Off the Books

by Lucy Arlington

  There it was. A simple but heartfelt reason why my son had left school, even though he knew I’d be upset. He’d found his calling. Not one I’d have chosen for him. Not one that was safe or secure or prestigious. But it was his choice, what he loved. I’d often regretted that it took me until I was forty-five to stumble into my dream job, and here he was, so fortunate to have found his at a young age. And here I was, trying to keep him from pursuing this dream of his. What was wrong with me? I crossed the room and engulfed him in a giant hug. “It doesn’t seem weird to me, Trey. It just sounds like you’ve found your passion.” Then I pulled away, holding him at arm’s length, smiling through tears of happiness. “I’m glad you’re home, son.”

  “So am I, Mom. So am I.”

  “But I’m angry that you didn’t tell me yourself, Trey. You lied to me! I thought you were still at school all this time. And what about your tuition? Can we get it back?”

  Mama came over to us and put her hands on our shoulders. “All good questions, sugar. Why don’t we tackle ’em over dinner? I’ve really worked up an appetite today. I’m feelin’ ’bout half starved.” She gave me a little push toward the chair. “Go on, now. Sit down.”

  I did as she said, sinking into the chair as if it were a hammock. I remembered what Mama had said earlier: bone tired. That was exactly how I felt. I’d been trying to push this stuff with Trey to the back of my mind, but it seemed to have caught up with me all at once. I looked over and saw Mama pouring herself a glass of whiskey. “Would you mind pouring me one of those, Mama?”

  “You must be thinkin’ the same thing I am, hon?”

  “What’s that?”

  She passed a glass of amber liquid my way. “That Mr. Beam would be a welcome dinner guest tonight.”

  Chapter 10

  Later that night, I lay in bed cursing myself for eating pasta so late in the evening. Not to mention that the warm glow of Mr. Beam’s libation was likely part of the roiling effects I was now suffering. A bit of delicate chardonnay with dinner or a sip of a sweet after-dinner cognac was more my style, but oh, no, I’d joined in with Mama’s dear friend tonight. Now my stomach lurched like a ship caught on stormy ocean waves as my brain tried—and failed—to keep an even keel. Of course, no meal could possibly pair well with the discussion at our table tonight. After a lot of back-and-forth, Trey and I had finally come to an agreement. If cooking was really what he thought he wanted to do, then so be it. I supported his decision and would help him in any way I could. But he was going to give me a portion of his paycheck until he’d fully paid for the tuition I’d lost. I could tell he wasn’t thrilled with that, but, really, how could he expect otherwise? That was only reasonable, after all.

  Sighing, I rolled over, slapped my pillow a few times, and plopped my head back down. Not only was my stomach rolling, but my thoughts were reeling. Or maybe it wasn’t the pasta and dinner conversation upsetting my stomach, but the awful thought that’d been niggling at my mind all day: Lynn might really be guilty.

  After all, someone had to have planted those nails in Jodi’s room. Because what motive did Jodi possibly have for wanting Chuck dead? As far as I or anyone knew, she and Chuck had never met before this weekend. Even if what Cora thought was true, that Jodi and Chuck had a fling, so what? Although I didn’t quite take Jodi for the “fling” type. But even if she had, why kill him? And those nails so conveniently found in her room? It just seemed too easy. Too coincidental, especially when combined with the very same murder method she’d used in her own book. Of course, maybe Chuck was in her room for some reason related to the remodel and simply dropped the nails. But wouldn’t he have noticed? Heard them drop to the floor? No, more than likely the real murderer planted the nails in Jodi’s room to cinch the deal. Knowing that if they were discovered, Jodi would be arrested and all the focus would be put on her. The question was, who had that type of access to her room? The rooms had locks, so surely Jodi would have locked her room when she left the house. But while she was there? She might have left it unlocked, so anyone also in the house at that time could get in. There were only three people that I knew of: Lynn, Pam, and Cora. And here’s the part that really bugged me: Out of those three, Lynn was the only one who had any sort of reason to want Chuck dead.

  Letting out another sigh, I squinted at my nightstand clock. After midnight. Giving up on sleep, I turned on my lamp and slipped out of the covers. Then I quickly traversed the cold pine-planked floor to retrieve some papers from my purse before diving back under covers. Earlier that day, I’d snatched a pile of queries from my desk, hoping I’d find some free time to read over a few. Now seemed as good a time as any. Maybe they’d take my mind off the case and my queasy stomach.

  Surprisingly enough, the first one I read appealed to me. Even from just a one-page query, I could tell the author had a remarkable knack for character development. Her protagonist’s personality shone through from the first line and carried through the entire query. Best of all, the author had taken a risk when developing her main character. She’d painted a picture of an older female protagonist, rough around the edges, street-wise and prone to bad habits like heavy drinking and swearing. Interesting. I marked it and set it aside. I’d be asking to see more of the author’s work.

  I kept working my way through the pile but didn’t really find anything else of interest. Eventually, I must have drifted off because sometime in the early morning I was jostled from sleep by the ringing of my cell phone.

  Had I overslept? Was something wrong? Trey? Then I remembered he was here, sleeping in his room just down the hall. Mama? Was something wrong with … ? “Hello,” I said, trying to shake my brain fog.

  “Lila. It’s me, Makayla. I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “Makayla?” Her voice sounded strange. I sat up straight, on full alert now. “No, it’s okay. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just that … Can you come over to the café? Someone’s broken in and they’ve torn up the place. Jay’s here, but we need help.”

  “You were robbed? Have you called the police?” I was already heading for the bathroom, phone in hand.

  “Yes, they’ve been here and gone. They asked some questions and made out a report. That’s about it. I can’t tell for sure, but I don’t think anything was stolen.”

  I used my free hand to load my toothbrush with toothpaste as I spoke. “Okay. I’m on my way. I’ll bring Trey with me.” Hanging up, I did a quick brush and turned the shower on full force. As the water heated, I headed down the hall to rouse Trey. I stopped just inside his door. It did my heart good to see him back in his own bed. His breathing was deep and punctuated with little snores. “Trey,” I said, rubbing the tuft of brown hair peeking out from the covers. He was wrapped up in his blankets like a mummy. He always was a hard sleeper. “Trey?”

  For a brief second, his eyelids parted, but then his eyes rolled back and closed again. I shook him and patted his face. “Trey! Get up. Makayla needs our help.”

  *

  I HAD NO idea just how much she needed our help until about a half hour later, when Trey and I walked through the bashed-in back door of Espresso Yourself. Tables were overturned, chairs broken, artwork torn off the walls. But behind the counter was the real mess. Containers of coffee and loose tea overturned and spilled on the floor and counter, packages of napkins ripped open and coffee mugs broken. Next to me, Trey shook his head and asked, “Who would do this?”

  Good question. The whole thing seemed so senseless. And undoubtedly costly. Sure, insurance would most likely cover the cost of missing or destroyed items, but there was no accounting for the time and emotional costs of such a malicious act.

  I heard some noise coming from the kitchen and hurried back to find Makayla and Jay sweeping up shards of glass and piles of dumped flour and spices. I crossed the room and pulled Makayla into an embrace. “I’m so sorry. Any idea who would have done something like this?”

  “No idea,” she responded
, fiddling nervously with her apron strings. “I’d just got here and noticed the back door was ajar. I could tell it’d been forced open, so I called the police.”

  “Then she called me,” Jay added. He must have come over as soon as Makayla called. He wore a hooded sweatshirt over plaid pajama bottoms and loafer-style slippers.

  “What time was that?” I asked.

  “Must have been a little before five,” Makayla answered. “I usually come in around then to start my baking.”

  “Nothing’s missing?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I can tell. Thankfully, there wasn’t much money here. I took in a deposit after closing yesterday. All I had on hand was enough change to open up this morning.”

  Jay tenderly placed his arm around her shoulders. “I’m just glad you didn’t run into these lunatics. I couldn’t bear it if anything ever happened to you.” He swallowed hard, obviously shook up. “I’m getting a security system installed today.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” Makayla protested. “It’s too expensive. And I can’t afford one right now.” She looked around, her features falling as she seemed to shrink into herself. “Especially after all this,” she whispered.

  Trey took a deep breath and stepped up. “How about Mom and I start out front? I remember how everything goes from when I used to work here. We’ll get it whipped back into shape, I promise.”

  Makayla started nodding, pressing her trembling lips tightly together. After taking a quick swipe at her cheek, she looked up with bright eyes. “Just don’t know what I’d do without y’all.” We hugged again, and this time when we pulled apart, she took a ragged breath and straightened her shoulders. “But first things first. I’m going to put some coffee on, ’cuz if y’all are going to help me tackle this mess, you’ll need to fuel up.”

  The air instantly seemed lighter. Jay smiled and clapped his hands together. “Now, that’s a good idea.”

  We all kicked it into gear: Makayla brewing up some motivation, Jay going back to sweeping up flour, and Trey and I sweeping clean enough floor space out front to start flipping tables and chairs back into position. In short order we all had steaming mugs of bold breakfast-brew coffee close at hand while we dug into the mess. Soon, the aftereffects of last night’s whiskey and words were dissipated with the generous jolts of caffeine and my desire to help my dearest friend.

  “Do you think we can save some of the photographs?” Trey asked a little while later. We were still working in the front of the café, sweeping up the final pile of mangled frames and broken glass. We’d already removed the prints from their broken frames and laid them out on the tables. Most were so crumpled and torn that they were unsalvageable.

  “At least they’re only photographs,” I commented, and then shook my head. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that the only things really lost are the mats and frames. The photos can be reprinted.” I shuddered to think if this had been an exhibition of original watercolors or sketches—the artist’s vision and talent lost forever.

  I stacked the prints and stashed them under the counter so Makayla could contact the artists later, then joined Trey in cleaning up the piles of overturned coffee beans. Before long, we had everything nearly back in order. We were sweeping away the last bit of coffee grounds when a knock on the front door interrupted us.

  “Customers are already here,” Trey said, a note of panic in his tone. I ducked into the kitchen to let Makayla know.

  She came right out and opened the door, with her usual cheerful smile. “Good morning. Sorry about that. Come on in. I’m just a little slow opening up this morning.”

  Another customer, then another, shuffled in, leaving little puddles of melted snow on a path to the counter. Soon the whole place was crawling with people ordering their morning caffeine fix. A few people commented about the missing artwork, but other than that, nobody seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary in the shop.

  Trey stayed behind the counter, and he and Makayla worked in tandem to take care of customers. Since they had lost so many supplies, they had to make a few order adjustments here and there, but overall things were going smoothly. So, after double-checking to make sure Jay had things under control in the kitchen, I put on my coat and left quietly to head up to work.

  But once outside, I hesitated. It was only a little after eight o’clock. I usually didn’t show up at the office until nine, so there was a little over forty-five minutes to spare. Just enough time to head over to the pet shop and pay Matt Reynolds a visit.

  *

  MATT LOOKED UP from stocking his lower shelves with bulk-sized bags of various shapes of kibble. “Good morning, Lila. You’re here early.” As soon as I told him about Makayla’s shop being vandalized, he stopped working and stood up, peering toward the window. “That’s terrible. Who would do something like that?”

  “The cops seemed to think it was kids. Guess there’s been quite a few incidents like this in Dunston lately. They think it’s moving to our area.”

  Matt scratched his early-morning stubble of a beard. “That’s all we need. We moved to this area because we thought it was a quiet community. Seems there’s been a lot of crime lately.”

  “You mean Chuck Richards’s murder?”

  He shook his head and squatted down to finish unpacking the box. “Yeah, I read about that in the paper. Can’t say I’m surprised.” I must have had a shocked look on my face, because he immediately started backtracking. “Oh, heck. I didn’t mean that to come out the way it sounded. No one deserves something like that. Forget I said anything, okay? It’s just that I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

  “You mean with losing the aquarium and everything?”

  “Yeah, that was a huge hit. The tank and the equipment were covered on my insurance plan, but not the fish. Or the damage caused by the water.” He sighed and shook his head. “Running a small business is difficult these days. There’s not a lot of margin for error. And that Richards guy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I hired him to do a few things around here. He came cheap. Now I know why.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Follow me.” We were working our way through the aisle toward the back of the store when he said, “By the way, how’s Olive doing? Giving Bentley fits?”

  I chuckled. “Well, you were right. She’s a handful. Seems to have a calming effect on Bentley, though. You know how high-strung she can be.”

  “Dogs do that for people, you know? That’s why they’re used so much in hospital therapy.”

  “I believe it. I’ve never seen my boss this content before.” Of course, I couldn’t say the same for Vicky and Eliot.

  We’d reached the puppy area, where a couple of yellow Lab pups were frolicking in the pen, rolling around together in a cartwheel of paws and ears. Unable to resist, I paused to watch their play.

  “Aren’t they cute?” Matt asked. He reached in and picked one up. “This little girl is Ethel. The other’s Lucille. They’re sisters.”

  “Lucy and Ethel? I love their names.” I bent down and ran my fingers along a tuft of downy-soft fur under Ethel’s ears. “They’re so sweet.”

  “Aren’t they? Seeing them now, it’s hard to believe all they’ve been through.”

  “Been through? What do you mean?”

  “They’re rescue pups. Just came in yesterday. A couple of months ago, they were removed from a breeder who’d been neglecting them. Poor things were starving to death.” Ethel started squirming in his arms, bending her nose toward the floor. He gently put her back to play with her sister. “Ethel was really underweight and had infected sores on two of her paws.”

  “That’s horrible. Who would do such a thing?”

  Matt shoved his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath. “There’s a lot of bad people out there, Lila. That’s just a fact.”

  There were. I also knew there were a lot of people working every day to right the wrongs in the world.
Matt was one of those people, caring for these animals the way he did. It was hard to believe that anyone so nice could be a murderer. Again, Sean’s words came back to mind: Nice people do bad things.

  “Anyway,” Matt was saying. “I hope things work out between Bentley and Olive. It hasn’t been easy finding a good match for that dog.” He turned to head for the back room, so I gave Lucy and Ethel each a parting belly rub and followed. “Watch your step,” he called back to me. “Things are kinda messy back here.”

  He wasn’t kidding. The whole room was torn apart, including the floor and even part of the drywall. “I had no idea you’d had this type of damage,” I said, stepping over a long roll of carpet.

  “Yeah, well, a couple hundred gallons of salt water can do that.” His eyes flashed with anger. “Richards assured me the stand was going to be strong enough to support that type of weight, but …” Matt shook his head and muttered something unrepeatable under his breath. “Then, after I took up the carpet, I found that parts of the subflooring hadn’t been nailed to the floor joists. What a mess.” He pointed down at the plywood covering the floor. I could see a few nail heads here and there, most of them driven into the wood at a crooked angle. Some even bent and sticking out of the wood. Whoever did the floor wasn’t too handy with a hammer.

  “Let me guess. Chuck did your floor, too.” I was reminded of Belmonte’s tile job. Matt nodded. Chuck had definitely left a trail of destruction behind. “So how long will this take you to repair?”

  He glanced around the room, hands on his hips. “Well, the carpet’s in bad shape. The salt water from the tank caused a lot of damage. I’ll have to have someone come in and install another rug. But the subfloors are no problem. I can nail that back down myself.” He pointed to the corner of the room where he’d already started working. My eyes were instantly drawn to one of the tools—a nail gun. I searched my brain trying to remember if the article in the paper had mentioned the way Chuck was killed, but I couldn’t recall. Seeing one now, though, made my blood run cold. I’d have to add nail guns to my running list of tools I could no longer tolerate, like garden spades.