Plotting for Murder (Cozy Mystery Bookshop Series Book 1)

by Tamra Baumann

  “Do you know what killed him yet?”

  Dylan shakes his head. “We have to wait on labs for that. But because of the banned DDT, more agencies have gotten involved and are threatening to take over the case. The perils of being a small-town sheriff.”

  “And knowing you, that’s lit a fire under you to solve the case before they get their red tape all figured out?”

  “Exactly.” He finishes his food and then takes his plate to the dishwasher. “And if we find the hidden items and let everyone know, that lowers the threat level to you as well.”

  My glass stops halfway to my lips. “You don’t understand. We can’t tell anyone if we find the things my mom hid.”

  “Why not?” He sits across from me again and pets Cooper, who’s jumping on his leg for attention.

  “Because then my uncle could claim my mother used funds from the trust to purchase them without his consent and demand I turn over the items. I can’t think of any other way she’d have the money to buy whatever these things are. And if he can prove she violated the terms of the trust, I’d have no choice but to give him all the property, including this house, and go back to Chicago. The one thing my mother never wanted.”

  “Your mom made that clear to anyone who’d listen before she died.” Dylan runs a hand down his face in frustration “Wait. You just found out about these hidden things. How were you planning to stay here before? You’ve told me in the past that the bookstore can’t support you.”

  It’s my turn to run the salt and pepper shakers around the table. Uncle Frank is in charge of the city that pays Dylan’s salary, so I have to tread carefully. “I have a plan.”

  His eyes narrow. “What kind of a plan?”

  I don’t want to tell him the whole truth, no matter how much I trust him.

  My mind races for an explanation. “Well, just today, Brittany and I sold almost $1800.00 in old books from the back room. We’ve created an online seller account, and we’re working on our website. We’re going to sell rare and limited-edition mysteries to supplement the storefront. And then maybe even branch out into other types of rare books.”

  “Because the Admiral suggested that today when you met with him. He told me the same thing the night Chad died when I questioned him about what he knew about the inventory in back. So, spill.”

  “Can I plead the fifth?”

  “No.” He takes my hand. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know everything.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with Chad’s death. I found a loophole in the trust, that’s all. And Gage confirmed that what I plan to do will work and is perfectly legal. Unfortunately, my uncle could plug that hole if he catches wind of it before I can make it happen. It has nothing to do with the murder.”

  “At this point, we don’t know what has to do with the murder and what doesn’t. The golf ball is a good example of that.” His hand tightens over mine. “Chad’s behavior suggests he might have been looking for what your mother hid. Whoever killed Chad could simply have been taking revenge for using a banned substance or looking for the hidden items too. Desperation makes people do irrational things. And if I lose control of this case on Monday, we’re both going to be in the dark. Let’s go to the bookstore right now while it’s closed and find what Chad was looking for to put a stop to all this.”

  I swallow back my rising panic. “If we find it, it’ll be evidence, public record. My uncle will surely see, plug the hole I found in the trust, and it still might not prove who killed Chad.”

  Dylan tugs on my hand. “It might keep you out of danger, though. Come on.”

  If we find whatever this thing is, my dreams of having a restaurant will evaporate, and my uncle will walk away with all the things that had been rightfully my mother’s.

  Hello, rock and a hard place.

  I put Cooper in the laundry room with a rawhide bone, and then Dylan and I set off for the bookstore on foot. The summertime sun is starting its descent into the ocean, casting beautiful pink and purple hues onto the water. “Wow. That’s something I’ll miss when I have to go back to Chicago.”

  Dylan wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I know this is hard, but it makes the most sense to get you out of the loop. If there were any other way, I’d be all for it. I don’t want you to go back to Chicago either. Still, I’d like you to stay safe even more.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” As we walk, I try to be content watching the ocean waves crashing over the rocks just off the shoreline and hope for the best. But I’ve never been one to wait for fate to fix things. Growing up the way I have, I learned early on that I have to chart my own destiny.

  Dylan steers me toward the rear of the store. “Let’s not advertise we’re here by going in the front.”

  The front of my store faces the middle of the town square with its park and specialty shops gathered around. It’s always busy in the summer evenings filled with families and tourists licking ice-cream cones and eating from the food trucks that surround the park. Mom tried staying open later to get some of that business, but apparently, ice cream and burgers hold more appeal than mystery books after 6:00 p.m.

  I follow behind Dylan, still trying to figure out a way to keep whatever we find secret, when he throws out an arm for me to stop.

  He whispers, “Hide behind that dumpster and wait.”

  Before I can question him, I see what he sees. Someone is breaking into my store.

  Chapter 8

  There hasn’t been a burglary in Sunset Cove in twenty years, but it looks like that streak is about to be broken.

  With my stomach suddenly tied up in knots, I take a quick peek around Dylan again before I hide behind the dumpster. A tall man with broad shoulders, dressed in black, is messing with the locks.

  I’d recognize that full head of black hair with the dramatic touches of white at the temples anywhere. “It’s my dad, Dylan. Put the gun down.”

  Dylan calls out, “Can I help you?”

  My dad turns around, his eyes widening at the sight of Dylan’s gun, and he raises his hands above his head.

  And then he passes out.

  Like a fainting goat, he’s lying on his side with his arms and legs sticking straight out. He does this when he sees blood too. It’s where I get my squeamish nature from.

  We rush to his side, and I gently pat his cheek. “Dad? Can you hear me?” Dylan and I check for any injuries, but my father seems fine. My mom had always said my dad had the hardest head in the state. I used to think she meant he was stubborn, but apparently, his head really is hard. I can’t even find a bump.

  Dylan gently shakes my father’s shoulder. “Come on, Max. Open your eyes.”

  I know what’ll get his attention. I lean down and shout, “Max! You’re on in two!”

  My dad’s shoulders jerk, and his stunning blue eyes fly open. “I’m coming. Be right there.” He slowly sits up, and then a big grin lights his face. “Hey there, Jellybean.”

  “Hi, Dad.” I point to Dylan, who’s smirking, and say, “You ever repeat that nickname, and you’re a dead man.”

  My dad turns and scowls at Dylan. “Well, if it isn’t the galloping groom.” Dad slowly starts to get up.

  Dylan ignores both of us and slips his arms under my dad to help him. “Nice to see you again too, Max.”

  Once my dad is vertical, he slaps Dylan’s hands away. “I’ll thank you for keeping your hands to yourself, sir.”

  My dad has never forgiven Dylan for leaving me at the altar. Mostly because he couldn’t get his share of the money back from the wedding planner.

  I slip an arm through my dad’s bent one and pull him toward the store. “I changed the locks this morning. What did you need?”

  My father brushes the dust off his dark suit. It’s the one he wears on stage. “Your mother was kind enough to let me keep my things in her attic. I’ve decided to pull some of my older tricks out of my hat. Get it?”

  “Your top hat. Got it.” Luckily, my father generally sticks to magic
instead of dad jokes on stage.

  I slip my key into the lock and then open the door. “I didn’t even know this place had an attic.”

  “That’s because you have to know where to look. Follow me.” My dad grabs the ladder by the back door and then heads toward the showroom as I stop the warning beep from the alarm before it goes off.

  I start to follow my dad when Dylan’s hand wraps around my arm to stop me. “Should I take off or stay, Jellybean?”

  I raise a warning brow.

  “Sorry.” He holds up both hands. “I had to do it at least once. Wait until I tell the kids—hey! That hurts.”

  I drag Dylan by the ear toward the main showroom. “For your punishment, you can search the attic with my dad while I look down here.” I release him and then head for the coffee that’s probably cold by now, but we’ve got a microwave.

  Rubbing his ear, Dylan whispers, “Your dad hates me.”

  I take a drink from my mug to test the almond roast. Warm enough. “Think of it as an opportunity.”

  “For what? More abuse?”

  “No. To make up with him. Ask him to teach you a magic trick, and you’ll be his best pal.”

  “I think I’d rather let him stay mad at me.” Dylan glances over his shoulder. My dad is sliding a panel open in the drop ceiling, exposing a wooden pull-down staircase. “On second thought, that would make an excellent place to hide something for you.” He heads my dad’s way.

  I can’t blame Dylan for wanting to avoid my dad. He can be a bit much, telling exaggerated tales about his so-called exotic travels and spinning dramatic yarns about the famous people he has entertained over the years. Like the time he told us he’d just performed for the queen of England when we knew he’d been in Milwaukee. He must’ve forgotten that he’d asked my mom to wire him some money to pay his hotel bill. When my mom called him out on that fact, he’d said the lady in the front row had been the queen, or he’d eat his hat.

  We love him anyway, flaws and all.

  When my dad pulls out a wand and bellows, “Lumos!” light shines from the hole at the top of the stairs. I’ll pretend I didn’t see his other hand hit a light switch.

  Dylan, halfway up the steps, looks down at me and says, “Harry Potter spells?”

  “Yeah. He does it for the kids.”

  My dad calls out, “I have a rather good one for making sheriffs disappear too.”

  Dylan’s jaw clenches as he climbs up behind my dad. Once Dylan’s head is in the attic, he says, “Sawyer? I think you need to see this.”

  Curious, I start up the wooden steps and follow Dylan into the attic. It’s huge. It must cover the bookstore and the empty space next door where the restaurant will be. There’s a long aisle down the middle with boxes stacked to the ceiling on either side. But right in front of me, at the top of the stairs tucked away in a corner, there’s a bed, TV, microwave, couch, bathroom, and a fridge. “What’s going on up here?” I turn to my father, who has busied himself digging through boxes.

  “Just a place to lay my head when I come to town. Your mother wouldn’t allow me to stay at the house, remember? She offered me this instead.”

  When I open the fridge, there’s bottles of ketchup and mustard, beer, and a few water bottles. “How often do you stay here?” The last I knew he was in town was for my mom’s funeral six weeks ago. “And how did you get a queen-sized bed up here?”

  My dad’s brows hitch. “Magic, of course.”

  Dylan grunts as he digs through boxes. “More like through those doors right there.” He points at two big doors at the rear. They must open up over the alley behind my store.

  Dylan crosses the attic and turns the knob. He opens one side and peers outside before he slams the door closed again. “These weren’t even locked.” He twists the dead bolt to secure them.

  My father waves a hand. “Of course not. There’s nothing anyone would want up here. It’s just old books and some of my trunks.”

  I used to love playing with the things inside those old trunks when I was a kid on the road with my parents over summer breaks. The sparkly clothes my mom used to wear to get sawn in half, and the hats with secret pockets, and stuffed rabbits my dad would pull out of them. We couldn’t have live bunnies because they had to be fed.

  And what a great place for my mom to hide something for me! My heart rate jumps as I cross the dusty floor and open one of my dad’s trunks. I rummage around inside, pushing the rings that aren’t really solid but are made to look like it aside, and move the many packs of trick cards and silk scarves, but don’t see anything of value.

  Disappointment fills me as I sit back on my heels.

  Dylan slips beside me and whispers, “See our footprints? The amount of dust covering everything suggests no one has disturbed things up here for a long time. The Admiral told me your mom placed the items just a few weeks before she died.”

  I glance over my shoulder. My dad is still mumbling to himself while looking for something in one of his trunks across the room. “The living area isn’t covered in dust, though. Someone has been up here.”

  Dylan nods. “Do you think your mom would’ve told your dad about the things she hid? And maybe he’s been here looking for them too?”

  “No way.” I shake my head. “I love my father, but if he got his hands on those things, they’d be hocked before lunch. My mom wouldn’t have told him because she wanted me to have my restaurant one day.”

  “Voilà!” My father holds up an intricate box with little drawers. It’s like a puzzle box but rigged for his tricks. “There you are, my little crowd pleaser. Now, if only I could find my throwing knives, I’ll be back in business in no time.”

  Dylan’s shoulder bumps mine. “Maybe you should ask your dad to stay with you for a few days. That way you won’t be alone. And he could bring those knives.”

  “Right. If someone breaks in, my dad can pull out those fake knives, and then faint at their feet to give me a chance to get away. Good plan.”

  Dylan’s shoulders shake with restrained laughter. “You said it. I didn’t.”

  “You were thinking it.” I stand and swipe the dust off my knees. “Besides, we need to search my house too. And tomorrow is the only day I’ll have it to myself.”

  “Okay. But I need to confirm it’s been him living up here and not someone else. He won’t talk to me, so you’re it.”

  “Fine.” I brush the dust off my hands and stand by my father again.

  He smiles at me before he wraps me up in a hard hug. “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. Can I ask a favor?”

  Uh-oh. Here it comes. The part where he asks if I have any cash on me. “Good to see you too, Dad. Before you ask, though, I need to know something. Have you been staying here long?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Since the funeral, I’ve popped in a few times between gigs, but I’ve been on the road the last two weeks. Why?”

  “Because you’ll need a new key. And I’m changing the alarm code after new cameras are installed. Because of the murder here last Thursday.”

  “Murder?” My dad’s face goes as white as his shirt as he drops on top of a trunk he’s using as a coffee table. “Here? At the bookstore?”

  “Don’t faint on me again.” I sit beside my dad and grab his hand. “Yes, in the stockroom downstairs. So you need to be honest with me, okay? It’s important.” I stand and grab a bottle of cold water from the fridge and hand it to my dad.

  He takes a long drink, and his color comes back. “I’ve been here on and off for the past three months. Otherwise, I’ve been on the road doing state fairs.” My dad points to Dylan, who has joined us. “Give him Carl’s number if he doesn’t believe me.”

  Dylan asks, “Who’s Carl?”

  “My dad’s booking agent. I’ll give you the number later.” I look up, and Dylan is motioning toward the trunk with his eyes. He appears to be sending me a silent signal, so I glance down and see what he sees. There’s a small note taped on the side of t
he trunk that says: Sawyer’s Toys.

  I can’t recall saving any toys.

  And the sloppy note was written by my mom. This is it. I can feel it. However, my faint father is sitting on the trunk, so I can’t open it. And he’s probably planning to spend the night. Maybe I can convince him to stay at the house if he’s freaked out enough about the murder. Just as I open my mouth to invite Dad back to my home, Dylan says, “Max. Can you show me how that box works?”

  My father’s whole face lights up. “A good magician never reveals his secrets. However, I’m happy to show you the trick.” He hops up and grabs the box. “Give me a twenty-dollar bill.”

  I smirk as Dylan digs in his wallet for a twenty. I should warn Dylan that he’ll not get that back, but I’m more worried about what’s inside the trunk.

  My dad, with his back to me, says, “Great. Now open any drawer you like and place the twenty inside.”

  I quickly lift the trunk’s lid, and there right on top is an envelope. With my name on it. Yes!

  I grab the envelope, lift my shirt in the back, and put it in my waistband for safekeeping. I take a quick look at the other things in the trunk, but it’s filled with boxes with hidden bottoms and more old costumes, so I quickly close the lid.

  When I stand up, my dad is frowning and pretending to search for the twenty. “Maybe that’s why I stashed the box away. It’s broken.”

  I wag a thumb toward the stairs, and Dylan gives me a slight nod. He says to my dad, “You can get it back to me. Have a nice evening, Max.”

  I hand my key over because I have a spare at home. “Night, Dad. Come lock up behind us, please.”

  “Will do.” My father has a smug grin on his face. “I’ll be out of your hair before you open on Monday. I have a gig in Iowa.”

  I lay a quick kiss on his cheek. “Drive safe.” Then I whisper, “There’s about sixty bucks in the safe downstairs. I’m guessing you know the combination?”

  “Max the Magnificent knows all. Love you, Sawyer.”

  “Love you too.” I’m glad we sold those books online so I can go to the bank and get cash on Monday for the till. And grateful my father has kept his hand out of my safe up till now. He unabashedly asks for help but would never steal from me.