by Reagan Davis
Eric: He’s eliminated! Do you want to tell him or shall I?
I let out a long, audible sigh of relief.
Me: Good job, honey! I’ll let you deliver the good news.
“Good news?” April asks. “You look like a two-tonne weight just lifted off your shoulders.”
I smile and nod, then return to the sofa and tell her about Mitchell going AWOL from his hotel room on Thursday, ending up on Eric’s suspect list. I try to convey how awkward it is to watch your boyfriend question your father about a murder while you and your ex-husband try to support both of them.
“That explains why you missed breakfast,” April sympathizes. “We all knew Mitchell didn’t kill Claire,” she reassures me. “Now everyone else knows too.”
“I know,” I agree, nodding. “But I want to eliminate any possibility of doubt. The only way to do that is to find the killer.”
“Just be careful.” April’s tone is serious, and her smile is tight and forced. “I don’t want to embrace my inner sleuth to solve your murder.”
She puts her hand on top of mine. I smile.
“Getting back to your theory that Dina is the killer,” I say, guiding us back to our original conversation. “If Dina is the murderer, why was she afraid to be at the cottage after Claire died?”
“She was probably scared of Piper,” April reasons. “From what you told me about this Piper person, she’s not a good example of mental stability. With Claire dead, Dina likely worried Piper might shift her crazed obsession from Claire to her.”
“Dina was terrified of Piper at the cottage yesterday,” I reminisce. “You can’t fake that kind of fear. It was real. I felt it.”
“You think Piper killed Claire, don’t you?” she asks.
“I did,” I admit. “But now I’m not sure.”
“What changed your mind?”
“A few things,” I reply. “Piper is a huge Familia fan. If she killed Claire, there could never be a Familia revival, prequel, sequel, crossover series, or anything. Also, with Claire dead, Piper could never change her mind about retiring the series. You can’t convince a dead person,” I assert. “And Eric said when he questioned Piper, he had a hard time convincing her Claire was dead. He said Piper insisted Claire’s death was a media hoax, or a publicity stunt, or something. If she was there when Claire died, how could she delude herself about it?”
“Maybe Piper was pretending she didn’t believe Claire was dead, so she could claim mental incompetence if they caught her,” April theorizes. My best friend has a knack for coming up with conspiracy theories; it’s kind of her super power.
The bell over the door jingles, bringing our conversation to a premature end.
At first, it’s difficult to make out her face through the black veil, but when we make eye contact, I recognize her.
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter under my breath.
As I motion to get up, April touches my knee, and I look at her.
“Is that Piper?” she mouths.
I nod and get up.
“Hi there,” I say, mustering my most cheerful voice and smile.
“Hello, there! You must be Megan Martel. I’m Piper Peters.” She extends her gloved hand and smiles.
The bubbly voice is a stark contrast to her traditional Victorian-era mourning dress. Yes, mourning dress. Piper is wearing a floor length, black dress with long sleeves and a full skirt. The bodice buttons up to just underneath her chin where it’s fastened with a cameo brooch. A black veil is draped over her black bonnet–yes, bonnet–obscuring her face.
All she needs is a black parasol and a case of the vapours, and I’d swear she just time-travelled here from 1850 England.
“Hi, Piper.” I shake her gloved hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” Her black gloves feel like cotton. “Have we met before?” I ask, narrowing my eyes and tilting my head to one side. “You look familiar.”
I don’t know if she remembers me from the cottage yesterday, but I want to give her the opportunity to mention it without confronting her. I get the feeling it's a bad idea to confront Piper or back her into a corner.
“Yes,” Piper responds. “I believe you were at Claire Rivera’s cottage yesterday. We weren’t formally introduced, but I never forget a face.” She giggles.
Neither do I. Especially when we make eye contact through the window of a police car.
“I’m April.” April extends her hand, and Piper shakes it.
I’m distracted by Piper’s presence and didn’t know April was behind me. I don’t blame her for coming over for a closer look. Piper’s attire is a lot to take in for the observer. Heck, I’m tempted to take a picture.
She must’ve brought the outfit with her. I can’t think of anywhere local that sells this style of clothing. Is it a costume for the book fair? Some book fair attendees are cosplaying today, so maybe Piper is one of them. Cosplay is a word fans use to describe wearing costumes and accessories to represent a certain character. I learned it from Hannah.
“It’s lovely to make your acquaintance, April. I’m Piper Peters.”
“Your dress is beautiful. The attention to detail is incredible,” April compliments. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Excuse me?” Piper asks, tilting her veiled head to one side.
The sudden corrugation on her forehead and the hint of offense in her voice makes me think Piper isn’t cosplaying; this is a legitimate mourning outfit.
I’m about to give April a discreet prod under the counter before she says anything else that Piper might find insulting, but I’m too slow. My finger pokes her hip just as she says, “You’re dressed as a literary character, right?”
“I most certainly am not!” Piper barks. “I am in mourning!”
From the shocked expression on her face, I can tell April gets it now. “I’m sorry for your loss,” April sputters. “Mourning attire isn’t very common in Harmony Lake.”
Or in the twenty-first century, but I digress.
“Mourning attire signals to the world that a woman has suffered a significant loss.” Piper reaches under her veil and dabs her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Would you like to sit down?” I offer. Piper nods, and I gesture toward the cozy sitting area. “Would you like some water?”
“No, thank you,” Piper replies, tucking her handkerchief into the cuff of her sleeve. When she sits, the spread of her skirt takes up the entire loveseat. “I’ve learned the hard way that when one is in mourning, it’s best to avoid drinking anything unless absolutely necessary.” She sighs. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to pee whilst wearing this dress,” she overshares. “Very few public washrooms nowadays are spacious enough to accommodate a bustle.”
I can’t help myself; I have to know. It’s driving me crazy. “Did you buy your mourning dress somewhere local?”
“Heavens, no,” Piper replies. “When travelling, I always pack mourning attire. Just like the royal family, one must prepare oneself for any contingency.” She giggles.
I make a mental note to ask Eric if packing a nineteenth-century mourning outfit constitutes premeditation.
I want to ask her what other contingencies she’s prepared for, but I stop myself.
“Are you a knitter, Piper?” April asks.
“No,” Piper retorts, vexed. “Why would you ask me that?”
I guess she hasn’t forgiven April for thinking her dress is a costume.
“This is a knitting store,” I explain. “Most people come here for yarn and knitting supplies.”
“Right,” Piper says, looking around and taking in the store from behind her veil. “I didn’t realize.”
“What brings you here today?” I ask, smiling and being as non-threatening as possible.
“Well, I was wandering through the exhibits at the book fair, and I noticed several people with small, felted figurines from the Familia books. I stopped one person, and she graciously told me you were selling them here. She even gave me your name.”
“Yes, we sell them here.” I gesture to the display. “A local artisan handcrafted each character and location,” I explain. “One hundred percent of the proceeds will benefit a non-profit organization that supports community-based literacy programs…”
“I’ll take whatever you have left,” she interrupts my sales spiel.
“Oh,” I say, shocked. “Would you like a closer look? Or the price of each item before you decide?” I ask.
“No, thank you.” Piper smiles. “I’ll take them.” She giggles. “Please pack them such that they will endure a cross-Atlantic voyage.”
She makes it sound like she’ll be sailing back to England on the Titanic.
“I’ll help you wrap them up, Megnolia,” April offers, already pulling out tissue paper from under the counter.
“Oh, is your full name Magnolia?” Piper asks. “Magnolia is a lovely name.”
“No,” I correct her. “My name is Megan. April just likes to change it up, sometimes.” She looks disappointed my name isn’t Magnolia. “Were you and Claire close?” I ask.
April shoots me a look that silently screams, What are you doing? Don’t poke the bear! I remove a price tag from the bottom of a needle-felted church and hand the church to April for packaging.
“Yes,” Piper replies. “Our connection was deep. So deep it transcended the necessity for written words and verbal communication.”
I’d bet my yarn stash that the restraining order Claire had against her is the real reason they didn’t share written words or verbal communication.
“It sounds like a very special relationship,” I sympathize, handing April a felt Mama and sticking the price tag to the counter.
“Yes,” Piper agrees, “our souls were old friends.”
A lovely sentiment that sounds ominous when she says it.
She wanders toward the back of the store.
“Were you shocked when Claire announced she was retiring Familia?” I shout so Piper can hear me. She’s hovering near the back room.
“I didn’t kill her, you know,” she snaps as if one of us accused her. “What’s in here?” She gestures to the back room. “Are there more felt figurines in here?” Her voice is now sweet and calm.
“Just a kitchenette, a back door, and some stairs,” I assure her.
“She scares me,” April whispers.
I nod.
“Do you want this one too?” I ask, holding up a tiny figure she won’t be able to see from the back of the store through her veil.
“I want all of them,” Piper reiterates.
She’s distracted from the back room; mission accomplished. She walks toward the front of the store, craning her neck to look at the figure.
“Well done,” April commends me.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I know everyone thinks I killed Claire, but I didn’t,” Piper says matter-of-factly.
“We don’t think you killed Claire,” I say, trying to comfort her, though this interaction has moved her way up on my suspect list. “You’re one of Claire’s biggest fans, why would you harm her?”
“I’m not one of her biggest fans,” Piper corrects me. “I am Claire Rivera’s biggest fan! Why would I kill her? It would eliminate any chance of reading a new Familia book ever again!”
Her voice hitches on the last few words, and she pulls her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabs her eyes.
April finishes packing the felted items, and I ring up the sale. After Piper pays, I thank her for her business and put her receipt in the bag.
“May I ask you one more question?” I ask, handing her the bag across the counter.
“Of course,” Piper replies.
“How did you know where Claire and Dina were staying? Their location wasn’t public knowledge.”
“A kind lady told me,” Piper says. “I was in line at the library to get my free Between the Covers Book Fair swag bag, and she was behind me. She asked if I planned to attend Claire’s book signing. I told her that of course I would. Claire’s book signing is the reason I came to the book fair. Then she told me she knows where Claire is staying. She even gave me directions.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“We didn’t exchange names,” Piper replies, her veil swaying when she shakes her head.
“What did she look like?” I ask.
“It’s hard to tell from the way she dressed,” Piper explains with a one-shoulder shrug. “Not very tall, about your height. Baseball cap. Black backpack. Ginger-ish hair, I think. It was under her cap, so I can’t say for sure.”
“Lots of teeth?” I ask.
“Yes, now that you mention it. And her teeth were very white and very straight.”
While April tells her about the Familia-inspired bookish cookies at Artsy Tartsy, I rush around the counter and hold the door for Piper. She thanks us for our time and help, and we wish her a good day. After her bustle has cleared the threshold, I close the door behind her.
“Lock it!” April hisses.
“I’m glad you were here,” I lock the door and turn the sign to CLOSED for a few minutes so April and I can regroup. “I don’t think I could do that scenario justice if I described it to you.”
“I’m glad I was here too,” April responds. “If she’d snapped, she could only kill one of us at a time. The other one could run for help.”
“Why did you send her to the bakery?” I ask.
“T needs to share this experience with us. Otherwise, she’ll think we made it up or accuse us of exaggerating.”
“Fair point,” I say.
“Can I change my answer?” April asks.
“Answer to what?”
“To who killed Claire Rivera,” April clarifies. “I’d like to change my answer to Piper Peters.”
I’m leaning toward that answer too.
Chapter 16
Time passes slowly without customers. I’m out of things to do. I’ve dusted, swept, mopped, tidied, and packed the online orders to drop off at the post office. With three hours left until it’s time to close the store, I sit down with my needle-felting project. I just need to finish Sophie’s ears and face.
I’m about to open the camera roll on my phone and look at a photo of Sophie to make sure I get her markings correct, when the bell jingles. Next thing I know, the real Sophie is in front of me with her front paws on my lap.
“Hey, Soph! This is a pleasant surprise.” I detach her leash, and she trots toward the back of the store, no doubt en route to her water dish in the kitchenette.
“Hello, Bean!”
“Hey, Dad! What are you doing here?”
“It was time for a break. I’m craving another coffee from Latte Da, so Sophie and I discussed it, and we decided to walk into town.”
“How’s your book coming along?” I ask.
“Slower than I’d like,” he admits. “The manuscript is due at the end of the month, and I’m making some major last-minute changes.”
“What kinds of changes?” I ask.
“It’s time for Rock Granite to retire,” my dad replies, then sighs like he’s relieved to say it out loud.
“You’re ending the series?” I stop stabbing and put down my felting needle so I don’t stab myself by accident from the shock. “You’re writing the last Shark Attack book? Ever?”
“That was the plan,” he replies. “But our road trips to Toronto to visit Hannah, then to Harmony Lake to visit you have inspired me to go in a different direction.” He winks. “I think I can keep the series fresh and still let Rock Granite enjoy his retirement.”
“Wanna tell me about it?” I ask, knowing he won’t give me any spoilers.
“You can wait and read it after it’s published,” he teases.
“Did Eric call you?” I ask, wondering if my dad knows Eric eliminated him as a suspect.
“He did better than that,” he responds. “He stopped by the house to give me the good news in person. To say I’m relieved is an understatement.�
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“Listen, Bean,” he says, sitting next to me on the sofa. “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I was uncooperative and maybe rude earlier when you and Eric tried to question me.” He shrugs one shoulder. “This is the first time I’ve been part of a real murder investigation. I panicked and got defensive. I shouldn’t have said Eric was Adam’s replacement. It was wrong.”
“Thank you, Dad.” I accept his apology. “I wasn’t the only person hurt by your comment…”
“Yes, I know,” he interjects. “I apologized to Eric when he came to the house.”
“And?” I urge.
“And what?” he says, looking confused.
“Your comment was hurtful to Adam too. Don’t you think you owe him an apology?”
He sighs. “I suppose.”
“Maybe you could be nicer to Adam,” I suggest. “We’ve been in each other’s lives for over twenty years. He’s Hannah’s dad, and he’s not going anywhere. It would mean a lot to me, and to Hannah, if you show him a little respect.”
“It’s not that I don’t like Adam,” my dad confesses. “It’s just that I think marrying him held you back. If you didn’t marry young, have a baby, and move here, you could’ve done great things.”
“I did great things!” I throw up my hands in frustration. “Hannah is the greatest thing I’ve ever done. I have great friends. I have a great business. And I live in a great community. I have a great life. Adam didn’t force this life on me,” I enlighten him. “I wanted to live in a small town. I wanted to stay home with my daughter when she was young. Adam went along with my vision for our life, not the other way around.” He appears shocked by this revelation. “And while we’re on the subject,” I add, “please be nicer to Eric than you were to Adam.”
“I am nice to Eric,” my dad says in his own defence, pulling himself up to his full-seated height.
“I don’t mean tolerant and cordial,” I clarify. “I mean, you need to give him a chance. He’s a good person. I love him, and he’s not going anywhere either.”
Adam and Eric have different approaches for dealing with my dad. Adam gave up trying to impress my dad years ago. He accepted Mitchell would never feel warm and fuzzy toward him. Eric isn’t like that. He won’t give up. He’ll drive himself—and me—crazy trying to impress my dad and win his approval.
