At first I thought the idea could be too ambitious. We go in nine directions the week before a fundraiser, and that’s without having to be sure to line up Spanish-language entertainment and costumes. Wrong. Other towns have the festivals, and people seemed excited to have one here. The high school Spanish Club and band stepped up to plan festive dancing and decorations.

  More than half the boardwalk merchants planned to open this weekend for the Cinco de Mayo fundraiser, and would donate some of what they made to the pantry. They would also collect canned goods. For the business that secured the most, Harvest for All would make and distribute a poster with a thank-you photo of them and their goodies.

  We had finally gotten permission to use the kiddie rides area for games, which people would donate to play. The crowning activity would be the piñata game. We’d had one at a Halloween fundraiser a few years ago, but I’d been distracted by a kidnapping. This piñata swatting should go more smoothly.

  The dinging timer announced the bread had finished baking. I sliced half of each loaf on a cutting board and carried the results into the breakfast room.

  First to follow the wonderful smell to the room was Bart Mobley. He and his now late wife stayed at the B&B every fall, usually for two weeks. He grew up in Ocean Alley in the 1940s and can wax nostalgic for half-an-hour, which he does more often in the two years since his wife died.

  Bart helped himself to a slice of each type of bread. “So, Jolie, how’s her campaign going?”

  I shrugged. “As Harry says, they’re having a good time. They sure work hard.”

  “I don’t like the idea of a year-round resort either. I’m glad she wants to keep the town the same.”

  I chose my words carefully. Aunt Madge is progressive, and believes a larger hotel would breathe life into town – and her business. She does not want the nine-story resort, especially since the developer also built a couple of casinos south of Ocean Alley. She thinks if they got a toehold in town that they’d try to get a casino eventually. Ocean Alley would never be the same. I agree with her.

  “She likes the idea of more people spending time here. But she and Harry don’t want clogged streets and mini-conventions, which the developer wants to host.”

  Bart dabbed at a drop of jam on his pants, and I squirted a napkin with hot water from the tea jug and handed it to him.

  He nodded thanks. “I mind as how people in town thought Beachcomber’s Alley was too big when it got renovated in, oh, maybe the 1960s. Course now that hotel seems small. Get a huge resort thing and you’ll have to maybe add onto the schools, maybe even the hospital.”

  I figured Bart probably knew Sandra. Better I should share the sad news than he heard it elsewhere. “Did you know Sandra Cartwright at the hospital?”

  He glanced up from his spot dabbing. “Sounds like you’re going to tell me Sandra died.”

  “I’m afraid so. I heard maybe a heart attack at home, probably yesterday.”

  “Well, dang. She dated my younger cousin when they were in high school. Guess I better call him.”

  The other three guests came in, and I busied myself with keeping the coffee and tea thermoses full and trying to remember what I’d heard about a new restaurant on the edge of town. They planned to try it for dinner.

  When the guests had returned to their rooms or, in Bart’s case to find a book on a shelf in the guest living room, I loaded Aunt Madge’s dishwasher and wiped off the breakfast room tables.

  Crunching gravel and barks of Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy from the back yard announced our Odyssey. I dried my hands and opened the side door.

  Terry launched himself from the front passenger seat holding what looked like a green army blanket. Scoobie got out of the driver’s side and slid open the side door to get the kids. He shook his head and shrugged at me before he leaned into the van.

  Terry bounded up the steps and through the screen door. “I found his coat. It was on the ground near a bus stop in the Popsicle District.” He thrust it at me as he barged into the hall. “Is that dark spot on the sleeve blood?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I LET THE COAT FALL to the floor.

  He stooped to pick it up. “Why’d you do that?”

  I spoke harshly. “Don’t touch it again.”

  He straightened, and probably would have been angry if he hadn’t been so surprised.

  I touched his arm. “Sorry. We’ll call his uncle. Maybe someone else’s fingerprints are on it. Why don’t you help Scoobie while I call Sergeant Morehouse?”

  Morehouse practically spat his greeting. “What?”

  “Terry thinks he found Kevin’s coat, and…”

  “Where the hell did he find it, and where is it?”

  I avoided telling him to let me finish a sentence. “By a bus stop in the Popsicle District. He brought it here.”

  Morehouse hung up without saying good-bye, his usual way to end a call.

  I opened the screen door and reached out to take Leah from Scoobie. She looked as if she’d had a ten-minute nap in the van. She’s usually cranky after those, so I gave her my biggest smile. “Hello pretty girl.”

  Scoobie kissed me as she buried her snotty nose in my shoulder. He handed me a Kleenex. “Never-ending battle.”

  Terry came toward the B&B’s small side porch, holding Lance’s hand. He let our more stubborn twin count each of the four steps as they landed on them.

  I glanced back at Scoobie. “I called Morehouse, but I’m not sure if he’ll come here or our place.”

  “He’ll see the Odyssey. He knows you come here in the afternoons a lot of days.”

  Terry bent over to pretend he was grabbing Lance’s nose, but he spoke to Scoobie. “When we get Jolie and the kids back to our place, can you drive me to the police station? I want to see what’s going on.”

  I answered for Scoobie, which he hates. “Sergeant Morehouse is coming by here in a minute, for the jacket.”

  Scoobie took Leah from me, removed her coat, and opened the sideboard to retrieve her brown stuffed bear. He placed her and the bear on the floor, and reached in to get Lance’s stuffed cat. “You guys can go look out the back window at the dogs.”

  They raced each other through the swinging door into the great room, and Scoobie, Terry, and I looked at each other.

  Terry spoke first. “The coat must mean something really bad happened to him.”

  Scoobie used his comforting-a-patient tone. “Or that he took a heavier coat than he needed and forgot he set it down.”

  “But the blood…” Terry began.

  Tires squealed into the Cozy Corner parking lot. Morehouse exited his dark green Chevy Caprice and rushed up Aunt Madge’s side steps. Scoobie opened the door for him.

  He barely acknowledged Scoobie and me, and walked to Terry. “Did you see him? Did he say where he was going?”

  Terry shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. Do you know why he was so ticked off lately?”

  I gestured to the grouping of small tables in the breakfast room. “Sit, Sergeant. Do you want tea while we talk? It’s still hot.”

  His impatient wave said he wanted no tea and preferred to keep standing, but he sat. “He’s seemed kind of jittery since the operation. He was in there a few days because the appendix almost ruptured, and he had that infection.”

  Terry sat across from Morehouse and Scoobie and I sat at the next table.

  Terry frowned. “He didn’t want to be in there that long. I thought last week maybe he didn’t feel good. I saw him in Java Jolt last Sunday, talking to that nurse. The older one. She…”

  Scoobie, Morehouse and I said, “Sandra Cartwright?” Morehouse’s question was more like a bellow.

  Terry leaned back in his chair. “She’s helping on Aunt Madge’s campaign.”

  “I forgot she was helping,” I began.

  Morehouse interrupted me. “What were they talking about? You saw ‘em. You musta heard ‘em.”

  In an even tone, Scoobie said, “He’ll tell you.”

  Morehouse nodded.

  Terry shook his head. “I don’t know. She was in there, you know, after church, and I was helping Megan for a couple hours, like I always do on Sunday.”

  Morehouse took a slow breath. “You think he went there to talk to her?”

  Terry weighed the question. “I don’t know. Kevin comes by a lot of Sundays when I work, so he could have figured she would be there. She comes a lot.”

  Morehouse looked at me. “Does he know?”

  I shook my head. “Terry, Sandra Cartwright seems to have had a heart attack.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “No.” Morehouse said.

  Scoobie put a hand on Terry’s shoulder. “I’m afraid she passed.”

  Morehouse stood. “Where’s that coat? I’m gonna take it with me and check out Sandra’s place.”

  “I liked her.” Terry said. “She came to middle school to do a talk on flu vaccines.”

  I moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll get a big bag for the coat.” I wanted to check on the twins. The great room was too quiet.

  I walked into the kitchen end of the great room and observed the backs of two blonde heads as the twins pressed their tongues against the sliding glass door – apparently to amuse the dogs. I ignored the transgression so I could grab a trash bag and get back to the breakfast room. Thank heavens I just cleaned that door.

  When I got back to the breakfast room twenty seconds later, Scoobie and Terry were talking quietly at a table and Morehouse was fixated on a text. “Do you want me to put it in the bag for you?”

  He looked up, grabbed a cloth napkin from a table, and leaned over to pick the coat off the floor. “Not likely prints, but you never know.” He stuffed the coat in the white plastic bag that I held open for him.

  Terry stood. “What about the blood?”

  “What blood?” Morehouse asked.

  I answered. “It’s on the right cuff. Maybe two square inches.”

  Morehouse used the napkin to take the coat out of the bag and regarded the sleeve.

  “Is it just on the outside?” I asked.

  Morehouse pulled the cuff back a little. “Inside, too.”

  “Could have soaked through,” Scoobie said.

  “If it soaked through from the outside, does that mean it’s someone else’s blood?” I asked.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Leah said, “Lance wants to go outside.”

  Scoobie walked to her and the two went into the kitchen, door swinging shut behind them. “We’re going back to our house in a minute. You and Lance need to stay inside.”

  Morehouse put the coat back in the bag. “Could mean anything.” He studied Terry. “Anyone else I should talk to at school?”

  “You talked to the track coach, right?”

  “Mr. Griffin. Yeah. He’ll get with a bunch of people and call me.”

  Terry did a small shrug. “He used to date Cathy Giacomo, but she might be mad at him, too.”

  Morehouse nodded his head as he walked to the door. “I talked to her. Don’t know what’s gotten into that kid.”

  I shut the door behind Morehouse and regarded Terry. “He’s only been different since the appendectomy?”

  “Worse since Sunday. I wonder if it has anything to do with what he and Ms. Cartwright talked about?”

  “Seems unlikely, but it’s worth thinking about, I guess. Why don’t you and Scoobie drive around some more? And stop by the station. Morehouse said he was going to make some signs to post.”

  I HAD FED LANCE AND LEAH and parted the curtains at the front window of our house five times when Aunt Madge called. “What’s this about Kevin?”

  I realized she couldn’t have heard about Sandra Cartwright. She might ask about Kevin first, but I would have heard the grief in her tone. “He wasn’t in his bed this morning and didn’t go to school. Morehouse came over to talk to us, and Scoobie and Terry are driving around.”

  “Hmm.” She paused for several seconds. “There is one person I can ask.’

  “Uh, Aunt Madge, is it your friend Sandra?”

  “How did you know that?”

  I was itching to ask what she thought Sandra might know, but did the right thing. “I’m sorry, but she seems to have had a heart attack. She passed.”

  Aunt Madge’s tone grew irritable. “Why can’t people just say someone died? Was she at work?”

  “Home, I believe. She had a day off yesterday.’

  “Oh, dear. If she had been at work maybe someone could have helped her.” Her voice grew quieter as she moved the phone away from her mouth. “Harry. Jolie said Sandra Cartwright died.” Her voice caught on the word died.

  Harry came on the line. “We’re sorry to hear that, Jolie. We were at the Chamber of Commerce for a couple of hours. Surprised we didn’t hear.”

  “Morehouse only found out about the same time.”

  “Are they investigating something?” Harry asked.

  “He said something about not police business.”

  Aunt Madge came back on the phone. “I should call the sergeant. Sandra has spoken to Kevin several times lately. Though I’m not sure about what.”

  I checked myself before I said it was too late to find out. “Okay, I’ll call you if we hear anything about Kevin.”

  As she started to say goodbye, I asked, “Oh. Did the Chamber endorse you?”

  She blew her lips together as if disgusted. “Not on a bet. The director has been telling people I’m against progress. I thought if we met I could explain I simply don’t want such a huge project. I asked them if the developer was going to pay to widen the road around the new hotel, and it turns out they’re going to pay him to come here.”

  “You mean, like under the table?”

  “No.” She laughed. “A tax incentive. We’ll all pay for that monstrosity for years. I suggested if we were going spend city money, we could give some incentives to the hotels that are already in business. They’ve paid taxes here for years, and that bozo…”

  Harry called to her. “Honey, are you ready to eat?”

  I stifled a laugh. Harry had probably heard these themes many times. “Tell Harry I’m appraising that place on Conch tomorrow.”

  “I will. Kiss the twins for me.”

  I hung up and regarded them. Lance had his head halfway under our fairly new navy blue couch, which meant Jazz was under there. Leah sat behind a large potted plant, which indicated she was up to something.

  I peered behind the plant and groaned. “Where did you get that lipstick?”

  She beamed at me, red line on her face from cheek to cheek. “Mommy’s purse.”

  Lance pulled out from under the couch. “I helped.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER AN EXHAUSTED Terry said he would get up early to do math homework, Scoobie walked him upstairs. The pre-bed conversation is their regular brother bonding time.

  I texted Morehouse to ask if I could pick up flyers in the morning, and he texted back. “Stop by at seven-thirty.”

  I replied that I would be there after I dropped the kids off at daycare, about eight-fifteen. It felt strange to have him ask for my help, and I was itching to do something. In the BT Era (before twins) I would have roamed the streets this evening. Probably a bunch of people were doing that, friends of Kevin’s who would have a better idea of where he might hide.

  Assuming he was hiding and not hurt.

  Scoobie came down the steps and together we plopped on the couch. “I’d take off tomorrow, but my colleague Gina has a dentist appointment to get wisdom teeth pulled. I really need to be there.”

  I nodded. “Morehouse asked me to stop by to get some signs. I said I’d do it after I drop off the kids. But then I have to appraise a house.”

  “At least you’ll be around town. You can ask people.”

  Jazz joined us. When the twins were born, we decided to give away her playmate, a de-scented pet skunk I’d inherited from the woman who owned our prior home before I bought it. We found her a great spot at a petting zoo in Asbury Park, and Scoobie took Jazz to visit Pebbles a couple of times. Pebbles was her usual nonplussed self, and once Jazz knew where she was, Jazz stopped searching the house for her.

  We took the twins once, but they wanted to bring Pebbles home, so we won’t do that again.

  Jazz walked across the back of the sofa and ended up in Scoobie’s lap. I reached over to stroke her head. “Aunt Madge said that Kevin had talked to Sandra Cartwright a few times, but she didn’t really know why.”

  Scoobie frowned. “Maybe Kevin had some complaints about when he was in the hospital.”

  “You don’t suppose…” I stopped.

  “What?”

  “Do you think that could be Sandra’s blood on Kevin’s coat?”

  Scoobie grimaced. “Not sure she would have been bleeding after a heart attack. And why would he be at her house? ”

  “Maybe she hit her head.”

  He tugged at my hair, which hung in brown clumps after a long day. “You can ask Morehouse, but if I were you, I wouldn’t give him a reason to be more upset.”

  TUESDAY MORNING, I HAD TO explain to Natalie, the daycare teacher, why Leah had red lines on her face.

  Natalie smiled. “I’ll try a spot of baby oil on a baby wipe, if you want.”

  “That would be great. I tried a wipe and she told me the lipstick was on her face not her bottom.”

  She grinned. “I won’t let her see me take it out of the baby wipe tub.”

  The police station is in the heart of downtown Ocean Alley, to use the term loosely. While not a town square in the true sense, the block that houses the station also has the court house, post office, library, and small in-town grocery. It is as close to a business district as a small beach town can get.

  I took two minutes to drive to the station and walked to the counter. When I could tell the young officer would be several minutes helping a woman who came in to report graffiti on her sidewalk, I sat in one of the plastic chairs and texted Morehouse.

  He replied that he would be out in three minutes. I stared around the reception area. Behind the counter are a couple of desks, usually empty, and a bunch of cubbyholes for mail. A locked entrance to the bullpen and offices is to the right of the counter.