Page 44 of The Oscar Escape
The woman pursed her lips. “Is your maiden name Sheehan?”
What the hell was this? She couldn’t reveal her maiden name.
“No, that is not my maiden name.”
“Are you sure you’re not Aria Sheehan? One of the little Sheehan girls from Portland who visited Havenmatch Island must be twenty years ago and hit her head on the rocks, jumping around like a wild animal in the amphitheater. Those Sheehan girls were never that bright to begin with, were they, Roberta?” the woman finished, eyeing the slim lady on the other side of the judge.
Aria sat there, slack-jawed.
“Margo,” this Roberta called in a matching island accent, “I told you, the Sheehans’ names are Lisa and Lexi. This criminal is not one of the mainland Sheehan girls.”
“That’s true. I’m not a Sheehan girl,” Aria added, praying they wouldn’t dig deeper into her identity.
Margo pursed her lips. “But this one is trouble, like a Sheehan girl.”
“She’s usually not this much trouble,” Oscar explained. “My wife ate some bad lobster and had a reaction that caused her to behave unlike herself.”
“Bad lobster? From where?” Roberta demanded.
“Boston,” Del called, the word dripping with contempt.
The court watchers clucked their tongues and shook their heads.
Margo huffed. “Well, there you go.”
This East Coast lobster rivalry was the real deal.
“And what do you do when you’re not breaking into shops, flipping benches, and doing these activities while naked?” the judge inquired.
That’s right! Her costume had disintegrated. “I . . .”
“She works in the entertainment field,” Oscar answered.
Vague but true.
“Does she?” the judge murmured, then eyed Oscar. “And what about you, young man? What brings you and your wife to Havenmatch Island?”
“We’re here because . . .” Oscar began, then looked at her and trailed off.
“He was hired to photograph the fall colors. Oscar is an exceptional photographer and videographer,” she supplied.
Why was he hesitant to disclose that information?
Oscar shared a look with Del. “Yes, that’s it.”
The judge glanced at the sticky note. “Do you cook?”
That was a strange thing to ask.
Oscar stared at the man but didn’t say a word.
“He does,” she answered for him. “He’s an excellent cook.”
“All right,” the retired judge huffed. “I’ve seen and heard enough. Mr. Elliott has already paid for the damages done to Margo’s chocolate shop. And you were correct, Mrs. Elliott, when you asserted that our iconic Havenmatch driftwood bench remains intact.”
Aria perked up. “So . . . I won’t be charged? I’m free to go?” She felt Oscar’s body stiffen.
“Not exactly,” M. Gibson Harpswell replied. “Here’s how it works on Havenmatch Island. We don’t do fines. It’s not in keeping with our traditions. We’re a small community. We’ve made arrangements with the mainland regarding how we enforce the law on the island.”
