Evan was replacing a dock line on Slip Six when it pulled into the service entrance. No company logo. Asheville plates. Climate-controlled, judging by the rooftop unit. Two men got out and opened the rear doors while Margot and the glass artist waited on the asphalt.
He noticed he’d started thinking of her as Margot instead of “the event planner.” He wasn’t sure when that had happened. Somewhere between the boardwalk and the way she’d looked at him when he’d told her about the boat. Like he was the first person all week who’d brought her a problem she hadn’t already anticipated.
She stood with her pen gripped tightly in her hand. Bracing. He was starting to learn her postures the way he’d learned the harbor’s moods, involuntarily, from repetition and proximity.
Pete from security leaned against the wall scrolling his phone. Margot glanced at Pete, then away. He could see the restraint in her jaw from fifty yards.
They unloaded twelve crates. Custom-built, foam-lined. The glass artist supervised every step in white cotton gloves, her voice carrying across the lot in short, precise commands. Caleb hovered near the crates with the easy familiarity of a man who belonged everywhere.
Evan finished the dock line and watched. A hundred and seventy thousand dollars, headed into an open pavilion with one guard and an electronic lock.
He checked Slip Fourteen first. The Robalo was still there. The duffel bag was gone, but the cable and battery pack had been pushed under the console. The knot hadn’t changed. Nobody had moved the boat. The bilge pump was still dripping its slow rhythm against the water, steady as a heartbeat.
Patty hadn’t found anything in the guest log. No name, no reservation, no record of anyone asking about slip rental. Whoever owned this boat was a ghost.
Then he walked to the pavilion. The air inside was cooler than the terrace. Someone had rigged a portable AC unit near the back wall, and he could hear it humming behind the display.
The display case ran the length of the back wall, glass-topped, LED-lit, every ornament glowing from within. The first piece, a deep amber sphere with veins of iridescent blue, caught the morning sun and threw a faint rainbow across the floor.
Evan stopped in the doorway. He wasn’t an art person. He didn’t know anything about blown glass or metallic oxide or whatever Caleb had been explaining to anyone who’d listen. But he knew what something valuable looked like when it was vulnerable.
This looked vulnerable.
Three open sides. One back wall against the storage wing, where an unlocked utility closet held the electrical panel for this section of the building. One camera, still in its box on the floor. The motion sensor still in its packaging beside it. Pete, standing by the entrance, still on his phone.
Tessa was filming from three angles, crouching low for the last shot. Caleb was at the far end, adjusting a light strip with an unhurried precision that didn’t match his usual personality. His fingers moved along the LED housing. The glass artist watched him without complaint, which, given what Evan had seen of her temperament, was practically an endorsement.
Margot was testing the keycard reader. Swipe, click, open, close, swipe again. Methodical. Thorough. She reminded him of himself checking bilge pumps.
“Impressive,” he said from the doorway.
She looked up. A flicker crossed her expression. Not surprise. More like she’d been waiting for him without knowing it. He recognized that flicker. It unsettled him.
“Which part?”
“The case. The lighting. Not many events get people to stop and stare before they’ve officially started.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.” The corner of his mouth moved. “Keycard only?”
“Keycard plus a physical key held by Lila and Elaine. Four authorized cards total.” She held up hers.
“What about him?” Evan nodded toward Caleb at the far end of the case.
“Vendor card. Not authorized for the display case.”
“Good.” He paused. “What about the power?”
“What about it?”
“The keycard system, the cameras, the motion sensor. All electronic. What happens if somebody cuts the power?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Rotated her pen.
“The electrical panel for this section is in an unlocked utility closet about forty feet behind us.” He kept his voice even. “Anyone with a flashlight could find it.”
Her pen stopped moving. She looked over her shoulder at the back wall of the pavilion, then at the ornaments glowing in their case, then back at him. The professional mask slipped for just a second, and underneath it, for a second, was fear. Not of the closet. Of having missed it.
