Tide and Punishment

by Bree Baker

  I plugged in my Christmas tree on my way to make coffee and lit the strands of twinkle lights across my hearth as well. Clusters of chubby white pillar candles bookended the mantle where my stockings had been hung with care. The three tan-and-cream numbers had been made by a local artist and adorned with seaside accents from sand dollars to starfish and had seahorses on the toes. Names were embroidered across the cuffs and underlined in tiny footprints to match the owner. Everly with barefoot tracks in the sand, Maggie with a row of kitty prints, and Lou with one sturdy set of webbed gull tracks. Unlike the more colorful displays in my café, my personal holiday decor was a muted palette of creams and tans with accents in pale blue or silver.

  I shoved a mug under the coffee maker and jammed my bare feet into faux-fur-lined boots from the mat near the door while I waited for the coffee to brew. Maggie’s bowls were empty, though I hadn’t seen her come or go. In fact, she’d been gone, as expected, when I’d returned to check on her yesterday. I added fresh food and water to her dishes, then sampled my steaming coffee, attempting to warm myself from the inside out.

  I’d checked the house for signs of Maggie’s secret passage before. I’d never found anything, but I was sure it was there. Somewhere. A crack or crevice small enough to go unseen by my eye, but large enough for her to squash her fluffy white body through. I’d been torn at the time. I couldn’t bring myself to stop her from coming and going at will, but leaving the passage open could lead to who-knew-what following her inside one day. Wherever the secret door was, I prayed regularly that it was too small for an alligator.

  My little bracelet beeped as I lifted the mug to my lips once more. The words be more active flashed across the small rectangular screen.

  I pressed the heel of my hand against a dull thump developing over my temple and went in search of aspirin. Fatigue headaches had become a frequent companion of mine since my return to Charm. Between owning and operating the café on my own, reacclimating to the community, and dealing with the previous two unhinged murderers, my sleep patterns were a mess. I probably needed to consider getting some part-time help at Sun, Sand, and Tea before tourist season began in the spring.

  I pushed the idea out of my mind as I rifled through my medicine cabinet for the painkillers. Two tablets and a swig of black coffee later, my eyes were opening beyond a squint.

  By the time my mug was empty, the aspirin had kicked in, and a smile had followed. Crazy as my life had become these last few months, it was certainly never boring, and I loved everything about my new seaside home and business. I fixed a second cup of liquid enthusiasm and savored the taste of the satin heat on my tongue, the tendrils of bitter steam warming and teasing my nose.

  My gaze drifted from the snow-laced view outside my window to the postcard-worthy scene all around me. The beautiful old home I’d once only dreamed of entering was now my personal, peaceful sanctuary. I fingered the row of glittery cards lining my window. Taping them to the woodwork had become one of my favorite evening activities. I loved finding them in the mailbox and opening them like gifts. Somehow, seeing the cards here, addressed to me at this address, made my sheer abundance seem almost unfair. Not just my abundance of things, but of love, joy, and hope. My thoughts drifted to the needs hanging patiently, hopefully, on the Giving Tree, and I knew I needed to visit soon.

  My phone buzzed on the counter beside Mr. Coffee, and Grady’s number appeared on the screen. I swiped to the new text message with a mix of hope and fear. Then, I remembered I was irritated with him for vanishing on me.

  Sorry about last night.

  I read the words twice. Was he sorry he’d left without saying goodbye? Sorry I didn’t get to see him as promised, or maybe sorry he didn’t get to see me?

  Did he know I’d taken a warm mug of tea out to look for him before I realized he was already gone? Did he know I’d snuggled into bed frustrated and a little hurt, with visions of gnomes smashing in my head?

  The real question I should’ve been asking myself was why I overthought everything when it came to Grady. Nine months ago, I hadn’t even known him. Now his calls and texts were vitally important. They had the power to make or break my day and to send shock waves of anxiety and anticipation tiptoeing across my stomach.

  It wasn’t healthy, and I didn’t like it.

  Before I could respond to him, the screen lit again: Raincheck?

  I chewed my bottom lip as I typed my response: We’ll see.

  I finished my second cup of coffee and wadded my wild mass of dark waves into a ponytail, then headed downstairs to check on Lou. I had a deck outside my second-floor living room, but Lou liked to sit on the railing outside my café. Closer to the beach, I supposed. Quicker access to food.

  I delivered a hearty tray of deboned fish fillets to the deck, called “breakfast” into the sky, then headed into my former ballroom. I propped my phone against the wall of windows and willed myself to get some exercise. I needed to counter some of the holiday cookie damage to my waistline. Plus, the movement would appease my bossy bracelet.

  I selected a beginner Zumba video and rocked my head back and forth over my shoulders. I kicked my faux-fur boots into the corner and marched around, warming up my muscles. I’d heard good things about Zumba. It was supposed to be fun, unlike step aerobics, which had nearly cost me my life when I tripped and fell over the step. I bumbled through the salsa-esque warm-up, my hips doing things they didn’t understand and my brain trying frantically to command my limbs not to hurt one another. The reflection of my broadening silhouette in the windows kept me going to the warm-up’s end. The girl on screen encouraged a water break, never a good sign, then smiled, pumped her fist and the music’s tempo warped into double-time. It was hard to tell if the singer was speaking English as I got my hustle on. More likely the roaring in my ears was distorting the words.

  When the peppy woman circled an arm overhead and yelled, “Again!” I bent forward at the waist and gripped my knees. “Uncle,” I panted, straightening with effort and weaving a drunken path toward the phone. “Stop,” I commanded, mashing a fingertip against the screen to still and silence the video.

  I toppled onto the floor near the window and waited for my breaths to even out. “That was a horrible idea,” I told the ceiling.

  I peeled my head and shoulders off the ground when my pulse returned to normal, mentally marking all dance-based videos off my list of potential indoor exercise. I was a walking, horseback riding, or water sports kind of girl. I excelled at simple, repetitive movements. I needed to get outside.

  Maggie leaped onto the windowsill and stared at me. The judgmental look in her luminous green eyes suggested she’d seen the whole thing. My choreographed seizure, as it were.

  “We shall never speak of this again,” I told her, rolling onto my side, then pushing up to my knees. “No one needs to know.”

  She trotted behind me into the café.

  “You’ve got fresh food and water upstairs,” I told her.

  She pranced past me, presumably headed up for breakfast, and I opened my laptop. My video was still on screen waiting to be launched.

  I inhaled deeply, tired of worrying about what people thought about me, about my appearance, about things that didn’t matter. I closed one eye and pressed the button.

  The little bar stretched across my screen, marking the upload progress. Ten percent. Twenty. Fifty.

  I regretted it instantly and briefly considered chucking the laptop into the Atlantic, but it was too late.

  One hundred percent.

  My head dropped forward. Well, at least Amelia would be happy. An instructional video on making the Swan Family’s Seven-Layer Bars now appeared beneath the Holiday How-To tab on my website. My goofy smile was frozen, lips parted, eyes wide. A big white triangle lay on its side beneath my chin, waiting to be selected. Waiting to animate me.

  My stomach clenched in terror. What i
f no one watched it? What if everyone did? What if everyone watched it and they all hated it?

  I wasn’t sure which result would be most humiliating, or if I wanted to know.

  Instead, I pulled another tea bag off my advent calendar and grabbed a stack of cookie orders, then got to work. Eight days until Christmas and zero progress made on clearing Aunt Fran’s name. I had problems, and nothing took me away from my problems like baking. I arranged the necessary ingredients across my workspace and preheated the oven. Staying busy was the key to sanity.

  According to the clock on my stove, I had four hours before opening time at Sun, Sand, and Tea, and I intended to complete as many cookies as possible before then. A personal challenge. Once the café opened, I’d schedule the pickups and deliveries.

  I put the first round of snickerdoodles in the oven, then checked the Town Charmer blog for updates on Mayor Dunfree’s murder. I found another article about the Holiday Shuffle instead. Apparently, Senator Denver had added Northrop Manor to the list of stops and the town was chomping at the bit to get a look inside the formerly exclusive residence. Sheer curiosity pushed me to click her link.

  I scrolled through her menu, jaw lowering further with each astoundingly gourmet item. Clearly, she planned to schmooze the locals into loving her. I considered this a moment. Joining the Holiday Shuffle was a smart move for a newcomer. A good way to meet a lot of people all at once…

  Of course! She was laying the groundwork for her campaign! Who in their right mind wouldn’t want be a guest at Northrop Manor for Christmas? Eating things like prosciutto, mango, and parmesan salad or pork tenderloin crostini with organic cranberry-pepper jelly? Charmers would go and they’d remember her. They’d like her without even knowing her.

  Worse, she was going to show me up at my own game. I was the café owner, but she’d probably asked her personal team of celebrity chefs to prepare the fanciest recipes they knew. I imagined Gordon Ramsey and Rachael Ray working in the Northrop kitchen, while Senator Denver pretended it was all her doing.

  How could I compete with that?

  I turned back to the messy countertop and whipped together a batch of thumbprint cookie dough while I mulled over my options. I needed to serve the perfect cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. My portion of the Shuffle came first, and I wanted people stuffed so full of my authentic southern recipes that they’d barely have room for her schmancy main course. When the oven timer dinged, I swapped the trays. Snickerdoodles out. Thumbprints in. I reset the timer and inhaled the mood-lifting scents around me. The café smelled like some of my best dreams.

  I wiped down the counters as I waited for the cookies to cool. Something prickled in my mind. The senator’s thinly veiled attempt to get into Charm’s good graces reminded me of Mary Grace, another virtual outsider suddenly trying to take control of island politics. What was it with people? Worse, I suspected the senator would stop at nothing to get what she wanted, and I knew Mary Grace wouldn’t. My gaze shifted to the oven.

  Maybe it was time I made a special tray of cookies for Mary Grace and asked her how she was doing after the sudden and tragic loss of her campaign partner. Was there a universe where she’d open up to me and be candid? Could my cookies build that bridge?

  My phone buzzed, and Grady’s face appeared on the screen. A call this time instead of a text.

  “Hello?” I answered eagerly, suddenly dying to know if he’d spoken to Mary Grace, and if so, how she had responded. “Grady?” I pressed when he didn’t answer quickly. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” The silence returned, and I wondered if he’d changed his mind about talking to me. “I know you aren’t open yet, but I wondered if I could come by for a few minutes while it’s still quiet.”

  “Of course,” I answered instinctually. “Anytime.”

  My chest constricted once the words were out. I looked down at my disheveled self. I hadn’t showered, put on makeup, or brushed my hair, and I was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie that I’d recently laid on the floor in and sweated all over. “Can you give me thirty minutes?”

  “See you then.” Grady disconnected before I had a chance to say goodbye.

  I checked my watch, willed the thumbprints to finish baking, then sprinted upstairs the moment the oven timer dinged. Twenty-three minutes wasn’t much, but I could move mountains with the right motivation, and Grady Hays was a powerful incentive.

  * * *

  My hair was still wet when Grady arrived, but at least I’d washed and conditioned the crazy mop, so it smelled like coconuts. I’d twisted it all into a knot on top of my head and hoped it looked intentionally messy, like the cover models on fashion magazines, instead of what it really was: wet because I hadn’t had time to dry it. And unruly because my hair was a curse I could believe in. I’d spent the extra minutes on my makeup, spreading concealer over the dark crescents beneath my eyes and choosing an outfit that accentuated my good curves and drew attention away from my bad ones. I decided on faded jeans, white tennis shoes, and a fitted satin tank top with a loose cashmere cardigan. I didn’t want to look as if I was trying to impress him. I was at work after all.

  Grady, on the other hand, had clearly not tried to impress me. In fact, he looked like he hadn’t been home since I’d seen him outside my place last night.

  “Whoa,” I said, tugging the beleaguered detective inside. “Did you sleep?”

  “No.” He rubbed both palms against drooping eyes, then fixed an all-knowing look on me. “Did you?”

  I pressed my lips tight. Touché.

  “Well, at least let me feed you,” I said. “Food helps, and I’ve got a pot of coffee ready. How do scrambled eggs sound?”

  Grady nodded, and I led him to the row of seats at my counter. I patted one on my way around to the business side. “I’m expecting a usual day here,” I said, pouring him some coffee. “I’ll be serving tea and other delicious items until seven tonight. What’s on your agenda?” I slid the mug before him.

  His hands seemed to wrap around the cup on instinct. His thumbs beat a rhythm along the rim. “I get to meet with the mayor’s family again,” he said, emphasis on the final word and not looking at all happy about it.

  “Why?” I asked. “Do you have new information for them?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I pulled a carton of brown eggs from the refrigerator and cracked a half dozen into a bowl. I stirred and seasoned them gently before adding a dollop of sour cream to the mix and whipping it hard.

  “Your aunt Clara confirmed the gnomes were hers,” he said. “All of them. The ones smashed on your porch. The one used to kill the mayor. The one left for you outside Blue.”

  My whipping hand slowed. That wasn’t new information. “And?”

  Grady looked up at me, swirling his mostly empty mug. “I don’t know, but it’s not good, and what’s with her and those gnomes anyway? Are they some kind of weird island tradition? Are they a Swan thing?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by a Swan thing,” I said, “and what do you mean it’s not good?”

  He finished the coffee and set the mug aside. “All the evidence points to your Aunt Clara,” he said, catching me in a pointed gaze. “Your other aunt, the accused, is her roommate and business partner with complete access to those gnomes, and none of them, aside from the murder weapon, have any prints on them. Nothing to prove anyone else handled them.”

  I refilled his mug with one eyebrow cocked. “So? That’s all the more reason to know these crimes weren’t committed by my aunts. There wouldn’t have been a need to wipe their prints off. Aunt Clara’s prints should have been all over the gnomes because she painted them. Aunt Fran’s could’ve been on there from helping her sister arrange the little garden she was making outside their shop. Why would anyone wipe their prints off something they readily admit belongs to them?”

  “They wouldn’t
,” he said.

  “Right,” I agreed. “It’s counterproductive.”

  Grady blew across the surface of his refill. “Still, Fran’s prints were on the murder weapon.”

  “And mine and Aunt Clara’s should have been,” I said. “We all held and admired that thing when Aunt Clara delivered him to me, but when you sent it to the lab, after the murder, only Aunt Fran’s prints were there.”

  Grady watched me closely. “There’s no way to remove your prints and Clara’s without disturbing Fran’s.”

  I nodded. “Aunt Fran’s prints are there because she went outside to cool off. She didn’t take her coat or gloves, and she picked the gnome up when she saw him in the snow,” I said, hoping he was beginning to see.

  Grady made a low, guttural sound and hunched further over his mug. “The mayor’s family wants blood. His wife is outraged that I haven’t arrested Fran. She’s been at the station all morning, demanding justice and painting a vivid story for anyone who will listen.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, scrambling the eggs in a pan. “Aunt Fran was a woman scorned, humiliated, and sent fleeing her own party. The murder was an act of passion.”

  He sighed, so I must’ve been on the mark.

  The expression on his handsome face became stricken. Grady clearly didn’t want to believe my aunt was a killer, but he worked by the book, followed the facts, and at the moment, the facts were breaking his heart.

  My anger quelled. “We’ll figure this out,” I said. “Hold the Dunfrees off as long as you can, and we’ll find something to clear Fran’s name. I think we already have a solid argument about the fingerprints. That should at least exclude Fran from the suspect pool.”