by V. M. Burns
I glanced at the tag and nearly choked. “Are you joking? That sweater costs more than my house payment.”
“You really should put more effort into your appearance. You’ve really let yourself go since Leon died. I think you’re hiding behind your mourning and it’s time you started living again, and maybe dating.”
I stared openmouthed. “Not all of us can live the life of a princess. I don’t have the time or money to waste getting my nails and hair done and buying overpriced sweaters. I have a business to run.”
The salesclerk, who had walked up with a bright smile on her face, turned and walked away.
My mom sighed and replaced the sweater. She walked to the back of the store. That sigh spoke louder than any words could have. Obviously I had disappointed her again. I stood there for a moment and then sorted through the rack of sweaters, looking for one that would fit over my head without making me look like an overstuffed sausage. I could afford the sweater. That wasn’t the problem. Finances had always been tight when Leon and I were working. A cook and an English teacher didn’t buy cashmere sweaters. But I’d sold the house and used the insurance money to buy the building. The bookstore was doing well, not Fortune magazine worthy, but thanks to low overhead, frugal spending, and hard work, it was making a profit. One cashmere sweater wouldn’t break me, and it would make my mom happy. But, as a grown woman in her mid-thirties, I shouldn’t have to buy a sweater I didn’t want to make my mom happy. I wished Nana Jo had come with us today. She would have understood and helped intercede between me and my mom.
My mom was so very different from Nana Jo; it was hard for me to imagine my grandmother gave birth to her. They were polar opposites. Josephine Thomas was tall and hardy. My mom, Grace Hamilton, was five feet, less than one hundred pounds dripping wet, and delicate. My mom was like a dainty porcelain figurine you keep on the tallest shelf behind a glass door, locked away from harm for fear of breaking it. Nana Jo blamed my grandpa, who always called my mom his little princess, for planting the “princess seed” in her head. In her mid-sixties, my mother had never had a job outside of the home. She’d never paid a bill until after my dad died. She was the princess.
I dropped my mom off at her South Harbor condo and headed back over the bridge to North Harbor, where I belonged. I glanced at the pink shopping bag on the seat that contained a white cashmere sweater I would be too afraid of spilling anything on to ever wear and swung my car into the parking lot of a nearby liquor store. I glanced at my watch. Thankfully, it was after twelve, when alcohol could be purchased. I looked at the license plates of the cars parked in the lot, noting the majority were Indiana residents who had escaped across the state line into Michigan, where they could buy alcohol on Sunday. We were all escaping from something, but I didn’t have the time or energy to figure out what at the moment. A bottle of wine would have to substitute for therapy for now.
* * *
During the summer, I saw quite a lot of Dawson. When the fall semester started, we barely saw each other, despite the fact he lived in the apartment over my garage. Twice daily football practices, weight training, and classes took up a lot of his time. But Dawson loved baking and he was really good at it. His apartment was a tiny studio with only a one-burner stove, which made it challenging to bake on a large scale. Dawson had gotten into the routine of using my kitchen to bake enough goodies to get us through the week at the bookstore. So, when I entered through the back door, I smelled a sweet, delicious aroma wafting down the stairs to greet me.
I climbed the stairs without my normal escorts. Snickers and Oreo usually heard the garage door and bounded to the bottom of the stairs to greet me. However, the possibility of a cookie or treat dropping to the floor was a greater enticement than seeing me.
I placed my pink bag on the counter with less care than I used for the bottle of wine. Dawson had his back to me as he lifted a tray of cookies out of the oven and placed them on a rack on the counter.
“What an amazing smell.” I breathed deeply and allowed the smell of vanilla, almonds, and sugar to fill my senses.
“Thanks. You’re just in time to try one.” Dawson turned to face me.
“Oh my God! What happened to your face?”
He didn’t say anything, merely hung his head. I hurried around the counter and turned his face toward the light to get a closer look. Three red scratches trailed across both cheeks. There was a gash under his left eye and a bruise on his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot and dark circles underneath indicated he hadn’t slept.
He tried to turn away, but I held his chin and forced him to look at me.
“What happened to you?”
We stood like that so long I didn’t think he would answer.
Eventually, the silence grew too much for him. “I’m fine.”
I snorted. “Well, you sure don’t look fine.”
Dawson shrugged. “It’s nothing.” He forcefully, but gently, pulled my hands away and walked to the back of the kitchen. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms, providing a barrier.
I took a deep breath and tried to steady my breathing. “Was it your father? Is he out of jail?”
He shook his head.
“Then who?”
He hung his head. “Let’s just say Melody didn’t take our breakup well.”
“You should go to the doctor. Those scratches look deep, you—”
He was shaking his head before the words were out of my mouth. “If I go to the doctor, the newspaper might find out.”
Sad that at nineteen you had to be concerned about the newspapers running a story about a girl who lashed out when her boyfriend broke up with her. But this season the MISU Tigers were getting a lot of publicity, Dawson in particular.
I went to the bathroom and got a cold compress and mercuric acid. He didn’t balk when I made him sit at the dining room table and didn’t say one word when I started to treat the cuts. “Newspapers are the least of your worries. Wait until Nana Jo finds out!”
He winced, but I wasn’t sure if it was the mercuric acid or the thought of what Nana Jo would say.
“What an unusual request. James didn’t have any other information?” Lord William asked as he absent mindedly broke off a piece of his scone and fed it to Cuddles, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel positioned at his feet.
“Not that he told me. Although, I’m sure he’ll fill us in when he gets here.” Lady Elizabeth picked up the knitting she kept nearby, which she said helped her think clearly.
“Is Lord Browning coming too?” Lady Daphne Marsh picked at an imaginary string on her skirt and avoided making eye contact with her aunt.
“Well, I suppose so, although I didn’t ask him. I just assumed he would.” Elizabeth looked at her hus band. “You don’t mind do you, dear?”
“No. No. Of course not.” Lord William tossed the remains of the scone down to the dog and pulled out his pipe. “I’m sure James wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Lady Elizabeth resumed her knitting.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about this?” Lord William asked his niece.
Lady Elizabeth Marsh sighed. Sometimes her hus band could be rather slow to read the signs or he would have noticed his niece, Daphne, had said very little since Lord James Browning’s name was men tioned. The two met six months ago when he came to help out his friend and old classmate Victor Carlston, Earl of Lochloren, who was accused of murdering one of Daphne’s beaux. At the time, Victor believed he was in love with Daphne and chivalrously stepped in to protect her by allowing the police to believe him guilty of murder. Lord James helped to reveal the true killer and ensured his friend’s freedom. Victor was now living in wedded bliss with Daphne’s sister, Penelope, down the road at his family estate, Bidwell Cottage. The Marshes hoped another announcement of marriage would be forthcoming as Lord James and Lady Daphne seemed destined for the altar. However, the duke’s visits of late had been fewer and far between.
“No. I haven’t spoken to James . . . ah, the duke in nearly two weeks,” Daphne said almost in a whisper.
“I suppose you better tell Thompkins and the rest of the staff to prepare for guests,” Lord William said.
“I would, but I think I want to wait until we’re sure,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Technically, she hasn’t asked yet. I don’t even know how many people to expect.”
“Do you suppose David will come too?” Lord William asked.
Lady Elizabeth knitted. “I have no idea. The last I heard, he was in France.”
“I don’t suppose there will be a problem with the Queen Mother and the rest of the family?” Daphne asked.
“Well, I guess that depends on what type of problem you mean.” Lady Elizabeth knitted silently for a few moments. “Bertie and Elizabeth are still very angry and the Queen Mother is disappointed in David. I still feel rather badly that none of the family attended the wedding.”
Lord William sputtered. “But really, how could we attend? It would have been a sign the family agreed with his abdication to marry a divorced woman—an American.” Lord William waved his pipe while he spoke, flinging ashes across the sofa.
Lady Elizabeth looked up and shook her head. The sofa was starting to show bare patches from the maids brushing off tobacco. It would have to be re covered soon. “Well, I don’t know if the fact she was twice divorced or an American was the objectionable part. I might have considered attending if the wed ding were one day earlier or one day later.”
“I agree. It was as though they were thumbing their noses at the family by getting married on King George’s birthday,” Daphne said. “Really, his own fa ther’s birthday.”
“Bad form.” Lord William refilled his pipe.
“Regardless of the circumstances, David and Bertie are brothers, and I believe they’ll work things out in the end,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Besides, James said it was vital to the Crown that she hosts her hunt ing party here. So, that must mean the king is at least aware of the event.”
Lord William nodded and puffed on his pipe.
“At any rate, it doesn’t appear we’ll find out how the Crown feels about things. The duchess hasn’t called. What if she’s found another place to hunt?” Daphne asked.
Thompkins entered the room silently and coughed. “Her Grace, Wallis Duchess of Windsor is on the tele phone for your ladyship.”
Chapter 3
Nana Jo’s response when she saw Dawson’s face was loud and littered with old-fashioned words like “floozy,” “harpy,” “tart,” and “shrew.” When she calmed down, she mixed up a concoction with aloe vera gel, honey, vitamin E oil, and baking soda. Dawson looked like he had leprosy most of the day Sunday, and he had to fight off Snickers, who kept trying to lick off his mask, but Monday his face looked so much better, it was like night and day. The scars were still there. Only time would truly heal them, but the improvement was amazing.
“Mrs. Thomas, you’re a miracle worker.” Dawson kissed Nana Jo on the cheek.
“Well, you need about two more days before the scars will disappear completely.” Nana Jo stared at her handiwork. “But at least you don’t look as though you’ve been in a catfight.”
“You never cease to amaze me,” I said after Dawson hurried off to campus.
Nana Jo and I sat at the breakfast bar and drank coffee.
“Where on earth did you learn to mix up your healing paste?”
Nana Jo smiled as she sipped her coffee. “I grew up on a farm. There was always some kind of accident that happened on a farm and most people were too poor to go riding off miles to a doctor. My grandmother used to be the local midwife and, well . . . medicine woman. She mixed all kinds of things up in her kitchen and grew herbs for healing everything from the croup to rheumatic fever.”
“I never knew that.” I stared at my grandmother. I’d known this woman all my life and she was still able to surprise me.
Nana Jo shrugged. “I never thought it worth talking about. Most of those old remedies would be considered nothing more than old wives’ tales nowadays.”
“Scientists are discovering that a lot of those old remedies actually worked. I read an article recently that chicken soup really does help with a cold. Although scientists aren’t sure if there is some ingredient in the chicken soup itself or if it’s in the person’s mind. Whatever the reason, it works.”
We sat for a few moments and talked about poultices, plasters, and herbal teas. Then we went downstairs to the bookstore.
I had a lot of fears when I quit my job as an English teacher and opened the bookstore. Would I be able to handle things alone? Would I be able to make enough to support myself? Did people still read books? The answer to all of those questions was yes. Recently, an old friend I hadn’t seen in over twenty years asked if I found working in a bookstore monotonous and boring. I didn’t even need to think before I answered. Market Street Mysteries was a lot of things, but monotonous and boring certainly wasn’t one of them. New people came in every day. Boxes of books arrived weekly. Some boxes included books from writers I’d read for years, which were like old friends. Familiar series from Victoria Thompson, Emily Brightwell, Jeanne M. Dams, and Martha Grimes sent a thrill of excitement through my body as I gazed at the bright covers and anticipated the joy of figuring out whodunit. There was also the joy of discovering new writers and wondering which ones would be added to my list of favorites. On those rare moments when the store was quiet, I sometimes went for a walk in downtown North Harbor and stepped into shops owned by my neighbors. The bookstore had helped me through one of the worst times of my life, the death of my husband and best friend. I’d created a new life for myself with new friends and I hoped a new career as a writer, one day.
A few doors down from Market Street Mysteries, a new restaurant had opened. I stood in front of the window and stared at the menu taped on the door. I looked at my watch and realized it was after two, and my stomach growled as I read the menu. I stepped inside and waited while my eyes adjusted to the darker interior.
“I’m glad you decided to come in.” A man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, cut close in the style worn by the military, soft brown eyes, and a big smile came out from behind the bar.
I must have looked puzzled because he motioned to the window. “I saw you outside.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. That’s why I put the menu up. I was hoping it would entice people to come inside.”
“Well it worked.” I laughed.
“How about a nice table by the window?”
I nodded and took a seat in the chair he held out for me.
“I have a lovely white wine from a local vineyard.”
“Oh, no. Just water with lemon, please.”
When he left, I looked around. The restaurant was clean and decorated with an urban edge. Exposed brick walls, stained concrete floors, and iron fixtures created a modern, hip atmosphere. Televisions lined the wall behind the bar. My waiter returned with a glass and a carafe of ice water with lemon.
He smiled as he placed the carafe of water on the table. “You own the mystery bookstore a few doors down, don’t you?”
I took a sip of water and nodded.
“I thought so. I’ve been trying to meet all of the other store owners around here. I’m Frank Patterson.”
He held out his hand and we shook.
“Samantha Washington, but you can call me Sam.”
“Sam, I’m pleased to meet you. How long have you been down here?”
I knew he was asking about how long my bookstore had been open. I looked at him and started to respond when my attention was caught by the picture on the television behind him.
Melody Hardwick’s picture filled the screen. Then it was replaced by pictures of a body covered by a blanket.
I gasped.
The words that scrolled across the bottom of the screen said Melody’s body had been found by early morning joggers. The police believe
d her death was the result of “foul play.” The picture that next filled the screen and nearly stopped my heart was of Dawson getting into the back of a police car.
* * *
I didn’t remember the walk back to the bookstore. Nana Jo said I came in looking like a whirling dervish. I did remember marching into the South Harbor police station with Nana Jo. The brick two-story building was downtown and not far from my bookstore. North Harbor and South Harbor shared the same Lake Michigan coastline. The two towns were separated by the St. Thomas River that zigzagged through northern Indiana and southern Michigan for over two hundred miles and ended as it wrapped around North Harbor in a U and flowed into Lake Michigan.
The county police station and courthouse were attached and comprised a sprawling complex located on an area that sat on a small street in between North and South Harbor. Other than field trips as a child, I had only been to the complex as an adult when I was summoned for jury duty. My memory of the facility was prior to 911 and didn’t include security cameras and metal detectors that would rival those at the nearby River Bend airport.
I was so concerned about Dawson I didn’t remember a number of things from the time I saw his face on the television to the moment I walked into the police station. However, the memory that would live with me until my death would be when Nana Jo set off the metal detectors and we were instantly swarmed by police officers with guns drawn, all shouting for us to raise our hands and lay down on the floor. I remember the officer who pulled my wrists behind my back and the feel of the cold metal handcuffs as he placed them on my wrists. I looked over at my grandmother as she lay by my side, also cuffed and on the ground. My heart raced and my blood pounded in my head. Yep. That was a memory that would stay with me forever.
Thankfully, my nephews hadn’t been idle after we left the bookstore. One of them must have called their mother. Never had I been so happy to see and hear my sister, Jenna, as I was at that moment.