Prose and Cons

by Amanda Flower

  She waved away my concern. “It’s just allergies,” she said, sounding a bit hoarse.

  I wanted to argue with her more, but she went on to say, “Speaking of long stories, I really should be working on my book, you know,” she said. “I’m about three chapters from the end.”

  “Congratulations!” I glanced around the shop. “Have you seen Sadie?”

  Trudy smiled. “Last I saw her, she was inside her shop doing a brisk business. I was glad to see it. It’s important she go on with business as usual. You should never let your circumstances hold you back from living your dream. Ever. You have to fight for everything you have.”

  She said it with so much ferocity that I blinked. Recovering quickly, I said, “I’m glad. Maybe I should go over there and check on her.”

  She shook her head. “No, dear, she needs to get back into the swing of things, so that life will become normal for her again. You going over there and talking about the murder will just upset her.”

  I frowned. “I don’t think . . .”

  “Trust me on this. Has your first-grade teacher ever steered you wrong?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “That’s right. Now, I see a young woman over there in the mystery section eyeing a collector’s edition of Agatha Christie. Go close that sale.” She gave me a little shove, and I did what I was told.

  The remainder of the day was uneventful. I helped Grandma Daisy with sales and in between customers, I marked the response papers from my morning class, which seemed like a lifetime ago. Just before the shop closed, I was able to sneak away across the street to Midcentury Vintage. I was hoping to find Sadie and ask her about her breakup with Grant, but when I went over to the shop, I found it closed and Sadie nowhere to be found.

  After closing Charming Books, Grandma Daisy went home, clearly tired from the busy day. It wasn’t every day that she was interviewed by cable television, and I was grateful for that. She asked me if I wanted to stay with her for another night because I might feel odd sleeping in Charming Books, where Anastasia had died. I opted to stay in my own apartment in the bookshop. Just like Trudy said about Sadie, my life needed to get back to normal too.

  When the shop was quiet, I sat on the spiral staircase that wrapped around the birch tree. Emerson was at my side, not telling me what he had been up to all day, and Faulkner loomed over us both in the white branches. I held the bent copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s works that I had carried around in the back pocket of my jeans all day, and set it on my lap. “All right, what should I read?” I asked the shop. My voice echoed off the open staircase.

  Nothing happened.

  I sighed. I shouldn’t have expected the essence would work on command. I was just about to lift the book from my lap and open it myself when pages began to flutter. I held my hands suspended over the book, not touching a thing. The fluttering slowed and the book fell open again to “The Purloined Letter.”

  Like “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Purloined Letter” was one of Poe’s detective stories featuring the detective C. Auguste Dupin. Thinking of that made me remember Chief Rainwater in his Dupin costume the day before, and even though I was completely alone in the bookshop except for the animals, I found myself blushing. It might have been the tweed.

  “Nevermore,” Faulkner chided.

  I shot the large black bird a look.

  I needed to understand why the shop insisted on this story. The only way to do that was to read.

  “At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn,” the story began.

  As I read the line silently to myself, the wind picked up outside, and I could hear the wind chime that hung from Charming Books’ front porch jingle and clank as the metal pieces knocked against one another.

  I bent my neck back, looking up into the tree’s silvery boughs. “You can’t control the weather too? Can you? Because that would just be freaky.”

  As usual, my question was met with silence, and so I turned back to the story. I was so engrossed in Poe’s tale that I didn’t hear someone knocking on the front door of Charming Books until Emerson smacked my hand with his paw and then leaped from the staircase to the floor.

  Pound, pound, pound, the knocks on the door came.

  “Nevermore,” Faulkner said hauntingly above my head.

  I swallowed and stood. Was I living out my very own “Raven” moment just like when the narrator thought someone was there and it turned out to be the wind . . . or so he tried to convince himself?

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  That was most certainly not the wind.

  The moonlight poured through the skylight above the tree. The light reflected off the tree’s white bark, giving it a ghostly silver sheen.

  I looked through the small four-paned window in the front door and found Chief David Rainwater standing there. I threw open the door. Behind him, leaves that had been stripped from the trees by the fierce wind swirled in little cyclones. “Come in and get out of the wind.”

  He stepped across the threshold. “Thank you. The weather is certainly changing. I expect we may have snow by Halloween.”

  “That will be no fun for the trick-or-treaters, including your niece. What is she going as?”

  His face softened when I mentioned Aster. “Joan of Arc. She read about her in school, and now Joan is Aster’s heroine. Somehow my sister has to find child-sized chain mail by Halloween night or we are going to have a very upset girl knight on our hands.”

  I chuckled. “I know I only spoke to Aster for a couple of minutes, but that doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  He smiled. “She liked meeting you. Both she and my sister did.”

  His comment brought back Aster saying that the chief spoke about me. Did he say good things about me? I was too chicken to ask.

  “Thank you for being so kind to them.” His face clouded over. “Danielle has not had an easy time of it. Her husband isn’t being reasonable as far as the divorce is concerned, and she’s having a hard time finding a job. This week has been better for that. She worked for the village helping set up the tents for the festival.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Is there anything that I can do to help your sister? Maybe I can ask around to see who is hiring.”

  His face broke into a smile. “Just you offering is enough.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I wished there was something that I could do for his sister and his niece.

  “I’m sorry to be barging in on you like this,” he said, plucking a leaf from the shoulder of his coat. “It’s late and I should have called.”

  “It’s fine.” I held up the book in my hand. “I was just reading.”

  His smile widened. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  “Do you want something to drink?” I asked. “I can make tea or I’m sure that Grandma Daisy has something stronger in one of the cupboards. She’s partial to Baileys.”

  He shook his head. “Water’s fine. Nothing stronger than that. Thanks. I’m still on duty. A police officer’s work is never done.”

  “And I suppose that is especially true for a police chief in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  He frowned. “Yes.”

  “Have a seat on the sofa and I’ll grab your water.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I hurried into the kitchen with Emerson on my heels. The police chief didn’t stop me although the kitchen was still technically part of the crime scene. The swinging door closed shut behind us, and I grasped the granite countertop to steady myself. What was Rainwater doing here? It had to be about the murder. There could be no other reason. “Get a grip, Violet,” I told myself.

  On the other side of the room, a bright yellow X of crime scene tape blocked the doorway that led to the back stairs of the house. A garish reminder of the location of Anastasia Faber’s death.

&nbs
p; Emerson leaped onto the kitchen stool and cocked his head to me, dropping the black side of his face lower than the white. His markings were such that when he closed his left eye, it made him look like a pirate with a black eye patch.

  I took a glass from the overhead cabinet and filled it with cold tap water, straightened my shoulders, and went back into the main part of the shop.

  Rainwater sat in the middle of the couch closest to the cash register. I handed the water glass to him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I stepped back and took in my seating options. The other couch seemed too far away for a serious conversation, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit next to Rainwater. Finally, I perched on the edge of the coffee table directly across from him. The coffee table was a good two feet from the couch. He smiled as if he had read every last thought that flashed across my mind during my momentary dilemma.

  He sipped from his water. “I stopped by because I wanted to tell you that I spoke with Fenimore, the troubadour, about Anastasia.”

  I forgot my awkwardness and leaned forward. “What did he say?”

  “He clearly didn’t know who I was talking about. He doesn’t know who Evanna Blue is either.”

  “Maybe he killed her at random, then?” I said even though I knew I was reaching. “Or it was an accident.”

  He shook his head. “If Anastasia had died in an accident or a random act of violence, I might believe that it was possible, but her death was planned, premeditated, and personal.”

  I shifted away from him. “It’s still possible he might have done it,” I said, refusing to give up on my theory.

  “He has an alibi,” Rainwater said. “At the time of her death, he was playing his guitar in the middle of the Food and Wine Festival. Dozens of people saw him. I asked around and already half the vendors at the festival I spoke to confirmed he was there.”

  “But you yourself said that the nicotine could have been placed on the dress at any time. An alibi doesn’t really hold up in a case like that.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  My gaze met his amber eyes. “Sure.”

  “Why did you suspect Fenimore had anything to do with the murder? When you told me about it at the festival today, you actually appeared frightened.” He smiled. “And in full disclosure that’s why I stopped by tonight. I could have told you everything I’d just said during a simple phone call. I just had to see with my own eyes that you were all right.”

  My pulse quickened. “As you can see, I’m fine.”

  He studied me as he sipped from his water glass. “What is it about Fenimore that bothers you so much?”

  Again, I was unable to share with the police chief what the troubadour had said about my mother.

  He broke eye contact with me as if he was disappointed with my lack of an answer and set the water glass on the coaster on an end table next to him. “Well, I should let you get back to your reading, then.”

  He stood up, and I stood at the exact same time. We were face-to-face, mere inches from each other. For a half second that seemed like a year, we just stared at each other. All I could hear was my blood pulsing in my ears. All I could see was his eyes. This close, I could see they were more than amber. There were also tiny flecks of gold in his irises.

  “Nevermore!” Faulkner cried, breaking up the moment. I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed by the crow’s interruption. Perhaps a little bit of both.

  Rainwater slipped out of the tight place, brushing across my body as he went. He moved over to the foot of the birch tree as if he wanted to put some distance between us. “Has anyone ever commented on how unusual it is to have a tree like this growing indoors?”

  I found my voice. “All the time.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Over two hundred years,” I said. “It was here when my ancestress Rosalee built the house. She wanted to save the tree, so she built her home around it.”

  His brow creased. “That is unusually old for a birch tree.”

  “Oh,” I said, internally kicking myself for revealing the age of the tree. It wasn’t a secret, or at least I hadn’t thought it was until Rainwater made that comment. “I don’t think it’s that uncommon. My family has nursed and watched over the tree for so long. It seems natural that it would remain alive with such good care and protection from the elements.”

  He stared up into the boughs. “Maybe.”

  I swallowed. Did Rainwater suspect something about the tree? “You know Sadie didn’t do this. She was framed.”

  “If I thought Sadie killed Anastasia, I would have arrested her already.” He looked at me. “I have more than enough evidence to do it. I agree with you that she was framed. Unfortunately, I must find an alternative suspect relatively fast or I might have to arrest her no matter what I believe.”

  I folded my arms around my waist. “You can’t. Not when you know she is innocent.”

  “If the county DA tells me to, I don’t have much of a choice. Thankfully he’s allowing me more time because of Sadie’s relationship with the Mortons. No one wants to upset the Morton family unnecessarily, as you know.”

  Oh, I knew better even than he did. I didn’t tell him that Grant and Sadie broke up a week ago, long before the murder.

  Rainwater walked to the front door. “You know birch trees are sacred to my people,” he said when he reached the door.

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  He gave one last look to the tree. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  I forced a laugh. “Wonder about what?”

  He shook his head. “Good night, Violet.” He went out the door.

  “Good night,” I said as I closed and locked the door after him.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The next morning, I woke with sunshine streaming onto my face, which was pouring in through the skylight above the tree. I lay on my back on one of the couches that flanked either side of Charming Books’ enormous fireplace. Emerson lay on my stomach, kneading my breastbone. I rubbed sleep from my eyes. After Rainwater left the night before, I’d fallen asleep on the couch while researching Poe’s work.

  “Up and at ’em” Faulkner cawed.

  I groaned and rolled over to my stomach, causing Emerson to jump onto the back of the couch.

  The volume of Poe’s works was splayed open on the floor. I had been up into the wee hours reading the entire book from cover to cover, and I still didn’t know what the shop’s essence was trying to tell me by directing me to read “The Purloined Letter.” The lesson had to be to look for the obvious. But in the case of Anastasia’s death what was the obvious? It all appeared to be unclear to me.

  Then, it hit me.

  “Her brother!” I cried, sitting straight up. “Her brother, who now stands to inherit the fortune she made as Evanna Blue.” I jumped off the couch. “I need to find Coleridge Faber and find out what he knows.”

  Coleridge must still be in the village. Cascade Springs, being a tourist town, had no shortage of places where he could be staying. The village boasted at least twenty bed-and-breakfasts, and he could even be staying in Anastasia’s home. I couldn’t eliminate that as a possibility.

  Faulkner flew over my head and landed on his favorite branch in the birch tree.

  I ducked. “Cut that out. One of these days you’re going to hit me.”

  He cackled in reply.

  Emerson hissed at the bird. At least I had my tuxie in my corner.

  It was a little after seven in the morning. The shop didn’t open until ten, but I knew Grandma Daisy would arrive just before nine to start the day. That gave me a little less than two hours to track down Coleridge. It would take all day to call every bed-and-breakfast and inquire if he was a guest there, and that was assuming they would tell me, when I knew most, wanting to protect their guests’ privacy, would not.
I did have another idea. It was a long shot, but if it panned out, it would save me a great deal of time.

  I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and found the battery was almost dead. I had forgotten to plug it in the night before, not surprising seeing how I had forgotten to go to bed at all. I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for La Crepe Jolie. I prayed that Lacey would answer. I knew she was just beginning her breakfast rush, which must be even bigger than normal because of the Food and Wine Festival. Business would be brisk, and she might not have a spare moment to answer the phone.

  “La Crepe Jolie, how may I help you?” Lacey asked in a breathless voice in my ear.

  “Lacey, it’s Violet,” I said.

  “Violet, it’s so good to hear from you. How are you this morning?” Her voice was bright and cheery as always. No one calling La Crepe Jolie would have guessed she had been up since four baking the fresh cookies and pastries for the café.

  “Fine. What about you?”

  “It’s bedlam over here,” she said, clearly out of breath. “I can hardly keep up.”

  “Maybe you should take a break when this week is over. You and Adrien should treat yourselves with a weekend away,” I said. “The Food and Wine Festival week must be absolutely swamped for you.”

  “To be honest, it’s not just the festival. Our business has grown leaps and bounds over the last year since Adrien started the catering side of the business.”

  “Are you looking to hire more staff?”

  “I think it’s time. It’s just taking some effort to convince Adrien. He loves the café being just our little place, but if we want to continue to grow, we’re going to need more help.” She chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re asking because you’re looking for a job. Don’t you have enough to do already?”

  I glanced at the tree. “More than enough. I asked because I know Danielle Cloud is looking for work. She’s the chief’s younger sister.”

  “Oh, I know Danielle. I didn’t know she was looking. Has she had food service experience?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” I admitted.