Sand Sharks

“You have my sympathy,” I said, remembering the unremitting antagonism shown by my game warden’s resentful teenage daughter.

“Fortunately, she’s sixteen now and has started to think I’m pretty cool because I’m not on her case about her boyfriend and her clothes the way my husband and his ex seem to be.”

We agreed that boys were probably easier than girls.

“And cats are easier still,” said Aubrey Hamilton, a judge from up near Virginia. She wore a black pantsuit that sported a generous scattering of cat hairs.

I laughed. “At least kids don’t shed on you,” I said.

“There is that,” she conceded.

I started to edge past her to get to the coffee when over her shoulder I saw Will Blackstone approaching the urns from the opposite direction. His handsome face sported a black eye of epic proportions and he seemed to be getting jovial remarks from those around him.

I decided a bottle of water from the tub of ice at my elbow would do just fine and hastily returned to my seat next to Chelsea Ann, who was laughing with Beth Keever seated on the other side of her.

“We were talking about Judge Blackstone,” she said. “You know him?”

“We’ve met,” I said cautiously.

“Have you seen that black eye he’s wearing?”

Judge Keever leaned in with an amused smile. “He says he fell in the shower last night and hit his eye on the sink. He’s even making noises about a lawsuit against the hotel because of the slippery tub, but John Smith saw him come in off the beach last night with a bloody nose so I don’t think that dog’ll hunt.”

To change the subject, I said, “I saw Rosemary out in the lobby. She seems pretty relaxed.”

Chelsea Ann nodded. “It amazes me, too, how well she’s taking it. I guess she was more ready to move on than she realized. I do wish it’d stop raining, though, so she could get out on the beach while we’re tied up in here. Want to let’s go out somewhere for lunch?”

“Sure,” I said and we turned our attention to the podium as a professor from the School of Government put up the first slide for our update on criminal law.

When we broke for lunch, Detective Gary Edwards was loitering outside. He wanted to talk and I wanted to hear what news, if any, there was in his investigation, but hunger battled with curiosity.

“I’m really sorry,” I told him, “but I skipped supper last night and only had a slice of melon for breakfast, so I’m too hungry to skip another meal.”

“Well, if it’s breakfast you want instead of lunch, let me take you to the best breakfast place out this way. I could use some myself.”

His invitation included Chelsea Ann, who looked interested. “You’re talking about the Causeway, right?”

He nodded.

“Why don’t y’all go on ahead? I have to find my sister. See what she wants to do. Maybe we’ll catch up with you later.”

It was still raining heavily, but Edwards had parked under the portico so I didn’t need an umbrella. Twelve minutes later we were seated on mismatched chairs in just about the scruffiest restaurant I’ve ever walked into.

Its main attempt at a unified decor were the aqua oilcloths imprinted with shellfish that encased the tabletops. The grungy walls and wooden booths cried out for paint, as did the low ceiling. We had passed through clouds of smoke from the cigarette addicts who filled the porch tables. Inside, the air was redolent of hot grease, bacon, and fried fish. On a chalkboard, the day’s leading offering was eggs and grouper.

I was afraid to ask what the sanitary rating might be, but as crowded as it was on this rainy Monday, I knew the food had to be special.

“Only the breakfast menu,” Edwards said. “Everything else is ordinary.”

I quickly settled on scrambled eggs and country sausage—air-dried links with a flavor like nothing else.

“Grits or hash browns?” asked our waitress, a seen-everything brunette on the wrong side of forty. She did not have a cigarette dangling from her lips, but judging by the cloud of nicotine that enveloped her, a lit one waited for her somewhere.

“Grits, please.”

“Biscuits or toast?”

“Biscuits.”

Edwards wanted the salt-cured ham and redeye gravy with his eggs and we both ordered coffee.

I was amazed by the prices listed on the menu. Even with a generous tip, I’d get serious change back from a ten-dollar bill.

“And it’ll be a ten-dollar bill,” Edwards told me. “They don’t take plastic.”

On the drive over, he had told me that Martha was encouraged by the thought that Fitz had squeezed her hand. He also told me that the car that had hit him was registered to Kyle Armstrong, the waiter from Jonah’s, and that he appeared to have fled the town with all his belongings.

As we waited for our food to come, he asked if I’d noticed Kyle paying much attention to Jeffreys.

I shook my head. “Martha’s the one who pays attention to waiters, not me, I’m afraid. Although he did desert