by Bree Baker
“At least the police station is next door,” I said, offering an extremely thin silver lining. The nature center and police station stood in tandem along the bay, sharing a parking lot and picturesque views of the sunset. “I guess we’re lucky in that way.” Most businesses in town didn’t bother with surveillance. Cameras were expensive to purchase. So were maintenance and upkeep plans. Plus, crime was low in Charm. Most folks would just lose the money spent on security tech, not to mention the monthly bill for video surveillance storage on the cloud. I’d looked into all those things this year. Ultimately, I’d decided the only security measures in my budget were deadbolts and better judgment.
“It didn’t help that some moron left the back door unlocked,” Grady said, preparing to dig into the second slice of cake. “I suppose that was Odette, making her private phone call.”
I wrinkled my nose. “It might also have been Wyatt. That was how he snuck Amelia and Mr. Butters in early without the crowd noticing.”
Grady whispered a curse. “Well, if we’ve got that on camera, it’s not going to help Butters’s case.” He rubbed the dark skin beneath his eyes, and I took notice again of the way he looked miserable and emotionally spent.
“Hey,” I began carefully, drawing his eyes back to mine. “You haven’t been around much lately. Denise says you travel on your days off and stay holed up in your office after your shifts. You want to talk about that?”
“Not really,” he said. “I’ve just been busy.”
“With?” I asked lightly, twisting on my barstool in his direction for a more direct look at his face.
Grady returned his attention to my phone screen. “I’ve been helping Olivia look for her husband.”
An electric current of enthusiasm ripped through me at the candor in his response. Grady was opening up! Sharing his secrets. Trusting me. “How’s it going?” I asked.
I’d researched Senator Denver the moment I realized she was Grady’s late wife’s mother. It hadn’t taken long to learn her husband, a member of the CIA, had gone missing shortly after their daughter’s death. Rumors suggested suicide over a broken heart. But there had never been a funeral.
If the senator’s husband was alive, Grady could find him.
“How do you think it’s going?” Grady asked, his lips twitching in the almost-smile I loved.
“You found him,” I whispered, instinctively lowering my voice and leaning closer. “Holy cannoli. You found him! Didn’t you? Was he alive? Is he hurt?”
“He was on assignment,” Grady said. “That was all Olivia knew when she asked for my help. He’s been deep undercover since shortly after Amy died.” He paused, the way he always did after speaking his late wife’s name. “But Oliva needed to reach him. So, I did.”
I waited for more information, but Grady’s jaw locked. Clearly, there was more to that story, but he wasn’t ready to share it with me. He swiped my phone to life again, then turned the screen to face me.
I tapped my access code and released the device back into his care.
Grady stared at the three-word threat and honeybee image. “Who could have sent this message?” he asked. “Who have you talked to about Mitzi’s death? What did they say?”
I watched him for a long moment before speaking. “Are you mad at me?” I asked, confused and a little miffed by his accusatory tone. “None of this is my fault. I barely spent five minutes with Mitzi before she was killed. I don’t follow her online. I’m not a fan of her films. I’m innocent here, and I have no idea who would have sent me that text or why.”
Grady opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of my name drew our attention to the small television across the counter.
“Everly Swan,” the overconfident voice drawled, “a native of this town and one-woman crime fighter, has assisted police in the capture and arrest of three killers since her return to our charming island little more than a year ago.”
My jaw sank open in shock.
Grady made a low guttural noise beside me, then went to turn up the television’s volume.
“I didn’t talk to her,” I sputtered. “I swear. She tried to get me to comment on what happened, but I refused. I just said, ‘No comment.’”
The camera switched to a close-up of my face, the words Local Sleuth positioned above my name with a tiny magnifying glass beneath. My mouth was moving, but the voice was that of the news anchor.
“So, look out, local criminals. According to the statistics, your days of freedom are numbered.”
Grady’s face turned tomato red, then darkened to a purple nearing eggplant.
I giggled nervously and pushed my slice of cake in his direction.
Chapter Five
I woke groggy the next morning thanks to a short and restless sleep. I’d dragged myself to bed after the nightly news, unable to keep my eyes open another minute, but the moment I settled into bed, my mind sprang to life. My thoughts raced in circles over my day, bringing back snippets of the things I’d seen, said, or heard in sharp flashes—there and gone before I could grasp them. I was caught in the flux. Too tired to make anything coherent of the fleeting images or ideas. Too lucid to fall asleep before the barrage stopped. It had been half past three the last time I’d looked at the clock. Two hours later, my alarm roused me promptly at five thirty.
I willed myself upright, stuffed my bare feet into fuzzy slippers, then padded across the large central living space of my home’s second floor. I made it to the kitchen with a grateful sigh. Thanks to a little planning, the coffee maker had also woken at five thirty and had already begun to brew. I held the partially filled pot in one hand and shoved my favorite mug under the drip instead. When the cup was full, I replaced the pot, pressed the mug to my lips, and headed back across the living area to my deck windows.
I opened the curtains, squinting momentarily at the flood of May sun. Natural light filled the beautifully open space I’d been slowly refinishing. My walls were a soft and inviting gray. The wide wood trim was a fantastic white. My couch, chairs, and coffee table were arranged on a massive damask rug at the room’s center, a floating island on the sea of highly polished, historic wooden floorboards. Standing there, beneath the ornate plaster ceiling and elaborately carved crown molding, it was easy to feel as if I’d fallen back in time. I tried to embrace that feeling anytime I faced a new decision on the necessary updates and changes. There was a definite and delicate balance between honoring the past and embracing the present.
Subtle movement caught my eye a moment before Maggie, a magnificent white cat, came into view. Maggie, like Lou, seemed to have come with the house. She’d looked ragged and a little feral when we first met, but she had reluctantly accepted a proper grooming since then. Lou lived mostly on my roof and decks, but Maggie had a habit of materializing and vanishing at unpredictable intervals, both inside the home and out. I tried not to look too deeply into it, but my aunts had a theory.
According to Aunt Clara and Aunt Fran, my property had once been owned by a wealthy businessman who’d commissioned the home for his mistress, Magnolia Bane. When the man’s wife found him cheating, she threw herself into the ocean, never to be seen again. When Magnolia realized what her love for the man had done, she flung herself from the widow’s walk on my roof. The man, Lou Something-or-other, then moved into the home and slowly lost his mind to grief for the women. My aunts claimed that Lou’s restless spirit still rattled around my home, or it had until I purchased the place, and one of the women from his earthly life had been reincarnated into a cat that never left. I didn’t believe the story, of course, but I liked the names Maggie and Lou so I borrowed them for the gull and cat.
Maggie, the cat, wound around my bare calves and purred. I bent to scratch behind her ears and stroke her fur. “Any big plans today?” I asked.
She blinked luminous green eyes at me, and I had the distinct impression she was trying to tel
l me something.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. I went back to the kitchen and filled her bowls with kibble, then refreshed her water. She hopped onto the countertop and watched, but she made no move to eat.
“Why can’t you talk?” I asked for the hundredth time since we’d met.
She lifted her chin at that, turned on her paws, and leapt onto the floor, tail held high. A moment later, she was gone.
I knew better than to look for her. Maggie apparently had an escape hatch around here somewhere that I’d yet to find. I just hoped a bat, rat, or baby alligator didn’t find the access point before I did.
The fog rolled away from my sleepy mind as I poured a third cup of coffee. The familiar rush of adrenaline hit seconds later. Someone had murdered my grandma’s friend yesterday. Mr. Butters was being linked to her death because he’d painted her a beautiful picture. Gossips were twisting facts, sensationalizing leaked details, and making up the rest. It wasn’t right, and I’d promised Amelia I would help.
I went to shower, dress, and get started on my quest.
Halfway through blowing out my unruly hair, my little rubber fitness bracelet began to complain.
BE MORE ACTIVE!
“I’m trying,” I protested, jamming my fingertip against the little button to stop the alert. Thanks to technology, the bracelet had become familiar with my routines and anticipated my morning walk. If I was late, or dared skip, I heard about it. I didn’t like being told what to do, but I also missed the days when I could zip my pants without lying on the bed. So, I kept the bracelet.
I slid into size twelve navy blue yoga pants, wondering where my size six figure had gone, topping them with a white cotton sports bra, tank top, and tunic. I shoved socked feet into my most comfortable walking shoes and jogged down the steps to my front door.
Then I spent a minute on my porch, stretching my legs and adjusting my ponytail. A gentle breeze stirred briny scents of the sea into air already sweetened by my gardens. Roses bloomed in mass along my home’s northern side, alternating colors and mixing with a dozen other beautiful blooms surrounding my gazebo. The gardens stretched the length of my home, front to back, winding whimsically along a cobblestone path to the place where my property ended abruptly. Time and weather had cut a jagged edge in the hill my home sat atop, leaving a sharp plummet to the sand and surf below.
I stepped off the porch and headed south, up my short gravel drive to the boardwalk. A handful of brightly colored beach towels and umbrellas were already sprinkled across the beach. The boardwalk was a popular pedestrian and bike path caught between the ocean and a narrow marsh. Ocean Drive, the main road along the seaside, was just across the marsh and provided access to beach parking and connected homes on the outskirts—like mine—to the rest of the town.
The boardwalk was to hikers and bikers what Ocean Drive was to cars and trucks. The sun-bleached planks had been set in place generations back and wound around the island’s perimeter, breaking only where roads and inlets demanded. I used the boardwalk to get my steps in each day as I battled against the twenty-five or so pounds I’d added since leaving home eight years ago. I’d made and lost headway in my battle with the bulge over the course of the last year, but the pounds were stubborn, and I liked cake as much as walking. So, I chose to focus on the fact I could climb the steps without seeing spots these days, and I called that a win.
When the boardwalk angled closest to Ocean Drive just beyond the widest stretch of beach, it was time for the planks and me to part ways. Startled briefly by a crane spearing a tiny fish from water in the marsh, I ducked under the lush branches of a leafy deciduous tree. Then I hopped across a set of large stones to the grassy roadside and straightened to an unexpected sight.
The road was lined in campers and food trucks. The air was scented with fresh fried doughnuts, various icings, and flavored coffee. My stomach growled in appreciation. The sidewalks teemed with people, many dressed in pirate costumes, and a parking lot normally reserved for Main Street shoppers was crammed with news trucks from as far away as Georgia.
I hurried across the street, then kept going until my great-aunts’ shop, Blessed Bee, came into view. The yellow clapboard house was nestled conveniently between identical pink and blue houses: Sandy’s Seaside Sweet Shack and Ice Cream Parlor on one side and Amelia’s bookstore, Charming Reads, on the other.
Aunt Clara had stenciled honeybees flying broad loopy paths over the large shop window at Blessed Bee and the welcome mat had a hive on it. The overall look was one hundred percent adorable. I pressed my way inside and paused again to marvel at the number of shoppers.
Handmade organic products populated magnificent displays and floor-to-ceiling shelves but were now hidden by the crush of people. The interior walls were painted pale yellow with lots of white trim and crown moldings. A sky blue ceiling ran overhead, where Aunt Clara had painted fluffy clouds. The Blessed Bee products were handcrafted by Aunt Clara and Aunt Fran. Lip balms and face scrubs, suckers and soaps, all infused with pure organic honey drawn directly from their private hives and accented with dried herbs and flowers from their extensive gardens.
I slid carefully past a pair of women dressed as pirate brides, both angling their black armbands carefully toward a camera. They snapped pouty-faced selfies in front of a wall with a Blessed Bee logo and hive mural. The heartbroken expressions vanished once the final photo was taken.
I rolled my eyes and kept going.
The checkout line wound through the store. Everyone seemed to have a basket full of products. Good news for my aunts, though the likely reason for their added sales was a friend’s murder.
My aunts finally came into view as I neared the checkout counter. Aunt Fran stood at the register, ringing sales and taking money while Aunt Clara bagged the items beside her and thanked folks for coming.
Rose, the documentary film producer, moved slowly along the perimeter, a small video camera in hand. She turned the device in an arc, taking in the crowd and details. When the camera landed on me, she lowered it to her side. “Hey, Everly.”
“Hey.” I went to stand with her while my aunts rang out the long line of guests. “This is a little crazy, huh?”
“Crazy good,” she said with a grin. “I’ve been interviewing shoppers all morning, and most of them made the trip to Charm after hearing what happened yesterday. These folks loved Mitzi and want to support her life’s final cause—American honeybees. They recognized the Blessed Bee logo from news footage and came here to buy products that will support the bees. I enlarged the donation button on the Bee Loved website, and money has been flooding in. It’s amazing.”
I frowned. “Really? Because it feels a little like the exploitation of Mitzi’s death to me.”
Rose pinned me with a look of shock and distaste. “Mitzi Calgon was a movie star. People who go into careers like that enjoy a spectacle. They want a spectacle. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have chosen this life. Trust me. This isn’t exploitation. This is capitalism.”
I opened my mouth to heartily disagree, but the pirate brides I’d noticed earlier interrupted.
“You’re that woman from the news, right?” the taller bride asked, arriving several steps ahead of her friend. “The local sleuth. Emery?”
I did a slow blink.
“Are you really looking into Mitzi Calgon’s death? Do you think it was murder? Have you found any clues? Is that why you’re here? Are you investigating?”
“Everly,” I corrected, unsure how to proceed.
“It’s Everly,” the woman said, casting her voice into the air for all to hear. “The local sleuth!”
Several nearby shoppers moved in our direction, and others quickly took notice. Within seconds, a thick semicircle of bodies had formed around us, and my tongue seemed to swell in my mouth.
“I’m not investigating. I only came to see my aunts,” I said, motioning to th
e counter. “I stop here every morning. It’s part of my routine.”
“But you are investigating,” a stranger called from the back of the crowd.
Rose turned her camera on me, and the room went still.
I cast an apologetic look at my aunts, who appeared as off guard and stunned as I felt. I raised one hand to my ear in the universal sign for I’ll call you later, then told the gathered mob, “No comment.”
I marched into the back room of Blessed Bee, thankful no one was bold enough to follow, then exited into the rear alley as a volley of questions exploded behind me.
Chapter Six
I wound my way out front, deciding to check on Amelia and Mr. Butters before heading home.
Charming Reads was as packed with shoppers as Blessed Bee had been, and it took a minute to locate Amelia in the crowd. She was hunched between rows of shelves, stocking books along the far wall. I headed immediately in her direction.
Amelia had given her bookstore its name as a nod to our town, but Charming Reads absolutely lived up to its name. She’d applied her lifelong love of romance and fairy tales to every adorable detail. The French Countryside color palette she’d chosen for the walls and accent furnishings were a perfect fit for a seaside town. Muted blues, greens, and grays were offset with punches of brightly colored paintings, courtesy of her father. Ornate cherry bookshelves lined several walls, topped with custom wooden arches and details from beloved children’s classics: an enchanted rose beneath a glass dome, a pair of bluebirds taking flight with a ribbon, a wand hovering above a bucket and mop.
Amelia spotted me at once. She wrenched upright with a wild expression. “Can you believe this crowd?” she asked. “It’s insane, right?”