Vanished by Jordan Gray Page B

Naomi.”
    â€œMichael’s phoning him, is he?”
    â€œThat’s what he said.” Molly glanced at her watch. It was past ten Sunday morning—but then, she and Michael had slept late. Or remained in bed, rather, if not exactly sleeping.
    Now he bounded down the stairs and into the breakfast nook, so quickly the hanging plants swayed behind him. “Dylan’s not answering. Either he’s switched off his phone because he’s found Naomi, or he’s fallen down exhausted in the attempt. I’ve asked Rohan to meet us at the bicycle shop at half past eleven.”
    Molly rushed to finish dressing. Within half an hourshe and Michael were walking toward the Stewarts’ small apartment above the bicycle shop. The sun shone as brightly as though Molly had special-ordered it to provide maximum publicity for Seafaring Days. A fresh breeze frilled the harbor with delicate whitecaps and already several small power and sailboats crisscrossed the water.
    The peal of St. Mary’s bells signaled that it was almost time for the 11:00 a.m. worship service. Along Dockside Avenue, seagulls picked their way through yesterday’s litter. An ice cream van squeezed down the street and found a place to stop. The other vendors were doing a brisk business, the aromas of cooking food overcoming the usual fish-and-mold smell of the harbor.
    Martin Dunhill, in his first mate’s blue coat, white shirt and red neckerchief, was eating a meat pie in front of Clough’s butcher’s stall, a baseball cap shading his eyes. Addison Headerly, today’s jeans and sweater considerably less dashing than yesterday’s frock coat, stood beside Peggy Hartwick’s booth, drowning his sorrows in scones, cream and jam. Rebecca Hislop wove flowers and ribbons into a crown for a child, while the child’s mother fingered the sun-catchers dancing and glittering around her stall.
    Molly glimpsed another man in nautical garb before the tall doors of Havers Customs House, made a quick right-angle turn and ran up the steps. “Good morning!”
    Trevor Hopewell was reading the plaque fixed to the tidy Georgian front of the building, its raised letters relating the achievements of Charles Crowe. Small letters at the bottom said Donated by Ophelia Crowe.
    Hopewell swept off his cap, tucked it beneath his arm and eyed Molly from her denim jacket to her cropped jeans. “Mrs. Graham. Molly, if you don’t mind. And Michael, as well! What a pleasure.”
    â€œGood morning,” said Michael at Molly’s elbow. He pulled off his aviator sunglasses and hung them by the earpiece from his black T-shirt, the better to fix Hopewell with a steady gaze.
    â€œAre you having a good time at Seafaring Days?” Molly asked Trevor.
    â€œFine festival. Top hole.”
    â€œAre you planning to do some research here at the Customs House? It’s the place to come, with old log books, research papers, maps.”
    â€œMaps of sunken ships in the area, I’m told.”
    â€œI was reading an article about sunken Spanish treasure ships off Florida,” said Molly. “The archaeologists found lots of gold and silver, some of it as coins. Do you collect coins as well as all the other fascinating things you showed us yesterday?”
    â€œOh, yes! I’ve got quite a number of rare and priceless coins.”
    With a mutter of “Aha!” Michael chimed in, “Have you ever seen any gold coins with the Latin inscription Transalpina, and a Cyrillic inscription, as well?”
    Trevor stepped from the shadow of the portico into the light, his eyes widening, his brows rising. “Sixteenth century Wallachian coins of Vladislav III? No, I’ve never seen any, more’s the pity. They’re legendary among the collectors in my numismatics club.”
    So Trevor probably would have bought Willie’s coins, if his reputation for dealing drugs hadn’t preceded him. Molly wondered