“Sure, Jo.” Molly obediently seized a pile of the Lazy Parrot’s signature cocktail napkins, each depicting a brightly colored parrot snoozing on a perch in a palm tree, large letter Zs coming out of its beak.

“And don’t you worry about that baby” were Joanne’s parting words to her as she backed her way through the swinging door from the kitchen out toward the pool. “If anyone can find the mama, it’s John Hartwell.”

Molly was glad her mother’s friend couldn’t see her grimace as she followed, muttering, “That’s what I’m worried about.”

Chapter Four

John

The last thing John felt prepared to deal with when he got home that night was mother-daughter drama. But that’s exactly what he encountered, even though his daughter’s mother lived one hundred and fifty miles away.

“Hi, Dad.” Katie was waiting for him in the dining room. This was a bad sign. If she was not in her room, on her phone, texting with her cousin Nevaeh, it meant something was wrong.

John, being a trained investigator and also a father, could tell that even more was wrong than usual, because Katie had cooked. Katie did not enjoy cooking and usually ate at Nevaeh’s house or waited for him to bring home takeout.

But tonight, she obviously wanted something from him, since she’d not only set the dining room table using all of their best china—his ex, Christina, guilt-stricken over leaving him with primary custody, had also left him with all of their wedding presents and all of the furniture they’d collected during their thirteen years of marriage—but also thrown something into the oven that smelled suspiciously like Katie’s go-to emergency healthy-dinner recipe, chicken marinated in salad dressing.

John realized it was going to be a long night and threw off his hat and tie, undid his belt, and went to the refrigerator for a beer.

“What’s up, Katie?”

“Dad.” Katie followed him into the kitchen. “I know you’ve had a busy day. I heard about the baby. Is he okay?”

“She. And the baby’s fine.”

John opened the oven door and glanced inside. Yep. There it was. Assorted chicken parts floating in store-bought low-calorie Italian salad dressing. Not that it wouldn’t be tasty, even if it was fairly healthy. It’s just that she only made it when—

“Well, that’s good. I heard people are calling her Baby Garbage Sacks—”

“What?” John cracked open his beer with more force than he’d meant to, startled by her words.

“Baby Garbage Sacks,” Katie said. “On account of her being found in the library in a garbage bag?”

“Of all the—” Now John was annoyed. “Where did you hear that?”

Katie shrugged her thin shoulders. “It’s all over Facebook.”

“Well, please inform your Facebook followers or friends or whatever they are that the baby was not found in a garbage sack but in a box, and—oh, hell.” He took a swig from his beer. “I’ll have Marguerite do it in the morning.”

In addition to being an excellent sergeant, Marguerite Ruiz also ran the sheriff’s web page, on which John kept the public up to date on important information such as who had been arrested for what lately. The discovery of this baby at the library would fall into that category. He couldn’t have misinformation floating around, especially given the fact that, upon pulling into his office earlier, he’d found his desk almost literally covered in boxes of diapers, pacifiers, and baby clothes and toys. And not just his desk, either, but the desks of his deputies, all of whom seemed to think the donations were a hilarious joke.

But it wasn’t a joke. The good people of Little Bridge—and even neighboring islands—were donating this stuff for the infant he now knew they referred to as Baby Garbage Sacks, or some such nonsense. They were donating the things out of the kindness of their hearts, of course, but it wasn’t necessary. The infant was in perfectly good hands at the NICU, and as soon as she was deemed healthy enough—which the doctors had assured him would be soon—she’d be transferred into foster care, probably with the Russells, who were damned fine people. There was no need for all this donated formula and Tickle Me Elmos. It certainly didn’t look professional around the office, especially since his deputies kept tickling them and setting them off for laughs.

“Well, that’s good, Dad,” Katie said. She was hovering around him as he pulled off his boots. “That’s really great to hear. I’ll be sure to let everyone know. . . . So, Dad, there’s this dance at school—”

“What’s his name?” John realized he was going to need a second beer. He tried to stick with only one per day on school nights, but if there was going to be a discussion about a boy taking his daughter to a dance, he might need two to get through it, depending on who the boy was.

“It’s not that kind of dance, Dad,” Katie said with a laugh. “It’s a dance performance. I’m giving it, with the Snappettes.”

John relaxed. “Oh, your dance troupe. Oh, that’s fine, Katie, fine. Congratulations. When is it? I’ll make sure I’m there.”

With his new position as county sheriff had come a lot of responsibilities John hadn’t had as a detective. His social calendar was full, although not in the way he would have liked. He was constantly being called upon to attend fundraisers and political events that required him to wear his dress uniform, often outdoors in the blazing heat. It was a wonder to him that he had time to solve any crime, let alone ones as bewildering—and complicated—as the High School Thief and the Garbage Bag Baby.

His daughter’s dance recital would be a welcome relief—he’d be sure to have Marguerite mark it down on the schedule as a priority. Katie really was a talented dancer, and the school auditorium was fortunately air-conditioned.

“Dad, you’re not listening. It’s a special dance.” Katie sank into one of the dining room chairs beside him. Christina had insisted on ultrasuede because it’d been both stylish at the time and wouldn’t show dirt with the baby—Katie. Christina had had all the chairs stain guarded. They looked as new as the day they’d arrived, much like Katie’s eyes, as blue as his own, but of course years younger and filled with an innocence he’d lost long ago looking at burned-up corpses in dumpsters in Miami back when he’d worked homicide there. “It’s a mother-daughter dance.”

He nearly choked on his beer. “A what now?”

“A mother-daughter dance. Every year all of the Snappettes from previous classes get together and perform onstage with the current Snappettes. They do a really old number from like, the nineties, and then a number that the current class of Snappettes is working on. It’s one of the biggest fundraisers of the year.”

John shook his head in bewilderment. “Fund-raiser for what?”

“For the Snappettes, of course. You know we’ve been invited to perform at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade next year. It’s a huge honor, but we need to provide for airfare and housing, plus costumes, for thirty girls and eight chaperones. That’s a lot of money.”

John nodded as if he understood what she was talking about. It seemed like he was always doing this. Ever since his pretty, vivacious daughter had auditioned for and gotten into the high school’s all-female dance troupe, she’d been happier than he could ever remember her being. This was good, since she’d been a little down, first over the divorce, then the move to Little Bridge, and then finally her best friend’s acquisition of a boyfriend, Marquis Fairweather, a fine young man of whom John approved because he did well in school, played sports, and kept himself out of trouble.

Even though the Snappettes’ name was absurd (literally, they were named after the fish most commonly found in the local waters, the red and yellowtail snapper) and seemed to rehearse an ungodly number of hours, Katie loved the camaraderie and creative outlet of her school dance troupe.

“Dance,” she’d informed her father dreamily one day after another grueling four-hour rehearsal, “is my life, Dad.”

So what was one more performance now?

“Well, honey,” he said, taking another swig of his beer. “Sounds good to me. I will definitely be there. How long till we eat? That chicken smells good.”

“No, Dad,” Katie said. She was scowling. “I don’t think you heard what I said. It’s a mother-daughter dance.”

He was still confused. “Well, no, I heard you. And you can invite your mother down for it. I’m sure if you give her the date in enough time, she’ll be able to—”

“Dad, you don’t understand.” Katie’s voice had gone hard as flint. “The mothers and the daughters perform in the dance together. Onstage. Rehearsals start now. And continue for the next twelve weeks. The performance is in June.”

Now John realized what the problem was. And why he probably was going to need a second beer after all.

“Well, honey,” he said, carefully. “I don’t think that sounds real fair to the girls like you whose mothers don’t live on the island. Or what about girls whose mothers are too busy with their jobs to spend twelve weeks rehearsing for a dance?”