He opted to walk the three-quarters of a mile to the village. Reduce the carbon footprint, he thought, and as chief he had a car available at the station.
The walk gave him time to take some stock. He wasn’t nervous. He’d lived on the island for nearly three months now, had felt its pulse. Plenty of the 1,863 islanders—ages from seven months to eighty-eight—hadn’t figured he’d last the winter.
But he had.
Some of them calculated he wouldn’t finish out the summer as chief.
But he would.
He didn’t just like his life here, it was his life.
He had a separate mission, and he’d work the Hobart case until the crazy bitch heard the door slam on her cell; but his priority now, from today on, had to be the island.
He spotted a couple of deer in what he thought of as his woods, took that as a positive sign. Snowmelt made the ground soft under his feet, and the white stuff lay in pools and patches. They weren’t done with it, at least according to the old guys who hung out at the Sunrise, drinking coffee, playing cards, and bullshitting in the afternoons.
Their consensus called for one more good nor’easter to blow winter out into spring.
He wouldn’t bet against them.
He passed some of the vacation homes that would be closed up until summer came along. Vandalism, even the kid shit, was rare. Everybody knew every damn body, and everybody who knew every damn body also knew that the island economy largely depended on the summer people.
A few more houses—islanders. He’d made a point to find a way to make at least a passing acquaintance with all the year-rounders.
Artists, photographers, shopkeepers, cooks, gardeners, retirees, bloggers, teachers, lobstermen, craftspeople. A couple of lawyers, a scatter of medical types, mechanics, handymen (and women), and so on.
All of them kept the island humming.
Now he did, too.
He watched the ferry glide toward the mainland. Some had business there, or took jobs off-season. A few sent their kids to private school. The forty-minute commute wasn’t bad, to his mind. No traffic, after all.
He passed the ferry dock, where he knew, from his own memories, cars would line up by the dozens for the trip home after a summer day on Tranquility Island.
He wound his way into the village. Like the rentals, most shops and restaurants stood closed until the season. Some would get a fresh coat of paint once spring bloomed, so faded clapboard would become bright, drawing in visitors and disposable income.
From there the marina and beach offered everything the summer people could want: sun, sand, water, and water sports.
He wound his way to the Sunrise, stepped into the smell of bacon and coffee.
Val, the counter waitress with bright blond hair and a pink apron, offered him a cheerful smile. “Morning, Chief.”
“Morning, Val.”
“Got the first-day jitters, do ya?”
“Not so much. I’m going to need six large coffees to go. Two black, one with cream only, one cream and one sugar, one cream double sugar, and one with that vanilla cream you’ve got and triple sugar.”
She gave him a nod as she went for the pot. “Treating the station?”
“It seems like the thing to do on day one.”
“Good thinking. I’ll mark them with what’s what for you. Maybe you want some coffee cake to go along with it.”
“I’ve got an order for a dozen doughnuts from the bakery. Cops, doughnuts. It’s what we do.”
While Val put the order together, Reed greeted some of the breakfast regulars: the two grizzled men with New England accents so thick he had to retune the frequency of his ears to understand them; the manager of the seasonal Beach Buddies; a birder blogger with his camera, field glasses, notebook; the bank manager; the island librarian.
“Thanks, Val.”
“Good luck today, Chief.”
He carried the take-out tray down to the bakery, picked up his dozen doughnuts, and chatted briefly with the woman who ran Island Rentals while she waited for an order of sticky buns for what she called a brainstorming meeting.
He continued down, took the right at the corner, and walked to the faded white single-story building with its narrow covered porch. The sign on the strip of grass between sidewalk and porch read: TRANQUILITY ISLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT.
Juggling the coffee and doughnuts, he fished out the keys his predecessor had given him the night before over a transitional beer. Reed unlocked the door and, taking one good breath, walked into what was now his house at seven-twenty sharp.
CiCi, who claimed to be a solitary witch as well as a little bit psychic, had insisted on doing some sort of ritual. Cleansing or opening or whatever. He hadn’t seen the harm in letting her light a couple of candles, wave around a sage stick, and chant.
He looked around now at what the city cop in him thought of as a bullpen. The desks where his deputies worked—four in facing pairs, with the other two shared by the summer deputies. The dispatch station ran along the right wall. Visitor chairs were lined up on the left. A map of the island on the wall, a really sad-looking plant of some sort in a pot in the corner.
The steel door led back to three cells. Another to the small armory. One bathroom, unisex, a tiny break room with a hot plate for coffee, a small refrigerator, and a microwave. A table with a chipped linoleum top that he hoped to replace if he could find the means in his budget.
He had a budget. Wasn’t that a kick in the ass?
He moved through the bullpen to the narrow hall that led one way to the break room, the other to the john, and straight ahead to his office.
He went into his office, set down the coffee and doughnuts, took off his jacket, hung it on the tree by the door. His desk faced the office door, and he’d keep it that way. He had a decent chair, a computer, a whiteboard for scheduling, a corkboard, filing cabinets, a single window that brought in some sun.
He had his own hot plate—and eventually he’d replace that with an actual coffee maker.
“Okay then,” he said aloud.
He went behind the desk, sat, booted up the computer, entered his password. He’d created the document the night before during CiCi’s magic ritual, and now opened it, gave it another look, sent it.
When he heard the station door open, he rose, got the coffee and doughnuts, and went out to the bullpen.
It didn’t surprise him Matty Stevenson was the first to arrive.
“Chief,” she said—a little cool, a little clipped.
“Thanks for coming in early. Coffee, black.” He pulled her cup out of the tray.
She frowned at it. “Thanks.”
“Doughnuts.” He flipped the lid on the box. “You’re first, so first choice.” When she continued to frown, he set the box on the closest desk. “When I call everybody in a half hour early, the least I can do is bring coffee and doughnuts.”
While she mulled them over, Leon and Nick came in.
“Chief Quartermaine,” Leon said, friendly but formal.
“Coffee,” Reed said, passing out the cups. “Doughnuts.” He waved a thumb at the box.
Cecil strolled in. “Hey. Am I late?”
“Right on time,” Reed told him, passing him his coffee.
“Wow, thanks, Chief. Hey, just how I like it.”
“Grab a doughnut, take a seat.”
“That damn dog!” Donna rushed in. “I don’t know why I let Len talk me into that damn dog. What’s all this?” she demanded as she took off a puffy jacket, pulled off a boa constrictor of a scarf. “Is this a party or a police station?”
“It’s a meeting.” Reed handed her the last coffee. “Have a doughnut.”
“Doughnuts. We’ll end up with a bunch of fat cops.” But she took one.
“I appreciate you all coming in early. I had a beer with Chief Wickett last night, and he wanted me to tell you all again thanks for the work you’ve done under him. I won’t be changing much around here.”