Superstition by Karen Robards Page A

Catholic that Vince was—he’d been on his way to or from Mass. Or maybe not. Vince wasn’t a big believer in the island’s casual dress code under any circumstance.
    Which was one reason Joe had pulled on the spare uniform shirt he always kept in his trunk before heading up the yard to the porch. Anyway, he kind of liked that uniform shirt: short sleeves, gray, with a big, shiny silver badge pinned to the breast pocket. In it, he felt like Andy Griffith.
    “So they did need one?” Joe asked without much real concern. On the way over, it had occurred to him that the botched investigation, if indeed the investigation had been botched, hadn’t happened on his watch. What had or had not been done fifteen years ago was not his problem. Therefore, whether the program was broadcast or not didn’t particularly matter to him; he was simply on board with whatever Vince wanted. It was easier that way. Getting all worked up over things that didn’t really matter used to be part of his personality, but it wasn’t any longer. He’d left that part of himself, along with lots of other things, behind in Jersey.
    “Hey, I’m the mayor. If I say they need a permit, they need a permit,” Vince said, his keys jangling harder.
    Joe took that to mean that nobody Vince had been able to reach actually knew whether or not a permit was needed for this type of thing.
    “Works for me,” Joe said.
    The last vestige of twilight had faded away long since. Beyond the perimeter of the brightly lit house, the night was dark and quiet. A breeze blew in from the ocean; it smelled of the sea, of course, and also just faintly of flowers. The front door of the Old Taylor Place stood open, although the screen door was shut. Through the faint blur of its mesh, he could see into the wide entry hall all the way back to the curving staircase and into part of what he took to be the living room. Twelve-foot ceilings, dark wood paneling extending three-quarters of the way up the walls, gloomy shadows everywhere. Except for a few folding chairs and the TV crew’s equipment, as much of the house as he could see was bare of furniture. A bright light had been set up in a corner of the living room behind some kind of translucent white screen that was intended, he guessed, to diffuse its intensity. A group of people—not locals, as he could tell from their clothes, which, being mostly black and mostly business-friendly, were about as far from island mufti as it was possible to get—huddled together not far from the light. He could see only about a third of them, but it was obvious that they were conferring frantically about something, although in hushed words that he couldn’t actually overhear.
    Three guesses as to what it was. They weren’t likely to be pleased about having the plug pulled on their program.
    “Uh-oh, we got one on the move,” Dave warned under his breath.
    A young woman with short, black hair had just detached herself from the group in the living room to move into the hall. She was frowning as she talked into a cell phone. Automatically, Joe registered that she was attractive, bone-thin in a white blouse, black skirt, and flat shoes, and not really his type. She was also headed their way.
    “O’Neil. Go see what they’re up to in there.” Vince was charting the young woman’s progress, too. He glanced at Dave and jerked his head toward the house. “They’re supposed to be shutting things down.”
    Dave nodded and headed into the house. The young woman, still talking on her cell phone, reached the screen door at the same time he did. Ever the gentleman, Dave ended up holding the door open for her. She shot him a sidelong glance rife with disdain as she passed through it onto the porch.
    No gratitude there.
    Just then, the sound of quick footsteps on the porch stairs made Joe glance around. His eyes widened slightly as he beheld the redheaded TV reporter ascending them two at a time. A motley collection of newcomers straggled across