What did he know about Skinny’s death?
And how would I get him to tell me?
* * *
After taking care of Stella’s many needs—feeding, grooming, crawling under the motel’s very low bed to fetch her rubber ducky chew toy—I locked her in the motel’s bathroom and braved the cold and wet conditions to explore Camellia Beach’s blink-and-you’ll-miss-it downtown. It wasn’t quite the “best sunny days and wondrously warm winter weather that South Carolina has to offer,” as promised in the travel brochure for the island. The brochure had also featured pictures of beautiful sunbathers on the sand, a line of pelicans soaring in the sky, and shrimp boats trolling along in the crystal-blue waters.
It had conveniently left out a picture of the pink run-down, one-story beachfront motor lodge from the 1950s that punctuated the end of Main Street, or the one-screen movie theater that played films from three years ago, or the shabby shops lining Main Street, with their creaky floorboards and slightly musty smell. Instead, the brochure had proclaimed the resort town a “scaled-down Miami, with all the glitter and none of the crowds.” I’d been to Miami. It wasn’t anything like this place. In my opinion, only a bulldozer could fix a town as broken as this one.
But I wasn’t here for pleasure. My focus was on proving Skinny hadn’t been murdered because of drugs. Honestly, I didn’t want to be here. Despite his final request that I come to Camellia Beach, I’d resisted and resisted some more. Only after the local police and Skinny’s family had written off his death as something he’d brought on himself did I change my mind and book a flight to the heart of South Carolina’s Lowcountry.
How could I not come? After all, Skinny would have never set foot in this town if I hadn’t shown him that phony letter and asked him to help track down the sender.
A sudden gust of wind rose up from nowhere and shoved me off the sidewalk and into the intersection of Main and East Europe Avenue. I pulled my windbreaker tight against my chest to hold off the biting cold while the wind swirled around me like eddies in the ocean. I felt as if I’d been caught in an undertow as the wind pushed me toward a mud puddle that had formed around a clogged curbside storm drain.
My fashionable, fleece-lined Timberland boots sank deep into a wet, dark abyss. I stood in the puddle, muttering angrily beneath my breath, when suddenly a black sedan careened around a corner. Its muffler screaming, it swerved left, right, and then jumped onto the curb. It was heading directly toward me!
In a spurt of self-preservation, I dove toward the first available door. It was the entrance of a shop located in a two-story redbrick building with three storefronts and what looked like offices above.
The bumper of the car brushed my khaki pants a moment before I burst into the store. A copper wind chime tinkled madly in the sudden gust of wind as I fell into a shop crammed full with all shapes and colors of crystals.
A woman about my age—with beautiful chocolate-brown skin and dressed in a vibrant silk dress with swirls of varying shades of purples and blues—made a surprised sound at the sight of me and hurried from around the shop counter. The shop’s wood-plank floor creaked and moaned as she moved toward me. Her broad smile appeared warm and genuine as she approached. She extended her hand to help me up from the floor. “Didn’t expect to see anyone today. The weather is so awful, terrible for business. I almost didn’t open. Now I’m glad I did. Can I help you find anything in particular?” The name tag pinned to her dress read, “Althea.”
“Did-did you see that car?” I wheezed while bending over with my hands on my knees and struggling to catch my breath. “It-it nearly ran me down.”
Althea went to the window and looked up and down the street. “Are you sure? The street is empty.” She shrugged. “Some of our older drivers have trouble seeing in the rain.”
“Who-whoever was driving was going too fast. I think the car was aimed right for me.”
She looked out at the half-flooded Main Street in front of her shop again. “I’m sure that’s not the case,” she said but no longer sounded so certain. “Can I help you find something in particular? I have some lovely black tourmaline imported from Brazil in the back. Black tourmaline is one of the most powerful stones you can buy for protection.”
I looked around. Though the crystals inside the shop sparkled like a miniature sky filled with tiny stars under the cleverly placed lights, I had no interest in them. It must have shown on my face.
“You’re not shopping for crystals. The storm blew you in,” she said with a small sigh. “Happens whenever the weather is like this.”
“Don’t forget the car. It pushed me toward your door,” I reminded her. “I was actually looking for the chocolate shop.”
“The Chocolate Box?” Her entire face lit up with pleasure again. “You’re almost there. Go one more block toward the back of the island and take a right. It’s the third building on the left on West America Street.”
I could have thanked her and left. But my instincts told me to wait. A normal person in a normal town would have been horrified to hear about a near miss with a car. And yet she’d dismissed the incident, quickly blaming it on a careless elderly driver. I stepped closer to her and said, “I hear the chocolate shop has the best chocolate in the state.”
“Oh, they do. Best in the world too.” She nodded so vigorously, the three brass mandala pendants hanging around her neck clanged together violently. “Be sure to buy some of the sea-salted caramel chocolates. They are the finest I’ve ever tasted. And I’m not just saying that because my mom makes them. They really are the best.”
“Does that mean your mother is Bertie Bays?” Bertie was the younger of the two women pictured in the newspaper article.
The salesclerk nodded again. “Do you know her?”
“No. I just arrived in town. I saw an article.”
“Ugh, not that article.” Her cheery disposition dropped from her face, pulling her lips into a frown as it fell. “You’re not one of those ghouls looking to see where that awful man died, are you? If you are, you can turn around and leave now. And not just my store. I mean, you can leave this town. We don’t need—”
“No, no. Wait.” I held up my hands. “Really? People have been coming just to see?” Skinny would have hated that.
“A few.” She sighed again. “It’s really appalling. Bad for the town, the business association president is saying, which means bad for business. And our businesses can’t take any more bad news. Deloris said three families cancelled their reservations at the Pink Pelican after the article came out.”
“Deloris?” I asked.
“The desk clerk at the Pink Pelican Inn. She was telling me how the place is practically empty right now.”
Althea looked so depressed about the state of her town, I felt as if I needed to say something comforting. “I’m sure it’s the cold, wet weather that’s scaring tourists away. They should come back once the sun starts shining again.”
“No. They won’t.” Her dark-brown eyes turned nearly as black as the tourmaline crystals as she spoke. “Not unless . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She picked up a smooth, round crystal the color of the moon and turned it over in her hand. “Are you sure you aren’t interested in buying something from my shop? I get the feeling you could use some positive energy in your life right now.”
“Positive energy?”
“Our beach is located in the middle of an energy vortex, you know. The metaphysical powers swirling all around us supercharge these crystals.”
“You mean like magical powers?”
“Strong natural magic.” She smiled and nodded with enthusiasm. “There are also the island ghosts; many date back to the Civil War and earlier. They help charge the crystals too.”
“Ghosts? Magic? I don’t believe in mumbo jumbo like that,” I snapped. “You shouldn’t either. No one should.”
It was a rude knee-jerk reaction on my part. But I had a reason to distrust people who talke
d about such nonsense. My mother—the woman who had seduced my dad—had been a fortune-teller. A con artist. A fraud who’d dumped me at my father’s dorm room because raising a child got in the way of stealing money from those who are hurting, who are desperate, who are aching for answers to unanswerable questions, such as what the future will hold.
Althea’s lips curled into a patronizing smile. “I won’t try to convert you. You don’t have to believe in anything to enjoy crystals. They have a beauty all on their own.” She turned the moon-colored stone in her hand until a rainbow of colors reflected off its surface.
I knew it was time to thank her for the directions to the chocolate shop and leave, but still I hesitated. I’d flown halfway across the country to get answers. Even if it meant chatting and pretending to be friendly with a charlatan. A charlatan whose mother was part owner of the chocolate shop. A charlatan who didn’t seem at all concerned—or surprised—to hear how a car had tried to run me over.
Was her mother involved in Skinny’s death? Was Althea an accessory? Was she part of the scheme to lure me here and perhaps steal money from me and my father? Or worse, hurt me? This wasn’t the time to lose my nerve and run away just because the thought of “magic” made my skin crawl.
“Did your mother know Skinny McGee?” I asked.
Instead of responding to my question, she took several steps back. “Because he died in their shop, they must have known him?” she demanded. “They must have been involved in his death? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Should I think that? According to the local police, your mother and her partner in the chocolate shop are both gentle as lambs.”
“Of course you shouldn’t be thinking they were involved in his death.” Her words came sharp and quick. “Mama and Miss Mabel are innocent. That man came into this town to make trouble and got what he deserved.”
“Got what he deserved? What do you mean by that?”
“The . . . um . . . drugs . . .”
She’d been quick to answer all my other questions. Why did she hesitate now? Was it because she was struggling to remember the tale she was supposed to tell when asked about his death?
Suddenly, her practiced answer seemed to click in her head, and she said in a rush, “Yes, the drugs they found on him. He brought those drugs into our town. And he brought his drug-dealing friends too. That’s what I meant.”
No. I suspected that wasn’t what she’d meant at all. Perhaps that was what someone had coached her to say. Or perhaps she had trouble keeping her own lies straight among all her flaky, “magical” thoughts.
I had toyed with the idea of hiding my identity when talking with the townspeople about Skinny, but I swiftly changed my mind.
“I’m Penn,” I blurted out. “Skinny was my friend. And I know for a fact he didn’t use drugs. Since the police aren’t willing to look beyond what’s clearly a setup, I’m here to find out what really happened in your mother’s shop.”
Her eyes widened at the mention of my name. “Penn?” She set the moon crystal she’d tried to sell me back on the shelf with an inelegant clang. “Penn?” she repeated.
“Do you know me?” I asked.
“No, of course not. Skinny was your friend? I am sorry. I didn’t know he had any. Friends, I mean.”
“He had loads of friends,” I said. But did I know that? We were both outsiders at prep school. As an adult, he seemed personable enough. We would meet up for drinks whenever he came into town. Yet I didn’t know much about his adult life beyond his surfing obsession. “He didn’t use drugs. He didn’t.”
He’d told me he didn’t. His word was good enough. He had no reason to lie to me.
“I’m sure you’re right.” She kept looking at me and smiling.
“What?” I demanded.
“I’m so glad to meet you,” she said. “We’re going to become good friends, you know.”
“Because some magic voodoo cards told you?”
Her smile held firm. “I don’t think you want to know the answer to that.”
“Oh, don’t try to scam me.” I’d had enough experience with scammers in my life—scammers who pretended to be my dearest friends—to know when someone was hiding the truth from me. I made an effort to narrow my gaze in an accusatory manner. “I know what your mother and her partner at the chocolate shop were up to. I know they wanted to lure me here.” I actually didn’t know anything. I’d simply said that because I wanted her to start telling me the truth. She’d clearly recognized my name.
Althea’s cheeks darkened. She placed her hands on her hips. “If you already have all the answers, why are you here asking questions?”
“Because I need to know who killed my friend. Who killed him?”
“I don’t—”
“I don’t have access to the family money.”
“Your family has money? Cool.”
“I never had access to it,” I said, not that it mattered. “Not really.” There was the trust fund, but whenever I tried to withdraw anything from it, I’d have to get approval from the trustees who answered directly to my disapproving grandmother.
“Doesn’t matter.” Althea gazed out the large storefront window at the shabby Main Street beyond. “Hardly anyone has much of anything around here. You’ll fit right in.” The rain outside pelted the glass.
“But I’m only visiting. And only until—”
She reached up abruptly and touched my cheek. Her palm felt hot under my winter-cooled skin. I was too stunned to object. With the exception of Granny Mae, people simply didn’t touch me. I’d spent many years building up a facade that kept everyone at arm’s length. And I liked it that way.
“You’d better get to the chocolate shop. Miss Mabel will be near to bursting out of her skin waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me? Why? What does she want from me?”
The hard look Althea gave me made me feel as if my world was about to be turned upside down. “She wants to teach you to cook.”
Chapter 3
“Teach me to cook? Good luck with that,” I murmured under my breath, even as goose bumps rose up on my skin.
The goose bumps had nothing to do with the unrelenting wind or bone-chilling rain and everything to do with where I was standing. The two-story, white-painted clapboard building on West America Street looked as if it’d barely survived the last hurricane. The building listed to one side like a drunk in a strong wind, which made me wonder whether it was even safe to go inside.
A wide porch spanning the front of the building offered a refuge from the storm. There were two shops in the building. The first was the Drop-In Surf Shop. Posters of surfers challenging waves much larger than the building were plastered in the two windows flanking the shop’s door.
The second shop, as Althea had promised, was the Chocolate Box. Written on the sign above the door of the shop was one word: “Chocolate.” No games. Straight to the point. A shopper wouldn’t have to guess what she was getting. I approved.
Handwriting on a piece of paper taped to the door announced, “Cooking Lessons: Inquire Within.”
Althea had insisted I take those cooking lessons. “It’s the reason you’re here,” she’d said after I’d protested the crazy idea that Mabel wanted to teach me to cook. No one would send out a phony prize letter simply because she wanted to teach a stranger how to properly melt chocolate.
I’d tried to get Althea to explain why her mother and Mabel Maybank had targeted me. But she’d refused to answer and had nearly pushed me out the door and back into the wet, cold weather.
It’d be insane to walk directly into their trap and actually agree to take their cooking lessons. But on the other hand, what better way to question them than to sign up for their classes? Of course, if Mabel and Bertie were indeed the ones who’d sent me the fake letter, they’d already know who I was and wouldn’t be fooled by my attempts at subterfuge.
Perhaps I could use that to my benefit. With my mind made up, I squared my shoulders, d
rew a long, steadying breath, and pushed open the door. A copper bell tinkled a happy tune as I stepped inside the cozy shop and inhaled the warm, decadent scent of chocolate.
There were two other patrons in the shop: a woman who looked to be about my age with hair nearly as short as mine but the color of the midnight sky—mine was an arctic blonde—and a young boy around ten or eleven wearing a black wet suit with a heavy coat over it. The woman was scowling at the two white-haired ladies standing behind a glass display case filled with a symphony of chocolate truffles of every imaginable flavor. The boy, his eyes rimmed red, was scowling at everyone.
Mabel—I recognized her deep wrinkles and thin silver hair from her picture in the newspaper—glanced up and clasped her hands over her chest when she spotted me standing at the entrance. Her partner, Bertie, came around the counter to greet me.
“Welcome to the Chocolate Box,” she said, her smile as broad as a river. While Bertie looked like an older, slightly plumper version of her beautiful daughter Althea, her fashion sense was completely different. Instead of flowing silks, she was dressed in a pair of worn blue jeans and a thick gray sweat shirt that proclaimed Camellia Beach to be “a heavenly island on Earth.”
I bit my tongue before a laugh could escape at the sight of her sweat shirt. But really, it had to be a joke. No one would willingly call this wreck of a town heaven.
“What can we do for you?” Bertie asked.
“I came to . . .” I drew another fortifying breath and grew slightly dizzy from the swirling scents of chocolate candies. I’d been in chocolate stores before, but none had tempted me like this one. The aromas filling my senses were rich, deep, but not at all overly sweet. I grabbed onto the back of a wooden chair in the café area located at the front of the shop to steady myself. “I came to take cooking lessons,” I finally managed to say.
“Did you hear what she said? She’s here! And she’s here to take the lessons!” Mabel exclaimed loudly and started to rush toward me. Bertie stopped her with a quelling look.
“You mean the sign on the door, Mabel? I think you’re right,” Bertie said quickly, as if she was afraid her partner might say something else, something that would give away whatever scheme they were planning against me. “Business has been slow because of the weather. We haven’t had much interest in the classes. And as you can see, Mabel loves teaching about the special chocolates we use in the shop. Mabel, why don’t you give Jody her change? I’m sure she has other businesses to . . . er . . . visit. And I bet Gavin is eager to get home and change out of that wet suit.”
Asking for Truffle: A Southern Chocolate Shop Mystery Page 3