of their little community.
To Lyndsay’s pleasure, the contractors and workers in the cul-de-sac had bought her cover story lock, stock and barrel. Indeed, she’d enjoyed these lunches and afternoon breaks with Andy’s crew so much, she’d even felt like an interior designer, which wasn’t so strange, considering that had been her original life’s plan when she’d first left home, at eighteen. The police force had come later.
“Hey, Lyn.” Andy greeted her with a smile.
Lyndsay nodded to Andy. “How’s it going?”
“Great. I saw you taking off early for lunch,” he remarked, sitting across from her at the table.
“Yeah, playing hooky,” she admitted sheepishly.
He laughed, the lines around his eyes squinting as he did so. He was in his late fifties, she judged. Andy reminded her so much of her father, with his graying temples and crinkled blue eyes.
He peered at her plate. “So you took my advice—I told you to try the BLT. What do you think?”
“You’re right, it’s really good.” It was easy to give him a genuine smile—she liked the sandwich. A movement caught her peripheral vision, and she chanced a glance at the bar. John was ducking into the door toward what was presumably the kitchen, and Millie was beside the register, taking a phone order.
Andy saw her glance away and turned around, noting what she’d been looking at. Then he turned back. He seemed like he was going to ask her something—possibly about John—so Lyndsay intercepted that thought. Not the right time.
“What are you going to have today?” she asked Andy. “Want me to read the menu for you?” He usually squinted as he strained to read the menu blackboard across the room. “There’s a pastrami on rye. Salads, but I know you don’t like salads, so—”
“Pastrami on rye.” Andy nudged his son. “Will you order for me while I hit the can?”
Yes, the crew had grown ever more comfortable with her by the day, to the point where they were no longer worried by their language. Lyndsay hid a smile and focused on what was left of her sandwich. The bread and the vegetables were fresh, and the bacon had been cooked just right.
When she’d finished a bite, she turned to Moon Buzzell, nicknamed “Moon” because of his round face and somewhat spacey manner. Or so she’d been told by Andy. Moon had just returned from the soda case and was opening a bottle of blue sport drink.
“Hi, Lyn.” He gave her a goofy look. “You came out early today.”
“I did.” She deliberately kept her gaze from the bar and focused only on him.
Moon’s cheeks turned red. “Andy told me today is your last day.”
“It is. I’m hoping I can come back and implement my proposal, but we’ll have to wait and see if it gets accepted.”
The door opened. Lyndsay made sure to smile and wave at the crew of guys—and one gal—who streamed inside before heading over to the soda case. The Burke crew, she privately called them. She’d already recorded information for all of them. It was a close-knit microcosm of men and women who serviced the wealthy beach homes. But she’d gotten to know their habits.
John was back behind the bar. Today one of them asked him for a draft beer. Instead of a draft, John opened a bottle of local brew for the gregarious painter without comment.
Lyndsay took a sip of her iced tea and pretended to pay full attention to Moon Buzzell as he recounted to her his opinion of the hockey game the night before. At the same time, she observed the McAuliffes.
They’d arrived alone, in their white box truck with the New Hampshire license plates whose numbers she’d already phoned in to Pete. The two men put in a to-go order and stayed apart from the others. Both scrolled their phone messages quietly as they waited.
“How is the shower stall coming?” she remembered to ask Moon after he’d finished a bite of his Italian submarine sandwich.
His face brightened. “Stop by and see it. I should be done tomorrow. Maybe you could put one into your design plans for Mrs. MacLaine?” he asked hopefully.
Bingo, here was her opening. Job done.
“If I have time,” Lyndsay said offhandedly, as if it wasn’t important and she was really busy. Even though the design plans were just a front, she was doggedly spending a few hours each day calling up her foggy memory of how to wrestle with the design software installed on her task force-issued laptop. “What are you using for tile?”
“They wanted standard white subway tile.” Moon scratched his head. “I think.” He shrugged. “For sure the showerheads are something else. Special order, real high-end.”
“I’d like to see that,” she said. “Okay, you’ve piqued my curiosity. I’ll stop by this afternoon. The MacLaines were looking for some high-end suggestions,” Lyndsay lied.
Moon stopped chewing and swallowed. “Keep me in mind for the installation. I could use the business.”
“Of course,” she promised.
Andy returned from the bathroom. Over the rim of her glass, Lyndsay saw the McAuliffe brothers gathering up to leave. Millie was busy with another table, so it was John who passed the two brothers each a white plastic bag and rang up their orders, which they paid separately. One of the brothers took his phone, touched the screen, then pressed it to his ear.
At the same time that the McAuliffe brothers were on the move, Andy approached John at the bar, leaning casually in to speak with him. The two men seemed to know each other. John still kept that level, guarded expression while Andy talked with his hands and grinned.
Both men turned and looked at her. Andy brazenly, without guile, and John surreptitiously.
They’re talking about me. It looked like Andy was going to bring John over to introduce him to her.
John’s gaze remained on hers. And even though his look was stoic, almost fiercely shielded behind lips set in a solid line and facial muscles gilded bronze and hard, his eyes told a different story. They searched her, up and down.
To her legs beneath the short dress. The thin T-shirt she wore beneath the leather jacket, and the high ponytail that bared her neck and collarbones to him.
Oh, no. Had she overplayed her role? All she’d wanted to know was his name. And to keep her cover, but he certainly didn’t look suspicious of her now.
He looked like he was interested in her. As a woman.
Swallowing, she glanced at her hands. She didn’t want to feel attracted to anyone. Not on an undercover assignment. Not during her big career break.
She glanced up again, and he took another long look at her, gazing directly into her eyes. She exhaled, not sure what to do. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling he gave her, on the contrary. But professionally, it could be dangerous.
Andy seemed to notice her torment. With growing realization, he stared from his friend to her. His friend noticed, too, giving Andy an irritated look, then turned back to the evident problem with his beer tap.
Quickly, Lyndsay turned to Moon and murmured, “Who is the guy behind the bar with Andy? What’s his name?” The more advance intel she had, the better for her to play her part. She was giving up on subtly, but this was typically lost on Moon, anyway.
“Who, John Reilly?” Moon asked.
Bingo, that’s all I need. “Yes, I guess that’s his name,” she murmured. “I haven’t been introduced to him yet.”
Moon shrugged, not looking too happy that her attention was on John Reilly instead of on him. “He’s usually in the kitchen when it’s busy.”
Indeed, two more contractor vans had pulled in. It seemed that everyone at the beach was getting ready for summer season.