by Meg Muldoon
At one point, Héctor mentioned that the local gossip hounds started talking about how the chief of police had scheduled a press conference at noon on the steps of the courthouse. Nobody seemed to know for sure what the conference was going to be about, but it was obvious that it would have something to do with the Penelope Ashby case.
As we headed toward the noon hour, the reporters began clearing out of the café, walking down to the courthouse in a big pack of suits, cameras, notepads, and microphones.
“Take a break, Ginger,” Sapphire said when the dining room started emptying out.
I looked up, shocked that the word “Ginger” had come from Sapphire’s lips. Since my gloomy employee had started working here, I had asked her many times to use my first name, but she never had been able to do so. She always called me Ms. Westbrook.
“The front of the house is practically empty now,” she continued. “You’ve been working so hard this morning – you really deserve a rest. I can take over.”
Sapphire was actually smiling as she spoke.
My jaw nearly hit the floor.
I knew her change in demeanor could only be attributed to one thing.
She must have had one of the Magic Marionberry Scones I’d sent over to Joyce’s late the night before.
“That’s so thoughtful of you, Sapphire,” I said, tossing the measuring spoons on the counter.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee and a slice of Lavender Lemon Loaf?” she added.
I couldn’t stop staring at her. Gone were the droopy eyes and sad expression that had become my baking assistant’s trademark. Sapphire’s face was now filled with light and excitement.
It wasn’t like my tonics didn’t ever work, but this one was practically an instant miracle.
“This is just amazi… I mean, yeah, Sapphire. Yeah, that sounds great.”
“I think you should sit outside,” she said, still grinning. “It’s too beautiful of a day to pass up! The color of the sky, the salty air, that fresh breeze… It just makes you feel so happy to be alive, don’t you think?”
I glanced out the window at the thick clouds rolling in.
It wasn’t exactly a banner day, but some fresh air would be nice.
“Thanks,” I said. “Great idea.”
“I’ll meet you out there in a flash!”
She disappeared out into the dining room. Meanwhile, I headed out back.
I still couldn’t get over how fast the Magic Marionberry Scones were working for Sapphire.
If only I had as much luck with Christopher.
Thirteen messages had been left on my voicemail in the last 24 hours, with my florist friend’s shrill voice telling me to please call him back. In a few of those messages, he asked if I didn’t have another elixir, something that didn’t require waiting for the full moon. Something stronger that he could take. And while I did, I knew that I wouldn’t be using it for Christopher and Lilliana.
I took a seat at the small table outside, and reached into the pocket of my jeans for the bottle. The one I had been carrying with me everywhere for the past three months.
I pulled it out, feeling the smooth red glass between my fingers. It gave me both a sense of relief, and an overwhelming feeling of apprehension at the same time.
I could feel the power of the ruby bottle calling to me. Beckoning me. Telling me how easy it would be to use it and make my life good again. How easy it would be to bring Steve back and make him love me again. How it wouldn’t be any harder than what I’d done for Sapphire. It would be simple to add a couple of drops to some batter for granola banana muffins – Steve’s favorite – and send them to him in Crescent City. And once he ate one, it’d only be a matter of time before—
Sapphire placed a plate and a mug of coffee down in front of me, interrupting my thoughts.
“Bon Appétit!” she shouted before running back inside.
I quickly slipped the ruby bottle back into my pocket.
I pushed Steve out of my mind, and tried to enjoy my snack. In the distance, the ocean waves crashed against the sand, and some seagulls flew by, squawking at each other like a couple of old ladies fighting over a bolt of fabric at a craft store. The wind-whipped pine trees framing the view swayed in a gentle ocean breeze.
Sapphire was absolutely right. It was a beautiful day. I was so lucky to live in Broomfield Bay, running a café, doing what I loved. Even if things in my life weren’t absolutely perfect – even if my marriage had fallen apart – I could still appreciate what I did have. A great place to live, a great business, great employees, great friends, and one crazy aunt who thought the world of me.
And after just a few minutes of that kind of positive Dr. Honeycutt-inspired thinking, I’d forgotten all about the ruby bottle.
When I finished my coffee and Lavender Lemon Loaf, I grabbed a basket and started picking tomatoes off the vines of the bountiful plants in the nearby raised beds.
The back door squeaked open and a few seconds later, I heard frantic footsteps on the gravel path. Héctor came running toward me like the place had just caught fire, a pained expression stretched across his features.
I dropped the basket.
“Héctor, what is it?”
“I think… Just, you should come inside, Ginger.”
I gulped hard and followed him.
Sapphire, Rudy, and a few of the locals still in the café had gathered around the small flat screen behind the counter in the dining room – the one I had installed a couple years ago for Héctor so that he could see the Champion’s League soccer games when they aired during the day.
I followed everyone’s gazes to the screen, and saw that they were watching the local news station. Police Chief Henry Logan was standing on the steps, along with a line of his officers. Maddy was there, looking stoic and somber and wearing her police cap. I also recognized the District Attorney and Mike Riggins, the real estate developer and city councilor who was our interim mayor.
The reporters stood around shouting out questions in barely-controlled pandemonium.
“When did the arrest occur?” a man yelled.
“We arrested the suspect a little after nine this morning,” the chief said. “Residents and visitors of Broomfield Bay should feel relieved that we have Mayor Ashby’s murderer in our custody.”
Another reporter tried to ask a question, but the chief interrupted her.
“Before we get too far ahead of ourselves, it’s important to give credit where credit is due. I’d like to thank the fine policemen up here with me who did outstanding and tireless work to solve this case in a timely fashion. Thanks to their efforts, the streets of Broomfield Bay are once again safe.”
“So there’s no doubt you have your man?” someone shouted out.
The chief leaned up to the microphone and placed both hands on the podium.
“We can and will release the name here, but for the record, our suspect is not a man.”
The reporters hushed in a rare moment of absolute silence. The DA walked over and whispered something in the chief’s ear.
Their anticipation practically came through the television screen.
I felt Héctor’s hand on my shoulder.
“She’s a local woman, age 66, arrested this morning at nine o’clock on suspicion of murder.”
I felt my heart stop.
“The suspect’s name is Vivian Rhiannon Westbrook. We believe she cut the brakes of Penelope Ashby’s Mercedes the night before she rolled down her driveway to her death.”
I let out a horrified gasp.
“But, chief, didn’t you talk with Vivian Westbrook yesterday afternoon?” a familiar voice, off camera, yelled. “If you were so sure Vivian murdered the mayor, why didn’t you arrest her when you had her in custody yesterday? What’s changed?”
It was Eddie asking the question, I was sure of it even though I couldn’t see him. And for some reason, I was glad that he was there.
“All I can say at this juncture is that an avalan
che of new evidence was brought to our attention this morning, confirming suspicions that we had all along.”
“An avalanche of evidence?” I shouted at the screen. “What are you talking about?!”
Chief Logan held up his hands in an attempt to calm the small crowd who started firing off questions like they were all in a shooting gallery.
“Simmer down, everybody. I’m going to turn this over to our District Attorney, Matthew Kehoe, who can take any questions you might have. Matt?”
Matthew Kehoe, a bulldog of an attorney who had a reputation for being tough on criminals, moved into the space the chief vacated.
“We cannot release any more details, but our office fully expects this to be a slam dunk case with an easy conviction. Everyone who knew Penelope Ashby knew what a great mayor and human being she was. Her untimely and senseless death is truly a loss for our community. The sooner Vivian Westbrook is behind bars, the sooner Broomfield Bay can heal from this tragedy and get back to being the friendliest and safest town on the Oregon Coast. Thank you.”
A white hot rage shot up the back of my throat as the DA started stepping away from the podium. But then, he quickly stepped back.
“Oh, also, I’d like to personally thank Special Investigator William Graybeal for his efforts in bringing this case to a speedy conclusion. I’m told he was instrumental in solving this crime.”
“What?”
I flashed on Aunt Viv telling me about how the special investigator had brought back her car early that morning, and about how he was so nice.
What had she told him? Had she been the one to set off that “avalanche of evidence?”
“Chief Logan!” a reporter shouted. “Is that Vivian over there, walking out of the police station across the street and into that van?”
The camera we were viewing the press conference through swung sharply to the right, and the screen began jolting up and down, out of focus. Members of the press were running, screaming out questions. Somewhere in the background, I heard the district attorney yell about how this was supposed to be delayed until the press conference was finished.
Finally, the cameraman got his lens under control. He zeroed in on the police station.
An older woman with long blond hair came into focus.
My heart sank when I saw the coral-pink lips.
Aunt Viv’s hands were in cuffs as she hopped up into the back of a white Broomfield Bay Police Department van. And when the camera zoomed in, I saw my beloved aunt sitting in the vehicle like a common criminal.
“Vivian! Vivian! Did you do it?” someone shouted as the van started up and inched past the press corps. “Where are they taking you?”
“We’re taking her to the jail up in Brandon Beach,” one of the star-struck police officers said into a mic. “Ours is in the process of renovation.”
The camera zoomed in even further on her face.
I couldn’t believe it.
Aunt Viv was smiling.
Smiling.
Like she was out on a boating adventure with her friends instead of being hauled off to jail for Murder One. Like she’d just hit it big at the poker table in Lincoln City. Like her heirloom tomato varietal had taken first at the annual county fair.
And then, as the van glided out onto the street and drove by the sea of reporters, Aunt Viv turned, looked into the cameras, and waved like a beauty pageant queen.
Chapter 25
Watching the press conference and Aunt Viv be driven away like a criminal was shocking all by itself. But what the news station aired afterwards was even worse.
They began to do a man-on-the-street segment in which reporters asked for opinions from local residents at Ray’s, the town’s most popular grocery store.
“Sir, do you believe Vivian Westbrook killed the mayor?” the reporter asked Bryan Miller, a local construction worker who had been two years ahead of me at Broomfield Bay High.
“I can’t say it’s a surprise at all,” he said, leaning against a shopping cart. “That lady’s always scared me. She’s, I don’t know, a little well… unholy.”
“Unholy?” the reporter asked in a confused voice. “What do you mean by that?”
Bryan Miller looked down at his petite wife, who was tugging his plaid flannel shirt.
“No, I mean… that’s not what I meant,” he said. “What I meant to say is… I’m just glad they caught the mayor’s murderer.”
Carol Putter, who worked at the nursery at the edge of town, was next. My body tensed as I thought back to how Aunt Viv had always said she sold bad plants, and that she had a gray thumb which came directly from her sour attitude.
“She’s the kind of lady who seems nice to your face,” Carol said, squinting, “but stabs you in the back when you’re not looking. No, I’m not surprised one bit.”
Randy Dillon, a carpenter-wanna-be-actor who lived down the street and who Aunt Viv had helped out on more than one occasion, wasn’t much better.
“I know that woman. And like that woman,” he said, forcefully.
“Yes, but do you think she did it, sir?”
He held a dramatic pause, something he no doubt had learned in his theater classes.
“Yes. That’s what I think.”
Next they talked to Annie Dexter, the organizer of the Farmer’s Market. I was glad when I saw her small wrinkled face appear on camera – she had known Aunt Viv a long time.
“Care to comment, ma’am?” the reporter asked.
“I just want to say this: I’ve worked with Viv for over 20 years and she is good people.”
“So you’re saying you think she’s innocent?”
She paused, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
“Well, even good people lose it sometimes. Viv and Penelope were like two tom cats in a cage. Always fighting about this and that. For years! I was out there that day when they had their altercation downtown. Oh, was Viv mad at Penelope. She threatened her, you know. Heard it myself.”
“What did you hear?” the reporter asked in a breathless voice.
“Viv said, I’ll be standing over your grave soon, Penelope. And I’ll be serving cupcakes and champagne at the after party.”
The reporter looked flabbergasted.
I shuddered.
It went on and on, making me feel like Aunt Viv really didn’t have any friends in this town. Or at least, any friends that you would want to call friends.
“I can’t believe this,” I said.
Héctor looked at me with sad eyes. He grabbed the control, then flipped off the television.
“Can we get you anything, Ginger?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I just… I need a minute…” I choked out.
I brushed past all of them and ran into the kitchen. I tried to breathe deep and hold it together, the way Dr. Honeycutt recommended doing in her recordings when life threw obstacles in your path.
How could they actually think Aunt Viv murdered the mayor? Because of what? An argument?
What kind of motive was that? Aunt Viv had every right to be upset at Penelope after the crazy woman almost hit her with her car. Anybody would be mad after something like that and say things they didn’t mean.
Didn’t they know what a good person Aunt Viv was? Didn’t they know…
I looked over at the old broom in the corner.
“What’s happening, Woody?” I whispered. “Everyone’s turning on her.”
But the old broom said nothing.
Sherwood couldn’t fix this.
No elixirs or potions or powers of persuasion could fix this, either.
Because as the ghosts of Salem, Massachusetts, would tell you, once things got rolling, there wasn’t anything that could stop a good old fashioned small-town witch hunt.
Chapter 26
I let out a frustrated grunt and tossed the phone down on the butcher block.
Reginald Powers wasn’t any help.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, kid, but if your aunt still refuses
representation, there’s nothing you can do about it,” he’d said. “And if that’s the case, then Vivian’s as good as signed herself up for a life sentence. Matt Kehoe’s going to make sure she never gets out. She’s just lucky they don’t have the death penalty in Oregon.”
He hung up after that, leaving me choking on air.
Reginald had only been one of many calls that afternoon. My first had been to Maddy, who told me she’d come by as soon as she could. I had asked whether I’d be able to see Aunt Viv at the jail, but she told me that I wouldn’t be able to talk to her until after the arraignment tomorrow morning.
Jail.Arraignments. Lawyers. Testimony. Life sentences.
Would this be how it was from here on out?Until the verdict, at least. And then what? Orange jumpsuits and glass partitions and the sound of metal doors slamming shut as I talked to my aunt?
I jumped up as my phone let out a high-pitched ring. I grabbed it, hoping it was one of the many lawyers in town that I had left messages for.
“Hello?” I said, trying to steady my voice.
“Hey.”
It wasn’t a lawyer.
I didn’t say anything right away. My throat was too thick with emotion.
“I’m so, so sorry about all of this.”
“Thanks, Eddie,” I said quietly. “I just… it’s crazy this is happening. I can’t believe any of this is real.”
“I don’t believe Viv did this. I wanted you to know that. And I don’t think the cops have enough evidence. They’re jumping the gun to make themselves look good. And that’s what my article’s going to reflect.”
“Your article?” I mumbled, slightly stunned – though I didn’t know why.
Eddie was a reporter. Of course he’d have to report on the press conference. It was why he was here in Broomfield Bay in the first place.
Still, something about it felt like… like betrayal.
“I don’t want to, but I have to write this. I’ll be fair, though. I prom—”
“I understand.”
Now the whole world would think Aunt Viv was a murderer. Now her good name would be dragged through the mud from coast to coast.