by Nancy CoCo
“Sounds like they will be going to a funeral instead,” Porsche said as she finished restocking a shelf. My sales manager was twenty-five and had two boys. When school started she came in looking for flex hours and I needed some help so it was a win-win. Porsche had gorgeous black hair that was stick straight and beautiful blue eyes, which shined like sapphires. Her mother was Korean and her father a blue-eyed blond American soldier. Porsche was a gorgeous mix of both.
“That’s just terrible,” Aunt Eloise said. “Poor Bernie. Does he know?”
“I’m sure someone has told him by now,” I said. “Forty years, the guy must be a wreck. I’m going to make him a casserole.”
“Probably a good idea. I’m not sure he remembers how to cook.” Aunt Eloise tapped her index finger on her chin. “You know there was some talk that Agnes was having an affair.”
“What?”
“With who?” Porsche asked, leaning on the counter and resting her chin in her hands.
“I don’t know,” Aunt Eloise said. “But maybe Bernie found out and killed her for it.”
“She didn’t look like she was hit with anything,” I said. “For a crime of passion she looked relatively intact.”
“So, no bashing on the head or gunshot wound?” Porsche asked.
“None that I could see,” I said.
“Hmmm.” Aunt Eloise wrinkled her nose.
“Officer Hampton wondered if you two had fought over something recently,” I said to my aunt. “I told him no. There’s no way you could have killed Agnes.”
“Thanks for defending me,” she said and crossed her arms. “I guess this means I can start shopping at the local craft shop again.”
“No more reason to go all the way into Portland . . . unless you have a boyfriend there,” Porsche said and waggled her eyebrows.
“My love life is none of your business,” Aunt Eloise said.
“Woo-hoo, she is going to meet a boyfriend.” Porsche danced around.
“Stop it,” Aunt Eloise said and blushed. For all her no-nonsense attitude, she was still embarrassed about her love life.
I had to smile. “When are we going to get to meet this guy?”
“I’m doing things in my own good time, thank you very much. Now, I thought you were going to make a casserole.”
“I am,” I said. “Porsche, I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” I walked through my store. It smelled of beeswax, lemon, vanilla, and lavender. I made sure everything was displayed neatly and there was room to move around. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing worse than having to squeeze between and around people to shop.
I’d worked hard to turn the shop into a welcoming haven for bees and bee lovers. Even the music I played was soft and soothing, not the energetic beats of pop music like you got at the T-shirt store down the street. Comforting and inviting were my goals. I wanted to tease all the senses with sweet smells, tastes, fun sights, and soothing sounds. Delight was my goal and I think I reached it.
My apartment was above the shop in the previous owner’s apartment. It was convenient and made it easy to be at work. I did a lot of experimenting with my bee products upstairs before they ever hit the shelves downstairs.
I took pride in all of my locally sourced bee products. Bee populations across the United States were still in trouble and by having a bee product shop, I incentivized local beekeepers to raise more bees. Or so I liked to believe. Bees are amazing creatures. Almost as amazing as Everett.
The doorbells to the shop jangled as I took my first step up on the stairs.
“Wren.” I turned to find Jim walking toward me.
“Hi,” I said, not all that happy to see him.
“Do you have some time to talk?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “I was just on my way up to put a casserole together for Bernie, Agnes’s husband. Can you come up? I have honey and lavender tea.”
“Coffee would be better if you have it.”
“I can make some,” I said. The stairs creaked under our weight. The shop was more than one hundred years old and sat just off of Main Street. I liked the false front and the roomy little two-bedroom apartment above. There was something comforting about knowing that generations of people lived and worked here before me.
The kitchen was tucked up under the eaves. I made coffee in the pot and started a kettle for tea. Jim looked out of place in the quaint living area that was open to the kitchen. He stared out the window. “Nice view.”
“You can see the ocean if you are tall enough to look over the Appletons’ roof.”
“No view of the promenade.”
“No,” I said. “I’m kind of glad. If I wanted to watch people all day, I would just go downstairs in the shop. I’ve got a full view of everything going on in the street.” I poured his coffee. “Milk or sugar?”
“Black, thanks,” he said and took the mug. He sat down on the edge of my love seat. I picked up my tea and sat across from him on the wingback chair. It was covered in blue velvet and I’d gotten it at a yard sale that benefited a local charity.
“Is there any further news on Agnes’s death?”
“This is real life, not a crime show,” he said softly. “Autopsies and labs take time.”
“Then what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to know where you were between midnight and when you found the body,” he said. “Do you have an alibi?”
“You really think I did this horrible thing and then called nine-one-one?”
“I told you, I’m simply asking questions at this point. I don’t have any hunches or theories.”
“I was home alone with Everett,” I said. My cat came up and wove his way between my ankles. He liked to move in and out of the slits in my long skirt. “I made a batch of mason jar candles.” I pointed to the small wooden table in an alcove next to the kitchen. Jars of pastel-colored wax sat on the tabletop. I’d put them there to cool. Each candle was made of beeswax and a long wick guaranteed to burn clean down to the glass at the bottom. Then, customers could return the jar for twenty percent off their next jar candle. With these candles, I experimented with flowers and flower scents.
“How long does it take you to make a batch that size?”
“An hour or two, depending,” I said. “Last night, longer. I was placing flowers in the candles and I wanted them to have a certain look.”
“I see.” He wrote something in his notepad. “You live here alone?”
“All alone,” I said. “I went to bed around one a.m. and got up at seven. Made breakfast and went downstairs to set up the cash register and open up for the morning.”
“How was that?”
“Slow,” I said. “This time of year most of the crowds appear on the weekends and more toward the afternoon.”
“What do you do when no one comes in?”
“I use the time to clean and straighten. My sales manager, Porsche, came in around ten and I took Everett for his walk. I’m sure most of my neighbors saw me go.”
“And what about your aunt?”
“I told you, she was in Portland.”
“Do you know why?”
“I think you should ask her yourself.”
“I will,” he said and shifted in his seat. “Do you know who might have had a reason to kill Agnes?”
“Are you sure she was murdered?”
“I’m following the facts. The facts are that you found her body. She had your label in her hand . . . if that is to be believed. So I thought you might know something more about her.”
“Wait, am I a suspect?”
“I wouldn’t even classify you as a person of interest—yet. But I am trying to understand what happened.”
“Me, too,” I said. Everett climbed into my lap and purred, letting me know he was also concerned. “I checked my receipts, but I don’t make note of the customers unless they pay with a credit card. The label on the balm is new—within the last two weeks or so, but that is over a hundred and fifty purchases. Th
at doesn’t count the cash purchases. It was a very popular label.”
“I’d like to have the list of credit card payers,” he said. “Just in case we need to try to narrow it down.”
“Oh, sure.” I put Everett down, got up, and woke up my computer. I went to the appropriate file and downloaded it into a CSV file. “What is your email address? I’ll send it to you.”
He gave me his official police email. I entered it, attached the file, and hit Send. “There you go.”
“Thanks,” he stood. “Just so you know, I’m talking to all the shop owners on Main. Someone must have seen something.”
“I hope you figure it out.”
“I will,” he said. “You can take that to the bank.”
He rose and Everett jumped up on the arm of the love seat to get his attention. Jim scratched the kitty under his chin. “Thanks for being helpful.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Please keep me posted.”
“You’ll know when everyone else does.” He ducked his head in a short salute and walked down the stairs.
I heard Porsche mumble something. He replied and then the doorbells jangled. I chewed the inside of my cheek, lost in thought. Was Agnes truly murdered? Could that killer have been in my shop and bought my lip gloss? Or was Agnes trying to leave a clue to her killer’s identity?
* * *
It was evening by the time I finished the casserole. It was my mother’s famous beef and honey casserole. Once you braise the beef, you slow cook it in the oven with onion and carrots and beef stock, add honey, then top with mashed potatoes and put it back in the oven until the mashed potatoes brown slightly. I let it cool enough to transport it to Bernie’s place.
Agnes and Bernie lived on First Street their entire adult lives. I wondered briefly what it might be like to live in the same home all those years. You see, my dad was in the military, so we moved a lot when I was a kid. Then he died in Afghanistan and mom moved us back to Oregon.
Mom didn’t live too many years after. I think she took his death hard. It knocked years off of her. Her heart eventually gave out. Broken heart syndrome is what the doctor called it. I could understand why.
After that, I made a conscious decision to put down roots near my aunt. Aunt Eloise was my only living relative, which meant I was her only remaining family. It felt right to be close by. Besides, I loved my time in Oceanview and wanted to settle into the dynamic beach community. My parents left me enough money to finish college and put a down payment on Let It Bee. That meant the store had to make enough profit in the summer season to maintain my rent during the off-season and help pay Porsche’s salary. So far so good. The shop was cool and quirky enough that people loved to stop in and browse. I enjoyed telling them about bee populations.
I had a bee wrangler, Elias Bentwood, who would come in for talks. He started a hive for me in the side of the building. It was encased in glass so that my customers could come and watch the bees work to make honey and comb, and enjoy flying up and out through a hole in my roof. Elias had built this great tool where honey could collect and then pour out of a spigot. Of course there had to be enough honey before that happened. My hive was relatively young and I was not taking honey from it yet.
My shop had dark pine walls and floors. It gave it a bit of a cabin feel. By the beehive were two chairs for anyone who was tired of shopping or wanted to sit and read one of the bee books I had for sale.
I kept the candy in a glass counter beside the cash register. Other shelves were artfully arranged to catch the eye and take a visitor through a journey of discovery. It was amazing how the pattern of the people coming in adjusted naturally to the flow around the store. It was important for me to tell a story.
If people understood more about bees, they tended to be more invested in buying my products. I had a website and had somewhat of an online presence. I was hoping to earn more through word of mouth.
Yesterday, I’d gotten a call from an elementary school group that was interested in coming in and learning about the bees. I figured I’d stock candy and other interesting kid-friendly items—like bee toys and soft plushies. There were plenty of picture books for sale on the subject as well.
The teacher had said something about how studying bees was a great fall science project. I agreed. The cooler air kept the bees calmer. It’s, in part, why I didn’t have a heater in the bottom floor. The Oregon coast could get quite chilly in the fall and winter, but my customers didn’t seem to mind the lack of heat. They were simply interested in the bees.
I covered Bernie’s casserole, wrapped it in a thick towel, and carried it from Main to First Street. The Snows’ house was a 1930s Foursquare with white shiplap siding and pale blue window shutters. The front door was open and people came and went from inside.
I knocked on the door frame before I entered. It was a habit my mom had taught me. Be polite and don’t just barge in, even if the door is open. That bit of advice served me well through many situations.
“Come in, honey, there’s no need to be formal. We’re all neighbors here,” Mrs. Marion Beasley said. The woman was in her late sixties and had worn a beehive hairdo since she was a teenager.
“Thanks, I brought a beef and honey casserole,” I said and lifted the dish to prove my point. “It’s in plasticware in case he wants to put it in the freezer.”
“I’ll take that,” Joan Shirley said and grabbed the dish out of my hands. The older woman wore a pair of stretchy pants and a long-sleeved blouse. I’d met her before at a chamber of commerce function. Both times I’d met her, she had been a bit overbearing. I tried not to take it personally, since she was much older than I was and well established in the community.
The living room was filled with women young and old. Bernie Snow sat in the corner looking a bit lost. The house was square with the living room taking up most of the front, a dining room to the left, and a kitchen to the right. The hall held a bathroom and then stairs up to what I assumed was the bedrooms. The decor was stuck in the nineties. Agnes had a collection of Hummel figurines in a corner glass cabinet.
I scooted around the women to where Bernie Snow sat alone on a couch. “Hi, Mr. Snow,” I said. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“No, go ahead,” he said without enthusiasm.
I took a seat beside him. “How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know,” he said. His expression was dazed with a hint of sadness around his eyes. “I can’t believe she isn’t coming back.” He turned to me. “You found her, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How was she? Was she . . . I wanted to say okay, but that’s not the right word here, is it?”
“She looked peaceful,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. “She was dressed real nice, too. She wouldn’t have been embarrassed to be found that way.”
He patted my hand. “Thank you for telling me that. It helps.”
“Do you know if she had a heart condition or something that would cause her to die suddenly?”
“No,” he said. His gaze stared at nothing. “She was healthy as a horse. You can ask her doctor. He’ll tell you that she was going to live for another thirty years at least. Long life runs in her family.”
“Do you think she was murdered?” I asked softly so that I wouldn’t be overheard.
He turned his watery blue gaze on me. “I can only assume so, since she was so healthy. It can’t possibly be suicide. She was going shopping to get a dress for our anniversary party. She was so excited about the party and seeing all her friends. I just can’t imagine who would do such a thing to her or why.”
“Do you know what time she left this morning?”
“We had breakfast at six and I left to play golf. The stores don’t really open until ten but she texted me and said she wanted to take a walk along the beach.” He wiped his eyes as tears fell. “We were supposed to have lunch at the Okay Café. I was out playing golf when I got the news. Don’t you see? I was out playing golf while she was being killed. I sh
ould have been with her. I should have protected her.”
“There’s no way you could have known,” I said and gave him a quick hug.
“Did you see anything?” he asked, his voice rough. He seemed to be more and more agitated as if awakening from a bad dream and angry about it. “Did you see anyone?”
“No.” I tried to remain calm in the hopes of keeping him calm. “Everett and I were alone on the beach when he spotted her. If it wasn’t for my cat, I wouldn’t have found her.”
He took a deep breath and seemed to settle a bit, except for the incessant tapping of his right foot and the trembling in his hands. “Agnes always did like cats.” We sat in silence a moment. I kept him company even though he grew more and more agitated. Finally, he turned to me. “Was she shot or stabbed?”
“I didn’t see any wounds,” I said.
“Then what could have caused this?” His voice rose at the end to a near shout.
I patted his hand in a poor attempt to comfort him. “I’m no doctor, but it could have been a stroke or an aneurysm.”
“Or poison,” Joan Shirley said as she stepped toward us. “My guess would be poison. It’s the murder weapon of choice for women.” The older woman’s mouth firmed. Her gray hair was long and braided down her back. I realized she had woven streaks of blue and pink in the braid.
Her words got my attention. “You think she was killed by a woman?”
“Oh come on, honey, everyone knows that aunt of yours and Agnes had a feud going on.”
“Not enough to kill her,” I said and stood. “Seriously, Mrs. Shirley. Don’t you think if my aunt was going to kill Agnes, she would have done it sooner? I mean, why now?”
“That’s the question,” Joan said. “Bernie, what was going on that she would have been killed now?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his face filled with grief and anger. “She was working on an art piece. She wouldn’t tell me anything more than that.”
“Why would someone kill her over an art piece?” I mused. “I mean, it’s not like she sold them or anything.”