by Bree Baker
We wished her luck, considering the hour, and I locked up behind her.
Aunt Clara and I worked in steady, companionable silence until the shop was righted and all evidence of the soup and salad portion of the evening had been erased.
“I suppose that’s that,” she said threading thin arms into a long wool coat. “We’ve missed the main course, and I’m ready for a nice toddy and bed. Not that I’ll be able to sleep.”
I hugged her. “The toddy will help.”
She nodded. “I’m going to call Lanita for a Pick-Me-Up. I want to go home.”
I waited to see Aunt Clara off and wished Lanita a Merry Christmas, then I headed next door to Charming Reads. I needed a nightcap, and I wanted to vent my complaints to a rational listening ear. Amelia was exactly the woman for that job.
Lively holiday tunes flooded from hidden speakers inside Charming Reads. A tree dressed in tiny hardcover books and typewriter ornaments stood at the window. Amelia had arranged tables where chairs normally stood for guest speakers and the book club, then covered them with white linens, a plethora of chocolate desserts, and an army of filled champagne flutes. Mr. Butters was in a Santa costume, minus the beard, working a cocktail shaker Tom Cruise–style at a small rolling bar near the register.
I smiled, despite my horrendous evening.
Amelia spotted me from her position at the dessert buffet and hurried in my direction. The bell of her vintage red swing dress was puffed with white crinolines that swished against her knees as she walked. Her heart-shaped neckline showcased a string of perfect antique pearls, and the black patent leather pumps she was working would make a diva from any decade jealous. “I heard what happened,” she whispered, grabbing my arms and pulling me away from the crowd. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. This night has been crazy, and it took a lot longer than Dad and I expected to set up the buffet tables and arrange the seating.” She stroked long, side-swept blond bangs off her forehead and pierced me with sympathetic blue eyes. “What can I do?”
I gave a limp shrug. “We’ll know more in the morning.”
Amelia pursed her lips and scanned my face carefully. “I have alcohol,” she said. “Come on. This kind of stress calls for a cocktail, and Dad’s mixing peppermint martinis.”
She released me and turned for her dad. I waited, thankful to be standing on the fringe, mostly unnoticed, instead of in the midst of a crowd that was probably discussing the reason Aunt Fran was seen in the local detective’s truck after dark.
Amelia swiped a pair of completed martinis from the table where her dad worked and ferried one back to me. She sipped the other. “What do you think is going on?” she asked, tapping the little candy cane from her drink against the side of the glass. “Why does all the evidence keep pointing to your aunt?”
I sampled the drink to keep myself from shouting or crying. The martini was delicious and went down too easily. Not good, especially after the night I was having. I lowered the drink away from my mouth before I finished it and wanted more. “Aunt Fran’s being framed. I don’t know why.”
“Finding Mayor Dunfree’s body and picking up the murder weapon was probably the springboard,” Amelia said. “It makes sense for the real killer to keep pushing Fran as the guilty one since there’s already evidence against her.”
“That’s possible,” I said. Why reinvent the wheel when there’s a perfectly acceptable one already in motion? “I need to narrow my suspects. I’ve talked to everyone on my list except Mrs. Dunfree, and in my opinion they all have motive. And since the murder weapon was on my porch, they all had means. I’m just not sure if one of them is a killer. Though, the Dunfrees’ neighbor had a fast temper, and the paint he’s using on his fence has been at nearly every crime scene.”
“You mean him?” Amelia asked, her wide eyes staring over my shoulder.
Behind me, not three feet away, Gene Birkhouse sipped a flute of champagne and glared back.
* * *
If there was an upside to being too upset to sleep, it was the resulting massive productivity. Thanks to my racing thoughts and anxiety-knotted stomach, I’d cut myself off after one peppermint martini and gone home to catch up on my cookie orders. From there, I’d worked on a second how-to video for my website, Classic Coconut Macaroons, and by 8:00 a.m., I was ready to call it a night.
I brought the final trays out of the oven, settled them on the stove top, then collapsed into the nearest chair. I folded my arms on the table, forming a pillow to rest my head. My eyelids drooped, and the nerve-induced nausea I’d battled all night began to fade. For the first time since Grady pulled Mayor Dunfree’s cell phone from Aunt Fran’s apron pocket, my mind and body were in harmony, and they were ready for sleep.
Something beeped, and I nearly swallowed my tongue leaping from the chair. “What!” I yelled into the quiet room, looking from the foyer to the stove, struggling to place the familiar sound through the haze of fatigue.
The beeping came again, and my gaze fell to my wrist. Be more active.
I blinked fast and hard at the little screen, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Be more active, the screen flashed.
My mental capacities returned like a slap in the face, along with all the terrible memories of my week. I groaned at the little rubber bracelet, then crammed my finger against its button until I thought one of the two might break.
Be more active.
“Come on,” I whined, lifting my heavy legs in a half-hearted attempt to march in place when pushing the button didn’t help.
The demand vanished, apparently satisfied I was moving, and I considered throwing the bracelet into the ocean.
My laptop dinged, and I groaned. “Now what?” I asked the computer, marching behind the counter to check the screen.
There was a comment on the new video. I hesitated a moment before scrolling to read the words. Uploading the file seemed more like something that had happened in a dream than reality.
These look delicious! Keep the cookies coming!
—Anna Marie in Peoria, IL
Relief washed through me, releasing the tension in my shoulders, and lifting the corners of my tired mouth into a smile. I marched a little more proudly as I shut the numerous open tabs. I’d spent the time between cookie batches looking into Mayor Dunfree, hoping to uncover some useful thread of information I could pull until the case against Aunt Fran unraveled.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t found any angry articles about him or evidence of current legal issues. The only new information I’d found was about a lawsuit filed against the town nearly twenty years ago. Someone had fallen from a cliff near the maritime forest and the results had been fatal. The lawsuit claimed the accident could have been avoided if proper signage had been posted. Mayor Dunfree was named in the case, and the issue had been settled out of court for an undisclosed amount of money. It didn’t seem like much of a lead, especially since so much time had passed and the one filing suit had been paid off, but someone had died, so I made a mental note to ask my aunts if they remembered the case. I was in elementary school then, and had no recollection of the incident.
I grabbed a stack of flat, white rectangles and worked a dozen bakery boxes into existence. They submitted easily under my practiced hand, and I filled them with the bounty of last night’s bake fest. I tied them with ribbon and scribbled a holiday message across the box tops along with the recipients’ names.
I arranged the leftovers from each batch on a large glass pedestal display then covered them with a matching dome. Sugar cookies, snickerdoodles, and shortbreads were plated beside thumbprints, peanut butter cups, and pizzelles. Seashell-shaped cutouts lined the pedestal’s perimeter, shimmering in pale blue and white sugar crystals.
I sent a text message to Grady asking when I could see Aunt Fran, then went out to feed Lou. I’d barely opened the deck doors when I spotted him soar
ing in my direction like a kite on the ocean breeze. He landed on the railing with impressive grace, wings outstretched and obviously showing off.
I smiled, a little jealous of his utter freedom and apparent imperviousness to the cold, until a patch of red along the tip of one wing caught my eye. I moved toward him slowly, teeth chattering from the frigid air and quick shot of adrenaline. I knew that shade of red. I’d seen it on a dozen threat gnomes and scrawled in big messy letters across Chairman Vanders’s Jeep.
“Lou?” I asked, setting the tray of shrimp and fish on the snow-covered rail at his side. “You’ve got a little something on your wing.”
He hopped closer, keeping one beady black eye on me as I angled for a better look at the bright red smudges.
“May I have a look?” I asked, wrapping one arm around my middle for warmth and gesturing at the wing in question with the opposite hand.
Lou cocked his head and outstretched the wing without missing a beat on the shrimp. It was as if he’d understood, but that was impossible. Anthropomorphic and silly. Wasn’t it?
I pushed the thoughts aside and refocused on the red marks. How had they gotten there? And how long ago? Was the paint dry? I suppressed the urge to reach out and check. Lou was a meticulous feather cleaner. I couldn’t imagine him allowing the mess to stay. Unless he’d wanted me to see. I shook my head hard, trying to dislodge the nutty notion. “What have you been up to?” I whispered.
Lou craned his head, gave me a pointed birdy stare, then flung himself into the sky.
I collected the empty tray and scurried back inside.
My phone buzzed with a response from Grady, and my heart grew light. I could visit Aunt Fran anytime.
Immediately seemed perfect.
I called Aunt Clara to let her know I’d be there to pick her up soon, then I marched upstairs to get ready for my day. I called Lanita for a Pick-Me-Up and decided to reserve her services for the entire morning. There was no reason to brave the cold in Blue when I could ride in a new model SUV with a proper heater and radio. I’d deliver the cookie orders after seeing Aunt Fran.
I’d bundled up for the day in soft jeans, Sherpa-lined ankle boots, and a cable-knit sweater I’d owned for years. The sweater used to be bigger, but it still worked for warmth. I made a harrowing trip down the icy front steps to visit the mailbox, then tossed half a bag of ice melt on my porch and walkway while I waited for my ride.
Lanita hugged me when she arrived. “I heard about what happened to your great-aunt,” she said. “My aunt and uncle are a mess over it, and all their friends are arguing over whether or not your Aunt Fran could really have done it. Her ride to the police station was a hot topic during all eleven of my Pick-Me-Ups last night.”
She loaded my bags of delivery boxes into her front seat while I struggled to process what she’d said and formulate a response. I’d hoped that the progressive dinner and general merriment of the evening had distracted folks from Aunt Fran’s predicament, at least a little.
Lanita opened the back door of her SUV for me. “Ready?”
I climbed numbly inside. “Yeah, thanks.”
Lanita pointed us in the direction of my aunts’ home and we trundled down Ocean Drive.
“What were people saying about Aunt Fran last night?” I asked.
“Different things,” Lanita said. “I heard she confessed, but most people think it was under duress.”
“She didn’t confess,” I said. “There’s nothing to confess.”
Lanita cast a remorseful smile over her shoulder as she settled the silver SUV into my aunts’ driveway. “Sorry. That’s just what folks were saying.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I asked.”
I opened my door and climbed out. “I’ll get Aunt Clara.”
Lanita joined me. “I always greet my clients at the door,” she said. “I’m more personal than a taxi. Cheaper than a town car. More practical than a limo.”
The scarlet red door sucked open, and the wreath of greenery and holly berries rocked wildly on its hook.
“Ready!” Aunt Clara called. She buzzed past us to the car. “Let’s go. I don’t want to waste a single minute of whatever amount of time Fran’s allowed.” A massive overnight bag bounced against her backside, and she gripped a set of pot holders to a steaming slow cooker in her hands.
Lanita scrambled after her, and I took up the rear, engulfed in a salty ham and cheddar scented cloud. Lanita opened the SUV’s back door and waited while Aunt Clara set the slow cooker on the floor. She tossed her bag inside and climbed in after it. Lanita shut the door.
I climbed in on the other side of Aunt Clara and buckled up. “What’s in the cooker?”
Lanita made notations of our pickups in the notebook she kept in her console, checked her mirrors, then backed out of the drive. “Smells delicious.”
“It is,” Aunt Clara assured her. “This is Fran’s favorite breakfast casserole. I made it for her to share with the officers and any cell mates she might have. I brought plates, forks, and napkins in the bag, along with her necessities. Pajamas, a few changes of clothes, books, toiletries, cards for solitaire, and a portable DVD player.”
It took a minute for me to decide where to start. “You still have a portable DVD player?” I asked. “I didn’t know they made those anymore.”
Aunt Clara made a sour face. “You know Fran loves her movies, so I packed all of those too.”
“I don’t think she can have any of that stuff in jail,” I said. “Have you talked to Grady?”
“Was she arrested?” Lanita asked.
I jumped, having nearly forgotten she was there. “No. I think she’s being held for questioning.” At least I hoped that was the plan. “The police can keep her for up to seventy-two hours before making an arrest. The idea is to build a case while they have a suspect in custody, but I plan to have enough evidence to prove her innocence before then.”
Aunt Clara gripped my hand on the seat between us. “Thank you.”
I squeezed back.
“I heard you’re pretty good at stuff like that,” Lanita said, navigating the island with proficiency. “My aunt and uncle think it’s amazing.”
A fist pushed into my core as vivid memories of being abducted and nearly killed came rushing to the surface. “I think it’s pretty amazing how well you get around Charm for someone who just got here,” I said, truly impressed and hoping to change the subject.
Lanita smiled. “I’ve been doing a lot of Pick-Me-Ups this week, plus it’s not my first trip to the island. I came here a bunch of times with my folks as a kid.”
“You did?” I supposed that made sense. Her aunt and uncle lived here. I struggled to remember seeing her before, but didn’t think I had. Lanita was younger enough than me that I wouldn’t have paid any attention to her if I’d seen her when I lived here before, and she wouldn’t look the same after all these years.
“Every other year for a week,” she said. “Until middle school when my parents got divorced. I’ve only been here twice since then, but my aunt taught me to drive here. My mom was so mad when she found out. I was only fifteen.”
I laughed. “It’s a great place to learn. Low traffic. Safe roads.”
“Do you have any suspects?” Lanita asked, switching the subject back to me.
“A few, but none are really panning out,” I admitted. It would’ve thrilled my inner child to see Mary Grace behind bars, but she was being groomed for Dunfree’s job. She didn’t make sense as the killer. And Vanders wasn’t even in the running for mayor before Dunfree died. He hadn’t seemed to know he wanted the position until he’d gotten it. I wasn’t sure what other motive Vanders could’ve had for killing his predecessor, but becoming mayor didn’t seem like it. Which left me with Gene Birkhouse, the fence-obsessed neighbor who’d turned up twice last night, just before and just after Aunt Fran being taken
into custody. Gene’s quick temper and long-standing grudge against Dunfree made me suspicious and queasy in familiar and frightening ways. He believed the mayor had shorted his beloved poodle on her chance at a full and vibrant life. Mrs. Dunfree might’ve been the one making reports with the police, but it was the former mayor that Gene had called out in our talk. “I need some real evidence to back my gut.”
Lanita pulled into the lot outside the police department. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. People sit back there and seem to forget they aren’t alone.”
I’d experienced that myself.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’d appreciate it.”
Aunt Clara handed Lanita some cash between the seats. “Thank you, dear. You did a lovely job.”
“My pleasure,” Lanita said, accepting the money with a smile, then making a notation in her book.
“Help yourself to the cookies in the box with the teal ribbon,” I told her. “I made those for you, and I’m not sure how long Aunt Fran can have visitors. I’m guessing not long. If you get bored or cold, the nature center is fun.”
Lanita smiled at the nature center through her windshield. “You’re not joking,” she said. “There’s a cowboy in there who could change a girl’s life.”
I cast a wayward look at Wyatt’s shiny blue pickup in the lot. “Don’t I know it,” I mumbled, then opened my door and climbed out.
Chapter Twenty
“You know,” Aunt Clara said, nearly running to the station door. “During my meeting with the local historians last month, I learned that Mayor Dunfree had an appointment scheduled with the people who grant historic town status. He’s been looking into it for ages, but there are so many details and specifics involved that it always wound up on the back burner. The historians were thrilled. It’s the first time Charm has gotten far enough along in the process to have a committee come out for evaluation. It’s a very big deal. I hope Chairman Vanders will keep the appointment. Historic status comes with financial perks. Grants to restore and upkeep qualifying properties, plaques to identify them, and Charm’s name will go on the national register.”
