Page 7

SEVEN

GAbrIEL

Tuesday

“Huh,” Gabriel muttered, taking in a one-story pastel green building perched near the side of the road whose hand-painted sign declared it as Norskland General Store, Heartstone Island’s Grocery. It was one of three similarly styled buildings that seemed to be the commercial center of the island—at least during the offseason.

A bright red vertical flag with Coffee spelled out in huge letters flapped in the wind.

“Yes, thank fuck.”

One of the buildings housed a place called The Pizza Joint, and the other looked to be a bookstore slash souvenir shop. Both businesses had closed-until-spring notices hanging in their windows.

After escaping the gas station, Gabe had driven across the spit that connected the peninsula to Heartstone and followed a loop around the island. He wanted to make sure no one was following him and had needed to calm down after the incident at the gas station.

Alongside the usual businesses that even small towns needed, there appeared to be a thriving cottage economy: pottery, honey, eggs, that sort of thing. Even a winery, which Gabe thought was a bit ambitious, considering the amount of rain the area received. Now, it seemed, he’d arrived at the economic heart of Heartstone.

Curiosity piqued, Gabriel kept driving and slowly passed by a small marina. With the exception of one decent-looking sailboat at the end of the dock, the vessels moored there appeared to have been forgotten by their owners. Situated next to the marina’s parking area was a shed that needed a fresh coat of paint and was probably used for storing boatish things.

Turning the car around in front of the shed, Gabriel headed back the way he’d come.

In contrast to the marina and its ragtag fleet of sailboats, the grocery store was jarringly well maintained and clearly an island destination point. Along with the Coffee flag, colorful windsocks hung from the porch and fluttered in the constant breeze, and flyers for things other than coffee were tacked to a bulletin board. Surely, if there was anywhere on the island to ask about Elton Cox, Norskland General Store was the place.

The wood structure housing the grocery store had probably been built sometime in the early 1900s, but the insides had been updated within the last twenty years or so. Glass-encased coolers lined three walls while the open floor was divided by two very tall and long rows of shelves. These were stocked with the easy kinds of canned and dried goods that campers and boaters needed.

A muffled buzzer sounded as he pushed the door open and seconds later, a woman about his age emerged from the Employees Only area at the back. A couple stood in front of one of the freezers debating dessert choices, and he heard the voices of what sounded like a mother and child arguing the merits of broccoli versus potatoes. Gabe needed to pick up some easy food items, but first he headed toward the small espresso machine sitting on the long wooden counter near checkout.

Bingo.

“Afternoon,” the woman offered, eyeing him warily.

Her curious gaze strayed slightly upward before making eye contact again. Damn. Self-conscious, he lifted a hand and felt the bump he’d earned cracking Calvin’s thick skull. It twinged under his fingertips; the pain relievers he’d dug out of the glove box had not had time to do their magic.

“Hit my head on an immovable object,” he explained, running his fingers through his hair and pulling it forward to try and cover the bruising. “A downside of being tall.”

“Looks painful,” she agreed, sounding satisfied with his explanation. “We have ice if you want.”

“No thanks, I’ll live.” Gabriel shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “But coffee, on the other hand?” The cup he’d grabbed from a rest stop hours ago was long gone.

“The drip coffee machine isn’t working,” she said ruefully. She shot the espresso machine a dark glance. “But I could probably make you a latte or something easy. My daughter is usually the barista, I’m just the stand-in today.”

“An Americano would be great, easier too.” Gabriel smiled, doing his best not to look like a serial killer.

“Do you need milk in it?” she asked.

“Nope, just as is.”

“Alright, give me a minute.”

“Not a problem. I’m not in a hurry.” Which, oddly enough, was the truth. He was still on the run, but now that he’d reached his destination, the sense of urgency had eased.

With a smile, she reached around and flipped the power switch on the bean grinder. The scent of freshly ground beans drifted to his nose, and Gabriel wanted to groan with pleasure. He managed not to, but it was close.

While he waited, Gabe wandered away from the counter to examine a display of black-and-white photographs taken over the years. Most were of the store and the island, a few documenting the construction of the cluster of buildings and the marina. White men wearing coveralls and sporting huge mustaches stood around looking pleased with themselves. A later one showed a proud grocer with an enormous and very bushy mustache posed with his family on the covered porch. Gabriel couldn’t help but think that the woman in the picture looked a bit irritated—probably because of the mustache.

“How about broccoli and potatoes?” the mom offered. Clearly, her kiddo was in the negotiation stage of toddlerhood.

“At the same time?” the child responded suspiciously.

Suppressing a chuckle, Gabriel listened to the swoosh-groan of the espresso machine working to force hot water through the ground beans. “This place has been here a long time,” he said over his shoulder.

“Since 1905,” the barista confirmed. “There used to be a ferry that took folks all the way to downtown Seattle from here.”

Gabriel turned to look directly at her. “Really? That’s amazing. I wonder how long the trip took?”

“If you really want to know the answer, you could speak to old Elton. Take him a coffee too, and he’ll talk your ear off about the island’s history.”

Tamping down the jolt of excitement at the mention of the name Elton—how many could there be?—Gabriel wandered back over to the counter. The woman was pouring boiling water into the shot of espresso waiting in the go-cup.

“This Elton is a history buff?” he asked.

“Yeah, he is. More likely, he knows a lot about the island because he’s old and lived here most of his life.”

“Where can I find him? Do you think he’d mind if I asked him a few questions?” He tried not to sound overly excited, but she didn’t seem concerned about his interest.

She waved vaguely up the road. “Keep driving a mile or so down the road, you can’t miss Elton’s property. But if you pass Smitty’s RV Park, you’ve gone too far. Anyway, among other things, Elton was a welder back in the day and created scrap metal sculptures. There’s a fifteen-foot-tall sea monster made from mufflers standing guard over his driveway. Can’t miss it.”

“A fifteen-foot sea monster?”

“Yep,” she confirmed with a nod. “Do you want to take a second Americano with you? Like I said, Elton loves his coffee.”

“I guess I do.”

“Tell him Mercy sent you.”

While Mercy put together the second coffee, Gabriel circled the store and picked up a few groceries that wouldn’t be in danger of going bad right away. He paused briefly over a locally made “Cornish-style hand pie” before deciding to add it to his basket. It would do for tonight. Sleeping in his car was not ideal but, for one, there was not a hotel or even a motel on the island, and two, he’d ditched his credit cards. Maybe this Elton person would have a line on a place to stay.