Summer turned back to her fruit. She picked out the pineapple, which she didn’t care for, and stabbed the watermelon with her fork.
“Well, who cares?” Piper’s nostrils flared slightly. “I mean, if you think someone killed your mother, I say buck up and deal with this jerk, jilted son or not.”
Summer set her fork down and studied Piper. Steady, kind, and stronger than what Summer had ever given her credit for, Piper was right. What was wrong with her? Who cared about Ben Singer’s opinion of her?
Chapter Four
The police station was nothing like Summer remembered. Funny, what time does to memories. The big scary station had somehow morphed into a tiny, shoddy office with the scent of stale coffee permeating.
The receptionist behind the desk chewed gum, cracking it, and eyed the three Merriweather women. “Can I help you?
Summer’s mouth felt as dry as cotton, but she spoke up anyway. “We’d like to see Ben Singer.”
“The chief is busy. Do you have an appointment?” She drew out the word appointment. Strange accent. Not from around here.
Agatha stepped forward. “No, we figured we’d stop by and chat. When will he be available?”
She checked over her computer screen. “Looks like he’s not available until about two.”
Summer’s heart pounded in her chest. “We’re not waiting until two to see him.”
“Tell him I’m here, please. Agatha Merriweather St. Clair.
“Uh. Okay.” She groaned and lifted herself out of her chair as if it were torture.
Piper wrapped her arm around Summer’s shoulders and whispered to her, “He’s not doing anything back there. Probably just eating donuts and drinking coffee. Trying to act like he’s big time, shoot the dime.”
Donuts? Such a cliché. Even for Ben.
The strange fluorescent lights snapped Summer’s attention to the past—memories of running from this place. One of many things Ben hated about her. She wouldn’t sit still. He’d bring her here, turn around, and she’d have vanished.
“Squirrely,” he’d called her.
She may have been squirrely then, but she was here on business today. Besides, the good Piper and the even better Aunt Agatha flanked her. Three against one; Summer liked those odds.
The young woman entered the room. “He’ll see you ladies. Right through there.” She pointed in the direction.
They marched down the corridor to his office. Ben Singer stood behind his desk, looking like, well, a lot older, a lot smaller, and a little unhealthy. Sort of green at the gills. Was he hung over? Sick?
“Ladies, please take a seat.”
They sat down almost in unison. Three brown chairs. Leather-ish, perhaps pleather. Squeaky.
“I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ll miss Hildy.” He sat down, placed his elbows on the desk next to a half-eaten donut. Summer refrained from pointing it out to Piper as she bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t laugh.
“Thank you,” Summer said. His attention shifted toward her.
“Good to see you. How are you?”
“I’m upset, as you can imagine. Mom’s death was unexpected.”
He nodded, frowning.
Summer deemed it best to just put it all out there. “That’s why we’re here. We suspect someone murdered her.”
He sat up. His eyebrows gathered. “What?”
Summer handed him the black paper. “I found this.”
He read it. “This is troubling, but it doesn’t prove Hildy was murdered.”
Agatha cleared her throat. “No, but this wasn’t the first note she’d gotten and there were phone calls.” Summer was glad for her company.
“Why didn’t she come forward?”
“Well, you knew her. She shrugged it off. Believed no one would harm her.” Agatha’s jaw clenched. “If she were still alive, I’d throttle her for that.”
He smiled, deep creases forming around his eyes. “I get that. But you can’t go around accusing people of murder.”
“We’re not accusing anyone,” Summer spoke up. “We’re saying it’s a strong possibility, and we’d like it if you’d look into it.”
His chin tilted in interest. “I don’t have the resources to launch a murder investigation based on a note or two. I need more proof.”
“Mom was only sixty-four years old and dropped dead. That seems odd enough in itself.”
“Not really. And we just got in the initial autopsy report, which said it was a heart attack, I believe.”
“Heart attack? Hildy had no heart problems. She was my sister, and I’d know it if she did.”
“Look, grief is an odd thing.” He paused, as if he was searching for the right words to say. “Many people who lose loved ones to suicide think it’s murder. People who lose someone like Hildy, who was healthy and vivacious, try to make sense of it. Claiming it was murder is one. It’s a defense mechanism sometimes. You ladies need to go home and get some rest.”
“Rest? How patronizing can you get?” Summer blurted out.
He lurched back as if someone had slapped him, and Agatha and Piper’s attention shifted to Summer.
“Please look into this for Mom.”
Agatha frowned. “She was your friend.”
Friend? Since when?
He folded his hands on his desk. “I loved her, like everybody else in this town. I can’t imagine why anybody would want to kill her.”
“For her property,” Piper explained. “She was fielding offers. People wanted her property. Both Beach Reads and her house.”
“What? The house? What?” Summer’s voice lifted in surprise.
The image of the house she grew up in sprang to her mind. A small pink beach cottage with sea foam–colored shutters and the front porch with a swing. Memories of that swing tugged at her. Days of lying there, listening to the waves, gulls, and sometimes wind, reading Macbeth for the third time, or Romeo and Juliet for the umpteenth, made up her core. She fell in love with Shakespeare on that porch and wanted nothing more than to study and learn all about him and his plays and to spread her passion through teaching, igniting young people’s minds.
But who would want to buy it? There was not much to it.
“Killing her wouldn’t solve that problem.” Ben ignored her outburst.
Agatha stiffened and sat straighter. “Yes, it would. They’d understand it would go to Summer, and nine chances out of ten, she’d sell it.”
Silence permeated the room.
Is that why Agatha and Piper hadn’t told Summer about the offers? Summer’s mind raced as they all looked at her. “I’ve not considered selling the house at all.”
“But what about the bookstore?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ve always despised the place.” She said it without thinking.
Maybe despised was a harsh word. Even though they were romances, they were still books. Summer didn’t understand why people would fill their brains with such nonsense when there were good books—better books—everywhere.
But it was more than that. It was that her mom refused to carry any of the better books. She’d not even give them a shelf when Summer pleaded with her from time to time.
“Who wants to read Shakespeare at the beach?” she’d say and wave her off.
Who, indeed?
* * *
“With everything you told me, I see no cause to launch a murder investigation. I’m sorry. Sometimes people just die.”
Agatha sat even further forward, as if she might hop on the desk at any moment. “But what about Rudy?”
One wiry gray eyebrow cocked. “What about him?”
“He threatened her all the time.”
“He did?”
“He wants to expand the arcade and said he’d take her to court.”
Ben grinned. “That old coot. Well, okay, ladies, I’ll talk to him. But that’s all I will do. I’ll tell him to cool his jets. You understand? This is not a murder investigation.”
He smirked, then
laughed as he eyeballed Summer. “You breaking any hearts these days?”
Sweat prickled Summer’s forehead. Her pulse raced as she felt flushed. She grabbed the armrests of her chair, standing. “Every chance I get, Ben. But we’re here for my mom. Could you focus on that?”
Piper stifled a nervous giggle.
Ben’s jaw tightened as he gestured for them to exit his office.
If only Summer felt as strong as she sounded. So angry that she felt like she might combust at one moment, and the next moment wanting to curl up in a fetal position of shame about her past. How dare he bring that up when they were there on official business? When her mom had just died?
She brooded on the way back to her mother’s place, telling herself she needed to get over this. People made mistakes every day. Had she made a mistake by leaving Cash at the altar? Most of the time she was certain she’d done the right thing. But she was ashamed she’d never talked with him. Instead, she’d just left him, never facing him.
Summer, Agatha, and Piper ambled into her mother’s house. Overgrown plants hung from hooks in the walls, and bookcases brimmed with romances. Hildy’s African grey, Mr. Darcy, wide awake, jumped back and forth in his rattling cage, hungry.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Darcy?”
The normally talkative bird didn’t reply.
As Summer scooped the bird food into the tray, a wave of regret came over her. She had to leave. It was that simple. She wasn’t ready for any of this. She’d come back in a few weeks, maybe a few months, to deal with her mother’s things. The rest of the estate, such as it was, she’d deal with over the phone, online—whatever. She didn’t need her past thrown in her face constantly, especially when she was trying to deal with her mother’s death. Obviously, the local authorities weren’t taking her suspicions seriously. And she wasn’t certain about Aunt Agatha and Piper.
Summer lifted her suitcase onto the couch. She folded her sweatpants and T-shirt and shoved them in the bag, zipped up the case, and set it on the floor.
Agatha padded into the room. “Do you want to eat with us?” She then noticed the packed suitcase. “What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving, Aunt Agatha.”
“What? You just got here.”
“I’m just not sure about being here.” Summer swallowed hard, willing away the burning in her throat. “I want answers about Mom’s death. People are hiding things from me. I wasn’t aware she was getting offers for Beach Reads. I’m in the dark about the house and about her death threats. I want to know what’s going on. You two need to be honest with me. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Agatha moved toward Summer and placed her hands on her shoulders, leading her to sit on the couch. “I see. Please sit down. You shouldn’t leave. Not yet. We need to talk.”
Agatha took a seat next to Summer as Piper strolled into the room. “What do you want to know?”
“What kind of offers were made on the store and who made them?”
Aunt Agatha shrugged. “I wish I knew the details, but your mother kept them to herself. She never considered selling. That bookstore meant the world to her.”
Summer kept her own counsel. It might have meant the world to her mother, but selling it would help out. Mired in debt, uncertain of her job, selling Beach Reads sounded like the exact thing to do.
“Your mother had the house appraised not too long ago,” Piper said, sitting on the La-Z-Boy, crossing her long legs. “It’s worth well over a million dollars.”
“What?” Summer said, her heart racing, picturing the ramshackle cottage. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. Small eat-in kitchen. A million?
“It’s beachfront property.” Agatha folded her hands on her lap.
“But it’s always been beachfront property.”
“Things on the island are changing,” Agatha said in a wistful tone.
Summer’s mind raced with all the new information. She tried to piece everything together to make sense of it. Her mother’s death, threatening notes, the offers on the store—and the house. “And then there’s Rudy.”
“I’m sure he’s got something to do with her threatening calls. And maybe something to do with her death.” Agatha squinted her eyes, calculating.
“Really, Mom?” Piper said, incredulous, voice raised. “Murder? Rudy?”
Agatha’s eyes lit, hand on her chin. “Yes, but how to prove it?”
The word prove rambled around in Summer’s brain. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Hildy had been a wonderful mom. Odd. But wonderful. They fought like any mother and daughter, and Summer was a handful. Admittedly.
Her mother deserved answers. If the local police wouldn’t take her seriously, she’d have to investigate it herself. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? After all she was smarter than the average person, wasn’t she? Visions of a female version of Sherlock Holmes played in her mind. “I’ll make it right. I’ll find justice for Mom’s death.”
Those words formed a heartfelt resolution in the center of her. Summer Merriweather wasn’t leaving this island until she found her mother’s killer.
Chapter Five
First things first. Summer needed to investigate the details of her mother’s death. “Where did Mom die?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to run,” Agatha said. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”
“Everything okay?” Summer asked.
Agatha finished loading the dishwasher and closed the door. “Just my yearly physical.”
“Well, look who’s still alive,” Piper said when Mia came stumbling into the kitchen.
She grinned back at Piper. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Breakfast? Don’t you mean lunch?” Agatha said and kissed her granddaughter.
“Whatever, Gram,” Mia said, her words muffled with her face being smothered by a huge hug.
“I’m off. Catch you all later,” Agatha said. And just like that she vanished.
She didn’t answer the question.
Piper turned to her daughter. “There’s a lot of food in the fridge. Help yourself. “
She opened the door and shuffled stuff around, then pulled out a few containers and set them on the counter.
“I’m glad you decided to stay,” Piper said, focusing back on Summer.
Summer lifted her chin.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “I’ve always considered you more a sister than a cousin.”
Both only children, cousins, born days apart. Because of that, there was always a lot of comparison in the family and the community. As children, they used to laugh over what the adults said about them. Oddly enough, they were pretty much right. Piper was the beauty queen, a good athlete, and all-around girl next door, and Summer was intelligent, creative, and a handful. Funny how those observations clung to them and perhaps formed their adult selves, like some incantation. Summer often wondered if she was what she was because of those statements. Children are like sponges.
Piper, gifted with long legs and golden blonde hair, had been Miss North Carolina and progressed to the national pageant, where she came in second place to Miss Texas. But she didn’t make it through school because she’d fallen in love and gotten pregnant. Almost simultaneously.
Summer was short, slight, and so envious of her cousin’s golden hair that she’d tried to color her own a few times. But it was no match for the real thing and became a pain in the ass to maintain. So she returned to brown.
“Do you have to work today?” Summer asked.
“Nah. Bereavement leave,” Piper said. “Same with Mia. She goes back to school Monday. It’s her last week.”
“Thank Goddess!” Mia said. “I like school, but I can’t wait for summer break.”
“I know the feeling,” Summer said, then turned to Piper. “What should we do first? I mean, I’ve never been a sleuth before. My instincts tell me there’s something in this house that may point us in the right direction. But where to look?”
Piper shrugged, her arm gestu
ring outward. “I think we take it one room at a time. But in the meantime, we should go and talk with Rudy.”
Summer’s heart thud against her rib cage. “Rudy.”
“He’s one nasty piece of work.”
“I remember him, but only vaguely. Like I don’t think he ever hung out much around Mom when I was here.” She tried to remember him—all she managed was a misty memory of him grumbling at her as she ran through the arcade, yelling at her to “slow down, kid.”
“No. He keeps to himself,” Piper said.
“You know what they say …” Summer said.
“It’s always the quiet ones!” Piper said.
“What are you talking about?” Mia said and then stuffed a cinnamon roll in the microwave and turned it on.
“We think Aunt Hildy’s death was suspicious,” Piper said.
“Suspicious? You mean someone killed her?” Her eyes widened. “Do you think those letters had anything to do with it?”
“We don’t know,” Piper said. “So calm down.”
“But she had a heart attack. She was old,” Mia said, sliding the cinnamon roll out of the microwave. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a soda.
“Well, from your point of view, she was old, but sixty-four is not old these days,” Piper said.
Darcy interrupted with a loud squawk. The three of them walked into the living room.
“Darcy hungry,” he said, his bird head tilted. “Hungry!”
“Darcy just ate!” Summer said. “Poor bird, don’t you remember?”
The bird blinked and calmed down. Darcy must be getting old—how old is he anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen?
“Poor old bird,” she said to him.
He ignored her and turned toward his water.
Story of my life. She watched as he nibbled at his food, crunching loudly.
“Oh my goodness,” Piper said, coming up beside Summer. “Your mom loved that bird.”
The bird stopped eating and looked at them, spread his wings. “Love. Love. Love. Hildy love Darcy. Darcy love Hildy.” He returned to his food.
Little Bookshop of Murder Page 3