Tide and Punishment

by Bree Baker

  “It’s fine,” I said. “How’d it go with the lighthouse?” I’d hated to overlap events, but finding a “good” time for most people so close to Christmas was tough, and mine was an open house. Folks could come as go as it fit their schedule. I’d planned to keep the festivities going until the last person left. Or someone died, I thought miserably.

  She groaned. “We hardly raised any money, and there’s no way the Historical Society can make any of the necessary repairs with the funds they have available. They should probably invest in warning signs to keep eager tourists at bay until the proper maintenance can be completed.”

  “Agreed,” Aunt Fran said. “Safety needs to be a priority. I know they don’t like the idea of posting signs around historic features or anywhere that disrupts the views, but we have to think of people first. Aesthetics later.”

  Aunt Clara refilled her cup from a carafe on the counter, then took a minute to inhale the steam. “It’s hard to fundraise any time of year, but it’s especially tough around the holidays. Most folks are already overspending on friends and family.”

  Janie nodded solemnly. “I’d rather hoped that the holiday spirit would inspire some generosity, but I suppose you’re right. Just because I don’t have any family doesn’t mean everyone else isn’t out shopping until they drop.”

  My aunts closed in on Janie with one of their healing hugs.

  I felt a well-deserved stab of guilt when a few jealous thoughts rubbed their way to the surface. My aunts loved Janie, and why shouldn’t they? She was profoundly beautiful, intelligent, independent, and dedicated. She had the right hair and clothes, and she embodied every deep-rooted LA stereotype I could imagine, short of having been an aspiring performer of some kind. She was an anomaly in Charm, and so far, a good one. Doubly lucky for us, she’d worked in PR and marketing, so her interest in Aunt Fran’s campaign was priceless.

  The real truth was that I’d become overprotective of my relationships after losing Grandma unexpectedly. No one could will their loved ones to stay or live forever just by holding on extra tight.

  Janie wiggled free from my aunts and batted emotion-filled eyes. “Thank you. Sorry. I suppose my need to fix things has gotten out of control. I came here to relax and figure myself out, but I see all these causes and issues that need support, and I can’t stop myself.” She smiled. “I guess I have learned somethings about myself. I’m a doer and a fixer,” she said proudly and with a giggle.

  Aunt Fran smiled warmly at her. “You absolutely are. Your enthusiasm alone has kept me on course multiple times when I’ve wanted to bow out of this election. Now that I’ve made the announcement, I’ll be counting on you to keep me straight. Assuming I’m not wrongfully convicted for murder.”

  Aunt Clara clutched at her sister, pulling her securely against her side. “You have nothing to fear, and we’re behind you whatever comes.”

  Janie nodded in agreement. “You’ll be absolved of every suspicion soon. I’m sure of it. People just aren’t thinking clearly right now. They’re all probably still in shock. They haven’t had time to be sensible about it.”

  Aunt Fran looked almost hopeful at the other women’s encouragement.

  Their confidence was admirable, but I’d never known a crowd to be sensible, especially when something dramatic was unfolding. Aunt Fran was right to worry. Grady had said so himself, and he never exaggerated. “I think I’ll see if I can find Grady,” I said. “It would be nice to know what he knows before I open Sun, Sand, and Tea. See if anything else turned up overnight. Maybe a witness or some piece of evidence that will help set things straight.”

  Aunt Clara nodded. “That would be lovely, but maybe let him handle things from here this time,” she suggested.

  I pursed my lips. She sounded like Amelia. It was true that I’d gotten myself into a couple of jams while following leads on other cases, but I had learned a thing or two. I wouldn’t wind up in a killer’s crosshairs again so easily. “Don’t worry about me,” I said sweetly. “I’ll help Grady figure this out and everything will be right again soon.”

  Janie’s eyes went wide. “Well, at least be careful, if not for you, then for your aunts.” There was pain behind her words, and I remembered that as small as my family was, at least I still had Aunt Fran and Aunt Clara. Janie was alone. “Family’s everything,” she said. “You three need to take care of yourselves for each other. And on a more practical note, anything you find that could help Fran will likely be considered suspect by the public, both due to your relationship with her and your relationship with the detective.”

  I pulled my chin back. “I don’t have a relationship with Grady.”

  “But you’re friends,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Do you know if he’s interested in anyone in town?”

  My jaw tightened. “Not that he’s mentioned.”

  She smiled. “He’s such a reclusive bad boy. What do you guys talk about? Is he into music? Movies? Cars?”

  I had a sneaking suspicion she really meant gorgeous leggy brunettes, and I didn’t want to know the answer.

  “Hold that thought.” Janie pulled her phone from her pocket, still smiling. “Oh, hey. I’ve got notifications set up for that gossip blog, and there’s been an update.”

  My aunts moved in tight to Janie’s sides, eyes and lips moving slightly as Janie scrolled through the article.

  I followed their lead, navigating to the Town Charmer on my phone. With a little luck another crime, related to the murder, had just occurred because Aunt Fran had three witnesses who could verify her whereabouts for the last hour. Would that be enough to eliminate Fran as a suspect?

  The page loaded, and I read the headline aloud. “Fran Swan: A Gnome de Plume?” The smaller line beneath added Or should we call her Killer? The tongue-in-cheek essay went on to suggest all the ways the anonymous author thought were better suited to address Aunt Fran. Bee Keeper, Honey Collector, Shop Owner, Snazzy Dresser… “Good grief.”

  The headline and subscript weren’t exactly encouraging, but the blog post wasn’t awful. No new evidence had been offered, and the author seemed to think the idea of Aunt Fran as a murderer was as ridiculous as I did. Unfortunately, the comments were rolling in hot and snarky, all under aliases, of course. The rudest responses were probably from Mary Grace Chatsworth. It would be just like her to try to eliminate Aunt Fran as her competition by kicking her while she was down.

  Janie inhaled deeply, audibly. “I’ve got this. Marketing and public relations are what I do.” She kissed my aunts’ cheeks, smiled brightly at me, and made a beeline for the door.

  “This will be fine,” I promised.

  Aunt Fran shook her head. “One of the names that blog writer called me was CFC Leader.”

  “I know.” I’d seen it, and it had bothered me too. Aunt Fran might’ve put herself out there as proponent of change, but she wasn’t a member of the group. We didn’t even know who they were.

  Yet another fact I intended to change.

  Aunt Fran hoped to change the way Charmers approached things like tourism, art, and wildlife. She believed they all needed to be embraced. That tourists were a great thing. Art was meant for more than once a year during the summer festival, and our maritime forest and wild horses should be honored and studied. Fran thought it was time Charm stopped trying to keep a lid on our amazing community and start looking for ways to see it grow—including becoming more welcoming to outsiders.

  I tucked my phone away and backed toward the door with resolve. “I’ll talk to Grady about this blog post and about the stolen gnomes,” I said to my aunts. “Whoever took the statues might’ve also had something to do with what happened to the mayor.” It was a long shot, but there hadn’t been many crimes in Charm since the last murder, and when multiple things had gone wrong last time, those crimes had all been related. “It’s worth asking,” I added when they opened their mouths to protest.
We couldn’t afford to discount any unusual happenings, and a herd of stolen holiday gnomes definitely counted as unusual. “I’ll call if I learn anything,” I promised. “You guys do the same, okay?”

  They exchanged a hesitant look before nodding, and I made my escape into the chilly morning air.

  Janie’s Swan for Mayor mobile was gone when I stepped outside.

  Getting information from Grady would be challenging, especially if he thought I was meddling, which I wasn’t. I only wanted to tell him about the gnomes, and if he happened to have things to tell me too, then that was just how conversations worked. Even if he refused to share tit for tat, he was fun to look at, smelled good, and I liked his voice. It made hunting him down feel a lot less like a chore. Basically, my day was off to a nice start.

  Until I stepped off the curb.

  The breath caught in my throat as a solitary gnome came into view, on his back in the puddle forming outside Blue’s new winter door. A thick black X had been gouged into the ceramic of each eye, and the back half of his head was missing. There was no denying that this curl-toed statue was a nothing less than a warning.

  Chapter Four

  I scooped the creepy, broken gnome into my gloved hands and tossed him onto Blue’s passenger seat before reversing hastily into the road. The gnome rocked gently beside me, unlikely to roll away, thanks to his busted head. Still, I put my hand out when we stopped short to avoid a jaywalker.

  The police station was on Bay Street, just across the island from my home on Ocean Drive. While I enjoyed daily views of the sunrise over the ocean, local law enforcement had gorgeous evening views of the sunset on the bay. The police department shared a parking lot with the nature center, a place I knew well. Though I hadn’t been inside the police department until last spring when I was wrongfully accused of murder, the nature center had been a second home to me during my childhood. I’d had a deep interest in the island’s vast ecosystems during middle school, and despite my paralyzing fear of bees, I’d helped my aunts through untold numbers of American honeybee preservation presentations in high school.

  My great-aunts still frequented the nature center, sharing their passion for and leading classes on the plight of the American honeybee, which faced a host of environmental problems. That same passion had recently won them the starring roles in a documentary to be filmed on the island next spring. I could only imagine what the current town council would have to say about such unprecedented shenanigans. A film crew? In Charm? Surely there were numerous and very important forms to be completed for that, and an established wait period for the council to convene and consider before making their official denial of the request. I was sure they’d look for a way to stop it, though I didn’t see how they could.

  I slowed a bit, suddenly recalling something I tried consistently to forget: Wyatt worked at the nature center. I’d have to park near the police station door and hurry inside to avoid being spotted.

  The lengths I went to avoid Wyatt were probably a little silly and overdramatic, but he’d broken my heart in ways I didn’t know hearts could break, and my pride was still tender from the experience. The whole ordeal had been less than a year ago, and sharing my tiny island with him sometimes felt like too much, too soon.

  I pressed Blue’s gas pedal with purpose as I motored down Main Street toward Middletown, the road that acted as a kind of belt, cinching the island in the middle between the ocean and the bay. Blue’s new tires gripped the wet street beneath the melting slush like a team of champs. I’d agonized about spending the extra money on new tires when I bought Blue’s winter enclosure, but I was infinitely thankful I had. The new, deeper tread did wonders to hold me in place where my aged, worn tires would have sent me off the road at every turn. I supposed learning to drive in unfavorable conditions was something else I’d gained from my time away from home. Culinary school in Kentucky had come with plenty of snow.

  I slowed at the sight of Grady’s truck parked along the road’s edge. The hazard lights of the mammoth black pickup were blinking, but Grady wasn’t behind the wheel. A chill of worry rocked down my spine.

  I slid Blue into the space ahead of him and opened my door. I couldn’t imagine anyone getting the drop on Grady, but if someone had, I didn’t want to run into him on the other side of the truck. I took a tentative step in the direction of a low whirring sound, then stopped.

  “Ready?” Grady asked in his low, authoritative voice.

  “Yes!” An older female called from behind the expensive enclosure of a high-end golf cart that had slid off the road.

  Grady wasn’t hurt.

  I smiled at my silliness. Of course he was fine. I’d overreacted. Projected my fears and issues onto someone else.

  He counted to three as I hurried toward him, then added, “Go!”

  The woman behind the wheel of the expensive cart made a determined face, and the tires began to spin. She had apparently slid off the road and gotten stuck there. Grady pressed his shoulder to the cart’s back end and shoved. The sound of spinning tires on frozen grass and snow zipped through the air.

  His eyes caught mine, and he relaxed his stance. The tires stopped spinning, and the woman’s shoulders dropped away from her ears.

  I waved to her as I passed. “Hey,” I said to Grady, admiring his dark jeans, black leather coat, and matching black knit hat. Even without the steed and Stetson, Grady embodied everything I loved about cowboys. He was respectful, honorable, hardworking, and true. At the moment, he was this older woman’s hero. He’d been mine on a few occasions too. “Need a hand?”

  Grady’s serious mouth twitched, likely fighting a smile as he repositioned his boots in the snow. “Yep.”

  I pressed my gloved palms to the opposite side of the little cart and pushed when Grady gave the signal.

  The woman hit the gas and rocketed forward with a scream. She slowed when all four tires found purchase on the slushy asphalt, then smiled over her shoulder and waved.

  Grady chuckled as she drove slowly away.

  “Who was that? I didn’t recognize her,” I said, dusting my gloves together.

  “Visiting family for Christmas,” he said. “She’s from Arizona.”

  “Ah.” I laughed. “So, it’s not just locals who are struggling with our unexpected weather. How about you?” I asked. “Enjoying the ice and snow?”

  “Actually, yes,” he said. “We took Denver sledding on the beach this morning before the snow began to melt. Not many people can say they’ve done that, and he loved it. Reminded him of home.”

  By we Grady meant himself and his beautiful, blond au pair, Denise. I’d originally mistaken Denise for Grady’s inappropriately young wife, but nowadays, I suspected she was actually an undercover assassin assigned to protect him and his son. Either I had a good imagination, or I was incredibly intuitive, but something about Denise had always screamed more than a live-in caregiver to me.

  “I love snow,” I said. “It’s nice to see a few people have taken the initiative to get out and enjoy it. Charm may never see weather like this again in our lifetimes.”

  “It’s thrown your town for a loop,” he said. “Schools are closed. Half the shops haven’t opened yet, and everyone’s struggling to get around.”

  I felt my brows furrow as a new fear crept into my mind. “I hope this won’t stop the Holiday Shuffle.”

  Grady wrinkled his nose at me. “The what?”

  “The Holiday Shuffle,” I repeated, shooting him a disbelieving look. “It’s our annual progressive dinner. Do you know what that is?”

  He crossed his arms. “Not unless the meal is forward thinking or comes from a can with that blue logo.”

  I sighed. “Not Progresso. Progressive. Every year, the island divides into groups and visits multiple homes and businesses for different parts of a holiday meal. People volunteer months in advance to be one of the hosts. Then, we
post our names, addresses, and menus on the community board so people planning to attend can pick and choose which places to stop for each portion of the dinner. The Town Charmer has a running log in their sidebar if you don’t have time to stop at the community board.”

  Grady tilted his head. “So, I look at all the menus and decide on a route?”

  “Yes! And the routes can be different for each person. Some homes open for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, other begin with coffee, tea, and finger foods. The second stop is always soups and salads. Third stop is a main dish and sides. Fourth stop is for desserts and coffees or nightcaps.”

  “You volunteered?” Grady guessed.

  “Of course, but I’ll join in with everyone else once my portion is over. Each stop is only slated for an hour, otherwise the whole thing would take forever.”

  “Four stops is four hours,” Grady said.

  I smiled. “True, and it’s so much fun. You have to come. It’ll be a great way to get to know folks on a casual level. Visit their homes and stores, exchange some small talk, get a full stomach, and maybe a little tipsy.”

  He grinned. “Are you planning to get tipsy, Swan?”

  I laughed. “No, but Charm has been doing the Holiday Shuffle for generations, and it’s brought us closer as a community. Try it. Bring Denise and Denver. It’ll be fun.” Though the trips between each stop could be a nightmare if the weather didn’t straighten up.

  Grady gave the busy sidewalks around us a long look. “Maybe.”

  “Great.” I clapped my gloves together.

  He pulled his attention back to me. “Were you just passing by, or were you looking for me when you stopped to help with the golf cart?”

  My smile fell at the reminder of why I’d gone in search of him. “I hoped to run into you, actually.”

  Grady waited, his patient eyes searching mine.