A Call for Kelp

by Bree Baker

  I needed to choose recipes for the poll and go live again soon, but when? I could barely get through the minimum requirements of my day without being sidetracked by some new horror lately.

  I checked the weather and tide schedule on the Town Charmer blog, then took my time updating myself on local gossip. Thankfully, I wasn’t at the center of it and neither was Mr. Butters. The most recent hoopla had to do with the food trucks on Main Street.

  Apparently, Chairman Vanders and Mary Grace were leading a movement to relocate food trucks and other unsanctioned vehicles, such as campers and news vans, out of town until they applied for and received the proper permits. Based on the hundreds of comments, our town was divided on the matter. Half the commenters believed rules were necessary to avoid chaos; thus the news crews and food vendors should have to go through the same channels as local citizens if they wanted to park a giant vehicle on Main Street. Campers needed to move to designated camp sites. Period. The other half of the commenters believed special circumstances made receiving necessary permits unreasonable, and the trucks and crews should be allowed to stay.

  Mostly, people on both sides saw Mary Grace’s loud public interest in pushing procedures for what it really was, a publicity stunt. She wanted to show the town council and great citizens of Charm that she was willing to stand by our protocols, come what may. If elected mayor, she’d continue the hard work she was doing now, keeping the streets clear of food trucks and news crews anytime a national news story broke.

  I scrolled on, thankful Charmers weren’t being fooled by Mary Grace’s sudden appearance in the spotlight. Leave it to her to turn an American silver screen icon’s murder into a publicity opportunity.

  I froze at first sight of the next headline. MITZI CALGON MEMORIAL.

  According to the post, Rose and the Bee Loved documentary crew had teamed up with Mary Grace and Chairman Vanders to host a memorial tonight behind the nature center. There would be a candlelight walk along the bay at dusk with music from the Blackbeard’s Wife trilogy performed by a local band. Donations would go to helping Mitzi’s final earthly cause, saving the American honeybee.

  I set my laptop aside and rubbed my forehead. I needed more caffeine to process that mess. I filled a mug with coffee, then grabbed a book I’d borrowed from my family archives. I had my own problems to solve, like which family recipe would become my next baking tutorial. I needed a delicious but easy-to-demo recipe that I could put a personal and modern twist on. And I would find it while enjoying a morning visit with Lou.

  I slid the deck door wide, and sounds of the sea crashed over me. Breaking waves, calling gulls, and the distant sound of children’s laughter. The world smelled of heat and brine and sunblock, mixed with a bevy of floral fragrances from my gardens. Warm southern sun kissed my nose and cheeks as I lowered myself into a bright red Adirondack chair and kicked my feet up onto the railing.

  Maggie sauntered into view and licked her paws, then washed her cheeks.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked. I’d left her upstairs with her food and water bowls, then closed the door on my way down.

  She paused to flash luminous green eyes at me, as if she had a secret I would never know. Then, she turned to watch a fling of sandpipers racing waves on the beach below.

  I sipped my coffee and ran a palm over the replica of an old family cookbook that Clara had copied by hand. The original volume was covered in threadbare red cloth, faded and frayed along the edges. The copy on my lap was new and bound in brown leather. She’d scripted the words Swan Family Recipes for Joy and Comfort inside. The year 1826 sat neatly below the words. I traced the number with my fingertip, imagining my ancestor bent over the original pages. A bottle of ink and a pen on her right, a candle or lantern on her left. I wondered if she’d guessed her recipes would outlast everyone she knew. What would she think of me sitting here, reading her words nearly two hundred years later?

  I turned the page slowly, admiring Clara’s attention to detail.

  The original had included a multitude of handwritings in a variety of inks that crawled over every inch of empty space along the pages’ edges and in margins. Clara had included each of those as well. Notes for improving the recipes or improvising ingredients. Hearts and stars as notations for favorites. I was surprised to find that most of the recipes doubled as home remedies. Breads with bee pollen and ginger were suggested for strength and stamina. Peppermint teas for stomach upsets. Bilberry preserves for improved eyesight. Stewed apples for digestion. I smiled.

  With all the natural ingredients and notes along the margins, it was easy to see how an outsider might’ve mistaken the book for a grimoire, or witch’s spell book. Especially in times when superstition and fear had ruled the land. Add that to the fact my family had come by way of Salem, and some of the locals’ ideas about us made a lot more sense. Thank goodness the misunderstanding hadn’t happened before my ancestors left Salem.

  A low growl rumbled in Maggie’s throat, drawing my attention. I watched as her tail swished predatorily and her attention became wholly focused on the sandpipers. Her hair puffed out, as if charged with electricity, but she didn’t move.

  I turned the next page and smiled at the curlicue letters across the top.

  Lemon Cake to Bolster a Hero’s Heart.

  This was the lemon cake I made for Grady. The recipe hadn’t changed much over the centuries, and it worked as well today as I imagined it ever could have. One delectable slice was enough to move Grady from white-knuckled and stiff-jawed to loose-limbed and smiling. The broad, honest smiles that caused his blessed dimple to sink in. I’d copied the recipe years ago from a book created in the nineteen sixties. I’d had no idea the Swan lemon cake had been around so much longer, but I’d cherish it all the more now that I did.

  Maggie yowled and I jumped in response to something down below. She tore from the deck in one wild move, claws scoring the wooden deck as she ran. She leaped headlong into the tall grasses of the hillside, disappearing only for a moment before reappearing on the sand below. The sandpipers took flight in an instant, and Maggie sat, watching them sail away. Maybe she was disappointed she’d missed her snack. Maybe proud to have terrified so many little birds at once.

  As I leaned forward, watching her soak up the sun, I replayed her leap from the deck in my mind. She’d propelled herself the way I’d always pictured Magnolia Bane had launched from the rooftop widow’s walk before crashing facedown against the earth.

  So why had the Canary landed so near the lighthouse’s side and flat on his back? Was he so depressed that he hadn’t bothered to truly jump? Knowing the height would do the trick regardless of effort on his part? Or could he have fallen? Perhaps had second thoughts, lost his footing, and spilled over the ledge?

  Or maybe, I thought, the eerie feeling I’d had last night returning, maybe he’d been pushed.

  Chapter Twenty

  I let Denise in an hour later, surprised to see her so early.

  “Denver stayed with the senator last night,” she said brightly, tossing her bag under the counter and wrapping an apron around her narrow middle. “She took him to school this morning so I could get a run in before heading over. I even had a long, hot shower and ate my breakfast while seated and not in the car. It was glorious.”

  I swallowed an internal scolding. Denise had gotten a run in, and I’d practically just woken up.

  As if on cue, my infuriating fitness band beeped. BE MORE ACTIVE!

  I clamped a hand over it and averted my eyes from Denise’s in shame. I’d managed fewer than two hundred steps of the ten thousand that health experts recommended and that my bracelet expected of me. I’d been walking intentionally for a year and rarely went that far in a day. It was depressing, so I’d reset my daily goal to seven thousand. But I didn’t reach that as often as I should, either. I blamed the tiny island and all the shops I passed on my walks. Mostly the ice cre
am parlor.

  Denise freed a broom from the utility closet and swept it over the floor, her long, blond ponytail swinging jauntily. “I heard about last night,” she said nonchalantly, stooping to fill her dustpan. “I’m sorry that happened, and that you had to see it. It must’ve been terrible.”

  “It was,” I said, my thoughts tossed immediately back to the awful moment. My mouth dried, and I worked to swallow the sudden punch of emotion. “I should’ve gone inside to see if he was waiting for me.”

  Denise stood, her blue eyes heavy with concern. “Don’t do that. Don’t play the what-if game. You can’t. It’ll ruin you.” Something in the set of her lips said she was speaking from experience.

  I gave a tense nod, knowing there was nothing I could do to change what had happened and not feeling any better at all about that truth.

  “He’d made up his mind,” she said, emptying the dustpan into the trash and returning the broom. “He’d written a note.”

  “Maybe,” I said, unable to fully silence the notion that had niggled in me all night and come into form over coffee. What if the Canary had been pushed? I grabbed my phone and texted the question to Ryan. He’d been there. After the fact, but still. He knew everything I knew about what had happened, and he’d seen nearly everything I’d seen. What did he think of it all by the light of day?

  My phone buzzed a moment later with Ryan’s response.

  Interesting. Are you home?

  Yes! Café! I responded briskly, my nerves sparking to life.

  On my way.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ryan and I were seated at a tall bistro table near the windows with glasses of iced tea and a basket of warm strawberry-and-cream-cheese muffins between us. Ryan, a New York City investigative reporter, normally pale-skinned and impeccably dressed, had a way of embracing the beach life. I suppose blending in was part of his job, and he did it well, if not a little touristy. Today he had sunglasses propped on his head and wore a white V-neck T-shirt and mint-green shorts with a smattering of white sea turtles embroidered on them. His cheeks were rosy from sun, and a dash of freckles had appeared across the bridge of his nose.

  I considered remarking on the look but assumed he’d take it as a compliment and never fit his inflated head back through the door.

  He bit into a muffin and made a low moan. His eyelids fluttered a moment before he regained himself. “What makes you think the Canary’s death wasn’t what it seems?” Ryan asked, tracking Denise with his eyes as she wiped down the counter and tabletops in preparation for the café to open.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “My gut at first.” I chewed my lip. I had nothing substantial to support my theory and hunches weren’t enough to open a murder investigation.

  “At first,” he repeated, “but what now?”

  I whispered, hunkering lower over my tea. “I think he fell from the window. He landed close enough to touch the lighthouse with an outstretched hand.” I pressed cold fingers to my temple, wishing I could erase the image from my mind. “He definitely didn’t jump. And why invite me to talk if his plan was to die? Why pretend he was in danger from the killer if he was the killer? Why confess to me at all? Or if he felt he had to do both, why plan them for the same time?”

  Ryan leaned forward to match my posture. “My thoughts exactly. And why would he write a note after making plans to speak to you in person? Unless he suspected you wouldn’t show, or he wanted you to have something to prove his guilt. Maybe he was looking out for you. Instead of just sending you off with a tale, he provided documentation.”

  “Very thoughtful of him,” I said with roughly fifty percent sarcasm. “I don’t buy it.”

  Ryan lifted his tea jar to me in cheers. “Agreed.”

  “So the killer’s still in play.”

  He nodded. “I think so. How do you want to proceed?”

  I sat back, eyebrows high. “You’re letting me decide?” My eyes narrowed. “You always try to call the shots. What are you up to?”

  Ryan smirked and the cocky, boyish look, coupled with newly visible freckles, reminded me he was handsome. Usually, he was talking and his looks were easy to forget. “You’re right,” he said firmly. “I do make the better plans. I’ll head back to the rental where Odette and her father are staying. Maybe I can pay their lunch delivery boy fifty bucks to let me carry the food to their door this time. Strike up a conversation that way. Meanwhile, you see what you can get from the documentary’s production crew. You’ve already established a relationship with them that I don’t have, and your aunts provide you a reasonable point of access. The film crew stood to gain a lot from a scandal like this. Not cash like Odette and Mr. Pierce, but a spotlight this big, showcasing their work, could potentially change their lives. That kind of opportunity is priceless.”

  I frowned. There was the Ryan I knew. Overconfident and bossy. “Fine.” I straightened, regaining control. “Meet me here after I close, and we’ll go over what we know. Seven thirty.”

  “Can’t.” Ryan sat back, arms crossed smugly.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got dinner plans with Amelia,” he said, probably knowing I’d never ask him to cancel on her.

  So much for retaking control.

  He stood and outstretched a hand. “We’ll meet up and trade information at Mitzi’s memorial. Amelia and I planned to go after dessert. We’ll be there by nine thirty.”

  “Weird way to end a date,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s not how I plan to end the date.” He gave his eyebrows an obnoxious wiggle and pushed his hand forward, still waiting to seal the agreement and part ways.

  I suppressed a gag and stared briefly at his hand. The gesture seemed strangely formal considering the history between us, but I worried that the alternative was to hug him. So I accepted the shake.

  I let Denise know I’d be back after a quick visit to my aunts’ house, for a hopefully informative chat with Rose. Then I followed Ryan as far as the boardwalk, where we parted ways.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “Back at you,” I told him.

  I checked the time on my phone, then turned on my heels and headed for Blessed Bee. My aunts should’ve opened their shop twenty minutes ago. With a little luck, I’d find Rose there again.

  I eased into long, brisk strides as I thought of Denise and her morning run. The steady rhythm of my purposeful gait settled into my bones, and I daringly increased the pace. Endorphins kicked in and sweat broke across my brow as the stiff muscles I’d started with became pliable and warm. Feeling wistful and ambitious, under the influence of serotonin and stupidity, I launched into a jog. My heart rate spiked and my breaths were instantly labored.

  I kept the pace until a stitch in my side nearly toppled me onto the boardwalk. I pressed a palm to my ribs and fell into a clumsy stride, whimpering and weaving a drunken path along the historic planks. I pinched the buttons on my fitness bracelet, hoping to see a sudden mass of accumulated steps. Apparently, I’d barely gone seven hundred steps all day, and the heart rate monitor suggested I call a paramedic. I imagined feeding the device to an alligator.

  My stinging throat was dry from gasping, and a charley horse was forming in my calf as I landed on the grassy edge of Ocean Drive. A smattering of pedestrians moved lithely along the sidewalks, the crowds of days prior mostly gone. I squinted against the sun as I made my way to the crosswalk, slightly saddened by how quickly Mitzi’s superfans had cleared out and moved on—and missing the food trucks Mary Grace had chased away. I would’ve sold my shoes for a shave ice.

  An oddly familiar cry reached my ears and all thoughts of delicious frozen treats melted.

  I raised a hand to my brow and squinted against the sun as I searched for the source of the faint but desperate sound. A moment later, the cry came again, and my senses went on high alert. “Denver?” I forced my wobbly legs into action,
darting awkwardly across the road’s center and raising a palm to oncoming traffic.

  I stopped on the covered sidewalk outside a row of shops I rarely visited and turned in a small circle. “Denver?” I called, smiling politely at passersby who looked slightly concerned.

  “Everly!” The unmistakable sound of my name on Denver’s small tongue shattered over me like broken glass, and I jolted into a run. I followed the renewed cries into the alley behind the shops, where employee entrances and dumpsters lined a somewhat warped brick road.

  Ten yards away, a broad-shouldered man in a black golf shirt and matching casual slacks opened the door to a large black SUV and motioned Denver inside.

  The hairs along my arms and neck stood at attention. Fear sliced through my core, cold and sharp, as I realized what was happening. “Stop!” I screamed.

  The pair turned to look at me with matching wide-eyed expressions.

  “Let him go,” I demanded, searching the man for signs he might be armed.

  He released Denver’s shoulder.

  I closed half the distance in slow, measured steps before dropping into a squat and opening my arms. “Come here, Denver.”

  Denver took one step, and the man’s arm bobbed into his path like the gate at a parking garage. He locked cold, blue eyes on me. “No you don’t. Get in the car, son.”

  “That’s not your son,” I snapped, my hands curling into fists as they fell to my sides.

  Denver’s ruddy cheeks were streaked with tears, his expression twisted with frustration.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, snapped photos of the man and the SUV, then sent the pictures to Grady. When I looked up to tell the man what I’d done, he was stuffing Denver into the SUV.

  “Stop!” I screamed, debating my ability to close the distance between us before he could climb inside and drive away. Panic stabbed through my chest as I realized I might not get there in time.

  I passed the cell phone into my left hand and curled the fingers of my right around a golf-ball-sized rock from the sidewalk’s edge. In one snap movement, I stood and chucked the rock at the man.