Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Read Free Page B

hands fluttered like hummingbirds, never settling, but Mark could tell it was fussy energy rather than nerves or guilty adrenaline causing the flittering. “We have a weekend rate, you know. Off-season. Very reasonable. Are you in town for business? No time like the present to add a couple days for pleasure, I always say. It’s so lovely this time of year. Quiet. Without all the tourists jostling for space on the beaches. Though I don’t imagine you came for the beaches, what with it being so cold lately. But then it is winter.” She giggled as if she’d made a joke. Biz looked like she was trying not to leap across the counter and throttle the little old lady. “What brings you to Parish Island, Mister Ellison?”
    “The Spanish Inquisition,” Biz grumbled under her breath.
    “Work, I’m afraid. I’m a journalist.”
    “Are you now! Is there a story on our little island?”
    Mark smiled his most trustworthy smile. “ Everyone has a story.”
    Mrs. Kent fluttered, Biz glowered, and a display behind Mark smacked into the back of his legs, knocking him to his knees. “Ow! Damn it —beg pardon, ladies.”
    “ Tony ,” Biz snapped.
    “Heavens, are you all right, Mr. Ellison?”
    Mrs. Kent and Biz rushed to help him up, the latter glowering disapprovingly at the empty air behind his shoulder.
    “Excuse me,” she said curtly, once they had him back on his feet. Biz marched to the corner of the shop and began to give a stern whispered lecture…to a floor lamp.
    Mark frowned. “I’m fine. Is she all right?”
    “Hmm? Oh, Biz? Right as rain.” Mrs. Kent beamed at him. “You will stay until the festival, won’t you, Mr. Ellison?”
    He hadn’t been planning to stay. He’d meant this to be a day trip. Come over on the morning ferry, interview Ms. Marks, poke around to find additional sources, get a feel for the situation and be headed back to Raleigh on the five o’clock ferry. But this looked like it was going to take more than a day to get to the bottom of this story. He had a contact looking into the medical records of the three victims, but this island was where the story breathed.
    And he had the time if he wanted to spend it. His numbers had been slipping lately and, after a handful of reader emails complaining about how jaded his features had become, his editor had more or less commanded him not to return until he’d gotten his mojo back. A few canned columns would fill his inches for the next two weeks whether he was here or in Raleigh.
    Seeing idyllic, sleepy Parish Island, he had a feeling his editor had thought of his story as about as close to a spa vacation as she could assign him.
    “You know, Mrs. Kent, I think I would like to book a room for the night.”
    “No!” Biz spun away from the naughty lamp she’d progressed to wagging her finger at. “You have to leave. Are you insane?”
    Coming from the woman talking to the lighting fixture.
    “Biz, really ,” Mrs. Kent exclaimed, but before she could say more, the bells jangled, the door opened, and a slim, dark-haired man stepped inside.
    “Mrs. Kent?”
    “Grand-central-fucking-station,” Biz muttered, retreating back behind her counter as the B&B owner turned to the newcomer.
    “Mr. Bloom! What can I do for you?”
    Bloom avidly tracked Biz’s progress back to her perch, but when she looked in his direction he flinched and flicked his gaze to Mrs. Kent, blinking rapidly. “Internet,” he blurted, his pale face reddening. “The internet is down. My window faces… I saw you over here.”
    “Of course! Drat that router-thingamawhatsit,” Mrs. Kent prattled. “I’ll be over in a jiff to get it set to rights, Mr. Bloom.”
    Bloom hesitated, momentarily stymied by the dismissal, then sort of bowed in Biz’s direction and disappeared out the door as abruptly as he’d arrived.
    Mrs. Kent patted Mark’s arm, protecting her sale. “The internet works quite well, I assure you. Mr. Bloom is my other guest at the Shoreview. Perhaps