Chapter 3
“Barnaby Carmichael,” he’d said, sliding into the chair opposite her, the leaves of a potted ficus brushing the top of his head.
Judy had pointed her out—“the pretty Black girl with the laptop.” The table was littered with paperwork, a pastry basket, coffee cups.
He had no idea how she managed to fit the laptop in, but clearly she was used to working in sketchy circumstances. “You’re Gabby?”
She’d looked up over the edge of her laptop, shaking herself out of her focused work mode. “You’re the second-oldest son. Younger brother to Carson, older brother to Fiona. Half-brother to Luke, Ruby and Rufus.”
“You know me so well,” he’d said drily.
“I know I didn’t invite you to join me.”
“This will be quick. I hear you’re doing a podcast about the Lightkeeper Inn.”
She’d lowered her laptop screen so they could see each other better. “Now isn’t that just typical. It’s about a lot more than the Lightkeeper Inn. You Carmichaels aren’t always the main character.”
“So we’re not in your podcast?”
“You are,” she’d admitted after a long, narrow-eyed pause.
“Villains or heroes? Don’t answer that.” He knew the answer. The Carmichaels had behaved like the greedy, ruthless developers they were. “I’m here to ask you to put your podcast on pause for now.”
“For now…” She’d lifted one eyebrow. “That’s a little vague.”
“Until we know what the legal fallout’s going to be.” With half his family on their way to the Harbortown police station, it was hard to tell who would be left standing.
She’d appeared to think about it, tipping her head and gazing out the window at the lovely spring morning. The lilacs were budding out, warblers chirping, Maine doing its slow wakeup from its long snow-covered sleep. “No,” she’d finally said.
“No. That’s it, just no?”
“No. This podcast is important on a historical level. That’s the angle we’re exploring, and it should have no impact on your family’s legal cases. Best of luck with all that, by the way.”
His jaw had tightened. She could take her insincere good wishes and shove them. “Look, I’m not excusing anyone. Whoever committed a crime should pay. I’m just trying to protect the hotel as best I can.”
“Same as it ever was,” she’d muttered.
He’d drawn in a deep breath. He hated being in this position, defending the eight-hundred pound gorilla that was the family business. His own problems with the Carmichael clan went way back. He’d left home at eighteen and returned only rarely since then.
“Listen, Gabby.” He’d known he sounded arrogant.
That often happened when he was irritated.
“This hotel keeps over two hundred people employed, and makes up half the tax base of the entire island. This isn’t about me or even the Carmichaels.
It’s about making sure there isn’t too much collateral damage. ”
She’d snapped shut her laptop and leaned toward him with a fierce glare. “So now it’s up to me whether two hundred people lose their jobs? Little old me, just a girl with a laptop?”
“Woman,” he’d growled.
“What?”
“You’re very clearly a woman with a laptop.”
For the first time, she had no quick response to fling at him. That was something, anyway.
“So you’ll stick with history for now?” He’d stuck out his hand, hoping to take advantage of her momentary silence.
Shaking her head, she’d ignored his hand. “I’m not making any promises about anything. The Dirty Rotten Bastards podcast cannot be bought off or scared off. That’s the advantage of being completely independent.”
“I’m not buying you off and I’m clearly not scaring you.
” Which, he’d realized with a start, was unusual.
He hadn’t even gotten his hair cut since he’d gotten back from his last hiking trip in the Himalayas, and getting his beard under control was going to be a several-day process.
He’d dropped his hand back to the table and smiled at her ruefully.
“I’m a little jet-lagged, to tell you the truth.
I flew twenty-four hours to get here, and landed in the middle of a big fucking mess.
There’s probably a right way to handle this, but I got dropkicked into this situation and I’m still getting my bearings. ”
For the first time, her expression had softened into something resembling sympathy.
“Look. If it puts your mind at ease, it’s not like we have a ton of viewers.
We just started this podcast. No one knows about us.
We’re not the ones you need to worry about.
It’s the local news stations curious about the wealthy committing crimes on the outer islands that might be a problem. ”
He’d groaned, realizing that she was right. He should probably call in a PR crisis manager. The law firm that handled all the hotel’s business could probably send him some names. Maybe he could dump everything in their lap and run back to his interrupted project in Nepal.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he’d muttered, “Well hell, now I feel so much better.”
“Sorry,” she’d said with a shrug, and the tiniest of smiles. “I’m not really trying to make you feel better. I’m trying to get some work done.”
“Historical work?” he’d asked hopefully.
She’d laughed, brown eyes gleaming with light. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?”
“It’s been said.” He’d pushed away from the table and gotten to his feet. “Sorry I bothered you. Coffee’s on the house.”
“Not getting bought off by hotel coffee,” he’d heard her call as he strode away from the table.
Despite the massive mess he was dealing with, he’d laughed.