I jumped up. I knew what to do. Dad fixed everything with sugar water. “I can help you. Hang on.” I ran through the beaded curtain and grabbed a cup from the sink in the back room. Finally, I had an answer to something. Purpose consumed me. Even if it was an old lady’s gas, I could fix it. Water? Check. Cup? Check. Sugar? I opened cupboards and drawers in search of Mom’s tea stash. She’d keep the sugar there. I lifted porcelain lids off tiny vessels. Nothing.
“Crap.” I knocked my hip into a stack of papers on Mom’s desk and they crashed to the ground. Argh! Crouching, I swept them into a not-as-neat pile. From beneath a mass of order forms and handwritten receipts for tarot readings, a sheet of recycled paper scooted across the floor. The writing caught my attention.
“Everything okay in here?” Claire led Maple by the elbow to the window seat where I used to nap after school.
I tidied the papers and placed them on Mom’s desk, save the one.
“Is this for Mrs. Shuster?” Claire lifted the mug from the desk.
“I can’t find the sugar.” The police probably took it in for evidence.
“How about a glass of water?” Claire tended to Maple and I reached into my long-term memory.
Words fluttered in my head, failing to take hold. I took four years of Spanish in college and still barely managed a burrito order, but this was a whole other can of crazy. This was a foreign language I knew. I tapped the paper to my forehead. Judging from the few words I understood immediately, my parents were planning something and Minnie’s name was at the top of it all. Not good for their case.
“What’s this?” Claire touched the paper with one finger. “Is that a language?”
“Mmm-hmm. Elvish.”
“Elvis?” She popped a hip and lifted an arched brow.
“Elvish, like elf talk. Have you seen Lord of the Rings?” I placed the paper on the desk and cursed myself for not keeping up with it after I left home. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen it written.”
“When have you ever seen it written?” Disbelief colored Claire’s words. “Are you being serious?”
“I can do this. Give me a minute.”
Ding! The little bell on the counter rang. “I’ll get it.” Maple hoisted her portly figure off the window seat and shuffled out front. Buurrrp! “This is so exciting. We’re solving a mystery. It’s just like Indiana Jones.”
I fished a pencil from Mom’s desk and got busy decoding. My hands trembled with anticipation as it all came together. Flowers. Cake. Poetry readings. Mr. and Mrs. Dumont. The Dunlows. Adrian and a guest. “Ha!”
“What? What is it?” Claire asked.
“A party.” I slapped the desk. It wasn’t an elaborate plan for murder. “It’s a guest list and menu, plus random details. They’re planning a surprise party for my birthday.” Turned out Elvish was like riding a bike.
“Why wasn’t I invited?” Claire sulked, looking closely at the paper and tapping a fingernail over the writing. “That’s the connection to the murdered florist.”
Relief flooded from my lungs. “Mom put her on the spot at First Friday. I’ll bet Minnie tried to bow out of providing flowers for my party because Karen put so much pressure on her for Beau’s victory dinner.”
“The one after the election? The election that hasn’t happened yet?” Claire circled her finger in the air around one ear.
“Precisely.” I pushed away from the desk.
“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and, trust me, I’ve heard a lot of dumb things.”
“That’s what I told her. Who plans a victory dinner a month before the election? Not to mention Beau doesn’t stand a chance against Adrian.” I tucked the paper in my pocket and went to check on Maple at the register.
“Your mom showed me how to handle the store in case she ever had an emergency.” Maple beamed. She slid a stack of shirts into a lavender bag and topped it with a coupon for half off an aura cleanse or palm reading.
Claire looked at me with wide brown eyes. “I meant it’s dumb they’d rather sit in jail than admit they planned on throwing you a party.”
“Oh.” That was dumb, and now that she pointed it out, it made me mad. What were they thinking? All they had to do was tell the truth. They might still be in jail, but surely an explanation counted for something. They looked guilty sitting in jail refusing to talk. What good was Adrian’s lawyer?
Maple pursed her thin lips, creating fine lines around the perimeter. “They wanted to surprise you. They’re so glad you’re home. The party was supposed to be special.”
“If I don’t get them out of jail, there won’t be a party.”
“How’d you figure out what that paper said?” Claire scrunched up her nose.
“My parents used to speak Elvish when they shared secrets in front of my face. I heard Liv Tyler use it in Lord of the Rings and I recognized it. Once I knew it was Elvish, I looked it up and studied. The next time they tried that number, I knew what they were up to.”
She shot me a big cheesy smile. “Nerd.”
“You never know when certain information will come in handy. Best to learn everything possible.”
“I think that does it.” Maple moved to the customer side of the counter. “Nice and quiet in here again. If you need any more help, give me a call.”
On her way out, she held the door for a group of birders in sun visors and capris. They poked the merchandise and argued amongst themselves in birder speak. Eventually they noticed me staring.
“Do you have any birding materials?” a bearded red-haired man called over the shirt racks. His pointy head lacked hair on top but made up for it with two heavy strips around his ears.
“Materials?” I asked. “Like cage liners?”
“No. Bird calls, local wildlife directories, things like that.” The redheaded guy took a step in my direction.
I looked pointedly at the crystals twirling overhead, garlands of twinkle lights wrapped in the open rafters and a display of hemp bracelets on the counter. “Really?”
He waddled through the racks to the counter. “Well, have you at least heard any whispering?”
Claire snorted.
“Whispering?” I whispered for fun.
“About where to find him.” He leaned forward until his Old Spice crawled up my nose.
“Who?” Claire matched his secretive tone and stance.
The man huffed and straightened to his less than average height. “The Black-Tailed Godwit, of course.”
“Of course.” Claire groaned. She walked away muttering about “this place.”
I left him at the counter and followed Claire. She put her rear on the counter by Dad’s shirt press and turned a flyer over on her lap. She clicked a BIC about forty times.
“Who knows you’re snooping around?” she asked. “Only tell me people who are still alive. We need a list of potential suspects. Someone sent the note, the crash test driver and the Igloo of horror.”
* * *
The list went on for miles. Everyone knew what everyone did in Chincoteague. Well, except the person we needed a name for. That one was discreet somehow. If I found him, I needed to ask how he stayed undercover through all this hoopla when I couldn’t leave my apartment without a community bulletin issued.
“It’s a long list, but it’s a start.” Claire hopped down and anchored her hands over her tiny waist. “I heard Sebastian’s team is headed out here tomorrow. That cooler of parts put them on high alert. They
want to get this case wrapped up before the national media gets wind of it. You think the birders are a pain. Try reporters.”
I didn’t want to give that more thought than necessary. I had my hands full. “Hey, how was your date Friday night with SWAT guy?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes until her lids fluttered. “That man’s a marshmallow.”
I smiled at her use of Sebastian’s word choice. “Guess that answers your questions about his tough guy office routine.”
She lifted a finger toward the windows. “Here’s my new question. Where the hell is your man going?”
I followed her gaze out the front door as Sebastian’s Range Rover disappeared over the mainland bridge.
“Damn. He took my good ride.”
Chapter Fourteen
After the initial influx of looky-loos, the shop quieted. Everyone had the scoop on my parents and as fast as rumors spread, probably every detail from my conversation with Maple Shuster, too. Claire graciously agreed to tail Sebastian while I folded and refolded the same stack of hipster shirts with mustache pictures or some variation of “Keep calm and...”
I needed a reason to leave the Purple Pony. Being alone unnerved me. I checked my cell for texts so many times that when the door chimed, I looked at my phone.
Mrs. Franks marched through the racks of clothes, an overly friendly look on her face. “Do you eat lamb?”
Shoot. I’d forgotten about our dinner plans. I pulled my chin back on instinct. Did she say lamb? Like lamb-lamb? Lambs were harmless, fluffy and vulnerable like Freud. Freud’s fuzzy gray face popped into mind. I didn’t know any lambs, but ew. I couldn’t eat lamb. I imagined Freud roped to a spit, cartoon-style.
“I’m preparing more than vegetables for our dinner tonight. I know you were raised to eat beans and sprouts, but a meal needs protein. What do you do with the casseroles I bring you?” Her voice hitched as if I tossed them out the window when she left.
“Your casseroles are delicious, Mrs. Franks. I’m not a vegan.”
Her shoulders slumped. The woman hit me up for counseling in the strangest of ways and most involved food. Sometimes she brought a meal and left cash. Sometimes she egged my golf cart and wrote “Home Wrecker” on the side. See? Food.
Mrs. Franks had a hot temper and a choke hold on her husband. She thought he was a cheat and everyone with an X chromosome or internal genitalia wanted him. Poor Mr. Franks, on the other hand, loved her hopelessly. They moved to the island a few years back in hopes she’d relax with fewer women around. When he started showing up at my office for counseling, using his handyman skills as payment (that was not a euphemism), she hated me. Except, she needed me. And him. It was a colossal mess, and I couldn’t tell either one of the Franks I counseled the other. Patient confidentiality.
Which left me in trouble. Mrs. Franks had invited me to dinner at their home for the first time last week and tonight was the night. Was this some kind of couple’s therapy? An ambush? Who knew? My life was like that.
“I’m certain whatever you make will be divine. If you want lamb, make lamb.” I smiled. I wouldn’t eat lamb, but she could make it.
My phone beeped and I looked at the door. Still closed.
“See you tonight.” Mrs. Franks pivoted on her knockoff orange Crocs and left. The door chimed at her exit. My phone beeped again.
Text from Melinda Crown. Don’t forget Career Day. You’re on in ten.
Oh, crap. I ran through the store, flipping light switches and pulling blinds. I rubbed a marker over scrap paper and stuck a “Be Back Tomorrow” sign to the door glass. After locking up, I stopped on the sidewalk. The Pony Cart went a dizzying ten miles per hour but was confined to the road—technically. I ran a comfortable seven miles per hour, back in the day, and could cut through yards legally. My neck protested the thought, and arriving at the school soaked in my out-of-shape sweat didn’t appeal. I compromised.
The Pony cart engine purred to life and I took a right at the light then a left into the Dittmores’ driveway. Mr. Dittmore adjusted his glasses on his nose but didn’t speak. I cut around their garage, through the backyard, across three adjoining yards and popped out on the road attached to the football field. Two dozen high school boys jogged lifelessly around the track. Ah, physical education, the bane of teenage existence. I dodged a couple of stragglers and zigzagged across the field, nearly squashing a boy in the grass. Two parking lots later, I left the Pony Cart at the elementary school’s front door. Ten minutes on the dot.
I dashed down the hall of tiny lockers and cubby holes stuffed with lunch boxes and book bags.
A voice boomed behind me. “No running in the halls.”
“Ah!” I pressed a hand to my heart.
Mrs. Finster, known to every child in town as Old Mrs. Spinster, stared at me. Her giant gray bouffant hairdo had no less than two bumpits and three pencils tucked inside.
“Sorry, Mrs. Finster. I’m late for Career Day.”
I slowed my pace to a speed walk and rounded the corner. Gigi clapped when she saw me. “Eaaw!” To this child I would forever be known as Ear.
“There you are.” Melinda stepped out of the nearest classroom. I wasn’t sure if she was speaking to me or her daughter.
The school was as bright and cheery as I remembered. Green marble floors and chipped green walls. Finger paintings and little “When I Grow Up” poems polka-dotted everything in sight. Scents of crayons and paste filled the air. My heart settled in my chest. What a sweet place.
I followed Melinda into the classroom where twenty tiny desks faced a low-hanging chalkboard. A woman probably five years younger than me stood in the front. Teachers were a lot younger than I remembered. Her wide blue eyes and jaunty ponytail aged me. Suddenly my fresh cotton sundress felt geriatric beside her pressed pencil skirt and wrap blouse. Her shoes were adorable. Dang it. I hadn’t checked my hair or makeup since I rolled out of bed.
“Class, catch your bubbles.” She pretended to catch something in the air and stuff it in her mouth until her cheeks puffed out. The class copied her. Twenty blowfish stared at me. I guessed they couldn’t talk with a mouth full of bubble.
“There. Now, class, this is Mrs. Price. She is a counselor. Do you know what a counselor does?” A bevvy of first grade hands popped into the air.
Miss Price. I was Miss Price. Miss.
“Eleanor.” She pointed at a little brunette with bouncy curls and horn-rimmed glasses. Hipsters loved dressing their kids like the 1950s.
Eleanor mimed the removal of her bubble and beamed. “My mom says Mrs. Price’s going to marry Mr. Davis and be the mayor’s wife.” Her crooked white teeth sparkled under fluorescent lighting.
I frowned.
“Very good, Eleanor, but can you guess what a counselor does?”
“Blows stuff up.” A boy in a Bert and Ernie striped shirt called out.
“Marvin.” The teacher wagged a finger and raised it over her head. “Catch your bubble.” A second finger popped up like a peace sign. “Raise your hand.”
“I’m Miss Price, actually.” Everyone looked at me. “I’m not married and I have no plans to get married.” I looked at Eleanor.
The teacher spoke up. “Miss Price worked at the FBI in Norfolk. That stands for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. What do you know about the FBI, class?”
Hands waved frantically over tiny puffed-cheek faces.
A line of women stood watch across the back wall. Room moth
ers or aging students in desperate need of basic tutoring? Anyone’s guess.
The teacher waved me up to stand beside her at the front of the room. She called on another student. “Lexi.”
“You were a spy!” The little girl’s hair stuck to her face as she smiled. She shot a look at the boy beside her. “I told you girls can be spies.”
Tell him, sister. “Girls can be anything they choose to be, but I wasn’t a spy. I worked in Human Resources.” A collective moan rolled over my audience and hands fell. Melinda shooed me with silent hands to go on. “I traveled across America telling college students about the FBI and I recruited them. That means I tried to entice them to apply for a position with our government.”
“She trained the spies.” Lexi’s lips turned up in a smug I-told-you-so.
Not quite right, but who was I to burst their bubble?
“Can you climb walls or fight five guys at once?” “Can you break a brick with your head?” Kids shouted across the room in a sudden burst of chaos and lost bubbles. “Leave the room and come back without us seeing you. Can you do that? Can you teach me to do it?”
Nerves crawled across my skin. My heart beat faster. “Bubbles.” I looked to the teacher for help. “Bubbles!”
Silence fell over the room.
I took a big breath and exhaled slowly. “I think you’re thinking of ninjas. I’m a counselor. That means if you have something on your mind and no one you want to talk to about it, you can tell me. I’ll keep your secret and help you decide what to do about it.” They stared blankly.
My job sounded like being a friend. People paid me to be their friend, except not in a real way. In a clinical, non-attached, therapy way. Being grown-up was complicated.
One of the ladies standing sentinel at the back wall lifted her hand shoulder high.
“Yes?” Thank goodness. Kids made me crazy. Big people questions I could handle.
“Is it true you’re dating Special Agent Sebastian Clark?” She said his name with reverence like he was a celebrity. The same way I uttered the name Adam Levine, the super sexy singer from my favorite band.
Murder Comes Ashore Page 16