I sip my wine. It’s cool and refreshing.
“So... how did you come up with the new name?” I ask. “It’s really...” I struggle to come up with a suitable word. None come to mind, so I just blurt out what I’m thinking. “...weird.” I finish.
Awkward? Who, me?
Annie doesn’t seem to mind my social clumsiness. She smiles. “I know it’s unexpected. Unorthodox. Unconventional. But you know what, Penny? As I get older, that stuff seems to matter less and less to me.”
So Marley was right. She is having an end-of-life crisis!
She continues. “I just don’t feel the need to blend in and be normal all the time.”
“Well, naming your shop the Death Cafe certainly isn’t normal.”
Annie chuckles. “That’s the point. No one ever talks about death. But we all die! I wanted my cafe to give us all the freedom to use the word more often. To not be so afraid of it. Death! Death! See? Say it out loud with me, Penny.”
She’s losing it!
“Death,” I mumble, hesitantly.
“Oh, don’t be so shy about it,” she instructs. “One more time: Death!” She practically shouts it.
Thankfully, Cora approaches us at just that moment, saving me from the surreal conversation.
“Annie, I love what you’ve done with this place!” Cora says, beaming.
I can be blunt and awkward. Cora, on the other hand, oozes social charm. She’s also always, miraculously in chipper mood. In fact, chipper is a great way to describe her: From her bouncy runny shoes to the tip of her short, blonde ponytail, the word chipper fits like a glove.
“So bright and cheery!” Cora adds.
“So the opposite of the word death,” I interject.
Cora continues, ignoring me. “Who did your decorating?”
“I did it myself,” Annie lifts her chin. “I’m so glad you like it!”
“I brought you something.” Cora reaches into her purse, and pulls out a small framed photograph. She hands it to Annie.
Of course, Cora would think to bring a gift. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Annie is smiling as she grips the frame with two wrinkled, knobby hands. “It’s the Lemon Curd Slouch Hat pattern!” she exclaims, after examining the gift.
Cora smiles wide. “The first one you taught us. Do you remember?”
“Of course,” Annie says.
“Remember, Penny?” Cora asks, turning to me. “We were all so new to knitting then. So many years have passed! Think how many hats and scarves we’ve learned to make since that very first slouch hat.”
“A lot. I still have that original slouch hat,” I say. Then, because I’m feeling like an idiot for not bringing a gift, I hold a finger up. “Annie, wait here. I have something for you, too.”
I rush out of the cafe and to my bike. With the china teapot in hand, I hurry back to Annie’s side.
“Here,” I say, holding the pot out to her. “I want you to have this. It, er... used to belong to Claudine Terra, so it goes well with what you have going on here. Your theme and all.”
“Claudine Terra!” Cora exclaims, her perfectly plucked eyebrows bouncing up on her tanned forehead. “Did Lucy give it to you? Ken was telling me that Lucy inherited lots from her aunt. The mansion, a large sum of money...”
“Umm,” I say, trying to figure out how to keep Gunther out of it without lying to my friends. “Something like that. Was Ken Claudine’s lawyer? Isn’t that a bit awkward, since he’s Lucy’s husband?”
“Well, Claudine didn’t really have an option, did she?” Cora says. “There’s only one lawyer in town.”
One of the hard truths about living in a small town is that there’s usually one of everything: one physician, one pharmacist, one lawyer, one vet. There just isn’t enough demand for two. This makes it super important not to burn your bridges—by dating the only police captain, for example. Ug.
Cora keeps chattering. If there’s one thing Cora loves as much as Zumba, it’s a good gossip-fest. “I don’t think Claudine minded that Ken married into the family and was also her lawyer. The two—Ken and Claudine—seemed to get on just fine. At least, that’s what Ken said. He seemed really fond of her.”
Cora leans and lowers her tone to a conspiratory whisper. “It’s so sad, really. Ken actually had an appointment scheduled with her, yesterday, Sunday, the day that she was found dead. Claudine had some sort of big news to share. I think that she wanted an appointment so that she could restructure her will.”
“Really?” I ask. I’m all ears now. Sometimes Cora’s gossip bores me, but not today. I want to know everything I can about Claudine Terra. Ken would never share this info with me. That’s one of the perks of being knitting buddies with his gabby secretary.
“Really,” Cora continues. “But since it never happened, the will never got changed. Lucy remained the main beneficiary. I’m sure she’s pleased about the inheritance. The Terra Mansion is the best house in town! Not to mention the money, valuables, and antiques”
Annie chimes in. “Yes, Claudine was quite a collector from what I hear. And now I’ll have one of her teapots in my cafe!” Annie smiles gratefully in my direction. “How delightful!” She gracefully wraps an arm around my neck and tugs me in for a hug. “Penny, darling, thank you.” She kisses my cheek.
“Congratulations, Annie,” I say.
“Oh!” Says Cora, clapping. “I love celebrating milestones like this together. Annie, now that the cafe is reopened, does that mean we can have Knitting Circle here again, on Wednesday afternoons?”
“Yes.” Annie releases me. “Let’s meet this Wednesday. And I believe that it’s Penny’s turn to suggest the next book.”
Both women look at me. Our Wednesday afternoon meetings have turned into a sort of book club, Knitting Circle hybrid. We usually read one book together each month so that we have a shared topic to discuss while our fingers fly.
Since the cafe had been closed for renovations, our weekly meetings had been put on pause. I completely forgot that it was my turn to pick the next book.
“I have a few ideas,” I say, stretching the truth a bit. A few ideas... zero ideas... the difference is minor. “I’ll send out an email tonight with the title I decide on.”
This seems to satisfy the two women.
“Good,” says Annie with a nod. “I’ll bring the new reversible scarf pattern I found in Knitter’s Journal. It’s a beauty.”
Cora rubs her hands together. “Oh! I am so excited.”
She begins to rattle off a long list of new yarns that she just purchased, but I’m distracted by the sight of Lucy Wilbur standing at the appetizer table. I gulp down my wine and then hold up the empty glass and waggle it in the air.
“Time for a refill!” I say, backing away from the two ladies as they enter into a debate over which is softer: cashmere or angora.
Sidling up to the appetizer table, I reach for the bottle of white wine. While filling my glass, I pretend to notice Lucy Wilbur for the first time.
“Lucy! What a surprise!” I say.
It comes out sounding a bit forced. I can’t help it. Lying just doesn’t come naturally to me.
“How are you doing?” I ask, while filling my glass. “ I am so sorry to hear about your aunt.”
Lucy purses her lips together tightly. It’s not exactly a face of mourning. Instead, she looks annoyed that I brought it up.
“Oh. Thank you.” Her voice is strained and high pitched.
I sip my wine, eying her. How can I ask her more questions, tactfully?
“I heard that you were the one who found her body,” I blurt out.
Eh. Tact has never been my strong suit.
Her eyes narrow into two beady slits. Yep, that whiff of annoyance that I caught has now turned into a full-blown stink bomb.
“Yes,” she says. “It was very traumatizing, and I’d rather not talk about it.”
Shut down! I need to approach things from another angle.
�
�Sorry,” I say. “I’m sure that was hard. How’s everything else? Good summer so far? Can you believe it’s already the tail-end of July?”
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that people can always talk about the weather. Here in our mountain town, the seasons change in the blink of an eye. The locals love to commiserate with each other about how fast the months seem to fly by.
“I know!” Lucy says, perking up a bit. “Would you believe it; I actually saw a yellow aspen today. Yellow! Summer only just started and now it seems that fall is right around the corner.”
See? The weather unites us. Puts us all on the same team. I shake my head, as though I’m just as upset over the unfortunate and unwelcome early approach of fall as she is.
“A yellow leaf!” I repeat. “Unbelievable. So it’s been a good summer then?” I prod. Though I can stomach weather-related small talk for a minute or too, I quickly reach my max. Besides, I do want more information.
“Pretty good,” Lucy says. “We had a tough stretch for a bit with Summit. You know, our labradoodle?”
“Of course,” I say.
“He was very under the weather. I had to bring him to the vet last week. It was awful. Turned out it was just a urinary infection, but for a short time there Ken and I thought we were going to lose him!”
“I’m glad he was okay,” I say. “That must have been scary.”
“It was.” She nods. “Buttercup prescribed a round of very strong antibiotics. He had to be on medicine for five days before it cleared up.”
“You must have been relieved,” I say.
“We were... Ken brought him in for the follow up appointment and when he came home with the good news I cried because I was so happy. It seemed that our bad-luck-streak was ending. But then this whole unfortunate thing with my aunt happened, just a few days later.”
“How was it that you found her?” I ask.
Lucy’s face turns a reddish color. “I—well, it was—you see, I was going up to visit her, like I usually do every Sunday...”
“Just to say hello?” I interject.
“Well, yes. And to bring coffee and muffins. My aunt and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but she loved my cranberry orange muffins. She couldn’t resist them!”
“They sound good,” I say. They did.
“I’ll get you the recipe,” Lucy offers. “The secret is in using real orange peels for a zesty flavor. They are chock full of butter though. I don’t touch them—they’d go right to my hips. But you’re young, you can eat treats when you want, hm? I remember when I was your age... and carbs and fats didn’t go straight to my rear.”
She pats her bony behind and sighs dreamily.
“Thanks,” I say. “So... you brought the muffins and coffee up to her, and...?” I want to get her back on track.
“But when I knocked on the door, no one answered. I walked into the house, and then up to her bedroom, and there she was! Lying in bed, not breathing.”
“And you called the police?” I ask.
“Oh, right away. They came up and pronounced her dead right then and there. Poor Aunt Claudine.”
“Good thing she had a will in place,” I say. “That tends to make things so much easier on the family. I hear you inherited the mansion?”
Her face turns red. She purses her lips together as she nods.
I press on. “Any idea why she had an appointment with Ken, scheduled for later that day?” I ask. “I heard it was something to do with restructuring her will.”
“Who told you that?” Lucy nearly hisses. Her friendly how-bout-that-weather and I’ll-bring-you-the-recipe tone is gone.
I’m scooping up guacamole onto a corn chip. Her reaction startles me so much my chip wobbles and all of the guac falls off, splat, onto the white table cloth.
“Uh, no one,” I say. Darn. That wasn’t so smooth.
“Seriously, Penny. Who told you that? I thought no one knew about—” She stops herself short. Her face is even redder now, if that’s possible.
“I just heard it,” I say. “You know how this town is. Things get around.”
“Well, I have no idea whether my aunt was going to change her will or not. That wasn’t important to me. She and I had some differences, but I loved her... and whatever she wanted to do with her inheritance was no concern of mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just saw Ken walk in.”
She rushes away from me, and I watch her approach Ken.
He’s tall and fit, like his wife, and as usual he’s the best dressed in the room, in perfectly fitted slacks, a shiny black belt and shiny black dress shoes, and a purple button-up shirt. Lucy and Ken greet each other with a kiss, and when Lucy starts talking to him, I see her motion in my direction. Ken looks over at me as his wife speaks, and frowns.
Crap. I’ve just given Ken another reason not to like me. He already finds my PI related inquiries annoying, and now I’ve ratcheted up my annoyance factor by peppering his wife with questions. I think I really offended her by asking about Claudine’s will. I didn’t mean to offend Lucy, I just wanted information.
Marley slides up to the table, filling the place that Lucy just occupied. She reaches for the wine and I see that, like me, she polished off her first glass quickly.
“What’s her problem?” Marley asks, following my gaze and looking over at Lucy, who is definitely glaring at me.
The bottle of wine emits a glug-glug sound as Marley empties a quarter of it into her waiting glass.
I roll my eyes. “She’s offended because I asked her a few little questions about her aunt’s passing.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Marley says. “We are in the Death Cafe, after all. We should talk about dead people.”
“I guess she’s sensitive because it was her aunt.”
“Well, there’s that,” Marley says.
“What if she was upset that her aunt was going to cut her out of the will... And so she decided to off her aunt before any changes could be made?” I ask. “If Claudine and Gunther were such a hot item, maybe Claudine decided to leave most of her possessions to Gunther instead of Lucy, and Lucy was pissed.”
“Hunh,” Marley says, before taking a healthy swig of wine.
I continue. I’m on a roll. “That would explain why Gunther seemed so upset. Maybe he suspects Lucy of killing his beloved.”
“‘Beloved’?” Marley repeats with a goofy smirk. I think the wine is going to her head. “You’re so dorky when you try to act like a detective.” She pokes her index finger out and bops me on the nose.
“Shut up,” I say.
She snorts. “You are! You get all serious. It’s adorable. Hey, what was it you were saying about a note Gunther gave you?” She pops an olive into her mouth.
“It said that Claudine was murdered. It was typed up. He wants it to be anonymous. You can’t tell anyone about it, Marley. Lips, sealed.” I mime running a zipper across my lips.
Marley nods. “Got it. Why did he bring it to you?”
“Because I’m a personal investigator, and I’m used to dealing with this kind of stuff. I mean, I’m not used to dealing with this kind of stuff, but he doesn’t know that. Also, he said that I looked smart.” I adjust my glasses proudly. “He asked me to bring it to the police.”
“And did you?”
I nod, and feel that darn tell-tale blush creep into my cheeks.
“You saw Chris, didn’t you?” Marley guesses. “How did it go?”
My shoulders slump. “Not great.” I say. Then, to escape the uncomfortable turn the conversation has taken, I set my wine glass down next to a bowl of pretzels. “I need to use the ladies room,” I say.
Marley grins. “Get ready for a shocker,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Annie extended her renovations to the restroom.”
“And...?”
“You’ll see,” Marley says, mysteriously.
Well, anything is better than having to re-live my painfully awkw
ard encounter with Chris at the police station, so I head for the bathroom.
As soon as I open the door, I know what Marley was referring to.
Though the rest of Annie’s renovations are on the cheery side, her bathroom decor has taken on a decidedly different flavor. Instead of bright sunny yellow paint, the bathroom walls are plastered in newspaper. One particular page of every Hillcrest Crier that’s been published over the last ten years, it looks like.
Obituaries.
The bathroom is plastered with obituaries.
Though Annie might look like your typical grandmotherly type—with short curly white hair, pedal pusher pants and pastel hand-knit sweaters—she definitely has a freaky side.
And now, apparently, she’s decided to let her freak flag fly.
As I sit down on the porcelain throne, it’s impossible not to look out over the faces of Hillcrest’s dead and departed. I locate Claudine’s picture among the many black and white headshots. I guess Annie’s right. We all die eventually. But for some, that death comes too soon. According to Gunther, that was exactly what happened to Claudine Terra.
It wasn’t her time. Someone took her life.
But who?
Chapter Three
When I walk into my apartment that evening, the first thing I notice is the smell.
It’s like a cross between sour milk and my compost bin if I forget to empty it for a week. I force back a gag as I place the box of antiques down on my counter.
Hands now free, I run to the window and crank it open. I imagine that I’m acting as swiftly as a Navy SEAL might when moving through a room filled with toxic gas. I stand at the window for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Once I’ve regrouped, I face the apartment with my hands on my hips.
What is that smell?
Returning to the kitchen, I begin investigating.
The compost is empty and clean. I open the cabinets below the sink, to see if the smell grows stronger. Nope. Next, I pull open the fridge. It’s practically bare, and definitely free from sour-smelling leftovers.
Pulling the front of my sundress over my nose like a mask, I begin searching for Turkey. He’s the only other wild card here. If the smell isn’t coming from the compost, trash or the fridge, it’s probably him.
The Case of the Love Spell Page 3