“I’m not sure, but maybe tomorrow,” Summer said. The bookstore was usually open Tuesdays, but things were off kilter.
Pink-haired and dressed in a dark suit, Doris smiled politely and held out her hand, with long, manicured pink nails matching her hair. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Summer.” Her voice had a soft, lilting, nasal Charleston accent. “So sorry about the circumstances.”
“We’re hoping to continue the book group.” Marilyn pressed her purple glasses back on her nose.
“You should. It would please Mom.”
“Are you planning to keep the bookstore, then?” Doris asked.
Summer’s heart thudded in her chest. Was she? Was the store even hers to keep? If it was, she’d get rid of it as soon as possible. Yes, she would. It went against everything she stood for. She was a professor of literature. The real stuff. Her Ph.D. was in Shakespearean Lit. She had no use for a bookstore whose claim to fame was that it sold “beach reads” only.
She needed the money from selling it. But who would buy it?
Piper to the rescue. “Doris, I think Summer needs time to process. She’s only just gotten back from—”
The women leaned closer as Summer held her breath. Was she going to spill the beans about England and the underlying reason she was there? “I mean,” Piper said, correcting herself, “she’s just gotten here. She must be exhausted.”
True, Summer hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours—but exhaustion wasn’t the only thing she felt. Confusion. Fear. Anger. Why would someone leave a note like that for her mom? Why was Aunt Agatha so hushed about it? Was it only because young Mia was there? Or was something more serious going on here?
Chapter Three
Walking into her childhood home filled Summer with a wild mix of nostalgia, dread, and longing. She half-expected her mother to greet her with a cup of peppermint tea and a plate of vegan cupcakes. But those days were gone. Long gone.
If only Summer had a chance to explain how horrible she felt at a job she’d imagined perfect for her. How she felt that if she didn’t focus on the research and writing during summer break, she could totally kiss the job goodbye. I’d have called you more, Mom.
She started upstairs with her bag and stopped. Where was she going to sleep? In her old bedroom, full of things of her youth—tantalizing her with unachieved dreams? Or in her mother’s bedroom, which had always been mostly off limits? “Everybody needs a private space. My bedroom is my sanctuary,” her mother had said. Summer remembered fondly the times she’d been invited into her mom’s room.
She took in the living room from her perch on the stairs—her mom’s altar to Selena, the moon goddess, was in the left corner of the living room, and in the right corner was a photo display of Summer and all of her accomplishments. National Spelling Bee Champion. Shakespeare Scholar of the Year. National Forensics First Place Award. Three graduation pictures—high school, college, and grad school. Every school picture—first grade through twelfth—stared back at her. Mom still had the “shrine,” as Summer used to call it and tease her about. Now what used to seem like overkill seemed genuine and charming.
Her gaze fell on the living room couch in the center of the room. Next to it was Mr. Darcy, her mom’s African grey parrot asleep in his cage. He was getting old and wouldn’t be a bother.
Okay, the couch would suffice for now. She padded her way back down the steps and plopped her bag onto the La-Z-Boy. She flipped on the TV, accustomed to its sound in the background. Sometimes it was better than silence.
Weariness tugged at her, but she needed to wind down before she slept. What time was it in England? She couldn’t even figure that out right now.
A stack of magazines, bills, and papers was scattered across the coffee table. Craft magazines. How-to. Herbs. Gardening. Her mom had a magazine problem.
“Ever heard of Pinterest, Ma?” Great, now I’m talking to myself—or rather, to my dead mother.
Mr. Darcy stirred, lifted his head from beneath his wing, shuddered, and tucked it back in.
Summer continued sorting through the papers. Among the white papers, the corner of a thick black paper caught her eye. She slipped it out from the messy stack.
Summer blinked. What was this? Some kind of sick joke? Hooligans, again?
Pasted on the page were the words “Sell the bookstore or DIE!”
Again? What the hell? Did her mother make this? Was this some kind of strange dream board thing Mom was working on? Or was this another actual threat?
Crazy. That was just a crazy thought.
Okay, get a grip. I’ll sort through these magazines, and I’m sure I’ll find the pages where she’s cut out these letters and words.
Twenty minutes later, she shoved the magazines aside. They were all in perfect shape.
Now what?
She stood and paced between the couch and the La-Z-Boy, with the statue of Kali, the mother goddess, looking down at her from a shelf.
Summer should go to the police. But Ben’s face flashed in her mind, and humiliation and anger swept through her. The chief of police in their little town didn’t like her. She’d left his son at the altar.
No, she wasn’t ready to face Chief Ben Singer.
What to do?
She was being silly, right? This was the fantasy stuff of mystery novels. People didn’t kill people because they wanted them to sell a bookstore to them.
She caught herself. People killed each other every day for less reason. She’d only to look at the headlines.
She dialed Aunt Agatha.
“Yes, dear,” her aunt answered the phone. “Piper is on her way over.”
“Good, but that’s not what I’m calling about.”
“What is it?”
How to spit out the words “I think someone murdered my mother”?
“I found another threatening note telling Mom to sell the bookstore or die. It’s the same thing we found at the bookstore. Do you understand what’s going on?”
Silence.
“Aunt Agatha?”
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “Your mother wouldn’t pay attention. She’d received several of those and a few calls. She laughed it off.”
“‘Laughed it off’?” Summer repeated her aunt’s words, trying to believe them. “My mom was a healthy sixty-four-year-old woman, and she just dropped dead? Did nobody consider this?” Rage burned in Summer’s chest.
“Summer, people die every day. Even young people. It’s not that unusual.” Agatha paused. “But I have to admit, I’ve had similar thoughts. I talked myself out of them. They’re too far-fetched. People loved your mother.”
“There’s at least one person who wanted the bookstore so much they threatened her.”
After another silence, Agatha cleared her throat. “Now, do nothing rash. But Rudy made your mother several offers, and he creeped Hildy out.”
“Rudy Irons? The owner of the arcade next to Beach Reads?” Summer’s mind raced. Old coot. She remembered him, though he hadn’t been at her mother’s funeral. Had he?
“Yes. He wanted to expand. But you can’t go around accusing people of murder.”
“If he killed Mom, he needs to go to jail—after I’m through with him, that is.”
“Now, Summer, you’re overwrought. Please don’t do anything foolish.”
Overwrought? Overwrought? Why, yes. Yes, I am. She had no proof but the note in her hand, and the sudden, sharp, intuitive impulse that someone had murdered her mom.
“Summer?”
“Yes, Aunt Agatha.”
“Let’s talk about this in the morning, okay? Let’s talk after a good night’s sleep.”
Summer heard the words but had no idea how she’d sleep soon. She continued to pace, stopped and glanced up at the Kali statue, then continued moving.
“Please promise me not to do anything until you and I talk this through more. Summer? Promise me.”
“Okay,” she replied. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
> And morning could not come fast enough.
She stood in front of the picture window facing the beach. The moon lit the now deep purple-black water, sparkling silver where the light hit the surface. How many times had Summer taken in this view—the waves; the rocky sand; the small dune with craggy grass, hard to see in the moonlight. It was there, along with seaweed, driftwood, and sometimes nuggets of treasured sea glass and seashells. She loved this view. It grabbed her by the guts. She envisioned it at night when she was too stressed to sleep. It calmed her.
Mia and Piper arrived a few minutes later, loaded down with their bags. Piper announced she’d sleep in Hildy’s bedroom. “I’ve got no problem with that. Her bed is fantastic.” She traipsed upstairs, dragging her bags with her.
A sweet memory of lying next to her mother in her bed plucked at Summer. She had been sick. Maybe it was strep throat? Or maybe it was the chicken pox? Lying next to her mom in her big, soft bed—feeling her warm smooth skin, hearing her heartbeat, and smelling her lilac perfume—was such a treat, even if she was sick. She felt protected tucked next to her mother. Summer swallowed a sob and lay down on the couch, pulling an old quilt over her. She spread her anti-insect blanket, which she never left home without, on top of the quilt. Maybe she was losing her mind, but she could swear the quilt still smelled of lilacs. Next, she yanked her nylon mask over her face. No spider will enter any of my facial orifices. She drifted off into a dream world filled with lilacs, porch swings, and Lady Macbeth.
It seemed as if Summer had just closed her eyes when a loud knocking left her clutching at the couch as if it would tip over. She sat up. Where am I?
Pound. Pound. Pound.
“Jesus! Would someone answer the door?” Piper’s voice rang out, snapping Summer back to reality.
The door? Yes. Okay.
Summer untangled herself from her blanket, lifted herself from the couch, pulled the mask from her face, and padded to the door. She peeked out. A group of women with casserole dishes and paper bags in their arms stood on the porch.
She cracked open the door, a spray of sunlight entering the dimmed room. She winced.
“Good morning, Summer.” Glads peeked through the cracked-open door. “We’ve brought breakfast—and maybe enough food for two days.”
She opened the door further and walked in.
“How are you, dear?” Doris followed behind Glads. Today, Doris looked more relaxed in shorts and a T-shirt.
“I’m, ah—”
“Who is it?” Piper said from the top of the stairs. “It’s early. Is the sun even up yet?”
She trampled her way down the stairs.
“Sorry, is it too early? We assumed since Hildy was such an early bird, you all would be too.” Glads talked as she worked, placing food on the counters or in the refrigerator.
Summer followed the women into the kitchen, with the strong scent of cinnamon wafting. “No, this is lovely. Thank you so much. What smells so good?” She’d forgotten about these good women and their ways. When there was a death, birth, hospital stay, the Mermaid Pie Book Club were there with food. So gracious and supportive.
“It’s my homemade cinnamon rolls,” Doris said with pride. “I hope you like them.”
“Smells delicious,” Summer said.
Glads agreed with her, nodding her head. “Oh, they are divine. But she won’t give the recipe to anybody.”
“A girl has to have some secrets,” Doris said, a little too girlishly for Summer, who hated when women referred to themselves as girls. Or when men did. The cinnamon rolls were perfect round swirls of spiraled cinnamon with white icing drizzled on them. Her stomach growled. Summer wouldn’t bring up the “girl” thing. Not today. Pink-haired Doris, creator of the cinnamon rolls, was easily forgiven.
The women fussed about fixing a buffet of a sort with the rolls and quiche and fruit and heaps of scrambled eggs. Summer’s eyes met Piper’s. Still dressed in a T-shirt nightshirt with a lopsided pink fuzzy robe hanging from her, Piper stood, yawning.
“I’ve put two casseroles in the fridge,” Marilyn said, shutting the fridge door and revealing a daisy tattoo as her sleeve moved upward. “It should hold you—for a couple of days anyway.”
“Thank you.”
“Coffee’s on. And there’s juice in the fridge. Do you need anything else, dear?” Glads turned to Summer.
Summer blinked. These women were a tour de force. “I can’t think of a thing.”
“We’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, holler.” Marilyn opened the door.
“Thanks so much, ladies. For everything.”
After the women took off, the place felt empty and quiet. They left behind a delight of scents. Coffee. Cinnamon. Quiche.
“I texted Mom. She’s coming right over.”
“What about Mia?”
Piper waved her hand. “She won’t be up for hours. Remember what that was like? Sleeping until noon, without having to get up to pee? Or worrying about your back?”
“I almost remember it,” Summer said and laughed as she made her way to the cupboard for a cup. She needed coffee. That was all she wanted right now.
She poured herself a cup. “Do you want some?”
“Sure,” Piper said.
Summer poured her cousin a cup, adding cream.
“Well, I see you waited on me.” Agatha entered the room from the back kitchen door.
“Sorry, I—”
“I’m just kidding, Summer.” Agatha examined the food. “Nice.”
“Help yourself,” Piper said.
Summer held up the coffeepot. “Can I get you some?”
“Never touch the stuff.” Agatha reached into the cupboard for a plate and filled it with food.
The three of them sat down at the kitchen table together. The same kitchen table her mother had had for years, where Summer had sat every day as a child. She ran her fingers along a gray swirl on the 1950s chrome table, the way she’d done countless times.
Summer swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “So, Aunt Agatha, tell me about this Rudy character and what happened between him and Mom.”
Piper sat her coffee cup down with a thud. “Not this nonsense again.”
Agatha held her hand up as if to stop Piper. “I’m aware of how you feel about this. But I say Brigid’s Island is still Brigid’s Island. We do business like people, like friends.”
“The man has every right to expand,” Piper pointed out.
“He does.” Agatha slipped out a slice of quiche. “But he had no right to speak to Hildy like he did. And he wouldn’t quit.”
Summer sipped her coffee, then shoveled in the cinnamon roll—warm, gooey, sweet, and spicy. She hoped she wasn’t drooling.
“She told him in no uncertain terms she was not interested in selling,” Agatha continued. “He said he’d take her to court and then called her a crazy old witch.” Her round cheeks flared pink.
“He couldn’t have taken Mom to court for that reason. What’s his problem?”
“He had a thing for your mother. Unrequited. And it drove him bonkers.”
“Mom, you see romances everywhere.” Piper rolled her eyes. “Geez.”
“It is what makes the world go around, dear.”
Summer spooned fruit onto her plate. The healthy fruit would offset the effect of the rolls. Or so she told herself. “Okay so if you’re right, unrequited romance or not—what makes you figure it went any further?”
Agatha swallowed her bite of quiche. “He bothered her almost every day about it. Then about the time she told me about it, she got those threatening phone calls and notes. We both thought it was him.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“No police. As if he’d pay attention.”
“Do you have proof of his threats?” Piper asked.
“Proof? I don’t know …” She gazed into the distance as if trying to remember something.
“I have at least one letter.” Summer walked off into the living
room to fetch the note. “And the one at the store.”
She handed the paper to Piper. “Another one. What do you think of that?”
Piper’s eyes widened. “Call the police.”
Calling the police wasn’t as simple for Summer as it might be for her cousin Piper.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Dread filled Summer as she remembered chief of police of Brigid’s Island, Ben Singer, the worst smug, small-town cop on the planet. Never cut her a break as a kid. Once, he’d caught her swiping candy from Sal’s Sweets on the boardwalk, and you’d have thought it was the Hope Diamond.
“That girl of yours will come to no good,” she’d overheard him say to her mother. “She runs around this island unattended, steals, and God knows what else. Hildy, something has to be done about her.”
“Thanks for your concern,” Hildy had said, tight-lipped. “She’s just bored. Bright girl like Summer. She needs more to keep her mind occupied.”
“What she needs is a father. A stern hand.”
Summer’s face heated with a rush of embarrassment even now. Everybody had always said that when she’d gotten in trouble. It was a cruel thing to say. But Hildy always handled it.
“Thanks, Ben. I’m not sure what you expect me to do about that. Are you on the market?”
He huffed off that time.
* * *
Her most recent sin against the Singer family was not showing up for her wedding, the groom being his son. She hadn’t spoken to any of them since—but then again, she didn’t need to. She knew how they felt about her. And they had every right to.
“Ben Singer hates me. I doubt he’d listen.”
“Well, that’s just crazy. Ben Singer doesn’t hate you.” Piper glanced at her mom, who was shaking her head.
Agatha winced. “Yeah, he kind of does. Not Summer’s biggest fan.”
“But even so,” Piper persisted, “Summer’s an adult now. A college professor. She’s made something of her life. What she did or didn’t do as a kid should have no bearing. What happened between her and Cash was so long ago.”
Little Bookshop of Murder Page 2
