In a flash, hot tears burned in Summer’s eyes, then streamed down her cheeks. She remembered the day her mom brought the bird home. A rescue bird. Someone had left him behind in an apartment and she heard about it and immediately adopted him. It was love at first sight for both of them.
“Summer,” Piper said, sliding her arm around her. “Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I’ll be fine.” But she wished she believed that. She relied so much on her mom’s constant reassurance. Being able to pick the phone up and ask her advice. Her mom knew of the situation at school, Summer’s dreadful love life, and her fear of spiders, and of course, she loved her, anyway.
“What are you going to do with Darcy?” Mia said and flopped down on the couch.
“What do you mean?” Summer said, disentangling herself from Piper and sitting next to Mia on the sofa.
“I mean are you taking him back to Staunton? Giving him away?”
“Mia!”
“It’s okay, Piper,” Summer said. “I hadn’t thought about it. So much to think about. To take care of. But Darcy should be a priority. I think I’ll keep him.”
Being responsible for another creature had always scared her. But now in this moment, she felt content, as if the responsibility was nothing compared to the joy of companionship. She couldn’t guess what her therapist would think about this. But things happened. People died leaving animals behind. Summer hadn’t had time to prepare herself. Sometimes that’s just the way it is.
“In the meantime, we have an old man to visit,” Piper said. “So get dressed. You’re coming with us.”
“I am dressed,” Mia said, still in her PJs.
“I know it’s the cool thing,” Piper said. “But no kid of mine is going out in her pajamas. At least not with me. Get dressed, girl.”
Mia huffed off.
The two cousins sat in silence for a few minutes.
Summer cleared her throat. “You are such an old fuddy-dud.”
Piper eyed her cousin and laughed. “Takes one to know one.”
Chapter Six
After talking it over, Summer and Piper decided to stay home for the remainder of the day. But the next morning, Wednesday. Summer girded her loins and joined Piper on a visit to the Seaside Arcade.
Summer always hated the Seaside Arcade, even as a child and a teenager, when all the rest wanted to hang out and play pinball and Skeeball and all the computerized games. Between the pinball machines and their music and bells, and the Skeeball rattling around, and the starship noises from whatever space game was popular, it was just too bloody noisy for her. She preferred quiet.
So because she never hung out there, she never got to know Rudy. From what she was hearing about him, she was glad. But now as she, Piper, and Mia stood outside the arcade, what loomed in the right-next-door distance was Beach Reads with a closed sign in the window.
Summer blinked. She’d deal with that later.
“Are we ready?” Piper said.
“I suppose.”
The three of them walked in the entrance to the usual cacophony of sounds and the scent of cotton candy, candy apples, and sticky sweet sodas.
“Can I play some pinball?” Mia asked, holding out her hand to Piper.
“No, you’re with us,” Piper said. “I need your powers of observation, remember?”
Mia crossed her arms and cracked her gum. “Okay. Whatever.”
“My kid is psychic, I swear,” Piper muttered. “She takes after your mom.”
Oh boy. Summer’s mom had skilled powers of observation that even she had to admit bordered psychic ability. But she was uncertain that her mom was a true psychic.
An old man sat behind the counter and looked up at Summer, startled.
“You look just like your mother,” he said. “You must be Summer.”
“I am,” I said. I don’t look a thing like my mom.
“It’s been a few years since I’ve seen you,” he said, with his eyes darting to Piper, then Mia.
“I live in Virginia,” Summer said.
“Oh? Yes, I think I remembered Hildy mentioning that,” he said, bushy gray eyebrow lifting.
What was she going to say? Did you kill my mother?
His hands reached over and hit a buzzer. A teenager came over to the counter.
“Can you take over here?”
The tow-headed boy nodded, then took in Mia, who shot him a look of overwhelming boredom, which made Summer want to chuckle.
“I’d like to take these ladies into my office and chat,” he looked over at us. “How does that sound?”
“Fine,” Summer said. Well, this would be easier than she imagined.
They followed him through a snaking path through machines and games into a quiet sanctuary of a room. Must be soundproof. Summer strained to hear anything from the arcade. Nothing. Soundproof was nice, but also kind of creepy, considering.
“Please ladies, take a seat,” he said. “I assume you’re here because you know I want to buy the bookstore.”
Summer nodded. “So I’m told.”
Piper sat forward in her chair. “But it’s early. We still have no idea who’s inherited the store. The funeral was just two days ago. It was lovely. Did you attend? I don’t think I saw you.”
“No,” he said. “I’ve got a business to run and Hildy and I didn’t see eye to eye.”
“She didn’t want you to buy her store,” Summer said.
“That’s right,” he said nodding, turkey neck jiggling. He picked up a pen from his desk and started to tap it. Beady blue eyes.
“Why is that?” Summer said.
Mia cracked her gum loudly, prompting Piper to turn her face and rolled her eyes at her daughter.
“Well, she was stubborn, that’s why,” he replied. Those beady eyes slanted. “Couldn’t get her to see things right. Things change. The market shifts. People are interested in games, not books. Hell, now most readers use Kindles.”
“You can’t read most kindles at the beach,” Mia said with disdain in her voice.
He ignored her. “I told her I’d give her a fair price, enough money that she could retire. She was so unreasonable.”
Summer bit her lip. She couldn’t imagine her mom ever retiring. Her mother planned to work into her eighties or nineties.
“She loved the store. Her whole life revolved around it. She was healthy and happy. Why would she want to retire?” Piper said.
“Everybody knows indie bookstores are struggling,” he said. “She should have cut her losses, taken my money, and run.”
The tone in his voice irritated Summer. Patronizing. She recognized it. She had a PhD in Shakespearean literature, and yet several of the men on the faculty at Staunton College often gave her that same tone. It was maddening. And now she’d given them more reason, with her public debacle. Once again, the video of her jumping on to the chair, screaming, ran through her mind.
“I don’t think Beach Reads was struggling at all. My mother’s business acumen was incredible. She built that bookstore from nothing, based on a hunch that people would buy books at a store right at the beach. And they do. Remarkable, when you consider she had neither a degree nor a husband to help her out,” Summer said.
His jaw angled out. “I heard you didn’t like the bookstore.”
How did he know that? Obviously he’d been digging around.
“How badly do you want the bookstore?” Piper spoke up.
“I’m willing to make a fair offer,” he said.
“Someone had been sending my mother notes. Someone is very interested in the bookstore,” Summer said.
His chin tilted out. “Notes?”
“And phone calls,” Piper said. “Someone wants the bookstore badly.”
“Would that person be you?” Summer said.
He shifted around in his seat. “I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of. But I don’t need to send notes. I’ve made offers, fair and square.”
“But my mother ignored them. D
idn’t that anger you?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, his voice raising a decibel. “But I don’t have time to write notes and make phone calls to chase after her. In fact, I need to ask you to leave. I need to get back to it.”
“Fine,” Piper said, as she stood. Summer and Mia followed her lead.
“Before you go, Summer, I just want you to know I‘m sorry about your mother. And if you decide to sell, come and see me.”
Over my dead body.
Chapter Seven
Piper and Mia had some errands to run, and Summer was weary, so she slipped off to home for a nap. It had been years since she had taken naps—but she’d developed the habit in England, where she’d read and write herself into weariness, drift into a nap, and get back up to work. Besides, she was still dealing with jet lag.
She curled up on the couch, with Mr. Darcy watching. It was unnerving the way he watched her. But not so much that it prevented her from sleeping. Hunger pangs woke her about twenty minutes later.
Summer made her way into the kitchen and pulled a pan of quiche out of the refrigerator. As she stood there, waiting for it to warm up in the microwave, she examined her mom’s refrigerator door. Several photos of Summer hung, clipped to magnets. One when she must have been in about sixth grade, gangly, and barely smiling. There was also the high school graduation photo, which made Summer want to gag. Surprisingly enough, her mom had also clipped out an article about Summer’s first book, published soon after she’d gotten her master’s degree: Everyday Shakespeare.
Something bloomed in her chest. Hildy had been proud of her.
But there were some things her mother never understood about Summer, including Summer’s fear of spiders. Hell, Summer still didn’t understand it. How could she have expected her mom to understand? If only she were still alive, they could talk about it, tear it apart, and analyze it. She’d tell her mom everything she’d learned about arachnophobia during her forced therapy.
If only.
If only those spiders hadn’t escaped from the lab at school. If only they hadn’t come wandering into her classroom, where several students caught her on their Smartphone making a complete fool of herself as she jumped up on the chairs, screaming and flailing her arms around. To her humiliation, one of the videos went viral on a website called “Vine.”
After, she’d tried to laugh it off. It was funny—not when it was happening, but later even she considered the video funny. But the dean didn’t. He was a humorless buffoon, but he was her boss. They pressed her to get an actual diagnosis of arachnophobia, just to make her case. Then she’d slinked off to England until it all died down.
Summer took her plate back into the living room and sat on the couch, shoving aside the blanket.
She loved quiet. She planned her life around quiet. Why did this quiet disturb her? Gone were the noises of her mom singing and dancing, the stereo blasting, and kitchen sounds. Happy sounds.
The place was empty without Hildy’s presence.
Even as empty as the place was, how could she sell it?
She sighed. Summer needed the money. Why keep this house if she lived and worked in Staunton, as usual? If.
She twisted her hands together, wishing for a decision about the job. Not knowing was torture.
A pounding at the door interrupted her meditative stance.
She opened the door to a red-faced Rudy.
“What the hell are you doing sending the cops to my place?”
“Uh, I—”
“I’m not telling you again. I didn’t hurt your mother. I didn’t threaten her, and I have no idea who was. But back off, lady,” he said, stepping forward and pointing his finger in her face.
Well!
Her heart jumped against her rib cage. How dare he! She stepped forward and stared him down. He finally stormed off.
She watched him walk off as Aunt Agatha came up the walkway, with a pan of food in her arms, and passed him, not even looking his way as she made her way into the house.
“What did that rat want with you?”
“Our chief of police visited him, and he’s not too happy with me,” Summer said.
“Ben! Why would he tell him you were asking about him? What an idiot!” Agatha said.
“Ben never was very bright. I’ve always wondered how he even became a cop. Most cops are sharp,” Summer said.
“It’s about time for him to retire. We need some young blood in there,” Agatha said, moving toward the kitchen. “He has an assistant, but he’s only part-time. Ben needs to step aside.”
“What do you have there?” Summer said.
“Lasagna, sent over by Marilyn,” Agatha said. “Wasn’t that nice? It smells divine. Her mother-in-law came over from Italy, and she taught Marilyn all about Italian cooking.”
She set the full pan down on the counter.
“I can’t believe Rudy had the balls to come over here,” Agatha said. “I’ve a mind to call Ben. Maybe I will. He’s got no business threatening you.”
“He pointed his shriveled, bony, finger in my face. I didn’t appreciate it. If he hurt Mom …”
“Now, Summer, vigilante justice is not our cup of tea. We let the authorities deal with people like that,” she said. “Besides, you’ve got enough on your plate with your job and the spider thing.”
Hearing her say “spider thing” struck Summer as funny, and she laughed. It was true. It was ridiculous, yet true. She wasn’t sure about selling Beach Reads, or this house and all of her mom’s things, but one thing she knew was she needed money. And she still hated spiders.
“Yes, I do,” Summer said, “but you don’t.”
Agatha grinned. “Now don’t get any funny ideas. Despite it all, I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“Who’s talking about breaking the law? Look, we just need to prove that Rudy killed her. We don’t need to break the law to do it.”
She turned the teakettle on. “I need some tea,” she said and turned to face Summer. “I have no idea how we’d do that. That’s why we need to leave it to the police.”
“Well, we just got a little glimpse of how our local cop is handling things. I’ve been thinking about this. We already have a clue that someone wanted the shop enough to threaten her. What if there’re more notes and other things around here? If there are, we’d take them to Ben. That’d be a start.”
Agatha clapped her hands together in excitement. “If we could somehow link those notes to Rudy before we go to Ben, he’d have to do something.”
“First things first,” Summer said. “We take it room by room and see what we find.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Agatha said, and then the teakettle whistled, which set Summer’s nerves on edge. Just a little.
Chapter Eight
Aunt Agatha searched through kitchen drawers and cupboards, and the creaks and sighs from the old kitchen comforted Summer in an indescribable manner as she took on the living room, gathered and stacked magazines in one pile, mail in the other. Then Summer investigated the desk drawers, brimming with papers, cars, bills. Oh, Mom.
Summer moved on to the bedrooms, sorting through drawers and closets, relieved to find no stacks of papers or magazines, just old clothes, linens, and jewelry. She headed back to the living room just as Aunt Agatha entered it.
“I found something,” she said as Summer toppled one of the desk drawers, its contents splaying out over the desk.
“What’s that?” Summer stood from the desk chair.
“Another note.” She handed it to Summer. “A note on black construction paper.”
“Okay,” Summer said, examining it. “It’s the same as the others.”
Agatha nodded.
“Why didn’t Mom get someone involved?” Summer asked. “I just don’t understand it.”
Agatha sighed. “There’s a lot about Hildy I never understood. She was her own person. She did things her own way. She refused to believe anybody on this island would harm her.”
“She l
oved this island.” A twinge of a sick feeling came over her. How sad would it be if they did prove that someone—Rudy or anybody—killed this woman who loved her community so much that she didn’t pay any attention to weird creepy notes.
“She also loved the bookstore,” Agatha said. “She grew that place into a tourist attraction itself. Romance and mystery writers made special trips to come here and sign books. Sometimes several of them would get together and sign. It was so exciting to meet these writers.”
Summer twisted her lips. She didn’t like romance novels. At all. Her mom used to say it was because she had no romance in her life. God knows it wasn’t because Summer didn’t try. But nobody’s life was a romance novel—even Hildy would have to admit that. As would Agatha.
“You don’t like romance books,” Agatha said, “but they’re not what they used to be. I firmly believe that some of the best authors these days are romance writers.’
“Really? That’s interesting.” Summer sorted through the junk on the desk. “I’ve not read a contemporary novel of any kind in a long time.”
“You should give it a go. Hey, the book club is reading one of the best books … I love that writer. What’s her name …? Hannah Jacobs. Her book has been number one on the New York Times list for a long time,” Agatha said.
Summer kept her opinion to herself—about the New York Times bestseller list. “Speaking of books,” Summer said, sorting through business cards and stacking them in piles, “summer is upon us. I suppose we need to make some decisions.”
“I think we should open the bookstore on Friday,” Agatha said.
“We?”
“Well, it has been a family affair for quite some time. Piper and I work part time. There’s one other full-time employee. I’m not sure you ever met Poppy. She moved here last year.”
“I don’t think I have,” Summer said. “But between all of us, I think we can manage to open. It’s a week before the big weekend.”
“It’s settled then,” Agatha said. “We’ll open. It’ll be good to keep busy. It’s just that …” Her face fell, reddened, and then she let out a huge sob.
“Oh, Aunt Agatha,” Summer said, running to her and wrapping her arms around her. She’d been so self-indulgent with her own emotions. How did she not see what her mom’s death was doing to her sister?
Little Bookshop of Murder Page 4