LITMIR.BIZ

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yet. That’s why I come in early to the shop every day. Say, I hear you’ve got a renter.”

      Cy goggled at the speed of the Tumbledown gossip mill. “Yeah? What do you know about him?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Nothing?”

      “What should I know about him?” Nester asked.

      “Nothing.”

      “Nothing?” Nester raised an eyebrow.

      “Right. I’ve got to go to Julio’s and the hardware store.”

      “Cuz you’re gonna renovate the River King?”

      Nester heard a lot for a guy who was hiding from his pregnant wife and running a hole-in-the-wall bakery. “Something like that. See you later, Nester.”

      On his way out, he held the door for two more ladies sporting yellow straw hats. He figured it was some sort of convention.

      His next stop was the bookstore, and Julio Mendez greeted him with his usual effusive welcome, extra chins wobbling.

      “Hello, my friend. Welcome to the shop. It’s been a good long while since I’ve had the pleasure.”

      Cy felt the minutes on his three-week deadline ticking by. “Julio, I’m in a rush and I need your help, seeing as you’re the president of the historical society.”

      Julio straightened to his full five foot three and smoothed his bulging shirt front. “Copresident, to be precise. Mrs. Mendez is the president on paper.” He delivered the last bit in hushed tones. “How may I be of assistance?”

      “I need to know everything there is to know about the River King.”

      “The paddle wheel steamboat currently docked in our fair cove?”

      “The same.”

      Julio closed his eyes. “Maiden voyage in...?”

      “1927.”

      “Four decks, steel rudders, two boilers and a twenty-six-foot stern wheel?”

      “Yes. Used for many different purposes over the years.”

      “Indeed,” Julio said, speeding off down the aisle. Cy scrambled to catch up. “As soon as the River King came to dock in our waters three months ago, I began collecting volumes about the rich history of paddle wheel steamboats. Monarchs of the river, you see.”

      “I figured you’d be up to speed.” Cy trotted along behind, accepting dusty books. Baggy followed his own trail through the labyrinth of shelves. Since the books were alphabetized by authors’ first names, Cy had no earthly idea where to help look on the shelves. Julio did not need help anyway, and Cy had a half dozen volumes in hand when the bell on the door chimed, then chimed a second and third time.

      “Excuse me, won’t you?” Julio said. He returned to the cash register.

      Cy figured he had enough to get started. Hefting the load to the front of the shop, he found a dozen or so yellow-hatted ladies milling around. One squatted down, her hand extended.

      “I think it’s a dog,” she was saying.

      Baggy was at his perky best, skinny tail whipping back and forth. He beamed his one steady eye at the crouching woman.

      “Yep, he’s a dog,” Cy confirmed.

      The lady gave Baggy a scratch behind the ears. “Knew it. Is he yours?”

      “I think it’s more like I’m his. He was abandoned.”

      Her brown eyes grew troubled, deep frown lines forming on her face. “Unforgivable. People can be animals.”

      “Agreed. I’m Cy Franco, by the way.” He gave her a hand up, and they shook.

      “Florence Jenkins, but everyone calls me Flo.” Her straw hat slipped, and she crammed it back over her waves of silver hair. “Nice to meet you and your unusual dog.”

      Cy took in the ladies, who seemed to be mostly in the fifty-and-up crowd. “Are you all staying in Tumbledown?”

      “As a matter of fact—” she started.

      One of the taller women called out. “Girls, we’ve got to go. Bus for the pumpkin patch tour leaves in five minutes.”

      Cy was impressed that Sid Crawford, who owned some hundred acres on the outskirts of Tumbledown, had managed to put together a tour that would interest the assembled ladies. Sid wasn’t exactly a people person, but perhaps his son had realized that harvesting tourist dollars took even less effort than growing pumpkins.

      Flo waved goodbye, and the ladies departed in a yellow storm.

      Julio wiped sweat from his brow. “Good to have tourists.”

      And it was. Tumbledown was an easily overlooked spot south of Half Moon Bay. Even folks lured in by the newly docked River King probably headed straight for the bigger towns to spend their souvenir money. In a matter of months, the hordes would descend on the annual Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival, for which Sid would provide his best specimens. Tumbledown might see a few adventurous visitors, but not usually in such organized groups as the yellow-hatters seemed to be.

      Julio drifted to the window. “What in tarnation will they do in Tumbledown to amuse themselves? We don’t even have a hotel here now that the Pelican’s not an inn anymore.”

      Cy felt a pinch of discomfort. What could be entertaining enough for the ladies? His gaze drifted toward the ocean. Though he couldn’t see the pier where the River King was docked, he could imagine her there, reception room in disarray, flooded staterooms awaiting repair.

      Surely Irene had not booked such a large group now, when he desperately needed every minute of uninterrupted time to meet his insane deadline? She would have said something while she was blackmailing him.

      “Can you pack up these books for me, Julio, and take them over to the Pelican later today?”

      “Of course. We pride ourselves on excellent customer service here. As a matter of fact—”

      “Thanks, Julio,” he called, scooping up Baggy and rushing out the door.

      * * *

      PIPER MEANT TO lock herself in her minuscule stateroom, which doubled as a cleaning supply closet, but Irene Hershey intercepted her. She clutched two fistfuls of yellow helium balloons.

      “These need to go in the reception room, pronto.”

      Though she did odd jobs around the boat in exchange for her room, Piper had already put in her time helping Hollister clean the lobby. “I’m not on the clock yet.”

      Irene’s eyes narrowed. “You are now. Kitty needs help in the kitchen, and Hollister is up to his ponytail in unfolded towels.”

      Piper noted the web of wrinkles that Irene’s powder was not able to hide. Her mouth drooped with fatigue or possibly worry. Running a small business was a killer.

      Irene thrust the balloons at Piper. “I can pay you minimum wage for the extra hours. Take it or leave it.”

      Piper took it, and the balloons. Giving in stung her pride, but once again, she was not in a position to worry about that. She didn’t see the logic in decorating a room that Cy was about to tear apart, but she didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about him. Her primary concern had to be finding another place for her uncle to live. It was mortifying that Cy had allowed her uncle to stay, even though he clearly despised Boris. She would find something else. Any other residence besides Cy Franco’s beloved old inn. She’d have to earn enough extra money for a security deposit, at least.

      In the reception room, someone had rolled out the long banquet table and several large rounds, which were now covered with straw-colored linens. They had definitely not been set up when she’d left the night before, after the Spooley overboard debacle.

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