Crime and Nourishment_A Cozy Mystery Novel

by Miranda Sweet

  Angie slipped on a jacket and put on her shoes, her pajama shorts should be good enough for now.

  The back of the trailer was still closed up tight, the lock gleaming in the moonlight.

  Aunt Margery’s car was still there, and both their bikes as well.

  Where had she gone?

  Angie closed her eyes and felt the breeze coming off the harbor, then started walking for the beach. A rocket went off in the distance, its explosion more of a crackle than a boom. A few voices echoed down the streets; the bars had closed, but a few late-nighters were still at it. The air tickled her throat—tomorrow it would sting from all the gunpowder in the air. The dogs had either settled down for the night or were hiding behind their owners’ couches. A pair of headlights swerved toward her as a car turned onto the street, then away again.

  The sound of the harbor breeze brushed gently along the streets, not hard enough to pick up dust, but fresh and cool and soothing. Angie took a set of cement stairs down toward the shore. The Brant Point Lighthouse flashed red in the dark to her left; a few of the docked boats had their lights on. As she came down the hill, she noticed that the Woolgatherer, Raymond Quinn’s fishing boat, was missing from its slip.

  A small bonfire was burning on the beach near one of the paddleboat shops. Angie zipped up her jacket so it wouldn’t flap in the breeze, much stronger now. The crash of waves had replaced the sound of the breeze.

  A single figure sat next to the small bonfire on the sand under the high-tide mark, legs stretched out forward with the toes turned out. By the silhouette against the fire, it was easy to see that it was Aunt Margery. As long as she didn’t stay long enough to get swept away by the tide, she’d be all right. She’d been having a lot of sleepless nights lately, but then she always had—and about two or three times a year, she’d stay down by the water almost all night. When Angie had been young, her mother had mentioned it, and Angie had asked the reason why.

  “I’m waiting for my pirate to come home,” Aunt Margery had said. “Didn’t you know? I was once in love with a pirate who went out to sea and never came home, although sometimes he sends me bottles back from the ocean with messages.”

  “What kind of messages?” she’d asked, and Aunt Margery had told her an improbable tale of mermaids, gun battles, and forgotten grottos. The stories of Aunt Margery’s unnamed pirate had continued for years, and Angie still remembered them fondly. Her great-aunt had never married, and Angie had never heard the reason why. Maybe it was half-true, and there was a lost love whom she thought about on those long, sleepless nights.

  Half of her wanted to call down to her great-aunt and tell her to get to bed or she’d be tired the next day—but the other half stopped her and made her walk back home and go to bed. Who was Angie to complain if Aunt Margery needed to consult her pirate about her worries more than she needed sleep?

  Chapter 4

  A Festive Occasion

  Pastries & Page-Turners was just far enough off the historic downtown main route that it made sense to set up a separate booth, one well stocked with fliers showing where the main bookstore was located. The morning fog was thick, but not impossible, the sun was already starting to burn it off. Boat horns echoed across the harbor.

  Angie spread sunscreen on her arms and neck and face, then looked over her shelves: six-thirty a.m. and everything was ready, including her pots full of coffee and table full of pastries clearly marked as being from the bakery. Mickey had been waiting for her at the booth, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Make sure you pull any ugly-looking ones and I’ll replace them. I’ll have Jo check on you at seven.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be sold out by then. Honestly, everyone’s still asleep.”

  Most of the booths and tents hadn’t been set up yet; technically, she didn’t have to have everything ready to go before eight-thirty, but she had risen at five a.m. like a jack-in-the-box. The older she got, the more of a morning person she became…and if she was anxious about anything, she’d be awake at least an hour earlier than she needed to be.

  “They’ll smell the coffee,” Mickey said. “The people who are here the earliest will be the locals and if I can impress the locals then boom! We’ll have it made. Everyone will remember these pastries.” He had to be more anxious than she was. She let him run on for a while, at least until he started pacing back and forth, and then she reminded him that he had his own booth to set up—at which point he strode off without even saying goodbye.

  She giggled at his back, poured herself a cup of coffee, and pulled out a cheese Danish that didn’t look quite as perfect as Mickey might have wanted.

  It was like casting a spell. Within moments, three people were standing in front of her booth, wanting coffee before they had to set up, eyeballing her mobile bookshelves. “I wonder if I could get some like those to put my pottery on?” She handed out cards. Something could be arranged. “I’d owe you one…”

  Favors. They made the small business world go ’round. Snuock had understood that and exploited it ruthlessly; she intended to be far more fair.

  Soon the fog had burned off, the sun had come out, and the tourists and townies had emerged from their slumber. Festival food reigned along the streets: diets were dropped, flags were waved, and ice cream was consumed by the bucket. The streets were filled with a happy, contented air—a little restless with all the crowds of people moving along the street, but still pleasant. Captain Parfait would have hated the scene with a passion. All those moving legs. All those dogs on leashes. All those baby strollers. Horns echoed across the harbor. Gulls swooped in to collect the choice treats now available on the street. People fanned themselves with programs and fliers—it was warm, almost tending toward hot, now that the previous night’s breeze had fallen mostly still. A few of the kids were already sparkling with red, white, and blue lights attached to baseball caps or worn as necklaces. Firecrackers echoed along the streets.

  It was a good day.

  She was selling books, passing out fliers, and providing refreshment for tired parents who would basically sell their souls for something that wasn’t syrupy-sweet to drink. Her tent was a heavy one, and people lingered in the shade. Paperbacks were jumping off the shelves, hardbacks less so. Books were being purchased in ones or twos, not stacks—although if she’d had a bag sale for less-than-perfect used paperbacks, she probably could have done well with that, too.

  Further down the aisle of booths, she saw Jo and Mickey at their tent, with a line of customers waiting on them. Dory Jerritt was with them at their booth most of the time, and usually ended up being the one who was sent to check up on Angie’s pastry supplies.

  “How’s it going over there?” Angie asked. “Good sales?”

  Dory, who looked exhausted, read between the lines and said, “They’ll make up the extra cash next month at least.” She shook her head. “After that? We’ll just have to pray.”

  Everyone seemed to pass along the front of the tents in the middle of the street—Walter Snuock walked by several times, each time stopping to talk with Angie if she wasn’t busy, or at least to smile, and once he even brought his mother with him. Raymond Quinn walked by, a bearded giant, beetle-browed and scowling, holding a huge tutti-frutti ice cream cone in one fist and a plastic goodie bag in the other. He couldn’t possibly be as hateful as people described him—he licked his ice cream cone and winked at a pair of little babies in a stroller as they stared at him.

  Aunt Margery was late and Angie’s coffee supplies were getting low. It was almost noon—Angie was tempted to call and see if her great-aunt was all right, late night or not. Then someone touched Angie on her shoulder from behind—and there she was.

  “Happy Fourth,” Angie said. “And good morning, sunshine.”

  “You shouldn’t have let me sleep in so late,” Aunt Margery grumbled. She was wearing a lightweight button-up shirt over a tank top to help fend off the sun, and a pair of dark sunglasses.

  “Waiting for your pira
te captain again?” Angie asked.

  Aunt Margery grunted. “You’d think I’d have figured out that he was never coming back by now. All those mermaids.” She settled in behind the counter. “You’re dancing from foot to foot, Agnes. Everything all right?”

  “We’re almost out of coffee,” Angie admitted. The small coffee pots were all she had left—the big urns were empty and she had run out of water for brewing more. “I was about to call you.”

  “Go ahead and run and get some water. I’ll keep things under control here. Do Mickey and Jo have any coffee left? I hate to impose on them for water, but…”

  “Dory says they’re out of decaf but also thinks that’s no big loss.”

  “I’ll send ’em over there, then, if we run out.”

  Angie gave her great-aunt a kiss on her cheek, surreptitiously checking for sunscreen, and smelled cocoa butter and coconut. All good. “Thank you.”

  Aunt Margery gave a short cough and said, “And there’s Phyllis with Walter. I haven’t seen her out in ages.”

  Angie looked around and spotted Walter; next to him was a taller woman with a face similar to his, about Aunt Margery’s age, only oddly young looking. She was stooped, though, and her knuckles were slightly swollen. Her face might have escaped some of the ravages of time, but her joints hadn’t, poor thing.

  Walter glanced over, spotted her looking his way, and waved.

  “Go on,” Aunt Margery said, and Angie slipped through the crowd, dodging this way and that, until she was standing on one side of Walter, with his mother on the other.

  “Angie, you remember my mom, Phyllis?” Walter said.

  Angie said, “I’m sorry, Phyllis. Really I don’t. It’s been what? Fifteen years?

  Phyllis nodded stiffly, without really greeting her. “I’m not a big reader.”

  Angie realized the woman was sort-of apologizing; she was explaining why she hadn’t stopped in to see her. “Some people aren’t,” Angie said pleasantly. “Although if you ever do need a book, I’m sure I can find one or two that you’d like.”

  “I don’t even watch television.”

  “Are you a knitter, then?” Angie had had similar conversations inside the bookstore with women who had followed their husbands in—with men, it was generally something having to do with models—model cars, model trains, model airplanes, model armies.

  Phyllis’s face lit up. The change wasn’t as drastic as on her son’s face, but it made Angie exhale with relief. “Yes! It shows, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, just a lucky guess,” Angie said.

  Phyllis wasn’t wearing a single knitted piece of clothing or accessory, and didn’t have knitting needles in her hairdo or anything. Nevertheless, she patted Walter’s hand as if to congratulate him for introducing her to someone so clever. Angie couldn’t help smiling.

  Then Phyllis’s eyes caught something further down the busy street. Angie glanced behind her—she couldn’t help it—but wasn’t sure what Phyllis was looking at. Both she and Walter were taller than Angie was, and could see over the heads in the crowd.

  Walter frowned in the same direction that his mother was looking.

  Phyllis said, “I suppose I’ll leave you two young people to it then, shall I? I’m going to have lunch with Denise, I think. I’ve had enough of the crowds today.”

  “Would you like me to walk you back to her house?” Walter asked.

  “No, I think I’d rather have the time to clear my thoughts.” She adjusted her quilted handbag; now that Angie was looking for it, she could see a skein of yarn through the open top. “Denise is an old friend, but she often has more gossip to pass along than I can stomach. Always winking and dropping hints.”

  “There is a lot of gossip in this town,” Angie said.

  Phyllis gave her a sharp look, but it softened after a split second. “And you don’t mean the slightest thing by that, do you?”

  “No?” Angie said. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?” If Phyllis was the subject of town gossip, Angie hadn’t heard it yet, but now she was terribly curious.

  Phyllis reached across Walter and patted her on the hand. “You’re just like your mother. So vibrant. Only she was one of the Prouty go-ers and you’re more one of the stay-ers. I’ll make sure to come and visit you at your bookstore if I need a knitting book.”

  “I’ll make sure we have some good ones on hand,” Angie said, struggling a little to keep up. Phyllis’s tone felt a little patronizing, but then again she’d been with Alexander Snuock for a over a decade. Maybe he had rubbed off on her a little.

  Phyllis patted her hand again, then patted her son’s arm and turned around, walking with surprising, long-legged swiftness into the crowd, not so much dodging around the other pedestrians as walking straight toward them and expecting them to get out of her way. She must not be suffering too badly from arthritis, Angie thought. In a moment she had reached the end of a block, passed around the car barriers, and disappeared.

  “There you have her, my mother,” Walter said. “Tall, awkward, random, and obliviously rude.”

  “So clearly she’s your favorite parent,” Angie joked. As soon as it was out of her mouth, she regretted saying it.

  But Walter just laughed. “It’s true, she is. Tell me, what would you like to do today?”

  “Oh, I have to work,” she said regretfully, maybe teasing him a little. “You know? At the bookstore booth?”

  ”Right. I was just hoping I could distract you for a moment or two.” He put his hands in his pant pockets and shrugged, as if to say he had to at least try.

  “Well, if you don’t mind helping me run errands, we can take our time,” she added. “Aunt Margery slept in late this morning, and I’m on a break for lunch and to refill the coffee urns. And you look like exactly the kind of strapping young man who could be bribed to help me carry heavy things.”

  “Bribed?” he asked hopefully.

  “Bribed.”

  That was the only real downside to her excellent mobile bookselling system: she had yet to come up with a way to bring enough water for coffee to these things. It was like Hofstadter’s law: It always takes longer than you expect, even when you take into account Hofstadter’s law. Angie always needed more water for coffee than she expected, even when she took into account that she’d brought more water than last time. Of course it didn’t help that she kept her prices low at these events—fifty cents a cup, fifty cents for cream or soy milk, and a big tip jar to collect change. She wasn’t selling coffee; she was selling goodwill and advertising: her cups all had her bookstore logo on the side. The water she lugged around to do it never got any lighter, though.

  “Then that’s a plan,” Walter said.

  She took his arm and led him the same direction his mother had gone, turning away from the packed street downtown and walking swiftly back toward the shop.

  While she was there, she checked the mail…and found another box of books. She opened it to see if they were ones that she should take with her to the booth—in case their readers showed up—and found three copies of another Russian book.

  She’d forgotten about it, and so had Snuock, apparently. But the second he remembered there would be hell to pay. She’d better just deliver it later tonight.

  “Anything good?” Walter asked.

  She showed him a copy of the book, Peter the Great: His Life and World, by Robert Massie. “Want one?”

  “Yes, please.”

  An hour later they started walking back, having eaten a picnic lunch, bribed one of the local teenagers to take twenty gallons of water in one-gallon jugs over to the bookstore booth, and generally talked about the important things in life: their favorite authors. Angie had been named after Agatha Christie, of course, but her favorite writer was currently M.C. Beaton, with Alan Bradley a close second. Oh, she had gone through phases earlier in her life where she had loved Virginia Woolf and James Joyce, but as she had eased up a bit on her ambitions to become rich so she could retire early
(from a job she hated), her tastes in fiction had relaxed as well.

  Walter’s favorite authors were Erik Larson (here she nodded; she’d loved The Devil in the White City and Thunderstruck), Kurt Vonnegut, and Adam Hochschild. When she asked him what kind of popular fiction he read when he wasn’t reading intense literary novels or intense history books, he grinned and said that intense was more to his taste than popular.

  Oh, it was on. They argued pleasantly about literary versus popular fiction, never getting irritated with each other, conceding a few points here and there, and generally spending more time teasing each other than anything else.

  Angie found herself hoping that he would stick around for a while, even after he’d resolved whatever was going on between his parents.

  The rest of the afternoon and into the evening was pleasant, with the crowds staying steady throughout the day. Angie’s cases would be much easier to push up the short ramp into the trailer from all the books she had sold. Occasionally, she’d made more money at the store—usually after coming across an underappreciated rare edition and selling it online to a collector—but she would still have to call the sales that day an unqualified success.

  Aunt Margery was quiet and reserved with both Angie and the customers, which wasn’t like her. She wasn’t the most gregarious person in the world and tended to be much more open around people she knew—but at events like this, she usually put on a cheerful public face, the kind that could convince a stranger that she had never had an introverted day in her life.

  At five thirty, she said, “My dear, I’m not feeling well. Would you mind if I went home for a bit?”

  “Not at all,” Angie said. “Take all the time you need. In fact, I can close up without you, if you need to lie down for a while.”

  Aunt Margery made a face. “I’m not feeling that poorly. I’m not old enough to be taking naps in the late afternoon. That’s for old people.”