Tide and Punishment

by Bree Baker

  Maybe what I needed was yoga? That was what all my women’s magazines said, and I definitely needed something. I’d already gained back four of the twelve pounds I’d lost making tracks around the island this year, and at this point I was shaping up to look more like Santa than a seaside iced tea maker.

  I brought up a beginner’s yoga video on my cell phone, carried it into the empty former ballroom, and propped it on a windowsill, then began the instructed breathing.

  My mind wandered.

  I reached for the ceiling on a deep inhale. Then the floor on a long exhale. The ceiling. The floor. The ceiling. The floor.

  My phone.

  I stopped the video.

  Ten minutes later, I’d filled my favorite travel mug with liquid energy and bundled up to my nose against the frigid winds. I was an outside bird, and I needed to fly. The temperatures had risen slightly since the night before and the snow had stopped falling. I used a long-handled sand shovel to push the cold white tufts off my porch, steps, and walkway, then I headed to the carriage house to check on Blue. Blue was my fixer-upper golf cart. I’d bought her off a lawn where a hand-painted sign said she’d be “great for parts!” but she ran fine. I gave her a bath and painted her to match her sisters: my thrift store bicycle and upcycled wagon. Now, she was a beautiful shade of sky blue with the Sun, Sand, and Tea insignia on her hood and flower chains of pink and white petals painted along her sides.

  I dropped my bag onto her passenger seat and patted the steering wheel. Blue didn’t like the cold, but she had a silver duct tape star on her headrest that I thought made her invincible. Grady had put it there after someone had stabbed her as a warning to me, and it felt like his stamp of approval. The star meant a lot to him. He’d been a fast-rising powerhouse within the U.S. Marshals office before I met him. Then his wife died of cancer, and he became a grieving widower and single father to a preschooler all at once.

  I climbed aboard in silent prayer and gave Blue a try. Tenacious and true, her little engine kicked into action. We motored out of the carriage house, victorious against the weather. Nothing stopped my baby. Not an island snowstorm. Not even the recent collision and extensive body work I’d be paying on until the new millennium.

  I stopped at my mailbox, set upon a white post at the end of my picket fence, and climbed out. I’d bought Blue a new winter enclosure, the golf cart equivalent of a ski coat and mask, with hinged doors on Black Friday. The local golf cart retailer had installed the enclosure at a discount, and given the recent historic drop in temperatures, I was wildly thankful. Blue’s new duds included a plastic cover that enclosed everything from the windshield to the side and back windows, plus two operational doors. The gift was for both of us because it kept the racing wind off my face, and I could smile while I drove again without freezing my lips to my teeth.

  A pile of brightly colored envelopes spilled out from the mailbox when I opened the door. I beamed at the shimmering paper, festive stamps, and fancy handwriting on each. Holiday cards made me happy. Every archway in the café was already lined in them, and I loved that they kept coming. I flipped through the return addresses to be sure I had the senders on my list of cards to send. I set a card I hadn’t expected on top of the others, so I wouldn’t miss the sender when it was time to get my next batch of outgoing cards into the mail. Sending a card without getting one in return seemed like a bummer, and I wasn’t in the business of being a downer.

  I climbed back behind the wheel and motored on. The boardwalk was edged in a little wall of snow that the wind had blown and sculpted while I slept. Families were already out, cheerfully bundled and carrying sleds. They zipped down the normally seagrass-covered hills on orange plastic tubes and sleek rectangular sheets, then skimmed across the icy beach. Frothy white waves rolled steadily in as children added driftwood arms and sea glass eyes to the first snowmen Charm had seen in years.

  There was nothing like the ocean in any weather, but the unusual scene before me seemed a lot like a gift. I’d missed far too many holidays while I was away at culinary school and chasing a cowboy on his rodeo circuit. Still, Wyatt might’ve broken my heart, but that act had led me home, and I owed him a debt of gratitude for it.

  As fate would have it, Wyatt had taken a job at the local nature center in Charm during his off-season. I now spent more time dodging him than I’d ever spent chasing him.

  Blue and I rolled off the boardwalk and cruised up Middletown Road, then made a left at the square. I trundled down Main Street and smiled at the view. Boughs of holly had been tied to every lamp post. Mistletoe hung from street signs, icicle lights dripped over rooflines, and happy holiday tunes piped through speakers high on telephone poles.

  I angled into a snow-covered parking spot outside Blessed Bee, my great-aunts’ shop, and took a moment to people watch. Shoppers with broad smiles and rosy cheeks hustled in and out of stores, their arms heavy with packages despite the early hour. Mouthwatering scents of rich buttery pancakes and warm sugary syrups puffed out from local cafés with each exiting customer.

  Blessed Bee was just one in a row of pastel-colored houses on the main strip through town. The homes had long ago been converted into a delightful selection of cafés, shops, and second-floor apartments. Outside, Blessed Bee’s bright yellow clapboard was bookended by matching homes. The blue shop on the left was an ice cream parlor, and the pink one on the right was Charming Reads, Amelia’s amazing bookstore. Basically, my aunts’ shop was prime real estate, and one of the most profitable shops in town.

  I climbed out, careful not to step in a puddle or on slippery ice. From where I stood, I could see that Aunt Clara had added little Santa and elf hats to the painted honeybees flying errant patterns over their shop window. What Aunt Clara had in creativity, Aunt Fran mirrored with business sense. Together, they used the honey from their personal hives, plus dried flowers and herbs from their extensive gardens, to make uniquely fabulous, holistic potions like lip gloss, facial soap, and mouthwatering condiments.

  While my aunts weren’t magical, they were absolutely superstitious, and they loved to retell our family legends, which probably contributed to the somewhat fantastical opinions about our family that still occasionally circulated among the townspeople. My aunts believed it was our sacred duty to pass along the tales of “unwritten history,” as they called it. I worried the practice equated to little more than really old gossip, but one day, I supposed, I’d be alone and want to carry on the tradition. I’d want to feel as if I was part of something bigger. For now, I had my aunts and they were enough.

  One of my least favorite family legends suggested that Swan women were somehow cosmically tied to the island—a nice way of saying we were cursed. In other words, if we left, bad things happened. I could argue that I’d left, and I was fine, but that wasn’t the whole story. My heart had been shattered, then stomped into dust. Clearly, I had fallen in love with the wrong man.

  My second least favorite of my aunt’s stories declared that Swan women were cursed in love. It was as farfetched as the other legend, but infinitely more unfair. If I believed, I would say it explained why no one could remember a man in any Swan woman’s life who hadn’t succumbed to an early and unexpected death, but I didn’t want to believe. I’d originally considered Wyatt’s still-beating heart as proof the love curse was a lie, but that had only drudged up the possibility he’d never actually loved me, and that just ticked me off. Also, he’d left more than one rodeo in an ambulance during those days, and lately he seemed to be in the best shape of his life. As if my love had been actively trying to kill him.

  I moved slowly onto the sidewalk, partially so I wouldn’t fall, but also because I’d parked beside a white BMW with giant Swan for Mayor stickers covering the hood, roof, and doors. I recognized the car as belonging to Janie Crouch, Aunt Fran’s unofficial campaign manager. The stickers were new. I rubbernecked the stickers all the way to the door, then stopped short
again. Aunt Clara’s goofy collection of hand-painted Christmas gnomes were missing from outside the store.

  The door swung open before I reached it, and Aunt Clara ushered me inside. “What are you doing standing out there? You’ll catch a cold.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale,” I told her, turning to give her a hug.

  “Why take the chance?” she asked, smiling brightly back. “Who wants a cold?”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  The interior’s pale yellow walls and bright white trim reminded me of the towering sunflowers that grew in my aunts’ garden each summer. They’d stained the wide-planked floor a deep shade of green and painted the ceiling to look like the sky. A few little painted bees flew there as well.

  I pulled my hat off and unbuttoned my coat.

  Aunt Clara burrowed deeper into her heavy wool cardigan. “This weather is out of control,” she complained. “If it doesn’t warm up soon, I’ll freeze in my own skin.”

  “It’s nearly thirty-five now,” I told her. “It’s been this cold before.”

  “Not with the snow,” she said. “The snow makes it colder.”

  I frowned. “Well, at least you have your sweater and some hot tea.” I nodded to the steaming mug near the register.

  “It’s a toddy,” she said. “Purely medicinal.”

  Aunt Fran strode out of the back room, arms heavy with stock. “Everly! Good morning.” She adjusted the load against her chest and began to refill her stocking stuffer display with tiny lotions and soaps. “Were the roads bad?”

  “No.” I shook my head, then relieved her of half the load and lined the boxes onto shelves. “The sun is out, and the snow is melting.” I shot a cautious look in her direction, then abruptly changed the subject. “You didn’t call to tell me how it went with Grady last night.”

  “He’s a nice young man,” Aunt Clara said, coming to join us with her hot toddy.

  “Honest too,” Aunt Fran added flatly. “He says I need to think of something that will help my case because right now everything points to me as Dunfree’s killer.”

  I offered a sad smile. Aunt Fran was playing it cool this morning, but she was clearly affected by all that had happened. She hadn’t called the mayor by his actual name in years. “Grady told me that too.”

  Aunt Clara hummed softly as she worked on her toddy. “I suppose we should light this place up before we’re the last shop on the block to welcome shoppers.”

  I gave the store a long look. It was a bit dimmer inside than usual, though the sunlight reflecting off snow had done a good job of illuminating the space. “Were you thinking of not opening today?” I gave the pair a closer inspection. They looked fine on the surface, but that was all a mask. In addition to Aunt Clara’s brandy-laced toddy for breakfast, Aunt Fran’s too-tight smile was starting to look more maniacal by the minute. “You’re not okay!” I accused. “Why are you pretending with me?”

  Aunt Clara moved around the shop’s perimeter hitting switches and plugging in cords until the room was alight with fluorescence and holiday charm. “We don’t want to worry you, dear.”

  Aunt Fran huffed. “It’s your first Christmas home, and it’s absolute rubbish that something as ghastly as this has to ruin it.”

  I smiled at my silly, protective great-aunts and at the scene before me. The shop’s crown molding danced with chasing lights. The counters and shelves were heavy with themed decor, from tiny faux-snow covered villages to stacks of holiday books and strings of paper snowflakes galore. Blessed Bee was a winter wonderland, and I loved it. “My Christmas isn’t ruined,” I promised. “Far from it, and I won’t let yours be either.”

  Aunt Fran reached for my hand. “Have I told you lately how glad we are that you’re home?”

  I set the last tube of bee balm lip gloss on the shelf, then squeezed her waiting hand. “Where else would I be?”

  Aunt Clara headed our way, slightly lighter on her feet. Her bright smile reminded me of the missing gnome collection that had made her so happy before. “What happened to your gnome garden?” I asked. “Did you move them inside somewhere?”

  My aunts exchanged a look.

  “What?” I asked. “Is it because of what happened last night?” Because one was used as a murder weapon? Maybe it was wise to move them out of sight for a while.

  “No,” Aunt Fran said. “They were gone when we got here this morning.”

  Aunt Clara pressed a palm to her collarbone.

  “Gone?” I parroted, unsure what to make of the simple word. “Stolen?” Who would steal a bunch of festively attired garden gnomes? “Why?” It wasn’t as if the thief could put them out at his or her place, or even sell them. Everyone in Charm knew exactly who the gnomes belonged to. “Have you called the police?”

  “Of course not,” Fran said crankily. “I think the police have bigger problems right now, and who cares about the loss of a few garden gnomes? Except us, I mean. Complaining seems frivolous in light of everything else.”

  “It’s not complaining,” I said. “It’s making a report, and letting the police know there was another gnome-related crime last night beside the big one. The two could be connected somehow.”

  Clara batted too-wide eyes, and I went to hug her.

  The bell over the front door rattled, and a woman I recognized immediately as Janie Crouch blustered inside. Janie stomped bits of snow from her boots and pulled her wrap off in a fit of pique.

  Janie was roughly my age, fresh from L.A., and endlessly in search of a cause. Aunt Fran’s run for office had become her purpose du jour, which I appreciated significantly more than her blatant and ongoing interest in Grady Hays.

  Janie pulled thick brown hair free from the collar of her sweater and sighed. “They’re taking down the signs,” she said, her bright blue eyes troubled. “I’d say I can’t believe it, but that would be a lie. Oh, hello, Everly.”

  I raised one hand hip high and wiggled my fingers. “Hey.” I had more questions about the missing gnomes, but that would apparently have to wait. “What signs?”

  Aunt Fran met Janie at the store’s center and rubbed her back as they made their way to the counter.

  Aunt Clara seemed to stiffen a bit at my side, but turned her face away when I shot her a questioning look. Something else I’d have to circle back to.

  Janie frowned. “There’s a man taking down every CFC flyer posted on the telephone poles. He says the council ordered them all removed. I guess there’s a ‘no flyers on telephone poles’ policy.”

  My aunts and I nodded.

  “It was nearly impossible to route folks to a yard sale before GPS,” I said.

  Janie groaned. “This is exactly the kind of thing the CFC wants to change. It’s why they support Fran so devotedly. Dunfree’s regime wastes time worrying about some outdated mandate on flyers when it could be looking for ways to improve life here.”

  “Flyers are allowed,” I said, feeling nonsensically defensive. “Notices are welcome. They just need to go on the community board.”

  Janie gave me a disbelieving look. “Exactly.”

  I tried to find her point.

  The community board was a giant corkboard near Main Street and Middletown Road. The council had long ago deemed it the singular designated space for notices, and they kept it both behind glass and under lock and key. Charmers checked it regularly in nicer weather, and the Town Charmer blog often featured the events posted there. It certainly wasn’t anything to get upset about.

  Janie leaned in my direction. “Anything posted on the community board has to first be approved by the council. How is that fair? You know they censor what you see, right? Imagine all the things that have been refused a spot on the board.” She paused dramatically, eyebrows high. “I don’t even think there’s a universe where the council would approve a CFC flyer, or any other propaganda that
goes against their ridiculous rules.”

  I bit my lip. She had a point. The council would never add a CFC flyer to the public board, and that wasn’t right. It was censorship. How many flyers had been vetoed over the years? What had I missed?

  Janie slumped against the counter. “I hate to see the CFC be silenced. So far, they’re our biggest allies and an excellent mouthpiece for reminding Charmers why we need change. There shouldn’t be rules against posting signs. If the council denies this, where does the censorship end?”

  I mulled that over, feeling a little like part of the problem. I liked some of our rules, the flyer one included. I didn’t want to see tattered, weather-beaten remnants of forgotten signs clinging to the poles up and down our streets. The community board solved that problem. It limited the number of signs posted and it required their removal after fourteen days. It was easy to see what was coming up or going on around town without the clutter or the eyesores. I couldn’t be sure about the censorship allegation without looking into it, which I didn’t have time to do.

  “I noticed your car out front,” I said, smiling at Janie. “The ‘Swan for Mayor’ signs sure are…something.”

  “Thanks.” Janie beamed. “I ordered them on the internet and applied them last night. I was on my way in here to show Clara and Fran when I saw the guy at the telephone pole and went to introduce myself. I’d kind of hoped he was a CFC member putting the flyers up, not a Charm employee taking them down.” She lifted and dropped her hands then smiled warmly at me. “Hey, I’m sorry I missed your party last night,” she said. “I had every intention of coming, but the hoopla at the lighthouse ran over, and by the time I was finally on my way, your party had been broken up.”