behind one ear and a tiny gold ring piercing her left nostril. âHow many in your party?â
âJust one, but, uh, Iâm actually looking for somebody. The mayor? Is he here?â
âEb?â She glanced looked over her shoulder, and then back at Greer. âNah. Heâs not here.â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
She left another message on Eben Thibadeauxâs voice mail, then drove three miles up the state route, following the city clerkâs directions.
The boathouse was right where it was supposed to be. Greer took out her phone and began snapping photos. Even if Eben Thibadeaux was still MIA, this might make a great location for the film.
The building was made of sun-bleached wood and salt-corroded galvanized tin. MARING MARINA â DRYDOCK , MACHINE SHOP , WELDING âthe signâs wording was so faded it was barely visible. There were three vehicles parked in the lotâtwo pickup trucks and a tired-looking blue sedan with four flattened tires.
Seagulls plucked dispiritedly at what looked like a piece of hamburger bun near the office door, but didnât budge as she walked past. The door creaked on its hinges. A high wooden counter faced the door, and behind it stood a deskâthat was empty.
âHello?â Greer walked around the counter and peeked into an inner office furnished with an old metal tanker desk and a file cabinet of similar vintage. Papers and catalogs and cardboard boxes of engine parts spilled across the desktop, but there was no sign of its occupant.
She returned to the outer office and pushed through a swinging door that led her out into a dank building that smelled like decaying fish and motor oil. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.
When they did, she saw that she was in a cavernous warehouse, with rows and rows of boats suspended from harnesses, three high, all the way up to the ceiling. A piece of heavy equipment that resembled a forklift was parked in the middle of a walkway that bisected the room.
âHello?â Her voice echoed in the darkness. At the far end of the warehouse, a half-open roll-up door emitted a bright shaft of light.
She followed the light, walked out the door, and finally saw her first sign of life. A man stood just outside the door, bent over a pair of sawhorses that held a large, black outboard motor. His back was to her, but he wore a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and a baseball cap.
âHey there,â Greer called. âIâm looking for Eben Thibadeaux?â
âHang on a minute,â the man muttered. He tinkered with the motor a little bit, dropped something on the pavement, and swore softly.
âYes?â His face was sweaty and streaked with grease. He pushed the tortoise-shell glasses back from the bridge of his sunburned nose, and when he saw his visitor, frowned.
It was the surly maintenance man sheâd encountered back at the Silver Sands Motel. âChrist. What now?â
âYou!â Greer squinted into the sunlight.
âYes, me.â He took a blue bandana from the back pocket of his jeans and wiped his hands before shoving it back into his pocket.
âYouâre Eben Thibadeaux? The maintenance man at the motel? You sell real estate? And youâre the mayor?â
âYou left out grocery store owner,â Eb Thibadeaux said. He pointed at the outboard motor. âAnd failed boat mechanic. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?â
Â
6
âIâve been trying to track you down all morning. Iâve driven all over town, been to city hall twice, and Iâve left three different messages on your voice mail,â Greer said.
He frowned, patted his back pocket, and came up empty. âSorry. Guess I left my phone in my truck. Whatâs so important?â
âYouâre really the mayor?â She couldnât help herself. Eben Thibadeaux was the least mayoral looking person sheâd ever encountered.
âSo
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley