Bonbon With the Wind

by Dorothy St. James

  She looked up at me with her large tear-stained eyes. “R-really?”

  “Um…really. I-I’ll do anything I can.” I’d jump through fire if it got her to stop crying.

  Much to my horror, my offer only caused her to cry harder. She pressed herself tightly against me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and squeezed. “Really? I don’t know how to thank you,” she managed to get out between heavy sobs.

  “Um…” I said. “You could start by not crying.” I had no clue what else I could say. I had no idea what she was thanking me for. But whatever it was, I had a bad feeling about it.

  After a moment, her sobs quieted. Tears still streamed down her red and blotchy cheeks. She drew a ragged breath.

  “I need you to—” she hesitated.

  I held my breath kind of needlessly. She had lost her father and had come to Camellia Beach for answers. I’d done the same thing when my best friend had died less than a year ago.

  “I need you to help me find who killed my father. And more importantly, find out why. Why would anyone do this to a kind old man? Could you help me find out what’s going on?”

  There was also no stopping me from nodding. If she needed help getting those answers, who was I—a daughter who also knew the bitter sting of abandonment—to deny her?

  Chapter 8

  “I thought I’d find you in here.” His voice startled me a few hours later as I worked in the Chocolate Box’s commercial kitchen.

  I looked up to find Harley leaning against the doorjamb. Goodness, he looked tempting. He was wearing khaki shorts and a white cotton short-sleeved shirt. The top couple of buttons were undone, giving me a nice view of his broad tanned chest. His soulful green eyes sparkled with pleasure as he eyed the double boiler I’d placed on the stovetop. His adorably kissable lips spread into a smile.

  “What are you making?” he asked. The man had a sweet tooth nearly as big as mine. “I’d be happy to taste it for you.” He was always volunteering to be my taste tester, which was saying something. He was either that brave or that desperate for chocolate. Although I was improving, the chocolate creations I made often turned out horribly wrong.

  “Our regular deliveries have been delayed due to the hurricane.” I gestured to the nearly empty shelving behind me. Bubba brought by several pumpkins that had survived the storm. He’d bought them as decorations for his shop, but Bertie told him that he’d purchased cooking pumpkins, not gourds.” Ten small pumpkins were lined up on the stainless-steel counter.

  “And?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “And I was thinking since it’s October, it would be fun to play with pumpkins, spice, and pumpkins seeds. Everyone loves pumpkin spice, right? I’m picturing a bonbon with a double filling. A sweet and salty pumpkin seed butter, surrounded by a spicy pumpkin paste, and dipped in a slightly bitter dark chocolate. Or perhaps the other way around. I haven’t quite worked it all out yet.”

  He pressed his hand to his chest and pretended to swoon. “I’ll take two dozen.”

  “It’s still just an idea. I don’t yet know if it’ll even turn out. It probably won’t. Bonbons are my personal Achilles’ heel.” I often ended up with oozy messes.

  “Now be honest with me,” he said. He suddenly sounded serious. “You’re in here dreaming up new ways to make a bonbon because of the zoo out there. Bertie and Bubba both have their noses out of joint, grumbling that you ran like a scared rat or something.”

  “Not a scared rat. A rational human. And I’m starting to think Stevie McWilson is planning to move into my shop.”

  “If he does, it’ll be good for business. The line at the chocolate counter nearly reached the door when I came in.”

  “Everyone wants a chance to experience a moment of celebrity,” I said with a sigh. But that wasn’t exactly true. When Joe’s daughter, Mary Fenton saw the crowded shop and the news crew van parked at the front door, she’d bolted too, yelling as she charged down the street that she’d come back another time.

  “I’m not interested in fame or celebrity moments,” Harley pointed out. “You’re not either.”

  “I know how the limelight can burn,” I admitted. “Besides, I never know how to act when people are watching. It always turns out wrong.” Like my bonbons.

  “I’m sure that’s not true. If you were out there being interviewed about seeing the Gray Lady, you’d have full command of the room. You, Penn, whether you like it or not, are a natural leader.”

  While I didn’t agree with him, his words made me feel all warm and tingly inside. That’s why I liked him so much. He made me feel as if I might one day be able to become the woman he believed I already was.

  “If I were to talk to McWilson, I’d tell him in no uncertain terms that there is no Gray Lady. Please tell me I’m not the only sane person around here who knows the Gray Lady didn’t kill anyone? She didn’t because she isn’t real,” I said and then amended, “Well, there is Fletcher. He’s convinced Joe was murdered.”

  “Do you think Joe was murdered?” Harley asked.

  “You mean, like by the Gray Lady?” I snorted. “Of course I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “You saw her.”

  “No, I saw Joe talking with a woman.”

  “The Gray Lady,” he supplied.

  I growled. And he chuckled.

  “You know I’m pulling your chain,” he said.

  “Why do guys do that?”

  “I don’t know, probably the same reason boys like to play with fire.” He shrugged. “Touching danger is exhilarating.”

  I tossed a dish towel at him.

  He caught it like a sport’s pro. He then crossed the room to stand toe-to-toe with me. We were on the same eye level, which I liked. “Pulling your chain makes my heart beat faster,” he said. The rumble in his voice and heat in his gaze made my heart beat faster.

  “We can’t play this game right now.” I gave his chest a friendly shove. “Not if you want me to ever finish making my pumpkin spice bonbons. The pumpkin seed butter needs to come out of the melanger.”

  I went over to the large metal grinder where two stone wheels had been spinning away, blending the seeds with honey and salt into what I hoped would be a delicious paste for my fall-flavored bonbon. I peeked through the clear cover and saw that the seeds were now smooth and creamy. Good. They were ready. I flipped the switch, turning it off.

  “Actually, I came looking for you because something else is nagging me,” he said in the sudden silence. “Gavin goes back to Jody’s house tonight. And I know that over in your apartment you’re sleeping on a sofa. That’s all kinds of wrong when you could be using my bed.”

  “Wow, you’d sleep on the sofa for me?” I said without looking in his direction. I’d removed the melanger’s lid and started to scrape the sides with a spatula.

  Instead of answering, he chuckled.

  “My sleeping on a sofa is bothering you. That’s sweet,” I said.

  “Not sweet,” he said.

  I lifted the spatula from the melanger and turned toward him. “No, it is sweet. But…” I searched his face and noticed an added layer of tension that wasn’t there yesterday. “Something is wrong. What is it?”

  He hesitated before saying, “It’s what you said about Fletcher.”

  Well, wasn’t that a splash of cold water?

  “You’re not jealous of him, are you? He’s the best worker I’ve ever hired. He knows the food service business inside and out. But that’s all there is. For one thing, he’s way too young for me.”

  “Wow. Why in world would that be the first place your mind goes?” He waved his hands, signaling he didn’t want me to answer that. “No, I’m not jealous. That’s not what I’m implying. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s gone full-Sherlock-Holmes about Joe Davies’ death. He’s convinced that, because Joe had thought he’d found pirate gold, that he was murdered even before Hurricane Avery arrived. And he thinks the fact Joe’s house also burned to the ground proves it.”<
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  “I may have heard him put voice to that theory once or twice this morning,” I said slowly. “But I don’t see why his theories bother you. He has to do something to justify the cost of his hat. He paid a couple of hundred dollars for it, you know.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about. Not really.” He took the spatula from my hand and turned me fully toward him. My heart did a little fluttery double-beat. “It’s you. It’s always been you that I worry about. I asked you if you also believed if Joe had been murdered, and instead of answering you told me you didn’t believe in the Gray Lady.”

  “You noticed that?” Perhaps we were getting too close.

  He moved a smidge closer. The heat of his body made me want to melt into him. “Yeah, Penn. I noticed.”

  “Hank released the coroner’s report to the Camellia Current yesterday, which concluded his death was accidental,” I said.

  “And?” he pressed. Our lips were almost touching.

  “And I didn’t think anything about it.” Gracious, I sounded a mite breathless.

  “Until…?” he asked.

  Oh, he knew me too well. I pulled away from him. “A ghost didn’t kill Joe.”

  “But you did see a lady with him on the beach, a lady you claim made him mighty upset.”

  I nodded.

  “He told you that she was the Gray Lady, but you know that wasn’t true. So, now you’re wondering who she was and what she said to upset him.” Harley had a calm manner about him as he chipped away at my defenses. I felt sorry for anyone who had to face him in a courtroom. He tapped his chin, an innocent gesture, and yet I could tell he was about to make his move. “And then there was that stranger who showed up not a few hours later searching for Joe. But you’re okay with Hank’s decision not to investigate any of that.”

  “It’s none of my business,” I said.

  He nodded. The corner of his mouth lifted just a bit. “Your friends and neighbors and now the local news media are in your shop discussing how Joe was killed by a ghost. And you’re okay with that too, I suppose?”

  My right eye twitched.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Did Silas Piper ever send you a picture of his missing brother?”

  “He did,” I admitted. I’d gotten a text from Silas’ secretary two days after the cell service returned. His brother, Taylor Graham, was still missing.

  “Oh?” That seemed to surprise him. He pulled back. “Did he look familiar?”

  Instead of answering, I said, “Let’s stop playing twenty questions and get down to the question you want to ask me.”

  “Sure.” His lips flattened out. “It’s not really a question though, is it? It’s more like a realization. You think Joe Davies was murdered. And you think Silas’ brother is somehow involved. And you’re hiding back here in the kitchen while trying to figure out how to quietly conduct an investigation without me (or anyone else) finding out.”

  “And why would I do something stupid like that?” I asked. It irked me to no end that he knew me that well. Well, if he knew me so well, he should already know why I was trying to keep him from getting involved in something that could turn dangerous.

  “Why would you investigate? Is that what you’re asking? That’s easy.” He nodded toward the door. “Because of what’s going on out there. You want to prove to the town that ghosts do not and have never existed.”

  He was right. There was that. And there was also Mary and her quest to find out what had really happened to her father.

  I pressed my fingers to my eyes.

  “Penn?” He hesitated. When I didn’t open my eyes, he plowed on with a sharp tone I didn’t know how to describe. It wasn’t quite anger. But it was close. “I thought we had…something. A spark. Tender feelings. Friendship. No, more than friendship. I thought we had…something special. And now I’m finding out that you didn’t even think enough about me to tell me that Silas Piper had sent you a picture of his brother. And if I hadn’t barged in here and guessed what was going on in that clever head of yours, I wouldn’t have heard a word about any of this from you. And I still haven’t heard much more than a word or two about any of this from you. I’ve been doing all the talking. And to be honest, my feelings are hurt.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. He was right. I had kept the information about Silas’ brother to myself. I’d also kept my thoughts about Joe’s death to myself. After nearly getting Harley killed not even two months ago, I didn’t want to involve him in this. He had his son to think about. He had his own life to protect. It wouldn’t be fair to involve him in something that might turn dangerous. I cared for him too much to put his life at risk.

  It scared me too much.

  That’s what I should have said to him. I should have said as plain as day, “I care for you too much.” But admitting something like that was a step I wasn’t ready to take in our relationship. It felt safer if we kept things between us flirty and playful. Safer for him. Safer for my heart.

  So instead of saying what needed to be said, with my fingers still pressed to my eyes I blurted, “I don’t care what Hank says. Joe was murdered, and I’m going to prove it. I’m sorry, but this is something I need to do. And I need to do it alone.”

  Silence answered me.

  I lowered my hands and opened my eyes to find that Harley had left. But I wasn’t alone. Bertie stood at the kitchen door with an empty tray in her hand.

  “Child, I never thought you were a fool.” She dropped the large tray. It landed on wooden floor with a loud clatter. “If that’s the attitude you’re going to take with Harley and the rest of us, I don’t know what I’m doing here. If you don’t need us, then I’m going to Florida where I can play Canasta any time I want.” She spun on her heel and hurried back down the narrow hallway while muttering, “Oh, yes, that’s what I’m going to do. Don’t need to be working my fingers to the bone like this. No, ma’am, I don’t. Not for a stubborn goat who can’t see what’s what and what’s important.”

  “Wait! I do need you. I need—” But it was too late. Bertie had already returned to the front of the shop.

  I silently cursed Joe Davies and his obsession with pirate gold. It had gotten the fool man murdered, and now—from the grave—that obsession of his was ruining nearly every healthy relationship I had in my life. If he weren’t already dead, I’d have been awfully tempted to kill him myself.

  Chapter 9

  We need to talk, I texted Harley.

  He didn’t reply.

  I’m sorry, I texted Bertie. I need you. The shop needs you.

  She didn’t reply.

  I stared at the phone, willing it to do something. As if by magic, it pinged as a text showed up on the screen. How did the Chocolate Box hold up?

  It was from Aunt Peach. Was she asking for herself or as a proxy for my mother? Either way—after they’d worked so hard a few months ago to try and steal the shop from me so they could tear it down—their concern felt empty. After a few minutes, she texted again to tell me that the Maybank family had returned from their lake house. Their three historic downtown Charleston homes had survived.

  I didn’t reply.

  Instead, I went to the front of the shop in search of Bertie.

  “I’m sorry, P-Penn. Sh-she blasted through the front of the shop and m-marched with her arms p-pumping like p-p-pistons about t-ten m-minutes ago,” Fletcher said as he adjusted his deer hunter hat. “Wh-wh-why? Wh-what did you d-d-do?”

  “I’ve chased Bertie and Harley away,” I was ashamed to admit. I dropped a store apron over my head. With Bertie gone, Fletcher would need me as backup to handle the crowd. Though, to be honest, the crowd had dwindled considerably since the last time I’d peeked out to see what was going on. Stevie McWilson, his camera crew, and Joe’s estranged wife had all left.

  The shop’s regular Sunday crowd had gotten their fair share of gossip and then some. The residents would be talking for weeks about the Gray Lady and how her pre-storm appearance was going to make our
small town famous. I was sure many of my loyal customers had left to tell their family and neighbors all the excitement that had happened in the Chocolate Box this morning.

  “Y-you chased—?” Fletcher demanded.

  “She said she’s going to retire to Florida because I’m a stubborn goat. Or something like that.”

  “Retire?” His eyes grew wide. His voice boomed, “N-no!” Fletcher pulled the apron off me before I could tie it. “G-get out of h-here and m-make things r-right.”

  “I can’t leave you here by yourself. You need help handling everything.”

  “Y-you m-might n-need h-help,” he said, arrogant as ever. He pushed me toward the door. “I-I d-don’t.”

  And that’s how I found myself wandering around the island searching for Bertie. She wasn’t with Bubba at his T-shirt shop. Nor had she gone back to our apartment. The two elderly sisters bunking with us had returned from church and were sitting on the sofa, eating pre-sliced American cheese straight from the plastic wrapping while watching reruns of Golden Girls. Neither of them knew where Bertie had gone. Stella, who usually shied away from everyone, was sitting beside the sofa with her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth and sniffing the air. Clearly, she approved of their choice of snack.

  Bertie’s car—a rusty Pontiac the size of a boat—was still in its parking place, which meant she couldn’t have gone far. Part of me had been terrified that she’d already packed her bags and had left me. I’d checked her closet, just in case. All of her Sunday dresses were still there as well as her deceased husband’s favorite leather jacket. She wouldn’t leave without that jacket. When we’d evacuated, bringing only the essentials, that leather jacket had come with us.