Overall, it had a cozy feel, bringing back pleasant childhood memories, and the couple she saw inside waiting on their customers added to the impression with their matching Collectible Cook aprons tied around plump middles and their solicitous air. From Callie’s viewpoint, they looked like the genial aunt and uncle who’d ply you with tasty homemade food the minute you stepped through their door.
The customers gradually drifted out with their bulging bags. The last one held the door for Callie, which kept the bell from signaling her entrance to the Moores, who had gone to their back room. Unaware that someone was there to overhear, they’d started snapping at each other, their voices carrying to Callie at the front of the shop.
“Why did you have to point out that chip on one of those Pyrex bowls?” the woman’s shrill voice demanded. “She wouldn’t have noticed!”
“Not notice? The woman wasn’t blind, Renata. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Well, genius, you lost us the big difference in the tag price and the discount she insisted on.”
“So you’d rather deal with her showing up to demand her money back? And never coming back? Who’s the stupid one now?”
Appalled, Callie tip-toed to the door and opened it, its ding bringing immediate silence in the back.
Renata Moore slid out from the back room, a super-sweet and genial smile on her face, tucking a stray hair into her gray-streaked bun before folding her hands serenely over her ample waist. “Welcome to The Collectible Cook, my dear. How can I help you?”
You could help me understand how you managed that instant Jekyll and Hyde switch, Callie wanted to say. Instead, she introduced herself, also naming her shop.
“Oh yes!” Renata cried. “Melodie Reed’s place. Jerry!” she called. “Come meet our newest Cove shopkeeper!”
Jerry Moore stepped out, not quite as warmly as his wife but courteously enough.
“Well, well,” he said. “Mel’s niece, right?” He held out his hand. “We heard that you’d taken over, there. Meant to stop in and say hello, but things have been super busy lately, haven’t they, Renata?”
Too busy to have made it to Aunt Mel’s funeral as well, Callie guessed, since shopkeepers usually mentioned that they’d first met her that day, understanding the difficulty she’d have remembering all their names and faces. What this meant, if anything, she’d think about later. She knew she hadn’t seen the two at any association meetings, either.
Renata Moore nodded vigorously. “Crazy busy. We did a total re-do of the shop over the summer. I mean total! New shelving and paint, which meant shifting the stock constantly.”
“Which fell onto me, of course, since somebody’s back was acting up like it always seems to at certain times.” Jerry grinned lopsidedly, apparently trying for humor but failing.
Renata shot him a look. “Well!” she said, turning back to Callie. “Looking for something for your kitchen? Or just out for a little stroll?”
“Neither, actually,” Callie replied. “I mean, I love your shop, especially that Kit Kat clock I saw in the window. I remember seeing one of those on a neighbor’s wall when I was a kid and being fascinated with the eyes and tail moving in tandem. I’ll definitely have to come back. But right now I’m looking for information.”
Renata and Jerry, who had been nodding contentedly at her praise, suddenly stiffened. Callie quickly explained. “It’s to help Dorothy Ashby. The police seem to be focusing totally on her regarding her husband’s murder.”
“Oh, the poor thing! How awful it must all be for her.” Renata’s hands flew to her face. She rocked her head back and forth, displaying all the proper elements of distress and sympathy. But after what she’d heard earlier, Callie wondered if that was all it was—a display.
“One of the things I’ve learned,” Callie continued, “is that Clifford Ashby was pressing Keepsake Cove shopkeepers for payment in order to protect their shop’s reputation. Apparently there were subtle implied threats involved. I’ve already spoken with two other shops that Ashby approached. The Collectible Cook was mentioned as another. Did he come here?”
“Oooh, yes, he tried that little arm-twisting thing on us,” Jerry Moore said. “We told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with it.”
Renata nodded, pursing her lips virtuously. “I was shocked that he’d come up with that sort of scheme. And to think that we’d fall for it! We saw through it in an instant, didn’t we, Jerry?”
“In an instant. We would have reported it to the police, but it was probably just short of illegal, so why bother?”
They might have reported it to the Keepsake Cove Shop Owners’ Association, Callie thought, and saved Howard Graham and possibly a few others some anguish and money. But Karl Eggers hadn’t reported it either. Maybe that was another way Ashby picked his shopkeepers—choosing ones he figured would either go along with it or do nothing?
“So how is this helping Dorothy?” Renata asked.
“At this point, it’s simply learning about Clifford’s activities once he came to this area and opened his inn. Somebody lured him to the park and murdered him. They knew Clifford and Dorothy well enough to use her vintage scissors and throw suspicion on her. The more we can find out about him, the closer we might get to a motive for his murder, and to his killer.”
“Yes, I see,” Renata said, though looking a bit doubtful. “Unfortunately, we can’t help much. That was the only time we spoke to the man. Wasn’t it, Jerry?”
“Practically threw him out before he could finish.” Jerry looked as though he relished the image.
“So it breaks my heart that we can’t do a thing for my dear friend. How is Dorothy holding up?”
If you’d visit your dear friend you’d know. “Fortunately, she has her cousin with her, for now. But it’s been hard on both.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Terrible times, terrible times. Please give them my love, will you? Jerry, why don’t you fix up a nice pot of stew to take over?”
“Oh, really?” Jerry’s look was to kill. “Better yet, why don’t you just whip up a nice casserole, since you’re the one with all the free time, or how about—”
“I’d better run,” Callie said, quickly interrupting. “Thank you, both, for your help.”
“Absolutely!” Renata cried, the super-sweet look back on her face. “Anything we can do. Please stop by again.”
Callie nodded, but gave a sigh of relief as she left the shop.
She checked her watch and saw that it was time for Tabitha’s shift to be over, so she hurried on back to House of Melody, weaving rapidly between shoppers, just short of a trot.
“Sorry to hold you up,” she apologized as she rushed in and whipped off her jacket.
“No problem,” Tabitha assured her. She grabbed her purse from its spot under the counter. “But I do have to dash. There’s a lady coming pretty soon to pick up the necklace I made for her. Had a couple of nice sales here while you were gone,” she added as she headed for the door. “And a question about one of our orders. It’s there in the message box.” She waved toward the cash register. “See you tomorrow!” And she was off, leaving Callie catching her breath but grateful that she had someone as efficient as Tabitha to entrust her business to.
By the end of the day, after having dealt with several customers, a few calls, and one return from a woman who’d already brought back her purchase two other times, apparently having trouble settling on the “perfect” music box, Callie was more than ready to close up. She had just taken two steps toward the door when her phone rang.
“House of Melody,” she announced as she picked up, trying to inject life into her tone.
“Hey!”
Callie paused, taken aback. Then it clicked. “Hank?”
“How’s it going down there?”
Hank was calling, she knew, from Morgantown, West Virginia—not exactly the North
Pole, though it had felt like that sometimes when the wind blew on frigid winter days. But Hank was aware, or should be, that Maryland’s Eastern Shore was only a few hours’ drive away. Happily for Callie, he’d never made the drive.
“It’s fine,” she answered him. Other than for a recent murder. “But I don’t have time to chat right now, Hank. Why are you calling?”
“Right down to business, huh? That’s good. I don’t mind. Our good times are in the past, I know. I get it.”
Pile it on, Hank, Callie thought, having heard it all before. “Really, I’ve got to go, soon. What’s up?”
“I got this overdue bill,” he said. “For the boots.”
“Boots?”
“The snakeskin ones. You know, the ones you thought were so great and said I needed to get? You said every good Country Western performer needs to dress right for the part.”
Did she? Callie thought she remembered the boots but not the rest of it. “And?”
“And now the bill is gone overdue. Those things weren’t cheap. I gotta have the money, now.”
“What, you want me to pay for them?”
“You told me I had to have them.”
“If I did, I don’t exactly remember forcing you at gunpoint,” Callie said, feeling her blood pressure rise.
“Heck, no. But all the same—”
Did he really think she was going to cover the bill for those things? In the old days, when she was so young and naïve, it might have worked—when she had been so convinced he was the next Johnny Cash or Garth Brooks. Unfortunately, she hadn’t realized that it took a lot more than a good voice and an engaging smile. It took discipline and hard work, two things Hank was short on. Knowing him, he’d probably blown his latest gig money on something stupid.
“It was your own decision, and they’re your own boots. Pay for them with your own money. I’m going now, Hank. ’Bye.” Callie hung up, restraining herself, for the sake of the phone, from slamming it, and stomped over to the door. She expected to hear the phone ring again but instead heard a soft trill come from Grandpa Reed’s music box. It felt like an encouraging pat on the back, as though Aunt Mel were saying to her, “Good girl.” Callie smiled and felt herself calm down, which was a good thing for her door shade, which might have been yanked off its holder otherwise. It was also a good thing for Brian, who she saw heading across the street toward her shop, and who now wouldn’t have to face a snarled greeting.
“Hi,” she called pleasantly as she opened her door. “What’s up?”
Brian waited for a bicyclist to roll on by before answering. “Feel like a fish dinner tonight?”
“Uh, sure! Are you offering?”
He stepped up on the curb. “I am. Well, actually, Annie is. Mike caught some nice bluefish. They’re cooking them up tonight and need someone to help eat them.”
“I could be talked into helping,” Callie said with a grin. “It sounds great. Can I bring something?” Her mind ran over the contents of her kitchen and quickly noted she’d have to run out for anything beyond microwave popcorn. Fortunately, Brian shook his head.
“I’ve got plenty of fresh veggies at the café. We can throw together a stir-fry while Mike grills the fish.”
There were definite perks to seeing a café owner, besides his being a great all-around guy—who didn’t wear snakeskin boots. Callie was about to ask how soon she should be ready when the sound of a car pulling up to the curb caused Brian to turn. She saw his jaw drop, and it wasn’t because of the attractive woman with spiked red hair sitting behind the wheel. It could have been Taylor Swift in the driver’s seat, but Brian, car aficionado that he was, would have seen only the Corvette.
“Hey! Glad I caught you,” Lyssa called. “I’ve got some interesting info for you.”
Nine
As Lyssa climbed up and out of her low-slung car, Callie saw that she’d changed from the comfortable writing clothes of stretchy fleece she’d worn earlier to a chunky, cream-colored sweater over dark-wash jeans.
“I was talking to George Cole after he came back from his meeting.” Lyssa turned to Brian. “I sent him to your café, by the way. He loved his lunch!”
“Good to hear. Thanks,” Brian said, his gaze moving between Lyssa and her Corvette, lingering longer on the car.
“Anyway, George was in a chatty mood. I’m guessing his meeting ended with a trip to the bar. So I turned the conversation to what we each said to the police the morning after the murder. Guess what I found out.”
“What?” Callie asked, not up for guessing.
“Dorothy’s cousin, Jane, was at the inn Tuesday afternoon, talking to Ashby.”
“Really! She never mentioned that. Did Cole hear the conversation?”
Lyssa shook her head. “No luck. He only saw them from his window.” She grinned. “After he said it, he nearly clapped a hand over his mouth, like he’d violated an oath or something. I told him it was all fine. It wasn’t like we were on a jury. He didn’t know who she was, of course, but he has pretty sharp eyes. Once he described her—with a little prompting—I knew it was cousin Jane.”
She paused, looking from Callie to Brian as though something had just clicked. “Hey, I’m holding you guys up, right? I can update you on the rest later, no problem.”
Callie looked over at Brian, but he was on the same wavelength. “We’re just heading over to my sister’s for a fish cookout,” he said. “Why don’t you join us? There’ll be plenty of food.”
Seeing Lyssa’s hesitation, Callie added, “It’s very last-minute and casual. Annie and Mike would love to have you, I’m sure.”
“Hmm. Clear it with her first,” Lyssa said.
Brian pulled out his cell phone and after a brief chat turned back to Lyssa. “She says please come. She’ll throw another potato in the pot.”
Lyssa laughed. “Okay then. Just show me the way!”
Callie begged for a minute to freshen up, change, and feed her cat, and Brian needed to pack up his veggies at the café.
“Meet you both back here in fifteen?” he asked.
“Perfect. I have a little stop to make first,” Lyssa said.
They took off in separate directions, Callie dashing through her shop to the cottage, where she ran through her tasks in record time. When she returned to the sidewalk out front, zipping up the navy hoodie she’d thrown on against the evening chill, Brian was just driving up in his beloved 1967 red-and-black Impala. In a minute, Lyssa pulled up behind him.
“Want to ride with us?” Callie asked, but Lyssa shook her head.
“I’ll follow. Just don’t lose me!”
Callie thought it’d be hard for either of them to lose sight of such a distinctive vehicle. She only hoped Brian could keep his eyes away from his rear-view mirror long enough to drive safely. She climbed into the Impala and buckled up.
“Nice of you to invite Lyssa along,” she said as he slowly pulled away.
He nodded, eyes flicking, as Callie expected, between mirror and road. “Always room for one more at Annie’s,” he said.
“Especially if a Corvette comes with her, right?”
He grinned. “I’d love to get a look under that hood.”
“And if she invites you to take it for a spin?”
“I’ll be cool about it … until I collapsed in a puddle of ecstasy.”
Callie laughed. “Let’s hope Mike and the boys can contain themselves.”
When they came to a stop on Mike and Annie Barbario’s driveway and opened their doors, Callie caught a whiff of burning charcoal. It brought a pleasant memory flash of childhood picnics in Grandpa and Grandma Reed’s big backyard. “Smells like the grill is ready.”
The red Corvette pulled up behind them, and Lyssa climbed out just in time to meet all the Barbarios coming toward them. Callie smiled to herself as she saw Mike, his perpetual five o’c
lock shadow in place, try to cover his awed reaction, identical to Brian’s, over Lyssa’s car as they gathered around. The boys, Justin and Ben, at ten and eight respectively had no such inhibitions and let it all out.
“Wow! Wow, wow, wow!” they said in unison, the football they’d been tossing instantly dropped and forgotten, as was Lyssa as they rushed past her to examine the Corvette.
“Boys, mind your manners,” Annie admonished, bringing up the rear, her dark pony tail swinging. She had thrown on her husband’s gray windbreaker, which engulfed her trim frame. “I apologize for my cavemen brood,” she said, welcoming Lyssa.
“No problem. Hey, you have a great place here! And look at that vegetable garden! Bet you guys ate like royalty all summer, right?”
Callie saw Annie beam, and knew that Lyssa had touched on Brian’s sister’s pride and joy, second only to her family. Annie urged them to come on back, but Lyssa turned to reach into her car first.
“I took a chance that somebody here might like beer,” she said, lifting out the heavy carton. Mike immediately stepped up to relieve her of it.
“No risk there,” he said, laughing. “Hey! Craft beers! Nice and cold, too.”
“They put together a mix for me,” Lyssa said. “From local microbreweries. It’s a little quirk of mine, trying different things. Hope that’s okay?”
“I think we’ll do justice to them. Thanks!” Mike led the way around the house to where a blazing fire pit warmed the back patio.
“How perfect,” Lyssa exclaimed, going closer to warm her hands.
“We use it a lot,” Annie said. “Even in warm weather. Brian, want to tell me what to do with those veggies of yours?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he offered, though Annie followed close behind as he headed to her kitchen.
“He’ll rearrange my whole kitchen if I’m not there,” she stage-whispered to Lyssa and Callie, at the same time declining their offers of help. “Mike will put the fish on the grill in a minute, and the rest is done. Help yourself to one of the beers, or there’s sodas and other stuff in the cooler.”
A Vintage Death Page 6