Stiff in the Sand

by Winnie Reed

  I considered a second cupcake, but the back door opened to reveal my sister before I had the chance.

  “I wanted to pop over since I heard you were here,” she whispered, coming over to hug me.

  “You heard I was here?” I groaned.

  “Sure. Everybody in the shop has been talking about it. I guess they’re coming from over here and spreading the word over there.” She tucked my hair behind my ears, then held my face in her hands. “Poor thing. That must’ve been scary.”

  “You have no idea.” For the first time since I’d found James Flynn, tears prickled behind my eyes. A delayed reaction, I guessed, brought on by stress and fatigue and being sad for a friend. I leaned in and let my big sister hug me.

  And darn my weak soul, I wished I could call Landon. It was at times like this that a girl wanted to be able to go home to somebody who would understand and listen and love her.

  “Maybe I should get a dog. Would you come with me to look for a dog?” I asked, my voice muffled against Darcy’s shoulder.

  “What?” she laughed gently. “Where did that come from?”

  “I hate the thought of going home to an empty apartment,” I confessed. “I just hate it.”

  “Honey, you could stay with me for a bit if you wanted to. You know the couch pulls out. I would love to have you.”

  I couldn’t help but snicker. “What about the guy you’re seeing who you didn’t want to tell me about until you were sure it was worth the family meeting him?” When her face fell, I added, “Come on. You think I don’t hear things? I’m not the only one whose personal business gets aired out around here.”

  “Mom…” Darcy grumbled, about to storm into the café before Mom came in and nearly crashed into her. I left them to it, deciding to show my face behind the counter for a while. Might as well set the story straight if I could.

  And it didn’t take long before I got the chance. Pierce Vaughan, Cape Hope’s preeminent funeral home director and somewhat creepy guy—my opinion, though I suspected not many people would disagree with me if I dared voice it—approached the counter. “Emma. I heard about the unfortunate happenings last night.” He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, grimacing.

  “Yes, it was quite a shock. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. Can I get you anything, Mr. Vaughan?”

  “Is it true you saw the killing take place?” he whispered, his eyes larger than normal thanks to his thick lenses.

  “No. That is patently untrue.” I looked around the shop and realized the half-dozen customers present were listening. “I’ll repeat myself. I didn’t see what happened. I only tripped over the body after Mr. Flynn was already deceased. And I really shouldn’t be talking about any of this, anyway. The police will do their job. I’m here to do mine. Now, Mr. Vaughan.” I gave him my most sincere smile. “Is there anything I can get you from the case here? I just frosted the carrot cake squares a few minutes ago.”

  And darned if he didn’t look disappointed. “Oh. I see. Ah, I already have my coffee over there.” He pointed to his table before scurrying back to it. I gritted my teeth against a groan.

  Fact was, Cape Hope was a wonderful place. I considered myself lucky to have grown up there and to have so many friends, not to mention more than a few aunties and uncles who weren’t actually related but had known me my entire life.

  This sort of nonsense, however, soured me. It was one thing to be aware of gossip but another to be the topic of said gossip.

  And Mom didn’t help. She came in from the kitchen, giving me a heavy dose of stink eye. “I told you not to tell your sister I told you about her beau,” she hissed.

  “Maybe if you had kept things private, like she asked, you wouldn’t be hissing at me right now,” I hissed back. “And I only brought him up because she asked if I wanted to stay with her for a while.”

  Mom blinked, totally innocent. “What does he have to do with you staying with Darcy?”

  “Oh, Mom.” I was barely able to keep a straight face. “Come on, now.”

  She finally got it—then swatted me with a dishtowel, scandalized beyond belief. “Emma Jane Harmon!”

  “Took you long enough!” I laughed, ducking another swipe before I noticed a buzzing in my back pocket. “Truce, truce, my phone’s ringing. It might be… important.” I glanced around the room, choosing my words carefully before retreating to the relative privacy of the kitchen.

  It was Deke, and I sure wished my stomach wouldn’t give a funny little twitch as I answered. “Hi. I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow.” Interesting. Knowing he was worth tens of millions colored my opinion of him.

  Now, he wasn’t just a rude jerkface with occasional thoughtful tendencies. He was a rich, rude jerkface with occasional thoughtful tendencies.

  “I thought I would give you the chance to decide how you wanted to get together rather than waiting until tomorrow and putting you on the spot.” Okay, so he was in a thoughtful mood.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I murmured. “I normally help my mom around the café on Sundays, actually. But I don’t want to wait, either. Do you think maybe you could come down here?”

  And was I completely out of my mind? I had just gone through the wringer out there, and here I was, asking somebody else tangentially involved with the case to meet me and stir up even more gossip.

  “I’d love to get an idea of where Chef Robert got his start.” He chuckled.

  Great. Now, if I went back on it, I’d look even more like the moron he already thought I was. Nothing mattered more just then than getting a look at his photos.

  There had to be a way to get Robbie off the hook. Even if it meant swallowing my pride and adding fuel to the gossip fire.

  I swallowed back the lump in my throat, along with the feeling that this was a terrible idea. “Okay, great. Here’s the address.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I really did need a dog. Something to keep the apartment from feeling so lonely.

  Now that the Righteous, Furious Rage phase had passed, I was sliding into the I’m Twenty-Six And Nobody Will Ever Love Me phase. The I Wasted Three Years Of My Life phase.

  That, combined with the knowledge that a police detective with very pretty eyes and a square jaw had my name on a list of persons of interest, left me in need of a live-in friend. Somebody to comfort me as I binged ice cream and trashy TV.

  Knowing I had work to do was enough to stave off the loneliness for a little bit. I pulled a half-empty bottle of Chablis from the fridge, poured a glass and called Marsha Wallis to explain what I could about the situation.

  But she already knew. “Deke was in touch with me this morning,” she explained. “To be honest, I was expecting to hear from you before now.”

  Yikes. Her voice was tight with what I could only imagine was irritation. I hadn’t expected that. “I’m sorry. It’s been a wild day. I’ve never been through anything like it. I guess I don’t have to tell you I’m innocent.” At least, I hoped I didn’t have to.

  “I have no doubt,” Marsha assured me. We’d never met in person, as her office was all the way out in Los Angeles, but I’d seen photos of her. An attractive, middle-aged woman, fit and healthy looking with a California tan. Probably surfed in her free time or something.

  It occurred to me that I knew nothing about the way Californians lived.

  “I’m just relieved the police let me come home, rather than keeping me in the area until they’re finished with me. I don’t know what else I could possibly provide. But I promise, I’m working on the article right now.” Or I would be once I was off the phone.

  “I’m glad to hear you don’t intend to let this get in the way of your work,” she replied, approval heavy in her tone.

  “Not at all. A deadline is a deadline.” And maybe I needed to stop using words that included “dead” since I was now shivering and remembering James’s wide-open eyes.

  “That’s the problem, however, which I’ve been tossing
around in my head all day,” she confessed. “How to run this article while one of the main figures is now deceased, and the other is the prime suspect.”

  “Did Deke tell you that?” I gasped.

  “Not in so many words, but I got the gist,” she informed me. Terrific. One more person who assumed Robbie was guilty. I guessed I should be grateful she wasn’t asking me to spin it with the murder in mind.

  “So… you’re saying you don’t want to run the piece?”

  “Perhaps not until this is put to rest. Right now, there are too many question marks in place. Is Chef Klein responsible? If not, who is?”

  So much for my big chance at a new career. I flopped onto my sofa—careful not to spill wine from the glass in my hand because I wasn’t that foolish—and sighed. “I see.”

  “That doesn’t mean we don’t want to run it at all,” she was quick to point out, and I noticed her use of the word “we.” This wasn’t merely something she’d tossed around in her head. This was something she’d discussed with others.

  “I understand,” I fibbed. “What if Chef Klein is guilty?”

  Her silence spoke volumes. “Is there another job I could take in the meantime?” I asked, hopeful.

  “We have one in Miami you might be perfect for, actually!” Her relief was palpable.

  Mine, however, was not. “Oh. I can’t leave town for the time being. What with being a person of interest and all. I promised I wouldn’t venture out of the state.”

  “Ahh. All right, then. I’ll keep an eye out for local work you can do. In the meantime, by all means, get your thoughts about the food and the space down on paper before you forget them.”

  Yes, but that wouldn’t pay, would it? I could just as easily write about it on my blog and at least make a little ad revenue. I was grateful to have kept the blog up and running, even if I’d planned upon landing this new job to back off from the work I did to keep the content fresh. I got plenty of organic search engine traffic without it.

  Once my pointless phone call was finished and I felt lower than I had before reaching out, I looked across the living room to the kitchen. Except for the bedroom and of course the bathroom, the apartment was one open floorplan. A countertop separated the kitchen area from the living area, and the dining area doubled as my workspace. It was lived-in, stuffed with houseplants and candles and framed photos.

  And apart from me, it was empty.

  I turned on the TV without caring what was actually on and went to the kitchen, pulling out my trusty mint-green stand mixer. “Come on, baby,” I murmured, patting the sleek machine. “Let’s make magic happen.”

  Baking was one thing which had always tethered me to myself, to what made me who I was. It was in my blood, something I’d learned to do before nearly anything else. I couldn’t read yet, but I knew the ratio of ingredients for a solid buttercream frosting. I could temper eggs before I learned how to ride a bike, and understood why tempering was important.

  Nobody wants scrambled eggs in their pastry cream.

  I decided the bowl full of lemons on my counter was more than just a pretty display. They begged to be made into lemon bars. I got to work zesting, then juicing the lemons, before whipping up a shortbread crust in the stand mixer.

  Was I kidding myself about being a writer? Maybe this was what I was meant to do all along. Blogging about food had at least allowed me to combine my two great loves. I pressed the crust into a rectangular pan and pricked it all over before sliding it into the oven.

  I couldn’t see working the way Mom did, however. The woman didn’t have a minute to herself. And when she did, what did she do with it? Working on the books, settling the advertising budget, placing orders for more flour, sugar, eggs, coffee.

  Because she loved it. I loved baking, but she loved the entire business.

  Darcy loved what she did, too.

  Heck. Even my father loved his job. Sometimes to the point of obsession.

  When was I going to find something I loved? I thought I’d found it, but maybe this was a sign that I needed to look elsewhere. Maybe my entire life needed a shake-up, one much bigger than a new job.

  The harsh buzzing of the doorbell made me jump and almost made me splash bubbling lemon curd all over myself. I took the pan off the heat before dashing to the intercom. “Yes?” I asked, leaning in. Sometimes people accidentally leaned on the bell while waiting in line to get pizza. The restaurant was that popular—I could hear voices downstairs as the place filled in on an early Saturday evening.

  But it wasn’t an accident. “Em? It’s me. I heard what happened. Can I come up?”

  My stomach turned to ice. Landon. The nerve of him. “Landon, I’m fine. I don’t need comforting.”

  That was a lie. I did. I needed it badly. Nothing had gone right ever since we broke up.

  But I didn’t need him.

  Even so, I knew he wouldn’t leave well enough alone. I decided on a compromise. “Hang on a sec.” I took the lemon bar crust out of the oven, turned the oven off, then went downstairs. He didn’t deserve to come up. Not when he had defiled our life there.

  He was waiting on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels like he always did when he was nervous. Good. Let him be nervous. Let him wonder if I was going to make a scene.

  It was a good thing he had his back to me, because I was pretty sure my eyes got all big and misty when they first settled on him. No way could I let him see that. I allowed myself to remember those terrible, ugly moments when I walked in on him and Bimbette—I never did learn her name—and that wiped away any mistiness.

  I then cleared my throat. He turned, and I was dismayed to find him as boyishly good-looking as ever. His sandy hair still flopped across his forehead, his cocoa eyes were just as deep-set and caring.

  Not that I’d expected two weeks to change him that much, but it would’ve been nice if he’d grown warts all over his face or if his nose had fallen off.

  “Hi.” I folded my arms over my chest, glad I hadn’t splashed any lemon curd or otherwise made a mess of myself. “Like I said, I’m okay. As you can see.”

  “You don’t have to be so hostile. I wanted to make sure you’re okay, not just physically. Otherwise.”

  I shrugged, forcing myself to remember every lurid, heartbreaking detail to keep from breaking down and doing something regrettable. “I’m in the middle of making lemon bars, so I guess I’m doing all right.”

  “Lemon bars.” A smile played over his lips. “My favorite.”

  Of course. And I had subconsciously remembered that, hadn’t I? And I’d decided to make them anyway.

  “How did you find out what happened?” I asked, desperate to keep this meeting on-track.

  He chuckled. “How does anybody find out anything around here? I heard it from somebody who heard it from somebody else. I heard you’re a suspect.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I didn’t think it was, but I thought you should know what people are saying.”

  “Very kind of you to keep me posted.” If only you’d been so considerate when you started up with Bimbette.

  “That must’ve been a horrible thing to come across,” he murmured, brow furrowed.

  “I’ve come across worse.”

  Zing! That got him. His face crumpled as much as a face could crumple. “Em,” he breathed, crestfallen. Somehow, that was worse than anything else.

  “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t get all… that.” I waved a hand around in the general direction of his face. “You don’t get to do this. Thank you for checking in, but a text would’ve sufficed. I’m really okay. Thank you.”

  I turned on my heel, triumph surging through my veins. I got him. I got him! Granted, he set me up for it, but I took the shot and boy, was it worthwhile. I was even giggling to myself as I entered the apartment and locked the door before bursting out in full-strength, gut-busting laughter.

  I got a little bit of my o
wn back.

  Little did I know how long it would be before I felt that way again.

  Chapter Twelve

  I wiped down the table near the window and used the proximity as an excuse to look up and down Main Street. It was a sunny day, the sort that turned my thoughts to summer.

  Of course, in a shore town, summer was generally on everybody’s mind most of the time. That was our bread and butter. At least, for the businesses closer to the beach. We were a few miles back and as such catered more to the people who lived in Cape Hope year-round.

  Still, business always started picking up in mid-May. Mom was already preparing, as I knew from experience most of the businesses that made up the town’s commercial district would be. Right down to the brand-new awnings, their vibrant colors a welcome change after a year’s worth of sunshine had faded the last bunch.

  “You’ll rub a hole in that table if you don’t stop wiping,” Mom advised. At least she waited until she was by my side rather than calling it out across the café for everyone to hear. “Your gentleman friend will be here when he gets here.”

  “Mom. For the love of everything, don’t call him that.”

  “Why not? Is he not a gentleman?”

  “I wouldn’t know either way. But it’s the connotation I don’t appreciate. He’s a guy my editor threw at me, just like I’m the girl she threw at him. If it wasn’t for the case, I’d be perfectly fine never seeing him again.” I cornered her behind the counter. “And I would appreciate it if you would please, please not make any romance-centered remarks while he’s here. I’ll just die of embarrassment.”

  “The last thing I want to do is embarrass you,” she cooed, stroking my hair.

  The thing was, I believed her.

  It was just that she had no idea how embarrassing she could be simply by being herself. I loved her dearly, with all my heart, but there was times when the woman went out of her way to embarrass me.

  Like when she fanned herself upon Deke entering the café. “Is that him?” she asked, which of course meant every pair of eyes in the café turning his way.