Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  I shushed him, feeling so awful that he had been carrying around a sense of responsibility for my, frankly, idiotic actions. "I should have told you. I headed over right after I left you," I tried to reassure him. "I was out of range. You wouldn't have been able to reach me even if you tried. I was the jerk."

  I don't know if he accepted what I was saying. I think it was going to take him a little longer to come to peace with what happened and to understand he had nothing to feel guilty about. I decided I was going to have to heal up fast to prove to him it was going to be all right.

  He re-gathered his thoughts and continued his story. "The office was closed, but that's when I ran into Yvette in the parking lot. She was so upset. She said she went out hiking and she likes to park where the road is closed off by the old cannery and head out to the beach, but then she saw your bike. She said that she saw the door to the old cannery was open and wondered what was going on. She went inside and you were in there, but something really spooked you and you took off in the rain toward the shore. She went to see what it was and… well… she found what had frightened you."

  "Stan says it was a girl who had gone missing at least fifteen years ago," Granny explained gently.

  "We couldn't find Stan or Fred anywhere," Nate said. "That's why I didn't immediately drive out to the cannery. It was all happening so fast, and I couldn't abandon Yvette. I thought we'd find Stan or Fred quickly; by then, you'd be back, or they could show me how to get there."

  "Stan was with me in the dive shop," Johnny piped up. "I was supposed to be taking him out to the sailor's boat in the cove, but the rain nixed the cruise. Total bummer. But, that meant we were around and stuff. Isn't it crazy how everything is in divine order in the universe?" He fell into silence as he became completely mesmerized by the drip of my IV bag.

  "By the time we reached Stan," Nate continued, "you still hadn't shown up. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was really wrong. So, I went to your place. And that's when I found Jake trying to kill you."

  "Jake's in the prison now, but he's not talking. We know he's tied up to that girl somehow, but the murder site is so old, there's no proof," added Granny.

  At least I could help there. "He said that he hated killing her, just like hated that he was going to have to kill me," I replied.

  "Whelp, that seems like enough," Johnny logic-ed out.

  "Maybe I can help, too," said a voice.

  We all turned to look as a man pushed back the curtain separating my hospital bed from the rest of the room. It was the sailor who had come into the shop and threatened me. Only, now he was cleaned up and looking a million times less scary.

  "How are you feeling?" he asked.

  My brain was having a really tough time figuring out why he was here. I could tell everyone else felt the same way. "Better," I replied. "I'm feeling better... thanks for asking…" I looked at him in confusion. "Sorry to be rude, but exactly who are you and why are you here?"

  The sailor stuck his hands in his pockets and lowered his head to stare at the ground. "My name is Allen," he mumbled. "I'm a... friend... of Tim's."

  "Ah, well, now that we've got that cleared up," said Granny sarcastically, folding her arms across her chest and popping her gum. "It all makes sense now."

  Her challenge seemed to give him the nudge he needed, because he held out his hands in a sign for patience as he explained. "Ten years ago, I was on this island. I knew Jake from college. We were roommates. I sailed out one night and was at Jake's bar and there was this party girl… He seemed really into her. She played fast and loose, so I didn't think much when she went home with him. But… she went over to Jake's place and… I don't know exactly what happened, but I got a call that night that somehow he killed her. He swore it was an accident and talked me into helping him hide her body at the old cannery." He took a deep gulp of air and stared up at the ceiling tiles. "I know I should have called the police, but instead I got in my boat and left. I mean, it was Jake. He was my friend." He shook his head, as if the next statement was more towards the internal argument he had been having with himself over the years, rather than to us. "But it turns out you can't run from your troubles, no matter how far across the globe you sail. I joined the coast guard, thinking I might be able to do some good. That's how I got to know Tim, and we talked a lot about a lot of things. I've been doing a lot of rethinking of my life and came back to set things right. I almost ran out of courage. But Tim has been walking me through a lot of these changes. He told me that if I did it, I could hold my head high wherever I go. He said the only way to get through it is to face it." He turned to each of us earnestly, as if he really needed to understand his sincerity and intentions. "I was going to go to Stan and confess as soon as I got to town, I swear; but then he threw Tim into the slammer for killing that man, and I got scared." His eyes rested on me, and they were full of apology. "But I was even more scared when I found out Jake tried to kill you. I could have prevented all of this. That's a cold, hard truth I'll have to live with. So, I just wanted to stop by to say I'm sorry. And I am. I'm sorry."

  As soon as he finished, it was like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders. Granny looked from me to him, checking to see what I thought of his story. I gave her a little nod of acceptance.

  She reached out and patted his hand. "You done right."

  He let out a huge exhale. "I just came back from my meeting with Stan," he continued. "He let me come here and explain. Turns out that if you're willing to testify against a murderer, they sometimes go a little easier on you." He gave me a grim smile. He reached behind the curtain and brought out a silver, mylar balloon with a yellow smiley face on it and handed it to me. "I hope you get better soon."

  He turned to leave, but I called out. "Wait!" He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "Thanks," I said. "Thank you for setting the story right."

  He nodded. "It's my responsibility now." And then he walked out and pulled the curtain shut behind him.

  "Hey!" said Johnny, looking like he was noodling through a really big thought. "What if Jake killed Old Man Byron because Old Man Byron found the body of the dead girl when he went over to the cannery after he bought it. And then that other guy who was killed must've been a surveyor or something and must have stumbled across the same thing. So, Jake killed him, too. Yeah. I bet that's it."

  I rested my head against the pillow. Johnny always got the right end of things. "I think you are an absolute genius, Johnny."

  Chapter 21

  "Are you ready for this?" Nate asked, gazing into my eyes.

  I wet my lips. "Yes. Yes, I am."

  Yvette put the double scoop hot fudge sundae in front of us and presented us with two long spoons. We dipped into ooey-gooey goodness and I couldn't help the moan of pleasure that came out of my mouth. I had been released from the hospital yesterday and this was the first non-broth, non-bland food to hit my tongue in far too many days.

  "This is SO GOOD," I said to Yvette.

  She smiled. "I made it special just for the two of you. I'm going to call it the Superhero Sundae." She rested her coffee carafe on the table and gazed out of the window. Finally, she shared her thoughts with us. "I’m grateful you uncovered the truth. I never would have guessed about Jake. Just doesn't even seem real, that the man I was dating could be capable of such a thing." She paused and then gave a little laugh. "Guess my picker is still broken."

  "Did you ever find out what your ex did that made Byron so mad?" I asked.

  "He was stealing from both of us. He took Byron's money for the resort and my money. He was supposed to use it all to buy up the land on Main Street, but it turns out that uncle of yours, Nate, did something to piss off my ex. When my ex bought up all the land under all the shops here on Main Street, under my café? He didn't put the title under Byron's name. He put it under mine. And that's why your uncle didn't own it, Nate, and why he came after me."

  "That's amazing!" I said, in shock.

  "Seems Byron had a bad p
icker, too," she said apologetically to Nate. "But it turns out mine isn't as bad as I thought." She smiled. "My ex was a sleazy, slimy, no-good idiot, but he was my idiot." She poured some coffee in our cups. "I sure do appreciate you letting the rest of the people in the town buy back their land at cost from you, Nate."

  Nate looked at me with a strange smile. "I was reminded that the legacy of what my family created lives in the people of this town. It belongs to you all. And that's worth fighting for."

  She rubbed his shoulder and looked like she might have been a little teary. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, "I should see to my other customers. Gotta make sure I stay in business long enough to make this investment worthwhile."

  She wandered over to the counter. Nate dipped his spoon into the ice cream, his eyes never leaving me.

  "What?" I asked, fighting him for a glob of the warm chocolaty sauce.

  "Just thinking how different my life would be without you."

  "Besides rotting in jail?" I joked.

  "I'd be trying to dig my way out of Stan's correctional facility with a spoon," he laughed. He then got serious and reached across the table to grip my hand. "You scared the heck out of me, Paige. I don't like that feeling… that feeling that maybe you weren't going to be there tomorrow or the next day. I don't ever want to feel that way again."

  "Well," I said. "Maybe you should do something about that."

  "I was thinking…" he started and then stopped himself, as if he was wrestling with deciding how to string together the words. "I was thinking maybe I would stay."

  "What?" I asked.

  "Uncle Byron's house needs a lot of work. And his land needs to be managed. And… I was just thinking… maybe I would stay. You know. At least for the rest of the summer. And… for however long you might be around." He glanced up at me, checking in to see what my reaction would be.

  "Oh," I said, putting my spoon down. I thought about how just a few weeks ago, it seemed like coming to work in my granny's shop was the worst summer I could ever have. I had these dreams of the excitement and romance of Paris. But sitting across from me was a guy who made me feel all the things I thought I would have to travel halfway across the globe to feel. And all I had to do was to travel across the distance of the table.

  So that's what I did.

  I got up and sat next to him on the red Naugahyde bench seat. I leaned my head against his shoulder. He was warm and comforting and solid and real. "I would like that. Very much."

  "You would?" he asked.

  I lifted up my head to gaze into his deep brown eyes. They twinkled at me, so gentle and tender.

  "Very much," I said again.

  He smiled and leaned down, giving me a soft kiss that held promises of the days to come.

  It was going to be a great summer.

  Find out what happens next in Murder's a Beach!

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  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Kay Bratt and Karen McQuestion who read this manuscript before it was fit for human consumption and provided the guidance and feedback that helped it grow in wonderful ways. They are both stellar authors and you should buy their books until you bookshelf breaks. Special thanks, too, to Beth Davis-Rheinhold and her keen editing eye for helping to get this mess to the "human consumption" phase. (She didn't proofread this part. All mistakes in this section are all my own, thank you very much.) Thanks to my family and our cozy nights together watching British (and Irish and Australian and Spanish) mysteries.

  But most of all, thank you to YOU! Yes, YOU! Thank you for taking a chance on a new author. Your support allows me to keep writing, so if you like this book, please recommend it to your friends! Leave a review on your favorite online bookstore!

  About the Author

  Agatha Ball's mother used to have to bribe her to study with the promise of a new copy of Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon, or Linda Craig mystery. Now grown, there is nothing Agatha enjoys as much as a quiet evening in, curled up on the couch with a hot cup of coffee, watching a British mystery on the telly.

  Find out more on her website www.agathaball.com and while you're there, join the Agatha Ball newsletter to not only hear about upcoming books and sales, but to also receive a FREE exclusive short story.

  Vangie Vale and the Murdered Macaron - R.L. Syme

  The Matchbaker Mysteries, Book One

  Copyright © 2020 by R.L. Syme

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Dedication

  For my mom.

  You are my superpower.

  “She was snatched back from a dream of far countries,

  and found herself on Main Street.”

  - Sinclair Lewis

  Chapter 1

  Saint Agnes, Montana

  Someone had painted a mural on the big front window of my bakery, blocking my view of the parking lot. Flaking red hearts cascaded all the way down one side and circled up around the other, with Happy Valentine’s Day painted in frilly white script in the center. It looked like a bad homecoming float. In order to even see my car, I had to get close enough to look between the letters, where the glass was still clear.

  That was saying a lot, considering my car was a monstrosity of green paint with a wheelbase so wide, it took up a space-plus. The Humvee had been a parting gift from my dad when I’d left North Carolina. Moving to the mountains apparently required a quote-big-rig-unquote.

  The Tank was overkill, but that was my dad for you. Overkill was his first, last, and middle name. His thirty-three year-old daughter had moved across the country, and he paved the whole way with Duke flags and Humvees.

  He has no idea what happened. He still thinks I chose this.

  Before I could give much more thought to the mural that had sprung up overnight, the bell above my door gave a sad little jingle. My shop neighbor, Emma Brent, let the screen door slam shut and squealed. “Oh, Vangie! Your hair…”

  I glanced at my reflection in the streaky window, focusing on the unpainted parts between the hearts. Dark pins held down tufts of short, brown hair, making my pixie cut go flat across the front. “I have to wear a cap when I’m baking. I forgot to fix it.”

  “I’m gonna get you a mirror for back there.” Emma came up behind me, pulling out bobby pins and running her fingers through the spikes. “You have customers.”

  “Not today, I don’t.” I angled my head toward the empty dining area.

  My trendy blonde friend fussed with my hair until it resembled something human-ish. While I’d rather be in the kitchen, lost in French pastries, Emma lived for fads and fashion, and was a perfect gift shop owner, with her eye for decoration and detail.

  I probably had her to thank for that mural, come to think of it.

  “Vangie, you have to care more about how you look.” She clucked at my apron, which was still covered in the crime scene spatter of morning baking. Emma tugged it off me and held it out in front of her, like it was made of nuclear material.

  “Do you like the mural?” she asked once she’d finally disposed of the apron. “It matches the one I did on my window, since they’re side-by-side. Subconsciously, it will make people want to shop in both stores.”

  I looped my arms over my chest, eyeing the paint job, not sold on the marketing. I didn’t want to say no—she was a good friend—but I couldn’t say yes. Given that it obscured my view of the Tank, it would keep me from seeing customers as they entered my oddly-shaped store with the opaque front door I was dying to replace.

  “You mind?” Emma lifted the glass coffee carafe and the end of her sentence. “You’ll have to make a new pot for the lunch rush anyway.”

  “
Aww. It’s so cute that you think there’ll be a lunch rush.” I was about to join her at the coffee pot when a ding sounded off to my left.

  “I told you we missed a turn, Henry.” The speaker, a sharp-featured woman, drawled out Southern-tipped words and turned up her pointy nose at whoever lingered outside the door. “Honestly. I wish you’d stopped and asked for directions.”

  Miss Georgia offered me a cramped little smile and kept walking around my tables. A slim, sandy-haired man breezed in behind her, dressed in the most spectacularly cut charcoal pinstripe suit.

  His gaze flitted around, like he couldn’t really focus, and he followed the woman who was likely his wife. This must be Henry. He could have passed for a supermodel with those cheekbones.

  “I’m so sorry, darling. I appear to’ve forgotten more than I thought,” he said in a breezy James-Bond accent. His vowels were elongated and refined, and he smelled like freedom. Like the beach.

  Like home.

  “Some days, I could just throttle you. We’re gonna be late.” Miss Georgia pouted at the counter with a black-gloved hand on one hip.

  Emma cleared her throat from the corner of the room, reminding me of the previous no-customer complaining. Come on, now.

  I crossed between the feuding couple, slid behind the white-wood-framed bake case, and lit up the fakest of fake smiles.