The Hero Next Door. Irene Hannon

      “Very funny.”

      A knock sounded at his door, and he swung his legs to the floor. “Someone’s come calling, kiddo. Gotta run.”

      “Okay, bro. Take care and don’t be a stranger.”

      As the line went dead, J.C. stood and slipped his cell phone into his pocket. Smoothing down the back of his hair with one hand, he opened the door with the other.

      “You must be Justin. Or J.C., as I’m told you prefer to be called. You’re just the way Heather described you. Welcome to Nantucket. I’m Edith Shaw, and this is my husband, Chester.” An older woman with short, silvery-gray hair stuck out her hand.

      As J.C. returned her firm clasp and leaned forward to grasp her husband’s fingers, he gave his landlords a quick once-over.

      Edith’s blue eyes sparked with interest, radiating energy. Although she wore black slacks and a simple short-sleeved blue blouse, J.C. sensed there was a mischievous streak beneath her conservative attire.

      Pink-cheeked Chester, on the other hand, struck him as an aw-shucks kind of guy, content to let his lively wife run the show. He wore grass-stained overalls, suggesting he was a gardener, and a shock of gray hair fell over his forehead. Someone had tried to tame his ornery cowlick, but it had refused to be subdued.

      “I’m happy to meet you both.” J.C. smiled and gestured toward the inside of the cottage. “This place is perfect. And thank you for the pumpkin bread, Mrs. Shaw.”

      She waved his thanks aside. “Plenty more where that came from. And it’s Edith and Chester. I was going to invite you to dinner, but I understand you’ve already eaten next door.”

      J.C. nodded, admiring her investigative skills. “That’s right.”

      “Well, Heather does a fine job. But—” she sized him up “—it’s not a lot of food for a full-grown man. You’d be welcome to join us. I guarantee my beef stew will stick to your ribs.”

      After consuming the tea goodies, a burger and fries, and the last of Edith’s pumpkin bread, there was no way he could eat another meal. “To be honest, I also paid a visit to Arno’s.”

      Chester chuckled. “I’m with you. I like Heather’s food just fine, but it’s not enough to keep a bird alive.”

      “Now, Chester,” Edith chided. “Heather’s a wonderful cook and a great hostess. I’m sure she made you feel welcome, didn’t she?”

      Her keen look took him off guard. As did the odd undertone, which he couldn’t identify. “Yes. She was very hospitable.”

      She gave him a satisfied smile. “Well, then, I’ll bring you out a plate of stew later, and you can put it in the fridge for tomorrow night. And anytime you need anything, you let us know. We’re just a holler away.”

      As she marched across the lawn to her back door, Chester following a step behind, J.C. regarded the stately clapboard house where he’d had tea earlier. Only the roof and parts of the second floor were visible through the trees.

      So the tearoom owner had described him to Edith. Interesting. And intriguing. What had she said? he wondered.

      More to the point, however, why should he care?

      Looking back toward the Shaw house, he found Edith observing him, her pleased smile still in place. With a wave, she disappeared inside.

      Planting his fists on his hips, he studied her closed door. What was that all about?

      But considering the glint in her eyes, maybe he didn’t want to know.

      Chapter Three

      “Now that’s what I call a breakfast.” J.C. sat back in the booth and dropped his napkin beside his plate. “And the price was right. What’s the name of this place again?”

      “Downyflake. Or, as the locals call it, The Flake.” Burke signaled to the waitress. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You look like you could use a few good meals.”

      That was true. But until yesterday, his appetite had been nonexistent. “I’ve been eating well since I’ve been here. Must be the salt air. And it’s been good for you, too. You look younger than when you left Chicago.”

      Three years ago, when Burke had announced he was taking the chief job on Nantucket, J.C. hadn’t been convinced the senior detective would acclimate to the slower pace. He was glad his fears had been unfounded. At fifty-three, Burke’s trademark buzz cut might be more salt than pepper, but the tension in his features had eased.

      “The life here suits me,” Burke confirmed.

      “Here you go, Chief.” The blond-haired, college-age waitress set the bill on the table, flashed them each a smile and trotted on to the next customer.

      When J.C. reached for his wallet, Burke shook his head and picked up the bill. “The first one’s on me. Let’s go take a tour of the station.”

      Less than five minutes later, Burke pulled into a parking space in front of an attractive brick building that sported a row of dormer windows.

      “Used to be the fire station,” Burke told him as he set the brake. “Won’t take long to do a walk-through.”

      Within fifteen minutes J.C. had met the dispatcher on duty—who also served as telephone operator and receptionist. She was ensconced behind a window that looked into the small lobby. The first floor housed the sergeant’s office, interview rooms, a five-cell lockup and a juvenile holding cell; upstairs was home to the department’s four detectives, a briefing room and a few other staff offices.

      At the end of the tour, Burke ushered J.C. into his office. The chief’s desk stood in front of the room’s single window and faced the door, a credenza on the right and a bookcase on the left. Cream-colored walls brightened the space.

      “Quite an improvement over your digs in Chicago.” J.C. grinned as he inspected the room.

      “No kidding. I not only have walls, I have a window.”

      “Yeah.” J.C. strolled over to peruse the view of nearby businesses. “And if you get hungry for sushi, it’s just steps away.”

      “Hey, don’t knock it. There’s more to life than greasy burgers and stale donuts. So how’s the cottage?”

      “It’s perfect. Thanks for recommending it. How do you know the Shaws?”

      “From church. It’s a nice little congregation. You’d be welcome to join us.”

      “I’ll probably take you up on that. I need to find a place to worship while I’m here.”

      Burke gestured toward the chairs to the left of the door. “Now that you’ve seen the station, any questions?”

      “Not yet.”

      “How about if I ask a few, then?” Burke closed the door. J.C. had assumed this was coming. To his credit, Burke hadn’t pushed for information when he’d offered him the temporary summer position. But now that J.C. was here, he wasn’t surprised Burke wanted more details. Besides, they’d been friends for more than ten years. His interest would be both professional and personal.

      Taking one of the chairs, J.C. leaned forward. His breakfast congealed into a cold lump in the pit of his stomach, and he kept his gaze fixed on his clasped hands. “What do you want to know?”

      “Relax, J.C.” Burke sat and crossed an ankle over a knee. “This isn’t an interrogation. It’s one friend lending an ear to another. And just so you know, I called Dennis and Ben. After I offered you the job.”

      J.C. jerked his head up. Dennis had been the office supervisor and Ben his street supervisor during his nine-month deep-cover assignment. They knew the details of that fateful night as well as anyone.

      “If you talked to