Island Blues by Wendy Howell Mills

last year to take care of her aging great-grandfather. He had died about a month ago, and Marilee had insisted that she wanted to stay in the family house by herself. It was a situation that would never work in the big city, but here it did. Family and friends looked after the teenager, and a small trust paid the bills.
    â€œI got my GED.” The girl’s voice was neutral but firm. It was none of Sabrina’s business, her closed expression said, but she was too well brought up to say it aloud.
    â€œI’m happy to hear that. Are you thinking about college, though?”
    Marilee shrugged and moved toward the door to the store. Something made her pause and she looked back over her shoulder at Sabrina. “I always did want to be an FBI agent.”
    â€œAn FBI agent? Me too! Well, any sort of secret agent would have worked. You need to go to college if you want to join the FBI.” Sabrina pulled out a notebook and started jotting notes to herself. “Have you taken your SATs? We need to look into scholarships and grants. Maybe a fundraiser…” She muttered to herself as she mapped out Marilee’s future.
    â€œYou really think it’s possible?” Marilee stared at Sabrina with the instinctive awe reserved for schoolteachers and doctors. These people were capable of daily miracles, she knew.
    â€œOf course! We need to get to work, though. We’ll talk soon.”
    Marilee nodded, her young face bright with hope. She raised her hand in farewell and went back inside.
    â€œSabrina! Aren’t you a vision in pink. And yellow. And green. And—” Lima said as he came out of the store a few minutes later holding a Styrofoam cup of fragrant, homemade Brunswick stew.
    A strangled, creaking noise came from the bottom step, and they both looked down to see that Bicycle was laughing.
    â€œWell, call me a butt and slap me silly. I don’t think I’ve seen Bicycle laugh in the twenty years he’s been back on the island. Hey, did you know today was Mitchell’s Day? I hope you’re not planning to go out on the water.”
    â€œLima, that’s an old wives’ tale.” After several months on the island, she’d finally persuaded Lima to tell her the story behind the islanders’ cryptic references to Mitchell’s Day.
    Lima snorted. “You live here long enough, and then you tell me it’s an old wives’ tale. You’ll see. What have you been doing today, Sabrina?”
    Sabrina ran through her morning: her talk with Maggie Fromlin about the strange behavior of the burglar, and then her very unproductive conversation with Mayor Hill Mitchell, who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, explain how he had known someone had been in his house while he was gone Friday night.
    â€œThat man’s got so many screws loose he rattles when he walks.” Lima shook his head.
    â€œYou know, I wasn’t going to say anything, but did you ever notice his yard doesn’t have anything green in it? It’s all rock. No grass, bushes, trees, not even a weed.”
    â€œYeah, I’ve noticed. He did that right after he retired from being a florist for thirty years. I guess he got tired of plants.”
    â€œHill said nothing was missing, and so did Maggie. She remembers a note that the burglar may have dropped, though, reading ‘Mit,’ ‘Har,’ ‘Gar,’ and ‘Fred.’ Ring any bells?”
    â€œYeah, the silent one that only dogs and loonies can hear.”
    â€œMaggie also remembered that the thief was barefoot. What kind of thief breaks into a house barefoot and doesn’t take anything?”
    â€œSomeone with more screws loose than Hill.”
    â€œIf only the bad ones
did
rattle when they walked, at least we would know they were coming.”
    They thought about that for a while in the sleepy warmth of the noonday sun.
    â€œHey, Marilee,” Lima yelled through the window behind his