this opportunity had arisen—to work undercover, a chance at maybe later being promoted to a detective. Her dad had been so thrilled to hear about it. She’d thought maybe...maybe her life could be more fulfilled if this professional assignment worked out and she became a full-time detective. She would get to work on bigger cases, help more people than by being a police officer in a squad car. It would also be a job where she could actually wear street clothing and feel more like her long-ago, pre-widowhood self.
She glanced down to where her duty belt usually dug into her hips. Not today. Today she wore a dress she’d chosen because she liked it, with brown tights underneath and ankle boots, plus a short leather jacket that fit her undercover status.
She glanced at John.
Only to catch him staring at her again. Then, after that split second when they met gazes, he abruptly looked away. And he continued his conversation with the beer distributor guy.
John bent over, and for a moment she was treated to the sight of his clearly muscled torso that had been hidden by his oversize black T-shirt. He had...a nice body. She inhaled and crossed her legs beneath the wooden table. But it wasn’t the appropriate time or place to be thinking of such things, not by a long shot.
She forced herself to look away from the bar and toward the door. Through two sets of plate glass windows she saw the small parking lot where her sporty, black, undercover car was by itself. In early April, the place was still briskly cool, too early for the summer season, and thus, not crowded with traffic and beachgoers on vacation.
The sound of tires on gravel crackled, and Lyndsay refocused. Right on time, Andy Hannaman and his crew had arrived in their large white work van with Hannaman General Contractor stenciled in red paint inside a white oval-shaped logo.
In the front seat was Andy’s son, AJ, and in the back seat, AJ’s friend Chet Evans. A black pickup truck followed the van into the lot. Moon Buzzell, who was building a new tile shower under Andy’s direction at the mansion next door to where Lyndsay was undercover, had shown up.
As Andy exited his van, he saw her through the window and waved. Cheerfully—because she had genuinely come to like him—she waved back. Andy was older than her, closer to her father’s age than to her own, and she felt comfortable with him. It had helped even more that he’d taken her under his wing on their four-mansion cul-de-sac in the wealthy section of private beach. None of the residents were back yet; it seemed all of them had hired work out to local contractors in order to prepare for the upcoming summer season.
Andy strode inside, trailed by his son and two employees. Lyndsay wasn’t worried about them—she’d spent four days now as part of their little community.
To Lyndsay’s pleasure, the contractors and workers in the cul-de-sac had bought her cover story lock, stock and barrel. Indeed, she’d enjoyed these lunches and afternoon breaks with Andy’s crew so much, she’d even felt like an interior designer, which wasn’t so strange, considering that had been her original life’s plan when she’d first left home, at eighteen. The police force had come later.
“Hey, Lyn.” Andy greeted her with a smile.
Lyndsay nodded to Andy. “How’s it going?”
“Great. I saw you taking off early for lunch,” he remarked, sitting across from her at the table.
“Yeah, playing hooky,” she admitted sheepishly.
He laughed, the lines around his eyes squinting as he did so. He was in his late fifties, she judged. Andy reminded her so much of her father, with his graying temples and crinkled blue eyes.
He peered at her plate. “So you took my advice—I told you to try the BLT. What do you think?”
“You’re right, it’s really good.” It was easy to give him a genuine smile—she liked the sandwich. A movement caught her peripheral vision, and she chanced a glance at the bar. John was ducking into the door toward what was presumably the kitchen, and Millie was beside the register, taking a phone order.
Andy saw her glance away and turned around, noting what she’d been looking at. Then he turned back. He seemed like he was going to ask her something—possibly about John—so Lyndsay intercepted that thought. Not the right time.
“What are you going to have today?” she asked Andy. “Want me to read the menu for you?” He usually squinted as he strained to read the menu blackboard across the room. “There’s a pastrami on rye. Salads, but I know you don’t like salads, so—”
“Pastrami on rye.” Andy nudged his son. “Will you order for me while I hit the can?”
Yes, the crew had grown ever more comfortable with her by the day, to the point where they were no longer worried by their language. Lyndsay hid a smile and focused on what was left of her sandwich. The bread and the vegetables were fresh, and the bacon had been cooked just right.
When she’d finished a bite, she turned to Moon Buzzell, nicknamed “Moon” because of his round face and somewhat spacey manner. Or so she’d been told by Andy. Moon had just returned from the soda case and was opening a bottle of blue sport drink.
“Hi, Lyn.” He gave her a goofy look. “You came out early today.”
“I did.” She deliberately kept her gaze from the bar and focused only on him.
Moon’s cheeks turned red. “Andy told me today is your last day.”
“It is. I’m hoping I can come back and implement my proposal, but we’ll have to wait and see if it gets accepted.”
The door opened. Lyndsay made sure to smile and wave at the crew of guys—and one gal—who streamed inside before heading over to the soda case. The Burke crew, she privately called them. She’d already recorded information for all of them. It was a close-knit microcosm of men and women who serviced the wealthy beach homes. But she’d gotten to know their habits.
John was back behind the bar. Today one of them asked him for a draft beer. Instead of a draft, John opened a bottle of local brew for the gregarious painter without comment.
Lyndsay took a sip of her iced tea and pretended to pay full attention to Moon Buzzell as he recounted to her his opinion of the hockey game the night before. At the same time, she observed the McAuliffes.
They’d arrived alone, in their white box truck with the New Hampshire license plates whose numbers she’d already phoned in to Pete. The two men put in a to-go order and stayed apart from the others. Both scrolled their phone messages quietly as they waited.
“How is the shower stall coming?” she remembered to ask Moon after he’d finished a bite of his Italian submarine sandwich.
His face brightened. “Stop by and see it. I should be done tomorrow. Maybe you could put one into your design plans for Mrs. MacLaine?” he asked hopefully.
Bingo, here was her opening. Job done.
“If I have time,” Lyndsay said offhandedly, as if it wasn’t important and she was really busy. Even though the design plans were just a front, she was doggedly spending a few hours each day calling up her foggy memory of how to wrestle with the design software installed on her task force-issued laptop. “What are you using for tile?”
“They wanted standard
