by Maia Chance
“No.”
Softly, so only I could hear, Dorothea said, “That man needs a woman’s touch.”
And then—really?—she blushed.
I pulled the Dustbuster into one of the angled parking spaces on Main Street, and we all got out. I led my leaf-peepers like a gaggle of goslings past quaint stone and brick shop fronts, cute painted signs, tempting shop windows, lots of weekend shoppers, and more decorative gourds than you can possibly imagine.
In the bakery, we all purchased hot beverages and scored the primo seats, the sofa and chairs by the glowy gas fireplace.
I was taking my very first sip of pumpkin spice latte when Lo plopped down beside me and said, “So, Agnes, are you from Naneda?”
“Yeah. I mean, I grew up here. I lived out of state for about ten years and just moved back this summer.”
“Do you have family here?”
“Yeah. My dad lives here—he’s actually the mayor—”
“Wow!”
“Trust me, it’s not glamorous. I have cousins and aunts and uncles in the area, too. The Stagecoach Inn project is actually my Great Aunt Effie’s thing, and my cousin Chester and I are helping her out.”
“Then you’re really family-oriented.”
“Oh. I guess.” Am I?
“Wonderful. And do you plan to settle down in Naneda?”
Good question. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if—”
“If you belong?”
“Well, yeah, actually.”
“It’s always hard, coming back. You have to make it your home all over again … sometimes from the ground up.”
Make it your home all over again. Yikes. How the heck was I supposed to do that? Surely not by camping out in the attic of my zany great aunt’s derelict property. What if I was destined never to have a settled home anywhere? What if— “And this boyfriend of yours,” Lo said, interrupting my too-familiar train of thought, “the one who was arrested—just how serious is that?”
“He wasn’t arrested, remember?”
Lo waggled her fruit punch fingernails. “You know what I mean.”
“And I guess he’s not … not really my boyfriend.” I took a gulp of latte. “Yet.”
“Wonderful.”
“Why is that wonderful?”
“How did you meet him? Not at a bar, I hope?”
“I’ve known Otis since high school. We were lab partners in chemistry.” Where I fell in love with him on the first day, before the dismissal bell even rang.
“High school sweethearts never last. Everyone knows that.”
“We weren’t high school sweethearts. We were just … friends. We only started dating about a month ago.” I refused to tell Lo how I’d been engaged to my longtime boyfriend Roger—aka Professor Pompous—and subsequently dumped for the town Pilates instructor, a fiasco that had prompted me to change my plans to attend graduate school. I was still getting my act together after all that. I didn’t miss Roger one iota, trust me. But I sure as heck missed having a Life Plan.
“You’ve been dating Otis only a month?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How many dates?”
“I don’t know—five? Six? Mostly we just … hang out, but we’ve gone to dinner, the movies, that sort of thing.”
“Do you kiss?”
“That’s personal!” Heck, yeah, we kissed.
“But you don’t know if you’re going steady?”
No, I don’t know, and I’d really like to find out. “We’re just, you know, taking it slowly.”
Why was I even telling Lo all this stuff?
“Did you discuss going steady?”
“I don’t really want to talk about this,” I mumbled into my cup.
Lo picked up a worn copy of Woman’s Day magazine from the table, opened it, leafed through a few pages, and then said, “Did you go to college, honey?”
Oh, jeez. “Yeah. I have a bachelor’s degree—”
“Great!”
“—in anthropology.”
“Oh.” Lo’s plump shoulders sagged. “That’s okay. You can always go back and get a useful degree. Dental school is always a good investment.”
“Dental school?”
“You do have nice teeth.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“Which means your children will have nice teeth. How many children would you like to have, Agnes?”
“Um—”
“Three? Or maybe four?”
“I haven’t really—” My phone buzzed.
Thank goodness.
I fumbled it out of my shoulder bag.
Lo flicked over a page of Woman’s Day. “Is it him?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I lied.
“You know, I have a nephew in Buffalo whose divorce is almost finalized. He’s a podiatrist, and he’s just wonderful with kids—he has three, so if you wanted to save yourself the stretch marks—”
“No, thanks.” I looked at the screen and my heart leapt. I had a text from Otis: I’M OKAY.
Relief surged through me.
Otis: BUT MIKEY BROWN WAS KILLED AT MY SHOP. MURDERED.
Me: I KNOW. HORRIBLE. SCARY.
Otis: YEAH. WHERE ARE YOU?
Me: DOWNTOWN WITH INN GUESTS.
Otis: GUESTS?
Me: FROM THE BROKEN-DOWN MOTOR COACH.
Otis: OH, RIGHT.
Me: CAN YOU MEET ME FOR DINNER? WILL BE AT CUP ’N’ CLATTER AT 5 WITH MY GAGGLE.
Otis: GAGGLE?
Me: YOU’LL SEE.
Otis: OK, SEE YOU THERE.
I turned my phone over in my hands, wrestling with the urge to pepper Otis with text-questions about what had happened. I decided to wait until I saw him in person. He wasn’t in jail, which meant he hadn’t been arrested, so everything was going to be fine.
Right?
*
Heading toward the Cup ’n’ Clatter at five, the gaggle and I passed Angel’s Antiques & Devil’s Junk, Harries Stationery (in the window: a display of Halloween costumes, including a half-dozen Headless Horseman pumpkinhead masks), the Pottery Guild Shop, the movie theater (now playing: Headless Horseman III—are you sensing a theme?), Country Mouse Yarns, Retro Rags (my best friend Lauren’s vintage clothing shop), Lilting Waves Day Spa, and, next door to the spa, the new cupcake shop, Crumble + Fluff.
“Ooooh, cupcakes,” Lo said, stopping in her tracks to gape into the window, which displayed tiered trays of pillowy-looking cupcakes.
“What an enticing display,” Dorothea said. “I cannot resist cake.”
“Anyone who doesn’t like cupcakes might as well be Godzilla,” Lo said, hitching up her purse and pushing into the shop.
The rest of us followed. We didn’t really have a choice. Lo seemed like a woman on a mission.
It smelled amazing inside, all vanilla and cocoa with faint hints of fruity and spice. I looked around the tiny, pretty shop with interest. When I was growing up, the shop had been Ryder’s Candies, but old Greg Ryder had retired and the place had passed through a couple unsuccessful incarnations (including, for a few awful months, a “healthful” sweet shop peddling date-and-nut rolls and—shudder—carob).
The new owner, Delilah Fortune, had come to town and opened for business sometime the summer before. Aunt Effie, Chester, and I had joined the Naneda Chamber of Commerce and attended their monthly breakfast a few weeks back. Delilah and I had been introduced there, but I hadn’t been into her shop yet. I knew that she lived in the apartment above the shop and that she was running the place single-handedly. That was impressive.
The shop floor was the same vintage black-and-white tile I remembered, but the gold-and-crystal chandeliers were new. Pink-and-gold floral wallpaper hung on the walls—another new touch. The old-fashioned counter cases that had always been there displayed trays of perfect cupcakes, each mounded with icing, some garnished with sprinkles, gumdrops, or chocolate shavings.
“What a precious little shop!” Lo sa
id. She dinged the bell on the counter. “I think just breathing the air in here has gone straight to my hips.”
“Good thing those track pants have some stretch,” Myron said teasingly.
Delilah emerged from the doorway behind the counters and gave us all a game-show-hostess smile. “Welcome!” she said. She was as chubby as I am, but she made her chub look perfect in her 1950s-style flared dress with tiny yellow and orange oak leaves printed all over, a white ruffly apron, and bouncy, golden, curling-iron curls. She was about my age, but she seemed at once younger—the cutesy voice and the dimples, maybe?—and older. Maybe that was her red matte lipstick. That stuff could make even a tween look ready for the early-bird buffet.
“Hey, Delilah,” I said. “I’m Agnes Blythe—we met at the Chamber of Commerce breakfast?”
“Of course! Agnes.” Delilah smiled at me, but I thought her big blue eyes looked a little … flinty. “Family reunion?”
“Family reunion?” I frowned. “No. These are my guests for a few days—their motor coach broke down, so they’re staying in town while it gets fixed.”
“Oops! I thought I saw a family resemblance.” Delilah looked pointedly at my tummy and then at Myron’s gut. I am not making this up.
I edged my shoulder bag over my tummy which, yes, has more in common with an inflatable pool toy than a washboard. But still.
“I want a plain vanilla cupcake,” Hank said stonily. “No sprinkles.”
“You betcha,” Delilah said, flashing her dimple. “But let me get you all some samples before you come to any final decisions. I whipped up a few special batches for the Harvest Festival that’ll make you think you’ve died and gone to heaven.” She got to work, slipping on a fresh pair of food service gloves (to Hank’s visible approval) and cutting up her new seasonal cupcake flavors: maple sugar, hot cocoa with marshmallow buttercream, candy corn, pumpkin velvet, and apple cinnamon. “I used fresh apples from Naneda Orchards—Honeycrisps.”
“I just love Honeycrisps!” Lo said, stuffing a sample into her mouth.
“It’s a good thing I got my apples in yesterday, since Randy who owns the orchard is probably so torn up about Mikey. I’ll bet he won’t be making any deliveries for a couple days.”
“Is he family?” I asked. I had briefly met Randy Rice at the Chamber of Commerce breakfast, too. He was a short, fortyish man with bushy dark hair and pitted acne scars on his cheeks. He had seemed angry about something.
“No. But Mikey and Randy were friends. When they were younger, anyway.” Delilah looked as if she wanted to say more.
“And … they stopped being friends?” I asked.
“Let’s just call them ‘best frenemies.’ At least, according to Randy’s wife, Alexa. Do you know her? She’s such a sweetheart. We hang out a lot.”
I remembered Alexa from the Chamber breakfast. She had been dressed like one of the Real Housewives, possibly tipsy, and clapping a little too enthusiastically for the announcement about the new waste bins installed in the city park.
“So, Agnes,” Delilah said to me, softly so the others couldn’t hear. They were arguing about the difference between frosting and icing. “I heard your friend Otis was taken in for questioning about that murder at his automotive shop.”
Marshmallow buttercream went bitter on my tongue. “How do you know that?”
“How could I not know? There were so many sirens, I thought the whole town was burning down. A customer came in a few minutes ago and filled me in on all the details. I’m sure Otis didn’t do anything wrong—he is such a nice guy—but it sure is weird that something like that happened. A wrench…” Delilah shivered. “There are a lot of creeps out there.” She laughed. “Gosh, I’ve dated a few myself. Poor Mikey.”
“Wait—did you know Mikey?” I asked.
“Well, sure! He came in a lot. He just loves—I mean, loved—my strawberry cupcakes.” Delilah tossed her sideswept bangs out of her eyes.
“Did you date Mikey?” I asked.
“Me, date Mikey? How can I put this? I was … out of his league. Which may be hard for you to understand, because it seems like lots of people date out of their league in this town.” Delilah looked me down and up.
I suddenly felt lumpy and ungainly in my jeans and hoodie.
“But hey!” Delilah said. “I’m new here. Maybe that’s how things are done in Naneda.” She turned to the gaggle. “Okily-dokily, folks, what’s everyone’s favorite cupcake flavor?”
Myron, Lo, Hank, and Dorothea purchased a few dozen cupcakes between them, and I bought one coconut lemon. I paid with a five-dollar bill and zipped the change into the empty coin pouch in my wallet. I don’t like to carry change. Too much exercise. I routinely empty my coins into a jam jar on my bedroom windowsill.
The gaggle and I continued on our way to the Cup ’n’ Clatter.
Poor Otis. The subject of wagging tongues. But I was completely sure his popularity—among his customers, friends, old ladies, babies, dogs, cats, and yes, even cupcake bakers—would help him ride out the storm.
Chapter 4
One perk of being on the Senior Schedule was that the Cup ’n’ Clatter diner wasn’t crammed yet when we got there. The waitress settled Dorothea, Myron, Lo, and Hank into a window booth, and, since I was expecting Otis, I sat alone in the next booth over. While the gaggle argued about homeowner’s insurance plans, I sipped Diet Coke and watched out the window for Otis.
And … here he came down the sidewalk, lean, lanky, and muscly in broken-in work boots, faded jeans, and a green sweater over a T-shirt. His straight, medium-brown hair was in need of a cut, which he made look like a good thing. Something about the way he moved—the self-assurance, that sort of loping, unselfconscious masculine grace you see in authentic cowboys—made my heart stutter.
I loved him. Omigosh did I love him. And I’d told him as much, so why, for the love of cookies why, hadn’t he responded?
Was it because, as Delilah Fortune had hinted, he was out of my league?
Just as Otis was crossing the street, motion in the door of Crumble + Fluff caught my eye. Delilah was flipping the sign in the door from OPEN to CLOSED, stepping outside, locking the door. She had removed her apron and put on a denim jacket over her dress. Her movements were as twitchy as a squirrel’s.
Then Otis was pushing into the Cup ’n’ Clatter, grinning at the waitress (who, naturally, gave him her cutest smile, even though she was about sixty-five and wearing compression stockings), and weaving through the tables toward me.
Delilah was forgotten.
“Hey,” Otis said, kissing the top of my head. He slid into the red vinyl seat across from me. “How are you?”
Was it just me, or had he gotten even better looking since the last time I’d seen him? Tawny skin, brown eyes, straight dark eyebrows, prominent nose, and square, slightly stubbly chin … just your average dreamboat.
“Agnes?”
“Huh? Oh. Fine,” I said. “The more important question is, how are you? What is going on? Did the police…? What the heck happened to Mikey?”
Otis rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe someone killed him.”
“Start at the beginning,” I said, glancing around to see if we had an audience. No one sat at the tables nearby, but the gaggle in the next booth had fallen suspiciously silent. “You were called in to look at the motor coach.”
“Uh-huh. The tour director who’s sitting in the next booth and listening to this conversation—Dorothy I think her name is—”
“Dorothea,” came Dorothea’s voice from the other side of the booth.
“That’s right, Dorothea—she called and asked if I could come in and take a look at their motor coach, which has a blown-out tire—”
“Shredded like a piñata!” came Myron’s voice.
“—and I said sure, I’d meet them there. I got there before they did, so I was doing some stuff in the office when the motor coach pulled up. Grandpa usually takes care of the books, but since he’s been gone f
or the last few weeks, I’ve been going through them. They’re a mess. I’m going to have to take over the books permanently. I guess he’s just too old for all those numbers anymore. It’s high time we started using a computer for all that stuff, anyway.”
“Why don’t you fast-forward to the exciting part?” This was Lo.
“Let the man talk!” That was Myron.
“Well, if I wanted to hear about bookkeeping, I’d call up my brother in Jersey,” Lo said.
Otis’s lips twitched, and he whispered to me, “You sure have a fun crowd here.”
“I heard that,” Hank called in his flat voice. “And I have never in my life been described as fun.”
“Anyway,” Otis said, “I saw the motor coach pull up, but I was organizing a huge pile of receipts and I dropped them, so it took a few minutes to pick those all up, and by the time I went outside to greet the motor coach passengers, Mikey’s body had been discovered and they were all looking at me like I was—I was—”
“A cold-blooded killer?” Myron said.
“Yeah.” Otis scratched his eyebrow. “That about sums it up.”
I said, “They, um, told me you had blood on your shirt…”
“Are you—” Otis’s eyes widened, and then his brows shot down. “Are you seriously thinking that I—”
“No! It’s just that—”
Dorothea spoke. “Tell us, where did that blood come from?”
“From my nose,” Otis said.
Ohhhh. He did get bloody noses with some regularity.
“Which, I might add,” Otis said, “I told the police, and they took my shirt for DNA testing, which, whenever that’s completed, will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s my blood. Not Mikey’s.”
“Why was Mikey even there on a Saturday?” I asked. “I mean, the shop was closed, right?”
“Yeah. And I have no idea why he was there. He shouldn’t have been.”
“Was he in his work clothes? His mechanic’s overalls?”
“No. Jeans, T-shirt, and this black leather moto jacket he always wore.”
“Was his car there?”
“Yeah.”
“And … it looked like he died inside the shop, and then his body was dragged to that minivan.”
