Chapter 2 - Brooks #2
Behind the counter, a woman placed pastries on a display tray, smiling. Almost as if her job made her happy. He remembered what it was like, to really enjoy his job—the career he had chosen—before he lost his partner. Brooks huffed out a sigh.
She looked up, her long auburn braid shifting with her sudden movement.
A flicker of . . . interest showed in her gaze.
She moved deliberately, completely aware of her surroundings without looking away from him.
The spatial consciousness he’d learned to recognize in fellow law enforcement.
Civilians developed it too, especially those who worked with the public.
Was she a former cop? Detective? Had she worked at the police station in some capacity? Maybe she worked in the dispatch center or was a volunteer.
“Welcome to The Mystic Cup.” Her voice was warm, soft, and had a hint of . . . he couldn’t place it. But it sounded almost as if she sung the greeting to him. “What can I get for you today?”
“Just coffee. Black.” His tone was neutral and casual, and uninviting. This wasn’t how he would build relationship.
“Coming right up. Anything to go with that? The lavender scones are fresh.”
The pastries looked tempting. He was aware of the attention from the women nearby. The last thing he wanted was to become local gossip on his first day. “Just the coffee.”
While she turned to fill his order, he took everything in. The shelves looked decades old, dust on some of the higher jars. Worn floorboards, scuffed in the traffic patterns. Not some Instagram setup opened last year. His gaze drifted to the bay window—perfect view of the harbor and lighthouse.
A crash. His head turned fast and saw the woman had dropped a coffee pot. Glass shards and hot blackish liquid spread across the floor.
“Damn it.” She reached for the towel sitting on the counter.
“You okay?” He moved to help, crouching down next to her. His years of responding to every incident possible had him reaching for her.
“Fine, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” Her face had gone pale. Their hands brushed as they both reached for the same piece of broken glass. She jerked back.
He pulled back, surprised by her reaction. “You cut yourself.” A thin line of red shown across her palm.
She looked down at her hand. “It’s nothing.” Her expression had shifted, eyes unfocused.
He cleared his throat. The intensity of her stare made him uncomfortable. “You should get that cleaned up,” he managed to say despite a lump forming in his throat. He cleared it and blurted out his name. “Brooks Harrington. I’m new in town.”
“Vivienne Hawthorne,” she said in the mesmerizing tone from when she greeted him. She pressed the towel against her palm and smiled softly. “I gathered that much. Nobody from Westerly Cove orders ‘just coffee’ at The Mystic Cup. Except for Old Jack. He’s the only one.”
A hint of a smile touched his face. “What do the locals order if they’re not Old Jack?”
“What do the locals order?”
Amusement crossed her features.
“Tea, mostly. With elaborate names and specific brewing instructions. The coffee is for lost tourists and . . .” she paused, studying him with unusual eyes, “cops passing through.”
His shoulders tensed. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”
Her lips curved. “Good guess.”
Brooks looked down at his clothes. Nothing in his appearance screamed law enforcement.
He’d dressed in civilian clothes, left behind any tells that might mark him as police.
Either this woman was extraordinarily perceptive, or someone had told her about his arrival.
Small towns thrived on gossip. News of the new detective probably traveled fast.
“Let me get you a fresh coffee.” She turned away, disappearing through an open doorway and returning with another glass pot. She moved quickly, adding a filter, coffee grounds and pressing buttons. The hot stream of bean water started almost instantly. “On the house since you helped with the mess.”
“Thanks, but not necessary. I can pay for my coffee.” Automatic response.
He, along with his co-workers, had always been told to pay for their things because they didn’t want a kind gesture, like free coffee, to hang over their heads or have someone call in a favor.
No police officer ever wanted to hear, “Remember that one time I bought your lunch . . .” something like that was nothing but trouble.
“Suit yourself.” She poured a fresh cup and placed it on the counter. “That will be three dollars.”
He handed over the money. Their fingers brushed again. Her quick intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed. Vivienne smiled, but her hand trembled as she made change.
“So, Detective Harrington, are you here about the missing tourist?”
He froze. “How did you know I’m a detective?”
The women at nearby tables had gone silent. So silent he could hear the whirl of the lighthouse beam make its rotation. He glanced over his shoulder, everyone looked at him.
“I didn’t.” Vivienne replied casually. “But you just confirmed it. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
A neat trap. He’d walked right into it. Sloppy. He studied her more carefully, reassessing. “I’m not here about any missing tourist. Today is my day off. I don’t start at the Westerly Cove PD until tomorrow.” But now he was curious. Who was this missing person.
Vivienne apprised him, her expression steady, unwavering. She finally nodded and gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Well then, Detective,” she said, holding his gaze, “welcome to Westerly Cove. I have a feeling things are about to get interesting around here.”
She said it like she knew something he didn’t.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
He took a sip of coffee—excellent despite his reservations about the place—and wondered what he’d walked into.
Probably nothing more than a small town where everyone knew everyone’s business and strangers were subjects of speculation.
His phone vibrated. A welcome distraction. Expecting Jim, he was surprised to see Chief Sullivan’s name. He stepped away from the counter before answering.
“Harrington.”
“Detective, I know you’re not starting until tomorrow, but we have a situation.
” Chief Sullivan’s voice was gruff and direct.
“Tourist went missing yesterday near the lighthouse. Husband reported it last night. We’ve been searching since first light.
Could use an extra set of experienced eyes if you’re up for it. ”
There it was.
With his phone still pressed to his ear he glanced at Vivienne.
She was busy with customers but still caught his gaze.
It was as if she was aware of his conversation.
In Austin, he’d never have hesitated to respond to such a request. But things were different now.
He didn’t want to be the same person he was in Austin.
He didn’t want to be responsible for someone else’s death.
“Missing tourist. Near the lighthouse.” Vivienne’s movements stilled at the mention of the location. “I heard something about that.” Brooks never stopped watching Vivienne.
“News travels fast here.” Resignation was clear in the Chief’s tone. “Can you meet me at the station in fifteen minutes? I’ll brief you there.”
He hesitated. This was the involvement he’d come here to avoid. But refusing a direct request from his new chief would be poor politics. “On my way.” He ended the call.
“Duty calls?” Even though it was a question, Brooks felt it was more of a statement.
“Apparently. How did you—” he cut himself off and shook his head. People in Austin warned him about small town. Your business was their business. He took a final sip of coffee. “Thanks for the caffeine.”
“Detective,” she called as he reached the door. He paused, looking back. “When you go to the lighthouse, look for a woman’s scarf caught on the rocks just below the north side path. Blue with silver threads. It might help.”
He frowned. “How do you know the missing woman wore a scarf like that?”
Vivienne’s expression remained calm. Something flickered in her unusual eyes. “I didn’t say it belonged to her.”
Before he could question her further, the older women demanded her attention. He stepped back onto Harbor Street with more questions than when he’d entered. The shop owner’s words lingered as he made his way toward the police station.
Look for a scarf caught on the rocks. Blue with silver threads.
How could she possibly know such a specific detail?
A guess. Or maybe she’d overheard something from the search teams. Towns like Westerly Cove—at least from what he had read or heard—were notorious for rumors and speculation.
More so during missing person searches. Thanks to the rise in podcasting, specifically those of a true crime natured, people convinced themselves they were detectives.
Honestly, Brooks had always appreciated the help, as long as people weren’t getting in his way or breaking the law.
The police station sat on a side street two blocks from the harbor.
Still close enough Brooks could see the lighthouse and hear the harbor bell.
He paused at the door and read the placard: Dedicated to the Morrisons for a life of service to our community.
He would have to read about the Morrisons or at least ask around.
Brooks opened the door to the modest, one-story building and stepped inside.
This police department was nothing like the one he worked at in Austin.
It was quiet here. Missing were the sounds of suspects screaming for their lawyers, the shrill noise of multiple phones ringing, and the unmistakable sound of work.
When people stepped into the Austin PD, you could hear them work.
Here, it was quiet. Dull. It was as if nothing happened here except a kitten being stuck in a tree, which Brooks suspected the fire department would take care of.