by Amy Lillard
But that wasn’t to say the investigation was over. It had only moved. Shortly after they had removed Wally’s body and the street cleaners had gone as well, Mads had come in and told her that he needed the keys to her third floor. She only used it for storage, but Mads explained he had reason to believe that Wally hadn’t jumped from the roof, but from the third-story window.
She wondered why they could believe such a thing and wished she had looked up to see if the window was still open when she was out in front of the store.
She looked up at the ceiling now as if she could hear them moving around on the third floor. She couldn’t, of course, but she was so aware of them being there, Jason and Mads poking around, doing heaven knew what. Finding clues against Chloe…?
She couldn’t think about it that way. Chloe was innocent and she had to keep remembering that.
Arlo wiped down the bar, though she had only served drinks to the workers outside all morning. Wiping down the bar seemed to be the only activity that she could do with any precision today. No big surprise with everything that was going on. And yet…
She looked around the empty store, shoved the rag in its place under the counter, and headed out.
There were two ways to get to the third floor of her building. There was a staircase tucked in a closet near the back room, but it was kept locked at all times. In fact, she had even pushed a reading chair in front of it. If no one was using that entrance—and they weren’t—then why should she leave empty space in the store? And there was the staircase at the side of the building. When Arlo had bought the store, she had wondered about the setup. She supposed sometime or another, the third floor had been rented out and the new tenants needed a measure of privacy. The door at the side of the building led to a covered staircase that only went to the third floor.
But the real rumor around town is that bootleggers used the space in the thirties to store moonshine. The legitimate business owner below, an insurance salesman, wanted no ties with his upstairs neighbor and made the landlord build the special staircase on the outside of the building to separate their businesses. It was an odd setup to be sure, and one that was working in her favor at the moment. Mads and Jason were upstairs investigating while Books & More was still open down below. But she had to know what they were doing.
Around the building she went, through the door, up the stairs, and onto the third floor.
She had never seen a real police investigation before. She had seen plenty on TV, but this was completely different…and the same simultaneously.
Men were walking around with Tyvek suits shielding their clothes and covers on their shoes. Even their hair was hidden. But it was only the two of them, Mads and Jason.
“Bag it,” she heard Mads say. She eased into the room as Jason picked up a piece of paper with his gloved hands and stored it in a plastic bag marked “evidence.” Even from across the room she could see the word written there. Written was really too kind; scrawled was more like it: I’m sorry.
“Is that a suicide note?” she asked.
Mads’s attention swung around, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of her. “Not another step,” he growled.
Arlo stopped, only then realizing that she had been steadily inching into the room.
“What are you doing in my crime scene?” He straightened from his task, which looked a lot like scouring the floor for a lost contact. He was down on his knees, a pair of tweezers in one hand.
“I just…” What was she doing? Just checking. Just trying to protect her friend. “I thought I would come up and see if you need anything.”
“Like?” This from Jason.
“A cup of coffee? Maybe some water?” And this gave her the perfect opportunity to see what they had found. It didn’t look like much: a paper coffee cup that she supposed had belonged to Wally, a wrapper that looked like the ones Chloe used when someone bought a muffin or a scone, and something else she couldn’t see from where she stood. Or maybe the bag was empty.
“We’re fine,” Mads growled, but she didn’t take offense. A little gruff and always to the point was merely his nature. Always had been.
Arlo nodded and started backing out of the room toward the staircase. The stairs that would take her back to the street. If the window had been open, it was shut now and she was certain it had been dusted for fingerprints. “Okay then. See ya.” She turned and made her way down the steps, around the building, and back into her store.
And she had learned nothing. Except Mads thought Wally had been in her building on the third floor before he died. Could it be? How did he get up there? She and Chloe were the only ones with keys.
Arlo shuddered. She was tired of thinking about it, tired of the drama, tired of gritting her teeth and wondering if this was all. What was next? Somehow she knew there was more. She just knew it, and she could feel it in her bones.
She had learned long ago to trust her instincts. Or maybe it was throwback emotions from her hippie upbringing. But she remembered the nights long ago when she was a child. She would complain about not being able to sleep. Her parents would share a look, then pack them all up and move them to another campground, another field, another copse of trees where they could pitch their tent for the night. After a couple of times of Arlo not being able to sleep, an hour or so later, they would be chased off by the police or an angry farmer with a shotgun—sometimes loaded sometimes not. Mostly loaded. Of course that was after the commune days and long before she had insisted on putting down her own roots in Sugar Springs, regardless of her parents’ reluctance to stay in one place for more than a couple of months. But that was long ago. And no matter where the feelings had stemmed from, Wally was still dead.
She had finally convinced Chloe to go home and get some rest, but it had taken two and a half hours to get her to leave. There was no sense in both of them being at the store. They might have been given the all clear to open from Mads, but there was nobody on Main Street today. Nobody shopping, that was. There were gawkers and police and a large roped-off section of sidewalk in front of her store, but not any customers.
But she had held on until closing time, having a couple of customers come in just after six. One was Travis Coleman. Arlo wasn’t surprised to see him, for he came in from time to time and bought the latest bestseller in paperback. No, the big surprise was he brought a copy of Missing Girl to the counter.
“Will that be all today?” Arlo asked. She wanted to ask more. So much more. Like why Travis was supporting the man he thought was responsible for his twin brother’s death.
“Yeah.” Travis pulled out his credit card and handed it to Arlo.
She finished the transaction without bursting from the questions racing around in her mind. “How’s business?” she asked.
“Good.” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter.
She had known Travis since school but oddly enough rarely saw him outside Books & More, even in a town the size of Sugar Springs. Travis’s family home was outside of town a little, just under halfway between Sugar Springs and neighboring Walnut. He had worked at his daddy’s tire business since high school graduation and inherited it after his father died. Don Coleman passed away a couple of years ago. Travis’s mother had died soon after his brother. From grief, if the rumors were true. Was that possible? she wondered. To actually die from grief?
She ran Travis’s card and handed it back to him. He seemed to be in such a hurry.
“Thanks.” Travis picked up his sack and receipt and headed for the door.
She watched him until the two girls behind him, both in their late teens, plopped a copy of Wally’s book on the counter. The girls giggled as they waited for her to ring them up. Arlo wasn’t sure what that was all about either, but she wasn’t asking today. It was closing time and that was what she was going to do: close the store and head home.
Well, swing by Chloe’s and c
heck on her friend, then head home for a nice hot bath and a glass of wine or five—not necessarily in that order. Perhaps even simultaneously.
A knock sounded at the front door, even though Arlo had put up the CLOSED sign.
“We’re clo—” she started as she turned, but the words dried up before she could finish.
Fern Conley stood on the other side of the double doors, peeking in the large glass window each boasted. Her picnic basket was hooked over one arm and the other hand was cupped around her eyes to help her see inside. Fern would be what some called the quintessential great-grandmother type. She wore floral-print dresses, had blue-rinsed curls that she set at home, preferring to get her gossip from Facebook rather than the beauty parlor like the rest of the over-seventy crowd in Sugar Springs. And she rocked her tan Nike running shoes and compression stockings with pride. “Arlo? Is that you?”
Arlo bit back a sigh and backtracked to the front of the store. She had been on her way to turn off the lights and start shutting everything down. So close to going home. But she had forgotten about one important event: book club.
She had started the book club a couple of months ago. Her plan had been to bring a bit of insight and culture into their sleepy little town. She had imagined all the twentysomethings in Sugar Springs meeting on Friday night to discuss the latest bestseller and drink Chloe’s fabulous coffee concoctions. She had set the date for the first meeting, posted flyers all over town, and told everyone she knew. But when Friday night rolled around only three people showed up: Helen Johnson, Fern Conley, and Camille Kinney.
Arlo unlocked the door to let Fern in. “I really hadn’t planned on meeting tonight,” she said as she started to relock the door once again.
“You better keep that open,” Fern said. She set her basket on a nearby table and untied the scarf from under her chin. She carefully removed it to protect her just-done hair. “Helen was right behind me and she has her Crock-Pot.” Fern rolled her eyes. “You know how she likes to experiment.”
“Yes, but—” Arlo got no further as a deep knock sounded behind her. She whirled around to find Helen Johnson, her surrogate grandmother, standing outside. Helen was about as opposite from Fern as she could be. Not only in stature—Helen was a tall woman, busty and solid, whereas Fern was what Arlo considered to be medium. Not too tall, not too skinny or heavy, not too…well, anything. Helen might be eighty years old, but she was fighting her age with all her might. She wore ripped jeans with bedazzled pockets, T-shirts with bedazzled emblems, and Nike running shoes with bedazzled hearts on the sides. Her hair was long, reaching halfway down her back. The top was a perfect more-salt-than-pepper gray, while the bottom was deep red, the color of a perfect Valentine. Most days she wore it in a braid. In her hands she carried her infamous Crock-Pot, the cord tossed over one shoulder to keep it out of the way. Her two-toned braid fell over the other one. From her stance, Arlo figured she had knocked on the door with her elbow.
Great, she thought, but she managed to keep the words in her head instead of letting them go to her mouth. She loved Helen and owed the woman so much. She wouldn’t want to hurt Helen’s feelings because she was having something of a bad day.
Arlo opened the door to let Helen in and left it unlocked, figuring Camille couldn’t be far behind. The women were nothing if not punctual.
“Hello, sugar,” Helen said, planting a quick peck on her cheek.
“Hey, Elly” was all Arlo could manage: her pet name for Helen. She was so important to Arlo that Arlo needed something special to call her. When Arlo had moved to Sugar Springs with her family, she had been a tender sixteen and desperate for roots. Her new age hippie parents thrived off new adventures, surroundings, and people. It seemed as if they never stayed in any one place longer than six months. Her brother, Woody, loved the free lifestyle, but Arlo had had enough. Thanks to her father’s generous trust fund, she stayed on in Sugar Springs and took a room in Helen’s Sugar Springs Inn. She had been there ever since.
“Why is Faulkner covered up?” Helen asked. “Where’s Camille?” She looked around as if the other woman might be under some of the furniture, just out of sight.
“She said she was running late. Didn’t you check your Facebook?” Fern asked.
Helen turned from pulling the cover from Faulkner’s cage and shot Fern a withering look.
“I didn’t—” Arlo started.
“No, I didn’t check my Facebook.”
“Facebook,” Faulkner echoed.
“—want him uncovered,” Arlo finished.
“Well, you should have, old woman.” It was a continual discussion between the two of them. Fern was pretty tech savvy for a woman five years from ninety, and Helen felt social media was nothing more than a “time suck”—her words—and she had no use for it. Camille was on the fence.
“She sent a PM,” Fern continued. “If you had a smartphone you would have gotten it there.”
“I’m not getting anything that’s so smart it’s got the word in the name.”
“Don’t you own a Smart Car?” Fern asked.
And the argue-cussion was underway.
“Smart Car,” Faulkner squawked. “He did it.”
Arlo turned as Camille pushed her way into the shop. Born and raised in Australia, Camille had all the bearing of an English aristocrat. Her cap of small, snow-white curls looked as soft as cotton. She wore pastel pantsuits, cream-colored shells, and pearls—always. And she always matched her Nike running shoes with her outfit. Today’s ensemble was lavender with shades of purple. Where she got purple and lavender Nikes in Sugar Springs, Arlo had no idea. Like the others, she carried goodies for their refreshments. Tonight’s offering appeared to be pineapple upside-down cupcakes. Arlo’s favorite, aside from Camille’s strawberry scones with clotted cream. That was one thing the Brits had gotten right.
Camille tilted her head toward the pair of ladies. “Same ol’, same ol’?”
Arlo nodded, then gestured for Camille to set the pan of cupcakes down on a side table in the reading nook.
“Reading nook” was a charming description for a very large part of her bookstore. Arlo had wanted a place where people could be comfortable, hang out if they wanted to read, chat about books, or simply get away from the real world through the pages of a book. The area had two couches that faced each other with a long rectangular coffee table in the middle. Behind one couch was a wall of used books, and perpendicular to that was Faulkner’s cage. It gave him the chance to be part of the action as well as gaze out the window. People brought books in for trade, then visited with Faulkner and one another. It was an easy setup. Several chairs were peppered around the area along with an assortment of occasional tables for incidentals like coffee and pastries. All the furniture had been picked up at out-of-town garage sales and estate auctions. The mismatched, slightly worn look gave the place a homey, inviting feel. To Arlo it was perfect. She loved it, though she couldn’t say it helped her sell any books. She and Chloe both knew the coffee shop profits kept the store in the black. Of course it would help a lot if she could get a renter for the third floor of the building. They only used it for storage. And having that extra income would surely help the shop. Maybe soon…
“I was thinking about canceling tonight.” Arlo said the words to Camille, but the others stopped their friendly debate and turned toward them.
“No,” Fern cried.
“Why would you do that?” Helen asked.
They didn’t know? Wasn’t Friday beauty parlor day? Arlo had assumed that they would have heard all about today’s tragedy at Dye Me a River.
“Y-you didn’t hear?” She wasn’t sure how to start this revelation. The knowledge itself was hard enough to carry, but telling it all again…
“Of course we heard, dear,” Fern said. “It was all over Facebook.”
“Facebook,” Faulkner echoed with a punctuating squawk.
Helen shrugged. “I heard about it when everyone returned to the inn.”
Of course. As owner of the town’s best place to stay, Helen was privy to anything and everything that happened to Sugar Springs’ most prestigious visitors. When there were none, it was the unmarried male population that kept her informed. Many stopped by for a home-cooked meal in the evenings.
Arlo turned to Camille.
She smiled. “That’s why I made your favorite cupcakes.”
Arlo returned the smile, though it felt as brittle as autumn leaves after the first frost. “I guess I thought perhaps you would want to do something different tonight. Maybe go to the movies…or out on a date…” True, she suspected these women hadn’t been out on dates in decades, but it was the only excuse she could think of now that she was on the spot.
“Nonsense.” Fern scoffed. “I can’t think of one place I’d rather be.”
“That’s true.” Helen agreed. “The best thing to do after a tragedy such as this is to get your life right back on track.”
“Back on track,” Faulkner said.
That might be hard to do with the yellow police tape barricade still out front. It might not affect people coming and going into the store itself, but it was a little ominous. And the large patch of sidewalk that was cleaner than the rest…
“We’ve never had a suicide here before,” Camille said in her soft, sweet voice. She had retained enough of her Aussie accent that everything she said sounded like the best thing in the world. “Not that I can remember.”