A Game of Cones

by Abby Collette

  Although he did help, getting him involved again probably wasn’t a good idea. I’d have two “Maisies” on my hands.

  “Why don’t you ask your grandmother who the shop owners are?” I said. “She’d probably know just as well as my grandfather.”

  “Savta?” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “She may know all of them, but she probably doesn’t like any of them. She’d color my investigation.”

  Color her investigation? Oh geesh.

  “First, Maisie, you’re not investigating anything,” I reminded her.

  “Black Market Paper,” she said.

  “What?” That wasn’t a proper response to my stop-trying-to-get-involved nudge.

  She pointed to the shop we were passing. “Black Market Paper. I know who owns that.” She tilted her head. “Their names are on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Fine Art.” I read the wooden sign. “It’s owned by Baraniece Black and her husband.”

  “Right!” she said. “But he has a different last name, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah. It’s something like Rykov or Rynok or something like that.” I shrugged. “Not sure, but I know it means ‘market’ in Russian.”

  “It’s their last names? I wondered how they came up with the name. Black Market.” She gave a nod of understanding. “It sounds kind of scandalous for an art gallery.”

  “Your mind is always on something criminal,” I said. “You should probably be banned from Acorn TV.”

  “If I didn’t watch my shows, how would I solve all of these murders?”

  “We’ve had two murders.” I held up two fingers. “No one in Chagrin Falls is on a killing spree. I don’t think there’ll be more bodies to come. We’re not in Cabot Cove.”

  “Where?”

  “Jessica Fletcher.” I pointed at Maisie. “She was a mystery writer turned amateur sleuth just like your Queens of Mystery, on TV, but a long time ago. She lived there.”

  “Oh, Murder, She Wrote.”

  “Yep.”

  “Someone was always getting killed there,” she said, and I thought I saw a gleam in her eye.

  “I think practically everyone in her little town was killed,” I said. “They had to have her travel to find more victims.”

  Maisie let out a sinister little chuckle.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Maisie.”

  “About what?” She feigned innocence. “The Juniper Tree,” she announced next.

  She didn’t catch me off guard that time. I knew what she meant. “The Darling Dixby sisters,” I acknowledged. “Tea and coffee purveyors.”

  Maisie chuckled. “Yes. And I know for a fact that they weren’t there.”

  “So they are not suspects. And they’re not on that fire sale flyer either so that clinches it. They didn’t do it.”

  “Well, you can’t sell off tea and coffee inventory at a sidewalk sale . . .”

  “True,” I said.

  “And their shop is right in the middle of the shops that are involved.”

  “That is a marketing opportunity,” I said. “If they’re smart, they’ll stay open past their usual seven p.m. closing time. Catch all the customers passing by going from store to store.”

  “I think they go to bed at six thirty,” Maisie said.

  I laughed. “Maybe all the coffee and tea they sell filled with caffeine might keep them awake until all hours of the night.”

  “Yeah, like during the time Zeke Reynolds was shot,” Maisie said.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I’m putting them on my suspect list,” Maisie said.

  “I thought we just decided since they weren’t at the meeting, they aren’t suspects,” I said. “Didn’t we clear them?”

  “It’s just a feeling I have,” she said.

  “Like the feeling Ari did it?”

  “That wasn’t a feeling. I know he’s sinister.”

  I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. “Maisie, I really don’t think any of the shop owners are murderers.”

  “Then who shot him?” Maisie asked.

  I stopped walking. “I don’t know. And it’s not for me—or you—to find out.”

  “Wouldn’t you want to know if eighty-year-old twins killed a man because he wanted to take their little shop? Something they’ve had forever.” She pointed at the Dixby sisters’ teahouse.

  “Who says he was trying to take their coffee shop?” I asked.

  “Stands to reason.”

  I didn’t ask whose reasoning.

  “Win, if Rhys Enterprises were building a vertical mall, one of the anchor stores would have to be Java Joe’s. No doubt. Every mall has a food area, and coffee is a staple. Java Joe’s is the number one coffee shop in the world.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Right. We don’t know.” She nodded and raised an eyebrow.

  “If Rhys Enterprises is building a mall, eventually everyone will have to sell. I’m sure everyone understands that and would kill to stop it.”

  “Those Darling Dixbys could never compete with Java Joe’s.” She stood in front of the window and peered in. “They’d lose their only source of income.”

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Yes,” Maisie said and glanced at me. “I heard what you said.”

  “And I’m sure they have retirement money saved up. They would be okay.”

  “If they did have a nest egg,” Maisie said, “you think they’d still be trying to serve up scalding hot coffee and tea with those shaky hands of theirs? They would have retired by now.”

  I laughed. “Their hands don’t shake.” I stood next to her and, following her stare, glanced through the window. My heart skipped a beat. I had caught a glimpse of the back of a girl with wild red hair. In my life I’d only seen a mop of hair like that on one other person.

  Rory Hunter.

  Rory was a colleague and good friend from New York. She was part of my team at Hawken Spencer, the ad agency where I had worked, and was an awesome graphic artist. Shoot. Artist period.

  I scrunched up my face. There was no way she could be in Chagrin Falls. I stepped closer to the glass-paned shopfront.

  The woman I saw was petite. Her thick red hair couldn’t decide if it wanted to be curly or straight, and she didn’t try to help it decide one way or the other. Black leggings covered shapely legs, a sleeveless yellow silky top was draped above them and as my eyes slid down to her feet I noticed those red-bottomed shoes. They weren’t her usual ones, but they were her signature.

  My gaze shot back up to her face. That had to be her.

  “Rory?” I mouthed.

  Then I saw her stick a piece of gum in her mouth and I knew it was her. Rory always said, “You have to cleanse your palate before you inhale your coffee.” Morning coffee was an experience in itself to her.

  I turned and looked at Maisie. “You go,” I said. “I need to stop here.”

  “To question the Dixby sisters? I’m game!” she said and grabbed the handle to open the door.

  “No!” I grabbed her hand from the knob. “I think I see someone I know,” I said. “I’m going in to say hi.”

  “You think you know someone?” We both glanced through the window.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s her, but she belongs in New York. Not here.”

  “So let’s go see.” She gave a head nod toward the door.

  If that was Rory, I wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Maisie and I wouldn’t put it past her to try to interrogate Delilah and Daubie Dixby while we were in there. I couldn’t let her go in with me.

  “No. You go ahead and do a walk-past of your building,” I said. “I’ll meet you back at the ice cream shop.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll go in with you.”

  “No. You need to get back
to the store and . . .” I had to think of a reason quick. “Re—uh, relieve my mother,” I said. “I think she has an appointment.”

  She squinted her eyes at me.

  “Or something,” I said. “I’m sure she has something.” I held on to her arms and nodded, trying to get her to mimic my head gesture. “And Riya probably has to get back to the hospital. I might be a minute.”

  She raised an eyebrow, seemingly not in agreement with me. “Okay then,” she said, her voice reluctant, but my mind was relieved. “I’ll catch up with you back at the ice cream shop.”

  I watched her walk down the street to make sure she went on her way. I was going to have to find a way to talk her down from wanting to solve Zeke Reynolds’s murder. But not now.

  I swung open the door to the Juniper Tree and walked up to the redheaded girl standing at the counter.

  “What do you mean you don’t have a skinny latte either?”

  The Dixby sisters were standing at the counter. Their servers had taken a step back and were observers to the ensuing showdown, both Rory and the twins standing their ground.

  Looking like they had this morning when they stopped for ice cream except now they had donned colorful smocks—one pink and one lime green—over their summer dresses. Both had placed their hands on their hips and twin scowls on their faces.

  “Rory?” I said, almost afraid to step into their face-off.

  She swung around, the frown on her face dissipating when she saw me.

  “Bronwyn!” She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tightly. “Hey, girl!”

  Her mop of hair smelled like coconut and lavender. It made me smile. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Right now I’m trying to get a decent cup of coffee.” She swung around and glared at the sisters. “They don’t seem to know what that is.”

  One hissed at her, lips upturned, wrinkled nose flaring, two front teeth showing like a cat. The other said, “Perhaps you can go elsewhere to buy your coffee.”

  “They’re not Java Joe’s,” I leaned in and whispered. “Or New York.”

  “You’re telling me,” she said, not lowering her voice. “The rudeness level seems to be about the same, though.” She turned and hissed back at the sisters then swung back to face me. “After I got my shot of caffeine, I was coming over to your ice cream shop to see you!” she said. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “But that’s not telling me why you’re here.”

  “Oh”—she waved a hand—“I came to talk you into coming back to New York.” She gave me a decisive nod. “Peter sent me. But first . . .” She looped her arm in mine and led me toward the door. “You gotta tell me where I can get a good cup of coffee around here.”

  chapter

  NINE

  Wait! What?” I said. My eyes narrowed and I could feel all the wrinkles folding in my forehead. “Talk me into doing what?”

  “We need you,” she said, hands together. She bent her knees like she was going down on them to make her plea.

  “You don’t . . . Hawken Spencer does not need me.” I stood firm.

  “After you left, they promoted me.”

  “That sounds like a good thing,” I said, giving a half smile. The way she said it, I just wasn’t sure.

  “It is,” she said. “For the most part. But now I’m not doing what I want to do.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to paint.” She spread her arms as if she could take flight in the moment. “I want to draw. I want to immerse myself in art and everything about it.”

  “O-kaaay.” I grabbed her arm and put it at her side. “Aren’t you doing that at Hawken Spencer?”

  “Not anymore,” she said. “That’s why I volunteered to come and persuade you to come back.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to do your job.” She tensed, making her whole body tight.

  A mission to get me back to New York, no matter how it made Rory feel without me there, sounded a little crazy. “Because you don’t get to draw?”

  “Exactly!” She grabbed me by my arms. “I used to go to work and draw. Create! I got to do what I love.” She smacked me on one arm. “Now I don’t.”

  “Oww!” I rubbed my arm. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah?” She tilted her head. “Are you really?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You have to come back.” She nodded unapologetically.

  “Rory . . .”

  “Okay. Okay.” She held her hand up in surrender. “I didn’t want to spring it on you like this.” She sucked in a gulp of air and blew it out. “First, let’s visit.” She looped her arm in mine and then smiled at me. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I said.

  “It’s not the same in the office without you.”

  “When did you get here?” I asked.

  “Oh . . .” Her eyes roamed up the street, seemingly taking in her surroundings. “When did I get here?” she said, her voice drifting off.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  I chuckled and looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She turned back to me, straightened her shoulders and gave me a smile. “I just got in. Just pulled off the highway, and only wanted to grab a cup of joe before coming to surprise you.”

  “Well, you surprised me.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now”—she smacked her lips—“is there anywhere else to get coffee?”

  “There are no other coffee shops in Chagrin Falls.”

  “That,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the Juniper Tree, “is not a coffee shop. It’s like a haven for an old ladies’ society. Watered-down, murky soaked beans and liniment-scented doilies.”

  “Molta’s has good coffee,” I said. “Ari is Middle Eastern.” I shrugged. “Or North African. Whatever.” I waved a hand. “But a cup of coffee from there reminds me of being in New York.”

  “Well, then that’s where we need to go.” She reached inside her bag and opened a new piece of gum, folding the one she’d been chomping on into the wrapper. “Show me the way before I go into withdrawal.”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s not open yet.”

  “Really? O-M-G, Bronwyn.” She let her neck roll back and stomped one of her high-heel-clad feet. “How do you live in this godforsaken place?” she whined. As soon as her words left her mouth, she slapped her hand over it. “Peter said no Chagrin Falls or Ohio bashing, at least until I got you to agree to come back.”

  “I’m not coming back.” My words came out slowly, to make her understand. “And there isn’t anything you could say bad about Chagrin Falls. Or anything about anything here that would make me want to leave.” I gave a curt nod to show I meant what I said. “You know I left New York because I wanted to come back home.”

  “I know that’s what you think, but wait until you hear what they authorized me to offer you.”

  “That won’t matter—” I began.

  She waved a dismissive hand interrupting me. “We’ll talk about it later. Now, I want to see this ice cream shop of yours. I need to know my competition.” She squeezed her eyes and shook her head. “There I go again. It must be coffee withdrawal.” She pulled me. “You’ve got to help me.”

  I shook my head at her. “Okay,” I said. “And I’ve got just the thing for you at my shop.”

  “You’ve got coffee?”

  “I’ve got something even better.”

  * * *

  “OH MY GOD! This is so good!”

  Rory stuffed another mouthful of her double dip of my mint mojito coffee ice cream into her mouth. She licked the spoon after every bite and smacked her lips. Knees buckling, my grandfather had offered her a chair
twice.

  “You made this?” she asked, mouth full.

  I was blushing, face as red as it could be on my dark skin, and was grinning from ear to ear. “It was a group effort.”

  “But all Win’s creation,” my mother said, proudly. “She’s added a recipe or two to her Grandma Kay’s menu.”

  “Her grandmother would be proud.” My grandfather said that. I knew he was pleased with all I’d done. Especially turning the sales around after opening on a snow day.

  But that was my niche, marketing. I hadn’t gotten an MBA in it for nothing. All I needed was a good product, and that definitely was the ice cream made from my Grandma Kay’s recipes and sold in our little family shop.

  Maisie and my mother had taken right to Rory, both giving her a hug. PopPop was always nice to my friends. They’d even included her in the gossip. Talking about the mall. How all the shops were up in arms because they wanted to move our village into the twenty-first century. The murder. Only briefly, though, my mother didn’t want to discuss it, especially when she noted Rory’s face going pale. Guess they were trying to be polite.

  But if they knew what she was up to, the reason she’d come, I wasn’t sure how my Crewse Creamery crew would have taken to her.

  I was serving a customer, hand over the counter with a triple dip of chocolate, chocolate chip and butter pecan, when I saw out of the window a car that looked just like PopPop’s. I glanced over and saw my grandfather. He’d gone back to his usual bench and was sitting there concentrating on winning a game of backgammon he was playing against himself.

  It wasn’t his car.

  I only knew of one other person who owned a car that looked like that and would pull up and park in front of our door.

  Aunt Jack.

  What was she doing back in Chagrin Falls?

  The door to the ice cream shop was pulled open with such force, I thought it might break from the frame. Everyone turned toward the door and watched as Aunt Jack, with a huff and a couple of puffs, came barreling through.