Little Bookshop of Murder

by Maggie Blackburn

  A good friend of Hildy’s who didn’t go to the funeral? Well, to be fair, Summer wouldn’t have gone either, except Hildy was her mom, and if she didn’t go, it would look horrible. But Mom would not have wanted a funeral in a church. Too patriarchal for her.

  Perhaps Posey was honoring her by not going. Or maybe she didn’t want to show her face because she’d killed her.

  Okay, that was a stretch. But then again, it was all beginning to feel like a not very well plotted mystery novel.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Summer told the others she’d meet them back at the house. She wanted to walk.

  “Do you need company?” Piper asked.

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

  Summer needed to mull things over alone. Sort it out.

  Who had killed her mother and tried to kill her?

  Her head was spinning. Was any of it real?

  As she turned onto the beach, the sky opened up. No buildings in view—only sand and sky and ocean. Hildy always said the beach healed. Take your problems to the beach. And Summer had. But this was more than a problem. More than a decision over what college to attend. Or which boy to go to the prom with. Or whether to get married. This was life and death and justice. Summer wanted to be careful. She wanted to nail whoever had stolen her mother’s life. The person who took her mother away from her.

  She slipped off her shoes and relished the warmth of the sand. Her hair blew in the wind. She drew in the scent of the sea air as she walked, one foot in front of the other.

  At one point in her life she’d known every sway and dip, every rock and cove on this part of the island. The patterns of the waves on the sand helped to form her thought process. Clear away the cobwebs.

  Rudy didn’t kill her mother. She was certain about that, no matter what Aunt Agatha said. But what about the book club members? Aunt Agatha had felt certain none of them would harm Hildy. But people could surprise you.

  Marilyn was in Charleston, so Summer scratched her off her suspect list. That left Glads and Doris, the members of the inner circle of the book club. Then there was Posey, the witch who suspiciously had not come to Hildy’s funeral.

  Summer needed to follow up with her investigation of the book club members, along with make a call to the people who’d made her mom an offer on the bookstore.

  She’d approach this methodically, as if it were a research project. She’d try to keep her emotions out of this. Ben would need to be on board at some point. She drew in another breath, exhaled slowly. She needed to discern the official cause of Hildy’s death. She wasn’t buying a heart attack. Not at all.

  She strolled by a group of women spread out on the beach, soaking in the sun. One laughed at the book she read. Summer checked it out—a cozy mystery. Of course. She’d bought it at Beach Reads.

  She’d open the store back up soon. Maybe tomorrow? Perhaps the killer would come back to the scene of the crime. Surely, Aunt Agatha was right. The book club members wouldn’t have offed Hildy. They loved her. Summer was being foolish. Emotional.

  The killer may have been a customer, though. A disgruntled bookstore customer? Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Some disturbed customer?

  She walked along until the Agatha’s house came into view, beyond the grassy dunes. It looked like there was a strange car sitting in the driveway. Who could that be?

  As she drew closer, she saw that it was some kind of official car. Police?

  A sun-kissed girl tended to a tiny sandcastle, meticulously. She was covered in sand but intent on the castle, lining up seashells along its edges.

  A Frisbee flew overhead and a young man ran to catch it. Summer narrowly escaped a tackle.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t want it to conk you in the head.” He smiled a flashy grin.

  “No worries.” She kept moving.

  The scent of beer and body odor emanated from him, and she found it distasteful. She moved away from him fast to evade the stench.

  * * *

  She kept her eyes on the house as she drew closer to it. A seagull landed in front or her, almost as if it were trying to prevent her from moving ahead. She took in the bird and stopped walking. She didn’t care what anybody said. They were beautiful creatures. Finally, it flew off with a caw to the breeze.

  As she got closer to the house, she saw it wasn’t a police car, but a fire car. Hmm. Her heart sped in anticipation. The fire chief must be there. Maybe, just maybe he’d found answers about the fire and who set it.

  She picked up her pace.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Levi, the fire chief, sat on Aunt Agatha’s front porch, waiting for her.

  He looked up at Summer and smiled. “I just wanted to inform you how things are progressing.” His eyes took a long view of her.

  “Do you visit all of your cases in person?” Aunt Agatha snipped.

  “Uh, I try to,” he said, smiling politely, ignoring her jab. Summer made a mental note to ask Aunt Agatha what that was all about.

  Summer sat down on the porch swing. Aunt Agatha sat next to her.

  “We’ve gotten some prints off the smoke alarm case,” he said. “And they match the prints on the gasoline can we found on the beach.”

  “On the beach?” Agatha said.

  “Yeah, looks like our perp is not a local. We’re all aware that if your throw anything out there, it’s going to come back around Robin’s Point—and that’s where we found it. The prints are subtle, but they’re there and match up.”

  “So what does this tell us?” Summer asked.

  “Just that whoever set the fire was in your mother’s house and disconnected the alarm,” he said, crossing his arms. “Unfortunately, we’ve not found any matches in the system.”

  “So it’s a pointless exercise,” Agatha said.

  “No,” he responded. “I’m confident we will start finding suspects, and when we do, we’ll fingerprint them, which will be all the proof we need. I have a few questions for you, Ms. Merriweather.”

  “Call me Summer,” she said, almost blushing. Not quite. He was, as they say, a very well put together man. And he seemed to like her, which hadn’t happened in a long time. But perhaps he was just being professionally friendly.

  “Okay, Summer,” he said. “Who is the beneficiary on your mother’s insurance?”

  “I am.”

  “But you were in the house and would have died if the fire had escalated.”

  “Correct.”

  “So who would get the place if something happened to you?”

  “I have no idea,” Summer said. “We’re still waiting on a meeting with Mom’s lawyer, who might help.”

  “Usually these crimes are money based. You know? I can’t tell you how many times fires are nothing more than insurance fraud. So I have to rule that out,” he said. “I’ll talk with your mother’s lawyer.”

  “Good luck with that,” Summer said. “We’ve been trying to get an appointment. He’s a busy guy.”

  “He’s one of two lawyers on the island,” he offered. “But when he sees me coming, he always makes time.”

  I bet.

  He cleared his throat. “The other question is, do you have any enemies on the island?”

  Summer laughed. “I haven’t lived here in years. But the only enemy I can think of is Ben Singer. He despises me.”

  “Welcome to the club,” he said and grinned. “I know why he doesn’t like me, but any reason he doesn’t like you?”

  Aunt Agatha touched my thigh.

  “You go first.”

  “Singer is intimidated by me. I have a background in criminology, worked briefly for the FBI before I decided to investigate fires. He doesn’t think I’m necessary here.” His strong, square jaw angled upward.

  “Knowing him, you’re probably right,” Agatha said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, ma’am. I’d like to hear what Summer has to say.”

  “I broke his son’s heart,” she
said after taking a deep breath. “I left him at the altar.”

  “But that was a long time ago, right?”

  “It was, but the family has never forgiven me,” Summer said. “I’m not sure they should. It was … unkind of me.” She tried to smile at him, but failed when she saw disappointment plastered over his face.

  “Oh, Summer,” Agatha said in her soft voice, which reached in, boosting her.

  “I handled it all wrong.”

  He sat forward, uncrossed his arms.

  “But people like Singer have no idea what it’s taken for me to be here today. Utterly ashamed.”

  “I never would’ve guessed,” he said, glancing sideways at Summer. “But it adds depth to the possibilities.”

  “What do you mean?” Agatha said.

  “Maybe someone on the island has a vendetta against you.”

  “Perhaps it’s time I talked with Cash after all these years? To hold that against me?” Summer laughed.

  He stood. “Don’t laugh. Believe me. Stranger things have happened.”

  Stranger things, indeed. Summer’s face heated at the thought of Cash. Shame. Guilt. Dread.

  “More likely someone had a vendetta for my mom, since she’s the one who was killed and it was her home they were trying to destroy. I doubt it has anything to do with me. I’ve not lived here in a very long time.”

  He stood, as if he were getting ready to leave. His brown eyes momentarily held a note of emotion. Compassion? Understanding? But he blinked a long, slow blink and turned his head before he walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  What a day. Summer couldn’t wait to get back to her home, but in the meantime, she lay in Aunt Agatha’s guest room, snuggled beneath a comforter. She didn’t want to think about leaving Cash at the altar. She had just been too young to marry. But she might’ve handled it with compassion and maturity. Even so, she didn’t think Cash was behind any of this. He was too lazy. It would take way too much effort for him to create notes and try to burn the place down, let alone kill someone.

  She reached for Nights at Bellamy Harbor, and as she did so, she did it with a measure of disbelief. Was she actually reading a romance? A few years ago, she’d not have been caught dead doing so. She’d ranted against them.

  But as she held the book in her hand and cracked it open, she felt a mix of comfort and excitement. Comfort perhaps because this very book had been in her mom’s hands. She’d been reading it, thinking about it. Plus, no matter how difficult it looked for the characters, a happy ending was imminent. You didn’t get one of those in reality—might as well enjoy them on the pages.

  An alpha male who owned the development corporation and the smart, feminist conservationist? He was a Muslim, to boot. Pleasing his family was everything to him. It drove the character. How was it going to work out?

  As she read, her eyes grew heavy, and she slipped off, only to awaken with the sun the next morning, with the book splayed across her chest.

  She stayed there for a few moments, planning her day: breakfast, bookstore, investigation. The next person on her list to talk to about her mom’s death was Posey, the one person still around who used to be in her mom’s women’s group. She also needed to call this person who’d made an offer for the store several years ago. She’d call them from the bookstore.

  * * *

  When she entered the store, already opened by Poppy, one of her mom’s employees, she was happy to see it crawling with customers.

  “Hi,” Summers said to Poppy. “I’m Summer. Pleased to meet you. How’s everything going?”

  “I’m so busy, I haven’t gotten a chance to update the blog or to make more coffee,” she said, exasperated.

  “I’ll make coffee and see about the blog. Don’t worry about that,” Summer said. Blog? Surely she’d figure that out. She had a PhD in Shakespearean lit, for God’s sake.

  A few women dressed in cover-ups, hats, and flip-flops lined up at the cash register.

  “Where’s Glads?” Summer asked.

  “Doctor’s appointment. She should be back soon.”

  Summer made her way to the empty coffeepot. She threw away the grounds and rinsed the basket out.

  “You shouldn’t throw all of those away,” a voice from behind her said.

  She turned to face a customer.

  “Really? Why?”

  “It’s good for the garden.”

  “Garden? I don’t have a garden … so …” She continued with dumping the coffee grinds.

  The woman waved her hand. “I do, and if you want to save the grounds for me, I’ll take them.”

  Summer scooped coffee into the filtered basket. She imagined saving all the grounds from their daily coffee and considered this woman might be a bit crazy.

  “Are you a local?” Summer asked. “I don’t recognize you.”

  “Yes, I’ve lived here for years. But this is the first time I’ve been to the bookstore. Very cute.”

  Cute? Hildy hated when people called the store cute. Summer herself didn’t like the word. But as she looked at the new-age hippy gardener person standing next to her, she decided not to hold it against her. Yet. She seemed kind of … lost and forlorn. Heck, if she wanted the grounds, Summer could devise a way. Perhaps it would save the store some hassle. Track costs? Summer shrugged. “Okay, give me your number and I’ll call you about the grounds.” Or not. We’ll see.

  The woman dug into her crochet bag and produced a card with her name and phone number on it. She handed it to Summer, who stuck it into her pocket. “You’ll hear from me soon.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling. “Hildy used to give me all the grounds from here.”

  Summer’s heart stopped. “You knew my mom?”

  Her face broke into a smile. “Are you Summer? I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Rowan.” She extended her hand.

  Rowan? Should Summer know her? Something seemed familiar about the name.

  “I’m so sorry about Hildy. I loved her. She was one of a kind.”

  Summer laughed. “Yes, she was. How did you know her?”

  “I’m in the book club. I wasn’t much into romances, but I like them now. And I adore the other members. I can’t believe this is the first chance I’ve gotten to actually come into the store. Hildy used to bring me the books.”

  “Will you be at the meeting next Wednesday?” Summer asked as she flipped on the coffeepot switch.

  Rowan nodded. Her dark blue eyes watered. “I’ll be there.”

  “We’ll see you then,” Summer said. Here was a new book club member. How many were there now? She needed to find out.

  Rowan wandered off into the shelves of books.

  With the coffee brewing and the scent filling the store, Summer ambled into the backroom to make her phone call to Xanadu Corporation, to talk to the man who’d made Hildy the offer. And she also needed to call Posey, the one person left in the witch group, and she’d just added one more task—getting a roster of all the book club members.

  Call Posey.

  Contact Xanadu corporation.

  Get a complete roster of book club members.

  Call the school.

  What? Where did that business about the school come from? She’d not call the school. She refused to go back with her tail between her legs. They said they’d call her—and she’d wait for it. Wouldn’t she?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Beach Reads was so full of people it was difficult for Summer to sneak away into the office to make a call. But she did.

  She sat in her mother’s desk chair and dialed Xanadu.

  After she explained why she was calling, they transferred her call to a man named Rex Garfield.

  “Yes, sure I remember Beach Reads. Great place. But I never could convince Hildy to sell,” he said.

  “When is the last time you tried?”

  “Hmm. Let me think. Hang on. I can look that up. Do you mind holding?”

  “Not at all.” Summer’s heart raced.
He’d give her the information she needed. Just like that. He had nothing to hide. Apparently. Maybe this call wasn’t such a good idea. Perhaps it would be a waste of time. No, she needed to make a proper deduction. Every new fact was a good one, as it freed her up to move on to the next item on the list.

  “Summer? It looks like I contacted her a few months back. She said she’d had a few other offers but wasn’t interested in them either.”

  Summer’s heart raced even faster. “Any idea who the others were?”

  “No. She mentioned that there were a couple of locals. One was an English teacher at the high school.”

  There was only one English teacher at St. Brigid High School. He wasn’t difficult to track down. No, indeed.

  “She said nothing about the other local?”

  “Nothing that I wrote down, and my memory is not so great. That’s why I write everything down.”

  “I see.” Summer drew in a breath and slowly let it out. “Well, thanks so much for your time. I appreciate it. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Great. Hildy was a character. I’m going to miss her.”

  Character, indeed. Oh, Mom, what kind of a mess did you get yourself into? Who did you anger so much that they killed you? Henry Chadworth had always gotten under Summer’s skin, even though they had a great deal in common, including their alma mater. But was he a killer?

  Poppy poked her head into the office. “I need a break. Can you cover the register for me?”

  So much for her next phone call. She sighed. It would have to wait. “Sure.”

  There was already a small line forming at the register, so Summer hopped behind the counter.

  “Did you find everything you need?” Summer asked the first customer, a bleached blonde with blue eye shadow. Stuck in the 1970s by the looks of things.

  “Yes, what a great bookstore,” she said, sliding books toward Summer. Five books. An avid reader.

  “Thank you,” Summer said with something like pride filling her heart. Whoa. Where did that come from?