Tide and Punishment

by Bree Baker

“No one with means and motive,” Grady said, but something flashed in his eyes.

  I froze, hoping it was good news. “What?”

  Grady pursed his lips. “It’s probably nothing, but Dunfree’s wife called in a complaint today, and when I looked into it further, I found a few other complaints from her this year.”

  I gaped at him. “Complaints about her husband?” There were only a few reasons a woman would call the police about her husband, and none of those were good.

  “No. Nothing like that. There’s an ongoing spat with a neighbor. The guy put up a new fence at the end of summer and it blocks Mrs. Dunfree’s view of the ocean. She doesn’t like it, and he won’t take it down, so they argue and drag the local PD into it. There are multiple reports from the past few months, but police action has never been taken.”

  “And she called for the same reason again today,” I clarified.

  Grady gave a stiff nod. “Twice. The fence is obviously a sore spot. Add the stress and grief of losing her husband, and she’s mad as a rattlesnake. This morning, she told the responding officer that the neighbor’s taking advantage because her husband isn’t here to enforce the rules anymore. I’m thinking that if the fence had actually been against the rules, it would have already come down.”

  I felt my mouth form a little o as I took the new information in. “What does the standing mayor say?”

  “Not much,” Grady said. “He’s promised Mrs. Dunfree he’ll look into the bylaws of their neighborhood to see if there was any infringement, but I figure Mr. Dunfree would’ve already done that. If he can’t find a reason to force the guy to take the fence down, she’ll either have to learn to live with the fence or move.”

  I returned my attention to the giant ball of sugar cookie dough on the counter and gave it a few whacks with my great-great-grandmother’s rolling pin. Mrs. Dunfree has a nemesis. Could he have figured into her husband’s death somehow? I used the ancient rolling pin to press the dough ball into a massive quarter-inch-thick spread, sprinkling a fistful of flour over the sticky mix as needed. “What’s the neighbor’s name?” I asked, trying to look as innocent and disinterested as possible. “Maybe I know him.”

  Grady chuckled. “Don’t even try it.”

  I got the first round of cutouts into the over, then grabbed the stack of unopened cards from my bag and a wheel of tape to hang them. Better to keep my hands busy if I was going to be alone with Grady much longer, I mused. “Want to help?” I handed him half the stack without waiting for a reply.

  He went to work sliding one finger under each flap and freeing the cards. He stood them like teepees over the envelopes in an arc across the counter. “You get a lot of cards. You’re running out of windows.”

  “I’ll stick them on the cupboards next,” I said, opening a pretty red envelope with a butter knife. No return address, so the sender would be a surprise, but definitely a local. It had been stamped at the Charm post office.

  A barrel of red glitter spilled over my hands, counter, and floor. “Goodness!” I jumped back, unsure who thought that was a good idea. “Glitter bomb,” I said, dusting my hands and clothes with a dish towel.

  Grady was on his feet and at my side. “Did you cut yourself?”

  “No.” I raised my open hands to him. “Some nut sent me a pound of glitter.”

  Grady checked the envelope, then gave a soft cuss. The only thing inside the envelope, aside from glitter was a piece of paper with my name on it. Each letter had been x-ed out in heavy black strokes.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. My stomach ached and twisted. “Another threat.” In a holiday card. What kind of sicko did that?

  Grady pulled his phone from his pocket again. This time he frowned at the screen. “Denver had a nightmare.” He ran a hand through his hair, then looked at the glitter.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Go.” I stripped the apron from around my waist. “Take the card. I’ll gather up as much of the glitter as I can.”

  He nodded, distracted.

  I found a dustpan and whisk broom, and Grady joined me in the cleanup, but his distraction was palpable. Something was wrong with his son, and that came first. Always. And as it should.

  “Go.” I pressed the sealed bag against Grady’s chest. “I’m fine, and I’ll lock up behind you. I’m not going anywhere else tonight, and I’m not in any danger. It was just glitter.”

  Grady gave one stiff nod. “I’ll stop at the post office in the morning. Find out who mailed this.”

  I wasn’t sure it was that simple, even in Charm, but I forced a tight smile of acceptance. “Thanks.”

  I followed him to the door, feeling a small tremor work its way through me. I wanted to make a joke to lighten the mood and erase the worry etched across his brow. Maybe something about an angry crafter on the hunt, or that Mr. Butters should rethink his story choices about child-eating giants. But I knew Denver had much worse things haunting him. Losing his mother to a lengthy cancer battle, for starters. The pain in Grady’s eyes said it all. It wasn’t a monster that had woken his son. It was remembered heartbreak.

  Grady turned to me beneath the mistletoe at my front door and ran a palm down the length of my arm, shoulder to elbow. “Lock up behind me, Swan. Stay safe.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Clara arrived shortly after breakfast the next morning. She stomped snow from her boots and dusted flakes from her hat and coat before hanging both with a shiver. “The weather is atrocious. I’ve never seen the likes of this in all my days.”

  “Did you have any trouble getting here?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine my great-aunt walking or riding her bicycle in the snow, and she rarely drove her aged golf cart.

  “Not at all,” she said. “I called the Waterses’ niece for a Pick-Me-Up.”

  I laughed. Lanita had chosen a great place to spend her holiday break. Thanks to the crazy weather, she’d be going back to school a lot richer. “You got all this snow on you walking from the driveway?”

  “More,” she said. “I stomped off as much as I could on your porch. It’s unbelievable out there. You should’ve seen the meteorologist’s face on the news this morning. The precipitation doesn’t even show up on his little weather map. He seemed as dumbstruck as the rest of us.”

  I smiled. “Well, I don’t mind. I’ve always wanted a white Christmas in Charm. Grandma and I sat up late every Christmas Eve talking about what it would be like to sled over the beachy grasses and build snowmen near the surf.” My heart warmed with instant memories and nostalgia. “Now it’s happening. And she’s not here to see it,” I added in a whisper.

  This wasn’t just my first Christmas back in Charm, it was my first Christmas without the woman who’d raised me. “She always called,” I said, fighting the instant sting of emotion against the backs of my eyes. “Even when I was too busy to make the time for her, she called.”

  Aunt Clara’s unusually cranky expression turned curious, then softened into something resembling wonder. “Maybe she’s calling you now.”

  I followed her gaze through the window at her side, and a rush of love swept over me. Fat white flakes whirled and cartwheeled through the air.

  “It would be just like her,” Clara croaked softly, “to send you one last Christmas gift if she could.”

  My heart swelled and my eyes blurred. “Thank you for saying that.”

  Aunt Clara wiped her eyes with the pads of her thumbs. “If you’re going out there, I suppose you’d better get to it. It’s only going to get worse.”

  “Right.” I ran the cuff of my sleeve under my nose, then turned for the café. “I’ve got the cookies packed up and ready to go. I left them with the gnomes on the counter.”

  “Excellent. Skip stopping at the kiln if the roads are bad. There’s no rush to get the gnomes back since they aren’t going to be Christmas gifts anymore,” Aunt Clara said. She fished an envelope from
her handbag and passed it to me. “I made this for your collection. A holiday card from our shop to yours.”

  I opened the cheery yellow-and-white card with a smile. “Thank you!” A small cartoonish honey bee had been fixed to the cardstock by a short accordion-folded strip that made him bounce. He had a small red heart between his thin black arms. She’d drawn a sketch of Blessed Bee on one side of the card and Sun, Sand, and Tea on the other. Both shops were decorated for the holidays and dusted in silver glitter snow. A dotted black line curled between them, as if the bee might’ve flown the loopy path, and May your days bee merry and bright was scripted above the scene in Aunt Clara’s careful hand.

  I cradled the card to my chest and gave her another hug. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

  Aunt Clara patted my cheek, then backed away with a smile. She snagged a roll of tape from my office supplies and added her card to the collection circling my nearest café window.

  I poured her a large glass of blackberry iced tea while she worked. “You’re the best. I don’t tell you often enough.”

  “Maybe,” she said, returning the tape and then accepting the tea, “but you show Fran and me every day, and that’s even better.” Aunt Clara savored the tea, her gaze drifting through the festive café around us. “Have you decided on a menu for the progressive dinner?”

  “I have. Thanks to you.” She’d inspired me with her speech last night, and I’d stayed up looking through old family cookbooks for the perfect recipes. “I stopped worrying about showing off and focused on what the holidays meant to me. Then I thought about how I could share that with everyone else.”

  Aunt Clara beamed. “And?”

  I moved closer, biting my bottom lip to quell the thrill I got at the thought of it. “I’m making great-grandma’s chicken and waffles with warm maple syrup, served appetizer-style, plus mini baked macaroni and cheese, the shrimp and grits Aunt Fran loves, and maybe some crab and corn chowder cups. Nothing fancy, just good, old-fashioned southern comforts. I’m still working on the cocktails, but I’m leaning toward a few of my favorite teas instead. A hot selection. Two cold, and maybe one spiked.”

  Aunt Clara set a palm on her middle. “If you need someone to check your work before the event, you’ll let me know?”

  “Absolutely.” I laughed. “Hopefully everyone who stops by will enjoy the recipes as much as I do. I emailed my menu to the Town Charmer this morning.”

  She winked. “Good girl.”

  I threaded my arms into my favorite down coat and tied the wide belt in a knot. “I guess I’d better get moving. If there’s time, I’d like to stop at the Giving Tree while I’m out. Do you want me to grab a name for you?”

  “I’ve already stopped. I’ve got two names at home, but thank you for the offer.” She paused, her already empty glass positioned beneath the blackberry tea dispenser for a refill. “I guess I should’ve asked you before I went. I could’ve saved you a trip.”

  “It’s no trouble,” I assured her. “I like going, and it’s a tradition, right?”

  “It is.” She smiled. “Meanwhile, I’ll hold down the fort.”

  I doubted anyone would venture as far out as my place until the snow stopped, but if someone did, I was glad they would find the café open. “I appreciate it,” I said, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I won’t be long.”

  “No rush. Be safe,” she called after me.

  I headed for Blue with a box of gnomes in my arms and a giant delivery bag stuffed with cookie boxes in the opposite grip. It was doubtful that Mary Grace would let me through her front door, let alone entertain my questions, with or without a cookie bribe, but I had to try. I needed to know what she knew about Mayor Dunfree’s death, and I was positive she knew something. Anyone who’d planned to be the mayor’s running partner in the upcoming election had to know if he had any enemies or current feuds going. Additionally, I wanted to see her face when she answered in case she lied. As far as I was concerned, Mary Grace was still a suspect.

  Once she inevitably tossed me out, I planned to meet with the stand-in mayor, previously known as Chairman Vanders. I’d called his office at eight sharp to make an appointment. His receptionist had initially thought his schedule was full, but after discovering there was a dozen assorted cookies from the Swan family cookbooks at stake, she assured me she’d been mistaken.

  Blue and I motored slowly through town. Dozens of brave Charmers moseyed in and out of shops along Main Street and Vine. They were bundled to their noses against the cold and snow, eyes down as they moved in case of a slip, I supposed. Cars and trucks had replaced golf carts, and most of the drivers looked half-terrified by the accumulating slush on the roads. A pickup slid past a stop sign by half a foot, and a line of pedestrians scattered for their lives.

  I stopped at the traffic light on Middletown Road and glanced at the bag on the seat beside me. I’d brought enough cookies to tempt Mary Grace, schmooze Chairman Vanders, bribe his secretary, and possibly ply Mrs. Dunfree and her fence-erecting neighbor if the opportunity arose. I’d call the outing a success if even one of those people were willing to talk to me about Mayor Dunfree.

  I pulled into Mary Grace’s driveway several minutes later, preferring to get the worst out of the way. The lights of a Christmas tree were visible through her drawn curtains, and two lopsided snowmen graced the lawn, but no one had shoveled the walkway or steps.

  I grabbed a box of cookies and made my way carefully onto the porch. I forced a tight smile and pushed the doorbell. The commotion that followed was enough to drown out a three-ring circus. Children yelled. Dogs barked. Something crashed.

  “Quiet!” Mary Grace screamed. She appeared at the front window a moment later, peeling the curtain back carefully, then frowning when she saw me.

  The door sucked open, and I leaned back, putting distance between myself and the frightening version of Mary Grace that answered.

  “What do you want?” she asked, makeup-less eyes squinting, unkempt hair pointing in every direction. Two pocket-sized Chihuahuas and a trio of kids mashed into the space around her feet and legs.

  For a moment, I had no idea what I wanted. The shock of seeing Miss Perfect in a house coat and ratty slippers, surrounded by a gang of wailing dogs and children struck me silent. I’d known she was a mother, but I had assumed she was raising a gaggle of militants trained to obey her every command. Had I known she owned dogs, I would’ve imagined a pair of Dobermans to reflect her personality. “Cookies?” I finally offered, pushing the bakery box in her direction.

  The kids nearly lost their minds jumping for it.

  One of the dogs tried to bite me, but he got one of the scrambling kids instead, and the child screamed.

  Mary Grace swept the injured one onto her hip and took the cookies. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  I followed her through a house covered in toys and plastic sippy cups to the equally messy kitchen. She deposited the box onto her table, and the ensemble of small jumping bodies surrounded it. “Settle down or you won’t get any,” she ordered.

  The child on her hip shimmied onto a chair someone hadn’t pushed in when they last left the table. His wiggling bottom lip was pushed out and tears rolled down his cheeks, but his attention was fixed on the box instead of the small red mark on his calf.

  Mary Grace untied the crimson ribbon and raised the box’s lid. “I’m going into my office,” she said sharply. “You each get two cookies only and there had better not be any fighting or you won’t play in the snow after lunch.”

  She shooed the Chihuahuas into a kennel large enough to hold all three kids, and I wondered if she’d ever been tempted to use it on them. “Let Bacon and Elephant out when you finish your cookies. Do not share with them.”

  She turned a pointed look on me, then marched down a short hallway to an office that looked as if someone had turned it upside down a few times and motioned me ins
ide. “Five minutes,” she repeated, securing the door behind us.

  I decided to skip the small talk and get out of there in four. “Why did you agree to run with Dunfree as deputy mayor? A few months ago you wanted to be mayor, then something happened, and you agreed to run with him instead of against him. I want to know what changed.”

  Mary Grace rubbed her forehead. “He was sick.”

  The rumor was true, but what did it mean? “Who knew?”

  She leaned her backside against a cluttered desk. “Very few people. He wanted to keep it that way. It’s the reason he changed his mind about stepping down and retiring. He said he didn’t have long to live and he didn’t want to die a forgotten old has-been. He wanted a big funeral and gravestone where he would be memorialized as Charm’s mayor.”

  I cringed. I wasn’t sure if planning the inscription for your own tombstone was good or bad or sad or what, but I was thankful no one I loved had to think about that right now. “I had no idea,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I agreed to run with him when he told me about his failing health. It seemed like the nice thing to do, and I’d gain priceless hands-on experience before stepping seamlessly into his place.”

  That sounded more like the woman I knew. She didn’t care if it was the nice thing to do. She’d agreed because there was plenty in it for her. “Who would want him dead?” I asked. Not her, I supposed, at least not yet. Not until she was secured as the deputy and poised to take over upon his absence.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, raising her eyebrows in challenge. “Your great-aunt Fran?”

  “Be serious,” I said. “I don’t have any time to waste explaining the obvious to you.”

  “What’s obvious,” Mary Grace said, pushing off of her desk and crossing her arms, “is that your aunt was his competition, not me.”

  I sighed, forced to explain things after all. “Your goal was to take his place one day, just like Aunt Fran’s. That doesn’t make her a killer. I want to know who might’ve been angry enough to lash out at him.”