“HOW WAS YOUR FLIGHT?”
Vikki Hill looked up from scribbling something illegible on the registration book. “Okay. They put me in the middle seat between two smelly old men. And they didn’t serve any food. Not even a lousy Biscoff cookie.”
“That’s terrible,” the motel manager said. “I can recommend some local restaurants if you’re hungry. Do you like seafood?”
“Not particularly.” Vikki Hill looked around the office. It was cluttered in the way of a business that had been around for a while. Racks of brochures for tourists. A shelf full of well-thumbed paperback books with a sign that saidNEED ONE? READ ONE!There were a pair of cracked plastic chairs on the wall by the front door.
The manager was older, matronly, wearing a bright pink polo with the motel’s logo stitched over the breast. Her name badge saidMURMURING SURF. MANAGER. AVA DECURTIS.
Vikki tried not to stare. DeCurtis wasn’t a common name. She had to be related to the cop.
“There’s a really good pizza place just up the beach road,” Ava said. “Even our guests from New York say it’s good pizza. Gianni’s.” She pushed a pamphlet-size booklet across the counter. “There’s a coupon for a free drink in here. If you’re too tired to go out, they deliver.”
“Thanks,” Vikki said. “I am kind of beat.”
“Can I ask you a question? How did you find us?”
“Why?”
Ava’s face flushed. “Well, uh, you know, we mostly get repeat business here this time of year. I mean, we hope our website is drawing in new business, but I’m always trying to improve. For instance we just redid the unit you’re staying in. So I was wondering if you found us through one of the search engines, or.…”
“I thought the name sounded cute. Murmuring Surf. Like an old song or something.” Vikki looked over the manager’s shoulder. An open door behind her led to an office and storage area. And there was a small red child-size table and chair in an alcove directly behind the reception desk. But no sign of a child, or the child’s aunt.
“It was called that when we bought the place,” Ava said. “My ex thought it sounded cute too. I wasn’t too sure, but you wouldn’t believe what it costs to get a new neon sign. Even back then. So we kept the name. It’s grown on me over the years. And of course, our regulars like it. They hate change. If I so much as bring in a new kind of coffee maker in the kitchens, they raise hell about it.”
“You’ve owned this place for a while then?”
“Oh yeah. Over thirty-five years. What kind of work do you do, Ms. Hill?”
“Nothing too exciting. I’m a civil servant. I punch a clock.”
“Just looking for a little sunshine, huh? I bet it’s still cold back up north. I’ll tell you, I don’t miss those winters.”
“Yeah, it’s nasty cold,” Vikki said. The sun was starting to go down. There was a large palm tree in the middle of the courtyard, and she could see a small group of people gathering there in lawn chairs. “What’s going on out there?”
The manager craned her neck to see. “Oh, that’s just the happy hour group. I don’t allow smoking anywhere else on the property, but they’ll gather out there and have a drink. Strictly BYOB. You’re welcome to join them. I can introduce you.”
“Maybe later,” Vikki said vaguely. She picked up her key. “My room is where?”
“Right down at the end of the breezeway,” Ava DeCurtis said. “Turn left when you walk out the door here. Let me know if there’s anything you need. And welcome to the Murmuring Surf.”
Theroom was nothing to write home about. It was clean, though, and there was a palm tree right outside her door. She stripped off the heavy black sweater and jeans she’d worn on the plane. It was seventy-two degrees outside, and she’d been roasting since she stepped out of the airport in Tampa.
Telling herself she needed to canvass the area, she dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and put on the rubber flip-flops she’d bought at the airport gift shop, and a pair of oversize sunglasses.
She walked toward a strip of palm trees that divided the motel property from the beach. There was a row of lounge chairs facing the water, and just beyond were the sparkling turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
Vikki Hill gasped. She’d been to the beach, lots of times, mostly the Jersey Shore back home. But this was different. She left her shoes on the grass and walked out onto the sugary white sand, letting her toes sink into it. The water was like a magnet. She drew closer, stopping to study the waves lapping at the shore. Huh. She ventured closer, bracing herself for the shock of cold, but the water was surprisingly warm. She wiggled her toes, and something beneath them wiggled back. She stooped down to see that there were millions of tiny multicolored clamlike seashells strewn along the waterline. She smiled despite herself.
“They’re called coquinas.” She jumped, startled. An elderly man, shriveled and bald with skin like an old Samsonite suitcase, stood only a foot away on the hard-packed sand. His white T-shirt was shrunken with age and he wore baggy knee-length shorts, black socks that came to his mid-calves, and white tennis shoes.
“Excuse me?”
“Those shells you’re looking at. They’re co-qui-nas.” He pronounced it slowly, like she was hard of hearing, or stupid, or both.
“Huh. So these are like what, babies? Do you eat ’em?”
“Only if you’ve got a really tiny knife and fork.” He guffawed at his own joke, then stuck out his hand as if to shake. “Oscar Jensen. You’re new here, aren’t you?”
