by Eryn Scott
I tried to keep the surprise at his comment from showing on my face. Depending on whether the evidence helps us or hurts us? The Rickster’s cryptic comments, minutes before, rang in my ears like a too-loud gong. The once-refreshing feel of the air-conditioning turned icy, making me shiver.
Young Officer Fischer raised an eyebrow at me, still waiting for me to answer his question about an appointment.
“Um … I don’t know. It might be nothing. I remembered a detail from yesterday and thought it might be of import,” I babbled.
Of import? Who was I?
“Every clue helps, right?” I finished, feeling the two sets of eyes—one living and one not—boring into me like screws into an interrogation victim’s thumbs.
The ghost’s eyes narrowed. “Young man, do not trust a thing this woman says,” he said. “I know what she is. She’s one of those blasted citizen detectives, prying into our business, thinking she knows better than the law.” He shook his head.
Fischer shrugged. “Okay. I’ll let him know you stopped by,” he said, eliciting a scornful scoff from the ghostly chief at disobeying his unheard order.
Out of ideas, I gave him my name and number before turning on my heel. I tapped my fingers against my leg as I walked toward the door. After what I’d heard from the ghostly chief, I couldn’t help worry about the status of the actual clues from the scene.
And even though this old chief was candid about how he and his staff mishandled evidence, could I believe Clemenson was embroiled in similar practices? The current chief and I might not get along as well as I wished, but that didn’t make the man crooked.
Asher’s face fell when I emerged from the station. “That was too fast.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I didn’t have much of a plan.”
Asher studied me like the ghost chief had inside—only far less offensively. “Then why does it look like you learned something?”
“It’s not anything that helps our case …” Which meant I should drop it and focus on Murray’s death. But even as I said it, I knew the questions racing through my mind were too important to leave unattended. I tapped my lips. “I need to go to the library.”
Asher kept pace with me as I walked. “What is it?”
“Remember when the Rickster was talking to me earlier? Before you showed up with Lois?”
He nodded.
“He mentioned something about how the police might botch this investigation if they were trying to protect the killer, implied they’d done it before.” I stopped talking as we passed by a few locals on the boardwalk.
Once we were past them, Asher said, “It is the Rickster, though…”
I held a hand up, showing him I agreed. With how the older man stretched stories like they were the saltwater taffy popular at the tourist-trap cities along the coast, the Rickster was hard to trust at the best of times.
“Then inside, I had the ‘pleasure’ of meeting the ghost of a former police chief.” I used finger quotes around the word pleasure even though my tone was already steeped in sarcasm. “He said something very similar.”
“And how’s the library going to help?” Asher’s forehead wrinkled.
I sucked air through my teeth. “Earlier this year, when I first met Lois, I asked Chief Clemenson if he’d known her. He told me he’d graduated from the academy when she died. Hers was the first case he worked as an official police officer. But he said even though everyone was sure her husband had killed her, they threw the case out because of evidence tampering.” Pointing to the library, coming into view as I rounded the cove, I said, “I need to find out what happened during that case.”
The local paper, the Cove Chronicle, would have the truth. For the past three decades, it had been run by a shrewd woman named Harriet who was no nonsense personified. She sported the same gray suit every day to work, wore her hair in a low bun, and researched her stories to a T.
I would’ve sworn Harriet was the most precise person I’d met if I didn’t also know my fact-focused mother, a research librarian. I mean, the woman wrote letters to reputable publications informing them of factual errors with cited evidence.
Glancing down at my feet, I saw something furry serpentining around our legs as we walked. I snorted out an incredulous laugh. “Thanks, now you decide to join us, Meow.”
The cat looked up at me, his whiskers twitching up into what might have been a smile.
“Good luck in there,” Asher said, falling back as I jogged up to the library.
The Pebble Cove Library was a beautiful sanctuary, perched toward the end of the cove. It was warm, cozy, and wonderful. It was also built in the last century, which meant Asher couldn’t set foot inside. Difficult to understand as it had been at first, I’d seen evidence of this ghostly limitation. If a spirit tried to enter a place they never stepped foot in while alive, they disappeared and reappeared a while later in the place where their energy was the strongest.
I gave Asher a quick salute before heading inside. Meow followed me, vaulting onto the circulation desk and flopping onto his side. He must’ve spent a lot of time in that same spot when he was alive. The cat looked right at home.
Roger Foss, the svelte and soft-spoken librarian, lit up as he recognized me, unaware of the enormous ghostly cat taking up most his desk. A few other patrons littered the space, but it was fairly empty as people were out enjoying their books on the beach in the sun rather than staying inside.
The cozy loft space, with its overstuffed chairs and views of the sparkling cove, called to me, but my mission lay elsewhere.
“Any chance I can peek at the microfilms again?” I asked Roger, curling my toes in my sandals as I stood across from him at the circulation desk.
Roger dipped his head and waved me back. With all of my research on Asher’s background, I was a frequenter of the local newspaper archives.
“Same time period?” he asked as we reached the part of the storage room where they kept their microfilm machine and the boxes of records.
“Actually, no. I’m interested in something a lot more recent, about twenty years ago.”
If Roger had any prying questions about what I wanted to research from twenty years ago, he didn’t let on. He located the boxes for those years and told me he’d check on me soon. Roger knew I had the tendency to get lost in my research, frequently being the last one to leave when he closed up for the evening.
Starting with the January publications of twenty years prior, I began my search. And even though it would’ve been easier to ask Roger what year Lois had died in, to narrow my search, I wasn’t keen on anyone knowing what I was looking into, even someone as gentle and unassuming as Roger.
This whole idea of police corruption had me feeling like I was in the middle of a mobster movie. If they tampered with evidence to protect people of their choosing, who knew what they’d gotten away with in the past … or, more importantly, what they might do in the future if they needed to.
Swallowing, I focused my anxious energy into my search. It wasn’t until records from two years later that I found something, but it wasn’t what I’d been looking for.
The headline read: "Triangle Park Landscaping Thanks to Donation from Police Chief Butler and Wife, Lois."
A gasp escaped my lips, and I sat back in the stool I was perched on. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t connected them before. It was a common last name, I supposed. But the only thing that mattered right now was that I’d just realized what terrible thing had kept Lois from going inside the police station for me.
Her husband, and her killer, was the former Pebble Cove chief of police.
6
“So the old chief of police murdered his wife and got away with it?” Asher leaned back in one of the old tearoom chairs once we’d returned to the teahouse.
After learning that the town’s previous police chief had been married to Lois, I’d needed to vent, to talk through what I’d learned. And I had already gotten way too many odd glances and side-eyes today from
people catching me talking to myself.
I nodded, my throat hot and metallic tasting. “It looks that way.”
Asher rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “Yeesh, I’m starting to think I had the right idea when it came to staying out of the goings-on of the living. The more I learn about what’s gone on in this town, the more I’m worried about you living here.”
His sentiment was sweet, but it left an all-too-sour taste in my mouth because I didn’t disagree. My hands hadn’t stopped shaking since I’d left the library. I’d glanced over my shoulder every few seconds as I’d walked back to my car before heading here.
If the local police had let their chief get away with murder, how could we trust them? These were new officers, of course, but what if the newer generation had carried over this kind of practice? Ghostly Chief Butler sure seemed to think it was how things were still done.
The even bigger problem was this: if the police were part of the problem, I might be in genuine danger if I got involved in a case they didn’t want to solve.
Sure, I’d meddled a little—okay, a lot—when my grandmother died. Her death had also been deemed “natural” at the time, and no one but me had been investigating. Murray’s death was completely different. Half the town witnessed it, and it concerned people close to the chief.
I stood and paced the length of the tearoom. The old wooden floors groaned, and it took me a moment to realize the sound wasn’t me subconsciously lamenting about this turn of events.
“I’m not so sure it’s a good idea that we get involved in this anymore, Ash,” I said, locking my gaze with his. “I know we promised Carl we would help, but if there’s even a chance the police are untrustworthy, this could get dangerous.”
Asher lowered his head. “I agree. It’s not dangerous for me to continue investigating, but you staying safe is the most important thing to me.”
I smiled at his statement, a little heat climbing into my cheeks. But another, more sinister thought pushed its way to the front of my mind. I chewed on my lip.
“Of course, having a murderer loose in Pebble Cove isn’t safe for anyone either.” I kicked the corner of a rug flat. “This sure got complicated quickly.”
“Why don’t you take a day to think about it?” Asher asked. “Focus on something else for a while.” He surreptitiously glanced around. “Like how to get more customers in here.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “Tell me about it. I’ve been wracking my brain for ideas. I’ve even been thinking of digging into Grandma’s tea shed out back—the one she used to dry her own leaves. Maybe I could come up with some new blends. But that will take time to learn and get right. I need something more immediate.” Slumping into the chair across from him, I squinted. “What do you think of starting a book club?”
Asher’s eyebrows rose with interest. “That might work …” He ran his hand over his stubbly jaw. “What about offering food like Jolene does with her baked items?”
I drew in a lengthy breath through clenched teeth. “Have you seen me cook?” My standard dinner was veggies and hummus or pizza ordered in from a restaurant downtown.
Laughing, Asher put up a hand. “Sorry, you’re right. I take that back.”
But even as he chuckled and moved on to other ideas, my mind stuck to that one like the sticky cinnamon buns patrons had been devouring yesterday at Jolene’s.
What if food was the difference? What if that was the key?
I stood as an idea came to mind. “I might be a terrible baker, but Grandma Helen wasn’t.”
Mixed in with my memories of summers spent at this house were flashes of Grandma and I mixing up batches of cookies, scones, and even a few cakes. And while I didn’t have her to guide my hand anymore, I had the next best thing.
Snapping my fingers, I rushed into the kitchen where I’d found her box of handwritten recipes when I’d moved in. Asher trailed me, and I shook the box toward him.
“Maybe if I just follow her recipes perfectly, I can make something people would pay to eat.” A surge of self-doubt slammed into me as a look of concern flitted across Asher’s face.
After a moment, he fixed his face into a hopeful grin. “It’s worth a shot.”
My fingers fumbled with the latch on the front of the wooden box. I flipped through the small note cards, each covered in a plastic sleeve. My grandmother’s delicate cursive handwriting announced each recipe along the top, and the categories she had divided them into.
I could say with complete certainty that my meager culinary skills would crumble if I had to make any meals to order like Vicki did at the Marina Mug. So I located the Desserts section in the recipe box. I could make baked items in the morning before I opened, leaving my full concentration for tea service during business hours.
I plucked out a card and wafted it toward Asher. “Scones! Who doesn’t like tea and scones?” I asked rhetorically.
“People who are gluten free?” Asher suggested.
I waved a hand at him as if he were a mosquito. If I’d learned anything from my time living in Portland, it was that baking with alternative flours was difficult. I needed to focus on becoming proficient with traditional flour first before I attempted anything fancier.
“I’ll get those people some … berries, or something,” I said, shoving the recipe card into my back pocket. “I’m going to the store to pick up supplies.” Stopping in the kitchen’s doorway, I said, “Wanna come?”
“I think I’ll go out to the cannery to see if I can learn anything from the spirits out there.” He jerked his head toward the abandoned cannery down the coast.
It was a veritable ghost hang out. Not only did it seem like anyone who’d lived here within the last century had worked there at some point, but it was secluded enough that ghosts who didn’t enjoy keeping company with the living wouldn’t be bothered.
“If I’m lucky, I’ll find someone who worked there with Tabby thirty years ago and can tell us something that would solidify her as our killer,” Asher said.
“How do you know Tabby worked at the cannery thirty years ago?” I asked.
He shrugged. “A lucky guess. If she didn’t, she’s like the only person to grow up around here whose first job wasn’t at that cannery.”
He had a point. With that, Asher disappeared. I went into town.
The hot pleather seats in my car burned the backs of my legs, and the interior felt like a sauna—and not in a welcome, spa-day kinda way. But as I rolled down my windows and rounded the point near the lighthouse, the air moved and brought with it some relief. The sun glittered off the sapphire water to my right in the cove as I turned onto Cove Drive.
But any pleasant feelings I’d accumulated on the drive there were sent tumbling down like one of those giant games of Jenga the moment I arrived in town.
My stomach clenched with unease as I drove by the police station. I didn’t like this sensation of not trusting the police. Sure, I’d heard plenty of stories on the news and in documentaries about dirty cops, but I’d never had cause to mistrust them, especially not in the small town of Pebble Cove.
As much as Police Chief Clemenson and I didn’t see eye to eye, I’d always felt there was a mutual trust between us. But maybe it wasn’t warranted. When I’d first met the man, he’d reminded me of my late father. Was I letting the loss of my dad cloud my judgment?
Swallowing the doubts tightening in my throat, I kept driving and parked in the grocery store’s lot.
The air was hot and smelled like warm sand and seaweed. I patted my back pocket to make sure I had Grandma’s recipe card and walked inside Cove Grocer.
Seeing as how I wasn’t much of a cook—or a baker—I’d gotten rid of most of Grandma’s pantry items when I’d moved into the teahouse. The majority of them had expired anyway. Asher said that Grandma hadn’t been into baking the last few years, so she’d let her pantry lapse into expiration. Which meant I needed to pick up everything on the ingredient list if I wanted to make some scones.
Wallace, the owner of the grocery store, greeted me as I entered. “Hiya, Rosemary.” He smiled, the curled ends of his handlebar mustache moving along with his lips. “Quite the day out there.” He nodded to the bright blue, cloudless sky, visible out the large windows along the front of the store.
“It is.” I dipped my head in consensus.
The old, living in Portland version of me would’ve kept my head down and wandered through the store, aimlessly looking for the ingredients on my list. But Pebble Cove Rosemary was different. She wasn’t scared of being the center of attention—as much. Some people even called her Rosie occasionally. Sure, those people were mostly ghosts and my neighbor Daphne, but it felt like a new, carefree person I was within reach of becoming.
And while the Rosemary version of me had given into the burning need to find her grandmother’s murderer months earlier, the Rosie version of me seemed like someone who focused on making her tea shop the best it could be. She didn’t stick her nose in police business or expose local corruption.
I was finally fitting in. Did I want to throw that all away to avenge a man who, it turned out, wasn’t all that great anyway? I needed to trust that the chief and his officers would do the right thing. Lois’s death and the cover-up that ensued there were decades ago, long gone.
Pausing, I turned toward Wallace. He wiped down the counter with a wet rag, cleaning the area where people set their groceries. Cove Grocer wasn’t fancy enough to have the conveyor belts like in large chain stores.
“What can I help you with?” he asked, finishing up with one last swipe.
I pulled out the list in my pocket. “Where would I find lemon curd?”
Grandma had always put lemon curd on the scones when we made them together. The memory of the combination of tart and sweet with the fluffy, warm scones made me want to sigh. I needed lemon curd if I wanted to recreate what she used to make.
Wallace directed me to aisle three. “Next to the jams,” he said as I nodded and plucked a basket from the stack by the checkout counter.