The next day, I did my morning run along the sidewalk that borders Gulf of Mexico Drive. The sun was just coming up, and the usual coterie of runners and walkers were already out. Wild parakeets were chattering in the trees that bordered the walkway, and a cooling breeze blew anemically from the north. Traffic was light, but steady, the kind of day when nobody in his right mind would take a shot at me on a busy road in broad daylight.
I got home safely, showered, shaved, put on clean shorts and a T-shirt, and went to Isabelle's Eatery for breakfast. The morning paper was full of bad news of people all over the world killing and maiming each other. It all seemed a long way from our quiet island at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico.
There was a tingle of alarm rolling around in the back of my mind. It was a gut reaction to something I'd seen or heard or sensed about Yardley. Something was off about him and his story of meeting Peggy and her friends. Logan's observation about Yardley's living quarters only added to my sense of unease. And, my gut was usually right.
I spent the rest of the morning trying to find out something about Yardley. His name didn't pop up on Google or any of the other databases I could access. I hadn't come up with anything and decided to go see Chief Lester the next day. Maybe he could help.
At noon, the Manatee County Sheriff's crime lab called to tell me that they were finished with my car, and I could pick it up anytime. Logan came and got me, and I went from the lab to an auto-glass shop where they replaced the rear hatch window while I waited.
I drove back to Longboat Key and met Logan at Tiny's, a little bar on the north end of the island. It was a neighborhood watering hole, and at five thirty on a weekday afternoon, it was packed with locals enjoying themselves, savoring the winding down of the day.
Word had spread of the shooting the night before, and everybody wanted to know what had happened. The more Logan told the story, the bigger it got. Four Scotches into the evening and he was a hero.
The people of Tiny's knew Logan was kidding. He was a war hero who never talked about it, and he'd pulled my butt out of the fire just a few months before over in the center of the state. He was a selfdeprecating guy, and was much loved on the key.
We finished our evening at Tiny's. I ordered a pizza to go from A Moveable Feast, a small restaurant that shared the parking lot with the bar. Logan was going to drive to St. Armand's, at the other end of Longboat, for Chinese food.