Agatha made a noise of incredulity. “Those women loved Hildy. It makes little sense that one of them would want to burn down the house.”
“Maybe Aunt Hildy started to replace the batteries and was interrupted and forgot. And never got back to it,” Piper said.
“It’s possible, I suppose. But she was so vigilant,” Summer said.
“Indeed, she was,” Agatha said. “We survived a house fire when we were kids. We are both vigilant.”
“I never knew that,” Piper said. “What happened?”
Agatha shrugged. “My dad was a stubborn old coot who insisted on making all the house repairs himself. Best that we figured out, he screwed something up with the electricity. We lost the house. But we all survived. Things were never the same for us after that.”
“What do you mean?” Piper asked, as she slid her plate slightly away from her, as if to say “I’m done.”
“Well, we did have insurance, but there were a lot of problems getting it, and by the time we’d gotten it, Mom had passed away. Dad never rebuilt. He bought a double wide with the money, and we moved into it.”
Summer loved that place, with its neat flower gardens, above-ground pool, and front-porch swing. “I remember that place.”
Agatha nodded. “Unless you’d grown up in a lovely Victorian home. It was hard on us. We were teenagers, lost our home, then our mother. Rough times.”
Summer knew the story from there: Hildy set off for college with an undecided major and returned pregnant. Agatha stayed on in St. Brigid, took a home course on midwifery, got some training, and married an island boy—Summer’s Uncle Fred. Lost at sea, years ago.
Everybody wondered where Hildy had gotten the money to open Beach Reads. But Summer always suspected it was her own long-lost, secret father who gave it to her. Hard to prove. She’d given up finding him years ago—nothing would upset her mother more than the subject of Summer’s father.
Which reminded her.
“Aunt Agatha?”
“Hmm?”
“Who is my father? Is it Rudy?”
Agatha laughed uproariously. “No. He creeped your mom out.”
“But he seemed very protective of me.”
“He loved your mother and is aware of how much you meant to her. That’s all, dear.”
But Summer sensed an undercurrent of tension.
“What about her father?” Piper persisted. “Do you know who he is?”
Agatha’s smile vanished. She quieted. “I have my suspicion, but no, I never knew. And Hildy wanted it that way.”
“Suspicions?”
“Yes,” she said in a clipped voice. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
Her tone made Piper and Summer look at each other in a sort of fear. There was more to this story, and perhaps it was best left untold for now. Another matter was more pressing. Hildy’s life—and death.
“I don’t think Rudy has it in him to kill anybody. I don’t like him, but I can’t imagine him killing. So I don’t think Rudy killed her. Do either of you?” Summer said.
“No,” Piper said.
“I’m not so certain,” Agatha said and sighed. “But if he didn’t do it, who did?”
Chapter Eighteen
After covering her face with her nylon mask, and the bedding with her special blanket, Summer tossed and turned in her aunt’s guest bedroom that night, finally falling into a deep sleep. But not before she ticked off things she had learned about murder from reading up on the internet. One, the killer is almost always someone the victim knows—even someone in the family or a friend. In fact, family members were often the first suspects. That left Summer, Agatha, Piper, and Mia. An unlikely group. But Hildy had friends, mostly those book group ladies, and Summer planned to talk with each one of them alone.
She also wondered if her mother had had a boyfriend or someone she’d been seeing or just sleeping with, as her mom was wont to do. More so when she was younger, but she’d never given up her belief in free love.
Summer finally drifted off to sleep, only to dream of spiders.
She awakened with a sweaty start, in confusion. Where am I? A pink floral wallpaper wall with photos of Piper made her grin. Okay, she was at Aunt Agatha’s home.
The scent of breakfast lured her downstairs, where all suspects gathered. Mia looked the most suspiciously murderous, with a scowl that could kill.
“Good morning,” Summer muttered.
“Morning, dear,” Aunt Agatha said. “Help yourself to some breakfast. You must load up on food. We have a full day of cleaning ahead of us.”
“I thought they were going to bring in professionals,” Summer said.
“They are, but they won’t get in until Monday. I thought we should take the weekend to gather whatever valuables we can, along with the bedding and clothing, and get started on washing them.”
“I’ve been reading that if you wash smoky clothes in mouthwash, it will take the scent out,” Piper said as she looked up from her computer.
“More coffee, please.” Mia held her cup up as Agatha freshened everybody’s coffee and poured Summer’s first.
“Also, charcoal. I have a bag in the shed. I understand if we lay it around the house, it will absorb odors,” Agatha said.
Summer’s head was cloudy from not sleeping well and a lack of coffee. Piper and Aunt Agatha must have gotten up early and were ready to forge ahead. I’m such a schlep.
As Summer sipped her coffee, she remembered what she had planned to do today. Visit all of the book club members on the auspices of getting to know them better, when in reality she’d question them, slyly. But today she couldn’t let Agatha, Piper, and Mia do all the dirty work, could she?
She moved over to the stove and filled her plate with cheesy scrambled eggs and sat back down at the table.
“I’ve been thinking about the possible murder suspects,” Summer said after a few moments of quiet eating.
Everyone’s attention focused on Summer. “The thing is, most people know their killers. Since we know nobody in this room killed Mom, I’ll snoop around among her friends.” Summer used air quotes around friends.
Agatha gasped. “I can’t imagine!”
“That’s what people have said throughout history about serial killers,” Mia said. “They all seem like such nice quiet men, and there they were … killing over and over again.”
“Okay, Mia,” Piper said. “We get the picture. But I don’t think Aunt Hildy was killed by a serial killer.” She paused. “But you’re right. Most murders are committed by people the victims knew. I thought about that last night. But all of those little old women in her book club? I don’t know …”
“Certainly not!” Agatha said. “You can’t go around accusing your mother’s dearest friends of killing her.” Her face reddened and her eyes watered.
“Okay, okay,” Summer said. “First, I was planning to be very subtle about it. Second, if it wasn’t her book club friends, who else? Was she seeing someone?”
“You mean a man?” Agatha stammered, setting her teacup down with a clank.
Summer nodded with her mouth pulled into a twist. She hated the idea of her mom seeing one of these old farts on the island.
“I don’t think so,” Agatha said. “But she didn’t tell me everything.”
“She told me she was done with old men,” Mia said. “She liked young ones.”
Summer blinked that image out of her brain, but not without some trouble. “But was she seeing a younger man?”
“No,” Mia said, shrugging. “If she was, she’d didn’t tell me.”
Thank god for small favors. Piper’s eyes met Summer’s. They were thinking the same thing. Both were glad that Hildy hadn’t told Mia the sordid details of her love life, the way she sometimes had with them. But years later, she’d laughed it off, saying she had just been kidding, that she’d never seen half the men she’d told them about.
“I liked telling stories,” she’d said. “I still do. Let me tell you
about the man who—”
“No!” They’d both scream at the same time.
Summer finished her eggs and coffee, and walked upstairs to change into the sweatpants and T-shirt Aunt Agatha had laid out—just like the good old days.
She glimpsed her haggard self in the mirror. Summer didn’t recognize the reflection gazing back at her—but she looked nothing like her beautiful mom, sorry to say. She breathed in deeply. She’d probably never learn who it was she resembled, assuming it was her mysterious, unknown biological dad, but she knew and loved her mom. She owed her justice, if nothing else. And even though Aunt Agatha considered it a terrible gesture, Summer vowed to speak with her book club members. Just not today, evidently.
Chapter Nineteen
The good news was that the fire had barely touched the house. Most of the damage was smoke, which was bad enough. Summer, Agatha, Mia, and Piper spread bowls of charcoal around the place, dumped books in bins of rice and covered the containers in the hope that the scent would vanish and gathered clothes and bedding. They were all getting headaches and called it a day.
“Have you opened the bookstore yet?” Piper asked as we were loading the second or third round of clothes into a washer at the laundromat. Aunt Agatha’s washer was not big, and besides, she didn’t want to drag all the smoke smell into her home. Summer couldn’t blame her.
“No. I should,” Summer said. It wasn’t as if she’d been putting it off. She’d been busy. Her attention was focused first on the funeral, then the realization that her mom had been killed and trying to figure out who did it, then the fire. She’d been way too busy to open the bookstore—even if it was her mother’s pride and joy. It wasn’t as if she wanted any of the books in there, although she had to admit she was enjoying Nights at Bellamy Harbor. Kind of. And was slowly starting to see the appeal of a happy ending, which every romance novel gave readers. If only life could give that to you.
“Everything is under control,” Agatha said. “Poppy would be happy to open, if you don’t want to.”
“I need to think about that.”
“I can’t believe how the mouthwash just zapped the smoke scent right out of these towels,” Piper said as she folded the last of her pile.
Marilyn and Doris bounded into the laundromat.
“We bought you a little lunch,” Marilyn said.
How did she know Summer was famished? How did they track them down?
“Thanks, girls,” Agatha said. These women had not been girls in fifty years. At least.
“I’m starving!” Mia said, as she shut the door of the mammoth dryer, which held several loads of clothes.
Chicken-salad sandwiches on whole-wheat bread had never tasted so delicious.
Summer drank from her bottled water as she sat on the bench next to Marilyn.
“How are you holding up, dear?” Marilyn said.
“I’ve got to admit. I’d be better without all the drama of the fire and the smoke.”
Marilyn nodded.
“How long did you know Mom, anyway?” Summer asked. Nonchalant.
“We grew up together,” Marilyn said. “I’m a few years older than your mother, but we lived next door and liked similar music and books.” She laughed at what seemed like a private joke. “We used to sneak our mothers’ romances out, then trade with each other when we were done. We talked for hours and hours about those books.”
“How did you find out about her death?” Summer said.
“Well, that’s an odd question.”
“It’s just that I’m trying to make sense of things. I want to know, like, were you with her? Was anybody?”
“Oh no, dear. I was out of town when it happened. My husband and I traveled to Charleston for a few days. Agatha called me, sobbing, and we cut our trip short.”
“Had Mom been sick or anything?”
“No,” she said and sighed. “I’d always considered her the healthiest one of all of us. She walked every day, did yoga classes, and was a strict vegetarian.”
It wasn’t just Summer who thought she’d been healthy.
She was on the right track. “You know someone tried to kill me. Someone set the house on fire. Whoever it was is going to get caught.”
“I hope so. Why would someone do that? If they were trying to kill you, why? How stupid. And mean,” she replied.
“I think whoever killed Mom wants me dead too,” Summer said in almost a whisper.
Marilyn’s heavy-lidded eyes widened into saucers. “What? You think someone killed your mother?” Her voice was also a whisper. One eyebrow lifted. “Have you told Ben?”
Summer nodded. “Please keep this to yourself.” She finished her sandwich. “I found threatening notes. Someone wanted the bookshop—wanted her out of the way and figured I’d sell the minute she died.”
“We all figured that, dear,” Marilyn said.
“You all figured wrong,” Summer said, standing, hoping she’d stirred up enough with that conversation to get the rumor mill churning. After talking with Marilyn, she mentally checked her off her list of possible suspects. She’d been in Charleston with her husband. “I’m keeping the bookstore.”
She didn’t even realize it herself until that moment. Whether she’d run the place, she didn’t know. But she wasn’t giving it to whoever wanted it—the person who most likely had killed her mother and tried to kill her.
She might go back to Staunton and teach, if she still had a job. But she would always come back here—and always keep the store and the house. Bill collectors be damned. She’d figure out another way. Maybe she’d rent the house or use it as an Airbnb.
Agatha handed her a basket of more towels to fold. “Why did Mom have so many towels and sheets? She lived alone. Why did she need all of these?”
Agatha turned around and gave her the once-over. “She always imagined you’d come home, and she wanted to be prepared.”
A hollow feeling erupted in the center of Summer’s chest and sank like a stone to her stomach. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. She slipped out of the laundromat. Air. Please.
Chapter Twenty
Mom had thought she’d be back, which tore at Summer’s heart. Her mom had died while not speaking to her because she was so angry and ashamed at Summer for running away from a sticky situation. “I didn’t raise you to be a coward.” Yet she stocked up on towels and bedding just in case Summer moved back. Her mom must have forgiven her in her own way but just hadn’t gotten around to telling Summer.
But what would make her think she’d leave her dream job teaching Shakespearean literature to return home to the island? She’d worked so hard at getting that job, then getting tenure, with the constant push to publish constantly. She loved every minute of the research, writing, and teaching. Shakespeare fired up her synapses—she adored turning students on to him. It was just that academia wasn’t as inviting as she had hoped.
So, was her mom afraid she’d get fired and preparing for the inevitable? Or was she just living in her own mother dream world, hoping that someday her wayward daughter would return home to St. Brigid?
She’d never know now. Maybe her mom had had a premonition. She’d always had them—and most of the time they were right. Summer girded her loins, almost certain she’d lose her job.
Mom and her premonitions. Summer tried to recall a time when she was wrong and couldn’t. Which used to irk her, but now it fascinated her. Was her mom one of the few real psychics in the world? She used to call herself a witch, but Summer, with the ignorance of youth, never paid much attention to what that meant or if she was serious. Her witchiness had something to do with a goddess and monthly meetings with a group of other women.
Now, Summer’s mind sorted through the possibilities. Was her mom still a part of that witch group? If so, who were they? Would any of them know anything about the way her mother had died?
Agatha walked over to her. “Are you okay, dear?”
Summer was sitting on a bench looking out over the parking lot.
She nodded. “It just comes in waves. The grief.”
Aunt Agatha sat down beside her. “I know.”
They sat quietly for a few beats.
“I thought getting some fresh air might help, but it didn’t. I’ve been sitting here wondering why Mom thought I’d be back.” Summer smiled a twitchy smile. “And then I remembered all of her premonitions.”
“Yes,” Aunt Agatha said. “Always on the money.”
“Then I remembered her witch group.”
Aunt Agatha sat straighter.
“I wondered if they might know something about her death.”
“Like what?”
“I want to know details, like where was she when it happened. Who was with her?” Summer sucked in air. “Was she alone?”
“Summer,” Aunt Agatha said in a singsong tone. “Are you certain you want to know those things?”
“I do,” Summer said. “I hate the idea of her dying alone. Or of her spending her last breaths in the presence of a killer. Her killer.”
“Here’s what I know,” Agatha said, lowering her voice. “She collapsed at the bookstore, surrounded by friends and customers. She was taken to the hospital, where she later died. I was there, along with Mia and Piper. Your mother left peacefully. It was as if … she had just gone to sleep.”
Agatha shrugged. “As far as that goes, it was a good death.” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “But I don’t for a minute think it was natural. We need to keep digging.”
“What about the witches?”
“Oh, they disbanded years ago. Hildy became what she called a solitary practitioner. But she introduced some of the book club ladies to her practices. I think you’ll see proof of them on Wednesday.”
“Are any of the witches still around?”
“One, I think. She lives over near the coves in a small rock house. Name’s Posey. She was not at your mother’s funeral, which I found odd since they were close. But perhaps they had a falling out.”
Summer’s right eyebrow lifted. “Maybe they quarreled, and she killed Mom.”
Agatha shook her head. “I doubt it. These witchy women are all about gentle ways. Taking care of the earth, one another, the sacred feminine. You know? I doubt Posey ever harmed anything.”
Little Bookshop of Murder Page 8
