She glanced around at all the yoga students, looking blessed out, dressed in different varieties of exercise clothing. Finally, her eyes spotted the teacher. She walked over to her. “Are you Susan?”
“Yes,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Summer Merriweather.”
“Oh! You’re Hildy’s daughter.” She opened her arms and hugged Summer. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. I loved her. She was fabulous. What happened?”
“I’m glad you asked that question because that’s what I’m trying to find out. She was here that morning, taking a class?”
“That’s right,” she said, waving goodbye to a student as she exited.
“Did she seem ill in class?”
Confusion swept over Susan’s face. “No, not at all. That’s why I was so surprised to hear she had a heart attack later that morning. She looked healthy and strong. That particular class is strenuous. And she did well.”
Prickles of excitement ran through Summer. Everything she was learning supported her theory that her mom had been healthy and was murdered. But how? She’d collapsed in the bookstore. It had looked like a heart attack, for all intents and purposes.
“Are you okay?” Susan asked.
“Oh yes, just thinking. Trying to make sense of my mom’s death.”
A calmness came over the yoga teacher’s face. “It rarely makes sense. I know. I lost my mom a year ago, and I’m still grieving.”
“I’m sorry.” Summer was torn between leaving and staying. A part of her wanted to reach out to this young woman. But she was uncertain.
Susan’s eyebrows knit into a V shape. “She was sick for a long time. We had plenty of time … but it still feels like we didn’t have enough. But Hildy’s death was so sudden. I understand you trying to make sense of it.”
She didn’t want to tell the woman that she wasn’t trying to make sense of it—she was trying to find her mom’s killer. Summer nodded. “Thanks for talking with me. I better get going. Busy day.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Susan said. “Why don’t you take a few classes? Your mother was a paid lifetime member. I can transfer that membership to you.”
Yoga? Hmm. Summer didn’t think so, but she didn’t want to be rude.
“We have a beginner’s class that starts this Saturday. You should come,” Susan continued.
“I might do that,” Summer said. “Have a great day.”
She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Summer Merriweather did not do yoga. Was there anything more undignified than a downward dog? She used to do it as a child because her mom did it. It was just a way to be close to her mom. As a child she loved being a part of her mom’s grown-up world. And yoga was a part of that.
But she’d not done it since before she became a rebellious teen, when she began eating meat, only reading great literature, and embracing the academic lifestyle. As she opened her car door, she rolled her eyes at herself. She was such a cliché. Academic lifestyle. Puhlease.
Summer drove toward the bookstore, brightening as she recalled her mom’s last day. She’d experienced things she loved on that day—yoga and the bookstore. And she hadn’t been sick. Summer supposed she should be glad of all that. But she needed a happier ending for her mom.
Hildy had gone to yoga class, to the bank, and then straight to work, where her employees and friends helped her with a new shipment of books. That’s where it all turned.
She was shelving books, screamed, and collapsed. The paramedics were called, and she was taken to the hospital. The hospital. That’s where Summer needed to go next.
She drove by the bookstore, noting its full back parking lot.
Chapter Forty-Nine
St. Brigid Hospital was small. It was barely a hospital. Serious medical issues were transferred to the mainland hospitals. So when Summer walked in the door, it wasn’t unusual that the receptionist remembered her. After all, she’d just been there with a concussion.
“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked.
“I’m fine, but I have some questions about my mother, Hildy Merriweather. She was brought in here with a heart attack last week.”
The woman behind the desk paled. “Yes, I remember.”
“Were you here?”
“Not when they brought her in. No. My shift started later that day.” The phone rang. “Sorry, I have to get this.”
While she was on the phone, Summer scanned the hospital. The waiting area held couches and big chairs. They looked as if someone had purchased them from the local Goodwill, which didn’t inspire confidence.
When the receptionist hung up the phone, Summer turned back to her. “Who is the person I should talk to about when my mother was brought in?”
“I can’t give you too much information, but I can tell you that.” Her fingers moved over the keyboard. “It was Dr. Flather.”
“Is he here? Can I talk to him?”
“She will be here tomorrow. Today is her day off.”
She. Well, that was good. A woman doctor. Summer found that comforting.
“Okay, I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“She won’t be able to say much. Privacy laws and so on.”
“I get that,” Summer said. “But whatever she can tell me.”
The woman looked at Summer with sympathy. “I understand.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
Summer left the cool, air-conditioned hospital and walked out into a hot, muggy day. Gray clouds gathered on the horizon. She better get to the bookstore. When it rained during tourist season, the bookstore filled with tourists. She couldn’t leave Poppy to deal with it all alone.
By the time she pulled into the back parking lot, lightning crackled. Trees swayed. The air smelled of rain.
When she walked into the store, Summer was pleased to find Agatha and Glads helping Poppy out. Mia was also there—upstairs, helping clean. It was a constant work in progress trying to keep the store picked up and clean. People left their trash. Summer often wondered if they did it on purpose or if they slipped into the world of books and completely forgot about their coffee, croissants, or tissues. Sometimes people left the oddest things behind. Once, Summer found a pin that read “Jesus Loves Bicycles.” She considered keeping it, just because it was so odd. The thought of it made her smile.
“Excuse me,” a small voice from behind Summer said. “Do you work here?”
Summer turned to find a young woman wearing a Kurt Cobain T-shirt.
“I guess you could say that, yes.”
“I’m looking for something to read. Something I can sink my teeth into. I see nothing like real literature. Some Shakespeare?”
Summer’s jaw dropped. Of course. If she were the owner of this store, she’d stock a shelf or two of what she considered good books. “I don’t have anything like that now, but I can order something for you. We’d have it by tomorrow.”
The young woman pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Well, I’ve not decided which Shakespeare play I’m in the mood for. “
“In the meantime, we do have a classic romance and mystery section. Jane Austen. Agatha Christie.”
“Okay, I’ll check that out.”
“It’s upstairs,” Summer said. “In the far-right corner. If you decide to order something else, please let me know. It’s no bother at all.”
She smiled as she made her way to the stairs.
Even as the skies were darkening, Summer brightened. Of course. This store was hers. And while it would be foolish, business-wise, to get rid of the romances and mysteries, there was nothing preventing her from stocking some good literature. This young woman proved Summer was not the only person who might sit on the beach with a copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in hand.
A group of older women entered the store, laughing. “I love cozy mysteries. Where’s your cozy section?” Summer pointed her in the direction. The others she came with headed for the erotic romance section. E
rotic romance. Summer refrained from rolling her eyes. She didn’t understand what that meant. Was Nights on Bellamy Harbor considered erotic romance? There were some steamy scenes. More than steamy … Summer remembered a dream she’d had last night. Had she been dreaming about Omar, the main male character? Her face heated. Why, yes, she had.
“Summer? Are you okay?” Poppy asked as she walked over to her. “Your face is red.”
Summer stiffened, stood straighter. “I’m fine. It’s just a bit warm in here. I’ll go get some water. If you need me, I’ll be in the office for a little while.”
“Okay. Oh dear. Another storm heading this way,” Poppy said.
Thunder boomed in the distance.
Summer slipped off to the office for some water. How ridiculous to dream about a fictional character. Especially to dream that intimately. She took a swig of water and sat down at the desk. Dang, she must be getting desperate. She tried to remember the last time she’d had a date, let alone … well, anything more than a date. She gave up.
She flicked on the store computer. Her mom loved the thing. It made her life so much easier, for the most part. Only when it didn’t work, it screwed everything up. Summer forced herself to think of other things besides her dream. What was wrong with her? She needed to get a grip. She needed to find out who’d killed her mom.
She clicked on the email program and started clearing out the obvious spam. As she did so, she mulled over what she’d found out. Nothing more than what she had already known—that her mom appeared to be healthy until she suddenly dropped dead. After screaming.
That scream said something. Summer shivered. She just wasn’t certain what it meant.
Chapter Fifty
Summer shut off the computer and moved on into the store to help with crowd control, as her mom used to call it. Days like these, people were looking for something to do, and sometimes all they wanted to do was browse. Which was fine. Hildy welcomed browsers. But she wanted buyers. So, ever since Summer had been a kid, her mom had tutored her on how to sell books to browsers. Sometimes it worked—and sometimes it didn’t.
But being present was key. Not on your cell phone. Not in the stockroom. And if you were behind the register, you were otherwise engaged.
Summer approached a woman who was wandering down the rows. “Can I help you find something?”
“I’m just looking,” she said.
“Okay, but if I can help, please give me a holler.”
The woman didn’t respond but kept walking. Okay, then.
Summer turned to find Henry Chadworth on her heels, and she almost ran into him.
“Henry!”
“Sorry, Summer. I didn’t know you’d turn around like that.”
She straightened. “Obviously.”
They stood in a weird silence for a moment.
“What can I help you with, Henry?”
“Call the cops off. Every time I turn around, they’re at my doorstep. They think I stole the first editions. And you know I couldn’t do such a thing.”
A customer shimmied by them.
“No, Henry. I don’t know that. And I have nothing to do with the cops. If they’re looking at you, there must be a reason.”
His voice lowered as he led her to one of the book nooks. “That’s insane, Summer. I’m a high school English teacher. A whiff of scandal could cost my job. Why would I do such a thing?”
Summer hadn’t considered it from that perspective. “I don’t know, Henry. All I know is they were stolen. You’re one of the few people on this island who appreciated those books.”
“Well, that’s true enough,” he said with a sarcastic tone, “but I’m not a thief. And I loved and respected your mother. I’d never steal anything from her—or her store.”
Summer folded her arms. “People do all sorts of things, Henry. Things you wouldn’t imagine. Husbands kill wives. Women steal from their husband. Human nature isn’t as cut and dry as you seem to suggest.”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Summer, we all know how smart you are. Stop trying to show off.”
“What?” Her voice rose. Anger and humiliation spun through her.
“You heard me.”
“Get out, Henry.”
“What?” His face reddened.
“You heard me.”
His hands balled into fists, and his arms stiffened at his sides. “I didn’t steal those books.”
“I hear you. Now, get out.”
He spun around and charged out of the bookstore.
When he left the space, a tiny woman appeared. Had she been there all along? She grinned at Summer. “Spurned lover?”
“What? Who?”
“The good-looking man who just left. If I were a few years younger …”
“Henry?” Summer’s face turned red. “Not at all. He’s just … an acquaintance.”
The woman held her books to her chest. “Pretty heated conversation.” Her eyebrows lifted.
Summer breathed in and out. “Can I help you find something?”
“Oh no, dear, I’ve got everything I need right here.” She gripped her books close and then moved on.
So, the woman had been listening. Summer would have to be more careful.
But what she’d learned from Henry was gold. Ben Singer was investigating him for the theft of the books, but she wondered if he was also a person of interest in Hildy’s death. Ben hadn’t officially come out and said it was a murder investigation, but the last time they’d talked, he’d acknowledged that something was fishy. Should she call him?
“Excuse me, do you work here?” A woman with startling blue eyes asked Summer.
“Yes, can I help you?
“Do you have Nights on Bellamy Harbor in stock?”
“Yes, we do. Please follow me. I’m reading it right now. It’s our book club selection.”
“I’ve heard it’s very good.”
Summer led her to the place where the books were. “I’m enjoying it.” She handed her a copy.
“Thank you,” the woman said, eyes skirting the shelves. “Looks like she’s written a lot of books.”
“Yes, she’s very popular. Please take your time and have fun,” Summer said. “If I can help you with anything else, please let me know.”
“Thank you.” The woman was wide-eyed as she perused the shelves of books. Summer felt a ping of pride. She’d helped this young woman find what she wanted. It was a romance. But at least it was a book. She caught herself. Had she just had that thought? Was the ghost of her mother taking over her body? Summer laughed at herself. What was going on with her?
* * *
That night, Summer fell into bed, or onto the couch, as the case might be. Darcy tapped on his cage. Tap, tap, tap. She tried to ignore him. Tap, tap, tap.
“What’s wrong, Darcy?”
She opened the door to give him a rub, and he flew out of the cage onto the couch.
Did the bird want to sleep with her again? She’d thought last night was a fluke. She wasn’t sure she could manage sleeping with him again. But as he curled up on her shoulder, his soft warmth lulled her—even as she told herself this couldn’t be a good thing. You can’t make a habit of sleeping with birds, Summer Merriweather.
Chapter Fifty-One
Summer awakened with an intense longing that became an ache through her whole body. She wanted her mom. The feeling was beyond crying; it was beyond any kind of nameable emotional pain. Mom. What happened to you?
Why?
Summer had expected to have many years with her mom just a phone call away. Just a five-hour trip away.
It felt so unfair. As if it were some kind of a sick joke from God. Her mother, one of the most beloved people in the community, had been murdered, struck down by a backstabbing friend.
Summer drew in air and sat up slowly, so as not to wake the sleeping bird. She lifted him and placed him gently back in the cage.
She made her way to the kitchen to make coffee, surprised to see Piper already
there. “Good morning,” she said. “I see you were sleeping with Darcy again.” She picked a silky gray feather from Summer’s shoulder.
“Yeah. Pitiful, right?” She reached in the cupboard and pulled out a coffee cup. “Coffee. The elixir of the gods.”
“Indeed,” Piper said.
They sat and drank their coffee in silence for a few beats.
“What are you going to do today?” Piper asked.
“I’m going to check in with Ben about the robbery and about Mom’s autopsy report.”
“Sounds like … fun?”
“I feel like I’m getting close. Like the answer is just around the corner but just out of reach. I’ve got pieces to the puzzle, but they don’t connect.”
“Mom still thinks Rudy has something to do with it.”
“I don’t think so. But people surprise you. He was outside yesterday looking for his granddaughter’s cat.” Summer smiled. “That was a surprise.”
Piper lugged. “Doesn’t sound like a killer to me. Do you have any other suspects in mind?”
“I don’t know about Henry. He stopped by the store yesterday and told me to call the cops off. I heard they were talking with him about the robbery, but maybe there’s more to it.”
“I can’t see it,” Piper said. She took a sip of coffee. “I can’t see anybody hurting her. That’s the odd thing. She didn’t make enemies.”
Summer’s stomach wavered. “But it had to be someone close to her. If the same person set the house on fire, they were in this house. It had to be a friend. That hurts more than anything. That my mom’s last few moments on earth might have been pained by betrayal.”
“Don’t go there. She wasn’t aware of it. She was in the bookstore and collapsed. It wasn’t like anybody attacked her.”
“I tried to follow her footsteps, and all it did was make me think what I already thought. Mom was healthy. It’s very rare for a woman not to have signs of sickness before a heart attack. That’s why those autopsy results are so important.”
“So how could people think she had a heart attack if she didn’t?”
Little Bookshop of Murder Page 19
