Crime and Nourishment_A Cozy Mystery Novel

by Miranda Sweet

  He stopped at the look on Angie’s face and chuckled. He called out for Valerie.

  Valerie stepped into the room. “Yes, Mr. Snuock?”

  “Please offer Ms. Prouty any refreshments she would like, like many of our other visitors today, she has had a trying day. Once she’s gone, you may see yourself out until…let’s say, Saturday morning? I won’t require any additional assistance—although if I do, I trust that I will find you at the caretaker’s lodge?”

  In a choked voice, Valerie said, “Yes, sir.”

  Angie forced herself not to clench her jaw or her fists and said, “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Snuock.”

  “I will leave a message with my next topic of research with you soon. Have a pleasant holiday.”

  In the distance, a line of white fire cut across the bright blue sky over the harbor, ending in a loud crack as a rocket exploded and clearly startled Snuock. A faint line of smoke hung in the air like a jet contrail.

  “I would just as soon prefer it if they would leave off firing those infernal fireworks, they’re nothing but a distraction.”

  “Indeed,” Angie said. She turned her back on Snuock and followed Valerie out of the room.

  Whatever Snuock had said to Valerie had left her in as much of a fury as Angie was in, if not more. It had seemed so innocuous, but that was Snuock’s modus operandi: to get away with the most subtly painful insults, to find the secret hurts, and exploit them.

  Angie knew that she was better off here, on Nantucket, away from the savage world of investment and finance. She didn’t have the ruthless heart that was needed to survive—even if all she was doing was analysis, not hustling the actual deals.

  But at this moment, it didn’t seem to matter. Suddenly she felt small, like she’d been too incompetent to be a success, and that coming back here to her childhood home had been a mark of failure.

  She and Valerie walked to the kitchen, with its acres of stainless-steel countertops. This wasn’t one of those kitchens where the hostess puts the finishing touches on the dishes for her dinner guests as they arrive—this was the kind of kitchen where a battalion of white-coated young people filled up their silver trays with canapés while cooks frantically built seven-course meals for a hundred people.

  “Bottle of water, Ms. Prouty?” Valerie asked.

  Another rocket went screaming over the house and exploded in a loud crack.

  “About a half-dozen cosmos would be nice,” Angie muttered to herself.

  Valerie grinned at her. “He does get under your skin, doesn’t he?” She opened the restaurant-sized refrigerator and pulled out a pair of water bottles. She handed one to Angie and opened the other. “Here’s to all the fireworks in the world,” she said. “May they be fired often and late tonight.”

  It was still broad daylight. The noise and flashing lights after sunset would be far worse.

  Angie touched the neck of her bottle to the side of Valerie’s. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Chapter 3

  Foot-in-Mouth Disease

  Pastries & Page-Turners was keeping its doors open late on the third to catch the “fair trade winds” brought to the island by the tourists. Most of downtown was following suit. In the morning—Friday—the local businesses would all close up their shops and set up booths all along Main Street like fishermen casting out their nets.

  It was supposed to be a gorgeous day tomorrow, in the upper seventies, breezy, and a five percent chance of rain. Angie had rented a small trailer and had packed it to the gills already; she had thought long and hard about the issue of moving books back and forth along the streets two years ago, and had worked out an efficient system: the trailer had a ramp along the back; the books were packed in special wheeled crates that she’d had built. Each crate was basically two solid-backed pine bookshelves facing each other. She fronted each shelf with foam padding to hold the books in place, pushed the bookshelves together facing each other, then latched them shut. They fit perfectly into a five-by-eight cargo trailer, and when it was time to pack up, all she had to do was fit the foam rubber back into place, close up the shelves, and wheel them back onto the trailer.

  Admittedly, she had to put her back into it, especially if she hadn’t sold that many books. But it was a good system, and she was starting to think about the possibility of marketing the travel shelves to other booksellers, flea markets, and other popup-type retailers.

  She focused on her plans for tomorrow, going over the various ways she might improve her setup, trying to leave her conversation with Snuock behind her.

  Still, she grinned every time she heard fireworks go off.

  Soon she was back at the bookstore; she sent Aunt Margery off for supper—she said she was going over to Dory Jerritt’s house for a few hours—and settled behind the counter with a Coronation chicken salad sandwich that Jo had brought over. The curry was mild and the currants were plentiful, just the way Angie liked it.

  The afternoon stretched out into the evening, and the tourists came in and out of the shop, some of them browsers, others clearly book hounds—a few of them had brought notebooks with them that they consulted as they checked the shelves. Those ones Angie made a point of greeting personally, handing over her card, offering to make a search for missing volumes in series, favorite authors, signed copies, and listened to one of them tell a story of a notebook in Russian found in a grandparent’s attic—one with a signed photograph of Czar Nicholas the Second. (Angie believed the photo existed, but doubted the signature; she almost asked the customer if she could take a look at the notebook if it was for sale—then shut her yap when she remembered that she wasn’t presently doing favors for Alexander Snuock and his current interest in the Romanovs.) The hours stretched on, not exactly dull, but nevertheless almost hypnotizing her into forgetting how annoyed she was at Snuock, and how worried she was about the bakery.

  What would she have been doing, if she’d stayed in Manhattan?

  Getting ready for a night out at one of the most fashionable restaurants in the area, putting in a pair of diamond studs and adjusting her little black dress to show off her cleavage, smiling fondly at her ex, Doug McConnell—whether the smile was a genuine one or a false grimace would have depended on whether she’d already found out that he was a) cheating on her and b) passing off her work as his own stellar investment insights.

  People had overlooked Angie because she was the girlfriend of a high-profile investment guru, and so they assumed he was the one with all the talent, when really he was just flashy and brash, and had duped everyone into believing he was a genius. It was Angie who had the talent, who understood decorum, and consequently would listen to people talk admiringly, usually at great length, about Doug, while she fantasized about the best murder methods to use at a ritzy restaurant, inside a cab, or at a cocktail party…

  Someday, she promised herself, she would write one of those stories. Just to amuse herself and Aunt Margery, if nothing else.

  The door opened and a tall, good-looking, blue-eyed guy in jeans and a wrinkled button-up waltzed in, bringing the smell of musk and sea with him as he passed by the sales counter and smiled at her. She felt as if she’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. She watched him as he gave the case with its last few pastries a glance then moved toward the fiction shelves.

  He skimmed through the fiction quickly, then went deeper into the nonfiction shelves.

  To her delight, he pulled out his wallet, took a piece of paper from it, and started using it to consult the shelves. A serious reader. She would definitely have to check in with him later to see if she could be of help.

  She started with a pass of the bookstore, checking in with customers as she went. As she finally approached the man, she could almost hear the theme from “Jaws” in the background. Get control of yourself, she thought. But it wasn’t that often that her “serious” readers were so completely hunky and cute.

  “Finding everything?” she asked, in the coolest voice she could muster.


  He looked at her and there was that smile again. “I’m looking for some books.”

  “Any luck?”

  For a moment, he didn’t answer, his eyes lingered on her face until he became self-conscious, and then gave a little jump and looked behind him. “I had some books…they were on a little table, right here—”

  He waved a hand toward a place where there clearly was no table.

  “I…seem to be slightly turned around in here,” he said.

  She fought back a grin. “What books were they?”

  “A couple of things on the Russians.”

  She stepped into the aisle and spotted them right away: “Here you are.”

  “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  “Just easily distracted,” she said. “Would you like me to keep these at the counter?”

  “Please. If you don’t mind.”

  “It’s no problem.” She picked up the stack of books. It was almost the same set that she’d packaged up and delivered to Alexander Snuock earlier in the day. When she went to the work of finding good books for her customers, she tended to order several copies, since she knew them well enough to recommend them by that point.

  “You’re missing one,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  She found a copy of Catherine the Great: Portrait of a Woman by Robert K. Massie for him—someone had reshelved it badly, but the spine jumped out at her and she spotted it quickly—then held it out for him.

  He chuckled. “That looks great. Just add it to the stack.”

  “I had a similar request last week,” she said, a little awkwardly. When that grin spread across his face, he was positively enchanting. Dimples.

  She shook her head and tried to stop drooling. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

  Time to abandon ship and head back to the counter, where she could pull herself an espresso and, hopefully, pull herself together, too.

  “Will do,” he said. She could feel his eye on her as she turned and walked away.

  She lay the stack of books on one of the shelves behind the counter and took a deep breath. When she looked around the bookstore to see where her customers had gone off to, she noticed that one of them was standing right in front of her, waiting to check out. Oops.

  She rang him up—an older gentleman with a stack of World War II histories who signed up for her mailing list—then found herself facing another customer, and another…

  It was almost time to close up: the fireworks had been going off with increasing frequency as the evening began to settle down into actual darkness.

  Finally, she looked up to see the Mr. Tall and Handsome, the last one in line. He had his hands in his pockets: he’d stayed almost another half-hour, but hadn’t picked up a single additional book.

  Almost as though he were waiting for her.

  She glanced around the store; she’d have to double-check, but it seemed as though he was her last customer.

  “Hello,” he said. “May I have my Russians now?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, blushing because she just couldn’t help herself. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m about to close up. Would you like a pastry or some coffee? Espresso?”

  “Actually…” he hesitated. “Are you busy tonight? I’d like to get dinner and would love your company.”

  She tried not to swoon. He wanted her company.

  He continued, “I mean, we could talk about books at least and who knows what else.”

  “I’d like that,” she said. “I have some things to finish up here before I can leave, though. About, oh, fifteen minutes.”

  She had planned to stay at least an hour to make sure that everything was perfect for tomorrow, but, for Mr. Tall and Handsome, she could strip her plans down to the bare necessities and come in a little early in the morning.

  He smiled and there were the dimples. Once again she felt a little hot in the face and a little weak in the knees.

  “Any recommendations?” he asked. “I’ll call and set up a reservation, make sure they’re not closed or anything.”

  She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. They could be at Sheldon’s Shuckery by nine-thirty; tonight he was staying open until midnight and passing out sparklers to guests. Sheldon was a local character, and the Shuckery would definitely impress the guy with local flavor.

  “How do you feel about oysters?”

  “I wouldn’t say no. I try to load up on lobster rolls while I’m out here.”

  “Then I have a great place for you.” She gave him the name. He nodded and stepped outside, flipping the open sign to “Closed” before closing the door and dialing.

  It was only as she watched him under the streetlight—while third-of-July rockets exploded across town and lit up his face—that she realized she hadn’t asked his name.

  He waited for her as she raced around the store, dumping out the old coffee, cleaning out the pastry case, running one last load of dishes, and turning out the lights. As she took out the trash, she saw Ruth at her back door, taking out her own trash, and stopped to drag the heavy bag out to the bin for her. A thousand times she congratulated herself on having the foresight to get all her books ready throughout the week—carefully pulling out duplicate bestsellers, beach reads, popular history books, lots of Nantucket local books, kids’ books, and books for teenagers that went far beyond Scholastic. She’d barely even left holes on her shelves in the shop—she’d been letting herself build up a backlog of likely candidates for her shelves.

  Ten minutes later, she was ready.

  He eyeballed her much-abused bike, still sitting in front of the store. “It’s close enough to walk…are you okay leaving your bike here?”

  “You never know with all the tourists,” she admitted.

  She wheeled the bike inside the door and locked it inside. Captain Parfait, who had gone into hiding earlier in the day, when all the tourists were around, had come out to his shelf and was watching the fireworks going off overhead. It probably didn’t hurt that the old kitty was slightly deaf.

  She scratched him on the head and assured him that she would give him all the love in the world once the weekend was over. He butted her hand, then stretched and yawned, as if to say, I have the situation under control, madame. No need to worry about a thing.

  “There’s a cat in your window!”

  “He’s been in hiding all day,” she said apologetically. “He considers his main job to be watching the store for mice, not hanging out with tourists. He likes the locals, though.”

  “Does he? Find mice?”

  “This morning he found me two gray yarn bobbles from my bookmarks, which he tore to shreds and left in front of the door. Does that count?”

  They walked down the block and turned toward the water.

  “Are you here long?” she asked, then found her face getting warmer again as she realized that she probably didn’t sound like she was simply making small talk.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” He stopped and turned towards her.

  She stopped awkwardly and studied him, and felt a little disoriented. Somehow he knew her, which meant she must have also known him, but she didn’t know that she knew him. And how could she forget someone like him? Who would ever forget a face or physique like his? Then she felt a chill, maybe this guy was a hustler and he was conning her. Although it was beyond her why, all she had was a bookstore that made a modest profit.

  Then it clicked: the books he picked out, the profile of his face under the streetlight…a weight sank in her gut. “Walter Snuock?”

  He smiled. But this time, instead of the broad grin, he looked sheepish. “Hello, Angie.”

  She hung her head: she hadn’t recognized him. At all.

  Walter Snuock had been one of her best friends—back when she was in sixth and seventh grade. He’d been a rangy boy with a mop of hair, cute, but she would never have been able to imagine him as the handsome man
before her now. His parents had gotten a divorce, and his mother, Phyllis, had moved with him to Boston. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since, other than a few updates that Aunt Margery had passed along to her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me who you were in the shop?”

  “I thought maybe you’d recognize me, and then when you didn’t, I was…well to be honest, I was nervous. I know what my dad’s been up to with the rent and I thought…you know, guilt by association.”

  She couldn’t deny that it was precisely for that reason she felt a pang of disappointment; however, she also knew it was a knee-jerk reaction and that Walter was not his father.

  She did her best to shake it off. “So what are you doing back here?”

  “My parents divorce. It sounds ridiculous since it was over a decade ago, but it’s the never-ending story. I’m here to try to make some kind of peace between them, which seems like a waste of time at the moment.”

  “I’m sorry. That sounds intense.”

  “Yeah. Have you met my parents?” He laughed out loud and shook his head. “They’re both kind of impossible. But let’s not talk about them. I’m just relieved to see an old friend. You still look as adorable as you did in middle school.”

  She eyed him skeptically. She didn’t remember herself as adorable with the gap between her front teeth (later fixed by braces), and a case of acne that took countless visits to the dermatologist to remedy. At best it was her awkward stage.

  “You were adorable,” he said, obviously attuned to the doubtful expression on her face. “And still are...Well, I mean you’re more than adorable…you’re…” he groaned. “Will you please stop looking at me like that? I am not a flatterer. I mean it.”

  She started to giggle. ”You don’t look so bad either,” she said, a mischievous grin on her face. A sea salt breeze swished past them. She looped her arm around his elbow and started tugging him down the street toward the restaurant.