“This is my first time,” she continued. “And I have to say I don’t think I’ve ever been in a store where you can see how much the owner loves books. Just the whole vibe of the place.”
“Mom worked hard at that,” Summer said while scanning the books.
“Well, it’s very clear.” The woman reached into her bag and pulled out a bank card. Summer totaled her purchase.
“Are you here on vacation?”
“Yes, I’m here for two glorious weeks. I might return for more books.” She handed Summer her card.
“We’ll be here.”
Two mysteries. Three romances. What are people thinking? Why don’t they read good books? Summer bit her tongue.
“We come back every year,” the next customer said while sliding her purchase onto the counter. “This year, I’m into the billionaires.”
“I see that.” Three books with the word billionaire in the title.
She batted her eyes. “Now, if only I could meet one.”
Summer laughed. “I hear ya.”
If only Summer could be one. She’d given up on finding any man, let alone a rich one.
An hour later, Poppy was still not back from her break, and Summer continued checking people out.
Piper sneaked in behind the counter. “Poppy’s sick. She’s not coming back today. She called me to help out.”
“Oh boy. Just like old times.”
Summer and Piper had worked every summer in the bookstore. They’d worked hard, but they’d also had a blast.
“I’m here to give you a break.”
“Okay, I need a bathroom break, and then I’ll walk the floors, if you want to take over here a bit.”
“Sure.” Piper stepped forward and reached for the book a customer handed to her. “Good choice. I read this a few months ago.”
* * *
Summer bounded off for the restroom. She couldn’t remember ever needing a bathroom break when she’d worked summers here. Now, she was almost at the point of bathroom panic after working behind the register for an hour and a half.
Walking the floors was an exercise of making sure the customers were finding what they needed, plus tidying up. An empty coffee cup here, a napkin there. A book out of place.
Summer ambled upstairs and started from the back of the store. As she rounded the corner, she spotted a book out of place and shoved it back into the right spot.
“Hildy was so stubborn,” Summer heard a voice say. “She’d never sell this place.”
“Why would she?” another voice said. “She built this store, worked hard for years. It’s her dream. Why would anybody think she’d sell?”
“Money, of course.”
“A woman like Hildy? She didn’t give one hoot for money.”
True. Summer’s heart swelled as she looked around at her mother’s realized vision. Whether she liked the books here or not, Hildy had built something real. Something that touched people’s lives. Something that people traveled to. Something that people talked about. You just couldn’t get more meaningful than that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A few days later, they were all back in Hildy’s house. The cleaners had come in and left not a whiff of smoke odor.
Aunt Agatha, Piper, and Mia were slowing getting back to their own lives. Though now that it was officially summer, nobody’s lives were normal. The tourists were already making a splash, filling up trash bins, leaving toys on the beach, and crowding restaurants. No wonder many longtime residents left for the season.
Mom never had. It was high beach book reading season. And she loved all the hubbub the tourists created. “Life,” she’d say, “you need to be in the thick of it!”
Today, Summer prepared to dive into the depths of it. She planned to visit Posey. Summer had called her, and Posey was expecting her. She seemed happy to hear from Summer, though that could be a ruse.
None of the others had returned her calls. Henry hadn’t even returned Summer’s call. Well, she’d not be ignored. She might have to pop in on him and catch him off guard.
After she traveled to the other side of the island and found Posey’s house, she took a deep breath. Could this woman know something about her mom’s death? Or worse, could she be the killer?
When tiny, mocha-skinned Posey opened the door, warm memories spread through Summer, and she held back tears. Where did that come from? It was as if she was standing in front of a warm, glowing fire—one full of sweet memories.
“Come on in, Summer,” Posey said after hugging her. “I have tea in the living room.”
Summer followed her through the small kitchen into the living room, which stretched the length of the house and looked out over a swampy marsh area.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t attend your mother’s funeral,” she said after they sat down in overstuffed wicker chairs.
Summer didn’t respond. She lifted her chin, trying to speak.
Posey waved her hand, as if to say never mind. “I just couldn’t imagine walking into a church—a church, of all things—knowing how she felt about them. I felt bad. I wanted to say goodbye. But it felt all wrong.”
“I felt the same way,” Summer said. “I have nothing against church. I’m a member of one back in Staunton. But Mom?”
“How did that happen?” Posey poured cream into her tea, and Summer watched the milky clouds form into a solid brown puddle.
“I really don’t know.” Summer drew in a breath, stirred her tea, stiffened on the chair. “Someone tried to set the house on fire a few nights back. We were all inside. Me, Mia, Agatha, and Piper.”
“I’d heard about it. Read about it in the paper,” she said, lifting her teacup to her lips and sipping from it. “I’m so glad that nobody was hurt.”
She was calm, steady. Either she was a psychopath or completely at peace with herself and the universe.
“I have to ask if you know anybody who would want to do such a thing,” Summer said after a few beats.
She gestured with her hands and shrugged. “I’d not spoken with your mother in a while. We’d both just gotten very busy. There was no great falling out or anything like that.” She sighed. “I wish I’d seen her before she died. I really do. I know she was having trouble with someone sending her notes about leaving town … selling the bookstore …”
“Yes,” Summer said. “I’ve seen those notes and handed them over to the police.”
One of her bushy gray eyebrows lifted. “The police?”
“I think someone murdered Mom,” Summer said.
Posey clutched at her ample bosom and gasped. “Why? Why would someone kill her? “
“Why does anybody kill anybody?”
She leaned forward, the chair squeaking, “What do the police say?”
“At first, they didn’t buy it. Thought I was not thinking clearly because of my grieving. I’m not sure what they think now they know someone obviously tried to kill me.”
Posey quieted.
“I’ve not talked with the police again, but I’ve been dealing with the fire chief.”
She smiled. “He’s delicious.”
Summer laughed. Yes, he was, but it was odd hearing it come from this elder woman’s mouth.
“So you’re talking with her friends to see if anybody knows anything?” Posey asked after a few moments.
Summer nodded. “What you’ve told me lines up with what everybody else says. I just keep thinking we’re overlooking something. Some piece of the puzzle that will lead us right to her killer.”
“Good luck.”
“Did Mom stay in contact with any of the other members of your group?”
“I’m uncertain. Most of them are gone, moved far away. I’m afraid I don’t practice the craft much anymore. It takes too much out of me. I’m diabetic. Now I go to diabetic support groups and recipe exchanges instead of monthly meetings in the moonlight at the beach. If you catch my drift.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Summer said,
feeling ashamed that she even remotely considered that Posey could have anything at all to do with her mom’s death.
“Oh, it’s not so bad most of the time. I’ve met some wonderful people in my groups. There’s a friend of your mother’s … Doris?”
“Doris? I didn’t know she’s diabetic,” Summer said, thinking of the very sweet cinnamon rolls she’d made for them. “I’d heard that her husband has diabetes. Not her.” An image of the cinnamon rolls sprang to her mind. She willed it away before she drooled all over herself and Posey’s lovely tea service.
Posey nodded. “No. She does, and she’s got her hands full with her husband.”
Summer remembered another person mentioning his illness. “What’s his condition?”
“He’s got a bad liver. He’s on a transplant list.”
Summer must be misremembering—or someone else had gotten it wrong.
“Well, that’s a good thing—surely they’ll find him a liver soon.”
Posey opened her mouth to say something, then looked as if she thought the better of it. “I hope so,” she eventually said.
They sat for a few moments in silence. Summer wondered what Posey had changed her mind about saying. But then she leaned forward.
“I’m not making any promises,” she said. “But I used to be a fabulous tarot card reader. I’ll do a reading later to see what the cards have to say about this murder business. I do hope you’re wrong. I’d hate to think of Hildy going that way. But she was so healthy. The heart attack story just never made sense to me.”
Speaking of not making sense: tarot cards? Summer wondered how that would go down in a court of law.
Chapter Twenty-Six
So much for Posey—Summer crossed her off her list of suspects or witnesses. She cared about Hildy enough not to pretend that sitting in a church was honoring her. That said something about her integrity. And she hadn’t even revealed anything new except about Doris and her husband, which had nothing to do with her mom’s death.
Back to the drawing board—or her checklist, as it were. Summer stopped by the bookstore on her way back to the house. She wasn’t scheduled today, but she just wanted to check on it. She tried to sort through her wild mix of emotions toward the store. Proud of her mom and what she’d built on the one hand; on the other, why did it have to be just romances and mysteries? How many hours had her mother forced her to work here, shelving, unpacking, waiting on customers? And oh, how she’d hated it with every ounce of a rebellious teenage attitude mustered.
She’d developed a love of other books—the ones she was not surrounded with every day. Once she’d discovered Shakespeare at school, she hadn’t looked back.
She stood in front of the store, drawing in a breath. The door opened, with its familiar bell alerting the clerks that a customer was entering or leaving, and the person glanced at her and smiled, with her parcel in her hands. A satisfied look on her face, like a cat finishing a bowl of thick cream.
Well.
Summer caught the door before it closed and stepped inside. She blinked. Glads was behind the counter, ringing up a few women who were laughing and chatting about the newest Nora Roberts book. Summer made her way in the opposite direction toward the first shelf of books—new romances lined up with their spines facing out. As she walked, the familiar creak of the old floors sent pings of comfort through her.
She strolled toward the corner shelf, where the staff picks always had been and still were. A couple of shelves with “Hildy’s All-Time Favorites.” Summer reached out and touched the books. Hildy loved this place. These books. What a remarkable achievement—to understand your passion and see its successful fruition. Joy welled up in Summer. Unexpected. Welcome. And it burst out of her with a strangled giggle and a prick of tears.
She turned from the shelves and continued walking along. The books—romances, all formulaic, all with happy endings and ridiculous sex scenes—looked happy. Odd. How could books look happy? She chided herself. Get a grip, woman.
But her mom had been the happiest woman she’d ever met. Her only unhappiness had been her problems with Summer. Guilt ripped at her as she became sharply aware of the emotional pain she’d caused her mom.
“Summer, dear, are you okay? You’re not supposed to be here.”
She turned to face Marilyn, whose face was full of concern and curiosity.
Summer tried to gather her wits, but her mind was reeling. Emotions were swarming through her, and she wasn’t certain if they were happy, sad, angry, or shame.
“Summer?” Marilyn reached out and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go in the back and get you a cup of tea?”
Summer nodded and allowed herself to be swept through the store and into the back room, where the staff took breaks in between boxes of books and stacks of magazines and papers.
“Have a seat, dear,” she said and poured Summer hot water from the electric kettle. “Constant Comment?”
She remembered Summer’s favorite tea.
“Yes, please.” Summer managed to find the words.
“Hildy always said you and she loved your Constant Comment,” Marilyn said.
True. They’d whiled away hours drinking the brew. No other brand of tea ever quite hit the spot.
Summer held the tea to her nose, allowing its spicy orange fragrance to soothe her even before her first sip.
“So she talked about me, even though she wouldn’t talk to me,” Summer muttered.
Marilyn sat next to her. “She talked about you all the time.” She paused. “Mothers and daughters have tiffs.” She shrugged, placing her hand on Summer’s shoulder. “She was working it out, believe me.”
It was as if Marilyn’s purple-iris hand sprinkled Summer’s shoulder with a bit of magic. Suddenly she felt more comfort than anger or shame.
“Were you there when Mom … fell over?”
“No,” she said. “She and Doris were taking stock. I think they were in here alone when your mother collapsed. Doris called nine-one-one, and Hildy was taken to the hospital, where they worked on her for quite some time.”
Doris? Her name kept cropping up. Summer made a note of it.
“Did you know offers were being made for the store?” Summer asked.
Marilyn laughed. “We all knew. To be fair, every single one of us would love to buy this store. Only a few of us ever could. I couldn’t.”
“But did you know about the warnings?”
Her eyebrows gathered. “What warnings?”
“Someone sent Mom threatening notes trying to get her to sell the shop.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“At first we suspected Rudy.” Summer explained what had been happening. “And now, with the fire, we figure they were coming after me. They want the Merriweather clan gone.”
“Well, whoever did that didn’t know your mother very well. She would never give up that bookstore. She bitched and moaned about it sometimes. It was a lot of work. But she didn’t plan to sell. As far as she was concerned, you would be the next owner,” she replied.
“Me?” Summer said. “She knew how much I didn’t like this place.”
“Yes, but you are keeping it, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Summer replied, “but I’m not sure how it will work out. I have a job I love in Staunton.” Maybe.
“It’ll all work out,” Glads said with confidence.
After drinking her tea, Summer walked back into the center of the store and spotted a man who looked vaguely familiar. He was moving directly toward her.
“Summer?” She recognized the voice, but when had Henry, the English teacher, gotten so hot?
He reached out and grabbed her as she stood dumbly considering things. She’d just called him yesterday. “I’m sorry I’ve not returned your call. My phone died. I mean, just died. Crazy how reliant I am on it.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “Don’t know what I’d do without mine.”
Glads walked by them with a grin and a sideways glance. Oh
no! Did she think that—
“Uh, listen,” Summer said, pulling on his elbow to get him into a corner of the place for privacy.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. What happened? I’d just seen her. She looked well.”
Summer’s eyes met his. “When did you see her?”
“I think it was the day before she died. We always had this healthy competition thing going. I wanted this store. I’ve made several offers. It became a joke between us.” He smiled a kind smile, edged in deep dimples, then laughed. “The last offer I made was just ridiculous.” He looked around. “I could never afford what this place is worth. High school English teacher. You know?”
They’d had this discussion before as well. Teaching English at high school versus college. Summer wasn’t interested in the debate at the moment.
“I remember,” she said. “So you gave up on buying it?”
His weight shifted. “Are you kidding? If I had the money, I would. I’m strapped these days. Are you selling? Is that what this is about?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not sure it’s mine to sell. We’ve yet to read the will.”
“Then why did you call?” A note of something like hope tempered his voice.
“I’d heard rumors that you still wanted the place,” she replied, not wanting to fill him in on everything yet, if ever. “So, um, I’m just exploring my options.”
“Well, I can’t help. A few years ago, maybe, but this place has escalated in worth. I’m not your guy,” he said and walked away.
Had Summer offended him? It would not be the first time.
She walked out of the shop and he was long gone. She decided to walk home rather than take the car. She’d come back tomorrow to fetch it. For now, she needed to stretch her legs and inhale sea air, a balm to her soul. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the beach.
As Summer walked along the snaking path, the sun setting in the distance, footfalls thudded behind her. She didn’t want to turn around, for fear of scaring a harmless bystander. But as the footsteps came close, she picked up her pace—as they did. Were they trying to—?
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