by Bree Baker
Besides, I was reluctant to draw Detective Hays’s attention again, and any new police report from me would undoubtedly be turned over to the man investigating me for murder. He’d complain that I’d messed with the broken tape and nosed into the restricted area. I had to admit that from his perspective I probably looked more meddlesome than helpful.
Thankfully, that was about to change.
“Everly?” Aunt Clara’s sweet voice carried up from the garden to my ears. It was the sort of sound that tamed beasts and enchanted fairies. If she were a vending machine, Clara would dispense hugs. Aunt Fran would dole out sass.
I’d probably provide unsound judgment.
I hopped out of my rocker and leaned over the crisp white deck railing. “Hello! Good morning!”
Aunt Clara was alone. Her pale hair floated in the wind around her shoulders, like clouds against the backdrop of a peaceful surf. She pressed a floppy straw hat to her head with one hand and balanced her vintage beach bicycle with the other. Its wire handlebar basket was filled with fresh flowers wrapped in newspaper and what looked like an old blue watering can.
“Come up!” I ran through the café in bare feet, leaving the glass patio door open behind me to invite the ocean inside, but I’d latched the screen in case Lou got any ideas about becoming an indoor seagull.
I beat her to my front porch and waited on the stairs. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I called over the railing. “Thank you for agreeing to watch the shop this morning.”
Aunt Clara rested her bicycle against my wooden handrail and gathered the things from her basket. “It’s no trouble. I brought you some flowers. Every place needs flowers.”
I pressed the door wide with one hip and waited for her to pass. “They’re beautiful.”
She kissed my cheek on her way across the threshold. “I’m sorry Fran couldn’t make it. She’s elbow-deep in beeswax.”
“It’s okay. I’ll visit her later.” I smiled tentatively. “Can we talk?”
“Always.”
I didn’t want to repeat what had happened at the marsh out loud, but the episode had haunted me all night, and I doubted I’d sleep again until I told someone. I needed to know if I was wrong to worry my attacker might have been Mr. Paine’s killer and wanted to hear it was okay to still feel afraid, even in the light of day. “You’re not going to like it.”
Aunt Clara filled two jars with tea and pushed one in my direction. “You can tell me anything, Everly.”
“Okay.” I started with the broken crime scene tape, then ended with the abandoned oar and the insanely long shower I’d needed to feel clean again.
“Are you hurt badly?” she asked, eyes wide with fear. “Why didn’t you call us? Have you seen a doctor?” She covered her mouth with one hand and color drained from her cheeks.
“I’m fine,” I promised. “Shaken, but okay.”
“You could’ve been killed!”
I’d thought the same thing in a moment of panic. “But I was only paddled. Humiliated, basically, and left to cry alone. I kept the paddle.”
She wrapped me in her arms and cradled my head to her shoulder the way she had all my life whenever I was upset. “Poor darling.” If a thing couldn’t be fixed inside Aunt Clara’s hug, it probably couldn’t be fixed at all.
Too soon, she kissed my head and released me. “What did the police say? They’re looking into it, I hope. That’s the second act of aggression this town has had in as many days. We can’t have some lunatic on the loose attacking people.” She returned to her tea and rested her elbows on the counter, setting her chin in her hands.
“Well.” I debated how to answer honestly. I’d stayed awake devising acceptable reasons to avoid calling the police, but hadn’t made a plan for telling my aunts that I decided against it.
“You told the police,” she insisted.
“No.”
“Why not?” she cried. “You were assaulted. Someone needs to have record of that.”
“I’ll report it,” I said, unsure if that was true. “I just wasn’t up to it last night. I’m still not sure there’s even a point.”
“There’s a point. Wait until Fran hears about this.”
“Where did you say she is?” I asked, changing the subject. “Did you say she’s doing something with wax?”
Aunt Clara gave me a long look, probably debating how hard to push me on the police report. She relented with a sigh. “Well, I probably shouldn’t say,” she began, “but Fran met a man last night, and they hit it off.”
I steepled my fingers and wiggled my brows in anticipation of the full story. Knowing my aunts, it could be anything. I prepared to be shocked. “Do tell.”
Aunt Clara took a moment to consider my goofy face. “Fine. His name is Henry, and he’s a four-star general from the Union army. Everyone knows that Fran is a sucker for a man in uniform, so she’s promised to make him two hundred and eighty wax sticks for sealing invitations to the Civil War reenactment down at Atlantic Beach next month.”
My shoulders drooped in relief. Henry was a general in the pretend Union army. For a moment, I’d thought poor Aunt Clara’s mind had finally gone out to pasture. “Well, at least tell me he was handsome,” I teased.
Aunt Clara filled the broad metal watering can with cold water and set it on my counter. She unpacked the flowers and arranged them skillfully. “He was, but Fran was never a sucker for a pretty face. That’s always been me. She’s a shrewd businesswoman who loves a nice-fitting uniform. Their relationship is doomed anyway. He’s a Yankee.”
“Can’t have that.” I smiled. “Where’s he from originally?”
I watched as she finished the arrangement and carried it to my cozy reading area in the corner. She set the watering-can vase on the wicker coffee table.
“Philadelphia.”
“Ah.” He was out of luck with Fran, then. Every woman had a line she wouldn’t cross when it came to the men her life; Fran’s was the Mason-Dixon. “Well, I’m sorry I missed Aunt Fran today, but I’m very glad you’re here. I have a mission.”
She returned to my counter and divided the remaining blooms into half a dozen mason jars, then carried those to the café tables. “It’s no problem. I was coming by this morning anyway.”
“You were?”
“Mm-hmm. I’d already invited some friends to meet me here for tea. Do you think you could say hello and give them a little talk about Sun, Sand, and Tea?”
“Friends?” I wrinkled my nose and tried to recall the last time I’d seen either of my aunts out with friends. A coalition of beekeepers popped into my mind, all arriving in their hooded suits for tea. I smiled. Honestly, I didn’t care what anyone arrived in as long as they arrived.
Aunt Clara fluffed and adjusted the brightly colored blooms. “They’re fellow historians,” she said. “I met them last month when I dropped in on one of their meetings. Their official group name is The Society for the Preservation and Retelling of Unrecorded History. Kitty Hawk Charter,” she added. “I’ve tried to get a group started in Charm for years, but there just isn’t enough interest.”
“There’s a group dedicated to retelling unrecorded history?” I asked. “That sounds like a club for sharing really old gossip.”
“Pish-posh,” she chided. “Just because no one wrote it down doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. And just because people do write something down doesn’t mean it is true.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I thought of the mean blog commenters. “So what’s the temperature on the Town Charmer today?” I asked carefully.
“Cold,” she answered. “The blogger seems to be covering the situation fairly, but there hasn’t been much new information, so the content has gotten…creative.”
My tummy rolled. I’d considered reading the blog with my morning coffee, but assumed that would be a terrible way to start my day, and
I wanted to stay positive. Still, I needed to know what people were saying about me if I was going to turn the bad press around. “Creative?” I asked.
“Yeah. The charts and graphs don’t help.”
“There are charts?”
She nodded, flipping one palm out, then the other. “Before you left? No crime. Three months after your return? Murder.” Aunt Clara shook her head. “The constant polling keeps it all going. What do we really know about Everly Swan?” she intoned. “Is the Swan family curse growing?”
“Great.” Now folks were talking about my family’s three-hundred-year string of bad luck as if it really was a curse. “The commenters must love all those opportunities for negativity.”
“There are only a few haters,” she argued. “You get those everywhere. Most Charmers are reasonable and curious. You just need to get out and talk to them. Pull back the curtain.”
I let the subject drop. It only took a few haters to stoke the fire currently destroying my reputation, and I wasn’t sure how to mend fences with the public at large. Especially when I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Aunt Clara decorated my tables with her usual pizazz and unfettered verve. “I thought this would be the perfect location for the preservation society’s April meeting, so I made the suggestion and voila! Plus, I’ve been wanting to get by and bring you some flowers. The bees are sending our beds into a tizzy. Pollinating everything. I can barely keep up. We’ll be overrun in no time at this rate.” She placed the final jar, then turned to admire her work. “Now, isn’t that nicer? Flowers bring the outside in.” She closed her eyes and opened her arms wide, palms up. “Feel that energy?”
“Uh-huh.” I went to the café fridge and unloaded several trays of prepoured sweet tea in sample-sized cups. I’d put my sleepless hours last night to good use, slicking Sun, Sand, and Tea stickers onto each unit and sealing them with matching lids. “I made an extra batch of Grandma’s favorite recipe, and I’m going to take it to town today. Remind everyone that I’m not a bad guy, and my tea’s worth trying.”
“That’s the spirit.” She smiled. “Good for you, but how are you going to get all that in to town?”
I waggled my eyebrows, then went to the closet for my surprise. “Ta-da!” I returned with my childhood wagon, a Radio Flyer that was once red and rusted but now sported a happy coat of aqua paint with bold white stripes and my shop name stenciled down the middle in bright yellow.
“That’s adorable,” Aunt Clara cooed. She clapped once and leaned in for a closer look.
“Amelia gave me the idea when I ran into her last night hauling books. You left the wagon here when you helped me move in, and I found it again while I was cleaning. I had plenty of paint left over from the café renovation, so I gave it a makeover. You really like it?”
“Like it? I love this wagon. I remember when you used to fit inside it. You, your blanket, and about a hundred sand toys.”
The sound of footfalls drew my attention to the front porch.
Aunt Clara perked up. “They’re here.” She hustled to the door and waved a small crowd of people inside. “Come in!” She hugged the guests one by one, kissed their cheeks, and squeezed their hands. “Everyone, this is my grandniece, Everly Swan. Everly, this is the Society for the Preservation and Retelling of Unrecorded History, Kitty Hawk chapter.”
The group seated themselves at my newly decorated tables, filling all but two of the chairs, then turned expectant eyes on me.
“Welcome to Sun, Sand, and Tea,” I said. “I’m so glad y’all could make it this morning.” I hustled around the counter and lined up some clean jars. “What can I get started for you? Something specific? Just a whole lot of samples? Anything? Everything?” I hiked up my smile, and hoped they were paying customers.
“Peach tea,” one woman called.
“Me too,” several voices echoed.
I turned wide eyes to Aunt Clara. Detective Hays and his team of badged thieves had stolen my peach tea, and I hadn’t bothered making more, since the whole town thought it was poison.
“Oh.” Aunt Clara swept dramatically in my direction, dragging her fingertips over the counter like an actress on stage. “Peach is very good, but you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Everly’s”—she turned her back to the crowd and lifted overplucked eyebrows at me—“help me now, sweetie, what was it you named that life-changing blend? It’s completely slipped my mind.”
“Honey Ginger?” I named the first tea that came to mind.
“That’s the one,” Aunt Clara agreed, “and the dear uses honey from our hives to make it. It’s fantastic. So is the Vanilla and Lavender Tea. That’s a longtime favorite of mine too.”
I poured a few glasses of Honey Ginger. “The lavender comes from the family homestead, as well.” There were acres of every flower and herb I’d ever want at Clara and Fran’s home. The land had been passed down for generations, Swan woman to Swan woman, and cultivated by the very best. One sad day, it would all be mine. Given a choice, I’d prefer keeping my aunts forever.
“Do you also raise produce?” someone asked.
“Heavens, no,” Clara shook her head vehemently. “For that, Everly calls the Goat Lady.”
The group looked at me. I lined up another row of jars and filled them with the various flavors of the day.
“The Goat Lady has the only truly organic farm on the island,” I explained. “It’s where we get our fruits, veggies, poultry, and dairy. Her real name is Hana, but I think she actually prefers being called the Goat Lady.” I smiled. “She moved from Russia to America to study English because she was a teacher back home, but she fell in love and stayed. She’s been farming here ever since. Maybe twenty years now.”
Hana was one of my favorite people in the world. She raised pygmy goats and made their milk into everything from soap to cheese, and I was pretty sure her garden was tended by fairies. Everything that came from Hana’s farm was magical.
I poured the final glass of tea and beamed. “The samples are ready.”
I moved through the room, setting an array of teas on each table. “Drink up. Enjoy. Will y’all be doing anything else while you’re in Charm today?”
Clara drummed on the counter in a cute little rhythm. “First we’re going to enjoy your tea and tour your home. Then, we’ll have a quick walk along the beach and boardwalk, a visit to Blessed Bee, and dinner at the homestead tonight, where I can show off the family estate, the bees, the gardens, and Fran’s heavenly cooking.”
“That sounds like a full day.” I eyeballed my wagon full of sweating cups. “Maybe I should do this another time?” I looked to Aunt Clara for advice. She hadn’t said anything about all these plans when I asked her to watch the shop for an hour or two.
“Nope.” She waved her fingers at me. “You go. We’ll be here long enough for you to deliver your samples and say hello to the locals. Maybe make a stop at the police station while you’re out,” she suggested. “They’d probably love some tea. If you get caught up, don’t worry about it. I’ll flip the CLOSED sign on our way out.”
“Wait.” I worked backward through the conversation. “Did you say you’re going to tour my home?” The words had just made it to my brain. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, but at least I had cleaned up after the police had tossed it.
Clara lifted her jar to her lips and smiled behind the rim. She cast her gaze across the crowded tables and addressed her friends, who hung on her every word. “Did you know that this home is more than one hundred and seventy years old? It was originally commissioned by a wealthy businessman up north for an extremely beautiful young woman named Magnolia Baine. A distant relative of ours, if I’m not mistaken.” She flicked a glance my way.
The crowd gave a collective “Oooo.”
I lifted the wagon handle and started for the door. If I didn’t hurry, the ice would melt before I made it to Main Street.
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“Her beau was more than twenty years her senior. And married,” Aunt Clara said.
“Ahhhh.”
“He had children older than Magnolia, but that didn’t matter to either of them. Their love was the stuff other women whispered about over cards and toddies. It’s said that the affair was torrid and shameless, often resulting in undrawn blinds after dark. They were simply too caught up in one another to care or remember that the man was married, for goodness’ sake!” She made eye contact with everyone in the room, giving each listener a moment to let it all settle in. “One night, the man’s wife came looking for him, worried his carriage had taken a spill or that he’d been robbed of his escort, and she discovered him in Magnolia’s arms. Saw it with her own eyes, right through the open window. His wife was so wretched, she walked straight into the sea, and when the young girl realized her actions had caused the death of another woman, she cast herself from the roof tower. The man was left to grow mad in these very halls, unable to leave the place where his selfishness had ended the lives of the women he loved.”
The jaws of Aunt Clara’s friends were nearly on the floor as she wound the farfetched tale into something completely salacious and utterly of her own making.
I maneuvered the wagon onto the porch outside the door. I had a killer to catch and wares to peddle. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by Aunt Clara’s “retellings of unrecorded history,” though stories of my new home fascinated me.
I’d dreamed of living here since the first time I’d seen the property as a child. When it came on the market the day I moved home, I knew it was fate. When I realized I could own it and open my iced tea shop inside, I couldn’t think of anything else until it was mine.