by Bree Baker
“Thanks.” Janie set her bag back on the floor, and it yawned open at the top. Something black and white with red letters caught my attention just inside. “Make any bookmarks?” I asked, suddenly wondering if the CFC bookmarks Amelia had discovered by her register had come from Janie. And if she knew more about the group than she’d let on.
She furrowed her brow. “No, just buttons. Why? Do you think Fran wants bookmarks? I could probably get some printed up this week.”
I waved a hand to slow her down before she abandoned book club to design bookmarks. “The buttons are perfect.”
She turned forward again, after a long curious look, but thankfully let the conversation drop. “Right now, I’m working on a list of potential campaign promises and rally events for the next eleven months. I’m open to ideas if you have any.”
I smiled, glad to be included. “I’ll think about it.”
Janie smiled back. “I think Fran should start with a big New Year’s Eve party. We can theme the night around new beginnings and push the concept of ringing in a year of change. I’d like to rent the hall beside the lighthouse and kill two birds with one party. We can raise money for Fran’s campaign and pledge to repair the steps there so folks can continue to safely enjoy that piece of the island’s history. What do you think?”
“I think you spend a lot of time planning for Aunt Fran’s campaign.”
“It’s fun,” she said, “and both Fran’s win and the lighthouse’s repair are worthy goals. Did you know one of your ancestors was once the lighthouse keeper?”
I hadn’t, but it didn’t surprise me. The island was small and Swans had been here from the beginning. I supposed that after three hundred years, a Swan had probably worked every job on the island.
“We can use that to our advantage,” Janie said, lost in thought once more. “We’ll get a slogan like, Swans have a history of lighting the way, or something like that.”
Speaking of lights, the dim one in my head flickered on, a little late as usual. “Is that the reason you went to the lighthouse fundraiser before my Christmas party?” I asked. “You were scoping out the rental hall for Aunt Fran’s New Year’s Eve party and getting information on the lighthouse’s needs and history.”
She touched a finger to the tip of her nose.
“Smart.”
Feedback from the speakers at the podium drew our attention forward. Amelia tapped the mic and smiled. “Welcome! I’m glad that so many of you could make it despite the weather. Thank you for that, and for being part of my book club. Book club is always one of my favorite nights of the month. I can’t wait to hear what each of you read and why it’s important to you at Christmas, but I know many of you are a bit shy, so I will start.”
And just like that, book club was underway.
A number of brave women approached the mic when Amelia finished, and each was met with enthusiastic nods and laughter from their fellow readers. Most of the women in the chairs seemed to have read every book that was introduced as another woman’s favorite. I’d read those books, too, but no one had chosen Wuthering Heights.
The door opened for the hundredth time that hour, just as the book club broke for refreshments, and Grady walked in.
I waved, and my smile grew at the sight of Denver on his shoulders.
Janie nudged me with her elbow before I could stand to greet them. “What’s the real deal with you and the detective?”
“We’re friends,” I said, my traitorous heart fluttering. “Why?”
Janie stood and gathered her things with a sly grin. “He’s cute, and folks seem to think you’re a couple. Is it awful that I’m glad he’s single?” She gave Grady a more thorough evaluation. “He’s got that brooding bad boy vibe every woman secretly dreams about and a badge and uniform to go with it.”
I fought the urge to wipe her chin. “Grady doesn’t wear a uniform.”
Her eyebrows rose, and I suspected she might be picturing him without his current ensemble. She cleared her throat, then dragged her gaze back to me. “Any chance he’s given you some insight into the case against Fran? I’d love a little leverage I could run with. I’m not sure how far the buttons will go to change public perception.”
“I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything,” I said, moving away to get my hands on the tiny cowboy. “Denver!” I called, going in for a tummy tickle while he was helpless to run.
“Ah!” He squirmed and kicked and giggled until his face was red and he’d stopped producing sounds.
I stepped back and laughed while he regained his breath.
“We’re here for story time,” Grady said. “Mr. Butters is retelling Jack and the Beanstalk tonight. Denver heard there would be swords involved.”
“There are,” a low voice called from behind me.
I spun to find Amelia’s dad wielding a half-dozen cardboard sword shapes. Some curved. Some straight. All painted silver from tip to wrist guard, their handles wrapped in thick black yarn.
Denver wiggled down and made a run for Mr. Butters. “Hooray!”
I turned back to Grady. “That’s one enthusiastic reader you’ve got there.”
Grady stuffed his hands into his pockets and smiled proudly at me. “He gets it, honestly. I wanted to be here for book club, but Denver and I took your advice and made a trip to the Giving Tree.”
“Is that right?” I asked, hoping to sound cool and confident. In reality, my breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I felt Grandma beside me telling me I’d done a good thing by sharing our story with them. “Did you get a child’s name?”
Grady looked away briefly. “I took a few envelopes from the tree. A couple families in need of some pretty basic home and self-care items. Kids in need of the same. Denver thought they’d all like a new book too.”
I nodded, fighting the lump of pride in my chest. “That’s great.”
Grady cleared his throat. “So what did you read this month?” His gaze drifted to the little red book in my grip.
I turned the cover to face him. “Amelia gave this to me because she didn’t approve of my choice. What about you?”
His lips quirked in a lazy half smile as he reached behind him and pulled a well-worn paperback from his pocket. “It’s not really a Christmas story,” he said, “but I read it every winter.”
I stared at the tattered copy of Wuthering Heights. “You don’t think it’s about a selfish girl and her stalker who are awful to one another until she dies and haunts him, and he likes it?” I asked, recalling each of Amelia’s harsh words.
He narrowed his eyes, clearly confused. “I’ve never thought of them that way. I was drawn to the story in middle school. The darkness around the characters drew me in. They were nothing like my family or any family I knew, and Heathcliff amused me because he did whatever he wanted, consequences be darned. I liked that when Heathcliff was angry, he behaved angrily. I was always expected to show self-control.”
Based on the cool exterior and subdued personality Grady had now, it was easy enough to imagine he’d been practicing for a lifetime.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to just do or say whatever you wanted when you wanted to do or say it?” he asked, heat flashing in his pale gray eyes.
I longed to ask him what he would do or say if he could. What was he holding out on? And why?
Grady’s gaze lifted suddenly over my shoulder and his smile returned. “I think I’m being summonsed.”
I turned to find Denver standing on a chair in the children’s section waving his cardboard sword in our direction.
“Go,” I said. “Enjoy.”
Grady touched my sleeve lightly as he passed, then hurried to his son in big, heavy steps calling, “Fe, fi, fo, fum!”
I envied them both for the sweet moment.
Outside the shop, Aunt Fran and Janie spoke under the twinkle lights.
I dropped Amelia’s book in the Little Libraries’ return bin, then went to hug my aunt.
“Everly,” Janie said, immediately pleading, “I was just telling Fran about an interview offer I’ve received and how important it is for her to accept it.”
I cast a skeptical look at both of them. It was the first they’d disagreed on anything as far as I knew. “What offer?”
Janie turned her phone to face me.
An email from the Town Charmer blog centered the screen, the site’s logo positioned where a signature should have gone.
Aunt Fran peeked over my shoulder as I read. “An interview with an anonymous gossip blogger seems like a wholly unwise decision to me,” she said. “Whoever is on the other end of that email could twist my responses before putting them online and do a lot of damage. I say no way.”
I read the entire message twice, looking for hidden clues about the sender’s identity. There weren’t any. Even the email address was utterly nonspecific: [email protected].
“Please trust me,” Janie pressed, “You don’t want Mary Grace or Mrs. Dunfree to be interviewed first. Then, their truth will be out there and not yours. The first interview sets a tone. You want to be seen as the leader in this, not the one running behind doing damage control.”
Aunt Fran shook her head. “Let someone else go first. I can always accept the interview later when I know which fires I have to address and am prepared to do so. I won’t go in blindly on this.”
“All right.” Janie rocked back on her heels. “Say your piece when you’re ready, but remember, you’re the change Charmers want to see in their town. They’re looking to you for answers right now.”
Her speech sounded a lot like the Charmers for Change movement, and I wondered again if Janie knew more about the group than she’d let on. I worked the idea around in my thick, overly clogged brain and was interrupted by a completely different concern. “Where’s Aunt Clara?” I looked down the sidewalk in both directions, but there wasn’t any sign of her. I hadn’t seen one of my aunts without the other in years, maybe never.
“Painting more gnomes,” Aunt Fran said dryly.
“What?” I turned in the direction of their shop next door. “At Blessed Bee?”
Fran dipped her chin in confirmation. “I don’t know what’s going on with her lately. She’s either obsessed or lost her mind. The last thing we need is more gnomes in this town.”
“I’ll go check on her,” I said, agreeing wholeheartedly about the gnomes. I’d seen enough of them in the past forty-eight hours to last a lifetime.
Janie squared her shoulders. “Before you go and we move away from the topic of PR and campaign strategies, I think you should be careful when you’re in public with Detective Hays,” she said. “People are always watching here, and they see what they want to see.” She lifted her gaze to the bookstore window. An illuminated fishbowl from where we stood. “Like it or not, your actions are going to affect Fran’s image right now. Those looking to find fault with Fran will try to use you to do it if they can’t find reason with Fran. I should probably be the group liaison with Detective Hays now, especially if it means meeting publicly.”
I had to force my gaping mouth shut, unsure when it had fallen open. Janie was going to use this investigation as an opportunity to make friends with Grady. Based on our earlier conversation about him, she clearly hoped for more than friendship. I kissed Aunt Fran’s soft cheek, unsure how to respond to Janie. I had no claim to Grady or anyone else on the planet, and everyone had a right to be happy. “Keep warm,” I said. Besides, Janie was probably right, assuming people would think the worst. Maybe say I influenced Grady to turn the other cheek for Aunt Fran’s sake, or that he would do that for me. Grady had warned me about the same thing already. I didn’t like it, and I wanted to check on Aunt Clara. “Good night.”
“Good night,” the women echoed.
I huffed a cloud of ice crystals as I passed Janie’s Swan for Mayor sedan on my way to Blessed Bee. One problem at a time, I told myself. And at the moment, I wanted to know why on earth Aunt Clara was painting more gnomes.
My phone dinged before I reached the shop door. There was a notification that my website had been updated. I swiped the screen to see the details.
I’d elected to send the automated notifications to my phone as an experiment when I’d first established the Sun, Sand, and Tea website. I’d wanted to know what the messages would look like to others who followed my site. The problem was that I’d already received a notice about the update I had made this morning, and I hadn’t made any changes since then.
I clicked the link and followed it through to my site, eager to see what had changed.
“Oh no,” I whispered, my heart hammering brutally against my ribs.
The screen was black and covered in small, white letters. No more beachy background, no cute southern sayings. Just white on black and thousands of tiny letters running across the screen in endless rows, looping off one side and returning midword on the other. I scrolled until the very last line, written in red.
I will leave Mayor Dunfree’s murder alone. I will leave Mayor Dunfree’s murder alone. I will leave Mayor Dunfree’s murder alone. I will leave Mayor Dunfree’s murder alone. I will leave Mayor Dunfree’s murder alone. I will leave Mayor Dunfree’s murder alone. I will leave Mayor Dunfree’s murder alone. I will leave Mayor Dunfree’s murder alone.
Or I will be very sorry.
Chapter Eleven
“Everly?” Aunt Clara’s voice registered through the whooshing in my ears. “Oh dear.” She tugged my coat sleeve with purpose, causing me to stumble forward, out of my stupor and into Blessed Bee. “Come now.”
The dead bolt snapped behind me, and the flurry of frigid wind that had been tossing hair into my stinging eyes ceased.
“You’ll catch a chill standing outside like that,” Aunt Clara said. This time, she curved a narrow arm around my back and ushered me forward, through the dimly lit store and into the bright backroom. “When I saw you standing out there, I thought Fran had returned. She’s out with Janie again. Planning for the campaign and whatnot, but she’s supposed to be back soon.”
“I saw them,” I said, my voice gravelly. “On the sidewalk outside Charming Reads.” Right before I learned that a killer had eviscerated my website. Swapping out all my hours of hard work for a devastating threat.
Aunt Clara poured me a cup of tea from the pink carafe on the table. The sharp scent of peppermint swirled into the air as Aunt Clara set the cup before me. “Want to tell me what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I took the seat across from her and raised my eyes to meet her gaze. The fine hairs on my arms stood at attention beneath my coat. “Something like that,” I whispered, my mind reeling. How had someone gained access to my website? When? I’d been on this morning uploading the instructional video. Everything had been fine then, hadn’t it? How long was the delay between the content change online and the email notification? A few minutes? Hours?
“Was it one of our ancestors?” Aunt Clara asked, her elbows on the table between us, eyes wide.
“What?” I scrambled backward over our exchange. She’d said I looked as if I’d seen a ghost. “Oh! No.” I wagged my head. “Nothing like that. It’s my website.” I woke my phone’s screen with a swipe of my thumb, then turned the device to face her. “Someone hacked into my website and changed everything. Now it’s just…this.”
Aunt Clara lifted the fragile-looking spectacles hanging from the chain around her neck and hooked the frameless half-glasses over her snub nose. She took the phone from my hand and lifted it closer to her face for a proper inspection. “Mayor Dunfree’s killer is a computer hacker? That’s great news!”
I choked on the swig of tea I’d taken as she examined my website. The piping hot liquid scorched its way down my throat, burning my nose and maki
ng my eyes water. “Why is that good news?” I croaked, mopping tea off my chin and coat.
“Fran can barely use a computer,” she said, “and it’s a clue, isn’t it?” Her confident expression wavered. “I would think that something like this significantly narrows the suspect pool. How many people can do this to a website?”
I considered the question a moment. My site-building skills were amateur at best, but I’d created a site I was proud of. Things were user-friendly these days. People of all ages managed blogs on every topic under the sun. I’d seen kids with gaming and scouting websites and octogenarians with blogs on everything from travel and religion to pets and woodworking. “Anyone,” I said, the ugly realization setting in. “Most people have a site or blog and know exactly how to change one. Plus,” I started, then bit hard into my lower lip. I’d never followed through with creating a proper username and password. I’d started with something easy to remember so I could focus on getting the site up and running. After that, I was supposed to change things for my protection. “My username and password are still USERNAME and PASSWORD,” I admitted with a deep cringe.
“Everly!” She made a scornful noise. “We talked about that.”
“I know,” I moaned.
“You make Fran and I change our log-ins annually, and you never let me choose anything I can remember.”
I groaned louder. “I know.”
“You give us fits over it,” she continued, “and you left your site like that? What were you thinking?”
I rocked my head over one shoulder, feeling like the first-rate idiot I was. “I got busy and forgot. Plus, who would hack into an iced tea shop’s website?”
Aunt Clara leveled me with a disbelieving stare. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”
I took another long drink of my tea, enjoying the smooth, warm sensation as it heated me inside and took the chill away from my skin. The peppermint was stronger than her usual recipe. I tried and failed to place the change.
“Feeling better?” she asked, watching me as I puzzled.
