Page 136 of Secrets Along the Shore

The only lighting issues from dim, scattered floor lamps, casting everything in shadow—including the patrons and two female servers moving amongst them. The walls are cranberry, a stark contrast to the deep purple velvet upholstery on the chairs encircling the small round tables. A pink neon sign, with one letter out, hawks a brand of beer. The countertop is streaked with water, as if wiped down half-heartedly, a suspicion confirmed by the sour odor wafting up from its surface. I get as close as I can without touching it and signal the bartender, who comes over.

“What can I get you?”

“Actually,” I say, “I’m checking on someone—Kamden Avery? She worked here a while ago. I think it’s been about a year or so.”

“And who are you?”

“Investigator Sophie Walsh. I’m with the Mitchell County Sheriff’s Department.” I flash the badge the sheriff issued to me to use when I’m working for the department. “We think she might be connected to a case up there. She’s not in trouble. I’m just trying to get information on what happened to her, who her friends were…”

A server in a short skirt and shorter top comes up to the bar, moves several prepared cocktails and beers onto her tray, then wades back into the tables.

“A year’s a long time. We go through girls quick,” he says, nodding at the servers. “I haven’t been here that long myself.”

“Could I speak to the manager?”

“He won’t know anything. Troy’s only been here six months.”

“And the manager before him?”

“Died. Heart attack back there.” He tips his head at a door behind him.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs and starts to walk off.

“Could I,” I say, stepping along the bar to keep up, “still talk to Troy? Maybe I could take a look at the records, see if Kamden listed any emergency contacts, anything like that.”

“I’ll ask him, but you’re wasting your time,” he says, and pushes through a door behind the bar. After a few seconds, his shout rings out.

“Hey, Troy! A cop wants to see you!…I don’t know. She’s from Mitchell County.”

When the bartender comes back, he goes to work without so much as a glance in my direction. A minute later, a man I can only presume is “Troy” comes out and scans the room, his eyes settling on me.

“What’re you after? DeAngelo says you’re with the sheriff?”

“Mitchell County Sheriff,” I clarify, then go through the same explanation I gave his bartender.

Over the next few minutes, I find out DeAngelo the bartender is right. It is a waste of time.

Troy doesn’t know Kamden, and The Smoked Glass has no employment records for her—unless you count a scrap of paper with her cell phone number scribbled on it. The only two people who worked withKamden who still work here are servers who aren’t scheduled for today. I did manage to get those names and their schedules for the upcoming week, so I can come back and try again, though Troy doubts they’ll want to talk to me.

Having done as much as I can, I exit the place smelling of cigarettes and desperation. I’m craving a shower and praying the stink doesn’t bleed into my car seats when a high-pitched voice blasts behind me.

“Hey, lady!”

It’s one of the servers. She hustles toward me in stilettos I couldn’t wear even if people held me up on both sides. Meanwhile, she’s waiting tables in them and trucking to me like Flo Jo in the hundred-meter.

“I heard you askin’ about Kamden,” she says, not even having the decency to be out of breath. “You lookin’ for her?”

“I’m…trying to find out what happened to her. She left a year ago and never came back. From what I understand, this is the last place she worked. Did you know her?”

The woman shakes her head, four-inch-long gold bangles dancing from her ears. “No. I started after her. But I know of her, and I know somebody she knew.”

Bingo.“Oh yeah? Who’s that?”

“Reggie.”

“Does Reggie have a full name?”