“Oh my God, Dad! Who is that guy? Is he spying on us? That is so gross! What a creeper.”
“That,” John said, “is Larry Beckwith III, also known as Dylan Dakota.”
“The guy you’ve been trying to catch for so long? The one who messed up the MTV house and the library? Oh my God, is he stalking me?”
Katie looked more thrilled than frightened by the idea that she had a stalker. John sighed and reached across the table to take the camera from her.
“No, he isn’t stalking you. He robbed a house near Sharmaine’s last night. We think he must have tried a number of homes before finding one that was unoccupied.”
“So he’s creeping on Sharmaine?” Katie reached instinctively for her bag, in which she kept her phone. “I have to tell her right away. She’s always wanted a stalker. She’s going to die.”
“You are not going to tell Sharmaine,” John said. “At least not yet. First of all, no cell phones in here, remember?”
She glanced toward the sign by the Mermaid’s register:
NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO PROBLEM.
USE YOUR CELL PHONE? GET OUT.
Then she sighed. “Oh, right. Darn.”
“Second of all,” John went on, “this photo of you and Beckwith is now evidence. And there are certain people who think it should be submitted to the press so that the public can see it and help with the search for Beckwith—”
Katie gasped. Unfortunately, she appeared to be gasping with delight, not horror.
“Oh my God, Daddy, are you serious? What site? Is it BuzzFeed? When? Tomorrow?”
He frowned. This was not going at all the way he’d assumed it would go. Although he should have known: his outgoing dancer daughter would love the attention—any attention.
“The Gazette,” he said, and was bemused to see her shoulders slump in disappointment.
“The Gazette? That only has like five thousand subscribers. And there’s a paywall. Hardly anyone is going to see it. And I’m really trying to build my brand—so is Elijah, by the way. Do you think you could get it onto the front page of the Miami Herald? Or on CNN? A lot more people will see it there. And make sure you use Elijah’s name as the photographer, Elijah Trujos. We all promised we would give him full credit if we used the photos for anything promotional.”
John stared at his daughter. Was it possible that Molly Montgomery knew his daughter better than he did? She’d said that Katie wouldn’t mind the attention, and she’d been right.
“Katie, your face is not going to be on the front page of any paper tomorrow because if I decide to turn the photo over to the media, I’m going to make sure your face is blurred out—”
“Daddy, no!”
“—for your own protection.”
“But, Daddy—”
“—and I certainly won’t allow them to use either your or Elijah’s names, because you are both minors, and I don’t want you to be forever associated with this case or that man.”
“But, Daddy, I look really good in that photo. I’m in my Snappettes uniform and everything. Think of all the donations it could bring to the team!”
John shook his head. “That is exactly what I’m worried about. Do you have any idea how many sexual predators there are who would love to see a photo like that and track down the girl in it?”
“Ugh, Daddy.” Katie pouted. “I don’t understand how you can be such a boomer when you were actually born in the eighties.”
He pointed at her. “For that, you get no dessert, young lady.”
She stuck her tongue out at him but playfully. He could tell she wasn’t really mad, just like she could tell he wasn’t really mad, either. They’d been a team too long to allow petty disagreements to get in the way of their affection for each other.
Unlike his relationship with Molly Montgomery, which was too new for him to let the sun set on a squabble. He had to make things right with her. But how?
“What can I get you two for dessert?” Angela, who always worked the Sunday night spaghetti and meatball shift, came up to their booth to ask.
Katie was still mock pouting. “My dad says I’m not allowed to have dessert.”
“Come on now, Sheriff.” Angela jerked her pen toward the counter. “Ed made a couple of his world-famous key lime pies this afternoon. You know there’s nothing better than a slice of pie to fix what ails you.”
John glanced at the counter and saw the pies sitting pristine and covered in peaks of lightly toasted meringue behind the glass display case. Was it really true that a piece of pie could repair all of one’s troubles? Not in his experience.
But it could certainly make one feel better in the moment.
“I’ll have one,” John said, and began to dig around in his pocket for his wallet. The Mermaid Café was a cash-only enterprise.
“Da-aa-aad.” Katie’s expression was stern with disapproval. “You can’t have a slice of pie. Your cholesterol. Remember?”
“I don’t want a slice,” John said. “I’ll take the whole thing.”
When Katie’s eyebrows rose in shock, he explained, “It’s for a friend, not me. I owe her an apology, and what better way to say I’m sorry than with one of Ed’s pies?”
Now Katie began to look slyly knowing. “Her? Her, Dad? Is it a certain librarian you dragged me to meet the other day? Is it? Is it?”
“That is none of your business,” John said, throwing bills onto the table as Angela went to box up his pie. “Can you find a ride home with someone here? I have to get over to the Gazette offices before they put tomorrow’s paper to bed.”
“Yes,” Katie said, and nodded at a table a few booths away. “Nevaeh’s over there with Marquis and those guys. They’ll drop me off. Why are you so worried about me walking home alone, Dad? Because of my stalker?”
“Cut it out. You know I don’t like you walking by yourself after dark. Be sure to put the alarm on when you get home. I might be late.”
“Because after you visit the Gazette you’ll be delivering your pie to the librarian?”
John shot his daughter a warning look even as he gratefully accepted the pie, wrapped in an insulated pack to keep it cool, from Angela. “Thanks,” he said to the waitress. To his daughter, he said, “I love you.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Be good. And safe.”
“Ugh, jeez, Dad.” She pushed him away, but she was grinning as she did it. “I love you, too. And you know I will.”
Later, John found himself driving to the Lazy Parrot, asking himself if he was crazy. Who brought the woman they were interested in a pie? Let alone a pie and flowers in the same day. If Pete ever found out about this, he’d think he was nuts.
But John had to do something to show Molly how sorry he was for acting like such a—
Grumpy dad.
He didn’t feel very reassured about his decision when he walked into the lobby of the Lazy Parrot and saw no one (as usual) at the front desk. He hadn’t realized it was so late. Probably Molly was in bed already. After all, tomorrow was Monday, a workday, even for children’s librarians. He should have called first.
But if he called, he might wake her. He could take a gamble, he thought, and hope she was still up and at the tiki bar—though what would she be doing there this late on a Sunday night?
He went through the lobby and out into the courtyard and instantly regretted it.
“Hello again, sexy policeman!” The tourist from before was in the hot tub—even though it was close to seventy-five degrees outside—and she was still drinking. How was that even possible? By rights she should have passed out by now from dehydration.
But no—she had a plastic cup shaped like a coconut in her hand, accompanied by a pink paper umbrella. She was staying well hydrated on something.
“Hello,” John replied, just to be polite.
“Are you looking for Molly again?” the woman asked. There were several other people in the hot tub with her, none of whom, unfortunately, was Molly.
“Well,” John said, trying to figure out the best reply. If he said yes, it might not look good. But if he said no, it would be a lie. “I, er—”
“He’s looking for Molly,” the woman assured her friends, and they all cackled in a friendly but decidedly knowing way.
Feeling foolish standing there with his pie, John began to back away. “Maybe I’ll just come back another—”
“Oh, no, don’t do that,” the woman said. “Is that for her?” She was eyeing the insulated bag in his hands.
“Um,” he said. “Yes, it is.”
“What is it?”
“It’s, um.” John could not remember ever feeling so stupid. “It’s a pie.”
“A pie?”
“A key lime pie.”
The women in the hot tub exchanged glances. John couldn’t read them, exactly, since it was dark in the courtyard except for the light from the pool and the party lights strung across the tiki hut. But he thought they were smiling.
“Don’t worry, hon,” one of the women said, finally. “We’ll get her for you.” Then, to John’s utter mortification, the women began to scream, “Molly! Molly!”