The Secret of Seaside

by Agatha Ball

  “Good,” he replied. "How about tomorrow?”

  “Um... sure,” I replied. "That would be great. Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” he said. And I could tell he meant it. I gave him a little wave as he walked out of the door, balancing it with his hip so that he wouldn’t knock over his coffee. He returned my wave with a smile.

  Perhaps this wasn’t going to be such a bad summer after all.

  Chapter Two

  The bell over the door tinkled a little after one o'clock as Granny came in to relieve me. She was still a glamour plate. She liked to tell me back in the day, she turned many a young fella's head before landing my grandpa. Her once shiny black hair was now gray, but she kept it dyed a shocking shade of red and done up in a bouffant. Today she wore a form-fitting blue sweater covered in pink flamingos, which was still loose enough to cover "that which God never meant man to see." She wore tight blue jeans rolled up to her calves and, despite having turned seventy a couple years ago, still insisted on wearing sassy little mules to show off each week's pedicure. This week, her toes were a Florida scene that matched her top, painted pool blue to show off the rhinestone flamingos and palm trees.

  "How's business?" she asked as she walked in and dropped her purse on the counter.

  "Oh, we sold a book and a cup of coffee and some mints..." I told her.

  "Why, we are practically rolling in the dough!" She took my face in her hands and gave me a great big kiss on the cheek. And then she spent the next minute wiping red lip prints off me. "Now, you get out of here and I don't want to see you back until tomorrow morning."

  "Done!" I replied, taking off my apron and handing it over.

  As she took it, she gave me a sly look. "I hear that there is a veeeery attractive young man who just came to town. No chance he stopped by?" She batted her eyelashes at me innocently.

  "Maybe!" I laughed, knowing that she probably knew more details about my encounter with Nate than I did. And I had been there. Such are the joys of living in a small town.

  "Well, he'd better take you out to dinner so the two of you can get acquainted. Seaside is nothing if not a hospitable town, and Paige, I just nominated you to be the president of the welcoming committee." She snapped the apron at me.

  I laughed as I sidestepped away. "I told him I'd take him down to the beach tomorrow," I informed her.

  She gasped in horror, collapsing upon the counter like a Southern belle in full swoon. With the back of her hand against her forehead, she declared, "TOMORROW! Why, that is just a lifetime away! You should go see what he's doing for dinner TONIGHT."

  "TONIGHT," I repeated, gathering up my things, "he is going to be spending with his uncle."

  "His uncle?" asked Granny.

  "Byron Edward. He said his uncle was Byron Edward and lives in the Founder's House."

  Granny's nose wrinkled like she had smelled something bad. "Oh. His uncle is Byron Edward."

  I was shocked that this particular bit of the gossip had not already gotten to her ears.

  Granny picked up one of the towels and flung it over her shoulder. "Maybe you shouldn't ask him to dinner. And maybe rethink that trip down to the beach."

  "What?" I asked, mystified by this sudden turn. "Why? You were just telling me to track him down tonight. He seemed very nice."

  "Well... let's just say that the Edward family is not the most... friendly... as it were."

  I crossed my arms. "He seemed plenty friendly to me. Besides, he says that he barely knows his uncle and hasn't been here for years. Said that there were some things he just needed to check in on, that his uncle was getting older and was having a hard time."

  Granny pointed her finger at me. "Age might excuse grumpiness in an old man, but it doesn't excuse a lifetime of being a jackass."

  "GRANNY!" I said, a little shocked.

  She shushed me. "You just watch yourself around the Edward family. There's a reason they live up on that hill and it doesn't have a thing to do with them being high and mighty. Although they sure do behave like that's what they consider themselves."

  "Granny, they're the founders of this town—-" I replied.

  She cut me off, waving my words away. "Let's just say if they didn't consider themselves royalty, we would have voted them off this island years ago." She sighed. "Now git. Don't worry your pretty little head about the politics of our little corner of heaven. A young girl like you shouldn’t be stuck indoors all day, keeping an old woman company. Get you out into that sunshine! Get some sun on your bones! You'll be having a vitamin D deficiency and then I'll have to send you home with rickets and I'll never hear the end of it from your mother!"

  Granny picked up the day's newspaper and came around the counter as I grabbed my beach bag and some leftovers we hadn't been able to sell yesterday. I gave Granny a kiss on the cheek. "You're the best. See you for dinner tonight."

  "If I don't have a hot date!" she replied, licking her index finger and flipping through the pages as I walked out the door.

  A gull cried as I stepped onto the Main Street. I lifted my face to the sun and filled my lungs lustily with the salty, ocean air. It carried with it the faintest hint of jasmine. I pulled the long strands of my chestnut hair back and redid my ponytail, fighting against the breeze that was insistently blowing it into my eyes. The street was pretty quiet. Just a few tourists popping in and out of the line of white, clapboard-sided shops. A calico cat sat in front of the antique shop next to our bookshop, watching the world with interest. I bent down and gave her a scratch behind the ears, which she tolerated for about five seconds before moving out of reach.

  For all my complaining that it wasn't Paris, I loved summer here. I loved how the blue sky contrasted with the white buildings, how the white light posts contrasted with the red geraniums hanging in the baskets. Main Street never heard the word "franchise." We had a locally owned general store, a bar, a café, and a yarn shop, which, I must say, did shockingly good business. I guess if you’re on vacation for too long, you need something to keep your mind off of the peace and serenity, and nothing like a little crafting to do that for a person. There was a souvenir shop with little shells written on with Sharpie marker, and terrible tourist shirts that read things like, “I saw Seaside by the seashore" and "My parents went to Seaside and they should have stayed."

  I walked behind our bookshop and pulled out my bike. It was a pretty, powder blue, beach cruiser that my granny lent me. It had a bell on the handlebars and a straw basket that her orange tabby, Captain, would sometimes hop into for a ride around town. Hence Captain's celebrity status.

  But Granny had loaned it to me for the summer since I didn't have a car and she lived over the shop. I put my lunch and beach bag in the basket, hopped on, and took off.

  A couple of fellow shopkeepers waved at me as I rode by and I gave them a little jingle of my bell in return. There were some tourists eating ice cream next to a little takeout window that opened to the boardwalk, and a couple more having a locally grown, farm-to-table experience at a restaurant. There isn’t much to do around here besides garden and farm, so it really wasn’t that big a deal. It kept you from going crazy and was actually less of a hassle than ordering food in from the mainland.

  I turned the corner and rode down toward the beach. The street ended in a parking lot. I leaned my bike against the white, slatted fence that flanked the dunes. It was a small enough town that no one would steal it. Eighty-percent of the population would witness your flight before you got home. And where would you take it anyway? The ferry only came twice a day.

  I grabbed my lunch, took off my flip-flops, and stepped into the warm sand. It was like powder and oozed between my toes with each step. The sound of the waves greeted me as I crested the hill. The salt water hit my nose like a drug. Immediately, all tension was gone, all worries of the world. I marched on down the beach, listening to the gulls cry, and plopped myself down near a grass-covered bluff, hoping I was far enough away that no one would bother
me. I opened up my bag and pulled out my France on a Shoestring book.

  I flipped it open as I took a bite of my sandwich. I traced the path from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower. Someday I would walk that path. I flipped to the restaurant guide and dog-eared the bakeries I was going to submit my resume to. You know. After I learned how to speak French, but I figured once I completed my training at the Cordon Bleu, I'd be in great shape.

  I sighed again, realizing how far away this dream was.

  There was no way to get any closer to it, though, if I didn't get started now. I pulled out my phone, plugged in my earphones, and started my French language tracks. I closed my eyes and lay back in the sand, repeating the words in between bites of sandwich.

  "Je voudrais une tasse de café, s'il vous plait," I murmured.

  A shadow fell across my face. "Voodoo rays something on a silver plate?"

  I opened my eyes, squinting up at the sky, and then smiled.

  My friend, Johnny, stood over me. His mop of curly, sandy-blond hair was backlit by the sun like a halo. He was dressed in a black and blue wetsuit and held his surfboard.

  "Hey Paige!" he said with a friendly wave, like he was just now realizing who I was.

  He'd gotten thrashed by the surf a time or two in his day.

  Johnny and I had known each other since we were kids. Every town has their dysfunctional family, and unfortunately, he drew the short straw. But he got away from it all by spending as much time as he could at the beach and eventually, it turned into a full-time gig. While I was finishing my fourth year of community college, he put together a dive shop. While technically his family owned it, his mom skipped town years ago and his dad was always passed out at home, so it was Johnny's place. In addition to air tanks and flippers, he rented paddle boards and wetsuits and took tourists on short trips around the island.

  Johnny flung himself beside me in the sand. I pulled out a sandwich from my bag and handed it to him. He took a great big bite and then handed it back to me.

  “Hard day?” I asked, taking a bite myself.

  “Totally killer,” he said. "Man. I’m like... swamped. I had... like... ten people come in.” He stared at the water thoughtfully, about to drop something profound on my head. “I’m glad people are, like, finding their way to my shop and through my shop, finding their way to their bliss. I was just thinking how lucky I am to be a part of that. It's like, all a person can ever hope for during their time on this planet.”

  "Sure is, Johnny,” I said, handing him the rest of the sandwich. With ten customers considered an overwhelming rush, sometimes eating was a luxury for him. Bliss doesn't help with the groceries as much as it should. He devoured the sandwich like it was the most incredible thing he’d ever tasted.

  In between bites, he noticed the book at my hand. "You booked your flight yet?” he asked, his mouth full.

  “Not yet," I replied, guiltily hiding it away. "But someday.”

  “Gotta lose sight of the shore if you ever want an adventure. Or need to get in a plane if you ever want to see Paris. Or something." He paused a moment as he tried to sort out his metaphors, and then gave me a nod that he had gotten out what he had been trying to say.

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  "Hey, did I see that new guy going into your shop?” he asked.

  I tried to be casual. "Yeah. Really nice guy. Named Nate. He'll be here for a couple weeks.”

  "Rocking," he said, taking another bite. "Bring him by the shop. I'll comp him a boogie board."

  I stared out into the water and noticed a shape caught in the surf. “Johnny?” I asked, "Do you see that?" I squinted. At first, it looked like a tree trunk, but then suddenly I realized it was not a tree trunk. Not at all. I rose to my feet. "Is that a man?”

  “Oh man,” Johnny said, leaping up. "I hope it's no one I rented to." He took off running down the beach.

  I yanked out my cell phone and dialed the police. I realized my hands were shaking as I gave them our location and a description of what was going on. As soon as I got off the line, I charged down the sand to see if I could give Johnny a hand.

  He was hauling the guy out by his armpits and dumped him on the beach above the water line. It looked like it had been an older person. He had white hair plastered to his head and he was wearing brown, striped pajamas. Johnny wiped his hands on his wetsuit and did a grossed-out, oogie dance. I stood ready to help, but he shook his head and motioned for me to stay away. It was pretty clear this guy wasn’t coming back.

  Sirens wailing, two police officers arrived just moments later. The police station is just up the block, and I stepped aside to let them take over. Officers Stan and Fred were older guys with not a lot to do. They were always looking for a problem, yet seemed like they rarely solved the issues already on their plate. They had been busting Johnny's chops for every petty offense since he was twelve years old and this time was no different.

  “Did you sell this guy faulty equipment, Johnny?” shouted Officer Stan as he marched down the beach, pointing an accusatory finger at my friend.

  A crowd had started to gather on the beach to see what all the sirens were about. Officer Fred took great pleasure shooing them back and saying, "Nothing to see here! This is a crime scene! Nothing to see! Just a suicide. Maybe a murder! We've got a man dead and I need everyone to respect our authority and stand back!"

  Meanwhile, Officer Stan was totally in Johnny's face, leaping to conclusions with no reason to go leaping to conclusions.

  “No man, no!” Johnny said, backing away. "I had ten whole customers and no one is dead!"

  "That seems a convenient number," Stan replied accusingly. "Are you sure it wasn't ELEVEN?" He poked Johnny in the shoulder.

  "That’s Old Man Byron," Johnny replied, holding up his hands. "He’d never get into the water on his own. I just hauled him out!” He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at the body. "Plus, he's in his pajamas. I don't rent to people in their pajamas!"

  Officer Stan looked closer at the body and squinted. "So, you’re right. Well. Someone told him to get into the water in his pajamas instead of coming to you for a wetsuit. Unless he knew you wouldn't rent to him in his pajamas." He growled at Johnny like a dog protecting his meal. "Stay close! Don’t go leaving town.”

  Johnny nodded in serious agreement and backed away as Stan and Fred started pounding stakes around the body and cordoning it off with yellow tape. I have no idea why they were preserving a crime scene that wasn't a crime scene. All there was to learn from this spot was that Johnny hauled the guy out of the ocean. I packed up my things and we drifted back toward my bike.

  “That is some seriously heavy stuff to lay on a guy right after he eats a sandwich," said Johnny.

  "I am so sorry—" I started.

  Johnny shook his head in horror. "You’re not supposed to swim at least a half an hour after eating and I was like... I just jumped right in there. I could have...” He grew silent.

  “You could have what, Johnny?”

  But he had already space cadetted and forgotten what he was in the middle of saying.

  "Did you say it was Old Man Byron?" I asked.

  Johnny came back to earth and nodded. "Yeah. Karma's a bitch."

  "Karma?"

  "Meanest old man in town. Leaves his light on Halloween just so he can shout at the trick-or-treaters for disturbing him."

  "I don't know if that's really a 'die in the water' offense... karmically speaking..." I pointed out.

  "You don't know, man," Johnny replied sagely. "You just don't know."

  I glanced back over my shoulder at the beach. “That guy who came into the shop today,” I said. "Nate? That's his nephew."

  “Oh, man. That sucks."

  “I know. To come to town and have your uncle die?”

  “I was thinking to have Old Man Byron be your uncle. That Nate guy has got to have some serious issues.”

  We arrived at my bike and I loaded my bag into the basket. “I should probab
ly go check on Nate."

  Johnny looked puzzled. “Who’s Nate?”

  “The nephew.”

  “Riiiiight. The nephew..." He looked at me a little puzzled. "Wait. How do you know him again?"

  “He's the guy who came into the shop,” I replied, brushing the sand off my pants and climbing onto the bicycle.

  “Riiiiight. He came into the shop." Johnny looked out on the horizon. "Think he might have killed the old man?"

  “Johnny?" I said. "You hit that head of yours one too many times.”

  Chapter Three

  I walked into Bitter Beans and the whole place was buzzing. Granny was leaning over the counter, chatting it up with several of the gals from the neighboring shops. I knew I was in for it. I liked to call them Granny's Posse. I braced myself to get grilled with questions.

  Granny looked up at me. "Well, there's my girl. I heard you were in the middle of this mess."

  It had barely been fifteen minutes. "News travels fast," I replied, looking at the three other women whose eyes were fixated on me, begging for the inside scoop.

  Marnie was one of Granny's closest friends. She was a plump, older woman who owned the yarn shop at the end of Main Street. She let her hair go grey and braided it like a skein of twisted wool that hung over her shoulder. She waved her iPhone at me. "We got some great video of Stan acting the idiot. And you can aaaalmost see the body if you zoom in on the picture..." She knocked her reading glasses off the top of her head onto her nose and squinted at the screen.

  Granny peered over her friend's shoulder as she popped her gum. "Is it true?" Granny asked me. "Old Man Byron drowned in the ocean?"

  I nodded. "Yeah... Johnny pulled him out of the surf."

  There was a sympathetic clucking from the group.

  "Poor thing," said the woman standing beside Marnie. For all of Marnie's naturalness, Wanda was the polar opposite. Her hair was cut short and spiky and dyed an electric shade of blue. She smoothed her tight fitting "If You're Going to Whine, There'd Better Be Wine" t-shirt over her hips. She owned the souvenir shop and believed in every single merry mantra she sold on each plastic knickknack. She made many of the seashell covered mermaid boxes herself. "As if that boy didn't have enough hard knocks in his life, to then have to pull a body out of the ocean."