The Rocky Road to Ruin

by Meri Allen

  Brandon’s eyes went wide behind his glasses. He gripped the chalkboard like a shield and stumbled backward.

  All the tension, sadness, and worry I’d managed to set aside as I prepared the shop to open surged back at Snow’s words. I turned my emotions to ice as I strode toward the newsman. “Brandon, please put the flavor board outside and then get behind the counter. Mr. Snow, was it? Step outside.” I took him by the upper arm and maneuvered him through the crowd.

  Once outside in the parking lot past the line of customers waiting to enter, I loosened my grip. Snow gave me an aggrieved look, straightened his blue blazer, and ran a hand across his blond crew cut. “And you are?”

  The length of the line surprised me, but so did the scene outside. Fairweather Road was not only lined with customers’ cars, but with news vans. An oversized news truck with a satellite rig was causing a bottleneck and horns honked as cars tried to edge around it.

  A woman with a video camera stood by the rear hatch of a white SUV marked News Now, and to my horror, started filming.

  I angled my body away from her.

  Now that the camera was rolling, Snow’s behavior changed. His voice warmed and he leaned toward me with a deeply concerned expression. “We’ve heard that a man was found dead in a barn on Farm Lane. Do you know the dead man?”

  I inhaled slowly as I gathered my thoughts.

  News had traveled fast. Locals certainly already knew about Mike, and with all the reporters here, it wouldn’t be long before the ghoulish and curious flooded into the shop.

  My mind flicked through possibilities.

  I respect journalists, but this was too close to home and too soon to deal with. Although with every fiber of my being I wanted to kick this guy and his fake concern, I had to stay calm and give him just enough so he’d leave us alone.

  “I’m a friend of the family that owns the ice cream shop,” I said. “You should talk to the police.”

  “The police have blocked the road and the spokesman hasn’t made an official statement yet. Surely you’re in the know, working here.” He leaned closer, hoping his flattery would work. “Is the man connected to the Spooner family?”

  “You’ll have to talk to the police.” I turned back toward the shop but Snow stepped in front of me.

  “You’re opening the ice cream shop? Isn’t that a little cold?” He grinned. “Ha, ha, see what I did there?”

  I took a steadying breath and narrowed my eyes. The camerawoman shook her head and coughed.

  Snow cleared his throat. “Sorry, sorry. We’ll cut that.” The woman nodded.

  “The owner passed away recently and the family wants to keep the shop open,” I said.

  “Is there a connection between the owner’s death and the man in the barn?” Snow said.

  “Of course not!” Inside my thoughts churned. A connection? Buzzy had died peacefully in her sleep. Mike, on the other hand … I couldn’t imagine much worse.

  “And the tennis player, Angelica Miguel,” Snow said. “Do you know if she’s connected to the death? The police are on the lookout for her.”

  Where was Angelica? Why couldn’t they find her?

  Could she have killed Mike? Of course. It was obvious. She’d seen him talking to Emily Weinberg at the funeral. That note … had it been left by Emily? Had Angelica argued with Mike about another woman? Killed him in a fit of jealous rage?

  The pitchfork. Angelica was an athlete with great upper-body strength. She’d be strong enough to wield that pitchfork. Or … had the killer murdered her too? And stolen her car?

  I shuddered. I’d liked her. Tom Snow stared at me. He was waiting, knowing that I knew more than I was saying, but I wasn’t going to be anybody’s scoop.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” I said.

  The camerawoman’s head swiveled around the parking lot. I’d bored her. Good. “I need to get back to work. Don’t bother any of my staff.” Could he? The shop was private property, right? “This is private property.”

  At the end of the line, a lanky man watched us. He wore a black cowboy hat and was dressed in well-worn jeans and a denim jacket over a fitted black T-shirt. Silver gray hair peeked out from under his hat; he had a silver moustache and the warmest deep brown eyes. He was so out of place and handsome I did a double take. He glanced from me to Tom Snow. “You okay, little lady?”

  Little lady? Sheesh. “I’ve got this.”

  I turned to Tom Snow. “Good day.”

  Did I just say good day? It felt good.

  The cowboy touched the brim of his hat as I strode past. I shouldered through the crowd, ignoring their curious looks.

  Was Angelica Miguel a murderer? Or was she a victim of the same person who’d killed Mike Spooner?

  Chapter 8

  When customers asked questions about all the police cars up the hill, I gave them a polite but firm “I don’t know.” The staff followed my lead.

  When the cowboy reached the head of the line, I watched from the corner of my eye as Flo handed him a sundae of butter pecan ice cream, the scoops twice as big as normal, drizzled with extra hot fudge, a mound of whipped cream, and three cherries.

  I didn’t blame her. He was undeniably handsome—rugged with dark eyes and a movie-star smile—but talk about a fish out of water. What was this cowboy doing in Connecticut?

  Around one o’clock, Caroline beckoned me from the kitchen. I hurried to her.

  “What are you doing here?” I didn’t say anything, but she looked awful: her skin ashen, her eyes red and rimmed with dark circles.

  “I can’t stay in bed any longer, I need to do something.” She yawned. “I don’t like being sedated. The police said it was okay for me to work. Pru came over to check on me and I asked her to help me bring lunch for everyone.”

  Pru stepped inside and set a basket on the broad worktable. She wore running shoes under her paisley peasant-style dress, but her socks—one bright red, the other burgundy—didn’t match.

  “How are you doing, Pru?” I said.

  Pru glanced at Caroline and forced a smile. “Fine. Here to help.”

  I remembered the order for margarita sorbet. “Caroline, do you feel up to making some of Buzzy’s margarita recipe?”

  Caroline’s lips lifted in a ghost of a smile as she opened the Book of Spells. “I’ve made it before but it’s nice to have the recipe in front of me,” she said as she flipped the pages. “I think we have everything I need—oh, except the booze. Orange-flavored triple sec and tequila.” Her voice trailed off.

  “What is it?” I said. “Do I need to buy some?”

  Pru poured batter into the waffle iron. “It’s in Buzzy’s office. She kept the liquor locked in there, in the closet. She called it the packy.”

  I smiled. “Packy” was a term for liquor store I’d only heard in New England.

  “I’ll get it.” I could understand Caroline’s reluctance to go into Buzzy’s office. I pulled down the key ring and unlocked the office’s closet door. When I saw the dozens of bottles of alcohol lining the shelves, my jaw dropped. “Buzzy must’ve planned to make a lot of boozy ice cream.”

  I grabbed what I needed, relocked the closet door, then handed the bottles to Caroline.

  “Riley, you need to eat,” Pru said. “I made tomato sandwiches.” I took one from the basket and bit in. Pru’s was no ordinary tomato sandwich. It was thick with sweet yellow and red heirloom tomatoes piled on garlicky homemade herbed focaccia, layered with soft goat cheese and fresh greens, and sprinkled with tangy red wine vinaigrette. It was so delicious my knees buckled.

  As I ate, I watched Caroline work. To my surprise, her movements were precise and unhurried as she measured the ingredients. She double-checked the recipe, shrugged, then poured in the entire bottle of triple sec. “It’s a big batch.”

  “I’m dying to try it,” I said.

  “Me too,” Caroline said. “We’re going to your Dad’s tonight for dinner, right?”

  I registered the circle
s under her eyes, her pale lips. “If you’re up to it.”

  “I need to stay busy,” she whispered. “Let’s bring some.”

  I washed my hands and returned to the front of the shop. The line was so long, staying busy would be no problem. As I grabbed a scoop, I noticed customers hanging back from a tall, thin man in camo pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. Despite the heat, he wore a black knitted cap pulled so low on his brow it covered his hair and ears. As he got closer to the counter I understood why people hung back—he smelled of wood smoke and sweat.

  Despite unshaven cheeks, he had a gentle face, with large hazel eyes and a wide expressive mouth. “Do you have the sunflower flavor?” He met my eyes then glanced away quickly.

  “We’ll have some this weekend,” I said.

  “I’ll come back.” He pulled his cap lower. “Chocolate and vanilla in a cup, please.”

  I gave him two generous scoops, channeling Buzzy, who would’ve thought he was down on his luck. But as he took the cup I noticed two things: his nails were beautifully manicured and his watch was a diving model a friend owned. It cost more than most people’s cars.

  My interest was piqued. In the spy world, the cover story is of utmost importance. Every detail—clothes, hair, jewelry, behavior—had to fit the person the agent is pretending to be. That watch and that manicure didn’t go with the dirty clothes, the unkempt look. Had he fallen on hard times? Or had he found, or stolen, that watch? What was this guy’s story?

  Willow set a bowl of freshly made marshmallow topping on the counter behind me. She smiled at my customer. “Hello, Stretch.”

  “Hey,” he replied. Stretch put money on the counter, said “keep the change,” and scuttled out.

  As I put the money in the cash register, I watched Stretch through the window. He took a bite of ice cream, tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he savored the flavor.

  “He’s really enjoying that ice cream,” I said to Willow. “You know him?”

  Willow shrugged. “Not really. He started coming in last week, comes in almost every day.”

  “His name is Stretch?” I asked.

  “Cause he’s tall, I guess,” Willow said. “If Flo doesn’t know someone’s name, she gives them a nickname. Stretch tries different flavors every time. I think he’s working his way through our list.”

  At seven o’clock, two women in pink boas and party hats picked up the Ultimate Frozen Margarita, their giggles and excitement a welcome break. It was a relief that they seemed unaware of the day’s events and asked no questions about Mike’s murder or Angelica’s disappearance. I almost dropped the check when they paid and I saw how much Buzzy charged for the boozy treat. Way to go, Buzzy.

  After some reinforcements from the farm came to relieve us, Caroline and I walked back to the house. I could just make out the sound of a police radio squawking at the Love Nest up the hill. I cast a glance at Caroline. She hunched her shoulders and ran into the house.

  Caroline and I freshened up, made sure Sprinkles was fed, then got in the Mustang and drove down Farm Lane and east onto Fairweather Road. It was a longer route to Dad’s house but there was no way I’d drive past the Love Nest and the barn.

  I pulled into Penniman proper and turned past the town green onto Church Lane. So many emotions churned through me, but as we approached my childhood home, my heart settled and I saw Caroline’s expression relax. No matter what happened, I was always happy to see Dad.

  The house I grew up in was one of the most charming houses in a town full of them, a Victorian Gothic painted sunshine yellow with black shutters. White gingerbread accented the peaked roofline, and the porch was broad and welcoming. There was a porch swing with striped-green cushions where I’d spent hours reading as a child. Two urns at the base of the front steps spilled over with red geraniums, white petunias, and ivy.

  Right across the street was the back entrance of The Penniless Reader. Dad and Paulette had a great commute.

  Caroline gathered her handbag and the container of margarita sorbet as she got out of the car. “It’s such a beautiful house. It always makes me think of fairy tales. That’s why I’m afraid to ask. Didn’t you say Paulette was renovating?”

  “Yes, Dad told me she started after the holidays. At least she can’t change the outside. The town’s Historic Preservation Committee would have a cow.” Thank goodness.

  “Did you say ‘have a cow’?” Caroline said.

  I groaned. “I’ve been hanging out at an ice cream shop all day.”

  “Your Dad will love that pun.”

  Dad did love a good pun—sometimes too much. I shouldered my bag and followed Caroline up the porch steps where Dad held the door wide.

  “Glad to see you, girls.”

  Caroline handed Dad the ice cream. “Margarita—one of Buzzy’s special recipes.”

  Dad’s shaggy gray eyebrows shot up behind his thick glasses. “Well, well, I’m sure it’s udderly delicious.” He winked. I groaned and Caroline laughed.

  We stepped over the threshold and I stopped short.

  “Whoa, this is different,” Caroline whispered.

  She put my shocked thoughts into words.

  Although the exterior of the house was the same, Paulette has gutted and changed the interior. The snug wainscoted living room, cozy with old-fashioned William Morris–style wallpaper and overstuffed hand-me-down furniture, had been transformed. The curvy antique settee and arm chairs had been replaced by sleek brown leather furniture and glass-topped tables, and the walls had been painted a buff beige and hung with watercolors in soft hues.

  I realized Dad was watching me so I swallowed my shock and managed to say, “Good update. Very modern.” I didn’t speak my next though out loud—and probably expensive, like Paulette. My dad was Mr. Comfortable, who’d never given the furniture a second thought. He’d inherited the house from an aunt and hadn’t moved a single lacy antimacassar or cross-stitched sampler. When he wasn’t in the bookshop, he liked to hike and bike. I should’ve seen this coming when Paulette upgraded his decades-old Schwinn to a thousand-dollar model made of some super-strong material NASA had invented for space shuttles.

  “Riley! Caroline! How are you?” Paulette greeted us, drying her hands on a towel. She embraced Caroline and rubbed her back.

  Caroline gave Paulette a peck on the cheek. “Honestly I’m okay, but would it be all right if we don’t talk about Mike?”

  “Of course. I made a nice lasagna in honor of your trip to Italy, Riley.” Paulette shifted gears smoothly.

  “That’s so nice of you, Paulette. Oh, that reminds me.” I pulled gifts from my bag: a silk scarf of a soft blue that would complement Paulette’s eyes and a book I’d found in Rome for Dad.

  Dad took the book out of the box with reverent fingers. “Red Harvest!” Caroline and I exchanged grins as Dad geeked out on the book. Nobody loved books like Dad, though he’d had little choice, being named Nathaniel Hawthorne Rhodes by his bibliophile parents. He collected vintage detective fiction, and this first edition by Dashiell Hammett was right up his alley.

  “Hammett’s first. The diamond pattern on the spine—his publisher used that for his books. Nice skull and crossbones on the cover. No dust jacket, but still, firm, some softened spine edges, cloth.” Dad opened the book. “Alfred A. Knopf, New York. 1929. First edition. What a great find, Riley!”

  I beamed. I loved poking around in old bookshops as much as Dad did. I’d been thrilled to find this book in a dusty antiques shop in Rome, and even more thrilled to have paid only twenty euro. The book was worth more than twenty times that to a collector.

  “I’ll put this in a safe place for now.” He set the book gently on the fireplace mantel, next to some family photos. I was relieved to see Paulette hadn’t removed my parents’ wedding photo during her renovation. It was still there, next to several pictures of Paulette’s son from her first marriage, an “entrepreneur” named Richard. I never said anything out loud, but I thought of him as Richa
rd the Sponge. He’d stayed at the house for almost a year writing a novel (he said) while he was “between jobs.” Thank goodness he’d eventually moved out to Tacoma to take a job as a budtender in a marijuana dispensary.

  “Marvelous! Thank you!” Paulette looped the scarf around her shoulders. I flashed back to Caroline’s dove gray scarf, peeking out of Mike’s pocket in the barn. My eyes went to Caroline, but she reached out to touch the scarf, her expression relaxed. “That’s gorgeous on you, Paulette.”

  I swallowed. Caroline must not even realize her scarf was missing. What would the police do? They had to realize it wasn’t Mike’s.

  “Thank you, honey,” Dad said. “How’s the travel blogging?”

  Paulette said, “I was just saying to your Dad that it was nice that your library job gave you so much time off to travel.”

  I couldn’t tell them what had happened in Rome, but I could tell one undeniable truth. “Rome is magic.”

  “Oh, Nate, we should go!” Paulette gushed.

  We took seats in the dining room where cool evening air flowed in the open windows, gently lifting the new pale yellow silk curtains. Dinner was delicious—a thick lasagna, green salad, and home-baked garlic bread.

  Despite her request earlier, Caroline brought up Mike. I sensed she did want to talk about everything that was happening. “And,” Caroline said, “I can’t believe Angelica’s missing.”

  “She’s been all over the news,” Paulette said. “You’d think they could trace her car.”

  “She has a vintage Porsche.” I took a sip of Paulette’s delicious wine. Maybe Paulette was good for dad. “There’s no onboard software to track her.”

  “Do you think she ran away because she—” Paulette stopped talking abruptly but we could fill in the rest of the sentence. Do you think she ran away because she killed Mike?

  “They seemed crazy about each other,” I said quickly.

  “Caroline, tell me what’s new in Boston,” Paulette said.

  The evening had turned cool. “I’m going to grab a sweater from upstairs.” I’d left some of my clothes and books behind in my old bedroom.