Live and Let Chai (Seaside Café Mysteries)

by Bree Baker

  I turned away from the beach and headed through the marsh, following the wooden planks beneath my feet. Tenacious green stems poked through stringy bundles of dead seagrass. Spring in Charm was lovely, but soon everything would be in bloom, lush and wild, the way I loved it.

  Too soon, the bushy marsh shrank away, revealing a glimpse of Ocean Drive, the main road in town, in the distance. I slowed at the sight of an extra-large moving truck parked across multiple spaces outside the Gas-N-Go.

  Was I no longer the newest full-time citizen of Charm? A curious thrill buzzed over my skin. Was the person with the truck new-new, or newly returned, like me? Did I know them from my previous life here? Or was I about to meet a new friend?

  Booted feet moved beneath the truck’s long metal belly, nearing the back corner at a clip. I nearly held my breath in anticipation.

  The boots arrived in full view a moment later, attached to a pair of nicely fitting jeans and six feet of serious.

  I gave a low whistle, and the man’s head turned sharply in my direction. Keen gray eyes fixed me in place.

  “Oh.” He’d heard that? My heart raced and my cheeks burned with humiliation. I’d been caught whistling at a strange man. What was next? Catcalls from my porch?

  Slowly, he raised a palm in greeting.

  I spun on my toes and hightailed it back the way I’d come. I had far too much pride to meet a man who looked like that while I looked like this—basted in sweat, half-panting, and fully testing the integrity of my outgrown exercise gear. No way. No how. Nuh uh. I could only imagine what my crazy brown curls looked like after a couple of miles in a hasty bun.

  I didn’t slow my pace again until the regal outline of my home came into view. Ocean winds jostled the freshly painted Sun, Sand, and Tea sign over my cobblestone walk. The place was historic, majestic, and three floors of much-needed repair. A wide wraparound porch welcomed guests and stretched into an elaborate deck out back. The backyard had come complete with a picket fence-wrapped garden and small greenhouse overlooking the sea. A lighthouse-like tower rose into the sky with windows on every face and the best views of the Atlantic I’d ever seen. There were decks and verandas at every turn, and I could almost see the faces of aristocrats-past enjoying a party at the owner’s invitation. From the rear of my home I had a stunning eastern view of the sea, but the western-facing front of my home had a secret. There was a lovely view of the marsh and boardwalk, yes, but from the front windows of the tower, I could see all the way to the bay.

  Unlike the other houses along the seashore, mine had a uniquely Victorian flair and sat at the northernmost tip of our island, high on a cliff, safe from vicious seasonal storms and winds that threatened the town below. The nearest homes were all more than a stone’s throw away, but if the old adage was right about good fences making good neighbors, then I supposed a few hundred feet or so between them worked well too. It was the perfect place to show off and make a statement. I thought wryly of whoever commissioned the masterpiece all those years ago and what they might think of a poor pastry-school dropout owning the place today, serving iced tea where they’d once held grand balls.

  Despite the home’s undeniable grandeur, the place could use a handyman. My windows needed to be replaced, along with the tile in all four bathrooms. Chipped baseboards and dinged walls made regular appearances throughout the house, and almost every step had a little squeak. The hardwood floors were in need of refinishing, and the entire place was drafty. Not to mention the shutters, fences, and exterior railings were all overdue for a fresh coat of paint. It was shabby in the best way, true, but still undeniably worn down—and I had big plans for polishing the old place up. At minimum. I couldn’t even think about the hours of weeding that awaited me along the garden paths.

  A rustling in the weeds drew my attention, and I arced my path as far from the sound as possible without falling off the boardwalk and kept moving. The sun had set while I’d walked, leaving me in the beautiful but useless twilight, squinting against shadows in the marsh. My sincere and lifelong fear of bees was rivaled only by my fear of alligators, and I didn’t want to come face-to-face with one if I could avoid it.

  Something pale and bulbous on the ground caught my eye. The object was surrounded by smashed weeds and what looked like one of my café’s canning jars. Doomed by relentless curiosity—and willing to wash and reuse my jar if possible—I inched closer, hoping I wouldn’t meet an alligator.

  As I crept over the bank, the mysterious shape registered with a snap: I was looking at the top of someone’s bald head! I dashed forward and nearly swallowed my tongue at the sight of his face. “Mr. Paine!”

  I scrambled through crushed grass and fell to my knees at his side. “Mr. Paine?” I scanned the scene frantically for help. “Are you hurt?” I asked, patting his cool cheeks. How did a grown man fall off the boardwalk? “Mr. Paine. Wake up,” I ordered. “Open your eyes. Can you hear me?” I pressed two fingers to his wrist in search of a pulse, but my own trembling hands made it impossible to locate.

  Hot tears swam in my eyes. “Hold on,” I begged, moving my hands to his neck and roving inept fingertips over his sweat-dampened skin. Still nothing. “I’m going to call for help.” I dug my cell phone from my pocket and dialed 911. “Please nod if you can hear me.”

  I sent up a thousand silent prayers, but Mr. Paine didn’t nod. He didn’t move a finger, eyelid, or lip. Something awful had happened to him, and I had no idea how to help.

  Chapter Two

  Half the town had turned up with the emergency crews, watching suspiciously from the opposite side of some flimsy yellow caution tape. I was quarantined on the business side of said tape, seated in an ambulance’s open doorway and feeling helpless, wrapped in a blanket and waiting to make my formal statement so I could leave. I tugged the itchy fabric more tightly around my shoulders and hunched lower to corral my fading body heat. The temperature had plummeted since I’d left for my walk, and relentless wind had long-since dried my sweaty clothes, leaving my skin covered in goose bumps.

  “Tea?” My great-aunt Clara’s voice cut through my hazy thoughts. Her long silver and blond hair lashed her cheeks with each gust of wind. I’d called her and her sister, Aunt Fran, the moment I’d disconnected from the call with the emergency dispatch operator. They were my grandmother’s sisters, but had functioned more like surrogate mothers than anything else. Aunt Clara moved closer, holding a serving tray loaded with disposable cups of tea in her hands.

  A passing EMT accepted her offering with a grateful nod. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  A fresh gust of wind kicked up, tossing sand and pollen into the air.

  Aunt Clara turned her back against the gale, protecting her serving tray and attempting to cover the cups of tea with one arm. The airy fabric of her ivory kimono and ankle-length nightgown fluttered roughly against her narrow frame. While I’d been waiting to make my statement, she and Aunt Fran had been serving my tea to everyone in sight. I tried not to think of it as a massive inventory loss but more of a civic duty, an attempt to console the anxious crowd while we waited for a miracle. Mr. Paine was down, but maybe I had been wrong. Maybe he would be okay.

  As if responding to my thought, the paramedics who had been diligently attending to Mr. Paine slowly reemerged from the weeds. They climbed on to the boardwalk with deep regret in their eyes.

  One of them lifted his palms and faced the crowd. “I’m sorry.”

  The night grew silent, save for a few singing frogs and the continuous lull of breaking waves.

  I dropped my head to hide my face and stared at my dangling feet. Mr. Paine was really gone. I’d argued with him this afternoon, and now I could never apologize. Tears rolled over my cheeks and dropped onto the sand below.

  A pair of brown boots marched into view, stopping in the space before my sneakers. “Miss Swan?”

  I raised my eyes at the sound of my name. The man
from the moving truck earlier today peered down at me, a look of shock and recognition flashing in his serious eyes. He lifted the shiny silver badge hanging around his neck on a beaded chain. “I’m Detective Hays.”

  “Everly,” I choked out, unsure what else to say.

  He scrutinized me. “Did you know the victim?”

  “I found him,” I said. “And yes, I knew him. Did you say victim?” The rusty cogs of my mind finally creaked into motion. “What kind of detective are you?” I glanced at the grass-lined bank where a black body bag was being loaded onto a gurney. I covered my mouth and turned away.

  “Tonight? Homicide.”

  My mouth went dry. “What happened to him?”

  “Looks like poison.”

  I gasped. The crowd behind me murmured. Phones lit up with fresh buzzes and dings as people texted the news to friends and family.

  “Someone killed him? Intentionally?” My chest ached as it was wrenched with grief.

  Detective Hays nodded.

  Poison. The word rolled aimlessly in my addled mind. “Murder?” I whispered, trying to make the word sound logical. “Are you sure?”

  The detective flicked his attention to a white panel van as it rolled into view and parked beside the ambulance. “Preliminary evidence suggests it. We’ll know more soon. Meanwhile, I’m going to ask you to accompany me to the police station. I need a written statement from you, and I’d like to ask you a few questions, as well. I’d like to hear the details of the argument you had with the victim today.”

  I leaned away from him. He said statement, but it sounded suspiciously like confession.

  Panic welled in my chest. I wasn’t sure which was more horrifying: the fact that the detective thought there was a murderer in our little town or that he might think it was me. I swiveled my head in search of my great-aunts. Both were already moving in my direction, having handed off the trays of my tea samples to a pair of women who appeared as shocked as myself. They had clearly heard Detective Hays’s request.

  The aunts shoved past a line of local policemen. “Excuse us,” Clara implored, begging their pardon with her signature touch of sweetness. “Move it,” Fran demanded in her typical no-nonsense style. Their flowing gowns and long, sleek hair streamed behind them like superhero capes, and their protective eyes were locked on me.

  “Darling.” Clara patted my cheek and wrapped a bony arm around my shoulders. “This will be fine. I’m sure it’s standard procedure.”

  Fran cocked a hip and narrowed her smart brown eyes at the detective. “Is it?” she asked.

  The detective wrinkled his brow. “What?”

  “Standard procedure,” she clarified. “Are you taking her in so she can make a statement, or is taking her in your way of making a statement?”

  “What?”

  “She means,” Clara interjected, “is there some way Everly can do all that from here? She’s been through quite enough already, don’t you think? We can go inside and pour some sweet tea, then get whatever protocols and procedures you need out of the way without worrying the girl any more than she already is.”

  The detective’s sharp gray eyes snapped back to mine, clearly unmoved by my aunts’ interruption or Clara’s request. “Are you worried about talking to me? Any particular reason for that?”

  My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I hadn’t been worried before, but the way he looked at me implied I might want to reconsider.

  A woman in a ponytail and black jacket approached with a clipboard and plastic bag. “Detective?”

  He dragged his gaze begrudgingly from mine. “Yep.”

  She handed him the equivalent of a gallon freezer bag with a yellow label covering most of the front and something solid stuffed inside: one of my tea jars. “We found this at the victim’s side.”

  “Thank you.” Detective Hays turned the bag around in his palms and grimaced before facing the contents in my direction. “Is this yours?” He moved his attention from the tea jar in his grip to my eyes, then to the swinging sign above my front door bearing the same logo.

  I made a choking sound, unable to speak.

  He returned the bag to the woman. “Find out what was in this.”

  “Yes, sir.” She turned and disappeared into the glare of blinding spotlights erected near the crime scene.

  Detective Hays pressed wide palms over narrow hips. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me to make that statement.” He looked at my aunts with a hint of disdain. “And I think I’m going to have to pass on that tea.”

  Beside us, dozens of people scampered off, all moving double-time to dispose of their tea samples in the garbage cans nearby. The women who had been holding on to my serving trays set them carefully on the ground, then walked briskly away, taking multiple backward glances before breaking into a jog.

  My eyes blurred once more, this time with humiliation and rage. “I can’t believe you just insinuated that my tea killed Mr. Paine in front of half the town.” The words fell like stones off my tongue. “This is my business,” I cried. “My livelihood and my entire life savings. How could you do that to me without any proof?”

  The white van’s headlights flashed on and the engine sparked to life. A small black logo on the rear corner identified it as property of the county coroner.

  Detective Hays watched, jaw clenching and releasing, as the vehicle rolled away. “Right now I’m more interested in why someone did that to him.”

  • • •

  The Charm police station was housed in a new brick building on the bay side of town, as far from my home as any place could be without leaving the island. The station faced the mainland, with great views of the bay and the two-mile bridge that carried travelers to and from reality. Until tonight, Charm had always seemed somewhat untouchable by the things news crews covered across the bay. We didn’t have crime and corruption. Sometimes there was a bit of litter, but never anything like citizen-on-citizen violence.

  Detective Hays opened the station door and held it for me to pass through.

  While I’d never been to the police station, I had spent more hours than I could count inside the Nature Preservation Society office next door, volunteering with Aunt Clara and Aunt Fran. They were the only two beekeepers in Charm, and they went to great lengths to educate folks on the importance of nurturing the population of our buzzy little friends. I’d made posters, passed out flyers, and tried desperately not to get stung, never giving the policemen and women next door a single thought.

  The building’s interior wasn’t what I expected. It was laid out in a similar way to the Nature Preservation Society, but it smelled like bleach and air freshener rather than dust and leaves. The white-tiled floor and pale green walls reminded me of a doctor’s office, as did the uncomfortable silence. Curious eyes trailed us through the lobby, past a cop manning the front desk and a cleaning crew dusting framed photos and emptying pint-sized trash bins.

  “Right this way, please, Miss Swan.” The detective led me down a narrow hallway lined with office doors to a little room with a big mirror and no window. “Can I get you anything before we get started?”

  “No.” Though legal representation crossed my mind. I took a seat and avoided eye contact. My scrambled brain raced with too many thoughts, some logical and some not. Everything whirled together into a cyclone of anxiety. I wasn’t sure I could answer any questions without crying.

  The detective produced a pad of paper and a pen and slid them in front of me. “This is for your written account.”

  I set one palm on the little stack of items and sniffled. Guilt twisted inside of me. Even if I wasn’t a murderer, I’d been mean to an old man on a daily basis for weeks. I’d gotten the café I’d wanted, despite his best efforts to prevent it, and I’d still let him bait and goad me about tea ingredients. And now he was gone.

  “Let’s start
with something simple,” Detective Hays said, pulling a chair away from the table and seating himself opposite me. He stripped off his black windbreaker and hung it over the back of his chair. The unassuming gray T-shirt beneath seemed out of place in the sterile room. “Why did you run when I saw you earlier tonight?”

  The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, and I shivered. His tone and disposition spoke of something more significant than the actual words he was saying. I had no idea what that might be, but my aunts had always said I had a sixth sense about people, and I was certain Detective Hays was about to change my life—probably for the worse.

  “Miss Swan,” he prodded.

  I lifted my aching eyes to meet his measured stare. “What?”

  “I saw you on the boardwalk earlier, approximately half an hour before receiving a call that there had been a potential homicide nearby. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the woman who’d found the victim was the same woman who’d taken one look at me and run off only minutes after the victim’s estimated time of death.”

  My mouth opened. Words clogged my throat. I’d run from the cute guy in the moving truck because I was gross and too vain to speak to him in my sweaty condition. “I didn’t know you were a cop.”

  “Then why’d you run?”

  I looked down at myself, and a humbling realization set in: I was still in the too-tight exercise pants. Still painted in sweat. Probably covered in bits of marsh weeds now and housing a swarm of gnats in my ratty hair. I dropped my face into waiting palms with a long groan.

  “Care to elaborate?” he asked.

  I rocked my head side to side. I did not.

  “Miss Swan,” he began again, shifting in his seat and resting his forearms on the table between us. “Is it true that you had an argument with the victim earlier today?”