by Sophie Moss
“I have my doubts,” Keith admitted. “A lot of us do.”
“Well, if she didn’t do it, who did?”
“That’s a good question,” Keith said. “Unfortunately, the Baltimore P.D. doesn’t have the time or the resources to take the investigation any further, not when we already have a confession on file.”
Grace lifted her gaze to the telephone wires stretched across the alley behind her apartment, where a mockingbird was imitating the sound of a siren. She could hear the crush of traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue a few blocks away, the pulsing beat of a helicopter in the distance, the swell of voices from the tourists dining at the sidewalk café around the corner. “Were there any witnesses?”
“None that would have held up in court,” Keith said. “Most of the people in that neighborhood won’t even open their doors for the cops. The only person who would talk to us was an addict who lived across the street. Obviously, we can’t trust anything she said, but—according to her—there were two women in the alley that night, not one.”
“Two women?” Grace’s brows drew together. “If there were two women in the alley, why didn’t the other one come forward?”
“I don’t know,” Keith said. “Maybe she had something to hide.”
Grace thought about what Keith had said about the gun, that it had most likely been fired by an amateur. If Izzy hadn’t shot Tyree…
“I know what you’re thinking,” Keith said. “If she didn’t shoot him, why would she take the fall for it?”
She had no idea, Grace thought. But if there had been another woman in the alley that night, she was going to find her. The people of Sandtown-Windchester might not be willing to talk to the cops. But she wasn’t a cop. She was a journalist. And in her experience, as long as you were willing to listen, almost everybody had a story to tell.
Thirteen
The next three weeks passed in a blur of punishing heat and unrelenting humidity. Ryan spent almost every waking hour at the farm, despite the promise he’d made to his sister to try to rein in his workaholic tendencies. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through a sunrise or eaten a meal at home. He kept a stash of dog food in the office for Zoey, who spent most of her time, now, stretched across the air conditioning vent under Paul’s desk.
Every day, he offered to send his staff home early, knowing that working outside in these temperatures could take a toll, and every day, they refused. Many of them had actually begun to stay longer to finish up whatever projects they were working on before heading back to the inn for the evening.
Ryan respected their work ethic, and he understood their desire to feel valued again, but sometimes he worried that a few of them might be getting too attached. This job was only supposed to be a stepping-stone into permanent employment. Realistically, there was only so much they could accomplish in the next two months.
Sitting back on his heels, he wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. His hands were covered in dirt from spending the morning planting grasses and shrubs along the shoreline. Ethan and Hailey were inside the environmental center, designing a series of markers that would label each plant. On the other side of the property, Matt and Izzy were stacking cages into a skiff, preparing to transfer the first batch of baby oysters from the nursery to the lease.
As he’d done so many times over the past few weeks, Ryan took a moment to watch her. Ever since the incident in the kitchen, she’d been desperately trying to prove herself. She’d been one of the first to insist on staying late to finish her work. She rarely took a break before looking around to see if anyone else needed help. And she was actually talking to people now. Not long conversations, but enough to show that she wasn’t isolating herself anymore.
All of that should make him happy.
Instead, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Will had said when they’d finally had a chance to talk about what had happened—that he suspected Izzy might have been raped.
Raped.
In employing a group of wounded warriors, he’d expected to encounter some psychological issues. He’d been prepared to accommodate a wide range of physical disabilities. But this…?
Nothing could have prepared him for this.
And the worst part about it was that it made sense—the way she’d seemed so traumatized when she’d first arrived, the way she’d alienated herself from the rest of the veterans, the way she’d shied away from physical contact with members of the opposite sex.
He wasn’t usually the type to jump to conclusions. Years of research had taught him that even the most promising hypotheses could fall apart in the end. It was better to remain skeptical, to temper any emotional reactions until actual proof had been established.
But this wasn’t a science experiment.
This was a person.
And the mere notion that Izzy might have been sexually assaulted was enough to make his blood boil.
Reaching for the nearest bottle of water, Ryan took a long swallow. He knew that his sister was looking into Izzy’s past now. And if anyone could uncover the truth, it was Grace. In the meantime, there was nothing any of them could do but make sure that she, and everyone around her, felt as safe and secure as possible.
“Hey, boss,” Jeff said, walking over. “I just finished preparing the financial reports for the board meeting next week.”
Forcing all thoughts of Izzy out of his mind—for now, at least—Ryan pushed to his feet. “How do they look?”
“Like we need to do some fundraising.”
Ryan nodded. He’d figured as much. With all the extra work he’d taken on to prepare for the arrival of this first group of veterans, he hadn’t had time to focus on raising funds for the environmental center. A few of his board members had expressed concern at the last meeting that he might be spreading himself too thin, that in merging the two operations he could get distracted from the overall mission.
It wasn’t a concern that he shared. Every move he’d made over the past year had been with the overall mission in mind. His vision for the future had never been clearer. If anything, working alongside these veterans for the past month had solidified it. But he understood that not everyone could picture it as vividly as he could.
He needed to lay it out for them in black and white, make sure he had their full support moving forward. “Did you work up a budget for the rest of the year?”
Jeff nodded and handed him a copy of the report.
Ryan took it, already scanning the charts and columns as he made his way over to the picnic area.
“Most of your income is made up of grants,” Jeff said, taking a seat at one of the tables in the shade. “Grant money’s great and all, but I think you need to diversify, tap into some different income streams.”
Ryan lowered himself to the seat across from Jeff. He’d been thinking the same thing. He’d relied pretty heavily on grants to cover most of his start-up costs. With his credentials and his ability to sell himself on paper, he won most of the ones he applied for anyway. But, from everything he’d read, the success of most nonprofits after the first year depended on individual donations.
He was going to have to step up his game—and fast.
“How’d you come up with these numbers?” Ryan asked, zeroing in on the fundraising projections.
“Paul figured you’d want to throw at least one big event in the fall, to line up with oyster season. And I factored in the expenses of hosting a few smaller functions between now and the end of the year to start building up your roster of individual donors.” Jeff pointed to a number on the page. “This is how much we think you should spend on each of the events. And this,” he said, pointing to another number, “is how much you should be able to make back from them.”
“You don’t think that estimate’s a little high?”
Jeff raised a brow. “Not if you do a good job with the events.”
Ryan managed a half-smile in return, then continued to scan the rest of the report. The truth was, throwin
g parties and courting individual donors was his least favorite part of the job. It was one thing to appeal to private foundations and government agencies that had publicly announced that they had funds to invest and were actively seeking worthy causes to support. But asking individuals to open their personal checkbooks, especially face to face, made him extremely uncomfortable.
He had underestimated how much that would be a part of this job. It was one of the reasons he’d wanted to combine his nonprofit with his father’s oyster farm. The business would naturally provide a wider platform to reach people who might be interested in supporting the environmental center. But he needed to be careful in putting too much emphasis on the farm as a potential source of income for the nonprofit.
He had no idea how many actual donors it would attract this year. And without a solid base of supporters, he’d have nothing to fall back on if the farm hit a rough patch.
He glanced up as Ethan and Hailey walked out of the environmental center. “Do either of you have any experience with event planning?”
Ethan shook his head.
“No,” Hailey said. “What do we need to plan an event for?”
Ryan set the report down on the table. “We need to raise some money for the environmental center.”
Hailey grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and walked over to sit beside him. “What kind of event do you want to throw?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, taking the bottle from her, opening it, and handing it back. “I’m open to ideas.”
She took a drink. “Have you asked Paul? I bet he’d have some ideas.”
Ryan looked over at Jeff.
“I asked him about it this morning,” Jeff said. “He thinks Ryan should host a big event in October, when oyster season opens. Maybe get a local brewery involved, hire a band, charge tickets to get in.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Hailey said. “It’s kind of a bummer that we won’t get to be here for it.”
It was, Ryan thought. If they were going to help him plan an event that big, they ought to be able to be part of it, see it through to the end. If there was one thing he’d learned about these vets, it was that they liked to see a project through to the end.
“Maybe we could host a crab feast,” Ethan suggested. “Then we wouldn’t have to wait until the fall.”
Ryan looked up as Izzy rounded the corner of the shed. She walked over to the cooler, fished out a handful of ice and pressed it to the back of her neck.
“Got any experience with fundraising, Izzy?” Jeff asked.
“No,” she said, turning to face them. “What do we need to raise money for?”
We, Ryan thought, not you. They were definitely making progress. “The environmental center,” he answered. “I need some help coming up with ideas for events—at least one big one and maybe a few smaller ones before the end of the year.”
Izzy sat down on the cooler, moved the ice to another spot on her neck. “What have you come up with so far?”
“Either a crab feast in August, or a big oyster event in October,” he said, noticing that she still kept her distance physically, even if she was slowly opening up in other ways.
Izzy leaned back against the shed, slipping a little farther into the shade. “I think you should focus on smaller, more intimate gatherings. Maybe start by hosting an open house once a month. Invite everyone on the island. Tell them you want to show off the progress we’ve made. Invite your current donors and ask them each to bring a friend. Let word spread about this place organically.”
He liked the idea of an open house, Ryan thought. It was definitely more his style than a big, splashy event. But it would be harder to estimate how effective it would be if they didn’t know how many people would come each month.
“If we offered the open houses in the evening,” Hailey said, picking up on Izzy’s idea, “from, say, five to seven o’clock, we could serve beer and wine. Oh!” Her eyes widened. “We could even hire a sommelier to come out and do a wine tasting to match up with the oysters. That would be fun, right?”
“It would,” Jeff said, nodding. “It could be good for other businesses on the island, too. People could come here for a drink and a tour, then go out to dinner afterwards, make a night of it.”
“I like it,” Ryan said as the phone in his pocket started to ring. “Why don’t you three flesh it out, put some ideas down on paper, and help me pitch it to the board next Thursday?” He stood and pulled out his phone. It was one of the distributors he’d been emailing back and forth with all week about shipping prices. He should probably take this.
“Actually,” Izzy said, leaning forward, “I think we should show them.”
Ryan paused, his finger hovering over the ‘accept’ button. “What?”
She looked up at him, and there was a gleam in her eyes he’d never seen before. “Where do you usually meet?”
“Here,” he said. “In the office.”
“What time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Perfect,” she said, smiling. “Let’s host our first open house next Thursday. Tell your board members to come an hour early. Ask them each to invite a friend who could be a potential donor and we’ll serve drinks, oysters, maybe a few other finger foods. We can make a small toast to each of your board members to thank them for everything they’ve done to make this place a reality. Then, while you hold your meeting, we”—she swept her arm out to include Hailey, Ethan, and Jeff—“will give everyone else a private tour.”
Jeff looked out at the water thoughtfully. “Do you think we have enough time between now and then to pull it off?”
“Absolutely,” Izzy said.
“I think it would be fun to show off what we’ve been working on,” Hailey said. “We only have two months left. We might as well get a jump on things.”
Ethan looked at Izzy. “I’m in, as long as we can have something to eat besides oysters.”
“We’ll have something to eat besides oysters,” Izzy assured him, then looked back at Ryan expectantly.
Ryan lowered the phone to his side as the call went to voicemail. How could he say no when she was looking at him like that?
“Trust me,” Izzy said. “I’ve got this.”
There was an edge to her voice now, an intensity that he’d never heard before. She needed this, he realized. She needed to prove herself to him and the rest of the veterans.
But was she ready? What if the stress of it triggered another flashback? What if her plan backfired?
It was a risk, he thought, but, hey, so was everything else he’d done over the past year. What was one more? “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell my board members to arrive an hour early next week and bring a friend.”
* * *
She was going to need help, Izzy thought as she traded in her waterproof boots for a pair of flip-flops at the end of the day. And not just from Ethan and Hailey. If she was going to pull this off, she was going to need a chef. And she knew exactly who she wanted to ask.
Grabbing one of the secondhand beach cruisers Will and Colin had left around the island for them to use, she waved goodbye to the rest of the veterans as they pulled away in the van. She waited just long enough for the cloud of dust to settle behind them before pedaling toward the village.
She hadn’t been inside the Wind Chime Café yet. It was usually closed by the time she got off work. But she’d tasted enough of Della’s cooking to know that the woman was a natural. She was the kind of chef Izzy most admired—the kind who cooked from the heart and whose dishes were so deeply rooted in a sense of place that you could feel her love for this island coming through in every bite.
It was the same feeling Izzy was hoping to convey at Ryan’s first open house.
She had no doubt that, with the right presentation, the environmental center would sell itself. All they had to do was get people there.
Riding down Main Street, she moved over to the shoulder to let a lone truck rumble past. It was a quiet
evening in the village. The heat had chased most people indoors. The only business that seemed to be attracting anyone was the ice cream shop, where a line of people had formed behind the counter—mostly tourists, but a few locals, too. After a month on the island, she was starting to recognize the difference.
It was hard to believe she had been here that long, and how much had changed since she’d first arrived. She was beginning to understand what the locals saw in this place. Even her job at the farm was beginning to grow on her. There was something about the repetitive nature of the work, of being able to tend to something and watch it grow, that calmed her. Caring for the baby oysters was a dirty, smelly job, but it was her job. And she was actually starting to feel strangely protective of the little filter feeders.
When she spotted the white building with the purple shutters and the wide wrap-around front porch decorated in wind chimes, she slowed to a stop. Hoping to catch Della before she left for the day, Izzy hopped off her bike, wheeled it onto the grass, and propped it against the trunk of an oak tree. A warm breeze blew through the village, teasing the chimes into a gentle dance.
The sound was so inviting, she couldn’t help taking a moment to admire them. She hadn’t seen them close up before, and hadn’t realized how different they all were—each one a unique piece of art, lovingly crafted by hand. She remembered what Ryan had told her that day at the harbor, that Annie and Taylor made wind chimes from things they collected around the island.
Had they made all of these?
Walking slowly up the porch steps, she spotted Taylor sitting with another child about her age at one of the tables inside the café. A moment later, Riley appeared behind the glass door, barking and wagging her tail enthusiastically. Izzy smiled at the dog and waited for Taylor to open the door, since the CLOSED sign was turned toward the street.
“Hi,” Taylor said brightly, letting her in.
Riley circled around Izzy, wiggling her furry body in unrestrained joy. Izzy reached down, rewarding her with a scratch behind the ears. “Hey, Taylor,” she said, looking up at the child. “I haven’t seen you around the inn much lately. Are you enjoying your summer vacation?”