The line went quiet.
“Hello?”
The woman’s voice returned. “I’m sorry. You have a photo of Siofra?”
Charlotte perked.
Hold on.
She called her Siofra.
Very familiar...almost as if she knows her...
“Yes.”
“Recent?”
“No.” Charlotte frowned.
That was another odd thing to ask.
“It’s a photo of your staff on the day of your grand opening. If you give me an email, I can send it to you.”
The woman clucked her tongue, sounding almost disappointed by Charlotte’s information. “No need. I have that photo. It’s been a while since I looked at it but I’ll take a peek.”
“Great. I appreciate it. My name is Charlotte Morgan.” She gave the woman her phone number. “And can I get your name?”
“Angelina. I’m the concierge-slash-manager.”
“You’ve been there since the beginning?”
“Mm-hm.”
“So I guess you’re one of the people in this photo. Can I ask which one?”
Another pause. “Far left. Dark hair.”
Charlotte dragged her finger along the picture until it rested on the chest of a glamorous, dark-haired, smiling, razor-thin woman.
One of the outside possibilities for Siofra. She’d suspected that person was a little too old to be Siofra, but it was hard to tell from a newspaper clipping. If she was Angelina, then now only two other women could be Siofra.
“Siofra should be about forty-six, so if she’s one of the people in this photo, I think that narrows it down.”
“Mm-hm. I’ll let you know if I can figure anything out for you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Bye-bye.”
The phone clicked dead.
Charlotte stared at the photo, her phone, and then back again.
Angelina knows more than she’s letting on.
There were only a dozen people in the photo, all founding employees. If Angelina was one of them, she had to know who all the others were. Granted, the photo was close to twenty years-old, but still…
I definitely need to go to Jupiter Beach.
It was only a three hour drive to the other side of Florida.
She called back the Loggerhead Inn and got the young woman again.
“Hi. I’d like to book a room.”
Chapter Five
“Another round?”
The bartender, a tawny-haired young man named Ban with the wide-eyed expression of a man eternally goosed by invisible hands, stepped up to the Gophers’ table. Ban was the first-born son of the only hippie in Targetsville and his full name was Ban Nuclear Weapons Wright. His father, Fred Wright, a man known to the Gophers, had insisted on being addressed as Foliage Wright soon after his eighteenth birthday.
“Sure,” said Tommy. He offered Bob a side-eyed glance as Ban walked away. “I think that boy’s eyes bulged out the first time he heard his own name.”
Bob snorted a laugh. “I think it happened when he heard his wacko parents name his little brother.”
Ban’s little brother, Clubsoda Not Seals Wright, worked at The Bromeliad as a bar back.
Mac leaned forward to join the fun. “I think his parents took the drugs but he has the flashbacks.”
The group chuckled.
“Winner,” said Tommy. The three of them toasted with a clink of their beer glasses.
“Remember the time T.K. grew that tomato in the shape of Jane Meadows?” asked Bob, staring at the one empty chair at their table. Ban approached with a tray of fresh beers.
Frank took one. “Yep. What a talent that man had. Remember him dressed up as Santa Claus on Christmas, puffin’ on those damn Tomato-King-killin’ cigarettes?”
Mac took the last draught of his beer and pushed away his empty glass to replace the coveted spot in front of him with his refill. “Remember the heroic way little Davy Thompson threw himself on T.K.’s face when his Santa beard caught on fire? Good thing he had the fire chief’s son on his lap when it happened. I can still see him givin’ those kids tomatoes out of his sack...”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Givin’ the disappointed kids tomatoes. Bless him for playin’ Santa, but those kids didn’t want tomatoes. They wanted Masters of the Cosmos men or whatever they were into then.”
“Well, he meant well,” mumbled Frank. “He got to the toys eventually.”
They clinked their glasses.
Mac pounded the table with the flat of his palm and covered his face with his hands. “I love women. Did I ever tell you guys how much I love women?”
Tommy clapped him on the back. “We know Mac. You’re doin’ real good.”
Mac sniffed and nodded. “I love my son, too.”
“We know you do.”
Tommy put his beer glass against his chin and sucked the air out of it to make it hang there. He held out his hands and waggled his head, the glass bobbing back and forth on his face.
Bob motioned to him. “That’s a good one. We should add that to the routine.”
An elderly man in a suit entered the bar and approached their table to stand with his hands folded in front of him like a priest.
The four men looked up at him.
“Can we help you?” asked Frank.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
It sounded to Frank as if the stranger had a touch of British accent, which didn’t help to endear him to Frank. An exchange student from that country had once seduced his girlfriend in high school.
Tommy released the glass sucked to his face. “Man, you got great diction,” he said, unaware the pressure created by his stunt had burst the blood vessels in his chin, giving him a ghastly red goatee.
“Thank you,” said the man.
“You ever been filmed naked?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
Tommy sat up. “I’m looking for a guy to build a tool shed, naked. Or fry some bacon. Take your pick.”
The man flashed an uncomfortable smile. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, and your chin—”
“Play around with hammers
