absolute wrong thing to do. Why, he couldn’t say, but he knew that failing to help her would be the biggest mistake of his life.

But the evidence . . .

“A felony criminal arrest warrant has been issued by the State of Maine for McGuinness, the child’s maternal aunt . . .”

Clancy wanted to scream. So what if he had a hunch there was more to the story? This wasn’t the first time he’d wrestled with finding a balance between intuition and reason, and it wouldn’t be the last. All cops went through this—good cops, anyway. Balancing evidence with gut feeling was part of the investigation process. In Clancy’s experience, evidence always mattered most, but whenever he completely ignored his gut he got himself in trouble.

But this? His intuition wasn’t just whispering to him—it was screaming at the top of its lungs.

He closed his eyes. Ah, God, it was obvious Evie took the girl because she didn’t want to give her to the congressman. And her actions were clearly premeditated. The plate and tags. The zigzag modes of transportation. The haircuts and dye job. The fake ID, the false Internet presence, and the motel switcheroo. He didn’t know how all the strings were tied together but it was certainly a tangled mess. So where did all this leave him?

Only one thing was certain—aiding and abetting a fugitive wouldn’t be a wise career move.

“Chief? Are you sure you’re all right?”

Clancy opened his eyes, looked at his friend, and
laughed in a way that sounded a bit unbalanced, even to his own ears. “Our first priority is helping the vendors set up and deal with the weather in whatever way we can. Please remind both soundstages not to plug in while it’s raining.”

“Will do.”

“Latest forecast?”

“Reports say it’s supposed to clear by ten a.m., but you know how that goes.”

“Yep, things don’t go as expected sometimes.” He patted Chip on the shoulder. “All right. I have a few things I need to do before I head down to greet the ferry.” He checked his dogs, both in the corner together, sound asleep.

“We’ll keep an eye on them here, Chief. No problem.”

“Thanks. And as far as this goes”—he held up the FBI alert—“do
not
make a move unless I am present. If you think you see this woman and little girl, observe only, and notify me immediately of her location. Do not approach the suspect or the child, or take either into custody without my okay. Do not process the suspect. Most importantly, do not contact the FBI until I give you the go-ahead. I am very serious about this. Please tell me you understand.”

Chip frowned with the gravity of his duty. “Of course, Chief. This would be the biggest arrest in Bayberry’s history, and all eyes of the world would be on our little island. This has to be executed with perfection.”

“Yes! That’s right!” God, he loved Chip.

“I’ll give everyone else the same instructions, Chief.”

“Thank you.”

Just then, the old building shook with a deep growl of thunder and the dogs began to howl.

“Well.” Chip shoved his hands in the pockets of his uniform shorts, his voice squeaking with excitement. “This is sure shaping up to be an interesting day!”

T
he sun was trying to show itself through the rain clouds. Clancy took the turn onto Idlewilde Lane so quickly that arcs of mud went shooting out from the Jeep’s back tires. He ran through the rain to the front door and pounded. “Ma! Hello?”

Mona answered her door. Clearly, he’d caught her in the middle of dressing for the festival. Everything from the waist down was Grand Poobah mermaid. Everything from the waist up was early-morning mom—she wore an old T-shirt, her hair was sticking up every which way, and she was still working on her first cup of coffee.

“Well, this is a surprise!” She opened the door while trying to smooth down her hair. Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes. “Is everything all right? Is it Duncan?”

He hugged her. Of course she would think that. The family cookout was four days away and no one had heard a peep from him. “Everything’s fine, Ma. No crisis. I haven’t heard anything from Duncan. I came over because I have a favor to ask. I kind of need your help.”

“Coffee?” She toddled off into the kitchen, her mermaid tail flapping around her ankles with each step.

“I’m good, Ma.” He took off his damp ball cap.

His mother replaced the coffee carafe and leaned her elbows on the kitchen island. She studied Clancy carefully
while she blew over the top of her mug. The thorough going-over he was getting made him feel uncomfortable.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing! I just have a favor to ask. It’s important, but before I get into it, I need to be sure you won’t hit me with a lot of questions and please, please—promise me you’ll keep this to yourself.”

She popped up, her back going ramrod straight.

Clancy answered before she asked. “Nuh-uh. Not even the Mermaid Society. Nobody.”

Her eyebrows arched.

“I know it’s a lot to ask. If you can’t do it, tell me now, and I’ll be on my way. I’ll understand and get someone else to help me.”

“This is about a woman, isn’t it?”

Clancy replaced his ball cap and headed to the front door. “Well, obviously, this isn’t going to work.”

His mother blocked his progress and pointed to her sofa. “Sit.” He did, and she joined him.

“Of course you can trust me,” she said. “I understand this is just between the two of us and you have my word. I also understand that you are here for help, but not advice, so I’ll try my best not to give any.”

He took off his hat again. “Thanks, Ma.”

Mona patted his hand. “You know I’ll do whatever I can do, my wonderful son. Whatever you need, if it’s in my power to give it to you, I will. I love you with all my heart and I’m so proud of you. You are an exceptionally good man.”

Clancy nodded and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek. “Thanks.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I need a mermaid costume for an adult woman—five nine, one twenty-eight, size small to medium. I want the whole thing—hair, shells, accessories.”

His mother looked temporarily stunned.

“And I need a really over-the-top pirate costume for a four-year-old, a tricorner hat, eye patch, sword, white
puffy shirt, whatever you can scrape up. I want the works.”

“Oh, my. You really are in trouble.”

He laughed, raking a hand over his face to make sure he wasn’t having another nightmare. “Not yet, though things might get interesting in the next couple days. Can you stop with the questions, now?”

Mona nodded.

“So do you have any of that crap here? Or would it all be in storage in the museum warehouse? I’m kinda in a hurry.”

“I’ll be right back.” She set her coffee mug on a side table and disappeared into the cottage’s only bedroom. She came out with her giant key ring, which probably unlocked every damn door on the island. She removed an irregularly shaped brass key. “This is for the warehouse loading dock door. It might be a big mess in there since the parade was just yesterday and most of the floats are in some stage of disassembly. You know where the costume section is? Where we keep the stuff for the reenactment and the children’s play?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a combination lock on the big metal doors. The combination is forty-two, twenty-eight, thirty-eight, and, yes, your father came up with that. The kids’ sizes are on the right and the adults’ on the left. But”—she placed the key in his palm—“you know what? Hold on. Let me check on something.”

Clancy waited, twisting the key in his hand, knowing the minutes were ticking by. Eventually his mother came out carrying a long zippered garment bag with a clear plastic pouch tied around the hanger. “I won’t ask who this is for. Depending on how large her bosom is, and pardon me for bringing this up but it is important, you might have to adjust the straps. Or she can adjust the straps. It’s none of my business who’s doing the adjusting. . . .”

“Ma.”

“And because she’s tall, the skirt may have to be
pulled lower than it’s usually worn, even below the belly button. But not too low, because that would mean that in the back—” She stopped. “I’m sure the two of you can find a happy medium.”

“Ma!”

“Well, I’m only trying to follow the rules. Here.” Clancy stood as she draped the nylon bag over his forearm. “She’ll need to wear her own shoes.”

“Of course.”

“It might be slim pickings in the kid area of the warehouse, since they’ve started rehearsals for the children’s play. But I’m sure you’ll find something for a little one.”

“You’re the best. I gotta go.”

He started for the door.

“Clancy?”

He turned, holding the front door open with his foot. “Yeah?”

“Whatever this is about, I hope it works out well. I’ve always hoped that one day you would find . . .” Mona waved her hand as if she wanted him to forget she’d just said that. “I just want you to stay safe and know that your family is always here for you. We’ve got your back.”

Clancy smiled. It was his first legitimate smile of the day, and for some reason, he let himself believe it was a good omen.

*   *   *

“Chrissy, we need to get moving.”

Her niece shook her head again, crossing her arms over her chest with such determination that the flesh of her forearms turned white.

“Now, Jellybean.”

“I want to stay! I want to see the pretty mermaid! You promised we could go see her at the Save Heaven Castle!”

This was no time to get into it with a grumpy, sleep-deprived preschooler, but what was Evelyn going to do? Leave the island without her? Drag her kicking and
screaming to the dock so that anyone who may not yet have noticed them would get a real good look?

Just then she heard it—the long, one-note sound of the ferry horn. It was arriving, which meant they had exactly a half hour to get there and get boarded. Evelyn peeked out the curtains to see some bad news and some good news. Unfortunately, the rain was coming down in a steady sheet of water, which meant they would be soaking wet by the time they reached the public dock. But the rain would keep the streets emptier than normal, especially at this hour, giving them a smaller audience for their mad dash.

Evelyn sat down on the floor in front of Christina. She held out her arms and the little girl crawled into her lap, snuggling deep. Evelyn gently rocked her back and forth and kissed the top of her head. Her thoughts wandered to how long it might take for Christina’s hair to grow back, and whether she would get to see it happen.

Oh, God!
Evelyn closed her eyes and pressed her lips to Christina. She had put this poor child through hell. She’d only been trying to do what Amanda had begged her to do—keep Wahlman out of her daughter’s life—but it had been unfair to expect a four-year-old to remain cheerful through an odyssey like this. Christina had lost a lot more than her hair. She’d lost her mother, her grandfather, her animals, her home, and her preschool friends. She’d lost the knowledge that her world was safe.

Evelyn had dared to watch a few minutes of early-morning cable news while Christina slept. The volume was turned almost completely down, but she still got the gist of what was going on. The FBI was on their tail and Wahlman had gone public. His tears were obscene—how could he pretend to cry for a child he never wanted to be born? He made her sick. She had to turn it off.

What if Hal didn’t come through for her? What if he couldn’t find evidence that Wahlman cheated his way to full custody? Without that proof, she had no defense. And then what? Would she keep running forever,
depriving Christina of her grandfather and home? She felt crushed by the weight of what she’d done.

“Sing the mussels song, Aunt Cricket. Please?”

She smiled sadly, thinking how she began singing the traditional song to her niece soon after she was born, just as Evelyn and Amanda’s mother had done when they were young. After Amanda died, Chrissy began requesting the song whenever she needed reassurance. It broke Evelyn’s heart.

“Sure, sweetie. And thank you for using the word ‘please.’”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you for saying ‘you’re welcome.’”

Christina giggled, and Evelyn joined her. Well, why not? Maybe giggling was the best option at a time like this. Eventually, their laughter drifted away. Evelyn held her niece tighter and began to sing, her voice barely above a whisper.

In Dublin’s fair city,

Where the girls are so pretty,

I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.

As she wheeled her wheel-barrow,

Through streets broad and narrow,

Crying . . .

“Cockles!” Christina sang, right on cue.

And . . .

“Mussels!”

Alive, alive, oh!

Evelyn stopped there. “Hey, Chrissy?”

“Mmm?” Her face was still pressed to Evelyn’s chest.

“I need your help with something.”

The little girl lifted up and studied Evelyn, narrowing her eyes. “Did you forget the words to the song?”

“No. But I need your help with something important. I need you to be a big, brave girl this morning. Do you think you can do that?”

She gave it some thought, then nodded.

“Do you know I love you bunches?”

“Yes. I love you bunches, too.”

She kissed her warm forehead. “I know you do, Jellybean. So here’s how you can be big and brave for me. Do you have your listening ears on?”

She nodded.

“Good. We’re going to get our stuff right now and run through the rain all the way to the dock. You can ride piggyback. We’ve never done that before, have we?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head.

“Let’s see how fast we can go, okay? And I promise that I’ll sing the mussels song the whole way. Are you willing to try?”

Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Are we going to get wet?”

“Oh, yes, we sure are. Soaking wet. Have you ever gotten that wet in the rain before?”

She shook her head again.

“We’ll change our clothes once we get on the boat. And then we’ll go on a ferry ride! Are you ready?”

Evelyn placed Christina on her feet, jumped to a stand, and checked that her shoes were laced securely. Since she had everything ready to go, it took only a minute or so to get it all together. Evelyn pulled her hoodie over her head. She strapped the duffel across her body. She patted the pocket of her shorts to make sure her wallet was there, then zipped up Christina’s little jacket and covered her head with the attached hood. She knelt on the carpet and told her to climb on.

“Shoulders?”

“Not today. Just piggyback.”

With a quick check to make sure she left the keys on the bed, she opened the door and they were in the rain.

“Ahhh!” Christina hunkered down on her back. “I can’t see!”

Evelyn started to jog, alternating her attention between what was below and what was ahead. Tripping wasn’t an option. Her first priority was keeping Christina secure. Speed was secondary.

“Hold on tight! Don’t let go!”

“Okay!”

Once Evelyn made it to the paved road, she increased her pace, careful where she stepped, peering through the curtain of rain.

She was a fishmonger,

But sure ’twas no wonder,

For so were her father and mother before.

“Your voice sounds funny and bouncy, Aunt Cricket!”

She laughed.

And they each wheeled their barrows,

Through streets broad and narrow,

Crying . . .

“Cockles!”

And

“Mussels!”

Alive, alive, oh!

Unfortunately, a large bandstand with scaffolding had been erected in front of Fountain Square, which meant Evelyn had to loop around the mermaid statue to access Main Street. She adjusted her sweatshirt hood so that she could take a quick sideways glance at the majestic creature. The mermaid appeared serene and wise, immune to the rain or time itself. She smiled kindly, and for the oddest instant, Evelyn was sure that smile was meant especially for her.

Stop running. Trust him.

Evelyn pulled the hoodie to her face and picked up her pace. Her footfalls, her breath, the rush of the rain, the warm weight of her precious niece against her back—these things would keep her focused on what was real and get them to the dock safely. Because . . .
of course the mermaid did not just speak to her!

Evelyn knew how high levels of stress could do a job on a person’s senses, but c’mon. If she had to have a hallucination, couldn’t it be something that could actually help her and not some random, off-topic mermaid lecture? And really. Stop running? As in stop running in the rain? Or stop racing? No problem. There weren’t too many marathons in prison. And the trust him thing? She was supposed to trust Richard Wahlman with Christina?

Not in this lifetime.

“Later, babe,” Evelyn muttered to the mermaid, merging once again with Main Street. She immediately realized this would be more of an obstacle course event than road race. On both sides of the street, along the two blocks from the fountain to the dock, were rows of craft show tents, some wrapped entirely in plastic to keep their treasures dry. People ran through the rain pulling carts, calling out to one another or unloading pickup trucks. She inhaled the beginnings of kielbasa and sauerkraut, barbecue, hot grease, and chili. Of course! Today was the big street fair, and that meant she’d have to run along the Main Street boardwalk, now slick with rain.