The Men of Thorne Island. Cynthia Thomason
see her, he said in a coarse whisper, “You know how I feel about Digging Day, Nick. Dex and Ryan are already there.”
Digging Day? What in the world was Brody talking about? She waited until he was hidden under the cart canopy and then parted the slat again. At the back of the cart, where golf bags were usually stored, was an assortment of digging tools—shovels, spades, a couple of buckets. And flying whimsically over all of it was a yellow plastic flag of the sort kids attach to their bicycles.
“Well, isn’t that cute?” Sara said to herself. “Brody must be afraid of being run over by all the traffic on Thorne Island!”
And yet the flag could prove useful. She could follow it and get to the bottom of this Digging Day thing. She was determined to learn as much as she could about the men of Thorne Island.
“Take your time, Bass,” she muttered, allowing herself one last furtive peek out the window. Drat! He was already stepping off the porch. He backed up slowly toward the golf cart, his gaze intent on her window. Sara grinned to herself. At least he hadn’t forgotten about her in his zeal to meet Brody. Even in the predawn light, his impressive figure sent tiny shockwaves of remembrance through Sara’s system. She definitely hadn’t forgotten his impulsive kiss the night before.
“Why don’t you wake up the whole island, Brody?” Nick grumbled, crooking his thumb at Sara’s window.
“She didn’t hear me,” Brody shot back. “I’ve never known a woman who didn’t sleep past sunrise.”
Sara darted to her wardrobe to pull out shorts and a T-shirt. “A lot you know, Mr. Brody. With your attitude, I’ll bet your research sample has been pretty slim!”
Sara left the inn about two minutes after the golf cart carrying the two men pulled away. She followed the tire tracks until they disappeared around a corner of one of the narrow island paths, and then she cut through a wooded area to save time.
There was enough sun now for her to pick her way through the underbrush. Budding maple and oak trees were still in the early stages of new leaf growth, and parting the lowest branches, Sara spotted the bright yellow flag fluttering over the cart several hundred yards away.
The lush ground cover gave way to flowering plants, wild ferns and sumac the closer Sara got to the opposite side of the island. A cool mist rolled over the shore, bringing with it gentle swells to wash up on the rocky soil and retreat with a repetition that calmed the spirit.
Sara decided she would return to this part of the island some time when she wasn’t on a mission. She would choose one of the tall, straight paper birches that lined the beach, spread out a blanket and spend several hours reading a good book. But she didn’t have time to dwell on that now. The golf cart rounded a bend by a stand of sycamore trees. Two men emerged from the trees and met the cart when it stopped a few feet from the water. What an odd picture the imposing Dexter Sweet made as he walked beside the small, wiry Ryan.
Nick and Brody climbed out of the cart, and each man chose a tool from the bag-storage area. Sara crouched behind a patch of cattails and watched while the men set about doing exactly what the name of the day implied. They dug. Sand and rocks flew in the air with each upward swing of the shovels. When water seeped into the widening hole, one or more of the diggers jumped back and shouted a mild obscenity about possible damage to his shoes.
Once in a while one of them would stop and fill a mug from a thermos, prompting Sara to remember that she hadn’t yet had her coffee. After more than half an hour, she grew impatient waiting for something to happen.
Fifteen minutes later the men had produced a sizable hole. Results of their labor sat piled up around them in uniform pyramids of dirt, rocks and sand. Apparently the group decided the hole was large enough for their purpose, whatever that was. They stopped digging and stared at the ground.
Finally Brody removed his hat and wiped his brow. He spoke the only full sentence Sara had been able to distinguish from any of them since they’d started their chore. “Nope, nothing here,” he said. “Might as well get the rods.”
With that proclamation, the men walked back to the trees and returned with fishing equipment. They removed necessary supplies from tackle boxes and prepared their lines. The hole, at least for the moment, was forgotten.
“This is ridiculous!” Sara said, swatting for the umpteenth time at a persistent mosquito that obviously didn’t know the sun was now fully risen. “I’m not going to stay here and watch these guys fish!”
She headed back toward the inn. Her expedition had left her more puzzled than ever. What were they looking for? A body? No, surely not. Nevertheless Sara’s mind conjured up images of bleached white bones and grinning skulls. She envisioned the men of Thorne Island as part of some evil conspiracy. The Erie Islands had a long and colorful history. Perhaps the diggers knew of a heinous murder that had taken place, and they were determined to unearth the grisly evidence of the crime.
By the time she reached the inn, Sara had convinced herself that such a scenario was unlikely. Dexter Sweet, whose goodness overshadowed his size and strength, and who, according to Nick, prompted the nightingales to sing, was not likely to disturb the remains of the dead. Neither was gentle Ryan who cared about flowers and a dying vineyard. And Nick Bass, antisocial hermit and mysterious gunshot victim? Well, anything was possible with him. Then there was Brody. A chill ran down Sara’s spine. She could almost picture him enjoying digging up bones.
Deciding she’d had all she could take of macabre thoughts for one day, she put the matter out of her mind. She entered the inn by the front door, then walked into the parlor and surveyed the nondescript lumps of furniture covered by yards of white cloth—harmless chairs, sofas and tables made to look like ghostly specters.
“Enough of this!” Sara announced to the gloomy room. She yanked back the draperies and opened all the windows. Then she ripped the cover from the lump nearest her to expose a beautiful balloon-backed Victorian chair. Its brocade seat was worn, but its curved mahogany arms could be brought back to their previous splendor with a little polish and some energetic rubbing.
Sara decided upon her project for the rest of the morning. She hoped Bass had left the coffeepot on in the kitchen. She’d have a cup first, then gather up supplies to dust and sweep. She would coax life back into the parlor of the Cozy Cove Inn.
NICK AND DEXTER walked back to the inn after fishing for two hours. Brody had offered to drive them in the cart one at a time, but Nick refused, and not just because Dex had told him the walk would be good for him. The truth was, he’d had about all of Brody he could handle for one day. Also, Nick was getting tired of Brody’s damn Digging Day. Ritual was one thing, but there was no reason this particular ritual couldn’t be carried out at a decent hour. Plus, the guy could really be a cantankerous old coot. Sara was right about that, though Nick would never admit it to her.
Nick thought about Brody’s son, Carl Junior, who hadn’t seen his father in years. The two men had fought over money long ago, but Nick called Junior every few months to give him an update on Brody’s well-being. He’d been making the calls for years, hoping someday the two Brody men would put an end to their feud. But that wasn’t likely to happen very soon. In fact, Brody would have a fit if he knew Nick kept in contact with Junior. But how long could one man hold a grudge? Forever, it seemed, if his name was Carlton Brody, owner of Good Company Hygiene Products.
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