The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

all at once. He had planned to spend the morning trying to find Piper, and here she was, right in front of him. But she was right in front of him because he had screeched—like a woman, apparently—at the sight of a tiny insect, and brought everyone within earshot running. And for the second time in the span of mere weeks, he stood red-faced in front of her.

Not that he necessarily cared how he looked in front of her. But still. He may have overreacted about the bug. And it was embarrassing to have so many witnesses.

Piper’s eyes flitted to his, but if she recognized him, he couldn’t tell.

“Well, no harm,” Mrs. Olecki said gaily. “I’ll just be taking this outside. Anyone need more—”

“No!” Piper said, and everyone joined Anders in looking at her. She frowned. “You can’t release it.”

“What?”

“It’s a spotted lanternfly. I think. Caught one last week. The book said it’s an invasive species—no natural predators. Not sure what one’s doing out here, though.” Piper squatted until she was eye level with the glass. “There are no crops here, silly bug. Did you get lost?”

Anders stared at her, eyes wide. He watched, trying not to flinch again, as Piper, in one swift motion, tipped the glass and plate over 180 degrees so that the bug remained trapped inside. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, and turned to go.

“Wait!” Anders shouted. He was afraid she wouldn’t come back, and then what? But now he wasn’t quite sure what to say, what with everyone’s eyes on him. Do you have reason to believe your husband was murdered? It wasn’t exactly something you shouted across a dining room, was it? He’d prefer to have a more private conversation.

Piper stood clutching the plate and the glass, waiting as he had requested, and he had to say something. He quickly scanned the table and spotted the empty mug, now grateful, instead of annoyed, that he had inadvertently been skipped this morning.

“Could I have some coffee, please?”

“What?” It was Mrs. Olecki, not Piper, who responded. And quite forcefully, as if Anders had asked for something outside the norm of polite social graces, like an erectile dysfunction pill.

Anders looked at her. “Uh . . . coffee? I’d love a cup if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh,” she said, her forehead pleating in confusion. “It’s just, I thought your . . . your . . . people . . . don’t drink it.”

“My people?”

“He’s a Mormon,” Mrs. Olecki explained to the room, as if Anders wasn’t standing right there.

“I’m sorry—what?”

She brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. Is that not the proper way to say it?”

“I don’t know the proper— I’m not a Mormon,” Anders said, flustered. “I’m a reporter.”

A collective gasp broke out around the room. Mrs. Olecki clutched her lemon-dotted apron.

“Are you undercover?” She peered at him with new eyes, and added in a near whisper: “As a Mormon?”

“What? No!” Anders said, but he caught Mrs. Olecki glancing at his shirt, and that was when he remembered what he was wearing. And what his sister had said about it. He sighed. “I’m just here as a reporter. Well, a podcaster, really.” He glanced at Piper when he said it, the thought occurring to him that perhaps she was the one who had reached out to him. If she did have her own suspicions about her husband’s death, she’d likely want someone to look into it. But then, he reasoned, why wouldn’t she just go to the police? Or come outright and say what she suspected? Regardless, Piper just looked pleasantly back at him. “I’m researching a story on global warming,” Anders continued. “Its effect on the island.”

The room fell silent. So silent, Anders could hear the bug’s flittering wings as it tried to escape the glass. He suppressed a shiver.

And then Mrs. Olecki’s mouth burst open with laughter. “Oh, honey,” she said between guffaws. “I believe you might be a little late to the game. Do you know how many newspapers and magazines have written that exact story? Newsweek, the Washington Post, the New York Times—heck, I believe we were even in one of those food magazines, weren’t we? Anyway, I think you’ve missed the . . . what do they call it, Harold dear?” She looked at her husband. “In newspaper terms.”

“The scoop,” Mr. Olecki provided.

“Yes! The scoop. I always liked the sound of that. Getting the scoop. Reminds me of ice cream. Now, that cell phone tower they’re building out here—that might be something worth looking into.”

“Yes, but,” Anders started, his voice low, “all those articles were so one-sided; they didn’t have the perspective of people who actually live here—of you guys. I don’t know, I just thought maybe I could tell it differently.”

But Mrs. Olecki was no longer listening. She had moved on, refilling the juice glasses of the couple and reaching in the cabinet of the hutch for a fresh one for Anders. In fact, the only person that seemed to have heard him, the only one even looking at him, was Piper.

“I’ll get your coffee,” Mrs. Olecki said, turning her attention to Anders once again. “Anyone need anything else? Waffles will be out shortly.”

She breezed out of the room, Mr. Olecki following close behind. But Piper, still holding Anders’s plate and the glass with the bug suspended between, stood there for a beat.

“You have a podcast?”

“Yeah,” Anders said, searching her eyes to see if she already knew this. If she was trying to tell him something. But mostly all he saw was genuine interest, which made him shrug and feel the need to confess: “It’s not exactly popular. Nobody really listens to it. Well, except my dad.”

“Oh,” she said. He cringed when he saw a flash of something that looked like pity in her eyes. “Well, if you’re really interested in climate change, you should come to the Frick Island Wildlife Center. I work there on Saturdays.”

Anders stared at her, partly stunned that he had so easily been able to get the outcome he’d wanted—without saying any actual words—and partly wondering if