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at everyone who walked past them, offering an occasional nod or wave. The only thing that changed with them was their clothes, on occasion, and what type of drink they were holding. If it was morning, it was coffee mugs, and any time after noon it was almost always a beer can.
    Something was different about them this morning though. Usually, they smiled benignly, keeping to themselves but acknowledging their dock neighbors. Today they stared more intently, scowling at the group as they passed. Penelope glanced away after her wave was not returned. 
    “I guess they woke up on the wrong side of the floor this morning,” she muttered to herself.
    The trio walked up the dock towards the shore, passing the usual boats and more than a few empty slips. When they reached the marina’s office, Penelope noticed a boat she’d never seen before rocking gently against the dock. It was a plain white speedboat with big blue letters that spelled POLICE along the sides and back. She pointed it out to Arlena and Max who walked slightly ahead of her, discussing what they might order for breakfast.
    Max glanced around at Penelope and the boat.
    “Yeah, so?”
    “I was just thinking I’ve never seen a police boat here before,” Penelope said. “We’ve been here a month, and I’ve never even seen a police officer, now that I think about it.”
    “We know how much you like police officers, Pen,” Max teased.
    Penelope took one more look at the boat then quickened her pace to catch up to them.  When they stepped onto the sandy walkway that headed to Ocean Avenue, Penelope noticed a definite change in the air, a tension in the faces of the people they passed.
    “Which way is this Inn you’ve been going on about?” Max said, adjusting his reflective sunglasses as he looked up and down the beach. “Where are all the sunbathers? It’s a beach, right?”
    Arlena scoffed. “This isn’t South Beach or Ibiza, Max. Why do you think we’re filming a movie that takes place in 1890 here? Shane doesn’t want a bunch of random people in neon bikinis in the background. We’re practically on a deserted island.”
    “They do get some tourists,” Penelope said, “but we’ve sectioned off most of the beach for the shoot. We hardly see anyone who isn’t with the production.”
    They made a right on Ocean Avenue and headed towards The Andrea Island Inn. It sat at the north end of the beach, and was owned by a lovely older woman named Jeanne. Her skin was baked to a wrinkly finish from sitting on the hotel’s rooftop deck with her guests, watching the ocean roll in and out for over forty years.
    Jeanne told Penelope she had taken over the Inn from her parents, just like they had from her grandparents, who had built the Andrea Inn on the biggest bluff overlooking the ocean. They were one of the original families to settle on the island and are fiercely proud and protective of it. The Inn was indeed impressive, but was starting to show its age, mostly in the thin sheets and worn-around-the-edges comforters on the beds.
    The main hallway of the lobby was spacious and stretched from the front of the building out to the rear veranda and the swimming pool that overlooked the ocean. Jeanne kept the wooden double doors on each open during the day to let in the natural light and ocean breeze.
    They entered the restaurant and Penelope’s heart skipped a beat when she saw two of her chefs sitting at a table in the rear corner talking to a couple of police officers. One of the officers was a large black man, his biceps straining the short sleeves of his pale blue golf shirt as he leaned his elbows on the table. A badge-shaped emblem with the state of Florida in the middle of it was stitched on his shirt, the word POLICE under it in dark blue letters. The other officer was a slender Spanish woman in a matching uniform, her arms folded tightly at her chest. 
    Francis looked down at his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his head shaking slightly as he