Beach Town by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

the sidewalk in front of the pizza parlor. She heard the heavy bass thump of music coming from a place called the Crow’s Nest, which, by the looks of the Harleys parked out front, constituted the local biker bar, and through the open door at Castaways she saw young families waiting to be seated for the chalkboard-advertised seafood buffet.
    The scent of shrimp boil drifted on to the sidewalk. An older-model sedan rolled slowly past on the street, and a horn honked, followed by a low wolf whistle.
    She allowed herself a small, secret smile, then walked a little faster.
    *   *   *
    The Cypress Key Inn was a white two-story wood-frame building with a wraparound porch furnished with wide-bottomed rocking chairs, wicker settees, and huge, leafy ferns. A pair of gas lanterns marked the front door, and Greer was charmed even before she walked inside.
    The hotel lobby was dimly lit, but she could make out dark varnished wood floors, white plank walls, and a few pieces of ornate Victorian furniture. Behind the high-topped reception desk a staircase curved upward to the second floor. It looked like a movie set—in fact, it would be perfect for the film, and she wondered why she hadn’t found this place earlier.
    An elaborately carved bar stretched along one side of the lobby, and every stool was full. Sitting in the stool right in the center, looking up at the wall-mounted television showing a baseball game, was Eb Thibadeaux.
    Greer stepped neatly into the dining room, hoping to avoid another encounter with Cypress Key’s mayor.
    There was a hostess stand located a few feet inside the door. The blond girl manning the stand was naturally pretty, but she’d given herself the dramatic Katy Perry eye makeup treatment in a failed attempt to make herself look older. Despite the navy shadow, the shiny black eyeliner, and the short, sleeveless black dress, it was obvious that she couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
    â€œDinner?” the girl asked, gazing over Greer’s shoulder to see if she had a date.
    â€œYes, please. Table for one.”
    The girl frowned and looked down at the open book on her stand before glancing into the dining room just beyond the doorway. The room held a dozen or so tables, and at least three were vacant. But the tables were candlelit, with pale pink starched tablecloths and small vases of flowers, and the diners were dressed up, for Cypress Key, which meant collared shirts for the men, a scattered few sport coats, and dresses on the women.
    â€œDo you have a reservation?”
    â€œNo. Do I need one?”
    â€œNot really. I’m just supposed to ask, because it sounds fancier.” The girl giggled, grabbed a menu, and motioned for Greer to follow.
    She seated her at a table on the enclosed porch, by a window. “How’s this?”
    â€œGreat.”
    The girl looked around for a moment. “Okay, um, well, we’re kind of shorthanded tonight. Do you want something to drink?”
    Greer scanned the abbreviated wine list and ordered what she hoped was a safe choice—the house white—then went back to reading the menu.
    â€œEverything’s really good,” the hostess offered. “Like, the grouper came off a boat just a little while ago, so it’s fresh, and so is the redfish, but it’s kind of spicy. The fried shrimp is my favorite, but some people like the linguine with clam sauce. We farm the clams locally, you know. And uh, well, you can always get the chicken or a steak. We only have one special tonight, the soft-shell crabs. They’re saut é ed in butter and wine, and served over potatoes and some kind of spinach stuff.”
    â€œSoft-shell crabs,” Greer said quickly.
    *   *   *
    Her food arrived, and she had to agree with the recommendation that the Inn actually did have the best food in town. In fact, it was the best she’d had in a long time. She nibbled at her salad,