Page 82 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“It’s probably too far to go to Fish Bay now,” I said.

“No, that road—” he pointed “—all downhill to Fish Bay. You ready?”

“Yeah—oh, wait!”

Sherry walked out from behind the food truck. With her was a wiry-looking man with dark hair, sunglasses, and a moustache. He looked rough and edgy, or was that my imagination filling in blanks?

Sherry held out an envelope, which he took and immediately pocketed. No, not suspicious at all, handing an envelope to a strange man in the middle of St. John. She yelled at him, her face firm, angry, determined. He stood there and took it, his expression unchanged. He nodded as she went on a rant, then he said something to her. I couldn’t read lips. That would have been a very useful skill.

Sherry strode back to the taxi, and the driver left.

“We done?” Jorge said.

“Yeah,” I said. As discreetly as possible, I took a photo of the strange man. He retrieved the envelope from his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash. He counted it, nodded to himself, and pocketed the money. He tossed the envelope in the trash can outside the food truck, then went inside the truck, closed down the sides, and a minute later drove off.

“Do you know him?” I asked Jorge as he started pedaling in the opposite direction.

He shrugged. “No, miz. The truck?Sí.It’s a, um, business with many food trucks.”

I leaned back and wondered what Sherry Morrison was up to... and if it was going to hurt Brie.

Fifteen minutes later, Jorge emerged from a winding but downhill road to a flat area with a view of a small, narrow bay. Jorge pulled over under a large tree in front of a business that looked like a house with a sign that read “Fish Bay Fish Tacos.”

“Crusty’s here,” he said. “Best food, cheap.”

“Um, can you wait for me? I can pay you when I get back to your grandmother.”

“ATM,” he said, and pointed to a sign in the window that blinkedATMin red.

“Okay, I’ll get cash. Can you wait?”

He smiled, put his feet up on his handlebars, and leaned back on his seat.

I entered the restaurant. No AC. A long counter separated the kitchen from the dining area, which was dotted with small, mismatched tables. Several people were eating, and no one looked like a tourist.

“What’dya haven?” The young girl spoke quickly, stringing her words together and pronouncinghavingashaven.

I looked at the handwritten menu on a chalkboard. Two items had already been erased for the day.

“Four special tacos? And um, two water bottles?”

I didn’t know what was in the tacos, but the place, though too hot, smelled delicious.

The girl called out the order and rang me up, placed two small water bottles on the counter. The water cost more than the tacos.

“I need to talk to Crusty.”

I was really hoping that Crusty wasn’t the scary-looking man behind the counter who was currently making my tacos.

“Yep.”

That was all she said.

“And is he here?”

“Nope.”

“Where can I find him? Jorge’s grandma—” I said when I realized I hadn’t gotten her name “—told me I could find him here.”

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