John, still blushing, had them wrap the daisies in plain brown paper—he didn’t want the bouquet to look too over the top—and left after thanking the Morettis profusely. By the time he arrived at the Lazy Parrot it was happy hour, and the guests who’d already checked in were lounging around the pool with margaritas and cocktail plates.

“Hey, sexy policeman,” one of the lady guests said to him as he walked by, looking for Molly, who hadn’t been at the front desk. “Are those flowers for me?”

“No,” John said flatly. “And I’m with the sheriff’s department, not the police. These flowers are for Molly Montgomery. Have you seen her?”

“Oh, John!”

He saw a woman wearing a florescent-green beach cover-up with matching flip-flops waving to him from across the pool and realized it was Joanne Larson, one of the Lazy Parrot’s owners. He approached her, grateful to be getting away from the woman who’d called him a sexy policeman.

“Hello, Joanne,” he said, when he reached her. “Molly texted for me to meet her.”

“Yes, I know.” Joanne was holding a tray of something beige smeared on cucumber rounds. “She told me. She’ll be right back. She’s helping a new guest with their luggage. Fish dip?”

John shook his head. He felt another spurt of irritation at the unfairness of the situation. A librarian shouldn’t need a side hustle just to afford her rent.

Of course, if he convinced Molly to leave her live-in job at the hotel and move in to the Morettis’ apartment, that would leave Joanne and Carl Larson shorthanded. The only solution he could see was to find them a new night manager. He wondered if Deputy Swanson, the officer who’d been so blithe about his tardiness in responding to the alarm at Mrs. Tifton’s house, would care for the position. He certainly wasn’t cutting it in law enforcement. Maybe his true calling was in hospitality.

“So Molly tells me you’re going to be dancing in the mother-daughter Snappettes performance,” Joanne said, helping herself to one of her own hors d’oeuvres.

John attempted to smile.

“Yes. Yes, I am. I’m really looking forward to it,” he lied.

“So am I,” Joanne said. “I’ve already bought tickets for Carl and myself, and all of our friends, too. We can’t wait to see it. It’s going to be a hoot and a half! Are you going to wear an actual Snappette uniform?”

“The, er, costume decisions aren’t up to me, so I’m not sure. I’m certain whatever it is will be very tasteful.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Joanne said. “We all want to see you in a Snappette uniform. That’s what we’re paying for, really.”

“Wait, what are we talking about?” one of the nearby guests wanted to know.

“He’s going to be dancing for charity with the high school cheerleading squad,” Joanne said, pointing at John.

“It’s a dance team,” John corrected her.

But no one cared. Everyone on the poolside deck was staring at him appraisingly, all of the ladies smiling, the men confused.

“In a dress?” one of the men asked, looking appalled, though he himself was holding a drink that contained a pink paper umbrella.

“Shirtless, I hope,” one of the ladies said, winking at John suggestively.

“Where can I get tickets?” one of the other ladies asked from the hot tub, nudging her friend.

“It’s not till next month,” Joanne said.

“I don’t care,” the guest responded with a cackle. “I’ll extend my stay, especially if there’s a chance he’ll be doing it shirtless.”

John was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Now hold on,” he began, because he’d learned at his four-hour sexual harassment workshop that the objectification of women could also happen to men—even law enforcement officers. It was also no less harmful, even though it was occasionally reinforced by first responders themselves, like those hose draggers over at the fire station and their ridiculous yearly calendar. “Let’s—”

“John!”

Thank God Molly had finally appeared, wearing a flowy white sundress and looking as fresh and as welcome as rain after a hot day.

“Hello,” he said, forgetting Joanne and her guests and everything but Molly and her radiant smile. Then he remembered something else. “Here. I brought you these.” He handed her the flowers.

Molly gasped as she took them from him. “Daisies!” Molly cried. “They’re beautiful! And my favorite. How did you know?”

He didn’t know how he’d known. He just had. He wasn’t at all surprised to have been right.

He was surprised, however, when Joanne and all of her guests (the women, anyway) let out a collective “Awwww.” He wanted to jump into the pool, sink to the bottom of the deep end, and not come out until he’d either drowned or they’d all gone away.

“How beautiful,” Joanne said, setting down her tray of fish dip and taking the flowers from Molly. “I’ll put them in a vase for you. You and John go visit.” When Molly hesitated, Joanne waved her impossibly long, florescent-green nails at her. “Go on. I got this!”

Molly laughed and took him by the hand, leading him away from the pool and toward a thatched tiki bar beneath the outdoor stairs she’d taken last night to get to her room.

“Here, let me get you a drink,” she said. “What’ll you have?”

“Beer is fine.”

“Beer it is.” She slipped behind the bar and pulled out a bottle from an outdoor mini fridge. “Do you want a lime with that?”

“God, no.”

She laughed again and passed him the beer. “Sorry about that,” she whispered, nodding toward the still-gossiping guests, many of whom continued to look in their direction. “You know how it is. This place is like Disney World to them. Everything in Little Bridge is an attraction—including the locals. Seeing me with a man who’s brought me flowers is a bit like seeing the guy who plays Goofy without his head.”

He looked at her. “I don’t think they see you as Goofy. Maybe one of the princesses, like Cinderella.”

“Oh, and are you my handsome prince, here to rescue me from a life of drudgery?”

Damn. He’d put his foot in it again. “I didn’t mean—that wasn’t what I—I meant because you’re so—”

She laughed again, and reached out to lay a hand upon his wrist. “John, I was kidding. I wouldn’t mind being rescued from having to wash so many towels. But I couldn’t ask for cheaper rent or a more centrally located place to live, and Carl and Joanne really do need the help.”

John nodded, thinking to himself that this would be a bad time to tell her about the apartment over the flower shop. Then it really would look like he was trying to rescue her.

Instead, he said, changing the subject, “So, you texted that you had something to show me?”

“Oh, yes.” She reached beneath the bar. “I’m afraid you’re not going to like it very much, though.”

“Go ahead.” He sipped his beer, feeling extremely contented. It was nice simply to be in her company, even with a dozen pairs of eyes watching their every move. The waterfall by the side of the pool and jets in the hot tub were making a relaxing splashing sound, and the blossoms on the night-blooming jasmine had already begun to open and release their intoxicating scent. If he didn’t have to go home to see Katie, he’d happily hang out here all evening.

“One of my patrons brought this into the library today,” Molly said, bringing a digital Leica out from beneath the bar. She must have noticed his expression change, since she added, quickly, “Don’t worry, it’s his father’s, not Mrs. Tifton’s. The time and date stamps on the photos on it prove it. That’s why I wanted to show them to you, though—the photos that he took on it last night. You’re not going to like them, but you need to see them.”

Now John was beginning to feel less relaxed. His beer forgotten, he leaned forward against the bar to peer into the camera’s display screen as she switched it on. “Why am I not going to like them?”

“Because,” Molly said. “They’re of Katie. Katie and the High School Thief.”

Chapter Nineteen

Molly

At first Molly thought John might be having a heart attack. He’d gone a little pale and his breath seemed to quicken as he scrolled through the photos on Elijah’s camera.

“Are you—are you all right?” she asked, wondering if she should run for the emergency defibrillator that the Larsons kept in the kitchen. She’d taken enough job-mandated first-aid courses that she knew how to use it.

She’d just always hoped she’d never need to.

“I’m fine.”

The words came out tonelessly. He hadn’t looked up once from the camera screen.

“That is him, isn’t it?” Molly asked. “Dylan Dakota?”

“That’s him,” John said. His gaze was still glued to the screen. “And my daughter.”

“Yes. I guess Katie and her friends had a little photo shoot for some kind of cheer camp they’re applying to.” What was wrong with him? He looked so strange. “I think Dylan must have been skulking around in a lot of people’s backyards last night before he settled on breaking into Mrs. Tifton’s house. I bet there are other people who probably got footage of him on their home security cameras and maybe weren’t home and don’t even know it yet. I was thinking that if we sent this image over to Meschelle at the Gazette—”