Riptide Read Free Page A

you?”
    “Fair to middlin’,” she answered. “It’s press day, you know. Busy, busy.”
    “Is Woody in?”
    “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Well, that is, he’s in, but no, don’t talk to him today.”
    “Well, I have to, sorry.”
    “Can it not wait until tomorrow?”
    “No, I need him to put something in the paper for me.”
    “Oh, no, that won’t do.” Mrs. Daily started fiddling with the chain on her bifocals. “The paper’s almost set to go.”
    “It’ll be all right, Mrs. Daily.” Wyatt started heading toward the hallway that led to the press room and Woody’s office.
      “Oh, it won’t,” she said. “Mercy, I’ll have to listen to him all day.”
    Wyatt walked back to the small office belonging to Woody Dumont, the paper’s editor. The office was the only enclosed area in the back of the building. Beyond it was an open area with several desks, where reporters and other employees tapped away on their keyboards or squinted at ads and graphics on their monitors. Beyond the staff area was the actual press.
    Woody, a slightly-built, balding, and chronically agitated man in his early fifties, was standing at a table against a windowed wall, inspecting a physical mock-up of the paper, with various articles cut and taped onto newsprint. Wyatt rapped on the door jamb and Woody looked over his shoulder.
    “Oh, hey, Sheriff,” he said cheerfully.
    “Hey, Woody. I need you to do something for me,” Wyatt said, walking into the office.
    Woody turned around and craned his neck to look at Wyatt. “What do you need?”
    “I need to you to put something in the paper for me.”
    “Tomorrow’s paper?” Woody asked.
    “Yes, please.”
    “Nope.” Woody started shaking his head emphatically. “No, can’t do that. I’m sorry.”
    “I need you to do it anyway,” Wyatt said, trying to soften it with a smile.
    “I can’t,” Woody said, waving a hand at the mock-up behind him. “Paper’s all set.”
    “It can’t wait for next week, Woody, and the Press could be instrumental in helping us solve a case.”
    “What case?”
    “A shrimper found a foot in his net this morning. We’re hoping maybe someone saw something that can help.”
    “A foot? What kind of foot?”
    Wyatt looked down at his sizable shoes. “Just like the ones you and I still have.”
    “A human foot?”
    “Yes. And we need to find out who it belongs to and whether anyone saw anything recently that might be important.”
    “Oh, this is awful! This is—oh, for crying out loud! A shark? Was it one of those ridiculous Bull sharks you think? It’s those people shore fishing, you know.”
    “No, it wasn’t a shark. This foot was cut. Chopped off.”
    Woody stared at Wyatt for a moment. “You mean deliberately?”
    “That’s the assumption, yes,” Wyatt said patiently.
    “Oh, well, dandy! That’s even better. Half the people who read it will think we have sharks and the other half will think we have serial killers.” Woody patted at his chest with his hands as though he were checking for something in his pocket, although he didn’t have one. “This is not good for the tourists, Sheriff.”
    “Well, I realize that, Woody, but—“
    “I mean, we’re online and everything, now! The people out on St. George are gonna pack up and the ones getting ready to book their vacation rentals, why, they’ll go to Destin or, heaven help us, Daytona, if they think we have sharks or serial killers.”
    “We don’t have sharks and serial killers, Woody. Everybody knows serial killers don’t hang out in Apalach.”
    “It could be a passing-through serial killer.”
    “Well, then he’s gone,” Wyatt countered.
    “Where’s the rest of the body?”
    “Hell if I know.”
    “Oh, this is not good.” Woody shook his head. “The rest of it’s gonna wash up on the island and everybody’s gonna be running up and down the beach with their arms in the air. It’s gonna be like Amity Island all over again.”
    “That’s