Olive and Let Die by Susannah Hardy Page A

was making her afternoon returnable can and bottle rounds. Her hair was a strawberry blond today—she never seemed to be able to settle on a hair color, but it was always a shade of red. The pickings had been slim for her, apparently, because she only had a couple of small bags filled up. Not surprising. This time of year the only tourists we got came on the weekend.
    She waved me over.
    Jack smiled. “This is my cue to leave. Brenda wants to talk with you. Consider yourself kissed.”
    â€œConsider yourself kissed too.” I felt a little stab. This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman and I was hiding—and not doing such a hot job of it—my relationship with a perfectly suitable guy.
    He folded down the backseat of his Jeep Wrangler and finished loading the boxes, which barely fit in the small compartment, and left.
    I made my way over to Brenda. “How’s it going?” I asked.
    â€œCan’t complain,” she said. “Business will pick up this weekend.”
    â€œWhat can I do for you?”
    She rearranged some cans that had fallen over, then looked up at me. “Just so you know, your mother-in-law asked me to keep an eye on you again.”
    I rolled my eyes. This wasn’t the first time Sophie had asked Brenda to spy on me. I couldn’t even work up any anger about it—too much else was going on. “Did she pay you enough?”
    Brenda smiled. Her teeth were a bit crooked, but her smile lit up her face. “Not enough for me not to tell you about it.”
    I wondered if she wanted something in return. We’d sort of bonded during my last adventure. Underneath the bad hair and the uneducated veneer, there was a savvy businesswoman that I’d grown to admire. She was far more intelligent than anybody, including me up until a few weeks ago, gave her credit for. Something occurred to me. Caitlyn and Melanie.
    â€œYou know we’ve got a celebrity in town?”
    She shrugged, but her eyes were calculating. “Sure. That Melanie Ashley from the soaps.”
    â€œHave you seen her?”
    Brenda looked thoughtful, then reached into her cart and rearranged some of her hoard. “Not her. But that girl she’s traveling with. She’s been back and forth from the Spa. She’s driving a black Beemer with tinted windows and she comes and goes from the public parking lot. Always playing with her phone.” Brenda shook open a fresh trash bag. “Unfriendly.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œAnytime.”
    I walked back to the Bonaparte House, mulling over everything Brenda had told me. An hour later, after processing some paperwork for the restaurant and running some more Internet searches on Melanie, I was still mulling, more determined than ever to find out exactly what my mother and her assistant were doing in Bonaparte Bay. I pulled out my cell to call her, just as it started to buzz. Jack. “Hi. Did you miss me?” I wasn’t practiced at flirting, but I gave it the old college try.
    â€œOf course,” he said. “But that’s not why I called.” There was a pause. “My apartment’s been broken into.”
    I gulped. A memory of my own home being broken into flashed through my mind and I remembered the sick feeling of violation it had engendered. “Was anything taken?”
    â€œWell, I haven’t moved everything from my storage unit from my place in Oswego, so there’s not a lot here. Just clothes, bedding, and some beer in the fridge.” He paused. “I went out to run some errands, and when I returned, I must have spooked whoever it was. I heard someone on the fire escape as I came in. He was gone by the time I got to the door and out onto the stairs.”
    My heart leapt into my throat. I willed myself to calm down. Petty thefts happened all the time in the Bay, though less frequently when the tourists weren’t around. “Are you okay?”
    â€œI’m fine. But I