Tension flowed down the table as Sherry turned toward me. If the girl had any supernatural power, I’d be stone now, holding purses or necklaces, forever stuck in this three ring circus she called a shop. Instead, I got the evil eye. Compared to the glares I got from my aunt at times, Sherry’s scowl had no power on me.
Bill must have been concerned we would jump on the table and give the group a version of a catfight from the women’s prison. He coughed, then continued like Sherry and I hadn’t even spoken. “Mary, do you want to respond to Jill’s suggestion?”
The woman’s eyes got as big as two saucers. “What suggestion?”
“That you could do this for the business community. Maybe you and Jill should talk after the meeting and iron out a proposal. Then we’ll vote on it here and take it to the council.” He patted his wife’s hand. “Next order of business”—he glanced down at the paper—“Josh Thomas would like to discuss the amount of trash floating around the streets.” Bill waved his hand toward Josh and he took it for his cue to stand.
Josh Thomas moved his antique business, Antiques by Thomas, to South Cove last year. Since joining the Business-to-Business group, all he’d done was complain. Okay, he did call the police and save my life last year, but typically, getting involved was not his forte.
He passed out pages of blown-up pictures of trash, flyers, and mostly cups, including a few with Coffee, Books, and More’s logo, on the streets of South Cove. Unfortunately for me, the amount of trash also showed my customer base compared to Lille’s. Her cups outnumbered mine at least two to one. More drinks equaled more revenue, and the hope to make my store profitable on the long term.
“That’s my car,” an artist who ran his own minigallery sat up straighter. Conner McBride was his name, but his Irish ancestry was in doubt, as his accent only came out for the paying customers. “You took a picture of the inside of my car.”
Josh shrugged. “It was disgustingly dirty. You are leaking this trash all over South Cove every time you drive that rattrap.”
“Uncool, man. Way uncool.” The artist shook his head sadly then leaned back, his large sunglasses covering his eyes. If the meeting had been back at the shop, I would have bet money that the guy was asleep behind the sunglasses. Power-napping through the day. It’s a good model. And there’s plenty of mentors in our little town.
Bill’s shoulders were coming close to squeezing his ears off his head. The meeting wasn’t going well, even with the relaxing massage and wine. “Look, Josh. Let’s not start a fight over a little thing like trash. We’re all in the same lifeboat and we can’t be having people punching holes in the bottom of it.”
“He started it.” Josh pointed at Conner.
The young man popped up out of his chair. “I can finish it.”
A hand gently pushed him back in his seat. “So can I.”
Greg King, South Cove police detective and my hunky boy toy, stood behind Conner. He caught my eye and winked. Then he went back to saving Josh’s life.
“Man, I wasn’t going to hurt the dude. I’m not that type of guy.” Conner glowered at Josh. “He needs to stop putting his nose into things where it doesn’t belong.”
“If you can’t calm down, you’ll have to leave.” Greg’s voice was calm, but his words hard.
Conner’s hands flew up in mock surrender. “Like I wanted to be at this stupid meeting in the first place. I just came for the paycheck, man.”
Greg stood back and let the tall, skinny artist stand up and step away from the table. Conner glanced at Sherry, who nodded some answer to an unspoken question.
This was curious. I didn’t think Conner even knew Sherry. And what did he mean by a paycheck? Maybe Conner didn’t own the gallery and his silent partner sent him to the Business-to-Business meeting this month.
Greg watched him leave the store, then slipped into Conner’s chair. He picked up the photocopied picture of the inside of the artist’s car, frowned, then folded the paper and slipped it in his front shirt pocket.
Leaning over the table, I whispered, “What are you doing here?”
Confusion clouded his face, but he leaned toward me and tapped my hand with his. “I’m on the agenda, remember?”
I shook my head. “No, you’re not.” I’d typed up the agenda last weekend. Bill, as chair of the business group, ran the meetings, but I set up the agenda and did the paperwork for the council. Nowhere on the agenda did it list Greg King to speak on anything.
“If we could continue?” Bill visibly shook off the stress the altercation had caused. “Maybe we should table the trash discussion to next month and let our invited guest talk about the viability of a city position for dog catcher.”
I narrowed my eyes at Bill, but he turned his head away. This subject had definitely not been on the agenda I’d sent him. The lack of a central number for pet control was one of Josh’s pet peeves about South Cove. He wanted to round up the homeless cat or two that hung around the shops. Aunt Jackie, on the other hand, couldn’t help feeding the strays.