Free Island Blues by Wendy Howell Mills

dead.
He felt free, and exhilarated, and…
    He wouldn’t admit he was scared. He could handle it on his own. He knew the way things worked. If it wasn’t for him and his father, the whole thing would have fallen apart years ago.
He
was the main act in this circus, and Gilbert had just been a roadie. Michael knew it all along, and now he would prove it.
    Feeling better, he tensed his muscles in preparation for a back flip.

Chapter Eleven
    â€œDo you think they will cancel the retreat?” asked a very tall young man.
    â€œWhere in the hell is Siderius, that’s what I want to know. How are we supposed to know what’s going on when he won’t bother to tell us? For that matter, where’s the old guy?” This from a man in a dark blue suit who looked like he would prefer
Fortune
over
National Geographic,
aged scotch over beer, and first class most definitely over coach. He wore a pair of wrap-around high-tech sunglasses and his face looked as if it were no stranger to masks and moisturizers.
    Sabrina stood in the doorway of the meeting room, but the three Hummers inside were too involved in their conversation to notice her.
    The tall young man had a tendency to duck, even sitting, as if he’d encountered one too many ceilings in his short life, and had an open, engaging face, despite the strain evident on it. Looking around the room, Sabrina saw that all three men showed signs of strain. Of course, Gilbert’s death could account for some of it, but this tension had the look of longevity about it. It took weeks or even months of constant stress to tense muscles so tight that not even constant neck rolling and finger flexing would relieve them.
    â€œI don’t think we need any water.” A grayish man in the back of the room said this in a quiet voice, and it took a moment for Sabrina to realize that the apropos-nothing statement was directed at her.
    â€œOh! No, I don’t have any water, though I think I have half a Diet Pepsi in my purse if you need it…” There was silence, and Sabrina realized they all thought she was a deranged hotel employee. She rushed on. “I’m Sabrina Dunsweeney, Comico Island’s Ombudsman. I’ve come to see how you are doing and offer any assistance I can provide. May I say that all of us on Comico Island are so sorry that you have experienced this loss?” The speech went exactly as practiced and Sabrina beamed.
    â€œWe’ve all been interviewed by the police, but we haven’t seen Michael or Joseph since this morning. We want to know when our sessions are going to resume,” said the man in the sunglasses.
    â€œI, um, I’m not sure of that.” Sabrina was a bit nonplused by their determination to continue with their retreat in the face of Gilbert’s death. “I’ll find out when your sessions will be resuming as soon as I can. Is there anything else I can do for you? I know this must be a very trying time for you, and I would be happy to do anything I can to make this easy experience difficult. That is to say, to ease your way through this difficult experience.” It was another speech she had practiced on the way here, and this one didn’t go quite as well. The men were looking skeptical, and Sabrina knew she needed to do something fast. The question was, what? Her “Annie Get Your Gun” tap dance routine from her fifth grade recital didn’t seem appropriate in these circumstances, though it had worked in other tight spots.
    â€œWe don’t need anything—” said the grayish man.
    â€œWell, that’s good. Please feel free to ask if you need anything. Doughnuts? A shoulder to cry on? An oil lube?” That just popped out because she knew Pastor Josh was running a special on them down at the car lot. She needed to stop talking. She always talked too much when she was nervous. “I need to take down all your names.”
    Sabrina whipped out her