Page 3 of Light of Day (Sea Smoke Island #1)

Any job that could be done while fishing off the dock behind the office was a good one, if you asked Luke Carmichael.

He had his phone on him, and a note on the office door directed drop-ins to come around back.

The lockup was empty at the moment, and his desk mostly empty of paperwork.

A light northeast breeze was blowing off the sound, the bees were humming in the lilac bushes.

Perfect moment to catch a few mackerel off the dock.

Until your phone rang while you were in the midst of reeling in a feisty one.

“We have a missing guest at the hotel,” said Judy Griffin, once he’d dropped the mackerel onto the dock and fished out his phone.

In the three years since he’d taken on the job of constable of Sea Smoke Island, Luke had dealt mostly with petty crime, noise complaints, and the occasional turf war among lobstermen.

Domestic violence incidents came across the scanner on a regular basis, fueled by Sea Smoke Island’s biggest troublemaker, alcohol.

A missing guest—that was a first.

“How long have they been missing?” he asked Judy. She’d been the supervising manager of the Lightkeeper Inn for the past twenty years. He used to be terrified of her because she had a sixth sense for when he and his friends were sneaking into empty rooms to smoke weed.

“She. Since Friday. She was supposed to check out today, but when the chambermaids went to clean the room, all her things were still there. But there was no sign of her. I asked around if anyone had seen her, but no one had after about noon on Friday.”

It was Sunday now. He didn’t have regular hours; he was more or less always on call. Occasionally his assistant would fill in for him when he needed a break. But Marigold was newly engaged and he hated to interrupt her giddy wedding planning.

“What do you know about her? How long had she been staying at the hotel? What was she doing out here? Also, I’m going to need a list of everyone who interacted with her, as far as you know.”

With a sigh, he picked up his flopping mackerel and tossed him back in the ocean.

He wouldn’t have time to clean it now that an actual case had come his way.

Fishing rod over his shoulder, bucket in hand, he headed back to the office so he could jot down some notes.

The constable occupied one end of a mid-century gray-shingled warehouse structure that also housed a diesel mechanic and a pottery studio.

“Gabrielle Ramon is her name. She booked a room for a whole week, which…well, you know that’s pretty expensive.

I was surprised that someone her age could afford it.

But these days, you never know. There’s a fellow, no more’n twenty-five, who wants to buy the resort, can you imagine?

I thought he must be from money, but it turns out he’s something called an influencer. ”

Luke tried to imagine his autocratic, old-school father selling his legacy to an “influencer,” and let out a brief laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Judy answered with a sniff. “Indeed. At any rate, your father wants this cleared up as soon as possible. The last thing we need at the start of the summer season is a missing guest. Especially…”

His eyebrows rose at the way she hesitated. “Especially what?”

“Well, the young lady in question is African-American. Not our typical kind of guest.”

True enough. So many of the guests were from “legacy” New England families who’d been coming for generations. It made for a very monochromatic clientele. It might make his job easier; maybe more people would remember her. “I’ll have to poke around the hotel, question the staff and so forth.”

“That’s fine. I’ve already cleared that with your father.”

“Good.” Everyone knew it was better if he and his father stayed far away from each other.

Luke would have moved off the island years ago if it weren’t for Carrie, his ex, and Izzy, their six-year-old daughter. As long as they were on Sea Smoke, he planned to cling to it like a barnacle. “Do you know why she was here so early in the season?”

“From what I can gather, she was working on some kind of project. The girls said she would bike all over the place, then at night she’d sit at the bar and tap away on her iPad.”

“The girls?”

“You know, cleaners, waitresses.”

Judy really was old-school, which was probably why she and his father got along so well.

Now inside his office, he scribbled a few notes on his pad. An investigation—this would be a change of pace for him. Usually there was no real mystery in any of his “cases”—although tracking down the perpetrator who had cut the lines on half of Billy Vane’s lobster pots had taken a couple of days.

“All right, I’ll see what I can find out. If I don’t get anywhere in the next couple of days, I might have to call on Harbortown.”

Luke took the “keeping the peace” part of his job seriously, and to him, that meant resolving conflicts without resorting to referring culprits to the Harbortown Police Department for charges.

His biggest challenge so far had been convincing his father not to file charges against Petey Barnstable, who had broken into the hotel’s wine cellar.

“Please don’t do that,” said Judy. “I’m under strict instructions to keep this out of the news at all costs.”

Luke’s jaw muscles tightened the way they always did when his father tried to control everything, especially him. “I get it. But if she’s in danger, I’ll need help in the search.”

She could be lost in the woods, although the untouched forested area of the island was only about four square miles. She could have climbed down on the rocks somewhere and slipped, or gotten stuck. The island had miles of coastline, much of it inaccessible except by boat.

He’d take his boat out this afternoon and do a circuit. Maybe Marigold could help, if he could tear her away from dress designs.

After he ended the call, he opened the front door so he could take off the “come around back” sign.

A gust of lilac-scented air danced into the office.

Two lush lilac bushes grew on either side of the entrance.

They were desperately in need of pruning, but Sammy Barnes, who took care of the mowing and so forth, had his hands full this time of year.

Besides, Luke didn’t mind the lilacs. They were better than room fresheners when it came to purifying the air in the lockup.

That cot had seen too many drunk folks to ever smell right again.

He tilted his head back and inhaled the enchanting fragrance of the lush blooms. Sunshine on his face, salt in the breeze, plans to take Izzy out for ice cream later…

a guy couldn’t complain, even though Judy’s call had brought him right back to his painful long-running conflict with his father.

Fighting with a granite cliff would be easier.

The jingle of a bell made him snap back to attention.

A banana-seat bicycle—vintage cruiser style, but not in the cute retro way, just the rusty way—lurched to a stop before him.

It looked like it belonged to a ten-year-old, but the rider was a full-grown woman.

Did she look vaguely familiar? Maybe, but he searched his mind and couldn’t place her.

Her eyes were a bright hazel, her hair in a ponytail under a flamingo-pink helmet, her flushed face nearly matching it.

“Constable Carmichael?” she asked, sounding quite formal.

He stood at attention and gave a salute, then swept into a deep bow. Hell, he had to keep this job interesting one way or the other. “That’s me, here to protect and serve.”

Her eyebrows lifted and laughter flashed in her eyes. “I feel safer already.”

“Glad that’s settled, because I’m on my way out, actually. Got a big case to investigate.”

He knew her. Somehow he did. She wore cutoff shorts and a hoodie unzipped over a red shirt that barely reached her waistband. A sliver of flesh was visible between shirt and shorts, though he tried not to notice it.

“This is urgent.” The merriment disappeared from her face. “My friend is missing. We were texting just like normal, and then she just stopped answering and that’s very much not normal for her.”

A lead. Just like that. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll take your statement.”

Now he was the one sounding formal and professional. This was starting to feel like a real case, maybe that was why. The missing girl’s friend wouldn’t have come all the way out here if she didn’t believe something was wrong.

She propped her bike under the lilac bush, against the wall of the station.

“Kickstand’s broken,” she explained as he opened the door for her.

“Probably just needs some?—”

“WD-40, I know. I just got back and I didn’t want to take the time.”

So she was from here. Of course she was. Who else except an islander would be riding a rusty bike around?

He slipped behind his desk and plucked his pad from the top drawer. “Let’s start with your name.”

“Heather McPhee.”

His head jerked up. “Sally McPhee’s daughter?”

“Yes.” She held his gaze levelly, though he observed tension in her jaw and a slight challenge in her eyes. I dare you to say anything.

He did not. Before she got sober, Sally had been a frequent visitor to the lockup. In fact, his predecessor kept a special blanket just for her, because she was allergic to cotton. But he wasn’t here to judge.

He racked his brain for what he knew about Heather.

She was smart, right? She’d gotten a college scholarship and left the island.

Someone who tended to stir up trouble and get people talking.

Friend of his ex, Carrie, and that whole crew of island girls.

Wasn’t she living in Boston? Luke hadn’t listened too closely to the local gossip about her, though now he wished he had.

He took down her address and phone number and other pertinent information, which she delivered in an increasingly impatient tone. “What does any of this have to do with Gabby? I’m really worried about her.”

“Tell me more about Gabby. When’s the last time you talked to her?”

She rattled off the exact time and content of their conversation. Halfway through, she stopped. “You already know she’s missing.”

He tilted his head in a “yes.”

“Then what are we doing here? Are you stonewalling? Wasting my time? God, this island. Nothing ever changes.” She bolted to her feet. “Never mind, I’ll find her myself.”

“Heather.” He reached across the desk and grabbed her arm.

For some reason, his pride was stung that she would think he wouldn’t do a thorough job investigating her friend’s disappearance.

“I’m not stonewalling. Gabby was staying at the hotel, and Judy Griffin just reported her missing this morning, right before you got here.

Whatever you can tell me about her will be helpful. ”

Narrowing her eyes, she sat back down. “Is Gabby the big case you mentioned?”

“Yes. I was about to go question the staff at the hotel. After that, I plan to take my boat out and see if she’s stranded on the rocks somewhere.”

“Sorry,” she murmured. She brushed her hair—tangled from its time under her helmet—away from her face. He noticed a slight puffiness under her eyes. Had she been crying because of Gabby, or something else?

“No worries. Listen,” he said impulsively. “Why don’t you come with me? Since you know her, you could be helpful.”

“Really?” Her face brightened with a big grin. There was something very vivid and alive about Heather. “Is that allowed?”

“Anywhere else, probably not. But who’s going to stop me out here?”

“Good point. Is that because you’re the constable, or because you’re a Carmichael?”

Ouch. But she too had a good point. Being the son of the island’s largest landowner was a double-edged sword. It had taken a long time for the locals to trust him.

“Little of both,” he admitted. “Come on, let’s take my truck. I can throw your bike in the back.”

Now there was a dose of childhood nostalgia. Tired legs pumping as he rode back across the sandbar, a hotel worker kind enough to offer him a ride—except his bikes had always been top-of-the-line and never had pink plastic streamers dangling from the handlebars.

Heather hesitated before answering. “Let me make a quick call first. I still haven’t even seen my mom.”

She stepped aside and dialed a number. When she didn’t get an answer, she shrugged and went to get her bike from under the lilac bush.

“Families, am I right?” she murmured as she handed her bike over to him so he could nestle it into the bed of his truck, between coils of rope and a lobster pot that needed mending.

“Amen to that.”