She went cold. She was about to be killed by a piece of art.
“Back! You old hag. You are not going to use me.” His face was almost purple.
She stepped around the desk toward him. She needed to convince him to put it down—
He charged toward her. His face looked completely insane. “How dare you make this about you and your cheap, piece of trash children from that cheap, piece of trash husband—”
She shoved him. He swung the pistol toward her head.
No, no, no…!
She swung her arms, caught the pistol. Alexander had been a miser, deteriorating in his house for the last forty years. She had worked on the docks. She grabbed the pistol. He tried to keep it. The trigger guard jammed onto his finger. He shouted in pain.
“Let go!” they both shouted.
She twisted him around in a hold and pried the gun off his finger. She threw it on the floor and he shoved her out of the way to try to get at it.
She kicked his hand but he kept his grip. Then he was up again, and she reached toward the gun, both holding onto it, pushing it this way then that, until there was that shock of sound. A sound she’d only heard in movies. It was more deafening than she’d ever imagined. At first she thought it was thunder, or fireworks.
The lights outside flashed.
Her ears rang.
His face was red with rage. He rose to his feet and charged toward her. She thought, Oh thank God, it missed. She pushed him back and he fell down.
But when he hit the floor she noticed her dress was covered in blood. Maybe wearing that particular dress had been the thing that had taken them all too far. She’d had it for thirty years or more. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn it, except that it must have been with him.
Alexander rolled on his side and groaned. “Leave me alone, you bitch. Just leave me alone.”
Her knees were sticky and wet with blood. She’d been kneeling in it. She watched its crimson color spread..
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was an accident.”
“I don’t forgive you. I don’t.” His voice went faint. “At least…”
And then he stopped, like the last tick of a clock. She sat next to him unable to move or think for who knows how long. When she finally got up off the floor she thought, At least the bottoms of my shoes don’t have blood on them. At least I don’t have to track blood all the way out of the house.
“And then?” Detective Bailey said.
“And then I went down to the beach and burned my clothes. I had a change in the trunk,” she lied.
Chapter 15
Forgiveness
Later, when she found out, Jo was furious that Angie hadn’t called her to help confront her mother. Mickey…was more understanding.
“You would have been all confrontational,” he said, “and it would have made everything worse.”
“She was using me as her alibi!”
“Why not? You were using her as yours.”
“That’s not the same thing. In my case a man didn’t die!”
Mickey was the voice of the calm, “It’s over now, Jo. You know she didn’t mean it. It was an accident.” That was all he had to say before shifting his attention to Angie and other topics. “So, custom cupcakes? Are you trying to tell me that it’s a mistake to specialize in pastries? I should do cupcakes?”
Jo paced back and forth across the kitchen, kicking her apron up in a petulant fluff with every step.
“No,” said Angie, “I’m just saying that you should play around with the idea and see whether you can make any extra profit. The custom cupcakes in Manhattan were always really expensive.”
“Ehhh…Manhattan,” Mickey said, waving one hand, a quick disregard for Manhattan’s pomp and circumstance.
“Don’t even think about blowing the cupcake idea off,” Jo said. “I happen to have a boyfriend in Manhattan now.”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “I have dishes to do. And it looks like I am going to have some cupcakes to design and make.”
Jo grinned eat-to-ear and gave Mickey a pat on the back. “That’s my bro.”
He headed to the sink.
Jo sat on one of the baker’s tables; Angie sat next to her. The two of them stared out the front windows. Jo had closed the bakery as soon as Angie had walked through the front door. She let out a deep breath and leaned against Angie’s shoulder.
“What are we going to do?”
“About what?”
“About Mom. About the rent. About you getting an assistant. About Walter. About everything. About my boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“I finally swallowed my pride and texted him. He couldn’t figure out which number was mine. He’d randomly drunk dialed a couple of people that night, apparently, hoping he’d find me.”
“But called all the wrong numbers and got yelled at.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“But is he worth dating? That’s the question.”
Jo bobbed her head from side to side as if considering it. “I want…I want everything to work the way I want it to, with no hiccups or interruptions or logic or fairness or reason. I have a selfish heart that way.”
“Does that mean you forgive me?”
“As long as I get to keep giving you crap about it whenever I’m annoyed at you.”
“That’s fair.”
#
The only part of the story that had to be changed was that Dory hadn’t called Aunt Margery in. She had taken a couple of garbage bags from the kitchen, put them over her seat, and driven home, where she had destroyed the clothing all on her own.
That was the price everyone in the circle had to pay for Dory coming clean: they all had to lie to keep her best friend out of it.
Detective Bailey seemed to accept the story. It was the smart thing to do, the easier, less complicated way.
Walter was released the same day Dory confessed, and he offered to pay her legal fees.
Dory tried to refuse, but when Jo stepped into a room with her, half an hour later they came out, their faces streaked with tears, and she had changed her tune.
Mistakes were made. Under the advice of Walter’s lawyers Dory pleaded involuntary manslaughter. Whatever had happened, happened in the heat of passion, and the death was unintended. The consensus among Walter’s friends in the legal business was that it would be judged an accident, and the charges dismissed. Dory’s actions could be considered self-defense; it would be hard to prove that they weren’t.
Angie spent the day after the confession on tenterhooks at the bookstore. Every move Aunt Margery made, Angie jumped about a mile in the air. She bent over backward making sure Aunt Margery had everything she needed. She blabbed about getting an assistant about half a dozen times. It was going to take some time to get their relationship back on track.
Aunt Margery made a phone call. Angie chatted to customers.
Half an hour later, Walter arrived with a picnic basket and orders from Aunt Margery to keep Angie out of the bookstore until after closing time. He drove her to, of all places, his father’s house, where they spread the blanket out on the bluff overlooking the harbor.
“Why here?” she asked.
“Because one, we won’t be interrupted, and two, we won’t have to use one of the beach outhouses. Which can get gross. ”
She laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He poured her a glass of wine, and they toasted each other. “To sharing afternoons in the sand and sun,” he said.
“I’ll drink to that.” His words were a warm blanket of security.
After a few moments watching the sunlight glimmer and dance across the water, and sailboats tack back and forth in the distance, Walter said, “I really came here to start mourning my father.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s strange, I feel like I have to get to know my great-aunt all over again. I know her, but I don’t know her. Everything is a little different now. Honestl
y, it’s kind of difficult thinking of her as a tragic, romantic figure, who loved not wisely but too well.”
“I can see that.”
“And you’re trying to come to grips with the fact that your father…” She drifted off. “Sorry,” she said. She had her own theories, but she didn’t want to put words in his mouth, either.
“That my father was a miser? Sure, but really he was just a deeply flawed human being. Mom’s always been more three-dimensional to me. You know, kind of weird, but sharp, too. Like you say, a romantic figure in some ways.”
Angie’s impression of Phyllis was not flattering; she hadn’t learned enough about Phyllis to see her as more than just plain odd, so she skipped saying that, too.
“So, the million-dollar question,” she said.
“Am I going to raise the rents?” Walter said.
“Nooo,” Angie said. “Are you going to stay?”
“Don’t you care about the rents?” The surprise on his face bordered on shock.
“Of course I do,” she said. “But the rents are one thing and you’re another. I care about you.” Well, there, she’d put herself out on a limb, now what?
He kept a steady gaze on her; his lips gave just a twitch of a smile. She couldn’t handle the suspense
“You’re killing me,” she said.
His smile broke into a laugh. And just to torture her, it seemed, he lifted the wine and poured them each a little more. Then he built her cute little cracker sandwich stacks with cheese and fig jam, and little sprigs of thyme on top, and then laid them on a small plate.
She pulled at tufts of grass, trying to keep her cool. He moved closer to her.
“I didn’t think I was going to stay when I got here this summer. I do have things back in Manhattan that I can’t just pull up stakes and leave behind. Some people I care about would get hurt. So I think I’m going to be running back and forth for a while.” He took his fingers and pushed her hair behind her ears. “But you Ms. Prouty have given me serious reason to reconsider staying.”
“I don’t know. That puts a lot of pressure on a girl.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” His eyes danced all over her face, searching. She kind of enjoyed seeing him off balance.
“This girl needs a little more than that.”
“How about this.” He leaned in and kissed her. His lips were warm and soft, and they felt just right against hers.
“That helps.” She cut him a sly grin. “So, we’re dating?”
He laughed out loud. “We most certainly are.”
Angie laughed with him. She took in the wide-open blue sky above them and the leafy trees at the edge of the bluff. In front of them Nantucket Harbor was picture-perfect, shaker homes all neatly tucked away just beyond the marina, and seagulls swooping down, a sanctuary in all that blue ocean. After all that had happened, she couldn’t help but feel fortunate in this moment, and that it was going to be a good day.
Thank You!
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About the Author
Miranda Sweet is a collaboration of authors, writers, editors, creatives, and cozy-mystery lovers. Miranda Sweet novels can be relied upon for classic cozy themes, settings and characters. Her books are best enjoyed with a hot beverage and a pastry.
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